Thursday, March 26, 2015




The three soldiers so-called guerrillas,
Each holding the weapons,
One M16, the other AK47,
Another the enemy-weapon G3,
On their back, they carried the Equipment,
On their waists, the daggers and the water-bottles.

According to the news received from their fellow men,
They marched toward the enemy's camp,
Wearing the camouflaged shirts.

At night, they left the Parva Camp
To fight the night battle.

Crossing the streams, the fields and the creeks,
Going through the bushes,
No time to speak and No time to care,

In emergency if dispersed, they agreed the meeting place
At  the “Deer Mountain”.

The campaign is called “Thunder Bolt”,
The password is “Black Cat”,
Fierce surge to fight the invading Burmese Army.

For food, they used the deer meat preserved with honey,
One and half kilogram for each.

On the way, they missed their girl-friends,
Like the stars in the Hollywood movies.

In the melody of love-tune,
They wished to sing a song in high volume,
From the top of the mountain peak,
As if  they used to sing in time of peace.

Who is the culprit between love and war?
Love destroyed by the jealous,
Love departed by death,
Love departed alive,
I don’t want to define "Love",
We have to find the right way, the loved ones to be united.

In pain, we are fighting two simultaneous wars,
"Love" and "War".

When we heard the song, “Come My Dear Back Home”,
Tears flowed on our cheeks,
Even though, we are the guerrillas, our hearts are soft.
Sometimes, man also weeps,
Every revolutionary heart is not hard.

Before the seven-sister stars looked over,
At night they slept deadly tired.
Under the cover of bamboo and iron-wood trees,
When the sun rises, they woke up.

On the top of a far away tree,
The birds are singing,
And we missed our beloved.

The streams flowed nearby the hills,
In the shallow water, we washed our faces,
One stood sentinel.

One field crossed, one steep climbed,
Non-stop march toward the village.

The sun is hot, sweats flowed on the back.
Very hungry, crawling, running, hiding and watching,
When the front sentinel beckoned,
We have to run very fast.

The tarpaulin sheet inside the bag,
The dagger on the waist,
All are very heavy,
Second by second, more and more along the march.

Soon after two-days long march,
We reached the village.
The Burmese Army was making camp
On the hilltop, at the strategic view point, northward of the village.

The Burmese captain with pox-scars on his face led the front field,
He was very proud and nasty indeed like a beast.
They were very rude and intoxicated,
With no shame, they begged foods from the village.

Very low-bred, they raped the girls,
I always remember the day
When my sister came back home very late.

They tortured the villagers, tied their hands on the back,
Dried them under the sun,
They kicked them from behind,
They hit them with riffle-butts,
They hang them on the trees,
They knew every method to torture the people.

By means of weapons, they bullied us,
Sons-of-a-bitches, indeed, they are.

They shot the villagers dead,
Stabbed them by bayonets,
Cut their throats,
Set the whole village on fire.

The children separated from their parents,
The girls from their beloved
The wives from their husbands,
It is very sorrowful and painful,
That is why I became a guerrilla.

I have responsibility to protect my land
Against the invaders,
They are waging wars against us
With narrow chauvinism,
Uprooting our country,
Paralyzing our nation.

By the helps of the villagers,
The three soldiers approached the village,
On May 14th, Sunday, 1995
At 3 o’clock mid-night.

Some dogs barked.
One stood sentinel.

By the news got informed,
One knocked the door,
Where the Burmese captain was sleeping with a girl.

At the threshold, he was shot dead on the spot,
The last destine of the beast is to “Hell”.


The next day, the smoke coming out of the village
Telling us of a very sorrowful story.

On the bank of the river under the lucid noon-sun,
The Burmese soldiers shot dead the village headman and the girl’s father,
They both died very poorly,
There flowed the streams of blood along the river.

(K. Kyaw)(4/6/2000)
This poem was composed on the events of a true story.
Released by All Arakan Students' and Youths' Congress (AASYC), New Delhi, India

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