Inside story- Asiaweek 9.5.97

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ASIA WEEK (9.5.97)

In The Name of Money

SLORC, the Thais and two multinational oil giants are building a gas pipeline. 
The Karen are in the way -- and that's just too bad

By Dominic Faulder

A GRAY SUNDAY MORNING, and all is quiet at Ban-I-Thong, a collection of 
corrugated iron and timber houses on a precipitous section of the Thai-Myanmar 
border. A rickety stockade marks the frontier; a wooden barrier projects sharp 
stakes, defenses best suited to elephant warfare. There are no pillboxes with 
machine guns or artillery emplacements, just helipads. Light mists skim the 
ridge, occasionally obscuring the Thai and Myanmar flags fluttering side by 
side. 

At this point along the rugged 2,400-km border, the Thai and Myanmar 
militaries stand toe-to-toe in peace, the enmity of centuries set aside. Both 
sides are solicitous, intent upon building cross-border confidence. The reason 
for this sudden friendliness: mutual business interests. From far below, I can 
hear the clink of chains and the roar of heavy machinery. Men are starting 
work on a pipeline. It is being built by an international consortium 
comprising the state-owned Myanma Oil and Gas Enterprise, the Petroleum 
Authority of Thailand's exploration arm and two oil multinationals, France's 
Total and America's Unocal. Once completed next year, the pipeline will carry 
natural gas from the Yadana field some 400 km offshore in the Andaman Sea to a 
new power station 270 km inside Thailand. 

An enormous, sandy-haired man is scanning the scene below, from time to time 
fussing over a two-way radio. He is a former South African soldier. Now he 
works for Ordsafe, an American security outfit. He is here for America's 
Texaco, a company not in the consortium. Somewhere below, a Texaco survey team 
is figuring out how another pipe can be laid alongside Total's. By 1999, the 
second pipeline is supposed to carry gas from a smaller field. 

"I hear this [Total] project has attracted bad publicity," says the affable 
South African. He is a master of understatement. We are gazing at what is 
easily Southeast Asia's most controversial infrastructure project. Its many 
critics say Myanmar's military junta, the State Law and Order Restoration 
Council, will stop at nothing to ensure the pipeline gets built. Even if that 
means stamping hard on anyone in the way. Or weathering economic sanctions, 
such as those imposed in April by U.S. President Bill Clinton. 

The stakes are high. Consider Unocal's recent decision to open a "twin 
corporate headquarters" in Malaysia. That may help it evade Clinton's ban on 
American investment in Myanmar (though the sanctions may well torpedo Texaco's 
plans for a second pipeline). SLORC -- directly or otherwise -- stands to earn 
$200 million a year from the pipeline, and plainly it is prepared to ignore 
worldwide opprobrium. "I cannot see that the pipeline is going to benefit the 
public at large," says Myanmar's voice of conscience, Aung San Suu Kyi. "What 
it will do is put money in the pockets of the authorities. This could be used 
for buying weapons or building extravagant hotels. That is not going to help 
the ordinary people of Burma." No one knows that better than those unlucky 
enough to be in the pipeline's path -- especially the Karen people. Given that 
they account for at least a tenth of Myanmar's 48 million citizens, presumably 
they deserve some say in their future. 

A minority group shunted aside by "progress" is not unusual. In this case, 
however, history and geography have made things extra-complicated. For 
starters, armed Karen groups have been battling the central authorities for 
nearly half a century. Until early 1995, the powerful Karen National 
Liberation Army controlled much of the border with Thailand, charging a 7% tax 
on smuggled goods to bankroll its struggle. The leaders of the group are 
mainly Christians who once wanted to secede from the mostly Buddhist country, 
but would now settle for a degree of autonomy. Unlike most rebel groups in 
Myanmar, the KNLA was sufficiently well-armed, organized and confident to 
scorn any peace treaty with SLORC. It obtained weapons in Thailand, where 
authorities generally looked the other way when rebel fighters regrouped on 
the wrong side of the border. Each dry season, the Myanmar military would hurl 
its troops, many of them boys, against the battle-hardened Karen. Each year 
the Karen would defend their jungle redoubts. When the rains began, the army 
would withdraw, leaving the Karen in their malarial barracks to prepare for 
the next dry-season offensive. So it went, year after year.

The tide began to turn when Thai and Myanmar officials recognized the area's 
commercial potential. In late 1988, Thai army chief Gen. Chavalit 
Yongchaiyudh, now the prime minister, flew to Yangon with a planeful of Thai 
reporters and embraced his SLORC "brothers." Fishing and timber concessions 
quickly followed to Thai companies, many with military connections. The Karen 
found themselves in an economic vice. This decade, the oil companies entered 
the picture. The junta wants the money that the pipeline will bring; the Thais 
need the electricity. With so much at stake, an armed insurrection could no 
longer be tolerated. 

This became clear in 1995 when Karen fighters launched an attack along the 
pipeline route and killed five workers and wounded eleven others. The 
repercussions were grave. Twelve Karen reportedly were executed after the 
attack on the pipeline crew. Since then, the military balance has shifted 
inexorably in SLORC's favor. Indeed, no central Myanmar government has been 
more successful in projecting influence over border areas since the Union of 
Burma was founded in 1948. One by one, Karen strongholds have fallen before 
the SLORC onslaught. The army easily overran the newest Karen headquarters in 
late February. Even Bo Mya, the veteran Karen guerrilla leader, has fled north 
and is talking retirement. 

In February, Myanmar TV showed SLORC deputy chairman Gen. Maung Aye stomping 
on a Karen flag after a company of fighters had surrendered. He made the Karen 
commander kneel before him and apologize. The general's gesture of contempt 
was sure to radicalize some Karen not involved in the insurgency, but the 
military junta clearly smells victory. Maung Aye says the Karen rebels should 
be finished by July, when Myanmar is due to join ASEAN. Front-line officers 
expect to "mop up" by the end of the 1998 dry season -- coincidentally about 
the time the pipeline is due for completion. With the Karen National 
Liberation Army teetering, refugees are pouring into Thailand. In 1988 there 
were about 20,000 along the border; today there are six times as many -- and 
the Thais are proving to be fickle hosts, letting some refugees stay and 
pushing others back. 

At a noodle shop along the southern border, a scruffy man with a wispy beard 
sketches a map showing the site of a new refugee camp. He describes the 
condition of the refugees, mostly women and kids, with unaffected sympathy. 
"They have nothing to eat at home," he says. "Very bad." He tugs out an ID 
card that reveals him to be a Thai Special Forces officer. Without his map, 
there would be no finding the camp and its 2,500-plus refugees. Down a dusty 
track and across two small streams, the road is barred by Thai rangers. They 
are friendly but adamant -- no access without a special pass. 

Further north in Tak province, the refugees are more accessible. Mae Hla is 
the largest refugee camp along the border. It houses 26,000 Karen, having 
recently absorbed two other camps: Its occupants believe there is safety in 
numbers. Here, Pastor Simon worries about the future of his children. At 49, 
the Karen Christian is as old as the insurgency. Pictures of the Thai royal 
family hang in his hut; the Karen know how important it is to show respect to 
their hosts. "We're very vulnerable to attack," says Pastor Simon. In January, 
a group of men crossed the border and tried to torch Mae Hla. Sixteen huts 
burned down before Thai border police and Karen fighters drove off the 
intruders. Similar incursions up to six km inside Thailand have almost wiped 
out other camps. In one incident more than half of 2,500 huts were razed. In 
another, 145 houses burned to the ground at the Sho Klo and Mawkier camps near 
Mae Sot; 500 people were left homeless. 

The way the attacks were orchestrated says a lot about how SLORC is waging 
this dirty little war. Eyewitnesses claim that a breakaway Karen faction 
bankrolled by the junta took part in the cross-border raids. The renegade 
group has its genesis in a typically subversive SLORC tactic. In 1994, the 
junta planted an activist abbot named U Thuzana in a Karen monastery. He 
managed to set the Buddhist and animist rank-and-file against the mostly 
Christian leadership. As a result, up to 400 fighters joined SLORC. Later, 
they led government soldiers straight to the Karen base camp. It was captured, 
and other camps followed suit. The Karen fighters, now numbering perhaps 2,000 
and low on ammunition, have been on the run ever since.

In March, Thai army chief Gen. Chettha Thanajaro went to the Friendship Bridge 
that will soon connect Thailand to Myanmar and publicly embraced Gen. Maung 
Aye, SLORC's deputy chairman. The bonhomie was a tonic for business interests 
but made refugees nervous. They fear any accommodation between the two 
militaries will come at their expense. They may be right. It was the generals' 
second meeting this year. A month earlier they got together at the Myanmar 
border town of Tachilek, which is linked to Thailand's Mae Sai by a two-lane 
bridge. Not long after, the Thai army reportedly forced several thousand 
refugees back into Myanmar. Some also were turned away at Thongphaboom, near 
where the pipeline will cross the border. The same thing happened at Bongti, 
where a new road will connect Thailand to the Andaman sea. How the Thai 
military treats the Karen refugees seems to depend largely on whether or not 
they are close to an infrastructure project. 

When SLORC is too heavy-handed, Thai officials feel bound to react. After the 
January attack on the Mae Hla camp where Pastor Simon lives, the foreign 
ministry called in Myanmar Ambassador Hla Maung. He emerged unchastened. "The 
Thai government is not expressing concern," he said. "We did not discuss in 
detail how to solve the border problem. Repatriating the Karen refugees, 
though, must be the first step. We want to see the removal of the camps from 
Thailand." 

At Huay Kraloke, 14 km from the Friendship Bridge, it is immediately clear why 
the Karen are in no hurry to go home. Much of the fire-stormed camp looks like 
an over-size ash tray. Refugees say the whole place would have gone up had 
Thai fire-fighters not arrived. In one of the remaining houses sits the vice 
chair of the Karen Refugee Committee, Mary Oh, 63. An avid pipe-smoker, she is 
an indomitable soul who once played right-wing for a football team. Oh 
considers herself a "Karen Joan of Arc," and has a disconcerting habit of 
bursting into song. "We're not intending to stay here forever," she says. "If 
there is genuine peace in Burma, we would go back tonight. We look forward to 
cake, not the whip or fire." ÊÊ

At her feet sit the widows of three Karen farmers. The women are numbed by 
predicaments that leave them beyond tears. Naw Myi, 26, has three children 
clinging to her, the eldest Mu Ker Htee, 5. In December, Naw Myi's husband, 
28-year-old Par Pya, a farmer with no connection to the Karen rebels, tried to 
beg off sick as a military porter. Shortly, she says, more than 100 soldiers 
surrounded their house. An officer nicknamed Captain Sparrow watched his men 
lynch the young father. With a rifle stock they broke Par Pya's legs, then his 
arms and finished him with two shots. According to Naw Myi, little Mu Ker Htee 
saw it all. "She screamed and cried," says her mother. Terrified neighbors did 
not dare move the body until the next day. Not long after, there were reports 
that 3,000 porters had been dragooned for an impending offensive. Most came 
from towns well inside Myanmar. Forced portering is standard operating 
procedure for the military. Groups of starving men and boys who escape, or 
have been released in the middle of nowhere, regularly appear at the border. 
The bodies of the less fortunate sometimes float down the Moei and Salween 
rivers. 

Meantime, human-rights workers say minority villages are being relocated for a 
variety of security and economic reasons. The military is said to be trying to 
contain villagers and prevent embarrassing tell-tale exoduses into Thailand. 
The latest controversy surrounds the creation of the million-hectare 
Myinmolekat Nature Reserve south of the pipeline corridor. New York's World 
Conservation Society and Washington's Smithsonian Institute are under fire 
over a project that may involve wholesale village relocations.

On a bright day, one can look down the pipeline corridor from Ban-I-Thong 
almost as far as the Andaman Sea. On this murky Sunday in March, however, the 
sky has obscured the high ground where more than 10,000 troops are scattered 
along the route. This is the most secure zone in a country in one of the 
tightest military grips on Earth. Total says the figure is fantasy. I board a 
helicopter and can see little evidence of such a robust presence. 
Nevertheless, Myanmar soldiers certainly cleared the corridor, and by most 
accounts were none-too-gentle. As a result, key players in the pipeline 
consortium have been named as defendants in a California class-action suit. 
They face 19 charges, such as crimes against humanity, torture, violence 
against women and wrongful death. The case may hinge on proof of "vicarious 
liability" -- that is, guilt by association. 

Even if the consortium did not knowingly use forced labor, it cannot be 
unaware of it nearby. Consider the new freight-and-passenger railway from Ye 
to Tavoy. It actually bisects the pipeline. Human-rights types call it the 
"Second Death Railway" -- a reference to the line Allied prisoners built 
during World War II. The activists say the tracks are being laid with forced 
labor, but not a soul can be seen when I fly over. 

Security along the corridor is low-key but tight. Workers do not live inside 
mine-ringed compounds, as has been alleged. Critics of the project say the 
consortium has used forced labor. There are allegations that children have 
worked the pipeline. But clearly kids and unskilled laborers would be 
incapable of driving the heavy machinery brought in to lay the massive 
4.5-ton, 12-meter sections of pipe. To be sure, the consortium is in full 
public-relations mode. Total has committed $6 million over three years for 
schools, agricultural projects and health programs. "We cannot imagine working 
in the area and ignoring the people," says Total personnel manager Sandy 
MacKay. "We cannot build the pipeline and simply walk away."

ÊMost of the villages in the corridor are inhabited by the Mon people. But 
Eindayaza, located near the new railway, is entirely Karen. SLORC officers say 
residents still have ties with the rebels. That may explain the reports of a 
nearby army garrison that withdraws when journalists like me show up. "The 
villagers have to bribe the soldiers to get a one-week pass," says Kay Hsaw Wa 
(White Elephant), a Karen who helped research Total Denial, a critical report 
on the project. "Normally, it's three bottles of alcohol and two chickens." 
Nai Rot Sa, chief of the New Mon State Party, says the army has been extorting 
money from villagers near the pipeline to hire cheap labor. "During the 
[press] visits, all the abuse stopped," he said. "But as soon as they left, 
everything returned to normal." Well, as normal as it gets along the border. 

The embattled pipeline consortium can take credit for shedding light on a 
situation it did not create but that has long been mostly ignored. The Clinton 
sanctions may make Texaco think twice about building its pipeline. But they 
will not scare off non-American companies. Nor will the sanctions help the 
Karen. For them it has all come too late.