Train a comin': Poems from the Burmese resistance

Obituary: Poet K Zar Win (1982-2021)
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Poet K Zar Win, whose poems have appeared in Myanmar magazines since 2004, was killed in a protest in Monywa yesterday (3 March, 2021). 

K Zar Win was born to a peasant family in Latpadaung near Monywa in 1982. Latpadaung is a contentious site where several villages were displaced by Wanbao Copper Mining Ltd. of China. The Myanmar police’ violent repression of Latpadaung villagers’ struggle against the Chinese farm in the 2010s revealed the dark side of “the democratic transition” of Myanmar.

K Zar Win was one of the university students who rallied from Mandalay to Yangon in the 2015 campaign, “Long March for Educational Reforms.” Consequently he spent one year and a month in prison, during which he published “My Reply to Ramond”. 

 Following is a poem from "My Reply to Ramond" I circulated in January. 

K Zar Win wrote to tell me how he enjoyed the translation. 
I simply replied,
"Take care, bro." 

A letter from a jail cell  

Dear Father,
the River, whose stomach 
was cut open,  
has declared war 
on our tiny house on the bank, hasn’t she?
Right in front of the house 
you must be looking out for someone 
who will help you with 
embankment poles
to straighten the river,
to fill her holes with 
sandbags.
In the murky water, 
which rises like a bamboo lance, 
you must be gazing at 
the sesame plantation —
laden with fruits 
ready for harvest.
You must be thinking 
a fistful of rice in your mouth 
is about to be fingered out. 
Maybe you will find solace 
in religion, contemplating 
our five foes.
Maybe you will 
think of the void 
a son’s labour can fill.
One son, two daughters and one son; 
The eldest is a poet in prison, 
the first daughter, a school teacher, 
the second, a graduate in the kitchen, 
the youngest, a student.
Your poet son, 
is he even employable 
as the dah you use to clear weed?
Forgive nothing, Father. 
Nothing!
“Son, Pho Chan,
why do I hear noises behind you?”, 
you asked on the phone. 
“I am at the bus stop
to post a manuscript to a journal,” I lied.
From your liar son in the dock 
to thugs who sweeten you 
with the tips of their tongues, 
“To our benefactor peasants …”,
because they want to have you from behind,
hate them all, Father. 
Hate them all. 
A thief is 
unarmed.
A thug is 
armed to the teeth.
If thieves are ungovernable,
if thugs are ungovernable, 
what’s the point of government? 
Whatever happens to the jungles
whatever happens to the mountains 
whatever happens to the rivers 
they don’t care. 
They love the country 
just the way they love to grate a coconut, 
from inside out, 
for coconut milk.
Plinth by plinth, to make their throne taller,
they will point their guns at the urna 
on the Lord Buddha’s forehead.  
Their class is that crass.
To cuss at that class
if your religion forbids you 
allow me to lose that religion.
I will turn the air blue 
on your behalf.
Maybe you don’t know yet. 
your son was 
set up 
for demanding the so-called police 
not to harm ordinary citizens. 
Someday 
your son, who is not a thief
nor a thug 
will become employable, 
good as your dah that clears weed. 
For now, Father, 
keep gazing at the plantation 
you’d ploughed with your naked shoulders. 
Keep singing 
the anthem of 
The Peasant Union. 

 Yours ever,

K Za Win 
Cell 1, Section 10
Thayawaddy Prison 

Spanish tranlsation and Burmese original here.