The prohibition against new-car ownership is just one of the myriad rules the junta imposes in its obsession with controlling every aspect of Burma. While it pays lip service to “true patriotism,” the government goes out of its way to make things as difficult as possible for its citizens. Small wonder most Burmese scoff at the generals’ trumpeted national manifesto, which includes the objective to “uplift … the morale and morality of the entire nation.”
In this Orwellian society, not only are some people more equal than others, Big Brother is always watching as well. “This is a police state,” a Western diplomat says flatly. Xenophobia, paranoia and awareness of its own illegitimacy have led the junta to construct a form of governing that leaves no room for flexibility, let alone freedom, says a fugitive member of Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy. I meet him in a darkened office after first walking more than 15 blocks, occasionally stopping to look over my shoulder or loiter in front of a shop for fear I was being followed. The regime’s policies, ostensibly aimed at maintaining “law and order,” often border on lunacy. Consider the “internal visas.” Even by the standards of authoritarian societies, these domestic travel curbs are extreme. Burmese who live in one part of town and want to spend the night or a few days with a friend or relative who lives in another part of the same city must first get permission from local officials—appropriately called wardens—and pay a fee. Foreigners, the relatively few who are allowed in, are restricted to a particular geographical area, unless they get permission to go elsewhere. In Mandalay a foreigner crossing the street from the Sedona Hotel to tour historic Shwe Nandaw Palace must present $10 cash—and his passport.
Burmese who want cell phone service must first apply to the government for a SIM card. The process often takes years and costs about $1,500, in a country where many earn about $50 a month. Those who can afford it often buy the coveted SIM card from a person who acquired it through the lottery, as some Burmese dub it, or the black market. They generally pay that person a virtual fortune of about $2,500. Having a land line or a cell, mind you, does not entitle owners to call anywhere they want. Many use their phones only for local calls. If they want to be able to call outside the immediate area—say from Rangoon to Mandalay—they must first ask the government. Calling outside the country requires further clearance. And it is highly likely that some government apparatchik will be listening in. Phoning a diplomat from one of the best hotels in the country, I’m cut off midsentence. “Better not to get into that,” the man says sharply.
Phone charges, meanwhile, resemble larceny: $11 a minute to the United States. It may be that Burma’s generals need the money to fund their new capital at Naypyidaw, a billion-dollar indulgence that’s virtually uninhabited except for government ministers and civil servants. (To travel to Naypyidaw, by the way, a foreigner must receive express permission.) It is said the decision to build a new administrative capital came after the junta leader, Senior Gen. Than Shwe, consulted an astrologer about whether the numbers were favorable for the move. At least his behavior has a precedent: legend says that in 1430, King Minsawmon of Rakhine changed that state’s capital with the help of astrologers, in the wake of a series of bad omens.
Than Shwe and his colleagues in the ruling State Peace and Development Council spend most of their time in Naypyidaw, apparently to the chagrin of their wives, who prefer the relative glamour of Rangoon, not to mention the shopping in cosmopolitan Singapore. The senior general, or “number one brother,” as one cab driver jibed, does still have a manorial estate in Rangoon. It is not far from downtown, where beggars and street urchins hound the few tourists walking near Sule Pagoda, one of September’s main demonstration sites.
The regime insists the poverty that “saboteurs” and “neo-colonialists” keep carping about is exaggerated. “In Myanmar, perhaps, they cannot sometimes afford expensive foods, but they will never go hungry,” a writer named only “Shwe” thunders in a rambling, rather baroque editorial in The Myanmar Times. The writer evidently has never visited Mandalay’s Mingun Jetty Place, where scores of families live in shacks, scratching out a living and endangering their lungs by using raw coal as fuel. And Shwe surely could not be aware of a stretch of road between Amarapura and Sagaing that is postcard-idyllic—except that many Burmese live in haphazard lean-tos, using nearby woods and streams as their toilets.
The generals prefer to blame the misery on sanctions imposed by the United States, European Union and others, ignoring the incompetence and kleptomania that have hobbled the economy and left the country owing the World Bank and International Monetary Fund some $3.5 billion. And never mind the fortunes the generals spend on vanity projects and the military apparatus. The standing army alone is said to number a half-million, even more than Burma’s 400,000 monks. “There is no pretense that [the junta] is doing anything for the people,” says a Western diplomat. “They talk about what people can do for them.” The government and its proxies have taken to referring to Burma, which they call the Union of Myanmar, as “the motherland” and exhorting citizens to have “Union spirit” in the face of foreigners trying to “destabilize” the nation. The rulers also talk about uplifting the nation’s education standards. But most people say they instead have steadily eroded Burma’s once-admired school system. Relatively few people still speak English in this former British colony, and residents say there is little effort to teach it in schools. “The teacher writes an English word on the board and then repeats, several times, the same word in Burmese,” says a university graduate. “What sense does that make? Of course, they don’t want people to know English.” The University of Rangoon was a regional powerhouse in the 1950s, but the generals shuttered it after crushing the 1988 uprising, which was led by university students. The main campus on University Avenue, not far from the brand-new U.S. Embassy, is now rundown, used only for some postgraduate programs; satellite campuses operate in other parts of the city.
Even those lucky enough to go to university have few prospects after graduating, unless they boast government connections. A doorman at a top Rangoon hotel tells me he has a degree in history. The young man delivering room service at my Mandalay hotel recently graduated with a degree in physics. Physics! And on his business card my Mandalay taxi driver has printed in parentheses, “B.Sc. Chemistry.” “Not much you can do with a degree except hang it on the wall,” the 42-year-old says, not without humor.
