Letter from Burma (No.12) by Aung San Suu Kyi

Mainichi Daily News
Monday, February 12, 1996

FOR THOSE BEHIND PRISON WALLS, SEASONS GO UNCHANGED
"Months and Season"

It is generally held that in Burma we do not have four seasons, we have only three, the hot season, the rainy season and the cold season. Spring is largely unknown although in the cooler border regions there is a stretch of pleasant, spring-like weather that we refer to as early summer. Neither is there a season that the Japanese would easily recognized as autumn, but in those parts of the country where there are deciduous trees a flush of momiji colors brighten the early weeks of the cold season. From a casual observation of Burmese behavior it might appear as through we were not particularly sensitive to the changing seasons. We do not have festivals to celebrate the advent of spring blossoms, we do not acknowledge the vibrant beauty of the fall, we do not incorporate seasonal motifs into our artistic presentations or our fashions. We wear the same kind of clothes the whole year round: the main sartorial difference between the hot season and the rainy season is an umbrella and in the cold season we simply add a few layers on to our summer outfits. We do not give the impression of paying too much attention to seasonal variations. But the Burmese are in fact acutely aware of the minute changes that take place in their natural surroundings throughout the year. In the classical tradition we recognize six season and we also have a genre of poetry that treats the 12 months of our lunar calendar as though each month were a separate season in itself.

December coincides roughly with the month of Natdaw which, in the days before Buddhism took root in Burma, was a time for the worship of the Hindu god Ganesh, the elephant-headed deity of wealth. In poetic tradition Natdaw is the moth when the earth is wrapped in mists and cold silvery dews and hearts are filled with longing for absent loved ones. It is the month when the thazin orchid blooms: tiny exquisite blossoms, parchment colored with golden yellow stamens, drooping from a curve of translucent green stems. For the Burmese the thazin is exceedingly romantic, delicate and difficult to nurture, its graceful beauty barely separable from the sharp coolness of the season when it comes into flower. Natdaw constitutes the second half of the season of Hemanta or winter. It is the most lovely, most nostalgic of seasons in Burma. The skies are porcelain bright, pale cerulean edged with duck egg blue at the horizon. In Rangoon the coldest day is no colder than a fine day in Kyoto at the time of the cherry blossom. But for the Burmese this is cold indeed. Elderly gentlemen cover their heads in woolen balaclavas when they go out for their early morning constitutional and old ladies drape knitted shawls over flannel or velvet jackets of a cut fashionable half a century ago. Tradition recommends the consumption of rich and "heating"foods such as meat, milk, butter, honey and dried ginger during Hemanta and the cheeks of those who can afford to eat well become rounded and glow in the fresh morning air.

Winter begins for me when at night I start piling on the Chin blankets that we have always used in the family. These blankets of thick cotton come in stripes or checks, usually in different shades of greens, reds and reddish browns. As children we became attached to our own blankets and I remember in particular a green checked one that I insisted on using until it was almost in tatters. Now, the first blanket I place on my bed at the advent of the cold weather is an old one given to my father by Chin friends: it is white with faded red stripes and in the corner is the date embroidered by my mother, "25-3-47." When the temperature drops further I place on top of the Chin blanket a Japanese one that formed part of my parents' bridal bed.

This is the eighth winter that I have not been able to get into bed at night without thinking of prisoners of conscience and other inmates of jails all over Burma. As I lie on a good mattress under a mosquito net, warm in my cocoon of blankets, I cannot help but remember that many of my political colleagues are lying in bleak cells on thin mats through which seep the peculiarly unpleasant chill of a concrete floor. Both their clothing and their blankets would be quite inadequate and they would be unprotected by mosquito nets. There are not as many mosquitoes in winter as their are in summer but a net would have provided some much needed extra warmth. I wonder how many prisoners lie awake shivering through the night, how many of the older ones suffer from aching bones and cramped muscles, how many are dreaming of a hot drink and other comforts of home.

This is the eighth winter that I have got out of bed in the morning and looked out at the clean freshness of the world and wondered how may prisoners are able to savor the beauties of Hemanta of which our poets have written so nostalgically. It would be interesting to read poems of winter behind the unyielding walls of prisons which shut out silvery dew and gossamer sunshine, the smell of pale winter blossoms and the taste of rich warming foods.

In Japan, momiji has the specific meaning of "maple leaves" or the more general meaning of "autumn" or "red" leaves.

This article is one of a yearlong series, the Japanese translation of which appears in the Mainichi Shimbun the same day, or the previous day in some areas.