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There is a tea shop in Rangoon, not far from the
Suhle Pagoda, its walls covered with light blue tiles
and ceiling fans large as wagon wheels plowing through
the hot midday air. I go there to meet U Sein Win, a
geologist who makes his living selling onions on the
market. He told me it was the place to come if I wanted
to get any real news. Now he leads me to a table where
some friends of his are already sipping tea, sits down
and folds his longyi around his waist. "We wait," he
says.
A truck driver, comes in and sits with us
briefly. "More tanks are coming," he says.
"Where?" the others ask. He gets up and moves to another table. No one discusses the news. It could mean jail if the wrong eavesdropper were to overhear. In Rangoon politically delicate news is treated like contraband. U Sein Win comes here almost every day. There's always somebody who knows where the army has gone on another rampage, where you can get clean gasoline, whether the price of rice is going up or when the smuggled goods from China are supposed to arrive. This system has only one weak point: when there's a crisis, the mixture of frontline dispatches, black market rates and city gossip shifts out of balance. That's when the rumors start to blossom. Last fall when the students were demonstrating, it was especially bad. There was talk of snipers preparing to assassinate opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi, reports that hundreds of students were tortured at the infamous Insein jail, widespread fear that the military junta would declare martial law again. There was no evidence that any of the rumors were true, but no evidence that they weren't either. It seems unlikely that the junta would kill Nobel Peace Prize winner Suu Kyi outright. The international pressure brought to bear when she is put under house arrest from time to time is too strong for them to risk such a drastic measure. But the army did declare martial law in Mandalay, Burma's second largest city, 700 miles north of Rangoon, when Buddhist monks there attacked Muslim groups. And immediately after the student demonstrations, Tin Oo, secretary number two of the governing "State Law and Order Restoration Council" (SLORC) gave a speech saying that the SLORC would not tolerate any disturbances such as those in 1988. There was no doubt about what he meant by that. The events of 1988 marked ground zero in Burma's history. It was the first time since the military had taken power, that student and opposition groups demonstrated for peace and democracy. The government responded with troops and tanks, brutally crushing the democracy movement. More than 100 students were killed some beaten to death or drownedin the White Bridge Massacre. Nationwide strikes and riots brought the country to the brink of collapse, but the army kept to a course of pure force. Three thousand lost their lives in the upheavals according to some estimates, while tens of thousands fled to the mountains or over the border to Thailand. There were almost no outside witnesses to these events, since for decades Burma had isolated itself from the world as completely as communist Albania. After the democracy movement was quelled, the generals installed the interim SLORC government, which is still in power today. They also forced a radical nationalism on the country, starting with the eradication of all geographical names from colonial times. That is why Burma today is officially called Myanmar and the capital Rangoon, Yangon. In 1990, the SLORC sought legitimacy through elections. But when Suu Kyi's National League of Democracy won a landslide victory, the newly elected parliamentarians and ministers were chased out of the country. Some were killed, some tortured. Few remained to stand beside An Saung Suu Kyi. U Sein Win was sixteen when the riots started. Many problems," he remembers. He was not directly involved, but his older brother, a member of the All Burma Students Democratic Union, had taken to the streets and had to flee. U Sein Win hasn't heard from him since, but rumor has it that his brother joined the All Burma Student Forces, a military version of the protest group trained by hill tribe rebels in the border area near Thailand. Meanwhile, U Sein Win tries to stay out of politics. Like many, of course, he hopes that democracy will come to Burma, that Suu Kyi can overthrow the generals' rule. But here in the tea shop he doesn't even dare to speak her name. Instead he whispers about "her" and rolls his eyes in a meaningful manner. Suu Kyi's name would be a buzzword for any spook in the room. "The army's everywhere," he tells me later when we're out in the street. "Nothing escapes them." Informers are sitting in every tea shop and restaurant, he explains. They are living next door; they report the passport numbers of tourists. The army controls every aspect of life in Burma. It builds the infrastructures for new industries coming to the country, collects the taxes, controls all media and is always on alert for anyone or anything that might "endanger the stability of the nation." This is the reason that there can be no democracy, the generals say. They claim that all democrats are troublemakers controlled by outside forces. If you walk around Rangoon you can see the signs of combat alert everywhere: tanks in courtyards, bored soldiers loitering fully armed on street corners and riot barricades all over the city. Constructed of two-by- fours nailed together into gables about three feet high by six feet wide and wrapped in barbed wire, the barricades can be used to turn any city block into a prison camp in a matter of seconds. The areas around Suu Kyi's house and the university have been blocked off by street barricades for months now. Only the streets to the tourist attractions remain open. The tourists are not supposed to notice that the government is waging a war against its people. They are supposed to admire the richly decorated temples and golden pagodas, monuments to the fundamentalist Buddhist belief that the construction of a pagoda earns you enough credit on the reincarnation account to make it to Nirvana. They are supposed to be charmed by the lavish tropical landscape and friendly, openhearted people. Tourism is a fairly new industry in Burma. Until 1991 foreigners were only allowed to visit the country for a few days under the supervision of a government guide. But today tourism has the highest growth rate globally of any industry. For a country with an infrastructure as run down as Burma's, it offers the only chance to catch up with the world economy. The generals are very keen to do so. They want Burma to become "the next tiger state." The other rising economies in Asia welcomed them last year when Burma was admitted to the ASEAN. Singapore, Malaysia and Thailand are giving support,and Western human rights protests are seen as nothing more than outside intervention. On the highway on our way to Mandalay, we witness the SLORC's idea of rebuilding the country's economy. Dusty heat lingers over the plains. Rice paddies stretch to the horizon. There's hardly a tree, just a few straw huts. On the side of the road children squat on the ground, their heads wrapped in scarves against the dust from passing cars, hammering large rocks into gravel. They do their work stoically. Two girls and a boy, twelve years old at most, put the gravel into tin pans which they carry on their heads to a few women who are working on a stretch of fresh pavement. They move slowly in the midday heat. Who hired you, who pays you, we ask. The children smile shyly. The women shake their heads and motion to a bulldozer a few yards away where the foreman is sitting. When he sees us, he comes over, waves his hands and tries to keep us from taking pictures. We are not supposed to be here, he tells our driver. Road construction is of strategic importance and, as such, a matter of state security. But we've seen enough. Exiled opposition members in Thailand had explained the recruiting process to us. It is forced labor by decree. SLORC does not hire workers. The army goes to villages near potential construction sites and gives out work orders. "You are supposed to be present at construction site number such and such on the following day," the orders normally say. "You have to supply shovel, pick and food for five days." If the work takes longer than planned, family members have to bring more food for the forced laborer. The SLORC's justification for this policy is simple. Buddhist tradition demands communal work, and members of the community have built bridges, roads and pagodas for centuries. But the demands of building a modern infrastructure go far beyond typical communal work. For the construction of the Bassein airport alone, 30,000 workers had to be drafted. More than 100,000 were needed for the construction of a railroad between Ye and Tavoy. Since the adults are always overburdened with subsistence work, more and more children have to substitute for their parents. According to a report by the UN Commission for the Rights of Children, hundreds if not thousands of Burmese children forced to do hard labor have died in recent years from exhaustion, abuse and disease. Burma's generals have been abusing Buddhism for ideological purposes since the country gained independence in 1949. General Ne Win, who came to power in the 1962 coup, even invented "Buddhist socialism" and proclaimed he would turn Burma into a "socialist Nirvana." After the 1988 upheavals the generals used Buddhist rhetoric to install the new radical capitalism. Westerners often identify Buddhism with the contemplative form of this religion known as Zen. But the Burmese follow Theravada, a fundamentalist Buddhism which strictly follows the ancient scriptures of the Lord Buddha. Order and discipline are the ways to rid oneself of worldly desires according to these teachings. The limits they place on a true believer's life are as rigorous as those of fundamentalist Islam. In the Maha Gandayo monastery near Mandalay I meet U Ke La Sa, who instructs his pupils in the strict disciplines of righteous living. He sits in front of his library on a straw mat, a serious, 30-year-old man, his body trim and slender from the ascetic life of the monastery. He gave up his studies in engineering to use his knowledge of English to teach not only Burmese disciples, but foreign guests as well. Right now a German is living at the monastery. "For years he was searching," U Ke La Sa tells me. "With us he found truth." I can't talk to him, since he is not allowed to leave his meditation cell for five days. A silent procession of men in red robes, heads shorn, marches across the yard to the hall. It is ten o'clock and the monks are just returning from their morning food drive. They have been out in the streets since six a.m., collecting food from the people in town. They are not allowed to possess more food than they need for just one meal. They must finish this meal by twelve noon and are not allowed to eat anything else for the rest of the day. U Ke La Sa explains the monks' daily schedule. Wake- up call comes at four-twenty, meditation until five- thirty, then breakfast followed by the food collection in town. After lunch there's a brief resting period, after which the day is divided into meditation hours until ten. "Hard work is the only way to enlightenment," he says. It's the same arrogant drone you hear whenever fundamentalists talk to nonbelievers. "Everybody has to pass three steps to enlightenment. He must find morality, concentration and wisdom." Most here in the monastery are still busy struggling with the righteous everyday life. They are not allowed to touch women, not even in casual contact; they cannot drink alcohol or eat fish or meat. "Only if your life is pure you will be reborn a step above your current existence," U Ke La Sa says. Then women can be reborn as men, paupers as rich men and foreigners as Burmese. It's obvious how easily Theravada Buddhism can be abused for the purposes of nationalist ideology. But U Ke La Sa denies this possibility. "We have nothing to do with politics." Don't they deal with Burma's omnipresent repression, injustice and violence, I ask. "Those are worldly problems. We only deal with questions of religion." So there is no Dalai Lama of Burma? He shakes his head. "We don't even see the Dalai Lama as a holy man. He's a politician who abuses his position to agitate." Mandalay is the northernmost stop on the tourist route. Behind the so-called Golden City the restricted areas begin. Mountains tower high above the plains. Ridges are covered with dense forest, and there are few roads. Up there in the foothills of the Himalayas live the rebels, the opium farmers and smugglers. The main hub for trade and smuggling is Lashio, the capital of Shan state, halfway to China on the infamous Burma Road. It takes fourteen hours on a potholed track to get there. Overloaded trucks creep around the double bends, ox carts, tractors and bicycles. Left and right are rice fields and paddies, then bamboo groves and thick forest. The villages consist of only few scattered wood huts and one or two tea shops, where women prepare rice for the passing truck drivers on open fireplaces. It's dark when we reach Lashio. Nearby China has had an influence on the local architecture. Barren concrete buildings, socialist style; a few wooden shacks serving as stores. Nothing of the Golden Pagoda beauty of lowland Burma. There is only one place still open to get something to eat, a lone bicyclist tells us, the Yon Haw Restaurant. It's situated in a brand new bamboo structure on one of the side streets. The owner, a young Chinese with a mischievous smirk, opened the place just last month. It's the fanciest place in town, serving as both eatery and nightclub. There are tables with tablecloths and ice pitchers. Young men in leather jackets and American sports shirts sit there with girls sporting bright makeup. In the middle of the room is a dancefloor with a disco-style lightshow. Next to it, a solo entertainer plays a synthesizer with drum machine, singing western pop hits in Burmese. He invites the guests to join in. Two girls come up. Sharing the microphone they sing a five-minute version of the theme of a Coca Cola commercial. TV commercials are new to Burma and still an exciting Western novelty. Next are a couple of opium yuppies in expensive jackets. Then a grim-looking guy comes on, presented by the keyboard player as "the heroic commander of the Wa rebel army." He sings a love song for the ladies. The Wa are one of the hill tribes in the area. Sixty-seven minorities, called "M-groups" in official lingo, live in Burma. Most of them are hill tribes, looked down upon by the Burmese majority, persecuted by the Burmese- dominated military government. Almost all of the M- groups support their own rebel armies, some several thousand strong, not to topple the government but for bare survival. We are supposed to meet one of the groups, the Palaung State Liberation Army (PSLA). Although not one of the larger forces, the Palaung managed to secure a liberated area for their people. In a garden restaurant a little outside of town the local PSLA command awaits us: four young men in bomber jackets and combat boots. During our brief talk one of them seems always on the lookout, even though the restaurant is empty. Captain U Cho Gyi is in charge of the negotiations concerning our request to visit the liberated area. He hides his oval, bony face behind Chinese aviator glasses. At age 29 he is already a nine-year veteran of the M-group's struggle. "We have made peace with the government," he tells us. "But peace just means that they don't attack our villages anymore. We still stay combat-ready." The Palaung had fought the government for thirty years when they signed the peace treaty in 1991. Now they control a small mountainous area northwest of Lashio. None of the four officers originally wanted to fight. They had been students, planning to build bridges, teach the children of their tribe or at least find a well-paying job. That's why they went to Rangoon to study in the '80s. But when the upheavals of 1988 took place, they had to flee back to the mountains. Captain U Cho Gyi, for instance, studied physics. He was a brilliant student, so when he managed to find his way back to the rebel forces of his people, the elders wanted to send him to another country to finish his education. But the SLORC pressured the Thai government not to issue visas to any fleeing students. "The plan to send me abroad had to be abandoned," the captain says bitterly. "That's when I joined our army and trained as a guerrilla fighter." U Cho Gyi still hopes to be able to finish his degree sometime in the future. After a brief discussion the officers agree to take us into the liberated area. A few preparations will be necessary. We have to exchange our tourist vehicle license plates for fake regular ones. They advise us to bring blankets and empty rice sacks for sleeping, some dried food for us and candy for the children. The captain will make sure that we pass all military checkpoints without being caught. He won't say how, but he seems sure that there will be no problem. It's a full day's drive to Homsong, the first liberated town. The captain and two men accompany us. The car barely makes walking speed on the dirt track leading through the woods. Up here it's mostly conifers. Brisk mountain air comes through the windows. The Palaung have built the road themselves, since the government still refuses them any form of infrastructural support. "All with our own hands," the captain proudly proclaims. But the storms of the last rainy season have turned grooves into ditches. After four hours our fourwheeler gives in. The axle has bent under the chassis. "No problem," our guides say. One of them disappears into the brush. We sit around smoking cheroobs, Burmese cigars, and wait. Half an hour later the man reappears with a couple of farmers from a nearby village. They use hammers, jump on the axle, push, pound and shove until the wheels are able to turn again. Late that afternoon we arrive in Homsong. There are about thirty two-story wooden houses covered with corrugated iron, the only visible sign of modern materials. The villagers come together to greet us. We shake hands, give out candy, thankfully decline immediate dinner offers. The captain wants us to come to the base right away. After ten minutes by foot through the forest, we come to a clearing. A line of straw huts stands there, an open field behind them. Young men in tattered uniforms come running. They stand guard and salute their commander. "Welcome at Camp 121!" he says. Since we are the first white men to ever come here, we get a parade: fifty soldiers in one row. They don't seem that combat ready. A few carry Chinese assault rifles, but most are hauling carbines; a few even have homemade muzzleloaders such as the hill tribes use to hunt birds. "Before we made peace there was daily fighting up here," the captain says. He points to his troops. "Even then we had hardly any weapons. The government forces came with helicopters, grenade launchers, automatic rifles. We had to resort to guerrilla tactics, which cost us far too many men." Why did they still go to battle with the overpowering forces? Captain U Cho Gyi frowns. "Our existence was at stake. Our language, our traditions, our history. The army stormed our schools, killing the teachers who taught our language to our children. They killed the farmers so they couldn't produce rice for the rebels and took the women to rape them and force them to work. We had no choice." The Palaung were one of the last M-groups to come to an agreement with the SLORC. "We negotiated a status quo. We promised not to build up our army and not to wear any arms outside of our area. They promised us financial aid for development." But what of the soldiers who are parading in front of us ? Some seem no older then eleven or twelve. The captain shrugs his shoulders. "We are still waiting for any money to come, any help or assistance. Everything you see here we built ourselves. The roads, the wells, the school. So far all they have done is stop killing us. That's why we have to stay ready. Why should we honor a contract if the government doesn't ?" Still the Palaung see their sacrifices as worth- while. Even if there are no paved roads, no market, no newspaper, even if the villagers are still living in medieval times without running water or electricity, they do not have to send their children to forced labor, they don't have to fear informers everywhere, they're not afraid of going to jail or being tortured for a wrong word. There are no bombing attacks and no massacres like those in the South, where the army still fights the Karen tribes with merciless scorched earth tactics. But Captain U Cho Gyi views the peace agreement and the liberated areas as just a first step. The struggle for survival has to be followed by the struggle for freedom. Neither civil opposition nor internal fighting nor international sanctions have softened the stance of the SLORC. Thousands of people are still dyingin fighting, in massacres, in forced labor columns and in jails. "We all wait for a legitimate government," Captain U Cho Gyi says. "Nobody will ever trust the military. Only a government elected by all of us in Burma will be able to change anything." But this struggle can't be won by the rebels. This struggle must be won by Aung San Suu Kyi in Rangoon. 
Story from "Dispatch from the Combat Zone", |
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