have spent evenings sitting on the street corners in my ward, eating, drinking rough tea or beer, and discussing a variety of issues. I have similar discussions in the neighbourhood teashops, where I sit nearly every morning, and in other regular interactions with friends and neighbours. My friends in the neighbourhood are electricians, carpenters, trishaw or van-for-hire drivers (not owners), wage labourers, seamen on container ships. Religion, politics, and history are not uncommon topics, though as the tension in the overall milieu has increased I have become more cautious about the friendly debates over Buddhist-Muslim relations in which I once participated. In these conversations, I have noted a variety of discourses that repeat and illustrate misperceptions about Islam and fear of – and antagonism towards – Muslim communities. The first time Islam arose as a topic, a friend told me that the symbol ‘786,’ which is often displayed at Muslim-owned businesses, meant that Islam would take over the world in the 21st century, ‘because seven plus eight plus six equals twenty-one’. Such claims are repetitions of those made by nationalist leaders, which combine to envision Myanmar as the final missing link in a contiguous chain of Muslim countries that have been steadily expanding from northern Africa to Mindanao. ‘Look at Indonesia,’ I am implored to remember. ‘It used to be a Buddhist country, now it isn’t’ (Schissler 2013b). The invasion described is one of population growth, creeping in from Malaysia and Bangladesh and with Muslim men given rewards for marrying and converting Buddhist women and incentives for having large families. ‘My father is Buddhist but my mother is Christian. If my father was Muslim, this could not be,’ another friend explained as we debated the credibility of these threats. But there is a slippage between the abstract and historical and those ‘little stories’ that are personalised and local. Forced conversions are a tragedy that is described as happening to specific Buddhist women in specific places, nearby; actual Muslim families with multiple children are pointed out as proof of looming population growth. Anecdotes of revulsion at butchering during Eid al-Adha are used to demonstrate a tendency towards violence inherent in Islam, while Muslim prosperity is highlighted to illustrate ascendant Muslim dominance within Myanmar. Many Muslim families are poor, but many others are involved in aspects of the economy that are highly visible; construction companies, import-export businesses, sites of wealth which one may encounter on an everyday basis. Personal experiences of disrespect in a place of work similarly confirm individual qua collective victimisation. ‘On my ship, the Muslim seaman rudely threw away my pork curry before I had finished it,’ another friend recounted to me, an experience that would have represented an additionally powerful attack had the tanker been Muslim-owned (Schissler 2013a). Disruptions and Possibilities Understanding the production of Buddhist-Muslim antagonism in Myanmar will thus require seeking to discover if and how new technologies are re-shaping both the efforts of organised political forces to produce narratives of fear and antagonism and the circulation of those ‘small stories’ that repeat and illustrate them. In Myanmar, new technologies and media are only just arriving and, as such, disruptions and possibilities are only just emerging. This chapter has argued that new technologies will be actively used as a part of narrative production, as people collect and share the news and information that is used to make sense of an uncertain world. Before closing, this chapter will consider some of the ways that new technologies have already begun to be involved in narrative production in Yangon. 11