Hard Choices

by Hillary Rodham Clinton

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  The Irrawaddy River cuts through Burma from north to south and has long been at the heart of the country’s culture and commerce. George Orwell recalled it “glittering like diamonds in the patches that caught the sun,” bounded by vast stretches of rice paddies. Bundles of teak logs, a major Burmese export, float down the river from inland forests all the way to the sea. Fed by glaciers in the eastern Himalayas, the Irrawaddy’s waters run through countless canals and irrigation systems, feeding farms and villages up and down the country and across its wide and fertile delta. Like the Ganges in India and the Mekong in Vietnam, the Irrawaddy occupies a revered place in Burmese society. In the words of Suu Kyi, it is “the grand natural highway, a prolific source of food, the home of varied water flora and fauna, the supporter of traditional modes of life, the muse that has inspired countless works of prose and poetry.”

  None of this stopped a state-run Chinese electric power company from using Beijing’s long-standing relationship with the ruling generals to win permission to build the first hydroelectric dam across the upper Irrawaddy. The massive project threatened to cause lots of damage to the local economy and ecosystem, but it held significant benefits for China. Along with six other Chinese-built dams in northern Burma, the Myitsone Dam, as it became known, would deliver electricity to energy-thirsty cities in southern China. By 2011 Chinese construction workers in hard hats had descended on the banks of the Irrawaddy’s headwaters in the remote northern hills that are home to the separatist Kachin ethnic group. The Chinese began blasting, tunneling, and building. Thousands of villagers living nearby were relocated.

  In a country long ruled by capricious autocrats, such a disruptive project wasn’t particularly surprising. What was surprising was the reaction from the public. From the beginning, local Kachin groups had opposed the dam, but soon criticism spread to other areas of the country and even appeared in heavily censored newspapers. Activists got their hands on a nine-hundred-page environmental impact statement conducted by Chinese scientists that warned about damage to downstream fish and other wildlife, as well as proximity to a major seismic fault line, and questioned the necessity and wisdom of the project. Anger over ecological damage to the sacred Irrawaddy tapped into deep-seated popular resentment toward China, the military regime’s main foreign patron. As we’ve seen in other authoritarian states, nationalism is often harder to censor than dissent.

  A wave of unprecedented public outrage built across Burma. In August 2011 Suu Kyi, who had kept a relatively low profile since her release from house arrest, published an open letter criticizing the dam. The new, nominally civilian government appeared divided and caught off guard. The Information Minister, a retired general, held a press conference and tearfully pledged to protect the Irrawaddy. But other senior officials dismissed public concerns and insisted that the dam would continue as planned. Finally Thein Sein addressed the matter in Parliament. The government had been elected by the people, he said, so it had a responsibility to answer the concerns of the public. Construction on the controversial dam would be halted.

  This was the most compelling evidence yet that the new government might be serious about reforms. It was also a surprising official repudiation of China, where the news was met with consternation.

  I marveled at the success of Burma’s emerging civil society, which had been persecuted for so long and prevented from organizing or speaking freely. The use of the Myitsone Dam as a galvanizing issue reminded me of a wonderful insight from Eleanor Roosevelt. “Where, after all, do universal human rights begin?” she asked in a 1958 speech to the United Nations, and then gave her answer: “In small places, close to home,” in “the world of the individual person; the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm, or office where he works. . . . Without concerted citizen action to uphold them close to home, we shall look in vain for progress in the larger world.” The people of Burma had been denied so many of their fundamental freedoms for so long. Yet it was environmental and economic abuse that ultimately sparked widespread outrage because it hit home in a direct and tangible way. We see a similar phenomenon with antipollution protests in China. What starts as a prosaic complaint can quickly become much more. Once citizens succeed in demanding responsiveness from their government on these everyday concerns, it can raise expectations for more fundamental change. It’s part of what I call making “human rights a human reality.”

  Stopping the dam seemed to unleash a flood of new activity. On October 12 the government began freeing a few hundred of its more than two thousand political prisoners. On the 14th it legalized labor union organizing for the first time since the 1960s. These moves came on the heels of modest steps earlier in the year to ease censorship restrictions and defuse conflicts with armed ethnic minority groups in the countryside. The government also initiated discussions with the International Monetary Fund about economic reforms. A cautiously optimistic Suu Kyi spoke to supporters in Rangoon and called for more prisoners to be released and additional reforms.

  In Washington we monitored these events closely and wondered how much weight to give them. We needed a better feel for what was actually happening on the ground. I asked the State Department’s top human rights official, Mike Posner, to accompany Derek Mitchell to Burma and attempt to get a read on the intentions of the new government. In early November Mike and Derek met with members of Parliament and had encouraging discussions about further reforms, including allowing freedom of assembly and opening up registration for political parties. Suu Kyi’s party remained banned and would not be able to participate in 2012 Parliamentary elections unless the law was changed. This was one of the top concerns of the skeptical opposition leaders who Mike and Derek met. They also cited the large number of political prisoners still being held and reports of serious human rights abuses in ethnic areas. Suu Kyi and others were urging us not to move too hastily to lift sanctions and reward the regime until we had more concrete evidence of democratic progress. That seemed sensible to me, but we also had to keep engaging the leadership and nurturing these early advances.

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  In early November, as Mike and Derek were meeting with dissidents and legislators in Burma, President Obama and I were busy planning how to take the pivot to the next level. We knew the President’s upcoming trip to Asia would be our best opportunity to demonstrate what the pivot meant. We started with APEC economic meetings in Hawaii and then he went on to Australia. I stopped in the Philippines to commemorate the sixtieth anniversary of our mutual defense treaty on the deck of the destroyer USS Fitzgerald in Manila, and then met the President in Thailand, another key ally.

  On November 17, President Obama and I both arrived in Bali, Indonesia, for a meeting of the East Asia Summit and the U.S.-ASEAN Leaders Meeting, the most important annual gathering of heads of state across Asia. It was the first time a U.S. President attended the East Asia Summit. This was a testament to President Obama’s commitment to our expanded engagement in the region, and a direct result of the groundwork we had laid beginning in 2009 by signing the ASEAN Treaty of Amity and Cooperation and making multilateral diplomacy a priority in Asia. As in Vietnam the previous year, territorial disputes in the South China Sea were once again on everyone’s mind. Just as at the ASEAN meeting in Hanoi, China did not want to discuss the issue in an open, multilateral setting, especially one that included the United States. “Outside forces should not, under any pretext, get involved,” said Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao. The Vice Foreign Minister was more direct. “We hope the South China Sea will not be discussed at the East Asia Summit,” he told reporters. But smaller countries, including Vietnam and the Philippines, were determined to have the discussion. In Hanoi we had tried to advance a collaborative approach toward peaceful resolution of disputes in the South China Sea, but in the months since that encounter Beijing had dug in its heels even deeper.

  On the afternoon of November 18, I accompan
ied President Obama to the private leaders meeting, where we met with seventeen other heads of state and their Foreign Ministers. No other staff or journalists were allowed in. President Obama and Premier Wen both listened quietly as other leaders began the discussion. Singapore, the Philippines, Vietnam, and Malaysia were among the early speakers, all of them with an interest in the South China Sea. Speaking in turn for two hours, nearly every leader repeated the principles we had discussed in Hanoi: ensuring open access and freedom of navigation, resolving disputes peacefully and collaboratively within the framework of international law, avoiding coercion and threats, and supporting a code of conduct. Soon it was clear there was a strong consensus in the room. The leaders spoke forcefully and without equivocation, but also without acrimony. Even the Russians agreed that this was an appropriate and important issue for the group to discuss.

  Finally, after sixteen other leaders had spoken, President Obama took the microphone. By now all the arguments were well aired, so he welcomed the consensus and reaffirmed U.S. support for the approach the rest of the region had articulated. “While we are not a claimant in the South China Sea dispute, and while we do not take sides,” he said, “we have a powerful stake in maritime security in general, and in the resolution of the South China Sea issue specifically—as a resident Pacific power, as a maritime nation, as a trading nation and as a guarantor of security in the Asia-Pacific region.” When the President finished, he looked around the room, including at Premier Wen, who was visibly displeased. This was even worse than Hanoi. He had not wanted to discuss the South China Sea at all; now he faced a united front. Unlike Foreign Minister Yang in Hanoi, Premier Wen did not ask for a recess. He responded politely but firmly, defending China’s actions and again insisting that this was not the appropriate forum for such matters.

  While this diplomatic theater was playing out, I was equally focused on unfolding events in Burma. In the weeks leading up to the trip, Kurt had been recommending bold new steps to engage with the regime and encourage further reforms. I had been discussing Burma with President Obama and his national security advisors, who wanted to be sure we didn’t lower our guard or ease pressure on the regime prematurely. I had a strong ally in the White House helping to push engagement: Ben Rhodes, the President’s longtime aide who served as Deputy National Security Advisor. Ben agreed with me that we had laid the groundwork and now needed to move forward. Ultimately, though, there was one person in particular from whom the President wanted to hear to be reassured that the time was right. I asked Kurt and Jake to speak with Suu Kyi and set up a call between her and President Obama. While flying from Australia to Indonesia on Air Force One, he got on the phone with her for the first time. She underscored the important role America could play in helping her country move toward democracy. The two Nobel Peace Prize winners also swapped stories about their dogs. After the call the President was ready to move forward. The next day I stood next to him as he stepped to the microphones in Bali and announced that he had asked me to travel to Burma to personally investigate prospects for democratic reform and closer ties between our countries. “After years of darkness, we’ve seen flickers of progress,” he said. I would be the first Secretary of State to visit in more than half a century.

  On the flight home from Indonesia, my mind was racing ahead to the upcoming trip. It would be an opportunity to size up Thein Sein for myself and to finally meet Suu Kyi in person. Could we find a way to fan those flickers of progress the President talked about and ignite truly far-reaching democratic reforms?

  We stopped to refuel in Japan in a pouring rain. Two Foreign Service officers with experience in Burma stationed at our embassy in Tokyo were waiting. After hearing the President’s announcement, they had brought me a stack of books about the country and a copy of a film about Suu Kyi called The Lady. It was just what I needed. The whole team, including the traveling press corps, watched the movie as we flew east across the Pacific back to Washington, where I immediately began planning my trip to Burma.

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  I arrived in Nay Pyi Taw late on the afternoon of November 30, 2011. The remote capital’s small airstrip is paved but does not have sufficient lighting for landings after sundown.

  Just before we left Washington, Asia experts at the State Department had sent around a memo advising the traveling party not to wear white, black, or red clothing because of local cultural norms. It is not unusual to get that sort of memo before a trip; there are places where certain political parties or ethnic groups are associated with particular colors. So I diligently went through my closet trying to find outfits in the appropriate colors for Burma. I had just bought a lovely white jacket that was a perfect weight for hot climates. Would it really be culturally insensitive to bring it along? I packed it just in case the experts were wrong. Sure enough, when we stepped off the plane, we were greeted by Burmese wearing all the colors we had been warned to avoid. I hoped that wasn’t a sign of deeper misconceptions on our part, but at least now I could safely wear my white jacket.

  Our motorcade emerged from the airport into a landscape of vast open fields. The empty highway seemed twenty lanes wide. Occasionally we’d see a bicycle but no other cars and very few people. We passed a farmer wearing a traditional conical straw hat and riding a wagon filled with hay pulled by a white ox. It was like looking through a window into an earlier time.

  In the distance we saw the towers of Nay Pyi Taw’s cavernous government buildings. The city had been built in secret in 2005 by the military and was heavily fortified with walls and moats intended to defend against a hypothetical American invasion. Few people actually lived there. Many of the buildings were empty or unfinished. The whole place had the feeling of a Potemkin village.

  The next morning I visited President Thein Sein in his ceremonial office. We sat on gold thrones under a massive crystal chandelier in an enormous room. Despite the setting, Thein Sein was surprisingly low-key and unassuming, especially for a head of state and leader of a military junta. He was small and slightly stooped, with thinning hair and glasses. He looked more like an accountant than a general. When he had served as Prime Minister in the military government, he had always appeared in a heavily starched green Army uniform, but now he wore a traditional blue Burmese sarong, sandals, and a white tunic.

  Many people in Burma and beyond speculated that the former ruler, Than Shwe, had chosen the mild-mannered Thein Sein as his successor because he was seen as both nonthreatening to the outside world and pliable enough to be a front man for regime hard-liners. So far Thein Sein had surprised everyone by showing unexpected independence and real backbone in pushing his nascent reform agenda.

  In our discussion I was encouraging, explaining the steps that could lead to international recognition and easing sanctions. “You’re on the right path. As you know, there will be hard choices and difficult obstacles to overcome,” I said, “[but] this is an opportunity for you to leave an historic legacy for your country.” I also delivered a personal letter from President Obama, which underscored the same points.

  Thein Sein responded carefully, with sparks of good humor and a sense of ambition and vision peeking through his deliberate sentences. Reforms would continue, he said. So would his détente with Suu Kyi. He was also keenly aware of the broader strategic landscape. “Our country is situated between two giants,” he said, referring to China and India, and he needed to be careful not to risk disrupting relations with Beijing. Here was someone who had clearly thought long and hard about the future of his country and the role he could play in achieving it.

  In my travels I met at least three kinds of world leaders: those who share our values and worldview and are natural partners, those who want to do the right thing but lack the political will or capacity to follow through, and those who view their interests and values as fundamentally at odds with ours and will oppose us whenever they can. I wondered into which category Thein Sein would fall. Even if he was sincere in his desire for democracy,
were his political skills strong enough to overcome entrenched opposition among his military colleagues and actually pull off such a difficult national transformation?

  My inclination was to embrace Thein Sein in the hopes that international recognition would strengthen his hand at home. But there was reason to be cautious. Before saying too much, I needed to meet Suu Kyi and compare notes. We were engaged in a delicate diplomatic dance, and it was essential not to get out of step.

  After our meeting we moved into a great hall for lunch, and I sat between Thein Sein and his wife. She held my hand and talked movingly about her family and her hopes to improve life for Burma’s children.

  Then it was on to Parliament and meetings with a cross-section of legislators, most carefully picked by the military. They wore brightly colored traditional dress, including hats with horns and embroidered furs. Some were enthusiastic about engagement with the United States and further reforms at home. Others were clearly skeptical of all the changes going on around them and longed for a return to the old ways.

  The Speaker of the Lower House of Parliament, Shwe Mann, another former general, met with me in another gigantic room, beneath a painting of a lush Burmese landscape that seemed to stretch for miles. He was chatty and good-natured. “We’ve been studying your country trying to understand how to run a Parliament,” he told me. I asked if he’d read books or consulted with experts. “Oh no,” he said. “We’ve been watching The West Wing.” I laughed and promised that we would provide even more information.