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Secret Histories, George Orwell, and Burma

Posted by Stuart at 01:37 PM on May 14, 2006

A few days ago I wrote that as I went through this life collecting experiences, and tackling various unrelated challenges, I hoped that it would all culminate in something useful or worthwhile. But looking back now it seems as if I forgot to be thankful that I've even had a chance to be free to do what I want, where ever I want.

For some unknown reason, it's easy to forget that most people in the world don't have the opportunities that I've had. After all, I live in a city where the minimum wage is $4... a day. You would think that I would always be grateful for the life I live.

But many people in the world would be grateful to live on $4 a day in Thailand. A year or so ago I met a college-aged guy who spoke excellent English and had a voracious appetite for reading and talking politics. Because of these traits, I guessed that he wasn't Thai, and I was right: he was Burmese. As I learned more about him and slowly gained his trust, he told me that he was a political refuge -- an illegal immigrant in Thailand. Apparently he had taken part in some student protests against the government and when the government cracked down, he fled the country to live in Thailand. And what kind of life did he flee to? He now lives in a tiny room with a shared bath with no running water and a mat to cover the wooden plan that passes as his bed. But at least in Thailand he does not live in fear of unjust imprisonment, torture, or even execution like he might if he was still living in Burma.

The reason my Burmese friend was on my mind today was because I just finished reading a fantastic book about Burma, called "Secret Histories: Finding George Orwell in a Burmese Teashop : A Journey Through Burma in the Company of George Orwell" written by Emma Larkin.

The book, although relatively short at 200 pages, seems more like three books in one. First of all, it is an example of excellent travel writing, by giving a detailed and (what I assume is) accurate view of life in modern Burma. (Of course the country is actually called Myanmar now, but the author almost always calls it Burma.) The descriptions of the countryside and the small towns and the people remind me a lot of Thailand, which makes sense of course since the two countries have a shared geography, history and culture.

The book can also be read as a literary analysis of George Orwell's writings. As a young man, Orwell spent several years as a member of the British forces in Colonial Burma in the 1920s. "Secret Histories" makes the case that Orwell's books and essays that were written when he returned to England were strongly influenced by his experiences while he was stationed in Burma.

The third theme of this book is much darker. As everyone who has read any of Orwell's writing knows, his stories (Animal Farm, 1984, etc.) were not happy tales. They all had themes of misuse of power, corruption, and oppressive, authoritarian governments. According to the author of "Secret Histories," Orwell's books were not only influenced by his time in Burma, but have become an uncanny prophesy of modern Burma, where the government controls everything from individual people to the re-writing of the country's history.

Needless to say, "Secret Histories" covered some heavy topics, but the author lightens the story by weaving in eloquent descriptions of what seems to be an extraordinarily beautiful country. But the secret spies and the feeling that one is always being watched permeates the text. Take for example one section near the end of the book:

I walked along the single road that led out to the edge of town [of Katha]. On either side of the road were neat two-storey houses: some constructed with blackened wood, others built of faded timber and brick walls smoothed over with plaster the colour of egg custard. The gardens were filled with trees, and bougainvillea hung down from the verandahs. On each front porch there was an earthenware jar of water with plastic cups so that passers-by could take a drink. A woman holding a child by each hand strolled by with an enormous cabbage balanced on her head. Two elderly women sat on the front steps of their wooden house smokimg cheroots that seemed to me as thick as rolling pins. Every so often a truck thundered down the road, piled high with logs. Mostly, however, the traffic consisted of trishaws and pony carts painted in the bright reds, blues and yellow of a child's colouring book.

When the houses gave way to paddy fields I saw that Orwell's jungle was long gone. As I stood at the edge of Katha, watching a young boy on the back of a buffalo urge the beast through the mossy fields, a man cycled up to me. I couldn't remember seeing him before and he wore no uniform, but I assumed he must be [Military Intelligence]. "You should go back into town now." he said.

I nodded wearily, and turned round to walk back. The man cycled slowly behind me, weaving his battered Chinese bicycle in great figures of eight until I was safely back within the limits of Katha.

Unfortunately, I have lost touch with my Burmese friend. When we used to talk, he would give me small glimpses of his life in Burma. I would rarely push the subject because it seemed so personal and painful, but I wish I could hear more about his story. I'd certainly ask him if he has ever read George Orwell. I have a feeling he has.