Professional Documents
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New Voices of A Changing Myanmar
New Voices of A Changing Myanmar
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117
New Voices of a
Changing Myanmar
Short Stories by
Students and Members of the American Center
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Introduction ix
88 Wint Thu 57
Elias Lindert
Yangon, Myanmar
Mind the Gap
By Hlaing Win Thaw Dar
The advertisement flashed across the five-story tall screen on the wall of
one of the condos near the Pyay and Inya Road junction. A glittering jet-
black car zoomed across the screen, seeming to wink at the people below,
while the silky voice of a man flowed from hidden speakers: “The 2027
BMW i20, unveiled at last! With auto hazard avoidance technology, patented
Chameleon System interchangeable body paint in up to thirty colors,
signature world-class leather seats, smart self-driving mode, and full car
air-bag protection bubble—When Bad Boys Are Not Always Dangerous!” The
car industry was still booming in Myanmar, even though the import rate
had stabilized after skyrocketing for years.
The Inya Lake area was the only place left with many trees in this part
of town. The lake and its surrounding park were protected by strong walls
to prevent the pollution of this tiny urban ecosystem. Even still, the water
seemed to be much lower now than just a few years ago, and it had a
strange color to it, as if it had been dyed a blue too perfect to be natural.
But it mirrored the eighty-story structures of the nearby condos beautifully,
and the trees around Inya were extraordinarily green, which was unusual
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Mind the Gap
2
Hlaing Win Thaw Dar
of the green light tick down. Some were hungry and on their way to eat,
and others were in a rush to get back to the cool sanctuary of their offices
after their lunch hour. Above all, it was the heat making them uncomfortable
and ill-tempered. Even their cars’ powerful air-conditioners could hardly
make a dent in the near-boiling-point temperature.
An old woman emerged from the shade of the sky-bridge into the
glaring sun. Her sagging tanned skin matched the faded color of her brown
yaw-gi clothing. Her face read like a map of time, every line and wrinkle
etched like a grim memory upon her skin. Her dull milky grey eyes left her
with a fraction of sight, just enough to allow her to stagger on her way.
The upper part of her body was arched like a bow, and she walked only
with the aid of a frail walking stick.
She hobbled toward the nearest car and stopped to ask for money
from the driver, who immediately rolled up his window, even though his
air-conditioner appeared to be broken. The car’s wheels moved several
inches forward, coming as close to the bumper of the car in front of it as
possible to get away from the woman.
She moved on to the next car, her face remaining impassive, since she
had become accustomed to such hostility throughout her elder years. She
got close to a glistening red sports car, her reflection on the polished surface
twisting and curving as she moved slowly alongside the car toward the
window. Inside the vehicle was a beautiful girl with big red sunglasses,
tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel with her blood-red fingernails,
which matched her lipstick. The girl seemed caught up in the music and
didn’t notice the old woman until she stood directly beside the car window.
The girl stopped tapping her fingers and quickly reached to press a button
near the gear shift, and she disappeared behind her windows as they were
instantly tinted pitch-black.
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Mind the Gap
The woman let out a tired sigh, inaudible to everyone but her. All day
she had been coming out from the shade to the cars every time the traffic
light turned red, then returning when it turned green and the cars began to
move. Her legs were stiff and weak, and it took several minutes for her to
return under the bridge. Sometimes, if the light turned red before she
could reach the shade, she would make a painful turn back toward the
road.
Hledan Junction had only become her usual spot a year or so ago—
or maybe it had been longer than that. It was hard to keep track of the
days while living on the street, where all of her possessions were the clothes
on her back and a ragged pack. She used to sleep and beg at Myaynigone
Junction until the area was taken by a housing project. Now only high
society lived there, according to the newspapers. She’d seen pictures in a
newspaper her friend had showed to her. The article talked about how fast
the city was developing and how wealthy its inhabitants were becoming.
Back when she’d stayed at Myaynigone, her friend had read to her from
days-old newspapers they found on the street. She was another old woman
like her, though her eyes were better, and together they kept each other
company and shared what little food they could afford or scavenge. Now
she didn’t know where her friend was. She had met a new friend at Hledan
Junction when she first came there, an old man in a colorless longyi and
frayed shirt, his only set of clothing. He was as fragile as she was, his
cheeks even more hollow and his eyes more lifeless. But he disappeared a
few months later. One night she didn’t see him sleeping where he usually
slept, two pillars away from her, and she never saw him again. She hoped
he moved to a place where he was better-off. She stayed at Hledan, frail
and alone, but surviving.
She saw a big black car with enormous wheels and blindingly shiny
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Hlaing Win Thaw Dar
rims, and she thought for a second or two about going up to it and asking
for money. The fat man inside looked wealthy, his precious rings digging
into his sausage-like fingers, his double-chinned face red from the sun’s
heat and his striped tie tight around his flabby neck. She cautiously
approached the car, hopefully eyeing the packets of money carelessly
scattered on the dashboard; in spite of the improving economy, inflation
remained an issue, and many people still distrusted banks. Before she could
get close to the car, an awful noise began to blare, and the warning,
DANGEROUS PROXIMITY: STAY BACK! flashed across the car
windows. Her exhausted heart skipped a beat and she stepped back
hurriedly. The man squinted at her from behind the flashing window, his
fat fingers rubbing his big red nose in annoyance.
The old woman thought about taking a break from all the chaos, but
she decided she would try one more car before the light turned green.
Stalled in the traffic, she saw a familiar looking vehicle. It was a normal
grey car, a bit small and dusty, an old model. There was nothing special
about it except the little girl inside, smiling and waving at her from its
passenger-side window. Her heart felt light, and her toothless grin lifted
her sagging cheeks. She walked faster toward the car, being careful not to
touch the hood or the side; she couldn’t be too sure about what technological
defenses it might possess. The window rolled down hastily.
“Good afternoon, Grandmother,” the girl greeted her as she poked
her head out the window.
“Oh, it’s my little granddaughter again,” the old woman said, still
smiling. Older Burmese people still called each other by family terms even
when they weren’t related, but for someone so young to do so was a lovely
surprise for the old woman.
“I haven’t seen you for a while. My school was closed for the
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Mind the Gap
Tazaungdaing holiday.” She pushed her two tiny hands out the window
and offered the old woman the money she was clutching.
“Thank you very much, dear,” the old woman said, and she patted the
car with the money, out of habit. “May you be healthy and wealthy in life,
and may you live in safety. May you learn well at school and become a wise,
well-educated woman. May this car travel without any danger.” It had always
been a Burmese tradition to bestow good wishes on the person who had
donated to or done a good deed for them, and the old woman still had
enough memory to know what the traditions and culture had once been.
“May your wishes come true,” the girl replied, smiling brightly.
“I lost my husband and my son, and I was left alone. That’s why I am
begging like this. I am too old to do anything else. No one wants me,” the
old woman said, giving the girl an apologetic look. She felt ashamed to be
doing this in front of a sweet little girl who actually seemed to care about
her.
The little girl didn’t know what to say back to her. “It’s okay,” she
managed to say before the traffic light turned green.
The old woman hobbled back toward the shade as the traffic started
to move. The small grey car drove past her. The little girl kept looking at
the rear-view mirror until the old woman disappeared into the shade. She
felt very sad for the old woman, but she was glad to have met her again.
She and her daddy had driven past this place the day before around noon,
but she hadn’t seen the old woman. She’d been very worried and kept
asking her daddy where the old woman could have been.
“Daddy, daddy, why is she not here? Where did she go? Do you think
she’s okay?” she had asked yesterday, her head turning in every direction,
straining her neck to see past the cars in front of her.
“She’s all right, Su Su. She’s probably having her lunch or taking a
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Hlaing Win Thaw Dar
nap. It’s already noon, you see, so she must be hungry or tired,” her daddy
had replied, patting her head.
“Do you think she can buy lunch, daddy? What if no one gave her
anything? We weren’t here early enough for her,” she said.
“Of course, honey. Other cars will give to her as well. If they didn’t,
the world would be a pretty cruel place. And Hledan market has a lot of
cheap places for her to buy rice.”
“Not as cheap as before, though, isn’t that what you told me?” the
girl asked, sulking. “I hope she can afford a bag of rice.” They drove in
silence for a while before she said, “I miss Grandma.”
She had been one of the very few children who still lived with her
grandparents until they both passed away a year ago. She had loved her
grandparents very much, and had been so glad that she didn’t have to go to
a separate house or a nursing home to visit them. She was glad that her
grandparents hadn’t become the “crazy old people” with “weird habits”
that her friends always talked about every Monday after they’d visited their
own grandparents in nursing homes over the weekend. The hectic lifestyle
of working people nowadays meant that most of them couldn’t continue
the tradition of taking care of old relatives anymore, but her mommy and
daddy tried to do their best till the very end. She had been very close with
her grandparents, closer even than her parents, since they could give her
time and attention that her parents couldn’t.
Her daddy had to go back to work that afternoon, and he was in a
rush to drop her off at school. Her school was one of the best in Yangon;
it was for privileged kids unlike herself. The only reason she could get into
this school was because her daddy was an old friend of the school’s
chairman. When she’d first begun going there, her classmates had seemed
to regard her as an entirely different creature from them, until she’d finally
7
Mind the Gap
8
Hlaing Win Thaw Dar
made the hunched man appear even smaller. In her mind, he looked like a
little ant carrying a huge grain of rice.
“Daddy, daddy, let’s buy something from him,” Su Su said, tugging
his shirt.
“All right. We’ll buy from him if we can catch him before we need to
turn, okay?”
But they couldn’t catch him in time, mainly because the car behind
them was blasting its horn, forcing them to turn at once without slowing
down. The wrinkled old man was left standing there, and her eyes followed
him in the rear windshield as they drove away.
“Daddy, he doesn’t have a hat,” she said, trying to stand up on her car
seat to see the old man. “You said old people like Grandpa can get sick
very easily from heat like this.”
“I’m sorry, Su Su, but there’s nothing we can do now. Please sit back
down. It’s dangerous,” he said, taking her hand and gently pulling her down.
Su Su became silent and crossed her arms, but she obeyed her daddy.
He had always been the nicest person she had ever known, especially
compared to her friends’ fathers. He might not be able to give her everything
she asked for, but she knew he always tried. Yesterday, she’d asked him to
buy her a gadget phone like everyone in her class had. She also asked for a
new brand of headphones sponsored by a pop star, even though she didn’t
really like music. She knew that both of these things were very expensive
and her parents couldn’t buy them for her, but she had felt frustrated
enough to ask because her best friend had just gotten his second pair of
the headphones, on top of the new phone he’d gotten the week before.
She wanted a new pair of Air Jordans, and she wanted new dresses, and
she wanted so many of the other things that her friends already had. But
right now, she wasn’t thinking of any those things.
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Mind the Gap
She thought of an old couple she’d seen near the Damazedi traffic
light: a wrinkled, tanned old man with age spots who supported a little old
lady by her arm as the two of them hobbled through the maze of cars,
asking for money. She had cried when she’d seen them because she felt so
sorry for them, and also because she thought to herself, What if my
grandparents had to do this? She’d asked her daddy if they could pick them up
and bring them to a nursing home. He told her that all the nursing homes
he knew were expensive, and they couldn’t afford to pay the room and
board for beggars. Then he bought her ice-cream to make her stop crying.
She thought of the old man with the floppy hat she always used to
see near her neighborhood’s garbage bins, picking through the trash. He
had two dirty cloth bags, one on each side of a long rod on his shoulder.
He used to collect plastic bags, bottles, and cans near the garbage bins
when she was very young. But now garbage collection was more systematic,
there was an official recycling procedure in place, and fewer people were
using plastic bags. It was getting difficult for the old man to find scraps
and recyclables that he could sell. Also, the employees of the newly formed
Environment and Sustainability Department were telling him not to take
anything out of the garbage, warning him not to come near the bins or
else he’d be arrested. These days, the old man just sat there on the corner
of the street, a safe distance between him and the bins, his empty bags
sprawled beside him.
Su Su was about to cry, and her daddy knew it. He looked at the car
clock to see whether they still had time before school.
“Su Su, would you like some ice cream? Häagen-Dazs is just around
the corner.”
She nodded without saying anything, and he drove toward her favorite
ice-cream bar. It was her favorite place in the whole world. All the walls
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Hlaing Win Thaw Dar
and floors were vanilla-colored, with multicolored chairs and tables in the
shapes of cones and scoops of ice-cream. The dangling crystalline
chandelier made her feel like she was in a castle. Her daddy parked the car
in between a silver sports car and an aggressively yellow 4x4 SUV, and they
went inside.
Everything was just the way she remembered it. Even the customers
looked like princes and princesses. But she didn’t feel like she was in a
castle this time. Her visions of the poor would not leave her. They kept
coming back to her with greater and greater strength, until she could no
longer see the wealth all around her.
11
12
The Other Side of the Coin
By Than Toe Aung
13
The Other Side of the Coin
14
Than Toe Aung
the “ride” she gave him in the rain, he tried his best to get closer to her.
She spent most of her time in the library, so Thiha began going there too,
even though he had rarely ever gone to the library before he’d met her. As
time passed by, they began meeting each other frequently at a coffee shop,
where they would hang out before their class started. They often talked
about their family lives, their experiences at their universities, their crazy
friends. Sometimes they’d giggle over the silly antics of a couple sitting at
another table. Then they would go to class together.
Now that they’ve been meeting regularly for several months, some
people in their class think they are a couple, but most do not, since their
appearances are so distinctively opposite. Thiha is brown, Indian-looking,
hairy, and a Muslim. Nwe Sein Wai, on the other hand, is light-skinned,
with the features of a typical Burmese lady, and a Buddhist. They get a lot
of attention when they are together in public because of the racial
segregation and religious tension between Muslims and Buddhists. The
majority of Muslims in Myanmar look Indian, like Thiha, and Buddhists
tend not to like Muslim guys dating Buddhist girls. However, Thiha and
Nwe Sein Wai never explain themselves to others. When they are asked if
they are a couple, they brush off the question and laugh. After their English
class, Nwe attends a painting class nearby while Thiha waits for her at their
regular café. They usually hang out after Nwe’s painting class finishes at
eight. It’s easier for them to be together in public at night; because it is
darker and there are fewer people on the roads, they don’t have to worry
about getting nasty looks—or worse—from strangers. Only under the cover
of night can they truly be themselves with each other. When they go out
together during the daytime, they avoid holding hands or doing anything
that would give the impression that they are a couple.
After class is over and night has fallen, they usually take a walk to the
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The Other Side of the Coin
banks of Inya Lake, where there are a lot of couples on dates, strolling
together or sitting and chitchatting. Since the dim lights from lampposts
are the only lights around the lake at night, the couples enjoy a level of
freedom they could not have during the day. When Nwe and Thiha are
tired, they sit side by side on a bench along the shore and enjoy the scenery
of Inya Lake. Sometimes they continue to talk about whatever comes into
their minds. Other times they just sit silently beside each other, doing
nothing but gazing at the lake and the bright lights across the water. Thiha
likes to take out his earphones, put one in Nwe’s ear and the other in his,
and play their favorite music. Nwe lays her head on Thiha’s shoulder, closing
her eyes and enjoying the music and the cool breeze coming across the
lake.
“Do you love me, Nwe?” Thiha asks her out of the blue on one such
night. There follows a long silence. She is resting her head on his shoulder
but doesn’t say a word. Then she starts laughing softly.
“Hey, why are you laughing?”
“You know, you are a naughty boy.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you don’t just ask a girl if she loves you!” she says, her cute
smile forming. “You’re supposed to tell her that you love her. That’s how it
is.”
“But that’s not how it’s done in American movies,” he protests. “They
hardly even say ‘I love you’ when they’re beginning to date each other.
They start off with ‘I like you.’ And anyone, boys or girls, can say it first.”
“Then go to America! This is Myanmar,” she replies.
Thiha picks up a small flat rock and throws it at the lake. The rock
skips across the surface of the water three times before it sinks. “It doesn’t
matter who says it first, does it? But I’ll keep that rule in mind for future
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Than Toe Aung
reference.”
“Why for future reference?” she asks. “Why not now?”
He gazes at the lights shining on the other side of the lake and feels
the breeze rubbing against his face. “When people say they love someone,
it always leaves me thinking about what they really mean by that. Or do
you think they even know? Sitting with you right here makes me feel unreal.
It’s the same sort of unreality as seeing a light after living in the darkness
for a long time. You might be afraid to hold onto that glimpse of light, but
you also don’t want it to fade away.”
“I think you love me,” Nwe whispers.
“Why do you think so?”
“Because I love you too.”
“Then explain it to me, please.”
“I can’t. That’s the beauty of love. You feel it but it’s difficult to
explain.”
He looks into her eyes, searching for something. Her lips are half
open and half closed; the curve that forms on her lips when she smiles is
perhaps his favorite thing about her. He can feel her slow breathing as his
face nears hers and smell the sweet fragrance of thanaka on her skin. He
gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She has the sweetest scent of anyone
he has ever been close to. A few drops of rain fall, and before they notice,
it begins to pour. The other couples by the lakeside get up and run for the
nearest bus stop, where there is a small roof for waiting passengers.
“Do you feel like walking back to the dorms?” Thiha asks. He usually
walks her to her dorm, and then he takes a bus and goes back home where
he lives with his parents.
“In this rain?”
“Yeah.”
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The Other Side of the Coin
“Why? I have a class tomorrow. I can’t risk getting sick. We don’t have
an umbrella. You know I can catch the flu very easily.”
“I know, but . . . but I’ve always loved walking in the rain. I mean, the
world is a noisy place, full of people clamoring for attention or bustling
from one place to the next. But when the rain comes, they all disappear.
It’s as if the signal between the outside world and your ears is cut off. As if
the rain is saying, ‘Shut up and listen to me, you lousy people!’ All you hear
is the sound of the rain falling, and it puts your mind at peace. I always
love to look up at the sky and feel the raindrops coming down on my face.
It’s the best feeling in the world. Maybe you should try it, too.”
She looks at the couples running toward the bus stop for shelter, and
her brow furrows as she considers her decision. “Okay then,” she says.
“I’ll try it. But only this time. And you’re responsible for taking care of me
if I get sick. Deal?”
“Deal. You have my word on that.”
As the rain continues to come down, they walk side by side, holding
hands. Soon they’re both soaked through. Nwe looks stunning with her
Burmese traditional dress clinging to her skin, revealing the perfect curves
and edges of her small, beautiful body. Her face is covered in droplets of
water instead of thanaka, and her lips are turning pink in the rain.
“I want you to carry me in your arms, Thiha. I have always dreamt of
a day that my boyfriend would carry me in his arms and take me home,”
she says as they walk.
“No. People will look at us. We will get a lot of attention.”
“Come on. It’s raining so hard that no one is on this entire road
except us. Or is it because maybe you just aren’t strong enough to carry
me?” she teases.
All of a sudden, he takes hold of her and lifts her into his arms.
18
Than Toe Aung
At the age of sixteen, Thiha had joined the Myanmar Maritime University,
hoping he would one day become the captain of a ship and travel around
the world. His dream collapsed when he finally realized that his high school
marks were insufficient to get into the major necessary to become a captain.
He ended up studying electrical engineering, but he was never interested in
it. It was just the result of the backward educational system forced on him
by the country’s military rulers. They couldn’t care less about anyone, he
thought to himself, let alone students and their dreams. He would have
liked to study abroad, but he didn’t have the resources, and even if he did,
he wouldn’t have known what to study. So he continued studying
engineering. Oftentimes, he would skip his classes and play soccer or
computer games with his friends. That’s when he met Min Thant, on a day
both of them were cutting class. They were in the same major, they had
similar views, and they were similarly dissatisfied with school. It was Min
Thant who introduced him to English novels, and soon Thiha had a true
passion in his life.
Thiha loved and enjoyed English to the same degree that he hated
and was bored by engineering. Though his English wasn’t great, the desire
19
The Other Side of the Coin
to be able to read more difficult books and to speak and write fluently
pushed him to study the language harder and harder. English might just be
the door to his dreams, he thought.
Soon after he started reading books in English, the urge to try out
writing his own stories made him create an online blog. He started writing
poems and short stories and posting them on his blog, and soon he was
getting messages from strangers who told him they really liked his work.
Some of his poems and short stories were chosen for his university
magazine. He won prizes in a few small local contests. Still, he didn’t feel
that he was a good writer.
“Sir, here is your black coffee.”
He is lost in his thoughts when the waitress arrives at his table. “Oh,
thank you,” he says.
The radio in the café is playing Once Upon A Time by Percy Faith at a
low volume. It’s funny, he thinks. If he hadn’t met Min Thant, he might
never have gotten into English language literature, and then he never would
have realized that he had a passion for writing. He takes a sip of the coffee
and feels the warmth along his throat. The subtle savor of the coffee gives
him a quiet sense of joy. He comes often to this small café. The theme of
its decor is that of Rangoon in the early 20th century. The walls are full of
paintings and photographs, a dim yellow light above each of them. One of
the photos shows a group of Indian men posing outside of an old colonial
building. Some are standing, some are sitting, some are facing each other,
but they all have a common facial expression indicating neither happiness
nor sadness; they are simply blank. The painting to his right shows the
eyes of an Indian girl peeking through her sari, just like in Bollywood movies.
Below the painting, it reads, Welcome to Rangoon, 1906.
Next to his table there sits a white man wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
20
Than Toe Aung
An American, maybe. Beside him is a small black suitcase with airline tags
still tied to its handle. The man is totally absorbed in a newspaper and
doesn’t seem to care what’s going on around him. He is reading an article
with the title More Dead in Rakhine State Sectarian Violence. The article is not
very long, but it seems like he is reading some parts of it twice, word by
word, in order to grasp it fully.
Caught up in observing the man and reading over his shoulder, Thiha
suddenly remembers he has to pick up Nwe from her painting class. He
checks the clock on the wall; it’s almost eight. He takes one last sip of his
black coffee, grabs his jacket, and leaves in a hurry.
Nwe is sitting at the bottom of the stairway that leads to her classroom,
absorbed in one of her textbooks. When she notices Thiha approaching,
she looks up at him and narrows her eyes. He puts his palms together, as if
praying for mercy.
“No. That won’t do, Thiha. You are late—don’t expect forgiveness so
easily,” she says.
“What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Hmm, let me see. You deserve a serious punishment.” She thinks
for a while. Finally, she scratches her head and says, “Well, today’s your
lucky day. I can’t think of anything. Just buy me an ice-cream.”
“I will buy you two ice-creams.”
“Deal,” she says.
“You know, you are such a childish girl.”
“It’s your fault you love a childish girl.”
“You’re right,” he says. “My bad.”
As they walk down the street together, they notice a man coming
toward them from the opposite direction. He is walking three puppies:
two black barbets and one brown bulldog. They are not walking in sync;
21
The Other Side of the Coin
the two barbets walk from the right and the bulldog from the left. The way
the bulldog walks is clumsily cute. Sometimes he walks ahead of the other
two, and other times he falls behind, then looks confused when the other
two change their lane and block his way.
“Thiha?” says Nwe.
“Yes?”
“I know it’s not part of Islam, but do you maybe think reincarnation
might be real?”
He smiles and shrugs. “Why do you ask?”
“I was imagining that in another life I could have been a puppy. Do
you think that’s possible?”
“Nwe, if you were a puppy, I’d want to be a puppy too.”
“That’s sweet,” she laughs. “But you wouldn’t have to become a puppy.
I’d just want you to buy me and keep me with you forever.”
“I would do that,” he says, watching the little bulldog hurrying along
after the other two puppies. “I’d be happy to.”
“There’s something that happened before I met you that I’ve never told
you about,” Min Thant says. “You never met my elder sister, did you?”
“No, but I saw her once. It was before you and I were friends, at the
beginning of our first year. She came to our class to bring you something.
I remember how beautiful she was; all the guys stared at her. Didn’t you
tell me she went abroad to get her PhD?”
“I did. But listen—that’s not what really happened.”
“What do you mean?” asks Thiha.
Min Thant lights a cigarette. “It’s a long story,” he says.
22
Than Toe Aung
“I’m listening.”
For a while Min Thant is silent, staring out into the darkness. The
two of them are sitting beside a highway road on a large, flat rock they use
as their personal couch. They come here often late at night and enjoy
watching the occasional highway bus passing by, leaving an echo in its
wake, and then the tranquility of the highway when there are no vehicles
running. The light from the lampposts makes the road and its surroundings
a stuttering yellow. The highway is mostly empty at this time of night.
Now and then, a few cars pass by at high speed, their engines roaring like
hungry monsters before they vanish and their noise gradually fades away.
“It was a Sunday evening,” Min Thant says finally, puffing on his
cigarette. “I still remember it clearly. I was studying in my room after a
long shower, listening to jazz. Percy Faith and His Orchestra is my favorite
from the 1960s. If I’m not mistaken, My Coloring Book was playing. My
sister came to my room and had a long conversation with me, not like any
we’d had before.
“We had always been close to each other. People say that two siblings
who are a boy and a girl cannot be as close as siblings of the same sex.
Wrong. I was closer to her than anyone else in my family, even my parents.
She was the closest person I had in my life. We shared a lot of secrets. The
conversation we had that Sunday was just the longest and deepest of many
we’d shared over the years.
“There was nothing we didn’t talk about. Love, our crushes, books,
music, sex. You name it. There were no secrets between us. She used to tell
me about the boys she had sex with. And taught me how to take care of a
girl during sex. Which positions girls like—mostly which positions she
liked, of course. And she told me those stories of hers with such candid
intensity that I could feel what she was feeling. I could see what was going
23
The Other Side of the Coin
on inside them vividly. She was that good at telling stories. She also told
me about the girls she had sexual relationships with.”
“Hold on a second,” Thiha says, “She also had sexual relationships
with girls?”
“That’s right,” Min Thant replies. “She was bisexual.”
“I never knew that.”
“Nobody knew that, except for me and the girls she had sex with. She
had never come out to anyone else. Mind you, it’s not because she was
ashamed of being bisexual. It’s just that sexual orientation, just like religion,
was a private matter to her. And she felt that people couldn’t understand
her, except for me. That’s why we were so close. That’s why she kept no
secrets from me. That’s why I was the one she came to that Sunday night.”
He pauses, staring at the cigarette between his fingertips.
“So what happened?”
“It was around seven in the evening when she knocked on my door,”
Min Thant says. “She asked if she could talk to me. I had a few class
assignments to finish before the deadline, but I said yes. I had a strange
feeling when she came into my room. I can’t describe it precisely. She
brought a bottle of wine and two glasses, and a mixtape of all of her
favorite music. She asked if I could play her CD, which I did. The first keys
of Yiruma’s Kiss the Rain came on. Then River Flows in You. Then Fairy Tale.
Then Kevin Kern’s After the Rain. Then Pastel Reflections. The music kept
changing as we kept talking. I don’t remember what we talked about
exactly—the music is clearer in my memory, for some reason—but we
were deeply absorbed in our conversation. We were sitting on the balcony
in front of my room, dangling our legs over the edge, holding our wine
glasses in our hands, talking endlessly. When we remembered to check the
time, it was already half past four in the morning. She said she had to wake
24
Than Toe Aung
up early and didn’t want to bother me anymore. Then she said she loved
me. I was a bit surprised. I mean, we both knew that we loved each other.
But we never really said it out loud. It was like the only secret we kept from
each other. But now she was revealing it, like all of a sudden she was
saying, ‘Hey, I give up. I love you, brother.’ I didn’t know how to react. I
just smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I told her to wait for a second
and I would take out her mixtape and give it back. But she told me to keep
it. She said she was going to make a new mixtape, so she’d like me to keep
this one. Then she said goodnight to me and left my room.”
Min Thant finishes his cigarette and throws it away. “I woke up around
half past nine that morning. I took a quick shower and then I went to the
kitchen to make some breakfast. Then I wondered if my sister was home
or if she had left already for class. I wanted to know if I should make
breakfast for her as well, so I went up to her room to check. The door was
open and I saw her sitting in her chair. I could only see her back. She was
sitting down facing toward the window as if she was looking at something
outside. I said her name, but she didn’t respond. I took a few steps closer.
And I realized she was not breathing anymore. Her wrists had several deep
cuts and her arms were covered in blood. There was a pool of blood
below the chair. A razorblade lay on the floor nearby. I looked at her face,
and her expression was peaceful. She was smiling slightly, as if she was
having a pleasant dream. I held her tight in my arms and cried, and I couldn’t
stop crying for a long time.”
“I am so sorry,” Thiha says.
“No, it’s all right. I am sad that I lost my sister. But I don’t feel sorry
for her. I am glad she was brave enough to choose the decision she wanted.”
“I’m not sure if I understand what you mean by that.”
“You know, I see suicide as a natural way of choosing one’s fate. We
25
The Other Side of the Coin
all have to make choices in life. If we cannot choose where we were born,
in which family we were born and in which era we were born, we should at
least have the right to decide when and where we should die when we don’t
think it’s worth living anymore. It’s about taking control of your own life.
Death will happen to all of us whether we like it or not. You choose death
when you want. Or death will choose you when it wants. It can be up to
you, if you want it to be.”
“That’s an interesting way to approach it. A lot of people think that
suicide is just the ultimate symptom of depression.”
“I used to think so, too. But hey, when life throws you in different
directions, you gain different perspectives.” Min Thant takes out another
cigarette and lights it. “To be completely honest with you, I have a plan to
kill myself when I hit a certain age and have done all the things on my list.
Just like my sister, I don’t really care about living. I live just because there
are things I haven’t finished yet, and death hasn’t come to me before I’ve
chosen it.”
Thiha is quiet for a while, then he says, “There is a quote I really like.
Not that it’s related to our conversation here. But want to hear it anyway?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Life is unfair. That’s why we watch movies, why we read novels. The only place
we can find justice is in our own imagination.”
“I like it. Write it down for me when we get home.”
“Sure thing. By the way, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” says Min Thant.
“How come you and Nwe are such close friends? From what I’ve
noticed, she doesn’t have many male friends, except you. And you two are
so close.”
Min Thant looks at Thiha with a frown. “She’s never told you before?”
26
Than Toe Aung
“No.”
“We’ve known each other since we were five. We were neighbors, and
our parents were close friends. We played together. We went to school
together. We did almost everything together. When our parents bought
something, they always bought a pair. When my parents bought shoes for
me, they also bought a pair for Nwe—a girl’s version, but the same design.
Nwe’s parents did the same. Even my sister was in on it. When she was
only twelve, she made us wear a pair of matching wedding clothes she’d
made for us and took pictures. My sister could use a sewing machine with
great skill, even at that age. She wanted to be a designer back then. And of
course, we looked very cute in her wedding clothes. She would invite her
friends home and make a mock wedding for us. I think everyone expected
we would grow up loving each other, become a couple and get married
eventually.”
Min Thant pauses and looks at Thiha. “Does what I said bother you?
I’m sorry if it does.”
“No. Not at all. Don’t worry about that,” Thiha replies.
“Since it was what everyone expected of us,” Min Thant continues,
“we did try dating each other when we got to high school. Since we saw
each other every day and we were together most of the time, normal go-
to-the-cinema-and-have-dinner-afterwards dates were nothing special for
us. If that could be called dating, we had been dating since we were little.
So, we tried something different. We would go to my room when my parents
were not home—or her room when her parents were out—then we would
cuddle and make out on the bed. We never had sex, though. We never even
took off our clothes when we made out.”
“Then how did you break up?”
“We never broke up. Because we were never in a relationship. We
27
The Other Side of the Coin
were just trying to see if what other people believed was true for us. Two
months after dating like this, we realized it wouldn’t work. We could never
think of each other as more than a close friend, or a brother and sister. It
was just a weird feeling. Even when we made out, she would giggle when I
kissed her. When she started touching me, my whole body would get all
ticklish and I would jump out of the bed, laughing so hard I couldn’t
breathe. We always ended up going out to eat street food at the night
market or lying down next to each other and watching the movies we liked.”
Thiha is quiet for a moment before he says, “Thanks for telling me all
this.”
“No, I’m glad you asked me. I don’t think she would be comfortable
telling you about all this. It’s better to have this kind of conversation guy-
to-guy, you know?”
“Yeah, it makes sense.”
“Hey, do you want to drink something? I’ve got a six-pack of beer I
haven’t touched at my house, and I’ll make a juice for you. What do you
say?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The lampposts scatter yellowish light dimly along the road as they set
off toward home. The whole environment looks like an abstract painting.
A highway bus passes occasionally by, but otherwise the night is silent.
It is not too crowded at the café where they are sitting. They have been
here since their evening English class finished. Since there are only a few
customers, the waitresses are sitting at an empty table at the back, giggling
and chattering as if they will never run out of things to talk about.
28
Than Toe Aung
29
The Other Side of the Coin
because I want to have sex with you. To me, sex doesn’t always have to be
part of love. We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I love you and I
know you love me too. That’s all I need.”
“I’m glad you put it that way. And of course, by saying ‘Burmese’ I
didn’t mean that you are not Burmese. It’s just when we use this term, we
always see the majority Burman people who are Buddhist and light-skinned.
I don’t like this about our society and its people,” she says, playing with the
coffee cup in front of her. “They—and by ‘they’ I mean the majority of
Burman Buddhists—tend to perpetuate this notion that being ‘Burmese’
means being Buddhist, Burman and light-skinned. A Muslim person who
looks Indian like you will be conveniently put into the category of ‘foreigner,’
even though you, your parents, and your grandparents were born here and
you all are as Burmese as the rest of us.”
“And what’s worse,” she continues, “is that people take pride in being
born Burman and Buddhist. Since I was young, I was always told how
precious and glorious our Burmese culture is, and that we Burmese girls
have the responsibility to conserve and protect it. Whether I agree with it
or not is a different subject. But I definitely don’t want society to point at
me and treat me as a disgrace because I choose to have sex with my boyfriend
before marriage. Maybe I’m too institutionalized. I don’t know.”
“I know how you feel,” Thiha replies. “We have the same way of
thinking about sex in Muslim society, too. I won’t touch even an inch of
you if you don’t want me to.”
“Except for kissing me in public when we meet? No, I don’t want you
to stop that.” She giggles, then becomes serious again and looks at him
intently. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Please do.”
“I love it when you look me straight in the eye and start kissing me
30
Than Toe Aung
softly. I love it when you put your arms around me when I feel cold. I love
the feeling of warmth and sense of protection. I love hearing your steady
heartbeat.”
“The feeling is mutual, Nwe. I love holding you tightly in my arms,
the silken feeling of your skin against mine, the curves of your body under
my hands.”
“Oh, we’re just a pair of hopeless romantics, aren’t we? But maybe
we’d better cool ourselves down just a bit before we get carried away. Why
don’t you tell me about the taboos in Islam regarding sex?”
“Ah well, if you insist, my proper Burmese lady. But seriously, in
Islam both sex before marriage and sex with someone who is not your
spouse is considered sinful. So most true followers of Islam wouldn’t have
sex before marriage or outside of marriage. And mind you, I am a virgin,
too. I have never slept with a woman.”
Nwe squints her eyes at him. “Really?”
“Never once, not with anyone.”
“Now that is a surprise! I thought you’d have some sort of experience
with sex. Is it because of religion? Is it because you’re being religious?”
“No. It’s not that I am following religious rules or something,” he
says. “It’s just that it doesn’t matter to me whether I am a virgin or not, or
when I should lose my virginity. If I’m in a situation to have sex with
someone I like before I get married, I might sleep with her. Or if something
like that doesn’t happen, I might not have sex with a woman until I get
married. I just don’t care too much about virginity the way some men do.
“But one thing I am certain of for sure is that I would never go to a
prostitute just to have sex. To me, love doesn’t have to include sex but sex
has to include love, an emotional attachment along with the physical. That’s
why they call it making love. There is a big difference between making love
31
The Other Side of the Coin
32
Than Toe Aung
God, to pray five times a day, to take care of the poor. They say how
Prophet Muhammad taught us to love others—believers and non-believers
alike. I am not saying that there are no extremists among Muslims. Of
course there are. Just like in every religion. But those extremists who are
killing people in the name of Islam do not represent Islam. There are
more Muslims than you could imagine out there who are so peaceful and
humane that they put your mind at peace and make you heart melt when
you talk to them. Sometimes we choose to see only what we want to see.”
Nwe rests her head on his shoulder as she listens.
“I don’t know why people make up stories and spread hatred toward
others. And it really irritates me when people keep themselves segregated
from each other because of insignificant things like religion, skin color,
and race. I mean, we are all human beings, after all. What’s the good in
spreading hatred and distrust toward each other? I just don’t get it.”
“I know what you mean,” Nwe says. “And I feel you. There are some
people who hold so fervently to their extreme beliefs that they would do
anything or say anything to enforce them—even if it means hurting or
killing an innocent soul in the name of a religion or god. We all have such
extremists in every religion. If the Buddha were alive, he wouldn’t approve
of what those monks are doing in the name of Buddhism. I just want you
to know that just like there are those extremists doing things that are totally
opposed to Buddhism, there are also good Buddhists who are totally
opposed to those extremists. They might be less visible, especially these
days, but I want you to know that there are also true followers of Buddhism.
And I’m glad that at least the two of us can talk about these things
rationally.”
“So am I. I’m glad I had a chance to explain this to you. So many
people are naïve, and they believe whatever their so-called ‘religious leaders’
33
The Other Side of the Coin
Nwe doesn’t learn of Thiha’s death until three months after it happens.
It’s not that she has forgotten him, only that she has cut off all her
connections to the past and tries hard not to remember it. After they broke
up, she got a job at an NGO in Mandalay and moved there, leaving her
family in Yangon. I am a different person now, she told herself. Since then,
she has tried hard to fit into her new world. She gets along with everyone
at work. There are a few guys who like her and have tried to approach her,
but she never accepts any of their overtures. When they ask her why, she
just tells them that she is not interested in relationships, and that she is, in
fact, asexual. “Think about it,” she says. “If we dated, you would want to
hold my hand, kiss me, and eventually have sex with me. But I am not
interested in any such activities. I prefer my hands free to move as I please.
I like letting my lips have their solitude. I want my sexual organ to enjoy its
privacy without being invaded. So let’s not ruin our friendship, and just
enjoy it, huh?” Some of them back off, some of them keep trying and
failing, and some of them give her a weird look and never talk to her again.
Then one day, out of the blue, she receives a call from Min Thant. “I
have got something to tell you,” he says on the other end.
“How did you get my number? I didn’t give my new number to anyone
in Yangon,” she replies.
“This is a small world we live in.”
“Look, I don’t want to talk to you. Tell me what you want right now,
34
Than Toe Aung
35
The Other Side of the Coin
satisfactory answer.
“He saved the money he made from publishing his short stories, and
when one of them won a prestigious American contest, he used the prize
money and his savings to travel to Europe. I lost touch with him after he
left. I sent him e-mails but I never got any reply. I couldn’t contact you
because I didn’t even know where you were. It was like I was left all alone
in the world.”
“I’m sorry,” Nwe says.
“Could you tell me how you two broke up? Thiha never told me.”
Nwe holds her breath and releases a sigh. “It all happened suddenly.
My aunt, who spied on me, told my parents that I was in a relationship
with a Muslim. Their reaction was even worse than I’d have expected.
They told me to break up with him immediately or they would disown me.
For a while I’d felt that our relationship would have to end one day, so I
decided I might as well end it then. I met him one last time, but I didn’t tell
him we were going to break up. That night, before I left, I gave him a kiss
on his forehead. And I never met him again after that.” She pauses for a
while. “I never told him why, although I think he knew.”
“How could he know if you never told him?”
“We had had those kinds of conversations about our future before.
We came from different backgrounds, different religions. Of course, it’s
not that I broke up with him because I didn’t love him anymore. I did, but
no matter how much we loved each other, if we’d have continued the
relationship, both of our families and all of society would have ostracized
us. I couldn’t risk that, not only for my sake, but also for his.”
Min Thant doesn’t reply. Nwe looks out the window. A few drops of
rain patter on the glass, and soon it begins to pour. Slowly, she says,
“Sometimes in life you can love someone, and that’s all you can do. You
36
Than Toe Aung
37
The Other Side of the Coin
Tears well up in her eyes, and soon she can’t control herself; she begins
to weep. An elderly woman comes over to her and asks if she is okay, but
she doesn’t hear a word the woman says; she doesn’t even notice her; it is
as if the rope tethering her to humanity has been cut, and she has been set
adrift in space. Her whole body is trembling and tears fall from her eyes.
Outside, the rain comes crashing down harder; she can feel the vibration
of the downpour in her bones, in her very marrow. She runs out of the
restaurant into the rain, and she looks up into the black sky, the raindrops
falling on her face, stinging her eyes. At this moment, she, the rain, and her
tears are all linked throughout her body and soul. She shouts into the rain
as loudly as she can, unable even to hear herself, unsure even of what she
is shouting: a curse, a prayer, a question, a plea. She yells at the top of her
lungs until her throat is raw and her voice is hoarse, and still she continues,
though she knows now it no longer matters, because there is nobody in
this world of hers to hear her.
Back inside the restaurant, Distance by Christina Perri plays on.
38
Meditations
By Frankie Yarzar Htet
As I gently hung my brown towel on the rope just beside the bed, the
metal bucket was beaten three times. I tried to put on the robe in a hurry,
yet slowly enough to mark my body’s movements. Walking out of my room,
I began marking my steps in my mind, left and right. Right when my right
foot went forward and left when my left foot went forward. When I walked
down the stairs, Ashin Rawainda greeted me with his smile. “How’s the
meditation going, Ashin Yarzathiri?” he said. “Being a monk is quite
peaceful, eh?”
Meditation is indeed peaceful, especially at three in the morning when
the mind is at its freshest state. When I got to the temple, the other monks
were already sitting in an orderly fashion, their eyes closed, seated upright
and doing nothing but maintaining awareness of their bodies’ movements.
I chose to sit in the spot where I’d sat for the past two days, walking
through the yogis and monks, trying to be quieter than the still air itself. I
placed my square of red wool, my naykahtine, on the ground, and I tried to
sit without making waves in the fabric. As I sat, I closed my eyes and
39
Meditations
40
Frankie Yarzar Htet
monk’s bowl for eating. I waited for other monks to fill their own bowls,
then I began eating, fast yet slow.
The day continued on with nothing but hours of meditation until
nine. As anyone would after an exhausting day, I walked straight to my
room to get enough sleep so that I could continue the next day. My steps,
as always, were fast yet slow.
41
42
Moments of Cruelty
By Mei
May 2nd, 2008: the day the nightmare came alive, its dark immensity swirling
toward the Irrawaddy Delta from the Bay of Bengal. The storm was called
Nargis, but those who were to die in it would never learn that name.
Just after midnight, the stars in the night sky above the small town of
Bogale were tarred over with black clouds. The mild breeze slowly turned
into a howling gale as the storm approached, whistling through the trees,
carrying raindrops horizontally through the air. The residents of Bogale
who were awake looked nervously outside, but they thought it was only an
early monsoon storm, not knowing the wild forces bearing down on them.
Several hours beforehand, the military post twenty kilometers away
from Bogale was also running wild. There was a fierce dispute between the
commander and his men. The orders he issued were to evacuate
immediately, salvaging as much military equipment as they could carry in
their trucks, while making no provisions for the citizens of Bogale. “This
is what the upper ranks have decided,” he declared. “Their command is my
command.”
Roughly one third of the soldiers obeyed the commander without
43
Moments of Cruelty
hesitating and set about filling the trucks, but the dissenting men—some
of whom had family in Bogale—wanted to help the residents evacuate.
The arguing continued until the commander could not stand it any longer
and unholstered his weapon, leveling it at the disobedient troops. “If there
is anyone who dares to oppose my orders, then go ahead! But you’ll be of
no use to anyone in Bogale or anywhere else, since you’ll be—”
A shot rang out as a soldier pulled the trigger of his pistol. The bullet
went straight into the commander’s forehead, and he fell instantly to the
floor. The soldier who’d shot him shakily stood where the commander
had been. He pulled himself together and addressed the stunned troops.
“For those of you who want to abandon the people of Bogale: you
are free to leave!” he shouted. The soldiers loyal to the dead commander
and those who cherished their lives above all else fled without hesitation.
Only a quarter of the soldiers remained. The brave soldier did his best to
motivate them. “This is the only right thing to do,” he said. “We’ve got no
time to waste; let’s get moving.”
Soon the soldiers arrived in Bogale and went down the streets shouting
warnings through megaphones about the approaching cyclone and telling
everyone to assemble immediately in the school. When the school was
packed, the soldiers told the residents that they were there to evacuate
them, and that their only chance of survival depended on them following
the soldiers.
The residents were unbelieving at first, even though they could hear
the wind outside whipping through the town at an ever faster speed. Was
this some sort of a nightmare, or an illusion? They were as silent as a
cemetery for a little while, determining whether they were just seeing things
or not. They looked at their fellow townspeople in confusion. No talking.
No discussion. Not the slightest sound was made even by naughty little
44
Mei
children. Then there was a crash as a tree branch smashed through a window,
and all at once, everyone panicked, realizing the inevitable future waiting
for them.
The soldiers shouted for calm, announcing that they had already made
a plan to rescue everyone, and if they followed their lead, they would
certainly survive. At first, the soldiers intended to take as many people as
possible by truck, but the cowardly soldiers had made off with most of
the vehicles, and other trucks had been rendered inoperable due to reckless
driving along the rough, muddy road. There was no option but to go with
their backup plan, which was to lead people on foot to their base, which
was built on high ground.
The majority of the residents obeyed the soldiers’ instructions, praying
and reciting mantras to allay their fear. But others refused to go, insisting
on staying in Bogale. Rich men who could not take even one step away
from their vast acres of land. Old people who cherished their memories
more than their lives. Others were simply more afraid to walk out into the
storm than to remain at home. Some of those who insisted on staying
hung longyis on bamboo or wooden poles to prevent the storm from
heading toward the village, an old superstition that people who believed in
ancient folktales and legends still held.
A short lady with a dark complexion in a nurse’s uniform could not
stand to see such craziness, and while the others prepared to evacuate, she
tried to persuade those who’d made up their minds to stay to abandon
their foolishness and come with them. However much she tried, though,
she could not convince them. Still, she did not give up; she begged them to
come and save their own lives. These were her neighbors; this was her
duty. In the middle of her pleas, she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned
around.
45
Moments of Cruelty
“There is no time for this crap, Ma Nyein!” It was Dr. Thiha. He was
a tall, smart and handsome man wearing a white duty coat.
“Isn’t this our job, to save people?” she replied in a soft but firm
voice. “If not, what’s the meaning of me being a nurse and you a doctor?”
She met his eyes with a fierce gaze.
The two of them had never been on good terms. They worked together
at the same hospital, yet they’d never seemed to understand each other.
Dr. Thiha shook his head. “There’s no use in trying to save those
who have given up their lives. Abandon them. Help save the ones making
the right choice. This way, we can save more. Just come with us now!”
Ma Nyein considered it. He was right. But she was not able to turn a
blind eye to those who would die in Bogale. She would have kept arguing,
but other colleagues from the hospital requested that she accompany them
so that they could treat those who might be injured in the storm.
She could not turn them down. Finally, she agreed, and she and the
other hospital staff joined the line of evacuees following the soldiers out
of the town. As they walked on, the storm became increasingly fierce. The
brutal wind scoured the land. A huge branch was ripped off a tree and
flung toward the fleeing men and women, striking a man in front of Dr.
Thiha.
The man collapsed into the mud. Ma Nyein hurried toward him, but
the doctor shook his head. “He’s dead. That flying branch snapped his
upper cervical vertebrae. Don’t waste your time on him. It’s hopeless. Try
to pretend he never existed. Just keep on going.”
A woman who seemed to be the deceased’s wife was behind Ma Nyein.
When she saw her husband lying motionless and heard the doctor’s words,
she too fell to the ground. Ma Nyein took her pulse but felt no sign of life.
Dr. Thiha pulled Ma Nyein up. “That’s my patient—she’s suffered three
46
Mei
47
Moments of Cruelty
residents of Bogale were faint with weakness and their strength was all but
gone. The only thing that remained was their will to survive.
Though they moved for higher ground as quickly as possible, it was
of little use. The flood rose up all around them, consuming and digesting
everything on land without regard to the difference between living beings
and objects. To escape the tsunami-like storm surge, people swam to the
nearest trees, climbed up as high as they could, and held tight. Those who
lost strength were devoured by the flood. Others had the trees they clung
to wrenched out from the earth and carried away in the current. Some
sank and some floated, tossed about on the churning surface of the water
along with the wreckage of homes and trees and everything else that was
ripped apart by the storm.
Dr. Thiha was among the lucky few to remain alive and uninjured.
The tree he clung to stayed firm, and he had a strong grip. Then, close to
him, he saw his own little sister struggling helplessly to keep her head
above water. Before her head went under, she cried out for help. Her scream
cracked the stone inside his heart. He reached out as far as he could toward
her, and just as he felt her hand in his own, he lost his grip on the tree and
was dragged into the current of the flood, along with his sister. He intended
to rescue her, though. He had to.
48
The Reflection of the Moon
By Thet Su
She took out the single cigarette from her bag and put it between her thin
lips. She ignored the disapproving looks of two women sitting nearby, lit
the cigarette, breathed slowly in, and held it for a moment. She exhaled
gradually, and the green grass field and old yellow city hall blurred with the
grey smoke and the tears in her eyes. She thought she was like that cigarette
on the inside, burning slowly and silently.
“Hey girl, are you okay?”
She looked up to see her best friend, Khin Sandar, and smashed her
cigarette into the grass.
“Does your mom know you’re smoking?” Khin Sandar asked.
“I don’t think so,” she replied.
She never brought even one cigarette home, and she always chewed
gum after she smoked. Even if her family could smell cigarettes on her,
she would say that many boys smoked in the canteen.
“What did your mom say about your future plans?”
“She didn’t say anything. She destroyed them. But I don’t want to talk
about how, not now. Thinking about it would only give me a heart attack.
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The Reflection of the Moon
It was a mistake to discuss this kind of thing with her. I’m over eighteen. I
know that I can do anything without her help. She just doesn’t understand
that it’s my life. Not hers. How can I explain to her that we’re not the same
person? Yes, we are similar, but she doesn’t understand. There’s no way to
explain it to her. And Dad, well, I don’t even want to talk about him. He is
having an affair with that whore! He broke the whole family into pieces.
But still he wants to tell me what to do and make me behave like some sort
of saint.”
The long and emotional speech made her even more tired. She did
not usually speak like this. She was the kind of person who would say,
“Fine,” rather than, “I’m okay,” when she was asked how she was, because
the former was shorter.
She shook her head in an attempt to drive away her miserable thoughts
and looked around. Everything was beautiful under the lurid sky. Why was
this beauty unlike that of the dawn? The beauty of the sunset had a kind
of poison to it, a warning that the dark would soon take everything from
you.
She started to laugh. Her friend looked at her like she was a crazy
person.
“What’s up?” Khin Sandar asked.
“No! Isn’t it funny? Look! We are sitting in the shadow—the shadow
of independence obelisk. And here I am talking about how my life’s trapped
and how I don’t even have the freedom to make my own decisions.”
“Shh! My god! Lower your voice! What the hell are you talking about?”
Her friend looked around, shocked and mortified. “They won’t think you’re
talking about your stupid life. If anybody hears, they’ll think you’re talking
about politics. I don’t really feel like spending time in prison with you,
okay?”
50
Thet Su
By the time the class finished, darkness had fallen. She began walking home,
making her way through narrow alleyways she used as shortcuts. The moon
was shining, but it was not a clear night. The streets were eerily quiet except
for the howling of a few dogs. They growled at her as she passed them,
but she wasn’t at all afraid, because anger overwhelmed her just as completely
as the darkness of the night had swallowed the day. Some said that anger
was a form of fear, that someone could not be angry and afraid at the
same time. The reflection of the moon on the water of the old canal
beside the street was like a monster, pale and menacing.
Earlier that day, she’d attended a wedding, and her father had been
there. It was his right to decide who he would bring when he went to a
wedding or a funeral, but how could he do this to her and Mom? The
newlyweds and some guests were acquaintances of her family, and he came
to the wedding with that woman. She hated going to these stupid ceremonies
now. She never knew when she might be made to face that shame her
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The Reflection of the Moon
father had brought upon their family. It was lucky that her mom hadn’t
been there; at least that night she wouldn’t hear Mom’s sobbing, which
always drove her crazy. But she wouldn’t forget the way other people had
looked at her.
Walking home that night, her heart was crying so loudly inside of her
that she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. When she sensed someone
approaching, she quickened her pace. He quickened his. She was about to
run when he lunged forward and grabbed her. She could feel the toughness
of the hand that closed her mouth. Its thick, rough palm. She bit it as hard
as she could, struggled out of his grasp, and punched him in the face. He
lost his balance and fell. But she didn’t run away; she began kicking him
furiously, as if he were a sandbag. After she was satisfied, she left him lying
there and walked away slowly, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t notice
that he’d stood back up behind her until it was too late. He slammed a fist
into the back of her neck and pain flashed through her. While she was
stunned, he grabbed her and pinned her to the wall of an old building. She
could smell the alcohol on his breath. The disgusting sneer on his face was
full of satisfaction. No, this wouldn’t last long. She wouldn’t let it. She put
her free hand into her jean pocket and took something out. And she was
right; it didn’t last long. That disgusting look of his faded away. It was
replaced by shock, then pain and panic. The razor-sharp knife slid ever
deeper into his neck, until she pulled the blade forward, severing his jugular.
Blood spilled out over her hand in thick spurts. His eyes went blank, and
he fell to the ground.
She collapsed near him, panting. His body jerked slightly for a few
seconds. Then everything was still and silent, and she sighed with relief.
She smiled coldly, but her face was strangely emotionless, and she felt
suddenly sad. “I suppose we were both looking for a victim, weren’t we?”
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Thet Su
she murmured.
She put on her gloves and picked up the knife. She was lucky she’d
brought them. Lucky that it was not an April night but a cold December
night. Lucky that she didn’t leave her gloves at home. She checked his hand
where she bit it. She was glad to see the skin was unbroken; there were
only teeth marks, and those wouldn’t last for long. With all her strength,
she grabbed the man’s legs and began dragging the body before anybody
could come along. She went as fast as she could, but it was exhausting. She
was aching all over by the time she managed to drag the body to the edge
of the canal. She pushed it into the water and watched it floating along
with big black plastic garbage bags and other trash. In a nearby apartment,
she heard a drunkard swearing and beating his wife and their baby crying
while she washed her hands and face under the water pipe on the exterior
wall of a dirty building. She didn’t throw away the knife. Maybe she would
need it again. Once she’d cleaned off as much of the blood as she could,
she left without looking back
When she got home, she had a hot bath. She wouldn’t need to think
about Dad that night. After she was in bed, she comforted herself by
thinking that nobody had seen or heard anything, and nobody would care
about this kind of person’s death. And the body was now in the water. If
somebody discovered it somewhere, it would be difficult for the police to
figure it out. Or they wouldn’t even take the time to try. She remembered
what Khin Sandar had said: “We’re just spending our time making mistakes
and fixing them.” Yes. She’d made a mistake, a very big mistake, but she
did not know how to fix it. Maybe it was too late to fix it. She felt very far
away from where she had been just hours before. She couldn’t sleep all
night.
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The Reflection of the Moon
54
Thet Su
So she stood up, looked into the mirror, and tried to steel herself. She
resolved to face everything with courage if they found her out. Still, she
went out to the balcony because she didn’t want the police to see how
nervous she was. A cool wind was blowing, but she wouldn’t stop sweating.
She looked at the moon and remembered the moon on that night a month
before. “You are the only witness,” she whispered. “Please, don’t tell them
anything.” But the moon just shone on in silence.
From the doorway of the balcony, she could see the plainclothes
officers searching the living room. They looked high and low in the closets,
showcases, and especially the bookshelf. There was a James Dean poster
on the living room wall beside the bookshelf. She knew there were some
telephone numbers that her cousin had jotted on the back of the poster.
But the police were so eager to flip through the books on the bookshelf
that they hardly glanced at James Dean. After two hours, the police carried
away everything they thought to be evidence. Files, books, photos, even
some love letters of her sister’s. The letters were in English and her sister
had tucked them away in a pile of books. Their mom hadn’t known she
had a boyfriend, and her sister tried to explain, while at the same time
begging the police to leave the letters alone. But the police said that they
needed to analyze them to see if they were from a foreign country and had
ciphers. Her aunt was crying and Mom was comforting her, or trying to.
They spent all night and the next day cleaning everything the police
had messed up. Her aunt couldn’t stop crying; she couldn’t even hold a
cup of tea, her hands were shaking so badly. Her son, Ko Lay, was probably
being interrogated right that moment, and nobody knew how he would be
sentenced. He had said that he wasn’t afraid of the government, that he
was ready for life in prison if it came down to that. She wondered what he
thought now. When she got back to her room, she reached for her bag to
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The Reflection of the Moon
get out a book, but it was empty. They’d taken everything. Then, at the
bottom of the empty bag, she saw something: a cigarette. She looked at
that cigarette as if she had never seen it before. She must have forgotten to
throw it away before she came back home, but that didn’t matter now.
Her sister entered the room and groaned. “Those police are the
stupidest people in the world.”
“They really are,” she replied, smirking. She knew now that aside from
herself, the only one who knew about the thing she had done was the
moon, the moon and its reflection on the canal, the reflection that looked
like a monster.
She took the single cigarette and put it between her thin lips. She
ignored her sister’s disapproving look, lit the cigarette, breathed slowly in,
and held it for a moment. She exhaled gradually, and all the mess in front
of her, her sister included, blurred with the grey smoke.
56
88
By Wint Thu
The sky looked like an auburn sea with the setting sun floating toward the
far west. Min had spent the whole day marching and chanting with the
crowd of demonstrators. It was time to rest his legs. He fell out of step
with the marching throngs of young people and walked along the pavement
toward a small tea shop near the entrance of Yangon University.
“This is pretty big,” he murmured as he watched the crowd march by,
the huge stream of protestors shaking their fists and waving banners,
chanting their slogans and letting out their long-suppressed rage at last.
“Yes, it is big,” he heard someone say behind him.
He turned his head and saw a man in his mid-twenties sitting across
the table. He was smiling at him.
“Taking some rest, eh?” the man asked.
Min smiled back and replied, “I’ve been going for more than five
hours straight and I don’t think my legs can do much more without a little
break. If I’d have known this was coming, I would have been exercising
every day.”
The man seemed curious. “So you’re a student?”
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88
“A sophomore.”
“RIT?”
“Yes, I’m majoring in electrical engineering. How’d you know?”
“It’s not that hard,” the man laughed. “I can read your face.”
Min grinned, then became suddenly serious. “How do you think this
will end? This really is big. Much bigger than I thought it would be. I don’t
think Ne Win will be able to take it much longer, do you?”
“Oh, that bastard. I don’t think he’ll give up so easily. And that’s what
I fear most, that he’ll go even crazier trying to hold onto power that’s
already slipping away from him.”
Min remained silent for a while, then he said, “Do you think he’ll
really do that? I mean, look at this, there are so many people. Most of us
are just students, young people. He’s a bastard, but you don’t think he’d
dare do anything to all of us out here in the open, do you?”
“I don’t know, but things are getting wilder. Who can predict what
will happen next?”
Min bit his lip. “I’ve been marching all day, but really I’m as confused
as anyone about the situation. I just want things to change. I’ve lived under
this regime my whole life. I’ve had enough of it. We all have.”
“Don’t you worry too much,” said the man, his voice taking on a
firm, soothing tone. “I believe we can make real change happen, no matter
what, as long as we are united. Trust me, if we stay strong then this goddamn
government will fall, and even if that bastard won’t give up power, we’ll
take it from him.”
Min nodded and looked admiringly at him, studying his face; his eyes
were sharp, his expression determined. “Hopefully,” Min replied, though
with a hint of doubt. He was not entirely sure about it himself.
The man turned to watch the steady stream of demonstrators march
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Wint Thu
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88
unfold. People on the road were gunned down as they ran. Bodies fell
everywhere. Blood flowed as water would in the rainy season. The unarmed
crowd of brave students and dissidents had now turned into a heap of
dead and dying bodies on the blood-soaked road.
More soldiers kept coming, kept shooting, as more people ran into
the deathtrap. Min saw two little girls in their school uniforms, wearing
backpacks and holding hands, sprinting as fast as they could. As they passed
by the tea shop he could see their eyes, filled with panic and tears. All
around them people were falling, the hail of bullets bringing them down
like easy prey, but the girls didn’t seem to fully recognize the scene of
inhumanity right before them; they focused only on each other as they ran.
One was slightly younger than the other, and they looked so similar that
Min realized they must be sisters.
He saw a soldier raise his gun toward the girls, and Min gasped in
horror. “Oh my God,” he whispered. Then the soldier pulled the trigger
and the younger girl fell face-first onto the street, her small body skidding
along before it came to a stop. The other girl shrieked and knelt beside her.
Min was paralyzed, but he saw the man he’d been talking to run out
of the tea shop toward the surviving girl. He took the hand of the girl,
who allowed herself to be led through the carnage, her backpack sliding
from her shoulders as she shook with sobs, her books scattering over the
bloody street. When the girl fainted, he carried her and ran toward the
teashop where Min watched them, trying to will them back to safety. “Come
on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Hurry!”
Just before the man stepped onto the sidewalk, there was a volley of
gunfire and he fell, his unmoving body covering the girl’s, until she climbed
out, covered in blood, and stood as if in a dream.
Min stared at the girl as a bullet went through her chest, and she
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Wint Thu
twirled in a strangely graceful way as she fell backwards onto the body of
the man who’d had the sharpest eyes of anyone he’d ever met. At that
moment, something was decided.
With his heart pounding in his ears, he grabbed a brick from the
ground and rose to his feet. His blood boiled inside of him as he walked
through the bloody street toward the soldiers at the university’s entrance.
He walked without feeling his legs, without feeling his feet touch the ground.
He stopped right in front of the soldier who’d shot the girls, who’d shot
the man, and who now held his rifle pointed at Min’s chest. The soldier
paused, confused, and looked at him for a moment. Min met the eyes of
the armed man and stared into them—two spots of black pupil inlaid in
white—searching for something inside them, but the eyes were as dead as
stones. The air was filled with smoke and screams.
He raised the brick, and a sudden flash blinded him. He fell to his
knees. When his sight returned, he saw black boots splattered with mud or
blood or both, then his vision blurred and went black. For a moment
longer, he remained on his knees, and then his lifeless body collapsed to
the ground.
The medals on the soldier’s uniform shone in the light of the setting
sun, as if in celebration.
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62
An Unfortunate Wish
By Simon Sai
An old crow sat silently on a rough tree branch high above Mandalay Hill,
overlooking the noisy city below. The hot summer breeze brought the
sounds of human activity from far below.
My life is so miserable, the old bird thought.
He saw with his own eyes his mother getting run over by a car while
he flapped his wings helplessly, unable to do anything to save her. He saw
flashes of his beloved sister killed by a cruel cat, which humans called
“cute,” and he could still feel the pain of the loss in his heart as if it had
happened yesterday. He could still hear the sweet caw his little brother had
made, before he was killed by eating meat that had been poisoned by humans
to kill stray dogs.
He wished he could have power over those hateful things that killed
his family. The only ones who could do that were the humans.
Humans are strong and happy, he thought. Their lives are flourishing. They
can do what they want and take what they need.
He remembered all his hungry days, his exhausting hunts for food,
the countless windy storms he’d endured with no shelter. He wished more
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An Unfortunate Wish
It was a special day. An adorable new being had joined the family seconds
ago. The whole house exploded with joy when a lovely cry sounded from
inside Tin May’s bedroom.
“Your little baby boy is healthy,” said the midwife with a smile, gently
closing the door behind her. “And so is his mother.”
“Thank you very much. Thank you so very much,” Sett Aung said as
he rose from where he had been sitting nervously for hours.
“Wait! You can see your son later!” said the midwife, catching the
overly excited father who had already begun turning the doorknob. “For
now, allow some time for the mother and the baby boy to settle.”
A half hour later, the whole family was gathered at the bedside,
admiring the beautiful mother and the cute little boy in his father’s arms.
“We will name him Swan Aung,” Sett Aung said, and he kissed the
little boy on the forehead, tears of joy flooding his eyes.
The baby smiled and laughed, onyx-black eyes shining into the sky of
his new world.
Swan Aung’s early years were filled with happiness. The family would spend
every night together for leisurely dinners and beautiful bedtime stories.
Swan Aung learned to walk and speak as time progressed, and he enjoyed
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Simon Sai
65
An Unfortunate Wish
Crying alone in the yard around the corner of his neighbors’ house,
he looked up to the hills above Mandalay and absentmindedly fixed his
gaze on an old tree high up on a hillside.
“Why is life so miserable?” he asked, tears welling up in his shiny
black eyes. Gritting his teeth, he challenged life. “Let’s see who will win.”
He fought by working as hard as he could at a job he got in a factory.
He carried the heaviest loads and worked the longest hours to earn enough
to support his mother and accumulate some savings. Through his
undeviating will, he managed to get promoted and earn a higher salary,
until eventually he was able to start his own business shipping rice and fish
from the Irrawaddy Delta region. Still, he did not feel that he had won the
challenge he had made to life.
He expanded his business, moving to Laputta in the Delta to work
more efficiently. His business was thriving, but it required all his time and
effort, sixteen hours a day, every day.
When will this end? he wondered, but he already knew the answer. I
must not give up, he told himself. I must win.
His business continued to grow. Then, while he was on a trip to
Mandalay, Cyclone Nargis struck the Irrawaddy Delta. His home and
business were destroyed by the ferocious storm. His best employees were
killed or gravely injured, and nearly everything he owned was washed away.
Swan Aung felt as if he would break down on the spot, but he did
not. Instead, he clenched his fists tighter and steeled himself to fight even
harder.
He went back to his old house where his mother lived and started
taking steps toward rebuilding his assets. His hard work paid off and he
was able to establish another business, which sold Buddhist religious objects.
His business was successful and he set up new branches in other cities up
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Simon Sai
67
An Unfortunate Wish
They are here. They have come for me, and this time I give up.
You win, life. I should not have chosen you.
Then there was only darkness.
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Her
By Johnathan Thu
Act 2
Act 4
Act 3
Act 1
My apologies for any confusion, dear reader.
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Her
Act 1
I remember first seeing her staring out of a window of the old clock tower.
Even when all the students on campus were constantly occupied by a
dilemma of some sort, she was always in a permanent state of tranquility.
Her smile was one of the graceful variety you see only on the faces of
nobility. She always carried herself with poise and elegance, but not
haughtiness, like a gentle flower that danced elegantly with the rhythm of
the wind. However, I found it strange that she had little contact with other
people. Something about her screamed friendliness, acceptance, and joy.
Yet there she was, within the tallest structure on the campus staring intently
out the window, alone.
I approached her the following day. I did not want to assert perversion,
so I patiently waited for her at the bottom of the staircases of the clock
tower. Before long, at her usual time, she arrived at the clock tower. Eerily,
she did not even question my presence, but instead subtly gestured that I
was welcome.
Surprised and befuddled, I followed her up the clock tower. The steps
creaked with incessant groans as I treaded lightly over the ancient
floorboards. Oddly, the stairs were much more generous in covering the
sounds of her walking on the floorboards. Like the eternal grace of a swan,
she carried an aura of impenetrable dignity and composure. When I reached
the top floor, I winced against the blinding light that poured in from the
open window. For the rest of the day, we sat at opposite corners of the
windowsill and stared into the vast expanse of the sunset.
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Johnathan Thu
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Her
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Johnathan Thu
my face. I tried to jolt myself awake, only to realize I wasn’t dreaming. The
floor disappeared into nothingness, leaving no other portion but the place
in which I stood, until the last piece of floor collapsed under my weight,
dropping me down into the seemingly endless abyss below.
I had fallen before from high places, more times than I would like to
admit, and judging from the length of time it took me to fall, I expected to
be crushed on impact. However, I was not.
I was just there: motionless and speechless. I wished I could call out to
her, but I was paralyzed and strung in place like an abandoned puppet. I
could hear strange, monstrous noises around me, and I cringed as I lay
there waiting for the growling menace that circled me in the shadows to
strike.
“What are you doing?” yelled a voice, audibly angry: her voice. She
held my arm tightly and waved my hallucinations out of existence. I was
trembling with fear and regret. I tried to apologize, but my words were lost
as soon as they left my mouth.
“Get him out,” yelled a voice.
“He is impure at heart; he is not suitable,” added another distinct voice.
“He rejected our reality and substituted his own,” berated the first voice.
“He betrayed the rules of our world, and he will betray you too,” scolded the
second voice.
She tightened the grip on my arm and pushed me into a wall. Her
once innocent smile was now replaced with a sneer of anger and mistrust.
“I-I don’t understand,” I gasped when I could finally speak.
“It’s not you. It’s you,” she retorted and slammed my hand against my
head.
My vision slowly faded away as I saw her leave.
I was awakened by the old caretaker poking his broom in my face.
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Her
“Let’s get you home,” he said in a heavy accent. “My wife is making
me curry and I don’t want to be late.”
The caretaker hoisted me up and continued to check the remaining
rooms. The ring of keys jingled as he walked.
“So,” the caretaker started with a raspy voice. “You two together?”
“Um…uh,” I stuttered. “That…um…”
“She’s a keeper,” interrupted the senile caretaker. “Ah, young love.”
I groaned as I followed the caretaker out of the school gates.
Weeks went by. I had locked myself in my room, having not seen her since
the incident. I did not know the true consequences of my inadvertent
actions, nor did I fully understand what supernatural forces had been
brought upon me. I held a knife to my heart and gripped it tighter.
No, I thought. No, no, no.
Tears fell down my cheeks. My knuckles whitened with every passing
minute.
As my will wavered, I dropped the knife.
Soaked in my own tears, I curled up on the ground as I let my pent-up
feelings trickle out. I recovered slightly soon afterwards, no longer
experiencing hallucinations. I did, however, remain in my house, defeated.
Act 2
Late one night there was a knock on my door, followed by a long rumble
of thunder. I did not know who to expect at such an hour; I had hardly any
visitors even during the day.
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Johnathan Thu
75
Her
were tears, just like those falling from my own sore, red eyes, which I
locked onto hers hoping to understand her. She took my hand, and I did
not expect her to suddenly jolt and run off into the rain, but that’s what she
did. My hand reflexively reached for an umbrella while the other held onto
her hand. Her hand trembled with some strong emotion, but I could not
identify it. She mumbled inaudible words that were further muted by the
rain. She turned her face around as I looked at her—and then, without a
warning, a sharp blade pierced my chest.
I did not know which was worse, the physical pain in my chest or the
feeling of betrayal. Blood seeped from the wound and stained my clothes
the same color of the flower I’d given to her. My vision blurred and faded
away while rain clouds rolled by and thunder rumbled overhead.
Act 3
Excruciating pain.
Blank memories.
Every attempted movement cursed my body with agony. The
extremities of my limbs were painfully difficult to move and felt like static
from an untuned television channel.
I tried to stand up, but all I did was slip and fall back down on the
cold, hard concrete floor.
I could not recollect the events that had occurred. Strangely, the colors
of the sunset in my window seemed to provide a sense of belonging and
serenity. I kept hearing a faint, distant voice calling my name, but it quickly
faded as I noticed the pain slowly leaving my body. The numbness receded
and I attempted to get up again. As I tried to stand up, my vision blurred
and spun wildly, and it was not long before I collapsed once more. The
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Johnathan Thu
warmth of the evening sun contrasted with the cool flooring gave me a
strange sense of calm.
The sky was strangely lit; it looked as if the sun and moon were in
equilibrium with neither seemingly having the edge over the other. The
atmosphere was colored with both the hues of day and night, just as my
mind was in a limbo state of confusion and serenity. I felt as if my own
body was attacking me, waging a constant war against my mind and depleting
me of my humanity. I felt myself on the brink of insanity, but something
was keeping it at bay. I tried to dig into my own mind to find out what was
causing the war within myself, but all I could manage to muster was a
color: dark red.
Maybe it was the numbness that distracted my attention away from
the gaping hole in my chest, or the eerie fact that time did not seem to
flow; the sun remained there for God knows how long, and the birds,
which I had just noticed, seemed to be frozen in midflight.
“God?” I asked myself. “Crows?”
Of all the species of birds that could illustrate the situation I was in,
it had to be a crow.
God? I thought again.
The thought seemed to be hardwired into my head. I do not know
why, but I was angry with myself for thinking it. Furious, in fact, and my
muscles tensed and joints cracked as I flailed at the flooring, kneeling and
pounding it. I looked down at my chest and saw the dark blood covering
the wound. The sight of it stirred up more emotions. My thoughts made
no sense, and I was so overcome by confusion that I rolled around, tearing
at my hair.
I felt as if my sanity had abandoned me in this lawless state of entropy.
God. The word entered my mind again, and this time, my anger was directed
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Her
at God. Insults spewed out like confetti, like punches thrown by a madman,
until I forced myself to be still.
“Is this really me?” I asked myself. I thought of myself as a man of
logic, not swayed by my emotions. I realized at last that I was truly losing
my sanity. The once clearly defined border between logic, emotions and
actions was blurred, and my body seemed to be conducted by mere impulses
of irrationality.
I proceeded to get up and run, my legs jelly-like under me. The path
I took was seemingly endless and led to nowhere in particular. Only after I
proceeded to look around did I realize I had not moved a single inch away
from where I had begun.
Insanity had poisoned my reality. I was scared of myself; even my
thoughts frightened me to no end.
From that point on, I gave up fighting.
Lightning flashed. Everything came back to me.
Now I knew; her alluring yet poisonous nature had deluded me. She
had hair the color of the blood seeping from my wound. Time resumed
ticking and the sun resumed setting. Another jab of pain reentered my
chest as she pulled the blade out of me. The clouds passed over the vibrant
evening sky and glowed with the colors of the sunset as she walked away.
I was not sure if I should forgive her. My body was weakening every
second as more blood seeped out of the wound. She was tense and I could
see it in her face. Angelic beauty radiated around her. Her hair flowed with
the elegance of her footsteps. The blade she thrust was covered in blood,
dark red: the color of her lips, in addition to her hair, and it so happened to
be her favorite color as well.
“How do I know that?” I asked myself.
No matter; I rolled over and faced the now sinking sun, grunting with
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Johnathan Thu
Act 4
A voice called to me; it told me to come toward the light. It felt peaceful
and exuded all the bliss it was possible to experience. Alas, it was too
warm, too unjustifiably warm. Warm with the acceptance I could not allow
myself to deserve. The inviting voice, despite its serenity, felt hollow, as if
I was draining it of its essence just with my very presence. I found myself
unable to walk toward it.
Perhaps this is God, I thought to myself, but I shrugged it off. I had
already lost faith in any deity that could have prevented my suffering and
endless state of limbo.
“A watchmaker,” a voice whispered. “He does not interfere for he cannot.”
“So now you tell me?” I yelled at the light. “Were you there when I
was lost? Were you there when she was lost?”
The light disappeared.
I felt no remorse.
No remorse, I assured myself. Right?
Right, I thought, scowling as I stared into the blank abyss.
I gripped my chest as every muscle in my body tensed. Falling to my
knees, I lay my head on the floor, my eyes clenched shut and fingernails
digging into my palms. Darkness crept up from the corners of my vision
as I slipped into unconsciousness.
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Her
Late one night there was a knock on my door, followed by a long rumble
of thunder.
Act 5
I had to break the cycle of this perpetual madness. With every repetition
of the torturous cycle of events, I gradually became aware of all I had
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Johnathan Thu
been put through. I met the light again, but this time I tried a more
diplomatic approach.
“A watchmaker,” the voice whispered. “He does not interfere for he cannot.”
“I understand now,” I told the voice, but it yielded no reply.
“Can I break the cycle?” I asked, but there still was no reply.
“Can I start over?” I asked again, increasingly desperate.
“He does not interfere,” repeated the voice, fading ominously away with
every word.
I closed my eyes as I felt a gentle pull leading me into the light, into
my personal salvation.
I remember first seeing her staring out of a window of the old clock tower,
but now only feelings of guilt and regret surround her. No matter how
hard I try to persuade my own mind, I cannot see her bright, innocent
smile.
I can never see her the way I first saw her, not ever again.
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82
Letter to a Lost Hated One
By Pyone Lei Lei Mon
Dear Lay,
Five years isn’t enough to dull the memories of your tiny fingers, your laughter,
your innocent face, how sweet you looked when you smiled, and it is nowhere near enough
time to dull the memory of that tragic night. Although you are out of reach of my
arms, your existence still fills up all of my heart and my head. Nothing can ever erase
my everlasting memory of you, Lay.
No one’s home except the two girls, one seven years old and the other a
baby of nine months. Darkness fills every corner of the street. Lightning
flashes every few minutes, filling the house with light and sound and fear.
The tin roof above their heads makes the sound of the pouring rain louder.
The disgusting smell of the gutter sometimes reaches their noses. Nine at
night. The gloominess of the weather hasn’t changed a bit since evening.
The girls’ Mama and Dada won’t be home for another hour.
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Letter to a Lost Hated One
Both the girls are in the baby’s bedroom. There’s a cradle and stuffed
animals, a chair, and on the table beside the cradle, a pink lamp that does
no good on a night like this when the power’s out. The smell of talc from
baby powder is in the air. The older girl is sitting still in the chair by the
open window, from which the rain and wind are welcomed into the house.
She is looking at the shadow of her sister in the cradle. Their eyes meet
somewhere in the darkness.
What I feel most sorry about your exit is that you left without knowing how much you
were loved, cared for and nurtured by us. Nine months in Mom’s womb and nine
months in our hands wasn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough when it comes to you.
Oh, Lay, how much I miss you.
A year before, her life had been so different. The girl used to receive toys
and snacks every evening when her father came back from work. She was
the top priority for the whole family. She was the princess. She was the
queen, until the baby girl in the cradle came out of her mother’s womb.
Everything she valued in life had been cut off by the cry of her sister.
Now she’s no longer the priority of the household. The girl heard from a
Christian playmate that Christians believe Hell is the absence of God. She
didn’t understand it at the time, but over the past nine months, she’s felt
the absence of the love and attention she has known her whole life. She
understands now. These nine months have been a living hell for her.
She discovered the truth of how little she mattered one evening not
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Pyone Lei Lei Mon
long after her sister was born. She’d been asking her father for something
for so long. One fine evening, her father passed her door with something
in his hand. Something she’d been wishing for for months. Uplifting her
hands, she was ready to receive it. To her surprise, what she received was
merely the slight gust of air as her father passed her on his way to the
bedroom where the baby girl slept. That something was a beautiful bedside
lamp. And it was her favorite color, pink.
Our letters to you every six months aren’t enough to show how terribly we are tormented
inside. Do you know what I do whenever I miss you? I guess you remember the lamp
that Dad bought for you. The pink bedside lamp. Your most favorite thing, which you
adored more than all the toys. You stopped crying when we turned on that lamp. You
loved it so much. Whenever you come into my mind and the sadness overwhelms me, I
turn on that lamp, and I feel like you’re right there in the room with me.
The baby girl jumps and cries out every time the lightning brightens the
room. The cradle swings from side to side with her weight. The poor girl is
searching for her Mama and Dada. They aren’t back yet. It’s a quarter past
nine. The girl in the chair hasn’t moved. She sits there with her arms folded.
The movement of her eyelashes and her steady breathing are the only
signs that she’s alive.
Lightning strikes with such great force that it rocks the house and the
cradle, and the roar of the thunder is the loudest sound the baby has ever
heard in her life. She starts to grab the bars of the cradle, hoping to escape,
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Letter to a Lost Hated One
like a prisoner in a cell. Her eyes fill with tears and she starts to scream,
while her big sister sits still, breathing comfortably, keeping her eyes locked
on the baby.
Under the eyes of her big sister, the baby girl drags herself upright
and pushes forcefully against the side of the cradle. The cradle inclines to
one side. The pulse racing in the older girl’s veins beats with the sound of
the rain. The terrified baby climbs the inclining bars and grabs the cord of
the lamp hanging from the side of the table.
While you were with me, I never got tired of spending time with you. I was there beside
you before I left for school. I left my heart behind beside you while my physical body was
in class. I ran home after school as fast as I could just so I could play with you until it
was your bedtime and Mom separated us. But Mom didn’t know that we met again in
dreams.
Lay, I love you with all my heart and soul. You are my one and only little sister,
you always have been, and always will be. Mom and Dad and I will always pray for
your next life from the morning until night.
The last scene: the baby girl lying unmoving on the cold floor. Her
terrified heartbeat is silent now. The lamp lies on its side next to her. The
older girl removes herself from the chair, moves slowly across the room,
and kneels down. The baby girl’s body is still warm, and the usual sweet
powder smell of her is still in the air. Without touching her sister, she picks
up the lamp with her clammy hands and puts it on the table. Blood seeps
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Pyone Lei Lei Mon
from the wound on the baby’s head. Leaving her little sister behind, the
girl returns to her own bedroom, lies in bed, and closes her eyes, as if the
scene in the next room is of no concern to her.
I will always regret how I left you alone that night. You must’ve been so afraid by
yourself in the dark and the storm. I should’ve stayed with you all night. You must’ve
been so terrified and desperate that you jumped from your cradle, and I was not there to
stop you. I failed in my duty as a sister, and I can only beg your forgiveness, though I will
never be able to forgive myself.
I was so lucky to have you as my sister. No achievement of mine can exceed the
honor of that. I’ve been blessed. We were all blessed to live every moment that we did
with you, even though it was only nine months.
My greatest hope is that in the next life, we will be sisters again, and that we will
live long and happy lives together.
With all the love in my heart,
Your Sister
The girl dips her fingers into the glass beside her. The water dribbles from
her fingertips and lands on the words of the letter, and the fresh ink of
those words spreads. Fake tears. The letter is now ready to be read at the
memorial tomorrow.
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Five Fingers
By Yamindra Malla
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Five Fingers
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Yamindra Malla
specifically for the boy. She asked me to talk to Min San and his parents
when we arrived. There was a small finger-like outgrowth sprouting from
the base of his thumb. The funds were for the surgery to remove it.
“Life can be difficult sometimes if you are different,” Mary said.
“Especially if you live with people who can’t embrace differences.”
This became the theme of our conversation for some time. She told
me about an incident that had happened a few days before. One morning
as she was walking around, she heard some dogs barking behind her. When
she turned around in fear, she noticed that the dogs were barking at a man
who was walking backwards. I found it funny and laughed. “That guy was
probably doing some sort of exercise!” I told her.
In my career, I meet different types of people from different countries.
I find Mary very different from all of them. She thinks logically and her
views are based upon reason. Sometimes she challenges my own views. I
don’t get angry about it. I like the way she can express her critiques without
offending me. She says that without criticism we’ll never know if our views
are correct. My favorite thing she’s told me is this: “One should not hate
anyone for the views they hold. People cannot be wrong. It’s their views
that are wrong sometimes. Even then, how you can know they are wrong?
What you think is right may be so only from your perspective!” I’ve thought
about it for a long time, and I agree with her.
Mary enjoyed the ride and the scenery. Along the journey, she would
often exclaim, “Look! Isn’t it beautiful?” There was only one thing that
kept bothering her: the boats that carry local passengers and goods blasting
loud music through their speakers. It’s not pleasant even to my ears. Every
time a boat went by, Mary would grumble about it.
“Why do they blast their music like that?”
“It’s a signal,” I kept telling her, “People can know the boat is coming
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Five Fingers
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Yamindra Malla
Min San was one of those boys. He looked happy and all his friends
seemed to be fond of him. Many boys staying at the monastery want to
become monks when they grow up. But Min San wanted to go to college.
When he grew up he wanted to look after his mother.
Last year, the village Abbot had told him, “You can study at the
monastery. And you can help your mother even as a monk.”
He said, “A monk’s life is not easy. Besides, my mother is alone. I
must help her.”
On the alms round, I helped the boys while Mary went around taking
pictures. News had already circulated that John’s wife had arrived in the
village. The villagers came out to greet her. Some offered her cakes they
had cooked themselves. Small children gathered around her and wanted to
hold her hand.
After returning from the alms round, Mary and I were sitting under a
huge tamarind tree beside the path that linked the monastery and the village.
Resting her back on the trunk of the tree, she expressed her joy and pride
that she felt thinking about her husband’s kindness and generosity.
The boys had eaten their lunch and were on the way to go to school.
As they passed by, Mary asked me to call Min San over to us.
“Did you tell your mother about the surgery?” I asked him.
“Yes. But she doesn’t want to send me to Mandalay.”
“Don’t worry about anything. Everything will be taken care of,” Mary
promised.
He became more assertive. “Thank you, but I don’t want to have the
surgery.”
Other boys were waiting for him. I let him go.
That afternoon we went to the village school. Mary donated the money
to the school board. The school principal, teachers, and other village elders
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Five Fingers
were also present for the occasion. John had sent the donation for the
construction of new rooms. Some students had applied for upper-
secondary level but there weren’t enough rooms available to run the classes.
After two days at the village, I started to feel bored. There was no
electricity and the silence you had to maintain at the Great Forest was
becoming uncomfortable. I told Mary I wanted to return to Mandalay. I
had other trips to make. She said I could go. She would remain at the Great
Forest. The day before I returned, Mary and I went to see Min San’s mother.
I explained everything all over again to her.
“It’s not a big surgery, and it’s absolutely safe,” Mary tried to comfort
her.
“It’s not about that,” Min San’s mother said, as if she were making an
apology.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” I reassured her.
“He’s the only boy with six fingers in the whole village—”
“Doesn’t anybody tease him? I mean, isn’t he harassed at school?”
Mary interrupted.
“Is Min San comfortable?” I asked, trying to put Mary in the boy’s
shoes.
Mary and I realized that his mother clearly did not want Min San to
have the surgery, and we wondered why.
“He’s a special kid. Everybody loves him,” Min San’s mother said
proudly. “Having six fingers is a good omen. My son will bring good luck
to the whole village.”
I could tell Mary was confused, but there was nothing more to be
done. I bid her farewell and got on a boat back to Mandalay.
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To the Creek
By Aung Kaung Myat
The torrents of rain transformed the foot of the mountain into a wet and
verdant landscape. Raindrops danced on the leaves of the trees as if
celebrating the first rains of the year. The streams and creeks were
overburdened and running furiously. As the rain erased the existence of
the old, the useless, and the unfit, the new emerged in its place, the energetic
and the lively. Every change was maneuvered by the Order of Karma, or
so we were to believe. Karma triggered events, and I was awake with my
hands soaked in blood. I prayed to the Buddha, I prayed to the Dear
Bhante and the Manifesto of Myo Chit he protected. I remembered, as I was
taught, that anyone who kills in the name of Buddhism will go to the
realm of the gods. And before the white light took me, I realized that I,
Okkar, had become a Myo Chit, holy defender of race and religion.
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Aung Kaung Myat
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To the Creek
asked me to come with him the day before, when I saw him clandestinely
filling a bottle with water. My reply was prompt.
I could see that he was as exhausted as I was. The consumption of
our meager rations of rice and peas for months had weakened our bodies
terribly. We slumped down next to each other. The leaves of the tree
fluttered through the air as they drifted to the ground.
“How long have we been running?” I asked him.
“I don’t know exactly. We’ve made it farther than I expected we would.
We ran too fast. We should not do that. It uses up our energy too quickly.”
After we’d rested a while, I realized that I was starving. We had run
off during breakfast time at the peace camp, the busiest time of day. I
looked around where we were sitting, searching for food, but there was no
trace of anything edible. Kyaw Thura reached into his bag and took out a
water bottle. He took a few sips from it, then passed it to me.
“Only small sips, Okkar. Don’t gulp it down or we will die of
dehydration. We don’t know how long we will be without any source of
clean water.”
I thanked him for bringing along the water bottle and sharing it with
me. I took great care as I drank; not a drop of water was wasted. I had to
resist the urge to take huge swallows or pour it over my overheated head,
which was covered with sweat and dust.
Kyaw Thura lay on the ground with his head on his bag. He closed
his eyes and murmured to me, “Let’s rest for a while longer. Then we will
walk steadily to the creek and go home.”
Before I was sent to the peace camp, going home was what I did every
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Aung Kaung Myat
evening of my life; it was the part of the workday I most enjoyed. I closed
the front door of my copy shop, made sure all the windows and the back
door were closed, checked the income and expenses of the shop in the
ledger book, locked the front door, and then headed home. On the way, I’d
greet some of my neighbors, and they’d greet me back. When I got home,
I’d make myself dinner, read a book or watch television, and then go to
bed. If I encountered the Knights of Buddhism on my way home, I would
arrive later than usual, sometimes the worse for wear.
The Knights of Buddhism were the armed wing of a special
organization founded by the Fifth Myanmar Empire. They regularly
patrolled my neighborhood because it was near the edge of a kalar
containment zone. They’d ask people to show their identity card to make
sure they were Buddhist and of pure Burmese race. According to Amyobathar
Law, people of the minor races, especially kalars, were not allowed to go
beyond the areas to which they were officially assigned.
“Where are you going?” the Knights would ask.
“Are you a Buddhist Sakiyan Blood? Show me your identity card,”
they’d demand.
“But you look a little like a kalar,” they’d say. They meant it as a threat;
if I were relegated to the status of kalar it would deprive me of the rights
I held as a Sakiyan Blood, one descended from the Buddha’s own bloodline.
Of course, there was little possibility that could happen to me, given that
I could show my true Sakiyan Blood in many ways. But I had heard that
one of my old schoolmates was identified as a kalar by the authorities and
his rights were stripped away. They had him and his family registered
as kalars and their religion as Islam, and they were moved to a special
protected area for Muslims. According to the law, they could not go beyond
the perimeter arbitrated by the Special Administration Committee. What’s
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To the Creek
more, he and his wife were investigated and sent to the jail for the crime of
interfaith marriage. They disappeared into oblivion; people did not talk
about them; it was as if they had never been born onto this earth.
The monk who was the commanding officer of the unit in my
neighborhood would yell at me, “You must stay inside your house after
7PM, and all the women in your house are not to go outside without male
company, understand?” He had a 969 tattoo on his arm, and he was the
most imposing of the Knights in the unit.
“If you see anyone who might be a kalar, report it immediately to
us,” they’d order. “They could be terrorists. They could be jihadists. We
must protect our nation from them.”
I’d nod in deference to everything they said, with my hands joined in
the shape of a lotus flower. Since I was young, I had been taught to treat
monks with respect and obedience. And ever since the introduction
of Amyobathar Law, I was taught I also had to treat the Knights of Buddhism
with total submission. They were, as the Sacca Section of Dhamma Media
claimed, the ones defending Buddhism, which was on the verge of
extinction due to the Muslim invasion and the spreading disease of Western
culture, which together threatened to annihilate Buddhism and Sakiyan
Blood.
Home was what I loved and where I was safe, until a letter from the
Ministry of Amyobathar arrived. It stated that I had reached the age at which
marriage with a girl arranged by the Ministry was mandatory. The Ministry
of Amyobathar had a grand strategic plan to arrange the marriages of all
unmarried people over twenty-five and pressure them to have as many
children as possible. One of the objectives of the Manifesto of Myo Chit was
to focus on procreation in order to swell the ranks of young Buddhists,
who would be the future defenders of their religion.
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Aung Kaung Myat
I was not happy. I had been in love with the girl working at the grocery
store next to my copy shop. The mere thought of living with a girl sent by
the Ministry for the sole purpose of reproduction made my heart sink.
Although I hadn’t confessed my feelings to her, I believed they were mutual.
I could see the love and affection she had for me in her eyes when I talked
to her. What would I live for if my dreams of building a beautiful life with
a beautiful wife—a wife I loved—were crushed?
Like everyone who wanted to marry the one they loved, I made an
appeal to the Tribunal of Amyobathar.
Although the water was muddy and murky, I found it drinkable after I
filtered it through my fingers. I could make out my image only hazily in the
water of the puddle, but I could still tell that my body had shrunk from the
months of hunger and hard labor to the point that I was dumbfounded to
see my own skeletal reflection. I refreshed my neck and face with splashes
of water. Then we left for the north—for the creek.
Our slippers were not fit for the rough jungle path, but we were lucky;
the path was completely dry and there weren’t many major obstacles in the
way. Tropical shrubs with pointy branches that scratched our skin were
our only nuisance as we trod on the soil of dry leaves and twigs.
The heat became ever more extreme, and it felt as though the
surrounding air was squeezing us in its hot, tight grasp. Sweat was pouring
down my face, stinging my eyes.
The walking path ended abruptly, and we had to set out through the
thick shrubbery, vines, and trees. I did not know how long we would have
to continue this arduous trek. I looked up at the canopy of the jungle. My
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To the Creek
mind leapt up through trees, following a curved line through the air until it
reached the place beyond this endless trail. There would be enough food,
enough water, and we would be secure and safe when we reached the place
where we belonged.
In this particular place I imagined, where freedom was guaranteed, I
would find a girl. She would not need to resemble her exactly. I would
work hard every day to save up and buy a house for us. Perhaps I would
even start a photocopy shop again in this new and better place. It would
grant us the financial support to raise children. Maybe even a chain of
shops, and we would raise several children who would be healthy and strong
and playful and free.
Kyaw Thura was walking steadily in front of me, examining the
territory, thwacking apart the brush with a rod he’d made out of a tree
branch. The sun was baking everything below it. The dry brush was howling
in pain; it seemed to be saying that it was about to set itself alight and
conflagrate into a huge wildfire any moment now.
“I think I need to take a rest,” I said to Kyaw Thura.
He said nothing, only nodded. We found a large tree and sat side by
side beneath it, leaning against its trunk, the dry leaves like a crackling
cushion under us.
“What was your crime, Kyaw Thura?” I asked him.
He was looking at the sky. I glanced up to see what he was staring at,
but there was only the blistering sun. He didn’t seem to hear my question.
“What was your crime?” I asked him again.
He didn’t move his head an inch. “I made some mistakes that offended
the Ministry of Amyobathar,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not hard to offend them, is it?”
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Aung Kaung Myat
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To the Creek
We can’t be wrong. I studied the map for a long time; I know where we
are.”
I kept trudging along, trying to hide my own fears about what would
happen if we did not make it to the creek.
“What books did you read?” Kyaw Thura asked, breaking the silence.
“I read all kinds of books.”
“No, I mean what books did they find to charge you with blasphemy?”
“A book that was not on the mandatory reading list for Buddhists. It
explains how to live as a Buddhist. Of course, I do not trust the book. It
contains lies about how one needs to lead a peaceful life of loving-kindness
while working toward mindfulness. The Sacca Section of Dhamma Media
has told us that this is a lie. As they say: ‘Our duty as Buddhists is to
protect our race and religion,’ not to attain mindfulness. I just wanted to
read it because its lies are interesting. But my beliefs have always rested in
the teachings of the Ministry. Like the Dear Bhante says: ‘We have to love
our race and religion first above all else,’ including mindfulness.”
He nodded at what I said as he walked. Our pace had slowed; we were
both exhausted, and I felt the beginnings of a pounding headache. I shouted
to Kyaw Thura, who was far ahead of me, to ask him to give me a few
minutes of rest. I was about to fall to the ground with fatigue when I
heard him let out a shout of joy and saw him leap into the air.
“The creek is over there!” he yelled back at me. “I can see it! Come
here and take a look!”
I ran to the spot where he was standing. We were almost there.
Suddenly he cocked his head and a look of terror came over his face.
He dove behind the nearest bush, and I followed. He put a finger to his
lips and peered over the bush. I followed his gaze. There was a horde of
armed Knights of Buddhism on our side of the creek, fanned out in a
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search formation. They had come all the way to the creek to hunt us down.
Kyaw Thura whispered, “I don’t think we should try anything for
now. We must wait until the sun is down.”
I nodded my head in agreement. Carefully, we hid ourselves deeper
within the foliage of the bushes and prepared to wait out the day. The
water in the bottle was gone, and the sound of water running in the creek
seemed to mock the burning thirst in my throat.
The voices of the Knights trailed off. Silence fell. Every now and
then I checked to see if there were any Knights approaching us, but they
were nowhere to be seen. It seemed the Knights had moved on. I wanted
to ask Kyaw Thura what we would do when the sun set, but he was already
asleep. I tried to sleep as well, settling my body amongst the prickly branches
of the bush.
When I woke up, everything was blanketed in darkness. There was
some moonlight, but not enough to see clearly. I saw that Kyaw Thura was
awake, but we remained silent and still.
A few minutes later, thunder crackled in the sky, and we were able to
check out our surroundings in the intermittent flashes of lightning. There
were no Knights in sight.
We disentangled ourselves from the bush and moved toward the creek.
I saw only shapes in the dark, none of them human, which reassured me.
I dipped my face in the creek to drink. The cool water was beyond delicious;
it was miraculous, soothing my aching throat and seeming to flow into my
veins, recharging my energy in an instant. I wished I could immerse myself
in the shallow water of the creek for all my life. I could be happy in its
cool, soothing flow. The water was freedom; it was safety; it was life.
“Quickly now, my friend!” hissed Kyaw Thura. “We must cross the
creek, and then we can go home.”
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To the Creek
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Aung Kaung Myat
torrent; everything blurred. I could barely see Kyaw Thura in the rain. I
could barely see anything. There were obligations that a Buddhist must
keep. And now, I had become a traitor to my own race and religion. Here
was a marriage between a woman of Sakiyan Blood, a daughter of the
Buddha’s own blood, and a Muslim kalar, standing right before my eyes. My
hands clenched into fists.
“Listen to me, Okkar,” he said.
Suddenly I was charging him, tackling him into the mud. He tried to
get up and I tripped him, crawled onto his chest, and unleashed an onslaught
of wild blows, lashing out at him blindly in the rain, the thunder roaring
around us, until he brought his knee up into my groin and I dropped with
a wounded cry.
He pushed me off of him. “Listen to me,” he shouted. “Are you out
of your mind?”
We lay on the muddy ground, breathing hard. Blood was pouring
from his nose. Then with a cry of rage he launched himself toward me,
swinging madly. I blocked his punches and smashed my elbow into his jaw.
He collapsed back into the mud.
In the flashes of lightning, I scanned the ground for a rock to crush
his head with. I saw one. As I crawled to reach it, a punch fell across my
face.
“You maniac!” he yelled hoarsely, spitting blood and teeth into the
churning muck. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You are a foe of Buddhism!” I yelled back at him. ”You are what
Bhante always warned us about!”
For a moment, my eyes were blinded by the sheer light. Through the
thundering storm, there was the sound of footsteps coming toward us.
“Put your hands behind your head. Now!”
107
In disbelief, Kyaw Thura looked in the direction from where the voice
had come. I seized the opportunity, and grasping the rock with both my
hands, I brought it down as hard as I could onto his skull. There was a
thick crunch, and his body went limp.
“Drop the weapon and put your hands behind your head!” came the
voice again, nearer now. “This is your final warning!”
Yes, they were approaching. I waved to them.
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About the Authors
Aung Kaung Myat is a blogger, writer, poet and translator. He spends
most of his time writing blog posts and articles on social media advocating
for the online Burmese non-believer movement, anti-racism, and free
speech. He loathes bigotry, ultra-nationalism, and the persecution of
minorities in Burma.
Hlaing Win Thaw Dar is a Burmese girl who has a passion for two
rather different professions, writing and business. She loves creativity yet
also logic; she is adventurous yet takes pride in analyzing and calculating
risks; she doesn’t like numbers but is good at math. She has a strange love
for studying, strange enough that she is taking another postgraduate course
(M.Comm) after finishing her MIB (Master of International Business) in
Australia. J.K. Rowling inspired her to write, but it was her grandfather
who taught her to love books. She will continue writing fiction (mostly)
and believing in magic while juggling the numbers of real life.
Mei (Ya Mohn Myat Mon) has indulged her passion for writing in English
since childhood. She is a two-year consecutive winner of the state English
essay and impromptu competition, as well as the winner of a presentation
competition in Malaysia. She is now a third year M.B., B.S student at
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University of Medicine 1 Yangon and an editor of English prose and poetry
on the UM1 Magazine committee.
Pyone Lei Lei Mon unexpectedly stumbled upon her interest in writing
stories in 2014, when she took a creative writing class at the American
Center. She subsequently received several prizes for her creative writing
that same year. In 2015, one of her short stories, What Makes You Beautiful,
was selected for publication by the Third Story Project and widely
distributed throughout Myanmar in both English and Burmese versions.
Born and raised in Yangon, she is now studying in the United States,
majoring in Biochemistry and Mathematics, with a Biology minor, in pursuit
of her goal of becoming a medical doctor.
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Thet Su is an English teacher and an amateur watercolor artist. She is
studying applied psychology at Yangon University and her ambition is to
be an educational psychologist in order to carry out educational research.
She has been an online editor at the Reporters’ Journal. She loves reading,
writing, learning new languages, travelling, painting, and any subject related
to art. She is from Yangon.
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