Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau. Steve Tolbert

      Mya sat on stacked bags of cement, dazed, trembling, her school uniform – green skirt, white blouse – dripping blood and rain into a watercolour on the floor. Hair, then soapy stubble, followed. That it was her hair and stubble barely penetrated her mind. ‘Sule Pagoda?’ she asked finally.

      ‘Below it, yes. As an abbot I have keys to its locked doors.’

      She grew aware of his robe dripping, of a bitter taste in her mouth. ‘Is there water?’

      The abbot flicked the razor to clear it of stubble and put it down. He passed Mya a bottle of water. She drank, passed it back, and he continued shaving.

      ‘Monks are prohibited from touching women, and still you carried me here and … touch my skull … cut off my hair, shave my head.’

      ‘Under the circumstances the sangha1 will understand.’

      He finished, used a cloth to dab at shaving nicks, then started sweeping up.

      ‘Widows’ heads are shaved,’ Mya said, her own shaved head feeling as shrunken as the rest of her.

      ‘As a sign of having left family life behind, yes.’

      She pictured political prisoners – her father even – sitting on stools under this sort of low light. Shouting voices demanding answers. Fists, boots and belts lashing out, their bodies soon aching, as hers would be after she was discovered and taken away.

      Fast, hard footsteps came down the wooden stairs.

      Mya’s eyes shot to the door.

      A padlock scraped, clicked. The door burst open and in came a boy monk, his shoulder bag bulging. ‘Many police are on the streets,’ he said, acknowledging Mya with a nod before diverting his eyes to the abbot. ‘I got to Botataung District, though, and to the unit. No police were there.’ He stretched a hand Mya’s way. ‘But this girl’s mother was, and … she knew, she knew.’

      The abbot mumbled something before leaning the broom against the wall and eyeing Mya.

      ‘I gave her your message and package,’ the boy monk continued. ‘Then I went to the monastery and nunnery. No police at those places, yet.’ From his shoulder bag he took out a mobile phone, a camera, a brown umbrella, two books, a wash cloth, a pink robe, an orange under-dress, a brown sash, a sling shoulder bag, a pair of sandals and a small roll of money, and placed them on a shelf next to Mya. He grabbed a bucket and took off again, closing and locking the door.

      Once the staircase went quiet again, Mya reached up, touched her shorn head then moved a hand over the clothes. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked, though she’d worked out at least part of the answer: this was the garb of a novice nun.

      The abbot sat on a stool. ‘You’ll need to stay here a while.’

      ‘And if I go home?’

      ‘You will be arrested.’

      ‘Along with my mother?’

      ‘Standard government policy: punish the womb that gave birth to the protestor. It’s not just the single person who can go to prison, but the person’s entire family.’ He kept his eyes on her. ‘Your mother is Karen,2 I believe.’

      ‘Partly.’

      ‘As you heard, she’s been contacted. She knows what’s happened, as everyone in Yangon must know by now. She knows you’re in hiding. She knows once your brother’s body has been identified it will be cremated, along with the others killed, and their relatives will be arrested. So she is leaving Yangon now in disguise and getting as far away as possible.’

      ‘How far away?’

      ‘If you know the answer to that and you are caught, resistance will be ripped out of you and you will tell the interrogators everything they want to know.’

      ‘I read once about a group in Sri Lanka called the Tamil Tigers. When they were at war against the government, each one of them wore an amulet around their neck containing cyanide tablets. When they were about to be captured, they swallowed the tablets. Every market in Yangon sells rat poison.’ Her eyes lingered on his. ‘So where do I go to find her?’

      ‘Have you been to Karen State?’

      ‘No, but I have an uncle there. And I’ve heard stories about it. I know that Karen people consider Karen State their homeland and that their bloodthirsty army are fighting the country’s military there. I’ve read about Karen cannibals, about Karen with horns growing out of their skulls, about Karen who kill just to cut off and bury their victims’ heads under bridges for good luck.’

      ‘Stories the government features in its newspapers, its agents spread in the market places, its generals tell their soldiers. But the Karen people are no more monsters than you or I. If you go into Karen State, yes, you’ll be amongst the government’s bitterest enemies. But you understand that already.’

      Mya gazed at the floor, an ache gripping her throat. She took a deep breath, clenched her teeth and told herself if she did not move she would not cry. Her mouth tightened and she burst out in loud hiccupping sobs, like a three-year-old. ‘I start the day with my mother and I end up … here with no family at all; this storeroom, or a prison cell, or … or escape to a war zone my only options in life.’ She bent over, covered her face with her hands. ‘I hate Myanmar, its pig government, its police and soldiers who torture and kill people who want to make the country a better place. If I had a gun I’d go out on the street right now and willingly spend my next ten lives in the darkest pit of hell for the chance to shoot every policeman I saw. I’ve never felt so much hatred – and when I leave here, I’m supposed to be a nun?’

      ‘A novice nun.’

      ‘A novice nun then.’ She shook her head at the lunacy of the idea.

      ‘A novice nun who must learn quickly to control her emotions.’ The abbot paused, giving Mya time to settle down. ‘If MI discovers anyone mourning over the death of a protestor, that person will be arrested.’ He stood up to move the broom and dustpan to the corner then sat back down on the stool and watched her. ‘The fact is the protest march was recorded. Soon MI will be looking for you and everyone else involved in the violence, if they’re not already doing so. They’ll know your face. They’ll know your family. Disguised as a novice nun, you have some chance of getting into Karen State and joining your mother.’

      ‘Whereabouts in Karen State?’

      He shook his head. ‘This is what I suggest. You travel to Karen State as your mother has. Trusted people will contact you. You’ll know who they are when they use the words, “Myanmar is beautiful this time of year. Don’t you think so?” Don’t open yourself up to anyone else. Memorise whatever information you’re given. Don’t write anything down. Be accepting. Be patient. You can no more hurry life than hurry the phases of the moon.’

      He paused, a smile on his face, as if he were modelling it. ‘Try each day to smile. It is good medicine. Learn to avert your eyes, to make a mask of your face, to disappear into yourself. Feel yourself grow invisible in your stillness. Remember, as a novice nun you’re learning to live more in the spiritual world than the temporal one, so it is expected you’ll use words sparingly, or not at all, and that you’ll simply nod to acknowledge things said to you.’

      He pinched his right ear. ‘And remember, walls have these.’ He pointed to his eyes. ‘And trees have these. So don’t linger next to them … Of course, there is a chance you’ll be caught. So getting there will depend on good fortune and how convincing you are as a novice nun.’

      He pointed to one of the two books among the pile of clothes. ‘A condensed version of the Buddha’s teachings: the Tripitaka. Try to read some of it. It will help you. The money is from your mother and the monastery.’

      ‘You could be in great danger by helping me.’

      ‘The