Anatomy Of a Failed Revolution

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The Shwedagon's eastern gate is locked and guarded by soldiers and riot police, who are confronted by hundreds of angry monks and students. It is around noon, and the battle for the Shwedagon is about to begin. There are explosions--of smoke bombs, meant to shock and disorient--and the riot police charge, striking the protesters with canes. The monks and students fight back, and soon there is the unmistakable crackle of live ammunition; the soldiers are shooting above our heads. "They are not Buddhists," rages Thurein, 24, a student, who is clutching half a brick and running from the smoke. "They are not humans. Tell the world. We were praying peacefully, and they beat us."

The monks dress their wounds and begin their march downtown. They are pursued by trucks full of soldiers, who are jeered and pelted with rocks as they approach the Sule Pagoda. Again the soldiers fire over the protesters' heads. As dusk approaches, the crowds disperse. Nighttime Rangoon is usually a vibrant place, its sidewalks crowded with tea shops. Now nobody wants to be out after dark.

Thursday, Sept. 27

Overnight, troops surge into monasteries across the city, beating and arresting monks. At Ngwe Kyar Yan monastery, the floors are puddled with blood, the thin dormitory walls perforated with holes from rubber bullets. The raids enrage the people. The lives of Burmese Buddhists are intertwined with the lives of the monks. Monks preside over marriages, chant over the dead; they shelter orphans, care for HIV patients and help schoolchildren cram for their exams. A devout Buddhist will not even step on the shadow of a monk. With soldiers and police still inside Ngwe Kyar Yan, hundreds of local people surround it. "We had no weapons," a neighbor tells me. "Everyone just wanted to protect the monks." Eventually, with night approaching, the security forces fight their way out with live rounds, killing two people.

Only a handful of monks escape the junta's dragnet to join that day's demonstration near the Sule Pagoda. But there are thousands of protesters when I arrive. More military trucks pull up at the intersection, and the troops inside noisily cock their rifles. The crowd tenses as one. Seconds later, there are more smoke bombs, and we are running for our lives.

We run along the streets, keeping low, chased by the sound of gunfire. Not far from where I was standing lies the body of Japanese photographer Kenji Nagai, shot dead by a soldier at point-blank range.

Riot police are marching north up Sule Pagoda Road, banging truncheons against shields. Behind them is an even more menacing sight: hundreds of troops marching in formation. Between the two groups is a truck with loudspeakers that announce the street is to be cleared. Miraculously, despite the bloodshed, people are still protesting, still chanting their defiant mantra: Let everyone be free from harm ...

Friday, Sept. 28

The New Light of Myanmar gives its version of yesterday's events: "Groups of demonstrators mobbed security forces, throwing stones and sticks at them, using catapults and swords," it reads. "The security forces had to fire warning shots as the protesters turned a blind [eye] to their repeated requests." The official death toll is 10, but everyone thinks it is actually much higher. A United Nations official tells me 40 were killed and 3,000 arrested, including 1,000 monks. Another diplomat hazards "hundreds" of deaths.

The crackdown has worked. There are small, sporadic protests but no marches. The sacred rallying points, the Shwedagon and Sule pagodas, are locked and guarded. Everywhere there are troops arresting and beating people.

As I leave Rangoon for Bangkok, the 2007 democracy uprising feels over. Even the monsoon rains--such a feature of these once joyous protests, with the monks marching shin-deep through flooded streets--have petered out. The sun returns, and a cheerless rainbow arcs across the city. "Peace and stability restored, traveling and marketing back to normal in Yangon," trumpets The New Light of Myanmar.

But I have a sense that the junta's victory may yet prove Pyrrhic. The brutal crackdown has shattered the relationship between the generals and the monks. The regime spent years building new pagodas and donating alms to cultivate its image as protector of the faith. It can hardly claim that role now. The assault on a revered institution may yet cause divisions in the army's ranks. "Soldiers are humans," says a Burmese analyst with close ties to the military. "They have families. They have monks among their relatives." Already stories are being told of monks damning to hell the soldiers who beat them--and the soldiers breaking down in tears, believing they have been condemned.

The prospect of eternal damnation is not the army's only problem. It is crippled by low recruitment and high desertion rates. Money is scarce, even for the regime's enforcers. I saw many troops carrying only rusting rifles. The soldier who killed Nagai was wearing flip-flops.

The economic misery that sparked the protests remains. Burma has a grave and worsening humanitarian crisis. Half of Asia's malaria deaths occur here; a third of the children under 5 years old are malnourished; most of its people live on less than a dollar a day. "People have been successfully intimidated into keeping their heads down--maybe," says Shari Villarosa, chargé d'affaires at the U.S. embassy in Rangoon. "But it's still a struggle for them to survive--to feed and educate their families, to get health care. So there could be another eruption."

If that happens, what can the world do? There is already unprecedented international pressure on Burma, although its impact on this isolated and xenophobic regime is questionable. While I was in Rangoon, U.N. Special Envoy Ibrahim Gambari met with both Suu Kyi (twice) and junta chief Than Shwe, but Gambari's efforts look unlikely to kick-start a dialogue between the two. Similarly, China's influence over Burma--and its willingness to use it--is probably exaggerated. Its U.N. Ambassador, Wang Guangya, has characterized Burma's troubles as "basically internal."

But the Burmese aren't giving up. Before leaving Rangoon, I met a former political prisoner who was delighted that so many young students had joined the protests. "Some were carrying fighting peacock flags, just like in '88," he said. "The message has clearly got through to the next generation." The '07 Generation--monks and laypeople alike--may yet rise again.