‘TABOO’ LANGUAGE REBORN
Shan-ni revival in Myanmar
Asteady cadence echoes from the one-storey school building toward verdant mountains — the familiar sound of children reciting lines to learn a language. But in this part of northern Myanmar, speaking Shan-ni only a decade ago was seen as taboo, and treated as a crime.
Soldiers on both sides of a long-running conflict would punish those who spoke the local dialect, according to residents, and for decades the government banned the language in schools. Yet on the shores of Indawgyi Lake, the determination to restore the tongue is strong.
Advocates hope Shan-ni will become as much a part of the landscape as the migratory birds from Siberia, and the golden reflection of a seemingly buoyant 19th century stupa in the middle of the lake.
Daw Khin Pyone, a formidable 78-year-old wearing large, gold-framed spectacles, has been a vital campaigner for the Shan-ni, a subgroup of Myanmar’s largest ethnic group, the Shan. As the chair of a Kachin State government Shan literature and cultural committee and a former state minister for Shan affairs, she has overseen an unprecedented rise in Shan-ni teachers.
“If our culture becomes obsolete, we become too influenced by other cultures. We want our ethnicity to love our own culture; that’s why we do this,” she said.
The Shan-ni, also known as the Red Shan or Tai-Leng, are a subgroup of Tai Shan people who are spread across southern Kachin state and the northern Sagaing region. Those who settled centuries ago in the valley of Indawgyi Lake have the good fortune of living next to one of Southeast Asia’s most stunning examples of biodiversity, and the misfortune of being sandwiched between two sides of a conflict more than half a century old.
Teaching of their distinct script, language and culture was banned as part of a wider Burmese hegemony over minorities after General Ne Win’s military coup in 1962. Pushing back from the north against the army were the Kachin Independence Organization and its 10,000-strong military wing, the Kachin Independence Army (KIA), which reportedly suppressed and harassed Shan-ni living in contested territory.
Though knowledge of the script waned, the historically Buddhist Shan-ni kept their language alive in surreptitious discussions held in monasteries and homes. A Burman narrative dominated the schools, but for many the true history was spoken in their native tongue.
Then in September 2014, Myanmar legally recognised ethnic language teaching, which has resulted in a spirited, if poorly funded, drive to rejuvenate marginalised languages.
Local teacher Aung Thura Hein, 22, began learning how to read and write Shan-ni two years ago and now volunteers one hour after school every weekday to teach it. “I do not want my language to fade, I want to keep it going,” he told Nikkei Asian Review. He moved from the lake to the township’s capital when he was a boy because of conflict. “At that time it was not safe to speak Shan-ni,” he said.
Tensions still run high around the lake. Ethnic rebels operate gold mines in the encircling mountains, while 55 kilometres north is army-controlled Hpakant, the centre of the multi-billion-dollar jade mining industry.
Shan-ni communities dotted around the water gradually formed their own militia to oppose extortion and forced conscription, leading to the creation of the more politically ambitious armed group, the Shan-ni Nationalities Army, in 2016.
At Lone Ton, the only lakeside village where foreigners are permitted to stay, is a checkpoint manned by soldiers of the Myanmar Army’s notorious 33rd Light Infantry Division, which is also accused of spearheading the recent atrocities in Rakhine State.
A few hundred metres away, pigs root through orchards around the stilted teak house of a Shan-ni mother, who admits her grasp of the language has weakened since she married a Burmese man who speaks the dominant Bama language. Still, over a chorus of cicadas she offered a few words: “‘I have a son’ is na ge luk sai kor ya. One son is luk sai kor. Kor means one.”
Listening intently was Dutch student Carmen Eva Marseille, 24, who is compiling the first Shan-ni grammar for her master’s degree. “Either there is a system behind it that I haven’t found yet, or it is free or it is in transition, because a lot of Shan-ni speakers are now fluent in Burmese,” she said.
“It is really clear that (the language) lives among the people and people find it important,” said Marseille.
When they speak the language with Marseille, local residents often tell traditional stories. One concerns the origin of the lake. Legend has it that residents at the time were so sinful and corrupt that they enraged the local dragon nat, or spirit, which then morphed into a flood of water.
Some residents believe a species of fish with humanlike teeth found in the lake shows the fate of the sinners. This does not stop people enjoying the catch with a side of spicy relish at local eateries.
This tale would have sounded like one wavering, unbroken word if spoken in an older version of Shan-ni, said Sai Win Htin, 42, a senior member of the Shan-ni and Northern Shan Ethnic Solidarity Party. Recent adjustments include the introduction of stops and tweaking older words to better fit the times, he explained.
The government has no exact figures for the Shan-ni population or Shan-ni speakers, although some estimate there are 300,000.
“Most Shan-ni are marked ‘Bamar’ on their official documentation,” said Sai Win Htin. “We are trying to bring the Shan-ni language back with literature, culture, a national party and a national movement.”
The message has spread to Mandalay, where the threeyear-old monthly magazine Voice of Shanni reserves five pages for Shan-ni language news, history and education. The magazine’s publisher has also produced books on the basic elements of the language.
Daw Khin Pyone, meanwhile, continues to travel around the state holding five-day Shan-ni language workshops.
“We didn’t know our language because of the war. Some scripts were burned and had to be rewritten,” she said as she studied a half-century old Shan-ni scroll.
Today those trials might seem distant, but dangers for the fragile revival in the rumbling conflict, the lack of government funding, and the ethnic population moving to the cities.
Despite this, Daw Khin Pyone believes the future is bright. Now 100 Shan-ni teachers cover 150 elementary schools in Kachin State, she said — more than double the number of a year ago. “We can now teach our ethnicity’s history. We can translate medical books and laws into our own language. That is the difference.”