How a forgotten Muslim teacher shaped the pen of a future nationalist—and what that irony tells us about Burma’s lost spirit of tolerance.
From Composition to Literature — The Hidden Art of Teacher Haroon
In the classroom of U Haroon, lessons in language were never dry. What began as an ordinary session on composition could suddenly turn into a moment of laughter, imagination, and beauty.
One evening, while teaching descriptive writing, he used the image of a walk along the banks of the Chindwin River at sunset. The orange light shimmered on the water; the air was calm and scented with evening breeze. Then, with a mischievous smile, he added a touch of humor.
“Now,” he said, “imagine you have crossed to the western bank and are walking southward. From a distance, you see a group of girls walking toward you. You can tell, even from afar, that they are well-dressed, graceful, and rather beautiful.
Do you think they are girls from your own school?
No, no,” he laughed, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinting. “Our girls never walk on the road — that’s why they’re all short of breath and out of shape!”
The classroom erupted in laughter. U Haroon laughed along, showing his large white teeth, his whole face lit with joy. Yet after the laughter faded, he delivered his real lesson:
“It’s good to describe the beauty of the river,” he said. “Nature is always worth writing about. But it’s even better when something happens — when life enters your story.
If not a meeting with young women, then write about porters carrying loads, or people on the street. Add life. Add encounter. Then your writing will breathe. It will become real literature.”
A Teacher Who Led Beyond His Own Lesson
In truth, U Haroon had quietly crossed a boundary himself — from the schoolbook composition to the realm of creative literature.
He did not call it that, and perhaps he did not even realize it. In his mind, he was still teaching how to write a proper essay.
But in practice, he was training his students to see, feel, and breathe life into words.
After each lesson, he gave topics drawn from daily life — never abstract or grand subjects. He believed a student must first write from what they know, not what they pretend to know.
Sometimes he encouraged realism:
“Write about your day at the school dormitory — but not from your own eyes. Write it from the point of view of the school peon, as if the building could see and hear everything.”
Other times, he invited imagination:
“Imagine you are a bird — a crow or a myna — and describe a morning in Monywa.”
When I chose “A Morning from a Crow’s Point of View,” I began by describing how a crow wakes with the first light.
“We crows do not need to wash our faces like humans. The moment light touches our wings, we must fly and search for food.”
Through the crow’s eyes, I described what I had really seen:
a kind vegetable seller slipping extra greens into a student’s basket;
a fishmonger arguing with a woman over false weights — so distracted that my crow swooped down and stole a fish.
That day, I learned what U Haroon had been teaching all along:
To write living literature, one must blend experience with imagination.
Without realizing it, I had crossed from the narrow path of school composition into the open field of art — led there by the laughter and wisdom of U Haroon, the teacher who disguised imagination as discipline.
The Irony and Legacy of Teacher Haroon
Every generation in Burma’s literary world has a teacher whose influence lingers quietly behind the famous names.
For the celebrated journalist and politician U Thein Pe Myint, that guiding hand was U Haroon — the Muslim teacher who taught him how to shape ideas, structure arguments, and bring human warmth into words.
Ironically, the student later became known for his ultra-nationalist and anti-Muslim writings. Yet his first lessons in language, clarity, and imagination had come from a Muslim mentor.
History, it seems, has a sense of irony.
The story of Teacher Haroon and his famous student is therefore more than an anecdote. It mirrors Burma’s larger tragedy — how bridges once built through education and shared culture were later burned by prejudice and politics.
A Mirror to Burmese Society
Teacher Haroon’s classroom, in truth, was a small model of what Burma once was — or could have been.
Inside that modest school by the Chindwin River, race and religion mattered little. What mattered was thought, expression, and joy in learning.
His humor broke barriers. His laughter united the classroom.
He represented the cosmopolitan spirit once natural in Burmese towns — where Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and Christians studied together, traded together, and respected one another.
When politics later divided those communities, the spirit of men like U Haroon became the forgotten soul of the nation — the moral compass lost in the storm.
A Broader Lesson for Our Times
Today, as Myanmar again stands fractured by war, racism, and mistrust, the story of Teacher Haroon offers a quiet but profound lesson.
It reminds us that education and wisdom cannot coexist with hatred — and that every act of prejudice is, in truth, an act of forgetting.
If the student had remembered not only the words but also the kindness of his Muslim teacher, perhaps Burma’s intellectual and political history might have taken a gentler course.
For all his wit and simplicity, U Haroon planted something deeper:
the belief that education should make us more human, not more arrogant.
A Legacy Worth Remembering
U Haroon’s name may not appear in official histories.
He left no books, no public office, no monument.
But his legacy lives quietly through the generations of students who learned to love language, see beauty in everyday life, and respect others beyond labels.
He was the silent bridge between Burma’s communities — proof that a good teacher, even from a minority, can shape the moral imagination of a nation.
The true tragedy of Myanmar is not that her people lacked brilliance —
but that too many forgot the kindness of their first teachers.
ျမန္မာစကားေျပ ·
Zeya Myat ·seondrtSpola430h9hg1d29ta0t 5c881sr2m0 0501h 86i1:egeMYyAg1h ·
[ သိန်းဖေမြင့်]
{ ကျွန်တော်၏အချစ်ဦး}
သင်ကြားပေးခြင်း 
# Zeya Myat
( မြန်မာစာ မြန်မာစကား)
ပုံ- crd
