The performer stood in front of an audience of 800, right before dawn on a recent Sunday. It was the tail end of his eight-hour extravaganza featuring pop, hip-hop and Burmese folk music. He was upbeat, relishing his recent return to the stage.
“Regardless of any difficulties you face, one day, summer will come,” U Than Zaw Htwe, 30, told his audience, many of whom were sitting cross-legged on a silver tarp in an open field on the outskirts of Yangon, Myanmar’s biggest city.
Life in Myanmar was upended five years ago, when the military seized power in a coup. Now the junta is trying to project a veneer of legitimacy and normalcy, even as it is fighting a grinding civil war with pro-democracy rebels and other groups. It has held elections, which have been widely derided as a sham. It has organized a massive hot-air balloon festival. And it has allowed some traditional music artists to return to the stage.
Mr. Than Zaw Htwe is one of them, leading a new 70-member troupe that was founded in October. He performs zat pwe (pronounced zat-PWAY), or “story show,” an opera-like art form that dates back to the 1800s. Today, it is a kaleidoscope of Burmese pop, synchronized dance, slapstick comedy and the retelling of legends.
His shows — which go from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. — are booked out until April. Known by his stage name San Yay Moe, his videos have flooded Burmese TikTok accounts.
“People are feeling mentally suffocated,” he said in an interview. “They need happiness.”
Another performer had a similar message for his audience at one of his recent shows. “Live in the present,” said U Chit Myo Htike, perhaps the most prominent zat pwe performer and whose stage name is Phoe Chit.
Many urbanites in the country are doing just that. In Yangon, nightclubs are heaving. Domestic tourism is booming in parts of the country where there is no fighting. Night bazaars are now held regularly. Many of these events are sanctioned by the junta, which controls the nation’s cities but not its hinterlands.
On a recent Sunday, I stood in line with hundreds of peopleto watch a performance. It was the last night of a three-day run in Hmawbi township, on Yangon’s outskirts. The tickets ranged from 30,000 kyats to 60,000 kyats, or about $14 to $28, which is relatively pricey, given that the average monthly wage is about $75. (I shelled out roughly $10 more for a chair.)
With temperatures dipping in to the low 60s Fahrenheit, many in the audience settled in with blankets and beanies.
“For three days a week, this is their happy hour,” U Aung Kyaw Tun, the founder of the San Yay Moe troupe, said in English. He said he once experimented with shorter shows that ended at midnight, but the audience was not satisfied and clamored to stay until the morning.
It was clear that San Yay Moe was the biggest draw.
“I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!” a woman behind me screamed in English toward the stage.
“I love you too!” San Yay Moe responded, also in English.
In keeping with tradition, audience members showed their appreciation by heading to the stage and pinning cash on the performers’ outfits. At one point, San Yay Moe had so much money pinned on his sleeves that the bills looked like feathers on wings.
Around midnight, I went backstage, where wages were being distributed. Mr. Aung Kyaw Tun said he made about 100 million kyats, or $25,000, for the three nights. San Yay Moe gets to take home the money that is given to him by fans, this time roughly 70 million kyats, or $17,500.
At 1.30 a.m., it was time for San Yan Moe to perform a medley of songs. He strode out in a purple suit with a strip of silver sequins running down his trousers and top. A group of backup dancers gyrated behind him.
Next up was one of his hypersonic costume changes. Off came his purple top and on came a white vest. The audience waved their hands in the air. Near the stage, a group of men moshed around.
At 3.30 a.m., the show moved into an adaptation of the Ramayana, the Hindu epic. By this time, I was fading; but not San Yay Moe, who was in character, writhing onstage.
Two weeks later, I returned to Yangon to see Phoe Chit perform. His show felt almost like a spiritual experience. The audience knew the words to all his songs, and took out handkerchiefs and cellphones to wave along to the music. One was a ballad titled “To A Friend,” in which the singer urges a jilted friend to move on.
Then, Phoe Chit moved to a play in multiple acts that touched on filial themes and had a climax in which the lead character was forced to marry his brother’s pregnant girlfriend.
Earlier this month, Phoe Chit, 43, was among a list of celebrities who received distinguished artist awards from Senior Gen. Min Aung Hlaing, the military commander who led the coup in 2021.
In 2022, Phoe Chit was detained for a brief period on suspicion that he was helping fund armed resistance to the junta, according to some reports.
Phoe Chit declined to comment but said that his troupe started performing last February after a hiatus of six years because he got the approval from the authorities.
At the night bazaars and the San Yay Moe show, many used the phrase “political situation” to refer to what their country was going through. I asked people whether they were happy.
“We want a new normal,” said Shoon Lae Po, 25, who runs a currency exchange service and was strolling around at a night bazaar, which sold snacks like “husband and wife” pastries, and offered “ceramic astrology,” palm-reading and Burmese pythons for stroking.
Her partner, Thiri Zaw Zaw, 23, chimed in. “It’s been five years, we cannot stay like this,” he said.
In Yangon, two residents told me that they had stopped going to the movies and traveling after the coup. They wept as they spoke of their guilt, thinking about friends who had gone into the jungles and taken up arms against the junta. But one of them said that she was planning a holiday trip for the sake of her mental health.
Thazin Oo, 26, a student, said people turned up to the shows to “relieve their stress” and because “there’s nothing to entertain us at the moment.”
“People are not happy anymore,” she said. But when I asked what stress she felt, her friend chimed: “Just say work stress!”
Soon, the sun was rising. A comedian intoned into the microphone: “Go home please, we want to sleep!” The audience chuckled.
It was past 6 a.m. A white strobe light turned on. It was the cue to leave. San Yay Moe walked around taking selfies. Others packed up their blankets and baskets and filed out of the field. Outside, trucks with workers huddled in their beds streamed past, ready to start a new day.
Sui-Lee Wee is the Southeast Asia bureau chief for The Times, overseeing coverage of 11 countries in the region.
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