I woke up to a commotion. As if stirred up from a nightmare, I could not make out the hollering coming from the street. I stepped out of the bedroom. Through the window, I saw a group of teenagers walk past my house, talking noisily. I sensed some sort of excitement in their voices. Then I looked around the house. As if in a daze and still half asleep, I realized that my younger brother did not return home last night. The living room was empty and I saw his mat and blanket folded neatly under the Buddhist alter.

The previous evening, I saw him leave the house, wearing the white duty coat that I wore to the language lab in the Department of English at the university. He said he was going to buy onion from a grocery nearby. He did not return.

It was at about the same time that he had left the house I heard chants, in unison, from the direction of Rangoon-North Okklapa Highway. How had I forgotten that yesterday was August 8, 1988 – the day the students had
called for a nation-wide general strike.

By about 8 o’clock in the morning, I finished my breakfast of Moke Hinkha (noodle with fish soup) and tea at the teashop near the highway. By this
time, small groups of people were already heading towards the highway.

As I left the teashop, I heard someone shout. But it quickly fell silent as all eyes turned towards the highway in some sort of anticipation. Mine followed them and saw a red-pick-up truck speeding towards North-Okklapa city. There were three or four people crouching around in the back of the open truck. “Someone has been shot!” exclaimed the waiter. “Several students were gunned down this morning at Tadalay Junction,” said a customer.

I felt some sort of exhilaration fill me. Things were happening after all. Despite the inevitable, I had not been prepared. In fact, I was like most Burmese were: totally unprepared for what would unravel that day.

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