Poetry and Rants by DC McKenzie

Posts tagged “Burma

Saffron River~Update: Aung San Suu Kyi is Free

13 November 2k10

Today, after two decades of prison and house arrest, two decades of ruthless oppression which has only strengthened her noble resolve, the Junta of Burma has set free Daw Aung San Suu Kyi.


Emerging from her Rangoon home to the celebrations of thousands, who had been gathering since Friday, Daw Suu Kyi called for calm, saying, “There is a time to be quiet, and a time to talk. People must work in unison.” And said she would visit the headquarters of the now disbanded political party, the National League for Democracy, which won the election in 1990, but was quashed by the Junta, who then arrested and held the outspoken Daw Suu Kyi in one form of imprisonment or detention ever since.

Secretary General of the United Nations, Ban Ki-Moon, also made an impassioned plea to the military Junta to “…build on today’s action by releasing all remaining political prisoners…”

Until they are freed, a part of every one of us remains imprisoned. For that which you inflict upon even one of us, you inflict upon us all.

Only in Solidarity can we forge true Freedom.
Only with Solidarity can Unocal be held accountable for their Crimes against Humanity: by bribing the Junta military to make slaves of countless poor Burmese citizens. Forcing them to labor in the jungles to clear brush for pipeline equipment; a death sentence to many, while those who live often become refugees in their own land. Yet Solidarity knows no borders, recognizes no difference between Asian, European, American…Solidarity only recognizes Human.

Only through Solidarity will the political prisoners of Burma be released, and an end put to the Generals and their brutal, wicked regime.

Come, let us stand with Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, until all of Burma is finally Free.


~DC McKenzie

—end transmission—


Saffron River

3 November 2k10

Our world at times feels alien; a bedlam full of hostile places, a wasteland vast with no oasis—
Our world is teeming with the strife of war, the spectre of genocide.
The chasm between wealth and poverty grows with every hour.
While with mighty armies and high walls behind which they hide,
Evil men rule the day, grasping at their chains of power.

In a land held hostage, with even the name of the country in contention, though recognized by the UN with little dissension—and even less international aid, hardly worth the mention—the nation now called Myanmar reels with anguish and persecution. Even as it stands at the brink of Freedom.
Tremors rumble across the country, as more and more Burmese begin to resist, only to be struck down.
Yet for every one returned to the Earth, another rises.

With this poem I address the Junta of Burma. Ruthless, blood-hungry Generals with your dispassionate decrees, and Death Squads set loose like jackals upon your citizenry. Right down to the faceless functionary, with a fraction of power to be wielded mercilessly—your pens are as bloody as any sword could hope to be.

Humbly, I beg you, wipe clean this awful slate, upon which you write Burma’s fate: turn away from the empty security of a Police State.
It is better to have freedom with danger, than to have security with slavery.
I beg you, fuel the ember of compassion within you, which you have secretly protected against the long winter of fear.

Finally, I beg you, for the sake of your people, set free Daw Aung San Suu Kyi.


Saffron River

Their alms bowls overturned in protest,
begging instead for peace, for an end to slaughter,
thousands of Buddhist Monks are marching
in solidarity, in despair, on the streets of Sittwe.

Armed only with prayers, they stand against soldiers

as before, and as before,

when they were tear-gassed

and beaten with batons.

In Mandalay, they march fragile seeming
against armored thugs with riot-guns.

However, a human at one with the Universe
cannot with beatings or bullets be quelled.

In Rangoon, they rise against a tyrannical regime
…just imagine all of that orange and saffron

clogging the streets with prayers,

spilling into alleyways

like a broken string of prayer beads.

Monks unyielding, monks resolute—
unwilling to bear the yoke of repression
unwilling to face atrocity and remain mute.

Now citizens, men and women,
young and old alike, who would
normally stay out of the troubles,
are linking arm in arm
to protect these monks

who beg alms to feed the hungry and the outcast
whose lifelong service and selfless
sacrifice have made them truly holy.

Later that day, gutters ran with blood for rain—
a saffron river to dispel discontent in those who remain.
And what of the monks taken alive?

They have disappeared

They have disappeared

Reeducated or Reincarnated

—whichever came first.

~D.C. McKenzie


~Monks of Burma~

—end transmission—