Myanmar - Symbols of Power and Tragedy

One of the most exhilarating things about living in Yangon was the gift of waking up on a Saturday morning and deciding on which part of the city to explore that day. During my mom’s extended visit to Myanmar, we made the most of each and every second together. I clearly inherited her powerful sense of adventure. No reminding was ever needed during leisurely breakfasts as to the fact that we were in one of the most intriguing cities in the world. And it was all ours to discover.

Our visit to the Secretariat was fascinating to say the least. A minefield of emotions carried us through the stately buildings. Through manicured gardens and bright sunshine. Under huge trees bearing the past. Along pathways of intrigue and wonderment. Imposing palm trees bowed in respect to that which had been magnificent. To a future unknown.

The two of us wandered around the gardens in awe. Here and there workers diligently played their part in restoring the complex. The collection of redbrick Victorian buildings designed by Henry Hoyne-Fox created a world of splendour. Of grace and of stateliness. A space in which peace and tension, on the highest levels, co-existed. Where decisions for a prosperous Burma were made. Where the darkest tragedy occurred.

In 1886 Britain annexed Upper Burma. In order to accommodate the ever-increasing administrative work of the British colonial government, the Secretariat came into being. The Rambux father-and-son team from Northern India began construction in 1889. The complex was built in stages, with the Central Building completed in 1902. The Eastern and Western Wings were later completed in 1905. With architectural influences from Calcutta, the Secretariat became a global project. Terracotta roof tiles were sourced in Marseilles, France. Steel beams came from Glasgow, Scotland. Teak wood was brought in from across Asia. As were the bricks. All combined to create a classic work of art. One of the finest of our times.

The creation of this magnificent Secretariat was certainly not an easy one. There were challenges of epic proportions. Torrential rains brought on by the monsoons made construction extremely challenging. If not dangerous. The earth remained water-logged resulting in the Southern Wing subsiding twenty one inches in the years to follow. Major structural challenges needed urgent attention.

In 1930 an earthquake measuring 7.3 on the Richter scale caused severe damage to buildings. Many supporting pillars were damaged. Others totally destroyed. Extensive ceilings needed to be replaced. Then in 2008 Cyclone Nargis brought her own destructive forces along. Only to deliver more ruin.

The Secretariat became known as the Minister’s Office in 1948. After independence, all administrative and government offices were located in the 40 000 square metre complex. The following years saw the Secretariat witnessing the dozens of political decisions that were made within her walls. Observing those that benefitted the nation. Cringing no doubt at those which destroyed the nation. In 2005, Nay Pyi Taw, in central Myanmar, became the heart of the government. The regal Secretariat stood alone. Abandoned. Literally locked up behind barbed wire. To suffer a slow and undignified decline.

On our visit in 2018, most of the iconic buildings were still bounded in scaffolding. Rays of brilliant sunlight bounced off the metal bars. The Secretariat was receiving much-needed restoration. When complete, the complex will play host to a museum, guided tours, art galleries, retail shops, restaurants and commercial office spaces. A cultural focal point in the making. Much to our horror, mention was made of fast-food outlets making a nest within the grand facades, towers and endless rows of pillars that make up this masterpiece.

Whilst admiring the sheer grandiose of the large dome of the Western Wing, images invaded my thoughts. I stood in silence. As did Mom. The stately olive green staircase wound its way up both sides of the hall. To converge at the top. Creating an aura of elegance amongst the massive solid walls. One could be forgiven for seeing the past engraved in each wrought iron curve of the balustrade. For a moment, sensing what life must have been like in years past. Wishing that the secrets held within could expose themselves. If only for a few precious minutes. We were touching, with respect, materials which have played a part in the moulding of the history of the world. Moments to be cherished.

We negotiated each step of the staircase alone with our thoughts. Moving higher into the halls of yesterday. There was not a soul in sight. Not a sound either. Reaching the top of the grand staircase, together with us, time stood still. Deep sadness flooded my heart. My eyes filled with tears as we made our way along the first floor. Beautiful arches allowed the sunshine in. Providing scatterings of hope in what seemed to be corridors of darkness. Goosebumps prickled my skin. We stood absorbing the  beauty of the past. Yet, the ghosts of darkness engulfed us. This was the room in which the legendary General Aung San (father of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi) and six cabinet ministers were assassinated on the 19th July 1947. He was only thirty-two years old.

Once again, as I have experienced so many times before, I found it difficult to fully absorb where I was standing. On the edge of the past. Firmly in the present. Yet not quite ready to move into the future. Mom and I stood for ages seemingly without breathing. Trying to make sense of it all. At times such as those, one needs to allow acceptance into the moment. For there is no understanding of such deeds. 

One abandoned room after another discreetly welcomed us. The only sounds were that of eeriness. And the creaking of the past as it wanted to be seen. To be remembered. To be honoured. Memories of good and evil deeds executed. United in a sombre dance between huge pillars and empty spaces. Filtered light sneaked through open windows.

Our day was filled with nostalgia. A poignant reminder of a significant chapter in Myanmar’s complex history. The lush green of the gardens provided a softness to the reality. We made our way to yet another reminder of Myanmar’s past.

Row upon row of perfectly placed memorial plaques lay in absolute silence upon manicured lawns. Flowers appeared to add tenderness to those remembered. And to those forgotten. A lone cross reached high into the sky. Adding a greater sense of importance to the Rangoon War Cemetery. 

Mom and I once again walked in silence. In respect. In disbelief. That so many people lost their lives in battle. So many very young people. The fallen heroes. Without future. Whilst reading the name on each memorial plaque, it became clear that soldiers from every corner of the world had died. Fighting on foreign soil. So very far from home. 

Over a thousand identified casualties from both World War 1 and World War 2 are remembered on this site. The hauntingly beautiful chanting of monks from the surrounding monasteries added serenity to a sacred experience. Amongst the green grass and flowers, deep spirituality flourished. Heightening my awareness of just how precious Life is. How futile war is.

To be continued …