From palace stages to exile: A Myanmar dancer who chose conscience over ceremony

For years, he stood beneath the bright lights of Myanmar’s grandest stages, dressed in a gilded costume and jewelled royal crown, performing before visiting presidents, prime ministers, and other foreign dignitaries. As a dancer with the Ministry of Culture, he represented the country’s artistic heritage at state ceremonies, performing traditional works that projected the elegance and sophistication of Myanmar’s centuries-old culture. Among the dances he cherished most was the Makoht Lay-Kauk-Yain, a refined court performance that evokes the grace, youthful vigour, and martial skill of Myanmar’s royal princes. Every time the orchestra struck its opening notes and he stepped onto the stage, he felt he was not just performing a dance, but preserving a piece of his country’s identity. Today, his audience is very different. Living in exile near Myanmar’s border, he teaches traditional dance to the children of migrant workers and performs without pay at fundraising events supporting the country’s pro-democracy movement. The ornate costumes are gone, replaced by modest rehearsal clothes. The grand theatres have given way to simpler, less impressive venues. Yet he says he has gained something more valuable than the prestige or stability that were once his: the freedom to create with a clear conscience. For security reasons, his name cannot be published. His journey reflects the choices faced by hundreds of thousands of Myanmar civil servants after the military overthrew the elected government on February 1, 2021. Doctors refused to return to hospitals, teachers left classrooms, railway workers walked off the job, and artists abandoned careers they had spent years building. Together they formed the Civil Disobedience Movement, or CDM, a nationwide campaign of non-cooperation that sought to deny legitimacy to military rule. For him, remaining in his government position quickly became impossible. “I couldn’t perform for people who seized power at gunpoint,” he says. “I couldn’t stand on a stage entertaining those who were oppressing the public.” Long before the coup, dance had shaped his life. Drawn to the performing arts from an early age, he enrolled at the National University of Arts and Culture in Yangon, where he studied dramatic arts before earning postgraduate qualifications. Joining the Ministry of Culture allowed him to turn that passion into a profession. For more than a decade he travelled the country and performed at national events, helping showcase Myanmar’s cultural traditions before local audiences and international guests alike. State Counsellor Aung San Suu Kyi, in yellow, praises employees of the Ministry of Religious Affairs and Culture who had performed at state-level cultural events (Photo: Supplied) Dramatic differences The Makoht Lay-Kauk-Yain remained the performance closest to his heart. Wearing the traditional makoht crown and a shimmering gold costume, the dancer embodies the confidence and refinement of Myanmar’s historical princes while demonstrating precise movements rooted in court tradition and martial discipline. It was one of the country’s signature performances at official state receptions, and he remembers the pride of presenting it to visitors from around the world. His repertoire also included dances representing Myanmar’s many ethnic communities, bringing together Kachin, Karen, Shan and other traditions in performances designed to celebrate the country’s cultural diversity. He viewed the work not as political theatre but as a way of preserving and sharing Myanmar’s artistic heritage. Working inside the government also allowed him to observe the dramatic differences between successive administrations. Under previous military regimes and the quasi-civilian administration led by former general Thein Sein, fear permeated the civil service. Ministers inspired anxiety rather than conversation, he recalls, and staff rarely dared to speak freely. “When a minister came into the office,” he says, “we hardly even dared move. We were always afraid of making a mistake.” That atmosphere changed after the National League for Democracy took office in 2016. He remembers relationships between senior officials and staff becoming noticeably warmer. Before or after state performances, national leaders would ask whether the performers had eaten or thank them for their work. Such gestures may have seemed ordinary, but after years of rigid hierarchy they carried real meaning. More importantly, he says, artists felt able to speak honestly. They could discuss performances openly and contribute ideas without the constant fear that had defined earlier administrations. For five years, he believed Myanmar was moving, however imperfectly, toward a more open future. The military coup ended that belief overnight. As soldiers arrested elected leaders and protesters filled the streets, he found himself confronting a question he could not ignore: could he continue performing at ceremonies that now celebrated a regime imposed by force? His answer came quickly. Without a moment’s hesitation, he joined the Civil Disobedience Movement, sacrificing the stable career he had spent years building. Suddenly, the glittering palace costumes disappeared from his life. So did his salary, professional status, and sense of security. Khin Yi, current speaker of Myanmar’s military-backed parliament, presents an award to traditional dancer Aung Zambu at the Pyithu Hluttaw Assembly Hall in Naypyitaw on July 11 (Photo: Khin Yi / Facebook) A struggle to survive He participated in demonstrations against military rule before going into hiding to evade arrest. During that period, he was involved in a motorcycle accident that left him with a broken collarbone. The injury healed, but life became a daily struggle. “When I was a government employee,” he says, “I knew that even if I wasn’t rich, my salary would arrive at the end of every month. Now, whenever the month is ending, I’m constantly wondering where I’ll find enough money to live.” At one of the most difficult moments, several former superiors contacted him with an offer. They told him he could return to work without facing punishment. He would not even have to resume normal duties immediately. He could simply report to the office, continue receiving his salary, and be treated as though he were on extended medical leave. For someone injured, unemployed, and living in fear of arrest, the proposal might have offered an escape from uncertainty. He turned it down. Returning, he believed, would mean helping legitimise a brutal military junta responsible for violence against ordinary citizens. “Working together with people who are killing the public,” he says, “would be betraying the public.” Eventually, remaining inside Myanmar became too dangerous. He fled across the border, joining the growing community of Myanmar migrants and exiles who have rebuilt their lives in neighbouring countries since the coup. Financial insecurity remains a constant reality. Every month requires fresh calculations about work, rent, and survival. Yet he says the hardest sacrifice has not been economic. His family wanted him to remain a civil servant, valuing the stability and security that government employment offered. Unable to accept his decision to join the CDM, they stopped communicating with him. “To be honest, they didn’t approve,” he says quietly. “I still believe that one day they’ll understand.” The separation weighs heavily, but he has never seriously considered reversing his decision. If anything, exile has reaffirmed his belief that art should belong to people rather than power. Instead of performing for military leaders, he now teaches traditional dance to migrant children whose own futures have been shaped by displacement. The classes preserve cultural traditions that war and exile might otherwise erode, while giving young people a connection to a homeland many have been forced to leave behind. He also volunteers at fundraising events supporting Myanmar’s resistance movement. Not everyone can carry a weapon, he says, but everyone can contribute something. Artists contribute through memory, culture, and hope. Myanmar migrant youths trained to dance in Thailand perform for their community (Photo: Supplied) A duty to the people Having once drawn a government salary funded by taxpayers, he believes he owes something back to the public that supported him throughout his career. Even if performances bring no payment, he considers them a way of repaying that debt. Late at night, memories of his former life still surface. Sometimes he hears, if only in his imagination, the music that accompanied the Makoht Lay-Kauk-Yain. He remembers the brilliance of the gold costumes, the weight of the jewelled crown and the excitement of stepping onto a national stage before audiences that included world leaders. He misses those moments. But he insists that missing them is not the same as regretting his choice. He cannot imagine smiling before military rulers while civilians hide in bomb shelters, villages are burned, and families flee their homes. Standing on a modest stage raising money for displaced communities, he says, carries more dignity than performing beneath chandeliers for those responsible for their suffering. Looking beyond the conflict, he has begun preparing for a future he hopes will one day arrive. When democracy returns, he believes Myanmar will need more than political reconstruction. The country will need new ideas, new skills, and a generation willing to rethink how institutions are rebuilt. He spends his free time studying and expanding his knowledge, convinced that relying solely on past experience would leave the country years behind. He also dreams of returning to the theatre—not to perform before generals, but before ordinary citizens in a free Myanmar. One project already occupies his imagination: a stage production documenting the years of dictatorship and the suffering endured by the country’s people. The play would not be an act of revenge, he says. It would be an act of remembrance. He wants future generations to understand what military rule meant—not as an abstract chapter in a history book, but through the lived experiences of families separated, communities destroyed, children killed, and countless lives uprooted. Art, he believes, can preserve memory in ways official records often cannot. Every anniversary of the coup, he says, should remind people why authoritarianism must never again be allowed to take root. The story of what happened should be performed, remembered, and passed from one generation to the next, not to reopen old wounds but to ensure they are never repeated. For an artist who once embodied Myanmar’s royal past before audiences of foreign dignitaries, the defining performance of his life may ultimately be the one he never expected: choosing conscience over ceremony, and carrying his country’s culture into exile while waiting for the chance to bring it home again.

From palace stages to exile: A Myanmar dancer who chose conscience over ceremony

A respected performer sacrifices status and security to live among his country’s uprooted and oppressed

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