Broadway in Burma
by Walter van Opzeeland, 19 March 2001
source :Radio Netherlands Wereldomroep
You can hardly miss them when you walk down the street: enormous colourful sheets of paper. Posters are used as advertisements, for film and theatre and as a means of protest. But behind many of these seemingly harmless pictures there is an untold story. Walter van Opzeeland tells the story behind one of the many posters that he has collected over the years. This week: Burma.
The chaos in the aftermath of the American presidential elections was a godsend for stand-up comedians. Everything and everybody was made fun of. But in Burma it doesn't quite work that way. For the past few decades Myanmar, as the country is now officially called, has been ruled by a military junta that is reminiscent of George Orwell's 1984.
Politicians never need to explain themselves, but comedians certainly do, especially when their jokes go too far. The Moustache Brothers perform their show every evening on the Broadway of Mandalay, Burma's second largest city. ‘ Political satire' the leaflet says. A-Nyeint, as stand-up comedy is called in Burma, is a mix of traditional dance, music, opera and comedy sketches.
Polite
Bicycle-rickshaws shuttle spectators along a bumpy track to the small theatre on 39th Street. Lu Maw, one of the Moustache Brothers, personally greets his audience with tea and a green Burmese cigar. It's characteristic of the country's hospitality. After the tea the audience watches a typical Burmese show. Lu Maw's wife performs her traditional dances, for which she has to twist her body into a series of seemingly impossible knots. These dances are hard to understand for a foreign audience. The expression on their faces is a strange mix of bewilderment and pleasure. After all, they are here to see other cultures, the more exotic the better. The dance-show is the warm-up for the real thing: comedy.
Risk
Artists put themselves at risk by doing stand-up comedy. Lu's brother, the other half of the Moustache Brothers, has been sentenced to seven years hard labour after speaking at a meeting of Aung San Suu Kyi's democratic movement. "In the old days we called thieves thieves, now we call them party members", he jokingly told the meeting. The junta didn't see the joke. The prison is several days away to the north of Mandalay. The brother is not allowed any visits there but he does receive the occasional food parcel from his wife. But even she is not allowed to go beyond the prison entrance, where she has to leave the parcel.
Painful
Lu now performs on his own, wearing the traditional Burmese comedian's headscarf tied with a knot on the side of his head. He tells jokes that would make even the unfunniest American stand-up comedian cringe. At the same time he also plays the role of his partner. The absence of his brother is painfully obvious: the show lacks edge. Lu Maw does his very best to make his audience laugh. But it's no good. His western audience is used to comedians who are free to say virtually anything. It makes me feel uneasy.
Censorship undermines all forms of entertainment. It is no different in the rest of Burma. Cinemas show harmless, Bollywood-type films.
Courage
Only after much insistence on my part does Lu give me an old poster picturing both brothers. I am taken up to the bedroom on the first floor. After locking the door Lu carefully folds the poster until it fits in an airmail envelope. " If they find this poster, please tell them you got it in Thailand" he says his voice full of fear. "Otherwise this could have very unpleasant consequences for my brother. But do show it to as many people as possible outside of Burma, so they know what is going on here."
I was suddenly struck by how difficult the circumstances are in which these artists have to work. Burmese comedy may not compare favourably to its American and European counterparts, but it does take a lot more courage in Burma for comedians ‘to stand up'.