Even more unknown, or at least ignored, are the ethnic peoples, suffering from crimes against humanity and, in some areas, war crimes and perhaps a form of attempted genocide. From 1996 to 2011, over 3,700 villages in eastern Burma were destroyed by the military, and more than a million people internally displaced, yet only those who had an interest in such issues were aware. And in terms of achieving levels of global awareness, the Karen are better off than the other ethnic groups. Of all the borders, Thailand’s is the most accessible, and over the years more and more journalists, activists, politicians, celebrities and NGOs have visited the Karen refugees and drawn much-needed attention to their plight. The Karen continue to need more attention, but the Karenni, Shan and Mon along the same border have received far less, and those on other borders are even more neglected. Few have travelled to the ethnic peoples living along Burma’s borders with China, India and Bangladesh – and these people continue to suffer almost in silence, virtually unheard, unknown and un-helped.
Between 2007 and 2010, the people of Burma experienced some of the worst years of political turmoil and humanitarian crisis. Burma’s absence from the international headlines changed dramatically in September 2007, when thousands of Buddhist monks took to the streets in what became known as the ‘Saffron Revolution’. In the largest demonstrations since 1988, monks and Burmese civilians marched in protest at fuel price rises – and called for dialogue with the regime and a transition to democracy. The regime, then known as the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC), responded true to character, as it has always done. Monks and civilians were arrested, severely beaten, jailed, tortured and in some cases shot in the streets. The difference between 2007 and 1988 was that in 2007, the events were captured on video and in photographs, and released to the world’s media within minutes, by email and mobile phone. In 1988, the international community was not aware of the severity of the crackdown until after the events; in 2007, the world could see what was happening, in real time.
Eight months later, Burma again dominated the news, when Cyclone Nargis struck the country, causing death and devastation. Astonishingly, the regime initially failed to respond to the humanitarian disaster that had hit its shores, and refused international aid, compounding the suffering. Only after intense international pressure, largely led behind the scenes by the United Kingdom, the United States and France, and fronted by UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon and Burma’s neighbours in the Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN), did the regime relent and permit aid and relief workers. It took coordinated diplomatic and political pressure, supported by threats to invoke the UN’s ‘Responsibility to Protect’ (R2P) mechanism and the presence of French, British and American naval ships off Burma’s coast, to achieve this. Even then, access to the affected areas remained restricted, and there were widespread reports of relief supplies being stolen or diverted.
In the immediate aftermath of the cyclone, the regime held a referendum on a new constitution – one which simply enshrined military rule and denied Aung San Suu Kyi any role in government. The referendum was recognised by almost all observers as a complete sham, with numerous widespread reports of ballot rigging. The basis upon which the 2008 referendum was carried out offered no hope for Burma’s future democratic prospects.
As these events brought Burma to the world’s attention, humanitarian crises were developing in other parts of the country. The regime intensified its offensive against civilians in Karen State, shooting women and children on sight and displacing thousands. In western Burma, the flowering of bamboo attracted a plague of rats, which wrought death and destruction on the Chin people by destroying all their crops. At least 100,000 Chin people in more than 200 villages faced a chronic food shortage as a result.2 And then, in 2009, Aung San Suu Kyi was put on trial just as her period of house arrest was due to expire. The scenario was ludicrous – an American Mormon and Vietnam veteran, John Yettaw, swam across Inya Lake to Aung San Suu Kyi’s home. Despite pleading with him to leave, Aung San Suu Kyi was charged with breaking the terms of her house arrest, put on trial and given three years in prison with hard labour, reduced to eighteen months under house arrest. Yettaw was also given a jail sentence, but was deported a few days later after a visit to Burma by US Senator Jim Webb. On 7 November 2010 this litany of horrors came to a crashing crescendo with a sham charade of an election. In the months preceding the poll, designed to perpetuate the military’s rule, election laws were published which excluded Aung San Suu Kyi and made it impossible for the NLD to participate. As a result the NLD was deregistered as a political party and deemed illegal.
It therefore caught almost everyone by surprise when in August 2011 Burma’s new President, Thein Sein, met with Aung San Suu Kyi, and she emerged to say that he was a man of integrity whom she could trust. Thein Sein began to unveil a reform process that has resulted in some relaxation of restrictions on media and political activity, the release of political prisoners, the beginning of ceasefire talks with the ethnic groups, and the re-registration of the NLD. Within the course of a year, Aung San Suu Kyi and her party went from being illegal and completely outside the established system, to contesting parliamentary by-elections and winning seats in Parliament. For that reason alone, it is fair to say that Burma is a nation at the crossroads.
Since 2000, I have travelled many times to Burma and its borderlands – at the time of writing, I have made almost forty fact-finding visits. I have been to almost all of Burma’s borders, spent time with internally displaced peoples (IDPs) in the jungles of eastern Burma, met former political prisoners, defectors from the Burma Army, Buddhist monks who participated in the Saffron Revolution and ethnic resistance leaders. I have looked into the eyes of desperate Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh, who have been denied citizenship in Burma despite living there for generations. I have experienced the tensions which the ethnic ceasefire groups have to face, living with a degree of peace but no real freedom. I have also travelled several times inside the country, to Rangoon, Mandalay, Maymyo, Bagan (formerly Pagan), Inle Lake, Bago, Kyaiktiyo (the ‘Golden Rock’) and the new capital of Naypyidaw, and talked discreetly with brave dissidents. I have sat with the ‘Moustache Brothers’, courageously outspoken comedians in Mandalay, and watched a video of Aung San Suu Kyi enjoying one of their shows, and I have met some of Aung San Suu Kyi’s closest associates, including her lawyer, U Nyan Win, and the prominent journalist and dissident U Ludu Sein Win. And I have been inspired by the courage and commitment of many activists from Burma, along its borders and outside. They include those who continue to defy the regime, express dissent in various creative ways, document human rights violations at grave risk to their own lives, provide humanitarian support to their own people unreached by the major aid agencies, and provide a voice for their people in the wider international community. They are the heroes of Burma’s struggle, and it is their stories that inspire my work and provide the heart of this book.
In March 2011, I spent a week in Rangoon. I had arranged an appointment to meet Daw Aung San Suu Kyi on my final day. At about 10.45 p.m. the previous night, having completed all my activities that day, I went into the hotel bar to listen to some live jazz. I thought I would relax for a few minutes. I had almost made it, and just had one more day, and the most important meeting, left. No more than five minutes after I sat down in the bar, I heard the words every activist in Burma fears: ‘Mr Rogers, the authorities want to speak to you.’ Outside my room, six plain-clothes military intelligence agents were waiting for me. Calmly, I finished my beer and went upstairs. Inside, I was apprehensive, but I tried not to show it.
I greeted the six men and invited them into my room. ‘I understand you would like to speak to me,’ I said. I invited them to sit down. ‘How can I help?’ Immediately, one man informed me that they had instructions from the capital, Naypyidaw, to deport me from the country the following morning. Initially, they claimed they did not know the reason, although as they searched my hotel room and luggage, I saw one
of them flicking through his file which contained a photocopy of the front cover of my previous book, Than Shwe: Unmasking Burma’s Tyrant, a biography of the previous dictator. They checked my camera. ‘These are just tourist pictures,’ one exclaimed. ‘Yes I told you I am just a tourist,’ I said. They asked to copy them, and I asked why. ‘We have to show our superiors something.’ They searched my luggage, but found nothing. They examined a large pile of books, including Barbara Demick’s Nothing to Envy: Real Lives in North Korea, which I had brought as gifts. ‘Nothing to Envy,’ one man read out slowly. Then he put it aside. The pile also contained a book and a film about the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor who stood up against Hitler and was executed. There was also a DVD called Nine Days that Changed the World, about Pope John Paul II’s visit to Poland which sparked the Solidarity movement and ultimately led to the collapse of communism. They appeared not to know the significance of these. They took several photos. I reminded them that I had committed no crime. ‘Of course,’ said one with an insincere smile. ‘If you had committed a crime you would be in prison.’ Looking at my Bible, in a cover made by Karen ethnic people, they asked: ‘Is it an iPad?’ They examined my Kindle with interest and asked me to show them how it works. ‘Ebook?’ they exclaimed. Yes, ebook.
At midnight they finished, and told me to be ready at 7 a.m. They left, but five minutes later one man returned. ‘I left my notebook,’ he said. It felt like a French farce or a scene from Monty Python. After anxiously searching for a while he found it in my suitcase. He must have put it in there accidentally while replacing my belongings.
The following morning, I was escorted to the airport by two men, in a taxi. I asked again what the reason for my deportation was. ‘We’ll tell you at the airport.’ One man offered me a cigarette, which I declined. They paid for the taxi.
I was met by a large group at the airport – plain-clothes military intelligence, uniformed immigration officers, a few police. Every step I made I was surrounded by three or four men with cameras, and they took dozens of pictures. One unpleasant little man was a bit officious, barking orders at me and others, but most of the people were civil, and one or two were quite cheery. I said I wanted a cup of coffee, and one of them fetched one for me.
When the procedure was complete, two men sat down with me. ‘I can now inform you the reasons for your deportation. We know you have written several books about Myanmar, including Than Shwe: Unmasking Burma’s Tyrant.’ With no sense of irony, he quoted the title in full.
I decided to ask them a few questions. Paul McCartney’s song ‘Freedom’ was echoing in my head. I remained polite, but my conscience would not allow me to go silently. I wanted them to know what I thought, but also that I didn’t blame them personally, I blamed the system. ‘Is it a crime to write a book?’ I asked. He looked surprised, and confused. Then, feigning ignorance and naivety, I continued. ‘In November, Myanmar held elections. So I thought Myanmar was becoming a democracy. In a democracy, it is very normal to write books freely, and very common to write books about leaders. Some books are positive, others are critical. But the fact that you are deporting me for writing a book suggests that Myanmar is not a democracy. So, I am confused. Can you tell me, is Myanmar becoming a democracy or not?’ He hesitated. ‘Myanmar will be a democracy one day, but slowly, slowly. We are in transition period.’ OK, I said, but transition implies change. ‘I thought Myanmar was changing. But deporting a foreigner for writing a book suggests no change. So is that correct – no change?’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes yes, no change, no change.’
I asked if he deports many foreigners. He smiled. ‘Yes, many.’ I asked if he thought my deportation was fair. He said he had not read my book, so he could not comment. ‘Do you have a copy of your book with you? I would be interested to read it.’ I laughed, and said I did not, but I offered to send it to him if he gave me his address. He didn’t take me up on the offer. He asked whether I had any plans to write more books about Burma, and I told him I had just completed another, which had not yet been published. With his pen and notebook at hand, he said: ‘Ah. What is the title?’ I wasn’t going to help him that much, so I told him he could wait until it was published. This is the finished product.
I told him it was a shame they were deporting me, because if they had allowed me to stay just one more day, I may have gone away with a more positive impression. Now, I would have no choice but to tell my friends that the regime in Burma was not changing at all. He looked at me impassively. I asked if he enjoyed working for a government that treats its people so badly, and if he knew that the ethnic nationalities in Burma were particularly suffering under this regime. This drew no response.
I asked what he thought about the events in Egypt, Tunisia and Libya. ‘I don’t like this kind of change. I think it was created by al-Qaeda. Do you think it was created by al-Qaeda?’ No, I said, I did not. I acknowledged the risk of extremists taking advantage, but I said the movements in these countries were led by ordinary people who don’t like dictatorship. ‘But democracy gives al-Qaeda opportunities.’ No, I disagree. ‘Democratic, open societies are a better way to challenge extremism and terrorism than dictatorship.’
Then they told me I could go through to the gate for boarding. But they still had my passport, which they had taken, along with my air tickets, the night before. I reminded them that they had my passport, and they had a few minutes of confusion over what to do. I said with a smile: ‘No passport, I stay in Myanmar, OK?’ and we all burst out laughing.
They shook my hand and said goodbye. Looking them straight in the eye, I uttered my last words before leaving Burma: ‘Thank you for treating me well. I know that your government does not treat your own people well at all, but I am grateful that at least you treated me well.’ I know that if I had been Burmese, I would have been treated far worse. I might not even have survived.
Within hours of my deportation, the news had reached the exiled Burmese media. I did not seek publicity, but I started to receive calls from Radio Free Asia, Democratic Voice of Burma, Mizzima and other exiled media. Only once the media were running the story anyway did I decide I should speak about it, in order to ensure that the story did not descend into wild rumours which could make things worse. People inside Burma also asked me to speak out, to let the world know that nothing very much had changed.
Four days later, I sat in a refugee camp on the Thailand–Burma border and watched Karen students graduate from a Bible school. They sang the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus from Handel’s Messiah, in a bamboo church at the foot of a mountain. The contrast between such physical and spiritual beauty, the suffering that these people had endured, and the secret police I met just a few days before was hard to absorb. One young Karen gave a graduation speech titled ‘Rebuilding Our Land’. He said: ‘The dictators want to make our people disappear from this world.’ The principal, Pastor Simon, uttered the cry of people across Burma: ‘We want peace, justice and freedom for all the people of Burma. We want the regime to respect and treat us as brothers and sisters, not as enemies or slaves. We want the whole world to help. We want to go home – please help us.’
In contrast, I hadn’t wanted to go home – I wanted to stay just one more day. But the fact that I was forced to leave has given me a deeper empathy with the people of Burma, and reinforced my commitment to support their struggle for freedom. One man I met told me I was ‘very dangerous’. But, he added, ‘I like what you do. Keep doing it. This regime is like a psychiatric patient, who needs electric shock treatment. You give them electric shocks.’
It was surprising that I had been able to obtain a visa – and when I asked the military intelligence agent why I had been given a visa, if my book was a problem, he replied solemnly: ‘We are also asking that question.’ He asked whether this was my first visit, and appeared rather shocked when I told him I had been several times before. Indeed, on my previous visit I had an unnerving encounter at Bangkok airport where I bumped into a Chin friend on m
y way to Rangoon. He did not know that I was travelling into Burma, and so merrily produced from his bag a copy of the print-version of Mizzima News. To my horror, on the front page was an article about my forthcoming biography of Burma’s dictator, and a photograph of me. I told my friend that where I was travelling it would not be wise for me to carry that, and he nodded knowingly. Despite that, I encountered no personal difficulties inside the country, until 2011.
Less than ten months after my deportation, I decided to apply for another visa, not expecting to be granted one but believing that I had nothing to lose by trying. To my astonishment, not only did I receive a visa, but I encountered no difficulty upon arrival in Rangoon or for the eight days I spent there. I had expected the immigration officials to have a record of my deportation and at least to question me, but my passport was stamped in the normal way, with not even an eyebrow raised. For the following eight days I met some of the most high-profile and sensitive people in Burma, including Aung San Suu Kyi, her colleagues U Tin Oo and U Win Tin, and leaders of the ’88 Generation Student Movement, including Min Ko Naing, Ko Ko Gyi, Ko Jimmy, Ko Mya Aye and Ko Htay Kywe, who had been released from prison just a fortnight before. The fact that I could return to the country less than a year after being expelled is just one sign of the change taking place.
However, the previous week I visited Kachin State on the China–Burma border, where I heard some of the worst stories of human rights violations I have ever heard, in fifteen years of working on Burma. Juxtaposing the mood of optimism in Rangoon with the situation in Kachin State, the opening line of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities comes to mind: ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ While it would be an exaggeration to describe the situation in Rangoon as ‘the best of times’, as there is still a long way to go, it was markedly more open and hopeful than at any time in the previous twenty years. Yet in Kachin State, a brutal war is being waged against ethnic civilians.
Burma- a Nation at the Crossroads Page 2