Military Maneuvers

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In typically disingenuous fashion, Burma's military leaders are hailing the country's ongoing National Convention as a historic landmark. Last week, Prime Minister Khin Nyunt visited Malaysia and Thailand to sell the event as part of Burma's enlightened transition to what he calls a "modern democratic state." But it's been difficult for outsiders to assess the scale of the generals' democratic achievement, because foreign media and diplomats—along with independent Burmese reporters—have been denied access to the convention. There are other absentees, too, most notably Aung San Suu Kyi, the Nobel Peace laureate and leader of the National League for Democracy (NLD), which won a landslide victory in the 1990 general election but was prevented by the junta from assuming power. Many hoped Suu Kyi would be released from house arrest to attend the event, but the generals chose to take their own idiosyncratic approach to democracy: keeping her locked up, while also shuttering her party's branch offices. As a result, the NLD has sent no delegates to the convention, reinforcing the impression that the conference is little more than a political show, clumsily designed to give the government a much-needed sheen of respectability.

The venue, a heavily guarded army barracks about 50 kilometers north of Rangoon, seems grimly appropriate for this exercise in pseudo democracy. Residents of the capital jokingly refer to it as the "concentration camp," despite the government's assurance that attendees—who are not allowed to leave the barracks during the convention—have been furnished with "TV, karaoke, newspapers, movies, stage show, gymnasium and golf course." The 1,076 delegates, most of them handpicked by the regime, have been issued a list of stern guidelines. According to the state-run New Light of Myanmar newspaper, "delegates are advised to put on suitable clothes, to avoid taking a bath at unreasonable times, and [should not] eat junk food." More ominously, they must avoid "speaking ill of others," mentioning "topics that are not related to the matters being discussed," and expressing "disloyalty to the State." Anyone who criticizes the forum is subject to a prison sentence of up to 20 years. Speaking to people inside Burma by telephone, I felt the sense of frustration that the convention has inspired in them. A well-known political commentator in Rangoon told me: "I am now quite skeptical of the whole thing, but if I begin to voice my critical views, I'm going to jail."

The main topic of discussion at the convention is the drafting of a new constitution, which the government has said will later be followed by general elections. Among the delegates, there are ethnic leaders who are legitimately eager to discuss such lofty matters, but it's hard to be optimistic about the quality of the debate. Some of those present are members of insurgent groups that have reached cease-fire agreements with Rangoon and are primarily concerned with safeguarding their own interests, which include expanding their business empires and strengthening their militias. They have scant interest in challenging the status quo—and that suits the government, which has declared that one of the key objectives of the convention is to ensure "participation by the defense services in national political leadership in the future state."

Meanwhile, outside the convention, the climate of fear across Burma has intensified. Last week, several NLD members were taken into custody for handing out pamphlets marking the one-year anniversary of Suu Kyi's current house arrest. This follows the detentions of a number of activists, including a Burmese reporter turned activist who was sentenced last month to 15 years in jail for sending news reports to foreign media outlets and contacting exiled dissident groups. An activist friend who recently fled to the Burma-Thailand border told me "the government is adding more rooms to the prisons," implying that the crackdown on political dissent will only get worse. In the past month or so, he said, 40 activists have left the capital for fear of political persecution.

Overseas, the convention has been widely dubbed a farce. The U.S. said the assembly "lacks legitimacy," called for the release of "all political prisoners," and extended its economic sanctions against Burma for another year. Paulo Sergio Pinheiro, a United Nations human-rights envoy to Burma, dismissed the convention as "a meaningless and undemocratic exercise" that will "[not] end Burma's virtual pariah status." But the generals, who have illegally ruled the country for more than 15 years, are largely deaf to international criticism. Indeed, they have ensured that Burmese state television devotes countless hours to covering the triumph of the convention. Many households have simply switched off their TVs. Faced with falling real incomes and daily power cuts, they have more immediate concerns than this deeply cynical political circus.