A Civil Servant in Burma

by Sir Herbert Thirkell White

The one exciting incident of my brief tenure of this office was the riot in Rangoon between Mohammedans and Hindus in June, 1893. In Burma we were accustomed to a mild and tolerant religion, and had little acquaintance with the fierce fanaticism of warring sects. We resented bitterly the stirring up of strife by Mohammedans and Hindus in a land where they were strangers and pilgrims, hospitably received and treated with courtesy and consideration. Just as if guests should hurl decanters at one another across their host’s dinner-table. It is not quite accurate to say that Burmans dislike and despise Indians. They welcome them with large-hearted tolerance, and live amicably side by side with them. But the Burman regards himself as a superior being, much superior to anyone, except, perhaps, even this is doubtful, a European. And he does resent Indians being placed in authority over him.

The occasion of this unusual and unnecessary tumult was the Mohammedan festival of Bakr-i-id. Though in Burma we have, I think, a slight leaning to the side of Mohammedans, whose religion is less puzzling to the lay mind than the abstruse mythology of the Hindus, I am bound to say that this time the Mohammedans were entirely in the wrong. In Twenty-ninth Street, a narrow thoroughfare of no good name, stood a Hindu temple of some repute. Having the rest of Rangoon practically at their disposal, the Mohammedans declared it essential to sacrifice their cow close to this temple. Forbidden by the magistrate to do this, it was expected that they would set at naught the prohibition. Such precautions as seemed necessary were taken by the Deputy Commissioner, Mr. A. S. Fleming, who was in close communication with me and with the Chief Secretary, Mr. Fryer being absent on tour. We determined to do the best with the police before calling out troops. Military and civil police patrols were organized; and early on Sunday morning, the great day of the feast, a fairly strong picket of military police, partly Mohammedans and partly Hindus, was posted at the top of Twenty-ninth Street. All local and civil officers, as well as others not immediately concerned, were in the town. The streets were thronged with people, Mohammedans in holiday attire, Hindus ready to make mischief, both sides spoiling for a fight. From the top of Twenty-ninth Street could be seen the great mosque in Mogul Street, crowded with excited worshippers. For a time, though the tension was extreme, nothing happened. One high official, who was present as a sightseer, asked wherefore the rioting did not begin. Before long he was satisfied. The crowd became a seething mass. A rush was made to force the picket holding Twenty-ninth Street. Then stones began to fly, and all was confusion. Sowars[227] cleared the street, but as soon as the charge was past the roadway was again filled with rioters. Mr. Fleming had his head cut open by a stone. My thick topi[228] saved me from a similar mishap, and I was struck by missiles more than once. The spot near the objective of strife, where several of us were standing, became a very warm corner. It seemed advisable to summon troops. My friend Mr. E. W. B. Summers volunteered to ride up to barracks, running the gauntlet of showers of stones from street and houses. That shots were fired from windows was said, but this is not within my knowledge. At last it became clear that the small party of police and officials at the top of Twenty-ninth Street was in imminent danger of being wiped out. I therefore told the senior military police officer to take the necessary measures to stop the riot. A file of men was ordered out, and a volley was fired, causing some loss of life. As if by magic, the uproar ceased in a moment. At first, by my order, blank cartridge was fired, but without effect. It has since been definitely ordered that on these occasions blank cartridge is never to be used. I dare say I am wrong. Certainly the weight of authority is against me. But if I used my own judgment, in a similar emergency, as a measure of humanity, I should again try first the effect of blank firing. The statement made at the time that blank fire only infuriated the mob is quite baseless. It had no effect whatever. By the time the troops arrived all was quiet. The soldiers marched through the streets and were picketed in the town, and there was no further disorder.

This is the story of the riot of 1893 as pictured in my memory. Yet such is the fallibility of human testimony that accounts written immediately afterwards by myself and two other officers, all close together at the time, differed on material points. This was a useful lesson to me in dealing with the evidence of eye-witnesses, especially in times of excitement. Defects of observation and lapses of memory cause discrepancies in the stories of witnesses whose sole desire is to tell the truth. The stern suppression of this wicked and wanton riot kept the peace in Rangoon for twenty years. At first, as Bakr-i-id came round, troops were posted in the town. But there has been no disturbance, and display of military force has been discontinued. I do not think Indians bore me any ill-will for the part taken by me in this affair. To the end of my service many of them remained my good friends. Within a couple of months of the riot my wife and I were welcomed at the Mohurram in Mandalay, listened to the sad story of Hassan and Hussein, and watched the fiery rites of that impressive celebration.

In the middle of 1893 I became Commissioner of the Northern Division. The country was perfectly quiet and in order. Settled times had succeeded the bustle and confusion of the pacification. There was now leisure to prepare and execute projects for the benefit of the people. First among these was the Mu Valley Railway, which runs from Sagaing to Myit-kyina, opening up the fertile, land-locked plains of Wuntho, where a year or two earlier unhusked rice sold for ten rupees a hundred baskets, and rich lands farther north. A branch runs to Katha, on the Irrawaddy, below Bhamo, with which there is connection by ferry. Between Mandalay and Sagaing there is still a gap in the system. As soon as funds are available the Irrawaddy must be bridged, and through communication established from Rangoon to Myit-kyina. Even more important than the railway were two great irrigation schemes for watering the dry districts of Mandalay and Shwebo. These were being examined and matured. When I rode through Shwebo in the autumn of this year with the Deputy Commissioner, Mr. G. W. Shaw,[229] the fields were as hard as the stony-hearted pavement of Oxford Street. Anxiously the people watched the sky, longing for the appearance of the smallest cloud. Rice was scarce, and edible roots formed the staple fare of the peasantry. We were perilously near the Famine Code. In those days, if Shwebo had one good year in three, it reckoned itself fortunate. Luckily, at harvest-time there was always work in Lower Burma; and if the season failed, crowds streamed down to the teeming rice-fields of the Delta, whence they honourably remitted sustenance for the women, the aged, and the infirm left in their homes. Though emigration is easy and common enough, most Burmans are strongly attached to their birthplace, and cling with passionate affection to their ancestral lands. Mortgages are kept alive for a century or more, the hope of regaining possession being abandoned with extreme reluctance. Thus, though many farmers from the sterile north took up land in the Delta and made new homes, the majority hastened back to their native districts at the faintest prospect of a good season. Now in Shwebo, thanks to the Irrigation Canal, the face of the country is changed. Thousands of acres formerly dependent on precarious rainfall receive ample and regular supplies of water, and are under continuous cultivation. The pretty song of the women as they plant out the seedlings from the pyogin[230] is doubtless heard as of yore, now not intermittently, but each year as the season recurs. A District which was too often a barren waste is now a rich harvest-field, giving grain not only for local use, but for export. Similar good results have been obtained in the Mandalay district by similar means. These irrigation systems, which not only enrich the people, but also yield a handsome revenue, were planned and executed with all the skill and science of irrigation engineers experienced in such work in the Punjab. They were based on the old Burmese works, which had fallen into disrepair, and which at no time were sufficiently well planned and managed to secure regular crops.

On the borders, the Kachins had been reduced to order and had become for the most part a law-abiding people. No longer were they permitted to levy toll on passing caravans, or to raid and oppress the plain villages at the foot of their hills. Their subjugation had not been effected without difficulty. In 1891 and 1892 there was severe fighting at Sima and Sadôn; and as recently as Christmas, 1892, Myitkyina had been attacked and burnt by a raiding party from the north. But when they had been well beaten, and when posts had been established at various points, the hillmen rapidly settled down. The discontinuance of their lawless practices was more than compensated by the wealth acquired as payment for services rendered to our officers and military police garrisons. The Kachins, in which name may be included, conveniently if unscientifically, many kindred tribes speaking different dialects and following diverse customs, are sturdy fellows, peopling the hills of the Bhamo district, on the borders of China and Tibet. As a race, they have the vigour and vitality characteristic of mountaineers. They are distinctly one of the most progressive races of Burma, and, but for our advent, would have penetrated gradually far into the plains of Burma and the Shan States. Washed and brushed up, many Kachins show signs of a high order of intelligence.

At this time the Bhamo district still included all the Kachin country, Myitkyina not being yet constituted a separate charge. Mainly by the genius of Mr. E. C. S. George,[231] the system of managing the tribesmen was evolved. The hills were divided into administered and unadministered tracts. In the latter there were no posts, and no interference was attempted. So long as their inhabitants abstained from raids and outrages in the settled country; so long, as was somewhat crudely said, as they confined their zeal for slaughter to their own borders, they were at liberty to do as they pleased. No officers visited them, summoned them to appear, or exacted any tax or tribute. Travellers crossed the administrative line at their own risk, Government accepting no responsibility for their safety, and refusing to exact reparation if they suffered wrong. Our sovereignty over these tracts was not abandoned; it was merely left in abeyance. From time to time the administrative line has been varied. On this side of the line Government undertook to preserve order and to punish misconduct. The administered country was dominated by police posts and placed in charge of the Deputy Commissioner and his assistants. Control light but effective was enforced. A simple code was promulgated, care being taken to avoid the creation of artificial offences and undue interference with local customs. Each village-tract had its own headman, with fairly extensive powers, appointed by the Deputy Commissioner. In early days the headman was rather absurdly called Sawbwa; with fuller knowledge the title of Duwa was adopted. Periodically in the open season, the Deputy Commission and his Assistants, with suitable escorts, made set tours through the hills, trying cases, settling disputes, and collecting the moderate tribute or household tax, the only revenue raised from the Kachins. This patriarchal system, which was gradually perfected, has succeeded admirably. Since the beginning of 1893, only one serious disturbance[232] has broken the peace of the Kachin country. The orderly condition of our hill-tracts afforded a pleasing contrast to the state of those close at hand under Chinese control, where complete indifference alternated with savage measures of repression.

Affairs on the Chinese border gave some trouble. The boundary had been declared, but not yet demarcated. Its actual location being still undetermined, it was difficult to prevent encroachments, some of which were designed to strengthen the Chinese case when the border-line came to be settled. We had to correspond directly with Chinese officers at Yunnan-fu and T’Êngyüeh, consular officers at these places not having yet been appointed. On the whole, the Chinese were not bad neighbours. We certainly were not afraid of them, but were able to take a correct measure of their power as of their diplomacy.

At the end of the year 1893, just at the close of his turn of office, the Viceroy, Lord Lansdowne, came to Burma. With Lady Lansdowne, he visited Mandalay, went up the river as far as Bhamo, and by launch through the First Defile to Sinbo. In His Excellency’s party were Sir Henry Brackenbury,[233] Military Member of Council; Sir John Ardagh, Private Secretary; Mr. W. J. Cuningham,[234] Foreign Secretary; and once more Lord William Beresford as Military Secretary. The administration of the Kachin Hills and the Chinese boundary was discussed on the spot by the Viceroy with the Chief Commissioner and his local officers. At Bhamo the Viceroy held a Durbar on the house-boat in which the Chief Commissioner was wont to travel in comfort, if not in luxury. Kachin Duwas came in crowds and laid spears and elephant tusks and embroidered cloths at His Excellency’s feet, receiving more valuable gifts in return. On shore weird Kachin dances were performed mid unseasonable rain, which damped the revels. It was a pity, for at the best a Kachin dance is a depressing ceremony, something like “Here we go round the mulberry bush,” played by tired children. At Mandalay, in the golden-pillared Western Hall of Audience, a fitting setting for so brilliant a scene, another Durbar was held, glittering with uniforms of British officers and gay with the bright Court dresses of Burman and Shan notables.

This cold season I toured in the hills for some weeks and in the pleasantest company. Captain Bower,[235] having covered himself with glory by hunting down the murderer of Dalgleish and earned fresh laurels by his adventurous march across Tibet, came over to gather honey for the Intelligence hive. Mr. George, who made all the bandobast[236] for the tour, was more at home among Kachins than any man of his time. Starting from Waing-maw, we marched inland to Sima, the scene of a fierce struggle not many months before, where Morton met a soldier’s death and Captain Lloyd[237] won the Victoria Cross. So close to the border that in the first Boundary Convention, concluded when our diplomatists were in great awe of China’s puissance, it was assigned to our neighbours, Sima was a little outpost in the hills. Surrounded by a stockade, a ditch, and barbed-wire entanglements, it was strong enough to resist any probable attack. Officers and men were housed in huts of mud or mat, stores and ammunition in sheds of corrugated iron. Long since these primitive posts have been replaced by substantial forts built on scientific plans. A line of them holds the frontier and dominates the hills. From Sima we struck northward to Sadôn, then our farthest outpost. We strolled at leisure; along forest paths up and down hill; across clear mountain-streams, sometimes at a ford, sometimes by a swaying bridge hastily made of bamboos with a carpet of long grass, sometimes on a raft or rude dugout; through thriving Kachin villages perched on crests of hills, where the barbarous people showed us no little kindness, offering fruits from their Taungyas[238] and encouraging us to explore their long, low thatched houses. A stretch of the march led easily over the saddle of a range of hills. In the morning the valleys were covered with a veil of mist; as this dispersed, at our feet were spread fertile plains, and in the distance gleamed the Irrawaddy like a silver thread. Our escort was a score of mounted military police, our transport mules from China. Early, but not too early, we rose and took a substantial chota haziri[239] beside the camp-fire while the mules were loading up. Chinese muleteers have many good points, but they need handling, and submit with reluctance to interference with their little ways. You may hearken, but their voice is not in heaven before the lark. Even when they have been roused from slumber, it is any odds that two or three mules have wandered off in the night and have to be sought with vituperation best left obscure. The actual loading is comparatively simple. The baggage is tied to a wooden saddle which is lifted on to the mule’s back and left there unfastened. At that season, at the height of some three or four thousand feet, the climate was perfect, cool, and bright. We could march all day without inconvenience. Once started, we walked and rode, staying now and then to interview headmen and villagers with special reference to an inquiry into the opium habit which I was making for my own satisfaction, till we reached our halting-place, on the bank of a crystal stream. One inviolable rule was enforced. The sumpter mule always headed the cavalcade. After a dip in the river, while tents were being pitched we breakfasted under a shady tree at any hour from one to five, as the length of the march determined. The best servant in the camp was Captain Bower’s Pathan, a hook-nosed ruffian from the North-West Frontier, who had been in every scrap on the border for a generation. When he raised his finger, the other servants fled gibbering. After dinner, the day’s work over, he relaxed. In a leafy bower, like a figure from the Arabian Nights, smoking a hookah he sat holding enthralled a breathless audience with, one fondly hoped, stories of adventure. Perhaps he was only discussing prices in the bazaar. Next to him, longo intervallo, was the Kachin Zinaw who acted as interpreter and handyman. He began the march speaking Chinese, Shan, Burmese, and several Kachin dialects; he ended with a working knowledge of English and Hindustani. Zinaw was a man of great intelligence, but not of lofty principle. For negotiating the passage of a rushing stream, or for hastily rigging up a camp, he was invaluable. Some years he flourished, till misdirected ingenuity brought him to grief. His last service to Government was rendered, I believe, in the Bhamo Jail.

Up to Sadôn we climbed with labour and heavy sorrow, each height surmounted revealing our goal apparently as distant as ever, till we were fain to sit down in the dust and weep. Drever, the post commandant, an athlete of renown, explained the special advantage of life at Sadôn. Whenever you went for a walk you had to descend 2,000 feet and climb up again. So you kept in condition. In posts like this one or two civil and military police officers spent the months guarding the marches. Occasional tours were welcome interludes. The work was not very arduous, and there was a blessed lack of files and records. But it was a hard life, with few amenities, often drearily monotonous. Our frontier officers cheerfully endured this isolated existence, and kept bright their country’s honour among the hill tribes.