Escaping Burma – my family’s story

Seventy two years ago, when the world map was stained red with swathes of British Empire territory, my family got caught up in one of the most under-reported escapes of the Second World War.

Burma (modern-day Myanmar), was under British rule and got taken completely by surprise when Japanese planes bombed Rangoon on Christmas day 1941. Who would want to conquer such a sleepy Empire backwater? Conquer it they did, and the following bloodshed led to the evacuation of over half a million refugees through the jungles that border Burma with India and China. The journey on foot was made by my great grandmother and her children including my maternal grandmother Ann. She was twelve at the time.

For my family, the impact was immense. They left a home and a life in Burma that was idyllic according to the handwritten letters and diaries from the time. However they also left an identity, as respected, maybe even wealthy members of the British community in the town of Maymyo to penniless refugees in India. The most serious loss for their family unit was my great-grandfather, whose body still lies in the Taukkyan War Cemetery outside Rangoon.

This tragedy was relatively minimal compared with the losses of the other thousands of families torn apart by this war, but nonetheless meant my grandmother was raised without her daddy, and my great grandmother was forced to piece together her new life without the comfort of her much-loved husband.

I have felt this loss through the pages of my grandmother and great grandmother’s diaries. Most heart-breaking was the account of receiving the news of my great grandfather’s death back in Burma. Upon arrival in India my great grandmother soberly writes that the telegram was received, but then allows a sole expression of emotion to escape. “Oh dear heart” is inked on the page. I have also long thought about the romance that took place between my grandmother, then a beautiful teenager, and an Indian man she met once the family were settled in India. This too was ended by war when the family returned to England, though it continued by letter at least twenty years after.

My family was relatively lucky, as they trekked out of the country in two weeks. There are many worse stories, such as that of Stephen Brookes, whose Anglo-Burmese family were held in an internment camp in Shingbwiyang despite having already trekked 300 miles through the Hukawng Valley. The exodus saw whole families wiped out by monsoon floods. Disease and dehydration claimed others, and their bodies were left to litter the route like macabre signposts for those coming after them.

Most of these journeys were made by women as husbands were left behind to fight the losing battle with the Japanese. For the average colonial wife it was an almost impossible departure from the comforts of home. The indignity of competing for resources with the refugee Indian families who had previously served them, along with the heat, dirt and poor hygiene proved too much for some. My great grandmother writes very disparagingly of the hysteria of such women.

So why has this period in history been largely lost? Maybe it is because the British are embarrassed about how under-prepared they were. There were only 800 British soldiers stationed in Burma at the time of the Christmas attack, and it took two years after the imposition of black out in London for black out curtains to go up in Rangoon.

The authorities failed to make any coherent escape plan for Burma’s citizens, meaning it was down to corporations like the Bombay Burma Teak Company to co-ordinate evacuations.

More likely though it is because the refugees left so much behind it was easy for them to leave memories too. Diaries and letters would easily have been lost in the trek, and rebuilding a life on the other side leaves little time for reflection. I have the good fortune never to have lived through a time like this and can grant myself the indulgence of travelling to Burma to learn more.

For this reason and because of my personal connection I am travelling to Burma, The temptation to write a fiction about my own family’s escape is strong. However because some of my family members are still alive, and could be hurt by my interpretation, I will create a standalone story. In any case, my great aunt Mary, has chronicled the real story accurately and beautifully in her manuscript No More Tigers.

Most of all, I would like to go there and to visit the lonely grave of my great-grandfather. His final resting place has remained unvisited by his family  who have been kept out of Burma since the war by the Junta regime. His bravery in allowing his family to leave Burma without him means I am alive today.