“When the music is out of time, the rhythm is destroyed. When the timing isn’t right, the flavor of the curry is destroyed. In politics, when the timing is wrong, the image of the whole country is destroyed. The timing in politics is to do the right thing at the right time.”

 My friend Win Maw, a musician and video journalist, said this to his daughter Khin Suu Kyi. On January 5th she quoted him in an open letter to Thein Sein, the president of Burma, asking for his release from prison.

In 1981 Win Maw entered the music industry as the lead guitar player and band leader of Shwe Thansin (Golden Melody). When Golden Melody was banned from the airwaves he became the leader of the band A-Lin-Kar. On November 18, 1996, during a touristic campaign that the government called “Visit Myanmar Year,” Win Maw was arrested by the military government. He was sentenced to six years in prison for writing songs in support of Burma’s pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi.

Khet Mar (translated from the Burmese by Ko Ko Thett)

Below is the author’s personal account of a student book club in Rangoon, where she taught student union leaders who would later be imprisoned for their political views. Her account also details their January 13 release from prison under a general amnesty and a reunion with of some of the club’s members via telephone.

This past January 12 put me on edge. My restlessness had nothing to do with my birthday, or its falling on Friday the 13th. Instead it had everything to do with the fate of my friends in Burma. That evening the Burmese diaspora had been stirred up by some news: Thein Sein’s government had just declared an amnesty regarding the release of 651 prisoners under the Criminal Procedure Act, effective January 13. It was the new Burmese government’s fourth large-scale clemency in eight months.
As Rangoon is twelve hours ahead of Pittsburgh, I decided to wait for the unbolting of Burma’s prison doors at my desk, starting at 7 p.m. It was a tense wait. How many prisoners of conscience would be released this time? Who would they be? Burmese social networking pages were awash with predictions and rumors. Our status messages reflected the mood of the day. The little green lights on my address book said the whole Burmese community I know in the West was online and sleepless that night—like myself.

( 'ပုန္းလ်ိဴးေနေသာ၀ိညာဥ္မ်ား' အက္ေဆးေလးရဲ႕ အဂၤလိပ္ဗားရွင္းပါ။   HIMAL SOUTHASIAN magazine မွာပံုႏွိပ္ေဖာ္ျပေတာ့ ေခါင္းစဥ္ကိုေျပာင္းလိုက္တာပါ။ )

The spring had with it warmth and happiness. Basking in its radiant sunlight, the earth could finally forget the melancholy of winter landscapes, with their dull-white snow and dried branches. The blacks and whites of winter had finally brightened into full-blown colour: the sky a tranquil blue, the earth covered with green grass.
Flower buds of so many hues peeped out from amidst the limbs and twigs. These delicate buds, bursting forth from dried bark, had been forced to endure dreadful chills. But nonetheless they had always continued to prepare for the passing of the awful winter chill.
Now, the snows could no longer remain stubborn in the face of the warmth that had arrived. So the ice thawed and the water soaked into the earth, to be swallowed up by roots and refresh the plants.
The spring knows no favourites. It even visited my garden, nudging the plants there to blossom. But in nature everything is constantly changing, and the flowers in my garden are no exception. Eventually the petals withered again; the remaining buds, pecked by birds.
One day autumn came, and with it the sense that the time of the flowers was over. The chill winds once again stripped the leaves of the plants and the trees with their invisible hands. And before long, the snowflakes and frosts set out again to kill the flowers.
The blossoms were helpless as always, and fell easily to the ground. But they never failed to store their remaining energies inside the bony branches that would continue to struggle numbly against the brutal cold. And on the day those branches met with the radiant sunrays once again, the strength stored there would trigger off another round of blossoming. Though the brutal winter could kill the flowers, it could do nothing against this inner strength – the souls that lay hidden deep inside the bones of the branches.
Each of us needs to struggle against the winter chill and prepare for the coming spring. We must raise new plants to replace the damaged ones. And if we do not rise to the occasion, if we feel helpless, we will be the ones who feel the loss of the flowers when they fail to bloom.
Because we are afraid of the winter, we feel helpless when the cold winds blow. But if we succumb to that feeling, we do not give ourselves the chance to welcome the spring. Of course, spring cannot be brought on by prayers alone. But as long as we are able to store our strength, our souls, in our bodies during the difficult seasons, our spring will no doubt bring with it a bounty of flowers to our garden.

Translated from the Burmese by Tazar
~ Khet Mar is a journalist, poet and author born in Burma.
 HIMAL SOUTHASIAN magazine
December 2011

 Pittsburgh Snow Brings Childhood Memories

                                                          Photos by Than Htay Maung


As it was too cold to settle into the night’s sleep, I reminisced about a poem by the celebrated poet, Kyi Aye about a girl who could not sleep. And I looked out of the window. Here and there was snow, and snow, and snow. Everything, all white with snow. The black-and-white landscape of the night made me feel more lonesome. And I retired to bed, my mind wandering through all places that I have known.
The sound—I heard it soon as my back touched the bedding—the sound of water flowing. It could not be rain; I had just looked out the window. And there was nothing in the bedroom to spill and flow. Considering all this, I could only make one conclusion: it came from inside of me!
The sound was not like the sounds from a pleasant creek, nor was it harsh like those from the angry sea. It was not as forceful as those from a waterfall, either.  Just rhythmic with sporadic rapidity as when a stream passes an eddy. Sometimes it hissed as if it passed over an obstacle.
Suddenly, I realized that it was the sound of the creek in the little village where I grew up. Then, I began to forget the discomforts of a sleepless night.
The current is a little high as the inlet departs from the sea. The impact from the sea makes the creek agitated. The creek, as if it were girl, will not be pleased with the intrusion of the outside current that crashes in without entreaty. Yet, the girl-creek has to give in. With rushing currents the girl-creek responds with harsh stamping. The foreign water flows in. Though it might have been resistant, the little creek begins to wear a smile. She knows that the handsome incoming water brings in good things for the people. The sweet-talking stranger makes enticing rhythms in the sound of waves.  And the girl-creek melts.  It is for the good of her friends, the people.




The incoming currents flow in some twigs, even some trunks of fallen trees. They are valued by villagers for making fire.  Men and women alike come in boats to fetch the floating wood. It usually is a happy occasion. They come in groups: families, youngsters, a mother and her son, or a father with his daughter, or even some in boats large enough to collect a handsome amount. The collected wood is good for the whole year for a family and even earns some surplus for sale.
There is another gift that the creek brings in. It is very attractive to children. Its shape is round and it is dark brown in color. It is the offspring of a certain mysterious tree, the shape or color of which is unknown to the villagers.  Nor do they know the region where is grows.  However, they make a wonderful missile ["doe" in Burmese] for children in their game of pitch.  Children fetch such fruits, called “gon-nyin,” fervently whether they are shrunken or sumptuous.  Then, they give their gathering to the elders.
The elders then crack the hard outer covering, mince the sharp-smelling seed inside it, and conserve it in sugar that is boiled to a thick consistency.  Though of baseless belief, it is said to do good for girls. Each of girl-visitor is given some “gon-nyin-yo,” the medicinal jam.  It is fondly shared among families with a number of women folks. Sometimes in summer, I would buy “gon-nyin-yo” from hawkers passing my house in the city.
I don’t know what good it does to girls, yet I eat it with yearning for the days past when children ardently collected them in boats.  In fact, whether it be medicinal or not, it does give us some refreshment of fond memories.  In that way it is a kind of medicine.




Together with twigs, wood, and “gon-nyin,” the currents of the rainy season bring chunks of crude oil. The crude oil can be seen from afar as it has an oily film floating around it on the surface of the water.
While boating for “gon-nyin,” we children take a break, tying our boat to a protruding tree branch on the river. Though our hands and bodies rest our eyes did not. Soon as we catch sight of something that could possibly be a chunk of crude oil, we call out that we were the ones who saw it first.
Because most of the inhabitants of our little village make their living in fishery, most of us own boats. We heat the oil chunks in an old pot when the rains come. We apply oil to the boats that brought the oil in.  Thus the boats become more durable and protected.  Some use the oil for their houses as well.
Houses with oil-coated wooden walls can stand strong weathering, the oil we feed to the walls prevents them from rotting in the rain. Because it is so important to protect the walls we feed them more oil and whatever is leftover is used to polish the floor.
We use rags in applying oil to the floor.  We soak one end of the rag with oil and cover it with the end that does not have oil. Then we rub it against the floor, over and over again until the floor becomes bright and shiny. Lying on the polished floor, we had wonderful time listening to stories told by Grandma. It was so delightful that I find myself unable to compare it to any other time in my life. Grandma tells stories until she had no more stories she could think of.  So we play telling Grandma’s stories to each other.
We children sometimes put characters of stories in wrong places.  The half-bird, half-human mythical heroine of the much-loved romance, “Dwe-me-naw“  became the legendary lady who bore many sons and daughters, “Shin-mway-lun.”  Mr. Tiger went with Mr. Rabbit into the forest to fetch thatching that happened to be on the grounds where Mr. Rabbit (another Mr. Rabbit) competed running with Mr. Tortoise in our re-told tales.  Our beloved Grandma, who fell asleep while telling stories, woke up and chuckled at our absurdity.  She corrected our mis-tellings.
Lying on the cool floor, I gaze at the moon hanging in the fork of the palm tree, and say: “How beautiful is the Moon, Grandma!” I say it on each and every night the moon is full.  And each time, Grandma raises her head abruptly and says: “Oh! It sure is.”
Young and callow as I was, I can only now appreciate the value: the values of the cool floor I loved lying on, the boating trip to collect the raw oil chunks that were heated and applied on the floor, the stories Grandma told, the beautiful odor of scented wood from Grandma, and the moon that Grandma raised her head to.
These romantic attributes of life are the underlying qualities that put us where we are today.
Now in Pittsburgh, I lie down on a spring mattress and I glimpse the snowy landscape from the nearby window.  I can feel tenderness and warmth when my feet touch the carpeted floor.  And the room is scented electronically with the smell of a certain flower I know well.



However….
Underneath is not the oil-polished floor that I used to love.
Nor is the Moon resting at the fork of the palm tree branches.
And no bedtime stories from Grandma.
None of the lovely aroma of “karamek” the scented wood Grandma used for cosmetics.
And…
No more was the “sound and blissful” sleep that I used to know…
…but had not learned to value…
…until now.

Translated by Tharr Tett Toe                                                                                 www.sampsoniaway.org

I was sitting on the sofa one Sunday morning when the phone rang. I didn’t want to get up. I just wanted to do nothing. I finally grabbed the phone, and it was Ko Kyaw Shwe, a friend also lives in Pittsburgh.“I’ve been so busy with my work and personal problems, that this is the first chance I’ve had to call,” he said.
His voice was indeed tired. I asked him whether he was sick; “Unhappy,” he said. “I had sent a video camera to Burma with a trustworthy person. My younger brother took the camera and shot video at a relative’s ahlu (a ceremony to collect offerings for monks). He was arrested because he didn’t have license to take video. Now he is in detention center!”
Oh my God! I thought. In Burma people even don’t have the freedom to take video at a relative’s ahlu? “Is the situation really that bad, Ko Kyaw Shwe?” My voice shook.
“I must tell you, it’s worse than that,” he voice was trembling, too. “My village in upper Burma has 70 or 80 houses. We typically plant bean and sesame, and after the harvest, we have ahlu. My small village used to busy the whole year. But now, the village is a ghost town. The farms have been seized; land owners are landless. My other younger brother is included in those who have had their land confiscated.
“As you know up-country is so hot you can’t farm after 10 a.m. People get up early and go to farm as early as 3 or 4 a.m. Before the sun becomes a torch at 9 or 10 a.m., the farmers come back home. At about 5 in the evening, when the heat relents, they go back and farm for another four or five hours, then call it a day…That’s how our lives have been forever.
“But these days, army units have been posted at villages. The Union Solidarity and Development Association’s Swan Arrshins (who are backed by the military government) harrass the villagers. Now, women who go to the fields early or come home late are raped. Rebellious men who respond back are reported or waylaid. The villagers don’t dare go to the fields. The village has become as a cemetery.”
I murmured “Oh God!” throughout the whole phone conversation. What was happening in Burma? People used to help others, and make friends so easily. The villages used to reverberate with the rhymes of saing (Burmese orchestra) and drums. Burmese used to say that blood is thicker than water, but now they are bullying each other, filing complaints against each other, becoming informants and sending their fellow villagers to jail.
Most Burmese are poor and uneducated. They don’t realize that the government is playing “divide and conquer.” In this situation, people are oppressed by government-created loathing and suspicion. If people are fighting among one another, they have no time to consider the issues facing the nation as a whole.
The inability to associate freely prevents people from looking at the real situation and agreeing on a response. People are adrift in a sea of trouble.
As I learn more about what’s happening in Burma, I yearn to change life for the people there, and end my pleasant, lazy Sundays here in Pittsburgh.

Translated by San San Tin

The Trouble with Weeds

I had been gazing at my new American backyard, longing to be able to garden as I used to in Burma. My neighbor, Henry, brought me a rose bush that another neighbor gave me because she heard I was interested in gardening. Henry runs City of Asylum/Pittsburgh, the organization where I am now the writer-in-residence.

A Change of Seasons


My very first trip to America was in 2007 to participate in the International Writing Program held at the University of Iowa.  Here I am, again, in America for the second time. I arrived the second week of March 2009 as a writer in residency at City of Asylum/ Pittsburgh. On this trip, I was allowed to bring my family with me, including my artist husband and two sons.
The plane ride from Rangoon to Pittsburgh, with layovers at various airports, took almost forty hours. When we left Burma, the March heat was in full might. When we eventually reached the Pittsburgh airport, the lingering winter suddenly drilled in our veins. We, the children of a hot land, trembled from the unfathomable cold. My two sons suffered severe allergic reactions causing them to bleed from their noses and through their mouths.
About two weeks later, the cold noticeably waned and everything—including my sons—began to act better, feel better and look better. The beauty of spring warmly welcomed us with an amiable display. The naked branches of the trees started to bear fledging leaves. Other trees were exclusively covered with tiny buds. About ten days later, the buds blossomed, choking the trees with beautiful flowers.


Spring in Pittsburgh—it was an unforeseen wonder to my eyes.


                                                                          Photo by Wathan                           
The Root of Everlasting Happiness

  She washed out her brush and regarded her painting critically: definitely a lot of blues. Bluegray monsoon clouds over the rippling waters of a river; on the far bank, dark green mountain ranges; a blur of red sky just at the top right edge. That last ray of fading sun fell on the lone boatman rowing against the current, the muscles of his arms standing out in relief in the light. A gloomy and dark painting overall, but she had wanted exactly that. It might storm, it might rain, and one might have to row against the current, but then, all one needs is the strength to row.

She went to wash her hands at the sink, running her wet fingers through her hair, retying the handkerchief fastened around her hair.
"Aren't you done yet?"
The night watchman called from the door. In the silence of the late evening his voice boomed out. She gave a tired but contented smile.
"Yes, I'm just about done, I'll be out in a minute."
"Its past nine, already. I thought you didn't notice the time; the others have all locked up and gone, you're the only one left," he said.
She took up her things, gave a glance at her painting, and went out of the door, smiling 0at the old man.
"Good night!"
As soon as she was out of the building, the icy breeze refreshed her in an instant.
She breathed deeply. In the darkness she could see the lighted golden stupa of the Shwedagon Pagoda.

The Center is co-sponsoring an event this Sunday at San Francisco’s Asian Art Museum with Burmese writer Khet Mar. To give a little idea of what to expect, I did a short interview with Mar to hear a little about her writing and the political turmoil that underlies much of it.
Event Details
Date: Sunday, December 13th
Time: 2pm
Location: Asian Art Museum, 200 Larkin St.
Free with Museum admission

As a writer from Burma, you’ve had to confront a lot of the political turmoil that has occurred in that country. Do you feel like this political situation dominates your writing?

The political situation has dominated my writing since I started writing in 1989. As I grew up in rural area, I met and saw a lot of poor and uneducated people who have no voices. I want my readers know about that kind of person because people from different fields and different levels do not know about each other. 80% of Burma’s poor are living in rural areas. I think that the images of people who are living in a country is an image of that country. I want to act as a representative of these people. At least, I want to express the real situation to readers, although I cannot solve any problem myself. If we do not know about the real situation of ordinary people, we can not do something better for them. I believe that trying to express real situation or images of the era which a writer lives is an important duty for a writer.

In a write-up of a panel on the relationship between prison and writing that you participated in, it stated that you chose to write in allegories and to publish your work as a serial in order to evade scrutiny of government censors. Did that strategy work, in terms of avoiding government scrutiny of your writing?

That strategy works sometimes but not always. I’ve had to use many different methods to avoid censorship board. But no particular way will work forever to avoid government scrutiny.

What kind of an audience were you writing these pieces for? What do you feel their impact was?

Although I have written most about ordinary people, they can not read my writing, for many reasons. Some of them cannot read, or books and monthly magazines or journals cannot reach the places where they are living. And they might not be interested in reading or they might not have time to read, as they often have to struggle to survive. I am writing for my readers who can try to help those people. When I was teenager, that was the kind of literature I read–the kind that I am writing now. Literature taught me how to face these difficulties, how to respond to the challenges that I had. Reading is a good teacher for me. I want young people to consider how to develop their lives by reading, and then to find a way to help people better.

You’ve been a visiting fellow at the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, and you’re currently a writer-in-residence at the City of Asylum in Pittsburgh. When did you leave Burma? What kind of a change did this represent for you, entering into an environment where you didn’t have to worry about government scrutiny of your writing?

I was at the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa in 2009. I left Burma March, 2009 for second time. The most important change is I feel safe here, but I still have to think about government scrutiny of my writing as I want to print some of my writing in Burma.

Even while you’ve lived in other places, you’ve been very involved in Burma, particularly in the aftermath of Cyclone Nagis. How does this fit in with your writing? Can you keep the two separate?

I could say I can keep the two separate. While I was doing Nagis rescue works, I could not keep writing. It might be that I do not yet want to write about my experiences of Nagis rescue works, although I know many stories of victims, many scenes of effected areas. But it won’t be waste. Those experiences and feelings will be in my heart and in my mind forever. I can write about this when I have a strength to write.

You’ve worked in various forms–novel, short story, poem, journalism. Do you feel that any one more than the others gets at real-life experiences when you try to portray them in writing?


I always try to get at real experiences in all my writing, but I would say my short story writing gets more real-life experiences, when I try to portray these in writing. I have tried to write most of my short stories not only as a creative work but also as an informative work–but not every my short story. Sometimes, I just want to write very creative or very artistic as much as I could.

Posted on December 10, 2009 by Scott Esposito