Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau. Steve Tolbert

      Our cause, our cause.

      We demand a dialogue.

      Our cause, our cause.

      Free all political prisoners.

      Our cause, our cause. …’

      Onlookers jammed the footpath, were up in trees, hung out of windows or perched on the rooftops. Some took up the chant or of­­fered umbrellas, snacks and bottles of water to the older monks and nuns.

      The rain eased.

      The protestors passed and kept on passing, far too many to examine closely. But still Mya searched for Thant, glancing around occasionally for the well-fed faces of MI agents with their biros, notepads and camcorders, fearful she’d be recorded and later taken away, interrogated, jailed.

      By the time the last protesters straggled by, she’d grown frantic. She dashed across the road and caught up with the march just as it slowed and stopped.

      Monks squatted on their haunches, pressed their palms together and began to pray in deep, murmuring chants, their wet heads and student-held umbrellas dripping little rivulets, the potholes filling with rain.

      Finally she spotted Thant next to a girl with long braided hair. They were wrapping the feet of an old nun. Mya recognised the girl. Thant had introduced them the previous day at the market and talked to the girl the entire time they toured the food stalls. She was the friend Thant had mentioned earlier. He hadn’t lied after all.

      With the marchers sitting or kneeling down, Mya now had a clear view of the intersection clogged with barbed-wire barricades, dark-green cage trucks, an armoured truck with a water cannon mounted on top, and rows of policemen in helmets and gas masks. Those in the first two rows held riot shields and truncheons. The others gripped rifles across their chests.

      A megaphone blared, the words loud one moment, static-filled the next. ‘Residents of Yangon, gatherings of more than five people are prohibited. Disband now or you will be arrested.’ As if giving force to the words, thunder rumbled, lightning snapped in an arc over the city.

      Many protestors lit candles, their faces luminous in the candle flames, while others joined in chanting prayers.

      Dread filled Mya’s chest, took hold. A year earlier her father had chanted prayers here too.

      A monk in the front row stood up, turned and shouted, ‘If you’re not afraid to die then come to the front!’

      Dozens got to their feet, made their way up and locked arms to form a human chain.

      Mya moved quickly. ‘This place is going to turn into a battleground,’ she called out as she neared her brother, still with the girl and the nun. ‘Come with me, Thant – now, please!’

      Three sets of eyes met hers. The girl’s broke contact first, then Thant’s. But as Mya stood over her, the old nun continued to gaze up at Mya, her eyes milky with cataracts. ‘Is he your brother?’ she asked in a croaky voice.

      Mya’s shouting had turned heads. ‘He is, but there are times I wish I didn’t know him, like now!’

      ‘I should tell you, dear,’ the old nun said, slipping flip-flops on her bandaged feet, ‘I could not have got this far without your brother’s help.’

      The praying ended.

      A hush fell over the road.

      The old nun found her walking stick and, with Thant’s help, rose to her feet and took a few practice steps.

      The other marchers rose too. Banners and flags went back up. Prompted by the front row monk, the chanting resumed:

      ‘May all living beings

      Be free, be free.

      May all living beings

      Be free from harm.

      May all living beings

      Be free from poverty. …’

      The megaphone blared, that same threatening voice having to scream to be heard, ‘Disband now!’

      A voice at the front shouted back, ‘No! You disband! It’s time for the people to stop being afraid!’

      The crowd surged forward, pushing the four of them along.

      ‘May all living beings

      Be free, be free …’

      The armoured truck shot forward, its water cannon sweeping back and forth, shooting out torrents of water, knocking protestors off their feet.

      Tear gas canisters lobbed into the air, landed and skidded along the ground, turning the air ghostly white.

      Policemen attacked, wielding truncheons, kicking, grabbing and dragging screaming protestors toward the cage trucks.

      Gunshots smacked the air. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

      ‘This way!’ Thant’s friend shouted, fleeing.

       Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

      Thant reached out for the old nun. Pop-pop-pop-pop. He staggered, blood spurting. He opened his mouth as if to scream, grabbed his neck and collapsed.

      ‘Thant?’ For seconds a sick silence, before a cry rose from Mya’s throat. ‘Thant!’ She dropped to her knees, lifted his head into her arms. ‘Look at me, look at me, please!’ He did, twitching and gurgling, his eyes going from shock to acceptance to glassy stillness. ‘NO!’ She wrapped herself around him, feeling her heart pounding, willing it to be Thant’s.

      Two, five, ten minutes maybe, before Mya let go and leaned back; this the first time she had looked at death. She could never have ima­gined him so still. Never.

      A strap hung loose from over her shoulder. How was it she was still carrying her school bag?

      She raised her eyes to the fighting swirling in and out of focus through the gauzy, eye-stinging air.

      A man ran past screaming. Others followed: the slap of flip-flops, sandals.

      Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. A monk in front of Mya, the old nun by his side, toppled to the ground, blood spreading through their robes. Before she could go to them, a voice cried out. A construction worker collapsed at her feet, a policeman beating him with a truncheon. In seconds blood streamed from the worker’s nose, down his lips and chin.

      Still on her knees, blood pooling around Mya like the road itself was bleeding, she stretched forward, put her weight on her hands and vomited.

      And still the policeman beat the worker.

       Pop-pop-pop-pop.

      Mya thought: If by chance you survive, remember all this. Remember every detail.

      She took off her bag, rage filling every cell of her body, turning her into someone beyond her control. She stood, curling her hands into fists.

      Just metres away lay a stack of bricks. Mya collected one and returned, preparing to die. But first, how hard was it to crush a policeman’s skull? She gripped the brick with both hands. ‘This is for Thant!’ she screamed, belting the policeman below the ear. His head snapped sideways. He fell onto the worker, his helmet, truncheon and shield hitting the ground, his gas mask askew. He looked up, stunned and groggy.

      ‘And this is for the monk and old nun!’ Mya hit him square across the face, his spittle and blood spattering.

      He tried to crawl away, tried to get up, but she hit him again and again before someone with thick arms lifted Mya from behind, knocked the brick from her hands and carried her towards a gap between two buildings, her toes dragging along the ground.

      Their pace slowed; her abductor was breathing hard. Mya saw Thant’s friend with the long braided hair and two men lying sprawled across the gap, their backs bleeding