1. religion and spirituality
2. buddhism

AT DAWN, YANGON IS A SYMPHONY OF RUSTLES
O
n the platform of the train
station, longyis softly swish
against each other, baskets
scrape from one shoulder to the next,
young lovers murmur sweet words
yet dare not touch. Behind them,
the silhouette of an antediluvian
locomotive grows.
Perhaps one of the greatest
contributions of the British Empire to
Burma, the train that circles Yangon
carries every morning thousands
of passengers to their suburban
destination. The wagons are packed,
and understandably so: a ticket costs
Kh 20, one tenth of the bus fare. To
every hour belongs one crowd, one
merchandise, one scent. At 4 a.m.,
the flower sellers open the march,
followed at 6 a.m. by the vegetable
and fruit vendors. At 9 a.m., when
the students take over, the wooden
benches are still fragrant with the
scent of onions, mangoes and exotic
flowers. Soon, it is the potent smell of
water buffaloes and rice paddies that
infiltrates the hull. Outside, Yangon’s
concrete jungle has been replaced
by endless fields of water cress. The
tracks have disappeared under the
tall grass, and the train seems to glide
through a wind-swept ocean of green.
Merely half an hour after departure,
the city is but a memory.
MINETHAWK MARKET
Nearing a station, the train slows
down, but never stops. Like seasoned
paratroopers, the peasants jump
out with surreal ease and, carried
by the momentum, run a few yards
by the wagon. They won’t need to
go far: Minethawk market is right
there, sprawled on the tracks and
the platforms. Only a thin corridor
carved between the stalls allows for
the train’s passage. “This is Burma”
laughs a student as he disappears into
the crowd, a delicately choreographed
chaos of haulers, children and cattle.
Like so many other places in the
country, the atmosphere is relaxed and
goods are abundant. Yet the smiles
belie a harsher reality:
“I’m here from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m.
and I only make Kh 4,000 to Kh 5,000
a day, barely enough to feed my three
children, sighs Than Moung Aung, an
onion seller. This market is the shadow
of what it once was. Nargis destroyed
whatever cement buildings we had and
nothing has been rebuilt since. We have
no choice but to work outside, under
the monsoon or in tents. Business is
also not as good as it used to be. The
economy is bad. Everyone lost money.
To survive, we tighten our belts, but I’d
like my children to finish high school
and study engineering at university.”
Everyday,
Yangon’s trains
carry thousands of
passengers
THIS IS BURMA
E
ducation will be no guarantee
of social promotion for Than
Mong Aung and his sons. Three
stalls further, Ma Thini, a tiny woman
lost in a sea of mangoes, is a telling
example. She graduated with a B.A.
in management from the prestigious
University of Yangon, yet, like so
many others, is trying to make ends
meet. “I wanted to be a doctor, she
says, but I didn’t score high enough
at my exams to make it to med school.
I studied economics instead. After I
obtained my B.A. in management, I
bought back my mum’s business, and
I came here.” The shadows of the
market supervisor, flanked by two
thugs, cut the conversation short. Most
of Minethawk shops are here illegally,
and the presence of two foreigners
might attract too much attention from
of his superiors. Money changes
hands, and the goons disappear.
A few minutes in Minethawk
reveal many of the demons that
bedevil Burma’s economy. Rich
in resources, endowed with large
swathes of arable land, the country
was destined to become Asia’s rice
basket after the second World War.
But decades of central planning,
overregulation and nepotism
smothered Burma’s agricultural and
industrial development, leaving
its workforce starved for economic
opportunities.
The bulk of the country’s revenue is
squeezed from a few extraction industries (mining, timber, opium) and
captured by a tiny elite, while the vast
majority fends for scraps.
INFORMAL ECONOMY
However, driven by a profound desire
succeed despite the hardships,
Burmese people have become masters
at navigating the murky waters of the
informal economy:
“My uncle is an engineer at
the airport, explains Tao, a student,
but you can scarcely see him there.
His main job earns him only $200
a month, so he pays his boss to be
allowed to work part time in a travel
agency, where he makes an additional
$600. And he also trained himself
as an air conditioning expert, so he
spends his afternoons doing some odd
repairs in hotels, which gets him an
extra $150.”
Not all bets pay off, however.
Many small businesses enjoyed a
flicker of prosperity as foreign visitors
poured in after 1996, christened
“Visit Myanmar Year” by the Junta.
But the drop in tourism that followed
the cyclone and the Saffron revolution
left most of these initiatives still-born.
MOE THAK & NAY LAT
Moe Thak and Nay Lat, two rickshaw
drivers living in Mandalay, are now
O2
‘‘His main job earns him only
$200 a month, so he pays his
boss to be allowed to work
part time in a travel agency’’
forced to reconsider their options. Moe
Thak recalls how everything changed:
“We left our village to try our
luck in Mandalay. At first, money was
good: there were a lot of tourists. After
three years, Nay Lat had saved enough
to buy his own rickshaw. But last year,
he had stomach problems and had to
sell everything to pay for treatment.
He’s been renting a rickshaw from
THIS IS BURMA
a friend since, and trying to save
enough money to buy his vehicle back.
Things have gotten tougher though.
After the “events”, fewer tourists have
come. Nay Lat stays here because he
has a wife and a daughter, but I have
no choice: I must go back to my village.”
A NIGHT IN BURMA
Besides natural and political disasters, small entrepreneurs must manage with more mundane hardships:
crumbling infrastructure, collapsed
streets, patchy phone networks and
recurrent power cuts. “How are we
supposed to make a living when our
business depends on the caprices of
the power grid”, sighs the owner of a
small publishing shop, his hand lovingly placed on the lifeless carcass
of the printing press. Aung San Thein,
who invested in a DVD player and a
TV set to show movies to the neighborhood, agrees. Every power cuts costs
him dearly: Kh 1,000 ($1) to rent a
generator.
Burma’s electricity woes are
even more crippling at night. 8 p.m.,
And Yangon is plunged in darkness.
Most of the electricity that used to
power the city has been diverted to
Naypyidaw, the new capital built from
scratch by the Junta. While the cozy
parks and gleaming mall of the ville
nouvelle enjoy uninterrupted power,
Yangon crumbles. Shunned by public
investment, the old capital is littered
by the hollow shells of abandoned
government buildings, condemned to
ineluctable dereliction.
O3
Nowadays, only certain sections of
Yangon still receive uninterrupted
power, diplomatic and religious
buildings, for the most part.
From a plane at night, the city
would remain invisible were it not for
the glowing domes of the Sule and the
Shwe Dagon temples. Even when the
regime cut the power after Nargis, to
prevent fires, the pagodas kept shining
with a thousand spotlights. The
neon lights that adorn each Buddha
statue highlights the importance and
pervasiveness of Buddhism in Burma.
Mandalay slums use
pirate connections
to obtain a bit of
electricity at night
For those who – neither Gods nor
cronies – depend on the good will
of the public lighting system, most
nights are spent in darkness. Not
that Burma lacks electricity, but the
Junta exports most of it to neighboring
countries. While China and India are
powered with Burmese watts, Yangon
experiences regular blackouts, some
lasting more than seven days.
When electricity runs out, it is
not only the bulbs that refuse to work.
The water stops flowing as well. To
drink, cook or take a meager shower,
there is no choice but to go several
times a day to the well of the nearest
monastery.
Street soccer by the
Sule pagoda
RENEWABLE ENERGY
And yet, even deprived of light and
water, Yangon is powered by the
energy of its people. Around the Sule
Pagoda, lit by the golden glow of the
stupa, two teams of teenage boys
improvise a soccer match.
Soon, the entire square is
filled with laughter, yelps and the
clap of bare feet on the monsoon-wet
pavement. Many players are waiters
from the surrounding tea shops. As
soon as the last clients have deserted
their seats, they turn the streets into
soccer fields.
Every morning,
Yangon’s train
carries thousands of
passengers to their
suburban destination.
THIS IS BURMA
O4
“How are we supposed to
make a living when our
business depends on the
caprices of the power grid ?”
An old woman picks
up the trash on the
tracks of Yangon’s
train station
Other players are from Sekhantha,
Yangon’s only night market. It never
closes. Even at the crux of the Saffron
Revolution, when the city was kept
under lid by a curfew, the market’s
doors remained open.
LIVING IN SEKHANTHA
You don’t work in Sekhantha. You
live in it. You work in shifts, all day,
all week. While some unload the truck
or watch the shop, others wash at the
outside well. The luckiest ones take
a nap on a bunk bed, hardly bothered
by the fist-sized rainbow spiders
crawling from stall to stall.
Work is hard, but good spirits
prevail. Even when lifting 80 pound
crates, the haulers laugh, sing and
bellow “Pawci! Pawci!”, the name of
a heady mixture of beer and whiskey
that all will share to conclude the
night’s shift.
Getting your own space at
Sekhantha comes at a price, though.
Only those with cash and connection
can ever hope to set up shop there.
When they don’t play
between the stalls, children
are an integral part of the
market’s workforce
But the return is worth
the investment. After working in
Sekhantha for three years, a betel
seller can make enough to afford a
small jeep and a cell-phone, both
luxuries in Burma.
Outside Sekhantha, everything
– train station included – is about to
close. On the tracks, an old woman
picks up the trash dropped on the
tracks by the last travelers. The
Sule pagoda has become silent. The
players have put the soccer ball
away, and collect the last plastic
chairs on the deserted terraces of the
tea shops. Not one rickshaw left on
the street. Not one moresilhouette.
Yangon is closing its eyes.
THIS IS BURMA
O5
Rock concert in Yangon
BURMA IS MORE WELL KNOWN FOR THE MURMURS OF BUDDHIST
MANTRAS THAN FOR THE VOICE OF ITS POP STARS
A
mile away – a world away, it
seems – a quiet neighborhood
is about to receive a loud wakeup call. First Aid Box, an amateur
rock band, is plugging its instruments
onto massive loudspeakers, with
every intention of breaking the
sound barrier. Spread on a lawn, the
audience brims with anticipation,
quiet like the sea before a storm.
Then Lin Lin touches the cords of his
guitar, and the crowd explodes.
Burma is more well known for
the soft murmurs of Buddhist mantras
than for the broken voice of its pop
stars. Yet, Yangon’s rock scene is
more than 30 years old. It started as
a tiny underground phenomenon, a
handful of musicians worshipped by
the children of the country’s elite.
Then computers arrived, piracy
took over, and Burmese rock left its
cocoon to reach a wider audience.
For one dollar, even the most modest
households can now afford a copy of
the latest album. As the success of
rock n’roll reached cruising altitude,
Burmese pop and hip hop took off,
and in their wake a myriad of amateur
bands dream of adding their name
to the growing list of Burma’s music
legends: Iron Cross, Emperor, Big
Bag…
“A few years ago, there were only 4 or 5
pop singers in Burma. There’s now more
than a hundred, explains Fireboy, a hip
hop producer. The overall quality of musicians is improving, and Yangon counts
more and more recording studios.”
BURMA’S TRUE VOICE
Fireboy’s praises might be far fetched.
The vast majority of Yangon’s rock
bands are content with plagiarizing
Western hits, affixing Burmese words
over melodies by Bryan Adams,
Celine Dion or Van Hallen. While
Japanese J-Pop, Chinese punk and
Bollywood hymns have successfully
digested – and contributed to – the
major trends of international pop,
Burmese musicians have been caught
in a time/space continuum endlessly
looping through the eighties. Many are
the artists and producers who deplore
the absence of a true Burmese musical
voice:
“Few bands are really creative,
laments Myint Naing, the owner of
live music bar in downtown Yangon.
Most musicians parrot Western hits
because they want to make money.
That’s what music is here: a business.”
O7 ART, JUNTA & ROCK N’ ROLL
E
ven U Aung Than, a famous
violinist and Burmese music’s
most fervent advocate, fails to
disagree. “A few years ago, he recalls,
his long braided beard trembling
with indignation, I crossed paths
with a German guitarists who had
performed all around the world: USA,
Japan, Australia…He mentioned
being disappointed in Burmese
musicians, who merely repeated things
that had been composed in the past.
Even Thailand, he told me, is trying
to develop its own style. I was so
embarrassed.”
Rock concert
in Yangon
“Since we can’t create freely, we
use detours, explains Aung Lin –
a cartoonist – with a wink. We’re
proud of our inspiration. That’s
what pushes us forward”. Kyaw Zay
Yar Oo, journalist and editor of
Myanmar Horizon magazine, adds:
“In Myanmar, journalism is an art. We
have to find the right way to say what
we want to say. Of course, there are
certain boundaries we just can’t cross,
such as asking for regime change. But
within these limits, there are many
things that we can do.”
WORKING WITHIN LIMITS
Modern music in Burma is not merely
WHO WANTS TO KILLS
gasping for freedom, it is gasping for
BURMESE ROCK?
money. In a country still grappling
Who wants to kill Burma’s musical
with the first steps of
inspiration? Is it the
development, rock n’roll
Ministry of Culture,
“Of course, there are
doesn’t top the list of inwho supervises every
certain
boundaries
vestment priorities, public
single cultural event?
we just can’t cross,
or private, nor can it rely
The official censors
such
as
asking
for
on Burma’s feeble middle
prowling backstage,
regime change. But
class to fill the gap. Wiready to pounce at the
thout financial support,
first sign of subversive
within these limits,
clients, sound equipment,
comment? Undeniably,
there are many
instruments, even the
but not only, answers
things that we can
most famous rock stars
Burma’s artistic comdo.”
struggle to finance their
munity.
Censorship
Kyaw Zay Yar Oo concerts.
does limit many an
Journaliste
“We all work within
artist’s freedom of excertain limits, agrees
pression, witness be
Myow Aung, a young hip hop singer
the fate shared by singers with too
and founder of the band Green Plant.
much of a political conscience. Zayar
Since we can’t say everything we
Thaw, founder of the band Acid and
want to say, we use very ‘Burmese’
pioneer of the hip hop movement in
modes of expressions. But we face
Burma, is currently serving a 6 year
other difficulties. It’s very hard to find
jail sentence for its criticism of the
instruments in Yangon, and we can
regime.
only rehearse when there’s electricity.
Yet, loading all of Burma’s sins
To tell you the truth, we only work with
onto one single scapegoat would be
half of what we need.”
too easy. Censorship, artists agree,
is in large part a formal hurdle, with
rules easy to identify and internalize.
ART, JUNTA & BURMA
G
reen Plant is not an isolated
case. According to Fireboy,
the hip hop producer, even the
most famous singers have a hard time
organizing concerts. There is simply
not enough money.
COPIES AND COPYCATS
Although a blessing for a penniless
audience, piracy has made matters
worse for Burma’s music industry. In
the absence of intellectual property
rights laws, anyone with a personal
computer can start his own home
production business and sell illegal
copies of CDs and DVDs in the black
market. Less than an hour after a new
album is released, the pirated version
is already on the stalls, bemoans May
Myo Kyaw Swar, the owner of Galaxy,
a recording studio in Yangon.
“When I started, in 1993, the
biggest names in the industry were
banging at my door. Even Iron Cross
came to record here. We had a waiting
list of more than a year! But this
business is no longer profitable. Piracy
has completely destroyed the music
industry. We depend now on small
clients with small projects, people who
want to make a CD for their family or
their church…”
Burmese musicians have
learned to readjust their expectations.
If there is no Khyat to be made on
stage or in studios, so be it! They hunt
the money where it hides, deep in the
pockets of expats, bigwigs and anyone
willing to pay for a few cover songs. In
their quest for gold, many musicians
end up doing up a few gigs at the
Drum Drum Thanaka, the musical
epicenter of the old capital.
Owned and managed by Myint Naing,
a guitarist turned painter, the Drum
Drum is one of the few cafes that offer
live music daily and – rarity of rarities
– regularly holds art exhibitions.
Like the attic of an explorer, the bar
resembles a bric-à-brac of East and
West. Under the poster gaze of Kurt
Cobain and Bob Marley, an army of
waiters dressed like bellboys at the
Peninsula pour glass after glass of
Absolut Vodka and Chinese beer.
The red brick walls bear the scars of
previous lovers, loners and friends: “I
think I love you – Angela”, “Happy
Birth Han Lwin – 10.02.06”, “生活总
是今人的失望”. Like his bar, Myint
Naing is a bridge between worlds:
“My mother was a writer and
my father a technology professor. I’ve
always been caught between science
and art. Unsurprisingly, I spent the
larger part of the decade from
1984 to 1994 between the
benches of med school and
the music world, writing
songs. Then I graduated,
and art finally won. I
gave up the idea of
becoming a doctor
and opened a live
music bar instead.
That’s how Drum
Drum Thanaka
was born.
Myow Aung,
singer and founder
of the hip hop band
«Green Plant»
O8
O9 ART, JUNTA & ROCK N’ ROLL
Than Lwin’s choir
The first Drum Drum was a little
400-square feet room in downtown
Yangon. There were very few bars back
in the days – the first time I entered one
was during a trip abroad – so our little
place quickly became very popular. In
1997, we opened another Drum Drum,
a bigger one, then a third one in the
middle of Kandawgyi park.
However, with the growing
success of pop and rock, music bars have
mushroomed everywhere in Yangon. It’s
been very hard to find good musicians
since. When I opened my first bar, the
city was filled with passionate amateurs
with their own style. But nowadays,
musicians play more for money and
fame than for themselves.”
It is tempting to blame money
for all of Burma’s music ills. Yet even
international music powerhouses – the
US, the UK, Japan – have their fair
share of penniless musicians trying to
make ends meet. So what tolls the knell
of the country’s musical creativity?
Soe Khaing, a music school
headmaster, ultimately blames Burma’s
decades of cultural isolation, as well
as the weakness of the country’s art
education. And with reasons. The
only two universities that offer music
curriculums focus on emulating the
works of the old masters, showing
nothing but contempt for composition
and improvisation. This passive
approach to teaching art has produced
generation after generation of “people
reluctant to try new things”, thundered
Ko Du, founder of the Yangon Music
Art Academy, in an interview with the
Myanmar Times in 2005.
THE MUSIC SCHOOL
Thanlwin music school, founded in
2003 by Soe Khaing and Joyce Mill,
stands out as an exception. Lost
in the middle of a muddy slum in
the suburbs of Yangon, Thanlwin’s
curriculum includes guitar, piano,
“Our countries are so
close yet so different. In
Bangkok, I was blown
away by the freedom
and facilities that Thai
musicians enjoyed. Their
libraries were so full of
books and music !
Soe Khaing
Headmaster of Than
Lwin music school
singing and – surprisingly – music
writing classes. Several times a year,
students organize concerts mixing
jazz, classical music and A Capella
songs. The last one, held at the
luxurious Strand hotel, attracted more
than a thousand people.
With his timid smile and
oversized glasses, Soe Khaing seems
rather self-effacing. But his voice
and hands, composed yet trembling
with contained passion, betray the
seasoned conductor hidden inside.
Unphased by the cacophony of
students rehearsing in the next
room, he recalls the time he spent in
Thailand studying music:
“This trip opened my eyes. Our two
countries are so close yet so different.
In Bangkok, I was blown away by the
facilities that Thai musicians enjoyed.
Their libraries were so full of books and
music! In Myanmar, when you have a
book, you don’t share. Not that we’re
bad people, but it is just that precious.
I was also surprised by how different
our teaching methods were. In Yangon,
students are supposed to take notes and
memorize. In Thailand, everyone wants
to participate! That’s why I decided
to come back to Myanmar and teach
music…”
Soe Khaing is aware that teaching
the technique is only half the battle.
Students need to be more exposed
to international music, still banned
in Burma but a few years ago. That
is why the school regularly invites
foreign guest speakers to hold
workshops in situ, and sends its most
promising recruits to pursue their
studies at Mahidol University, in
Thailand. In 2007 and 2009, Than
Lwin’s choir even performed in San
Francisco (California), where they
received an enthusiastic welcome.
Other art forms are taking hold in
Burma. New painters, sculptors and
performers emerge every day, adding
to a growing community of young
Burmese artists. The odds are steep,
however. Since the country’s middle
class is neither able nor willing to
invest in contemporary art, artists rely
on a foreign clientele which – as deep
pocketed as it might be – tends to
disappear at the first sign of political
instability. And even in good years,
Burma only attracts only 300,000
foreigners, one fourth of Thailand’s.
That hasn’t stopped local
artists from creating and marketing
themselves. Exhibitions dedicated
to emerging Burmese artists have
flourished in Singapore, Tokyo, New
York, launching the careers of a dozen
rising stars: Maung Win, Aung Aung,
Thank Kiaw Thay, Nunn Nunn, U Soe
Moe, Aye Ko, Chaw Ei Thein…Susan
Anderson, the owner of a luxurious
art gallery in downtown Yangon, has
witnessed their rise to fame:
some more low-key. Every Sunday, a
dozen or so artists gather at Kyi Pya,
a photographer – to share ideas and
play music:
“The previous generation of artists
tended to work on their own,
explains Kyi Pya. But we (the young
generation) have grown closer. We’re
more open-minded. We like sharing.
Everyone has a different knowledge.
By talking, we enrich each other.”
“In 2002, there were a handful of
Burmese artists who were making
money and exhibited their work
abroad. Now, you have two or three
handfuls. Art collectors start looking at
Burma, and local artists have learned
how to get in contact with agents and
infiltrate art symposiums. More and
more artists find opportunities to go
and work abroad. From an island cut
from the outside world, Burma has
become a peninsula.
Burma’s relative isolation is both an
advantage and an inconvenient, I
think. On one hand, Burmese artists
know little about the latest art trends,
but on the other, it has allowed them
to remain very pure. They find their
inspiration in what’s around them,
in their tradition and this Buddhist
religion that they’re so proud of. For
many Burmese artists, creating is a
true act of devotion.”
A NEW GENERATION
Burmese artists owe part of their
success to a growing sense of
solidarity. Many have realized that
– in a country where art is at best
difficult and at worst life-threatening –
unity is strength. Some art collectives
have surfaced, some quite ambitious,
like the New Zero project, a gallery
owned and run by a group of 30 artists
Kin Zaw Latt, painter
This young generation is far
more aware of the possibilities that
Internet opens for artistic creation and
promotion. Listening to Latt Zaw Nay,
a young 24 year old prodigy that sells
paintings for $5,000 a piece, one can’t
help to feel that the days of Burma’s
isolation are counted:
“In art school, we merely
focused on copying the work of great
masters. Then internet arrived…On the
web, I was able to analyze the work of
foreign artists and realized that there
were many more styles than I could
dream of. I used that to develop my
inspiration and create my own style.
Internet has also changes the way
people perceive art in Burma. Before,
people were only able to admire a
painting passively. But now, they ask,
they engage, they try to determine
what’s new about this or that. It’s a
very positive evolution. You see less
and less realist art and more and more
conceptual art out there.”