Dark night [From Yvonne Vaz's book This is My Song, a memoir set in diverse lands.]
Which yesterday do I write about first? The answer comes loud and clear from my inner self. Tell about the dark night. It is October 1956. I am living with my dad, Lucio Alexander Vaz, my mum Lucy and three brothers Patrick, Lloyd and Gordon in Kutkai, a small town in the Northern Shan States of Burma, just a few miles from the China border. Our home is a prominent concrete house standing alone on a hill which overlooks the quiet wooden homes of mostly businessmen and their families. On another nearby hill which can be seen from our house is the PWD (Public Works Department) office building where my engineer dad works as the SDO (Sub-Divisional Officer). He's in charge of administration as well as looking after the roads and bridges that connect to other nearby towns. He takes us on trips sometimes. Kutkai is a peaceful little town. Nothing much happens here. Maybe that's my impression of what I saw on the surface. Traffic passed in and out going between towns on the China border on one side and Lashio, the capital of the Northern Shan State on the other. People could openly buy and sell all kinds of Chinese goods in Lashio and other cities. I am nine years old and in deep sleep on a rainy October night when I hear disturbing sounds, muffled voices, from my mother's bedroom. I am woken up. Hardly able to keep my eyes open, I get up to check, then what I see banishes sleep. Fully alert now, I see some men with black masks on their faces, opening cupboards, pulling out things and throwing them on the floor, while my mother is standing next to the bed and saying something. I recognise one of the men. He does odd jobs at our house, and now he is in the same clothes he wore every day, the same beret on his head. The black piece of cloth over his mouth does nothing to disguise him. I call his name, ask him what he wants. Silence! They know their identities are revealed. They have no way out, except to get rid of us. They must have already been angry because they could not find any money. The next few hours are a blur. I vaguely recall being beaten savagely. I try to protect my face with my arms. Next, I remember being on my bed, crying because my hands are a bloody mass of flesh, flayed to the bone. The bones too look strange, broken up. I remember my wrists falling over on the sides, just the skin keeping the bits together. That was the last time I saw my left arm. Strangely, I don't remember the pain. I call out for help when I gain a little consciousness, then drift off again. I don't know how long this goes on. My father is away on a work trip inspecting roads. He told us later that he had a strong desire to return home and even though it was night, he made his way home. As luck would have it, his jeep broke down a few miles out of town, and he spent the night in his vehicle. Later, I reconstruct what happened to the rest of my family. The only one left unharmed is my youngest brother, Gordon. He is nearly two years old and safe in his cot. My brave six-year-old brother Lloyd picks up his slipper to hit the robbers and ends up with three fingers being chopped off. My 13-year-old brother Patrick gets hit from behind as he is trying to run out the back door. The back of his skull opens up but he manages to run out to the back, where the driver and maid are staying. They shelter him, but don't come out as they are petrified. My mother is the one with the most injuries to her face and arms. We don't know when the robbers leave. The mali (gardener) who lives in the servant's quarters comes out his door to see what's going on and gets badly beaten on his face. (I meet him later and the scars are bad.) He runs out to the neighbour's house and collapses at their door. They do not dare to enter our house, so someone runs to the concert hall where a function is going on, and reports that dacoits have entered our house and are attacking us. A group of people come and surround our house. I hear a man asking if the dacoits are still in the house. We yell out “No”. They enter, carry us out to an empty bus, and rush us to the hospital. My mouth is so dry. I keep asking for water. I don't understand why they ignore my request. Later, I learn that it was because we are bleeding so much. I remember opening my mouth to catch a few drops of rain to quench my thirst. They can't find my elder brother because he's still holed up in the maid's quarters. He is found next morning by my dad's friend, the SawbwaChieftan of a small state within the Shan States and brought to the same hospital we're already in. Someone pushed the piece of loose skull onto the back of his head and tied it there with a piece of cloth. It is a miracle that he survived. At the small local hospital, there's only one doctor. He is so drunk that he comes out of his house, and collapses when he sees us. I recall his wife and children who are our family friends, crying loudly. The only option now is to take us to a bigger hospital in Lashio, a bigger town, 42 miles away. I don't remember what happens next, but the long ride and the two doctors stitching us up, all goes on till the next morning. I don't think I regain consciousness for long enough to be aware of what's going on for weeks. One thing I remember is my dad sobbing next to my bed. Till today, my heart fills with tears for him. He had come home to find the walls and beds, even the ceiling red with our blood. He must have suffered so much seeing each of us in pain. While we four are in our own worlds of pain and struggling to heal, he has to stand helplessly and watch that collective anguish. I was also told later that in my semi-conscious state, I call the doctor a `bl—y fool' because he can't make me well fast enough to get up and walk. My mum and my two brothers are in different rooms in the hospital. I don't see them for a long time. On my birthday more than three weeks later, I'm still weak and flat on my back. My littlest brother is the only one who comes with my dad to see me. But there is help at hand. My father's father has come from Taunggyi to help and there are uncles and friends all offering their assistance to support Dad and are often at my bedside. The brother who has lost three fingers recovers the fastest and comes one day on a wheelchair to my room, a big smile on his face. A few days later, my eldest brother comes in with a bandage round his head. He too is smiling. I'm filled with joy to see my brothers. Now I only need to see my mum. Some days later I'm pushed on a wheelchair to her room. She smiles at me too. But she looks so different with her head shaved and bandages on her face. I was sensitive as a child. I know that. But I do not remember being sad at this time. Is it that the pain has faded leaving the memories leached of feeling? Is this the mind's way of protecting itself? I often think of that child and of all our injuries. People slit their wrists and die in an hour. We bled for hours but we didn't die. Was the will to live so strong? Were we preserved for a reason? Another thought that keeps coming up — 'What are our bodies really capable of?' More introspection. Why did those five men become so inhuman and try to chop us into pieces? The guy I recognised and named was a soft-spoken, weak man. I will call him S. He did odd jobs for our family without any aggressiveness. He was a gambler and an opium addict. He owed a big amount of money to the other men whom he brought to our house that night. He had seen my father return from the main office with the salaries of all the workers in a bag two days previously. I remember clearly helping to carry that heavy portmanteau from the car into the house, while he was sweeping the garden and watching us. He must have thought the cash was still in the house and that was what they were searching for that night of the dacoity. But my father had already taken the money to his office and it was locked in the safe there. S masterminded the break into our house that night because he knew my father was out of town. He probably felt they would get the money to pay his gambling debts to the other dacoits he was with. Those men lived in huts in the forest surrounding the town and they used to come into town to sell the wood they had chopped, barter a chicken or two, and earn some money. The townspeople didn't trust them and some suspected they were in touch with the insurgents in that area. The guy who gave the order to kill us was a tough looking woodcutter who was vaguely familiar to me. Anyway, they were all arrested the next day and imprisoned till the court case happened much later, when we were fit enough to testify. S was sentenced to life imprisonment, but the others served just a few years and were released. S too was released about 10 years later when the military regime announced an amnesty for all prisoners. By chance, my father and I met him on the day he came out from prison and came to stay the night at a neighbour's place. He did not know we were living in Lashio at that time. He showed no remorse when he met us but kept complaining that the other four men were let off with a light sentence, while he had to endure so many years in jail. I realised then what a twisted psychopath he was, incapable of feeling empathy. I just wanted to put him out of my mind. He was not worth my anger, and I was not going to let him bother my peace anymore. My father could have beaten him up but he didn't. He just kept saying, “Look what you have done to my girl,” but those words did not touch S. My dad and I both walked away shaken. We have gradually let the anger go. I don't know if it was a kind of forgiveness or just acceptance of what couldn't be changed. But I know that letting go of the bitterness was necessary. ### Release today (March 7, 2023) at the Saligão Institute at 5 pm. Author-signed copies will be available at a special discount. Contact Yvonne via WhatsApp +91 88886 88560.
