A short story of Daw San San Nweh:

[mizzima@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx]

A short story from Burma: The children who play in the back alleyways,
By Daw San San Nweh

New Delhi, March 31, 2000

(Daw San San Nweh, winner of the 1999 Reporters Sans Frontières -
Fondation de France prize, is a journalist and author who is close to
Nobel peace prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi. Sentenced to ten years'
imprisonment for "publishing information harmful to the state" in 1994,
she is being held at Insein jail, Rangoon. In this short story, San San
Nweh takes a fictional approach to condemning repression by the Burmese
junta. Paris-based Reporters Sans Frontières (RSF) put this previously
unpublished short story on its web site (www.rsf.fr) yesterday. Thanks
to Reporters Sans Frontieres.)

The children who play in the back alleyways
By Daw San San Nweh

"This story was written early in 1989 for the magazine Eit-met-hpu, but
the Scrutiny Board ordered the destruction of all copies of the issue
because it considered the story "subversive". The author, Daw San San
Nweh, who came to prominence in the mid-1970s, has been arrested several
times since then. She was released after 10 months in prison and all her
writings have been banned. Since her release, her work has not been
allowed into print and she is having to work as a trader in order to
maintain her family. Her husband died in 1992.

During the pro-democracy demonstrations in 1988, there was one
particular murder, among the many that occurred then, that had a special
impact on the academic community in Rangoon. The son of a teacher at the
university was sitting drinking a cup of coffee in a teashop on the
campus when he was killed in front of his friends by a stray bullet. The
story refers to this, and the children's argument over the red colour of
the young man's shirt implies that the shirt was stained with blood.

The story seems to suggest that whatever efforts the military junta
makes to ingratiate itself with the people by building public parks and
children's playgrounds, it will not succeed in wiping out the memory of
the bloodshed. Indeed the clearing away of small houses and familiar
corner shops and cafes only leaves a greater feeling of resentment."

(Anna Allott, translator of the story)


On evenings when the electricity goes off in our neighbourhood, the
streets are usually full of people. Most homes are quite cramped and
badly lit inside so this encourages us to seek out the early evening
breeze out on the street where there is more space and more light. This
is the only opportunity to shake off the exhaustion of the daytime and a
time when one can feel free to relax. When the power cuts occur on
moonlit nights, nervous types like myself breathe a little more easily
-the sound of the children's laughter seems noisier and more vivacious,
and the teenagers strum softly on their guitars, playing not only the
latest hits but also the old familiar tunes that tend to linger sweetly
in the air, lifting the heart and yet bringing sad thoughts.

The noise of the young children running here and there, playing
hide-and-seek, chanting in shrill voices, often disturbs me though, and
I have to shout angrily at them to be quiet, and to go away. But they
just move on somewhere else and carry on their laughing and playing,
noisily arguing, never tiring of devising endless games. I guess I am
glad that the young rascals can play so happily, yet at the same time I
get a little anxious - the scrub and long grass where they run around
playing hide-and-seek is full of vipers and scorpions, and the spot just
behind our row of little houses is a favorite with the mongooses.

The children of our neighbourhood are quite familiar with mongooses but
all the same it could be nasty if they trod on one in the dark. Even
though mongooses don't usually attack people they will react violently
to being touched, biting back if they are hurt them. People say mongoose
bites are hard to heal. Only last year a child who had been bitten by a
one died before reaching the hospital. And children have such short
memories, don't they? They are heedless and quickly forget things that
have happened to them. They have no sense of fear..

Almost all the kids from our neighbourhood, including my two, are little
devils. They decide for themselves that their homework needn't be done
properly and they just fool around getting up to whatever mischief
beckons. We parents, at our wits' end, have given up trying to do
anything about it. Tonight, I see the kids playing recklessly, without
any sense of fear. They could easily come to harm - the dim, yellow
street lights and the bad evening light make the main road dangerous,
with its passing cyclists and sidecars plying for hire; and in the back
alleys and on the patches of waste ground there could be scorpions and
snakes. But wait a minute! Suddenly I remember - isn't there somewhere
just up the road where they could play to their heart's content? Isn't
there a see-saw, some swings, green grass, and beds of colourful flowers
coming into bloom, and benches with fresh green paint just about dry by
now. Of course, as a responsible parent it would be my duty to stop the
children playing on the new grass, even if there was no notice
forbidding it..But they could play on the swings.......
"See-saw, sit on the plank, one foot up, one foot down, Show me the way
to Rangoon Town".

Here they could shout, let off steam, and make as much noise as they
liked. Leaving the shade of an almond tree, in the dappled moonlight, I
emerge into the dappled moonlight onto the tarmac road and look around
eagerly in search of the children. "Hi, Ko Zay, Here, Johnny", I call
out. The people nearby looked to see why I'm raising my voice but I take
no notice. "Boys, come back, bring your friends, all of you come over
here".

With a patter of feet the children came running at full tilt and gather
around me, panting for breath, .My youngest son, Johnny ('Moonface'),
throws his arms around my waist.... "What have you got for us to eat,
Mum?" he asks. "Always asking for food!" I reply. " I called you because
I won't have you playing in the back streets in the dark. Come on all of
you, we'll go to the park at the end of the road. There's much more
space up there. You go and play up there - I'll take you." " Oh but
Mummy......" he protests. I felt his little arms round my waist loosen.
"I'm afraid to go," ...The tremulous voice came from a little one in the
group. "I'm not afraid, but I did see something," says one of the older
boys, Ko Zay, in a high-pitched voice. "My goodness me, what are you
saying - afraid of what, seeing what? "Oh Mummy, you know very well.
It's......it's Ko Chan Aye. He was a very good friend of ours." "Yes,
Aunty", came another voice. "He always helped us when we were flying our
kites. When that big boy was with us no one dared to try to beat us. Our
group were the champion kite-fliers in our neighbourhood. "Chan Aye used
to fly kites and still do his school work too, and if he ever went into
a tea shop it was only just for a moment!" "And, Aunty, ..he died in a
moment too.... I can just see him now." As their voices clamour, one
after another, I too imagined that I could see the boy:..... His friends
are carrying the lifeless body out from the tea shop. But Chan Aye is no
more. And the teashop has gone too. And along with the teashop, the
nearby Arakan noodle stalls and the itinerant betel and cigarette
sellers have vanished. They said the sellers, with their stalls
scattered in a makeshift manner here and there were spoiling the
pleasant neighbourhood's tidy spect, and so they made them clear them
out. And all that remains is this area of leveled ground, which they
have turned into a children's playground, an expanse of green grass with
see-saws and swings, and neat beds full of tired flowers.

"It's the best place for you to play. What's wrong with it? I'll take
you there. Come on, let's go." "I'm afraid to go." It's the same young
boy as before. "What are you", I scold. "I'm not afraid, but I can see
him there." The elder boy, Ko Zay, is more direct. "What do you mean
'see him'? You mean you're imagining his ghost?" The children fall
quiet. Taking advantage of their silence, I begin to lecture them in
true adult fashion. Have they ever seen a ghost? I for one never have.
There aren't any ghosts. Ghosts simply don't exist. "Oh but Aunty,
that's only because when people die, the family make lots of offerings
to the monks and then shares the merit with the dead person so that he
doesn't end up as a ghost. Ko Chan Aye's family was too poor so...."
"Stop that! Don't talk nonsense. There absolutely are no ghosts. If you
don't believe me, just go and play there every evening. Come on now,
I'll take you there." "No-o-o, I don't want to go" "We won't go either."
"That's enough now. You're just being stubborn. In this age of modern
science there's no need to be afraid of ghosts."

"What do you know about it, Aunty? Scientific ghosts are more
frightening, we've seen them in video films." " All you kids ever do is
watch those videos. You spend all your spare time watching them." I say
weakly, having lost the argument. "I don't feel like playing any more,"
one of the children says. I can see Ko Chan Aye right now, with his
bright red shirt." "But he was wearing a white shirt!" "No, it was red,
bright red..." "No, white...." "Stop arguing - it's already half past
nine. We'd better get home." The children scamper off to their homes and
I hurry home too, my heart heavy. I can't help wondering what more can
be done to persuade those children to use that playground. I wish I
wasn't such a born worrier. Somehow I must get them to put all these
notions out of their heads. And somehow I know that it will fall to me
alone to do it - for, as a writer and mother, I guess I am the only one
around here who can exorcise these particular ghosts.

 (Trans. AJA) [Not passed for publication ]

 Note: On the day fixed for a person's funeral, monks are invited to the
deceased's house where they will preach a sermon to the assembled
company -as many monks are invited as the family can afford to offer
alms to. The alms may be in the form of a lavish meal, or robes and
other necessities, or both. Buddhists believe that offering alms to
monks brings merit to the donor, and they also believe that people can
share merit they have acquired with the deceased person by uttering the
words 'ahmya, ahmya'(an equal share). The more merit a person has at the
time of his death and in the seven days that follow, the better his
chance of a good rebirth. If he has too little merit, he is likely to be
reborn as a ghost or as an animal.

 Translate by Sylvie Frayer