Song & Silence

In 1997, authorities jailed Lu Zaw and Par Par Lay after a now-legendary performance, given at the invitation of Nobel Prize-winning opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi. The two brothers spent an hour dancing and cracking jokes. Sympathizers videotaped Ms. Suu Kyi giggling in the crowd, but authorities sent the two brothers to a labor camp for their crime of joking about politics. An international human rights campaign led to their release after five years.

In impoverished Burma, a-nyeint folk comedy -- which weaves humor around dancing women -- is still in style. On special occasions, families host all-night performances for whole villages. Performing troupes travel from town to town. "In the old days, we went to Kachin State, Shan State, all over. We built a stage and slept on it at night," Lu Maw recollects. "If it rains, we sleep underneath."

Today they are blacklisted, and may perform only in their living room for tourists. The show walks a fine line: The brothers mostly stick to old-school folk dance, but they throw in the occasional jab at corrupt traffic cops, deposed generals and government spies. Such humor is part of a grand tradition for the Moustache Brothers, whose father and grandfather were all a-nyeint comedians. "We keep the tradition, the old customs, we are old fogies," says Lu Maw. "Watching a-nyeint used to be like reading a newspaper."

Lu Maw, squatting with an old radio microphone and puffing on a cheroot in the dark, says that the authorities have cut off his electricity tonight because they know it's showtime. "Never mind!" he screeches, in English. "We have generator! We make own power!" He waves his hand: With a thump, the lights come on, and the foreign audience cheers.

The joke is bittersweet. Today, visitors enjoy many privileges that are unimaginable for most Burmese. Free speech is one of them. Inadvertently, the Moustache Brothers have become a human rights minstrel show, mugging for foreigners in their home.

But that doesn't stop them from making fun of their new patrons. Every night, the brothers pose for photos with each audience member, grinning like mad as they hold a sign that reads, "Moustache Brothers are under surveillance." The tourist, smiling more awkwardly, holds a sign that reads "CIA," "Mossad," or "MI5," depending on her nationality.

Lu Maw sights down his arm like a rifle at each well-dressed, well-fed foreigner. "You tourists, you easy money for Moustache Brothers. You sitting duck! I take you out!" He giggles with glee, pointing the imaginary rifle at each of us, then adds, "I joking, I am comedian."

Meanwhile, trishaw drivers glimpse the show as they wait by the doorway to take tourists back to their hotels. They lounge in the unlit street, legs propped on bike handlebars, smoking and laughing. And every evening in Mandalay, an elderly trishaw driver would pedal up to me on the street and ask, hopefully, "Par Par Lay?"