Connect to share and comment
From censorship to cell phones, Burma isn't quite the repressive state it once was.
Editor's note: "Burma Rebooted" is a three-part series that looks at the startling reversal of Burma's repression and isolation. Though known for the world's longest running civil war and thousands of political prisoners, Burma is now also a place where pop singers can show a little skin, new cars will soon be seen around town and pushing back against China is suddenly a possibility.
RANGOON, Burma — Want a snappy account of mankind’s worst behavior?
Punch “Burma” into Google and brace for it: child soldiers, political prisoners, state-sanctioned rape and the world’s longest-running civil war, all in one 54-million population country squished between China and India.
Burma’s military-led ruling class has cultivated a rotten brand, one consistently defined as “brutal” and “Orwellian” in headlines. Condoleezza Rice, the previous US Secretary of State, preferred “outpost of tyranny.”
Burma’s rulers have been so bad for so long that anyone expressing faith in their regime risks looking naive at best or, at worst, like an apologizer for war criminals.
But inside Burma, official breakthroughs are chipping away at the old narrative.
One year has passed since an election transformed Burma (officially called Myanmar) from a military dictatorship into a civilian government. Had it been a truly free and fair election, the 2010 polls would have been Burma’s most celebrated event in decades.
Instead, the voting was rigged, and the victorious party was stacked with ex-officers and their cronies. Western heads of state declared it a sham. The United States, the European Union and other Western nations have held on to sanctions forbidding all business ties to the pariah state.
But those subject to some of the government’s heaviest shackles — journalists, pro-democracy agitators, even ex-political prisoners — now describe surprising moves to reverse decades of surveillance and repression.
“Outside, people can’t see the whole situation here. They have so many suspicions of the government,” said Tin Oo. At 84, he is the right-hand man of pro-democracy icon Aung San Suu Kyi and vice-chairman of her National League for Democracy party.
“We also have suspicions,” said Tin Oo. He is right to have them. Eight years ago, he and Suu Kyi survived an attack led by army-backed thugs.
The attackers went unpunished. Suu Kyi and Tin Oo were confined to prison and, later, their homes. They were finally set free last year.
“Now, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi is quite pleased to work with the elected president,” Tin Oo said.
Suu Kyi, 66, is the child of Burma’s independence hero, Aung San, credited with securing autonomy from the British in 1948. Charisma-wise, she is tantamount to George Washington’s daughter.
After decades devoted to dulling her aura — most notably voiding her 1990 landslide election to the prime minister’s seat — senior officials are finally holding regular meetings with Suu Kyi.
There is also talk of legalizing her party, which is currently banned, and allowing Suu Kyi to run for parliament in a by-election at year’s end. This would be her first race since the nullified election 21 years ago that derailed Burma’s democratic hopes.
Change is even visible on Burma’s streets, where Suu Kyi’s face grins down from posters sold on street corners. Until recently, flaunting her image in public would invite martyrdom.
“Three months ago, we couldn’t imagine this,” Tin Oo said. “It’s quite strange and different.”
Burma's time warp
The military men propping up Burma’s pseudo-democracy have ordered protesters shot in the streets. They’ve robbed their people of basic freedoms and waged war on jungle-dwelling ethnic groups accounting for more than half of the population.
The army’s struggle with the Karen, a majority-Christian armed ethnic group in Burma’s east, is considered the planet’s longest ongoing civil war.
Many of Burma’s seven main ethnicities, defended by separatist militias, have endured troops raping their women, enslaving their men as porters and forcing their children to become soldiers. Many of their villages weren’t even allowed to vote.
Still, the West’s ban on business with any Burmese company has locked the country into a time warp, one that strains the average Burmese far more than connected generals and their comrades.
In the largest city, Rangoon (officially called Yangon) the dysfunction is staggering.
Children dusted head-to-toe in black soot wander downtown like Dickensian chimney sweeps. Dark mold nibbles on colonial structures left behind by the British. The currency is so frayed that shopkeepers offer change in tissues and cigarettes.
But any traveler keen to witness Burma’s lost-in-time landscape should book tickets soon. The country’s de-isolation is underway. And there are signs that many absurd restrictions on life in one of Asia’s poorest nations could soon go away.
“A lot has changed. Not too long ago, it was damn scary,” said a British woman I’ll call Margie.
Margie has lived in Burma, off and on, for two decades. She now holds a senior position with a well-known international charity. Her ties to the pro-democracy movement, paired with her status as a foreigner, has long drawn the gaze of Burma’s surveillance network.
“You learn to whisper and use coded language. No names,” she said. “We know every restaurant in town with a back door. You need your escape routes lined up. Even on the phone, they’ve got full control and can listen at will.”
But in recent months, Margie said, much of the surveillance appears to have fizzled away. Previously forbidden subjects are discussed openly in tea shops. “Everyone’s still a little scared,” she said. “But I’m daring to hope. The external narrative says we must have 100 percent human rights overnight. In what country do you have that?”
A 27-year-old Burmese news addict and diehard Suu Kyi supporter, nicknamed Jimmy, was equally spun by recent changes.
Clad in a black T-shirt and a forest green “longyi,” the Burmese sarong, Jimmy was excited by the blunt talk now swirling around Rangoon’s tea shops. His news fix relies both on the Democratic Voice of Burma’s website and old-fashioned gossip.
“This is not a democracy. But it’s more free now,” he said. “Look at your country, America. Look at how long you had your black-white problems.”
Did he vote last year? “No,” Jimmy said. “Maybe I should have.”
Burma’s government doesn’t just stifle liberty. It imposes bizarre restraints on commerce. But some of these economic restrictions are also melting away.
First, look at how destitute Burma has become. Here’s a whirlwind tour through the poverty stats:
But it's looking up.
Consider Burma’s Cuba-esque restrictions on vehicles. Regardless of high demand, the government only allows the import of a few thousand cars per year.
The supply is so meager that Reagan-era junkers sell for more than $30,000. Traffic in Rangoon is like a procession of zombies on wheels, all resurrected from an auto graveyard.
Unlike Havana, blessed with pre-revolution Chevys, the Burmese are more likely to squeeze life out of a Japanese four-door with floorboard gashes that offer passengers a view of the street underfoot.
But this too is set to change: a cash-for-clunkers scheme will soon benefit drivers of extremely old cars (40 years or older) willing to let the government melt down their vehicle. In return, they’ll be allowed to import one used car worth $3,500 or less.
Future phases will extend the deal to progressively younger cars. Eventually, Burma’s car market could start to resemble reality.