Midland Summer (A Nyar Nway)

Me, posing with Bo Bo's guitar in Burma in November 2012.

My friend Bo Bo, who spent 20 years behind bars in Burma as a political prisoner, hugged a steel-string guitar. The well-worn instrument was decorated in one corner with a fighting peacock, the emblem of Aung San Suu Kyi's NLD party. Behind him stood a portrait of Suu Kyi, the Lady herself, in an uncompromising shade of red. The simple brush strokes emphasized her determined jawline. A strand of flowers dangled from her hair.

Through the open window shutters, Rangoon's stifling afternoon heat seeped into Bo Bo's ground-floor living room. So did the chatters of housewives haggling over prices with flower sellers and fishmongers, from an open-air market just a few yards away. As I sipped black coffee and sweated out the remnants of a food-poisoning bout, Bo Bo belted out "A Nyar Nway (Midland Summer)," a song by Sai Htee Saing.

Weary leaves are falling in summer breezes,
Wish my days and hours keep dropping off, just like them;
Then I might find quick relief from this longing,
From being away from you.

Oh oh oh ...
Midland summers are long,
Midland summers are too much,
Now that you're not here to help me forget Time.

The little bird on a branch
Could sing to himself on lonely days;
But my human heart
Finds no solace in a song.

Oh oh oh ...
Midland summers are long,
Midland summers are too much,
Now that you're not here to help me forget Time.

I have nowhere to perch,
No refuge for my fiery soul;
The cool shade of a fig tree
Is no match for your heart's shelter.

Oh oh oh ...
Midland summers are long,
Midland summers are too much,
Now that you're not here to help me forget Time.

(You can watch a recording of the original Burmese version by Sai Htee Saing in this YouTube clip.)

During my previous visit to Burma in 1999, I tried to locate Bo Bo, to see if I could visit him in captivity, but to no avail. The country was then still in the grip of a hardline military regime. Even though I once called Burma home, I was now a foreigner with an American passport. Nobody wanted to talk to me about politic, least of all about a political prisoner. The Orwellian atmosphere bred anxiety everywhere. One didn't even have to be a political activist to go to jail. Being associated with an activist or talking about him would have been a sufficient offense. But Hillary Clinton changed that.

Bo Bo was released soon after Clinton's high-profile visit to Burma and her meeting with both Suu Kyi and President Thein Sein, the head of Burma's reformist government. For many Burmese political prisoners like Bo Bo, freedom is both a curse and a blessing. They had spent the better part of their youth in grassroots campaigns to topple a ruthless authoritarian government. They formed underground organizations; they went to public rallies; and they openly defied riffle-clad security forces. Their lives were consumed by anti-government activities.

All of a sudden, Burma decided to open up in 2011. Clinton's visit marked the beginning of a hopeful era. With reform came freedom to many dissidents, once languishing in Burma's prisons for years. But the public scourge that once gave them a purpose to fight was gone. They were now rebels without a cause. Many found difficulty redirecting their angry rhetoric and energy to the more constructive social activism.

Bo Bo was one of the few who successfully made the transition. He now runs an art gallery, devoted to showcasing former political prisoners' works. And he's joined the Rangoon-based Former Political Prisoners Group (FPPs). The afternoon I visited him, Bo Bo put down his guitar between songs to take calls from other FPPs members, to coordinate regular visits to family members of the remaining prisoners.

While Bo Bo was living out his 20-year prison term (6 of them in solitary confinement), I had been living in relative comfort in San Francisco, after immigrating to the U.S. in 1989. In the terminal months Bo Bo was confined to an overcrowded prison cell, I was stumbling through bookstores in Berkley, cafes in North Beach, and China Town's maze to find my way in a new country. Over time, I managed to carve out a simple existence as a writer and editor. I became a tech blogger, with a reputation that translated to regular assignments.

As I listened to Bo Bo's rendition of A Nyar Nway, I began to wonder: Had I been doing what I was supposed to be doing? Had I somehow wasted the many opportunities that came my way? Bo Bo and I led parallel lives during our college years. We both attended Rangoon University as English major students. We both protested against our government. We swapped lecture notes from our Shakespeare class in U Chit teashop, under the shades of leafy banyan trees. The only difference is, by a twist of fate, he ended up in prison, and I ended up in America. Bo Bo hadn't done much in the last two decades because he had chosen to make a stand in silence against injustice. I had no such excuse for my shortage of accomplishment.

Bo Bo and I are now both in our forties. With every passing day, I feel my hours and days dropping like summer leaves. There's a deadline looming. Now more than ever, I feel the urge to reverse course, to do something meaningful before it's to late. Somehow the need to make a difference takes precedence over mere survival.

As I type, I'm cloistered in my San Francisco studio, cooled by the sea breezes from Ocean Beach. But I can feel the heat of midland summer in Burma, lighting a fire beneath my feet.

Postscript: The latest Facebook photo of Bo Bo shows him in his neighborhood's NLD branch office, looking defiant and at peace at the same time.

Slideshow of my Flickr photo album from Burma visit