Myanmar's Enemy Within - Book Summary

Peeling back the layers of Myanmar's complex conflict

Imagine a nation poised on the brink of freedom, casting off the shackles of a repressive military junta. The allure of democracy whispers promises of peace and harmony. Yet, as the world watches, a shadow looms and violent waves crash — this time, not from the expected quarters, but from within the Buddhist majority against their Muslim compatriots.

This is the perplexing and heart-wrenching transformation of Myanmar. The story you might have heard, of peaceful Buddhists and democratic aspirations, is more intricate than it seems. This narrative unfolds the truth behind the headlines, revealing the insidious undercurrents of historical conflict and prejudice. It's a tale that questions the chains that have bound a simmering ethnic discord and how the winds of change — democracy itself — unrealistically heralded as a solver of deep-routed animosities, may have further fanned the flames of enmity.

In this exploration, discover the unexpected and unfortunate metamorphosis of victim into aggressor, in a country where the word 'enemy' has become an identity miscast upon its own people. You'll grapple with the stark reality that:

- Many Buddhists view Muslims as antagonists to the nation's integrity,

- Historical influences, especially those from the era of British rule, deeply entangled ethnic identities with conflict, and

- Surprisingly, the ethos that seemingly divided the democratic movement from the authoritarian regime might share a common, darker lineage.

This is not just the recounting of events; it is the search for answers to Myanmar's ongoing struggle with its inner demons as it transitions from a turbulent past to an uncertain future.

A fragile peace shattered: Understanding Rakhine's descent into violence

The tranquil façades of fishing villages, the intertwined lives of Buddhist and Muslim neighbors — this was the norm in Rakhine State, a region where the fabric of community was woven from shared experiences. In the capital, Sittwe, a richer tapestry of coexistence was evident; marketplaces buzzed with the barter of traders from both faiths, children's laughter mingled in schools, and even families were bound by marriage across religious lines.

Yet in the simmering summer of 2012, this harmony was riven. Underneath the seasonal heat, a darker tension brewed — one that would set the stage for a conflagration of violence, spurred on by fear-mongering and accusations. Armed groups roved the streets. And where once there was unity, the grim sight of homes ablaze and communities torn asunder became the narrative.

The key message in this chapter is: The transition from dictatorship to democracy was a catalyst for the anti-Muslim violence in the summer of 2012.

At the heart of the conflict were the Rohingya, a Muslim minority whose claim to being Myanmarese was fervently contested by the Rakhine Buddhist majority. To the Rakhine, the Rohingya represented not just unwelcome settlers from foreign lands but an existential threat — a breach in the "Western Gate," symbolizing the last stronghold before an imagined encroachment of Islamic influence.

The onset of violence wasn't just a spontaneous outburst; it was deeply entrenched in the seismic political shifts rattling Myanmar. Transitioning from a six-decade military rule to a fragile democracy between 2011 and 2015, minority groups previously repressed by the iron fist of dictatorship now saw a glimmer of opportunity for self-assertion. The Rakhine Buddhists, however, perceived this newfound minority activism as a direct assault on their dominance, kindling fear and leading to drastic, destructive actions.

This episode of unrest wasn't an isolated event but a grim reminder of deeper societal fractures and a testament to the precarious balance Myanmar faced as it navigated the challenging transition from autocracy to an inclusive democracy. Herein lies a story not just of a country's journey, but also of the enduring complexities beneath the veneer of collective peace.

Freedom of speech becomes a double-edged sword in Rakhine State

As the world watched Myanmar transition toward democracy, unexpected stories of violence began to surface — the kind that raised disconcerting questions about the true nature of the hostilities in the region. As the summer of 2012 unfurled with its merciless heat, so too did an unsettling sequence of violence in Rakhine State, beginning with the tragic fate of a Buddhist woman and spiraling into indiscriminate acts of reprisal that bore the marks of pent-up extremism.

The key message in this chapter is: Extremists took advantage of newfound freedoms to target the Rohingya with ferocity.

The first account pinned the violence on the egregious act against a Buddhist seamstress, which appeared to many as the spark for the subsequent hate-fueled retribution. However, a deeper, more malicious intent seemed to underlie these events, as the Buddhist populace was increasingly instilled with a belief that these acts of violence were not isolated, but part of a broader Muslim plot to expel them from their lands.

In 2011, even as daily life exhibited calm, undercurrents of division were already brewing among intellectuals and leaders within Buddhist circles. They convened, they postulated, and ultimately, they set forth an incendiary theory that questioned the legitimacy of the Rohingya identity. They condemned it as a contrivance, a gambit for territory that was not theirs by right.

Buddhist publications, unheard in such candid forms since before the days of military dictatorship, suddenly sprang to vivid life with tales of treachery and existential threat. They did so unchecked by government censors who, under the staunch rule of the military, had once reined in such narratives for the stability of their dominion.

It seems, then, that with democracy's dawn came the unrestrained voice of extremists, eager to seize the opportunity to propagate fear and fuel division. The censorship that had stifled free speech was lifted, which doubtless meant progress, but it also unwittingly unlatched the gates for an influx of propaganda aimed at the Rohingya, painting them as enemies to the land and its people.

This chapter of Rakhine's tale speaks to the bittersweet consequences of a nation's journey toward liberty — a poignant reminder that freedom, without the pillars of tolerance and understanding, can be wielded as weapon rather than a tool for unity.

From isolated incidents to widespread chaos: Myanmar's escalating violence

In the wake of the violence in Rakhine State, the fragile veneer of societal harmony in Myanmar began to crack on a nationwide scale. The tension between Rohingya and Buddhists, initially confined to certain regions, spilled over, spiraling into a cycle of aggression and retribution that spread fear and suspicion across communities.

In this chilling narrative, we learn how the conflict was depicted lopsidedly in the media: Buddhists were often painted as beleaguered defenders, while the Rohingya were cast as aggressors, branded as terrorists. These portrayals fueled an already volatile situation, weaving together local strife with the broader fabric of international terrorist threats.

The key message in this chapter is: Anti-Muslim violence permeated the whole of Myanmar, with ripples felt long after June 2012.

The aftermath of the Nasi neighborhood's destruction saw a troubling statement from the nation's president, explicitly excluding the Rohingya from the umbrella of national concern, casting them as outsiders. Subsequent violence in October underscored a grim reality — despite the ostensible law enforcement presence, Rohingya villages fell prey to attacks that swelled the population of refugees living in dire conditions.

Stories swirled, hinting at state complicity in the terror, substantiated in part by disturbing visuals of authorities standing by as violence raged. The climate of distrust and fear drove countless Rohingya to seek the dubious safety of camps, while others fell victim to heinous acts like executions.

This animosity wasn't contained to the Rohingya alone. Calls for widespread Muslim boycotts led to the death of a Buddhist trader who had dared to conduct business with a Muslim. The tide of anti-Muslim fervor swept through the nation; even distant, unrelated Muslim communities faced boycotts, acts of violence, and even deaths — as seen in the tragic case of a 94-year-old Muslim woman.

In Mandalay, far from the original Rakhine conflict, Muslim neighborhoods were razed, propelling thousands into the uncertainty of refugee status. This ominous spread of hostilities signified not just a series of unfortunate events but a deep-seated crisis of identity and intolerance threatening to engulf the promise of Myanmar's newly democratic path.

As the listener absorbs the reality of this unfolding tragic saga, we're compelled to question the nature of progress itself and the paradoxes that come with newfound liberties — when the same freedoms that open doors for some cast others into the shadow of an uncertain future.

The colonial past: Tracing the roots of Myanmar's sectarian divide

Across the sweep of time, traders from far-off Persia and India were lured by the allure of Myanmar's Bay of Bengal, marking the beginning of Muslim presence in the region over a millennium ago. Their integration into the cultural and social fabric of places like Arakan was seamless, as they blended with local populations and established themselves as part of Myanmar's diverse heritage.

Through the ages, conflict was no stranger to these lands, but it wasn't religion that sparked battles — rather, the tug-of-war over territories was the primary instigator, with kings rallying soldiers from the myriad communities under their rule without bias toward religious lines.

Given such a rich, intertwined history, the pressing question arises: why do modern Buddhists perceive Muslims as recent interlopers to be rebuffed?

The key message in this chapter is: The British empire's colonial strategies in Myanmar sowed the seeds of anti-Muslim animosity.

With the full annexation of Myanmar in 1885, the British empire set about meshing it with its colossal Asian holdings, pivoting around the jewel of India. This colonial integration demanded an efficient infrastructure supported by a strong workforce — a requirement that Myanmar alone could not fulfill. Britain's solution was the dissolution of borders, ushering in a wave of immigration from neighboring India.

The influx of laborers, clerks, and lenders — many of them Muslim and Hindu Indians — forever altered Myanmar's demographic landscape. They thrived, prospered, and by the dawn of the 20th century, had become proprietors of vast stretches of fertile Myanmar land, creating a stark disparity that stoked the fires of local discontent.

Fueling the emergence of the Myanmar nationalist movement in the early 20th century was not just a drive to dispel British control but also the burgeoning resentments toward this new class of immigrants. Indians of the Hindu faith were tolerated, but Muslims, seen as requiring religious conversion from their Burmese brides, were vilified as both British lackeys and corrupters of "pure" bloodlines.

As the goal of ejecting the British empire crystallized, it became inseparably linked with the endeavor to expel Muslims from Myanmar soil. Over time, these ambitions stretched beyond the Indian immigrants to encapsulate older Muslim communities like the Rohingya, entangling them in a web of suspicion and hatred cast by the shadows of colonial legacies.

Myanmar's road to nationhood, then, is marred by the lingering ghosts of its colonial past, ghosts that have haunted the relationships between its people, granting old bonds new ruptures that continue to challenge the collective spirit of a country seeking unity in its diversity.

Dictatorial rule and the relentless pursuit of national unity

A stark crimson banner etched with a dire prophecy greeted those who ventured near Myanmar’s governmental halls: extinction, it seemed to suggest, was not a natural occurrence but the consequence of domination by one race over another. Such ominous signs were emblematic of a nation under the grip of a military regime, where unity was pursued with relentless fervor.

The key message in this chapter is: The dictatorship of Myanmar was driven by a single-minded focus on national unity, by any necessary means.

When Myanmar shook off the chains of British colonialism in 1948, it found itself facing seismic tremors of instability. The military, initially called as the peacekeepers of order, gripped the reins of control and began a long and iron-fisted rule that placed the nation’s security above all else. The belief was unshakeable — without a solid state apparatus and impermeable borders, they were convinced Myanmar would crumble under external forces, just as it had during colonial times.

Founded on aspirations of a undivided nation, the military junta echoed a historic slogan of the past: "One voice, one blood, one nation." Only through steadfast unity, it was argued, could the lurking "destructive elements," both from within and without, be kept at bay.

The dictatorship spun a tale of itself not as a regime establishing a nation, but as a guardian reviving an ancient nation's glory. It painted a picture of a Myanmar that thrived for centuries under the banner of a singular culture and belief system centered around Buddhism. Historical minorities were presented as groups that had seamlessly integrated into this Buddhist majority.

However, the British occupation was blamed for disrupting this longstanding unity by introducing groups, particularly Muslims, who resisted assimilation — a narrative with echoes of truth considering the British penchant for meticulous racial categorization that stoked divisions.

The military's recounting of Myanmar’s history was not merely a narrative exercise; it laid the foundation for their rule. For the military council, protecting the sanctity of Myanmar was paramount, and if that sanctity was to be preserved through forceful measures to achieve national unity, then this was not just acceptable — it was necessary.

As we journey through this chapter of Myanmar's story, we confront the complexities of a post-colonial nation striving for unity, wrestling with the divisive remnants of its past, and grappling with the challenges of forming a coherent national identity while under dictatorship's stern watch.

Questioning identity: The military's unease with ethnic dynamics

On the cusp of independence in 1948, Myanmar's minorities — nestled along the nation's borders — were buoyed by promises of autonomy or, at the very least, equitable rights alongside the dominant Bamar group. Yet, the dawn of freedom saw these assurances abruptly revoked, leaving a trail of discontent that would lead many to take up arms.

The key message in this chapter is: The military regime looked upon Myanmar’s rich, shifting tapestry of ethnic identities with a growing apprehension.

The rose-tinted promise of independence rapidly wilted as minority groups, feeling betrayed, launched insurgencies which they ultimately could not sustain. The military, tasked with quelling these rebellions, grew in stature and might until it was the most formidable force within the nation.

This environment empowered those with rigid views on national unity, who viewed the rich fluidity of Myanmar's ethnic affiliations with skepticism and unease — leading to policies that sought to distill and fix these identities.

The military regime turned its gaze, somewhat ironically, toward the model left by British colonial powers rather than drawing inspiration from Myanmar's own heritage, where political allegiance was never static nor tied to ethnicity. The story of the Bamar and Mon demonstrates this — a tale where ethnicity was not tantamount to alliance, and where personal identity could be adapted as easily as a change of attire.

But to the watchful eyes of the military, such dynamism was an enigma — a breeding ground for potential subterfuge. Echoing the British who had once meticulously categorized the populace, the regime set out to assign immutable, biological attributes to each group. Thus, an individual's ethnic identity became not a personal choice but a politically attributed state, a label determining your friend-or-foe status in the eyes of authority.

In 1982, this philosophy was cemented through an official list which engrained ethnic identities onto state documents — a citizen's ID card now dictated their societal freedoms or constraints. To be Bamar was to approach the echelons of privilege; to be Kachin was to be viewed through a lens of suspicion.

As the narrative proceeds, we'll uncover how some groups faced not just restraint but total exclusion from the nation's fold — a foreshadowing of the grievance and strife that would challenge the very notion of a united Myanmar.

Rohingya: The outcasts of Myanmar's ethnic hierarchy

A guiding principle anchored the Myanmar dictatorship's policies in defining ethnic belonging to the nation: only those groups present before the pivotal year of 1824, when British colonization of Arakan began, could rightfully claim a seat at the table of national races. By this metric, the Rohingya, with documented presences dating back centuries, easily qualified as a foundational element of Myanmar's ethnic mosaic.

The key message in this chapter is: The military regime deliberately omitted the Rohingya from its official roster of recognized ethnicities.

Historical records, such as those penned by the Scottish physician Francis Buchanan in the late 18th century, validated the presence of the "Rooinga" language and people in the region. Yet, in a sweeping 1982 decision, the government cast aside such evidence and removed any official mention of the Rohingya from its ethnic index, effectively stripping them of their status.

The construction of identity in Myanmar saw a dramatic shift post-independence. Originally, new national ID cards made no allusion to one's ethnicity, symbolizing a citizenship model that transcended ethnic lines. Just prove a long enough sojourn or generational anchorage in the country, and a Myanmar identity was yours for the claiming.

However, with the enactment of the 1982 Citizenship Act, ethnicity became the cornerstone of legal existence. Now, your belonging to one of the 135 sanctioned national races translated directly into citizenship rights — leaving those unlisted, like the Rohingya, in a stark limbo of nonexistence in the eyes of the state.

Eerily reminiscent of the regime's pattern of ejection in the mid-1960s, when the Chin and Kachin communities had been marginalized and dispossessed, the Rohingya were forced to surrender their old ID cards under the guise of impending replacement — replacements that, too often, never materialized, especially for vocal advocates within the community.

Thus emerged a chilling reality: the Rohingya transformed from recognized inhabitants to stateless entities within their own homeland. With this legislative erasure, they became the latest victims of a dangerous narrative — one that viewed certain ethnicities not just as alien, but as potential threats requiring eradication or expulsion from Myanmar's collective fabric. These policies, wrought from suspicion and a desire to homogenize the nation's identity, left the Rohingya on the precipice of vulnerability, at the mercy of a country that no longer acknowledged their existence.

Sowing seeds of conflict: The demographic reengineering of Rakhine State

The prisons of Myanmar in the 1990s held a peculiar incentive for incarcerated Buddhists: a path out from behind bars, but with a hitch. This freedom came with a condition—deportation to the northwestern reaches of Rakhine State.

Those who accepted traded the confines of a cell for the promise of new housing, financial supplements, cattle, and crops—a stark contrast to the impoverished state-provided welfare that most of the country knew.

The key message in this chapter is: The government schemed to resettle Buddhists in Rakhine State as a tactic to shift the region's demographic balance.

The motivation behind this arrangement was deeply rooted in the regime's alarm over Rakhine State's demographic shifts. Despite official measures that stripped Rohingya of their rights, the state was considered by the military to be slipping into the hands of a growing Muslim populace, continually reinforced by migration from Bengal.

Powerless to fortify the border effectively, the regime concocted a bold plan: a demographic overhaul of Rakhine. The first thread of this scheme was administrative—filling higher offices with Bamar officials and peppering the state with loyal military posts.

This tapped into a historical sore spot; during World War II, Rohingya fighters had aligned with the British against the Japanese, earning administrative favor post-war, much to the chagrin of Buddhist nationalists who still harbored resentment over perceived foreign dominion.

The secondary thrust of the strategy was a concept brainstormed by Colonel Tha Kyaw, who saw the Rohingya identification as a veil for a more sinister agenda: the incursion of outsiders under a shared label with the indigenous, a Trojan horse for the eventual Islamization of Myanmar.

This plan gained traction among the upper echelon of the military, rooted in the idea that Buddhism was the adhesive of national unity. Islam, then, was an aberration, serving only to dissolve the nation's homogeneity. By transplanting Buddhists into predominantly Muslim territories, the regime believed they could reinforce the integrity of the nation, bolstering the dominance of the preferred faith.

Through strategic resettlements, the government sought not merely to change the face of a region, but to instill a sense of dominance and reclaim what they viewed as Buddhist territory—fueling the ongoing conflict and disrupting a precarious balance in a land already riven with sectarian tensions.

Democracy's double standard: The pro-democracy movement's silence on Rohingya rights

Observers, including the author, were profoundly shocked not only by the violence inflicted upon the Rohingya and other Muslims in Myanmar but also by the vitriolic antipathy with which their plight was often met. A chorus of jeers awaited displaced families as they traversed roads bearing the scars of what little life they could salvage, reflecting a burgeoning wave of anti-Muslim sentiment that surged beyond Rakhine State.

Yet what was equally bewildering was the apparent indifference emerging from a quarter where advocacy for equality and justice was expected: the pro-democracy movement itself.

The key message in this chapter is: The pro-democracy movement notably refrained from rallying to the defense of the Rohingya.

Historically, the pro-democracy movement waged a long, relentless campaign against the military's grasp on Myanmar, earning the respect and moral standing within the nation due to the sacrifices of its members. Then why does this group, steeped in the struggle for civic liberties, distance itself from aligning with the oppressed Rohingya?

A deep-seated alignment with certain nationalist principles reveals itself even among revered dissidents such as Ko Ko Gyi. Despite personal suffering under the military's yoke, he decisively excludes the Rohingya from his narrative of a liberated Myanmar, vilifying them as a threat to the nation's integrity. This stance resonates throughout the movement, where sympathy for the Rohingya is perceived as an affront to sovereignty.

Even Aung San Suu Kyi, the emblematic leader of this movement, tread a path of equivocation, refusing to squarely attribute blame to Buddhist nationalists for the strife and instead alluding to shared culpability between both sides — an assertion that starkly contrasts with the disproportionate suffering of the Rohingya.

Suu Kyi's reticence might be rooted in personal bias, but it likely also stems from a pragmatic consideration of the movement's precarious position. As the hard-won reality of open elections unfolds, openly denouncing the popular nationalist rhetoric might alienate a significant portion of its support base. On the flip side, remaining silent risks eroding its standing as a paragon for justice.

The pro-democracy movement thus finds itself ensnared in a moral dilemma between principles and politics — a conflict that continues to play out, raising profound questions about the essence of democracy and the values it must uphold, even when faced with uncomfortable truths.

Final summary: Unraveling the complex threads of Myanmar's conflict

The turbulent currents of Myanmar's socio-political landscape form a backdrop to an enduring crisis that has seen the Muslim population, with centuries-old roots in the region, cast as outsiders in their own land. This tension reached a violent climax in 2012, exacerbating a divide that has deep historical precedence.

The foundation of this animosity can be traced back to British colonization, which planted the seeds of ethnic strife now deeply embedded in the national psyche. Nationalist fervor, steeped in anti-Muslim sentiment, not only shaped the heavy-handed doctrine of the military regime but also permeated the broader societal fabric of Myanmar.

Caught in the crossfire is the pro-democracy movement, whose commitment to equality and justice seems to falter when it comes to the Rohingya—indicative of the broader, shared reluctance across Myanmar society to embrace the Muslim minority as fellow countrymen.

The violent episodes that erupted were not just random flare-ups but manifestations of a centuries-old prejudice rekindled by recent politics. While reports often portrayed these as reactionary defenses, the truth reveals a concerted effort to repel what is perceived as an invasive force, despite the Rohingya's longstanding presence in the nation.

In summarizing these insights, we confront a sobering reality: Myanmar's internal conflict is not merely a recent phenomenon but the revival of a historical divide. This conflict continues to challenge the nation's commitment to its diverse roots and the universal principles of democracy and human rights.