Protesters running as security forces arrive during a crackdown, in Ahlone township, in April. Photo / The New York Times
Police are now stopping random people on the streets. A group of secret informers has reappeared. The killings continue, but so does the resistance.
Every night at 8, the stern-faced newscaster on Myanmar military TV announces the day's hunted. The mug shots of those charged with political crimes appear on-screen. Among them are doctors, students, beauty queens, actors, reporters, even a pair of makeup bloggers.
Some of the faces look puffy and bruised, the likely result of interrogations. They are a warning not to oppose the military junta that seized power in a February 1 coup and imprisoned the country's civilian leaders.
As the midnight insects trill, the hunt intensifies. Military censors sever the internet across most of Myanmar, matching the darkness outside with an information blackout. Soldiers sweep through the cities, arresting, abducting and assaulting with slingshots and rifles.
The nightly banging on doors, as arbitrary as it is dreaded, galvanises a frenzy of self-preservation. Residents delete their Facebook accounts, destroy incriminating mobile phone cards and erase traces of support for Myanmar's elected government. As sleep proves elusive, it's as if much of the nation is suffering a collective insomnia.
Little more than a decade ago, the most innocuous of infractions — owning a photograph of pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi or an unregistered cellphone or a single note of foreign currency — could mean a prison sentence. Some of the military's Orwellian diktats rivalled those of North Korea.
Three months after Myanmar's experiment in democracy was strangled by the generals' power grab, the sense of foreboding has returned. There is no indication that it will ease. For the better part of 60 years, the military's rule over Myanmar was animated not by grand ideology but by fear. Today, with much of the population determined to resist the coup-makers, a new junta is consolidating its grip by resorting, yet again, to a reign of terror.
"Myanmar is going back to the bad old days when people were so scared that their neighbours would inform on them and they could get arrested for no reason at all," said Ko Moe Yan Naing, a former police officer who is now in hiding after opposing the coup.
Prisons are once again filled with poets, Buddhist monks and politicians. Hundreds more, many young men, have disappeared, their families unaware of their whereabouts, according to a group that tracks the military's detentions. More than 770 civilians have been killed by security forces since the putsch, among them dozens of children.
As they did years before, people walk the streets with the adrenaline-fuelled sense of neck hairs prickling, a glance from a soldier or a lingering gaze from a passerby chilling the air.
Yet if the junta is reflexively returning to rule by fear, it is also holding hostage a changed country. The groundswell of opposition to the coup, which has sustained protests in hundreds of cities and towns, was surely not in the military's game plan, making its crackdown all the riskier. Neither the outcome of the putsch nor the fate of the resistance is preordained.
Myanmar's full emergence from isolation — economic, political and social — only came five years ago when the military began sharing power with an elected government headed by Suu Kyi. A population that barely had any connection to the internet quickly made up for lost time. Today, its citizenry is well versed in social media and the power of protests tethered to global movements. They know how to spot a good political meme on the internet.
Their resistance to the coup has included a national strike and a civil disobedience movement, which have paralysed the economy and roiled the government. Banks and hospitals are all but shut. Although the United Nations has warned that half the country could be living in poverty by next year because of the pandemic and the political crisis, the democratic opposition's resolve shows no sign of weakening.
In late March, Ma Thuzar Nwe, a history teacher, branded her skin with defiance. The tattoo on the nape of her neck reads: "Spring Revolution Feb. 2021."
The police are now stopping people on the streets, looking for evidence on their phones or bodies of support for the National Unity Government, a civilian authority set up after the elected leadership was expelled by the military. A popular tactic is to affix an image of Senior Gen. Min Aung Hlaing, the coup leader, on the sole of a shoe, smashing his face into the ground with each step. During spot checks, the police now demand that people show their soles.
Thuzar Nwe says she wears her hair down to cover her tattoo, hoping the police won't be too inquisitive.
"In Myanmar culture, if a woman has a tattoo, she's a bad girl," she said. "I broke the rules of culture. This revolution is a rare chance to eradicate dictatorship from the country."
But the Tatmadaw, as the Myanmar military is known, has built an entire infrastructure dedicated to one purpose: perpetuating its power for power's sake.
Its bureaucracy of oppression is formidable. An army of informers, known as "dalan," has reappeared, monitoring whispers and neighbours' movements.
The blandly named General Administration Department, a vast apparatus that remained under military control even after the army had started sharing authority with the civilian government, is once again pressuring administrators to keep tabs on everyone's political views. And local officials have taken to banging on doors and peering in homes, as a dreaded system of household registration is reintroduced.
Each morning, as residents count the dead and missing, the military's media present its version of reality, all the more pervasive since the junta has revoked the publishing licenses of major private newspapers. Democracy will return soon, the military's headlines insist. Banking services are running "as usual." Health care with "modern machinery" is available. Government ministries are enjoying English-proficiency courses. Soft-shell crab cultivation is "thriving" and penetrating the foreign market.
The Tatmadaw may have modernised its military arsenal, acquiring Chinese-made weapons and Russian fighter jets. But its propaganda is stuck in a time warp from back when few challenged its narrative. There is no mention in its media of the military's killing spree, the broken economy or the growing armed resistance. On Wednesday, the State Administration Council, as the junta calls itself, banned satellite TV.
For all the fear percolating in Myanmar, the resistance has only hardened. On Wednesday, the National Unity Government said it was forming a "people's defense force" to counter the Tatmadaw. Two days before, ethnic insurgents fighting in the borderlands shot down a Tatmadaw helicopter.
Ignoring such developments, the Tatmadaw's media instead devote space to the supposed infractions of thousands of civilians who must be locked up for "undermining state peace and stability." Among them are AIDS patients so weak they can barely walk.
More than for the civilian population, such propaganda is meant to convince the military ranks that the coup was necessary, Tatmadaw insiders said. Sequestered in military compounds without good internet access, soldiers have little ability to tap into the outrage of fellow citizens. Their information diet is composed of military TV, military newspapers and the echo chambers of military-dominated Facebook on the rare occasions they can get online.
Still, news does filter in, and some officers have broken rank. In recent weeks, about 80 Myanmar air force officers have deserted and are now in hiding, according to fellow military personnel.
"Politics are not the business of soldiers," said an air force captain who is now in hiding and does not want his name used because his family might be punished for his desertion. "Now the Tatmadaw have become the terrorists, and I don't want to be part of it."
In the cities, almost everyone seems to know someone who has been arrested or beaten or forced to pay a bribe to the security forces in exchange for freedom.
Last month, Ma May Thaw Zin, a 19-year-old law student, joined a flash mob protest in Yangon, the country's biggest city. The police, she said, detained several young women and crammed them into an interrogation center cell so small they barely had room to sit on the floor.
For a whole day, there was no food. May Thaw Zin said she resorted to drinking from the toilet. The interrogations were just her and a clutch of men. They rubbed against her and kicked her breasts and face with their boots, she said. On the fourth day, after men shoved the barrel of a pistol against the black hood over her head, she was released. The bruises remain.
Since she returned home, some family members have refused to have anything to do with her because she was caught protesting, May Thaw Zin said. Even if they hate the coup, even if they know their futures have been blunted, the instincts of survival have kicked in.
"They are afraid," she said, but "I can't accept that my country will go back to the old dark age."
Written by: Hannah Beech
Photographs by: The New York Times
© 2021 THE NEW YORK TIMES
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