The second established practice that is likely to align with newly-arriving communication technology is the long-standing salience of rumour in Myanmar, as a way to convey information word-of-mouth, outside of formal media or any organised authority.9 Anointing this the ‘dominant form of discourse’ during life under authoritarian rule, Monique Skidmore described rumour as a way to build community and a sense of intimacy, and a way to provide clarity and make sense of a world that could otherwise seem unintelligible and opaque (Skidmore 2003, 13; Skidmore 2004: 45). Rumour could also enable decision-making under difficult circumstances. ‘Rumours are extremely important,’ Skidmore noted, ‘because they are one of the few forms of mundane information that allow individuals and families to speculate on outcomes, to gamble on courses of action, to assess options, and to weigh probabilities’ (Skidmore 2003: 13).10 It is no wonder, given long-standing media censorship and state propaganda, that people in Myanmar developed such alternative approaches for transmitting and sharing information.11 This latter use of rumour has been particularly evident to me at tense and bewildering moments. On 20 March 2013, for example, a mob of an estimated 1,000 people rampaged through the Muslim areas of Meiktila, a town in central Myanmar. Later, we would learn that at least 44 people had been killed, including some 20 children massacred in a school (Physicians for Human Rights 2013a), more than 10,000 people displaced,12 and 800 buildings razed (Human Rights Watch 2013a). In the days after, smaller instances of violence occurred in other areas of Myanmar (Phelan 2013). As violence seemed to be spreading to other areas beyond Meiktila, the feeling of tension in my neighbourhood was palpable. That night, questions about violence had a visceral urgency: Were there really riots in other parts of Yangon, as we had heard? Were homes being looted in the southern end of our township, at that very moment? As my neighbours and I stood on the street and discussed these things that night, we had agreed to watch and listen and warn each other if needed. I had shared information from a news story just published that evening, saying that rumours of riots in the other townships were spreading, but untrue. How, though, could one really know, and plan appropriately? The news media was unreliable, referencing a government source would prompt derisive laughter; accessing dependable information was difficult. What sources could be trusted? We had all felt more secure when an auntie on our block announced that she had spoken with people in the area in question. ‘I called my friend who works in the market there,’ the auntie told us. ‘She closed her shop but she said there is no fighting’ (Schissler 2013a). The above analysis highlights the everyday practices of collecting information and of piecing together those available sources and things said or unsaid to construct an intelligible whole. Most illustrative of this are the regular interactions at the steps of my building, with neighbours and friends selling fruit and other wares from street stands there. These conversations about quotidian topics are also exercises in sharing information and talking over the news, international and local, from sources accessed online, on the radio and in print journals, and shared, re-shared, and discussed throughout the day (Schissler 2013c). All people do this of course, but there is an important corollary to rumour as the dominant form of discourse: people 9 This draws upon a definition of rumour offered by Pamela Donovan, which she contrasts against legends, myths, gossip, hoaxes and conspiracy theories: see Donovan 2007. 10 See also (Leehey 2010: 27). 11 This is consistent with one of the most common explanations for why rumours spread and are relied upon, though this is not the only reason: see Donovan 2007. 12 A year later, more than 3,300 remained displaced. See Si Thu Lwin 2014. 7