“The sheen of gold is only as prominent as the intensity of light which reflects off of it. With no light, gold is no better than any other material which bears the same texture; its wonder and respect are lost, and it is worth nothing more than tin. Such a philosophy can be relocated to people. One’s inherent value cannot be judged when they accomplish nothing but planting rice for their entire lifetime, as their skills, talents, abilities; none can be visualized if they never presented them to their community. This is why we are gathered here today; we come together to identify our singularity while identifying how we can benefit our group as a whole.”

Many crowded together in the small interior that was the pagoda-adjacent local community center, school desks were moved aside to properly fit every villager on the floor while the few monks and other educated lecturers stood near the large decorated wall which settled firmly across from the double-door entrance of the terraced semi-circular building. Gold trim covered everything which would not be sat or laid on, and several dozen meticulously-carved gold-painted sculptures sat gracefully on whatever surface they could be nailed to. On the large wall was painted an equally-as-large mural of an explanation of the Eightfold Path, with a massive Dharmachakra consisting most of the piece. The setting sun reflected on every conceivable metal edifice of the building through the large windows which protruded east and west, prohibiting most villagers from actually seeing who was lecturing them, though the words did more good than the visualizations. Pyay Myo Sein fondled a small golden orb in the palm of his right hand while he paced the length of the concave stage, his tidy western uniform of suit and tie clashing with that of the monks who stood silently behind him as if they were part of the mural. Pyay was a man who differed from his people; he engaged the world instead of isolating himself from it; he was as pious as a monk but held an ideology that was far more complicated than that of the Laymen’s Association. He was an ideologue who traveled through his home “country” (if the region of Min could even be considered such) and preached the good word of socialism, be it in its infancy in Burma. He was convinced that the idea was simple; that it had been accomplished in the east and the same could be done here despite the more conservative tone of the area. He had been doing this for years now and had hardly succeeded on any level, but better to die standing than live kneeling, he supposed. He continued to patrol past the aged monks and addressed the seemingly-fatigued audience for several more minutes before he ran out of theory to cascade off of them. No questions were asked as the citizenry filed out of the elegantly-decorated meeting hall, and eventually, Pyay was left with just the monks on the now-darkened unlit stage. He turned to them after seeing the last occupant flee and inquired cautiously while loosening his tie:

“Is what I say true, in your opinions? Do you think our idea could save us?”

The monks stood stoically for a while until one stepped forward a few dozen millimeters and responded sagely:

“The system of things is balanced and operational; roads are being built, and children are being fed. While your ideas may invigorate the mind and spirit, they are ultimately rooted in the world of the material, and therefore cannot find a basis within our way of life. Perhaps one day we can live in a world where every man is equal, in which case our role in providing such services to those in need would be largely defunct, and our order would exist purely in the spiritual realm of society, but until then, we will do what we can for the community, and we hope you will do whatever you can as well.”

Pyay thanked the small congregation of robed men and walked up the terrace to the entrance and exit of the building, letting out a long sigh after arriving in the warm, dry air of the Hanzar grasslands. This had happened many times before and would happen many times again for as long as Pyay preached his personal scripture, and he would receive very little praise for doing so, as Min was so deep-rooted in its adamancy towards non-ideology that it was viewed as a hellscape for those who wanted to spread a certain idea or practice that didn’t directly align towards that of of the Four Noble Truths or the Eightfold Path, at least not in the southern grasslands of the capital regions, but Pyay didn’t wish to travel northwards any time soon, as his interest in high latitude peaked when summiting Mount Popa in primary school. He continued on his way down the dark road to the inn where he would stay the night, hoping that perhaps one day his vision of a Burmese nation would be realized. Until then, he would do whatever he could do for his community and people.

[Infra and Welfare]