Last evening I was reading a book, when I ran across one of the characters named Capistrano. Without thinking, the words of the long forgotten song sung by Pat Boone flowed in:

When the swallows come back to Capistrano
That’s the day you’d promised to come back to me ……..

It was one of the many songs that I learned during my 8 year stay in Lashio, 1954-1962. Every evening before the show began, the Aung Thiri theater 1 km away would blast out one song after another from its loudspeakers for about half an hour inviting the townspeople to one of its movies on show.

The days of cassette audio tape recorders were then still more than 10 years away. And we tried to learn by heart the songs we loved from the theater’s daily transmissions. (These days I would be cursing out loud against these outrageous disturbances of one’s privacy, but at that time it was one of the heavens of our humdrum life as schoolboys).


I was first introduced to Aung Thiri in 1954 when my mother, who was living a sort of nomadic life with my father, a military officer with the First Shan Rifles in lower Burma, left me with our grandfather in Lashio to take care of my schooling. To make sure that I didn’t spoil her plan by insisting to leave with her, my brother (actually cousin, but the word “cousin” sort of leaves a bitter taste among us who had gone through the ups and downs of life together) who was (he still is) 5 years older took me to Aung Thiri, where Ivanhoe, starred by Robert Taylor, was showing.

Of course, my mother slipped away during the time I was busy jostling lances on horseback together with Taylor.

“We certainly owe a great deal to Aung Thiri,” remembered my brother who is making a living by operating private English classes in Rangoon, during our two days together in March. “Pronunciation is a very important part of learning a language. One of the ways to improve it is through songs. In this respect, we were lucky to be able to hone our skills through Aung Thiri, weren’t we?”

He was right, of course. For myself, its impact went much further: I became a song writer for 9 years of my life, although I didn’t make any money out of it like him.

Aung Thiri, located on a shoulder of the hill in the middle of the town, is still there, I was assured. But my hosts didn’t have any ideas where its former owners, Martin Tan and his children are, some of whom were my schoolmates.

Which brings to mind all those I had known and held dear at school.

Of course, for their sake, I won’t be mentioning names. For all the hype about peacemaking in the country, I’m still an illegal. Until the notorious Sections 5 and 17-1 are gone, being a friend with somebody like myself can bring one’s name on the government’s blacklist.

Still I’m sure the day will come when the swallows will return to Lashio, if not to Capistrano (a town south of Los Angeles, I learned this morning), and we will be able to meet and reminisce the good old times long gone by.

Until then, may all of us be in good health and spirits.