Temple Whispers

Temple Whispers

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By WITHAYA HUANOK Monday, September 8, 2008

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RANGOON — “Come to my monastery before you go back home,” whispered U Ottama,* a young monk in his 30s, as I left the Shwedagon Pagoda in Rangoon. He glanced about nervously as he handed me a scrap of paper, with the name and address of his monastery, written in Burmese.

The monastery was very difficult to find, located on the sprawling outskirts of Rangoon. The taxi, a 30-year-old jalopy, careened across railroad tracks and less-than-fragrant creeks, the driver occasionally slowing down to ask for directions or to slam shut the driver’s door, which had a propensity to fly open after encounters with severe potholes (not infrequent on Rangoon’s streets).

We eventually pulled up in front of a nondescript building, a little higher than its neighbors. A small flight of concrete stairs led to the entrance. A thin, old man, clad only in a faded longyi, was sweeping the front entrance. He looked up in momentary surprise at the taxi, then beamed in excitement, dropped his broom, and scurried inside, calling for U Ottama, who soon emerged from the entrance at the top of the stairs, a broad smile on his face.



“Thank you for coming!” he exclaimed, beckoning me inside.

The interior was as stark as the exterior. Old mats, the monks’ bedding, formed an irregular patchwork over the linoleum-covered floor. The walls were an off-pink beige, a color that accentuated stains accumulated with age.

At the end of the room, on a simple altar, sat an alabaster Buddha, complete with a multi-colored, flashing electric halo. No matter where one stood in the room, one could not escape the serene gaze of the image.

To the side, two older monks were seated cross-legged on the floor, eating from a small table, mixing rice with various dips and curries using their hands; clucking chickens patrolled expectantly for the occasional grains of rice slipping from between their fingers.

U Ottama beckoned me to a mat in the corner of the room. Books were strewn about or stacked in small piles around the mat.

“I’m trying to learn English; I have a tutor but also try to talk to tourists, to practice,” he said sheepishly.

He handed me two faded, tattered paperbacks he was currently reading: The Best of O Henry Short Stories and John Stuart Mill’s Utilitarianism. Nearby was a thick, hardcover tome, the Oxford English Dictionary.

“My friend, from Australia, gave me this one,” he said proudly, gesturing towards the dictionary. I flipped through the pages of the paperbacks; there was hardly a sentence without at least one word underlined, the margins nearby filled with notes in Burmese.

“It is more difficult to talk to tourists now,” he sighed. “It is dangerous to meet and talk, especially at Shwedagon. There are many spies, detectives. Before September and the Cyclone, we had 20 monks here. Now, there are only 10, many had to leave.

“The military came to the temple, to look for monks [who took part in the September demonstrations]. Many of my friends had to go back to their homes. Some went to jail or to the Thai border. Me too, even though I did not go to the protests. My family is from Arakan State, not from here. I did not go because I know there would be trouble; if I am arrested, there is no family here to help me.”

I pulled out a list of monasteries I had hoped to visit, showing it to the young monk. U Ottama’s brow furrowed when he saw the names, before shaking his head sadly.

“Maggin Monastery is now closed. The authorities arrested the 80 year-old abbot, and everyone was forced to leave. Ngway Kyar Yan Monastery is not too far, very big, but the authorities also closed it now. There are many military [soldiers] there; monks are not allowed to leave and no visitors are allowed. It is like a house arrest.
If you go, it is okay to take a look, but me, I cannot go. It is too dangerous.”

He paused for a moment before adding, “It is very sad. This is a Buddhist country. It is not communist, not China, Tibet.”

*U Ottama’s true name was changed by the author to protect the monk’s identity.

(BY IRRAWADDY)