NEWS - A Walk About Report in Rango

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Subject: NEWS - A Walk About Report in Rangoon

ASIAWEEK

NOVEMBER 12, 1999 VOL. 25 NO. 45

A Tale of Two Countries

Our correspondent goes on assignment to ASEAN's No. 1 pariah - and
discovers
that nothing is quite as it seems

By ROGER MITTON

I taxi from Yangon's Traders Hotel to the National League for Democracy
headquarters to arrange an interview with Aung San Suu Kyi. It is the
start
of my fourth trip to Myanmar in 18 months. When I arrive, one of the
party's
daily meetings is under way and the crowded room is hot and sticky.
Vice-chairman Tin Oo pumps my hand and gestures at all the supporters.
"You
can see we are still operating," he says. The interview tentatively
arranged, I go outside and wait to be swooped on by military
intelligence
officers. I have a media visa so I am not overly concerned, although the
stern questioning and repeated picture-taking is always unnerving.
Nothing
happens. I gaze around, somewhat surprised, then head down busy Shwe Gon
Taing Road.

I stroll to the teashop across the road where the spooks station
themselves.
Still nobody approaches me. Over the next week, I return to the NLD
offices,
sometimes twice a day, and talk with party leaders and supporters
flocking
in and out. No official meddling. Later, I ask Yangon mayor, Col. Ko
Lay,
about the policy of allowing what is, in the regime's view, an
opposition
party to hold daily meetings (without a permit, it would be unheard of
in
Singapore, let alone Hanoi and Vientiane). "Oh, they can do that in the
NLD
headquarters," he says, blithely. "We don't bother them. They are a
political party."

In case you hadn't guessed it already, a lot of nonsense is written
about
Myanmar. As a veteran colleague told me when I began covering the beat:
"The
first thing you must do is disabuse yourself of all your previous
notions
about this place. It is not what you think it is." That is an
understatement. On my first visit, I wandered around Yangon in a state
of
nervous anticipation - looking for fierce, gun-toting troops on street
corners and gaunt people cowering in doorways. But I couldn't see
policemen,
let alone soldiers. Now I am back to dig deeper - and bust a few myths.
Among them:

- Foreign publications are unavailable.

On the drive from Yangon airport, kids run up waving copies of Asiaweek
and
other international magazines. In my hotel, I get the International
Herald
Tribune and the Asian Wall Street Journal delivered to my room (as well
as
the government's New Light of Myanmar). CNN and BBC World are on TV. I
have
no problem e-mailing from my room. John Chen of Eagle IT, Myanmar's only
private e-mail provider, expects Internet service by year-end.

- The regime has banned condom sales to spread AIDS among the youth and
sap
their potential for rebellion.

Daft, you say. But in Myanmar I learn not to dismiss anything out of
hand.
Late one afternoon I visit a pharmacy. It is staffed by three young
women. I
ask for condoms. They giggle and direct me to one of Yangon's
ubiquitous,
open-fronted, all-purpose convenience stores. There, the jovial owner
floods
me with options. Onlookers gather as boxes and boxes of condoms shower
around me: Malaysian, Thai, Korean, Japanese and the local Burmese
brand,
Aphaw, which comes in a spiffy four-pack, allegedly "Tested in the
U.S.A."
It carries clear, graphic instructions in Burmese, together with advice
that
condom use prevents the spread of AIDS and other sexually transmitted
diseases. I buy a pack for 200 kyat (60 cents). There are murmurs of
approval. "Yes, good. Burmese is best." (Don't bet on it.)

- Suu Kyi is under house arrest.

She is not. Yangon people routinely see her out and about - at the
supermarket, at the hairdresser's, at the pagoda, at embassy receptions,
at
party meetings.

- No one without official authorization is allowed to travel the streets
of
urban centers between 8 p.m. and 4 a.m.

I stroll around all hours of the day and night. On a typical evening in
Yangon I get a 200-kyat (60-cent) haircut at 8.30 p.m., and there are
other
customers waiting. After a beer at a nearby pub, I head for supper at
the
50th St. Bar & Grill. The roads fanning out from the landmark Sule
Pagoda
are teeming. The cinemas are packed. It is much the same outside the
capital - even at the Kyaikto Hotel at the top of the tortuous path to
Myanmar's famous balancing-boulder stupa at Kyaiktiyo, 160 km southeast
of
Yangon. Despite the bucolic setting deep in the hills, the settlement
bustles with people well after 8 p.m.

Of New Bridges and Closed Campuses
I have also heard that there are travel restrictions for journalists. I
soon
discover that this is another canard. When I tell the regime's main
spokesman Col. Hla Min that I plan to travel outside of Yangon, he says:
"Go
where you want. If you need a visa extension, let me know."

I decide to hire a car and driver and visit the former capital
Mawlamyine, a
small port city 120 km south of Kyaiktiyo. We leave at 6 a.m., quickly
clearing the almost empty streets (Yangon is a slow-starting city). The
journey takes seven hours, and we do it with only one short break. The
road
is fine as far as Bago, then it deteriorates a little, then improves
again -
although remaining narrow. I see no other Caucasians during the whole of
this trip, so I am bemused when, halfway to Mawlamyine, we pass a large
sign
in Burmese and English that says: "Please give all assistance to
international travellers."

But it is surprise rather than bemusement that I feel when, in the final
stretch, we pass over a couple of new suspension bridges, obviating the
need
to take the old car ferry at Mottama. Painted a pastel orange shade,
they
are long and sleek, and again beg the question: How do they do this?
Forced
labor? Surely not for such skilled engineering work? Certainly, the
regime
denies it; although Burmese exiles claim it continues. All I can say is
that
on my travels, the various road crews I see are invariably military men
not
civilians. On the drive, we pass squads of uniformed conscripts doing
maintenance work and clearing the verges.

As for Mawlamyine itself, I suspect Kipling would find it little
changed.
They still smoke whacking white cheroots and the temple bells still
call.
Down in the sidestreets around the jettys, however, it is not so nice.
There
is an overpowering air of desolation and squalor, only marginally
mitigated
by the silent dignity of the people. Yet the bounty of produce in their
market is astonishing: meat, fish, rice, fruit, vegetables and wonderful
arrays of fresh flowers. People buy big bunches of them! It is hard not
to
feel optimistic surrounded by flowers. But before I get too intoxicated,
I
decide to visit the local university.

Perhaps the most telling thing about Myanmar is that the campuses remain
closed. Even Foreign Minister Win Aung looks sad when he talks about
this.
And frankly it is an area where the regime has been less than honest.
Last
year, I was assured that the universities would reopen soon. Some
departments have, but by and large most are still dormant. The campus of
Mawlamyine University, a relatively new building, is in utter neglect.
Lecture rooms are untouched since they were padlocked three years ago.
Moldering papers and specimen jars gather dust in musty rooms. The
quadrangles are littered with the ashes of open fires and dog excreta.
The
regime can talk all it likes about securing ceasefires with rebellious
minorities, but if it can't risk opening the universities to allow its
youth
to get an education then there is no real stability.

Ne Win's Gun-Packing Grandson
One evening in Yangon, I unwittingly refute the assertion that the
military
police check residences for unauthorized guests staying overnight. I
have
been invited to the home of a Muslim family for dinner, and I walk
across
Yangon unchallenged. The family members are not fans of the regime and
spend
much of the evening castigating the generals. When I mention that the
rule
forbidding late-staying guests will now oblige me to leave, they burst
out
laughing. That hasn't been in effect for years, they say. So I stay and
watch cricket on satellite television.

Eventually it is time to leave and they assure me that it will be safe
to
walk back through the dark streets. "That is one thing we have," says
family
patriarch Mahmud. "It has always been that way, even for women." When I
ask
mayor Ko Lay about this, he laughs: "You can walk the streets at night,
no
problem. Nobody gets harmed, no rape. This is not like Patpong or
Hollywood." An American lawyer who has lived in Yangon for five years
echoes
this. "I think it is due to the strong ethic of the people," says John
Pierce. "They will walk in and out of a bank carrying a transparent
plastic
bag full of money and not worry at all." But others tell me break-ins,
pickpocketing and drug use are rising in urban centers, especially among
the
youth.

Next day, over breakfast, I hear a rumor that former dictator Ne Win's
grandkids have been involved in a notorious shooting incident on Maykha
Road, where the despot lives out his dotage. Later, a government
official
relates a similar tale. A visiting Malaysian businessman had arranged to
have lunch with him at the Nawarat Concorde Hotel (run by Ne Win's
favorite
daughter, Sanda, and her husband Aye Zaw Win). Gossiping in the car,
they
absently drove past the entrance and turned in the next driveway. It was
the
exit, so they stopped and began to reverse. Suddenly, another car,
preparing
to leave, drove straight at them before abruptly braking. The driver, a
young man of about 20, jumped out and - assuming they were foreign
guests -
berated them. "Can't you see this is the way out! You people think you
can
come here and do what you like! Well, **** you!" He gestured with his
middle
finger, then pulled out a revolver and thrust it in the Malaysian's
face,
telling him to be more careful in future. Horrified, they apologized and
decided to lunch elsewhere.

They headed to the Inya Lake Hotel - and were disturbed to see the
gun-toting youth following and using his mobile phone. When they
arrived, he
parked alongside. Seconds later, a policeman on a motorbike roared up.
The
youth told the cop about the incident at the Nawarat. The cop chastised
the
Malaysian and took his license, telling him to collect it later at the
police station on Pyay Road. Days later, when the businessman sent an
assistant to get the license, the cop called the youth - who turned out
to
be none other than Kyaw Ne Win, one of the ex-dictator's grandsons. The
cop
asked if it was okay to return the license. Kyaw Ne Win said no, not
unless
the businessman collected it in person. So the cop refused to hand it
over.
"This is how it is in Myanmar," the official tells me. "You are a
relative
of Ne Win or some other general, you can do anything, even buy guns and
threaten visitors."

It seems to me that this is an exception, yet such incidents help fuel
perceptions about Myanmar. No one is immune; certainly not foreign
reporters. Those who parachute in are predisposed to seeing spies under
every bed. The Washington Post recently reported: "At the monthly happy
hour
at the Australian Embassy [in Yangon], a Burmese military intelligence
officer sits at the end of the bar, watching and listening for hours on
end
without speaking to anyone." Having attended these functions and not
seen
this spy, I decide to try and spot him (although it is a given the world
over that intelligence operatives attend embassy functions). I station
myself at the bar of the Australian Club in Golden Valley, nibbling pâté
and
pizza and quaffing red wine. As usual, the place is full of business
folk,
diplomats, travelers and assorted expats. We chat about the regime, Suu
Kyi,
the Irrawaddy delta reclamation project, the difficulty of getting good
beef, former drug baron Law Sitt Han. All the while, I look for the
silent
spook. When I mention him to regulars they laugh derisively and say:
"Who
cares?"

Not that the international media has a monopoly on distortion. One
evening,
up in Mandalay, I watch the news. It is almost entirely about outdoor
rallies held around the country at which community leaders laud the
regime
and berate the NLD. I lose track of how many times the newsreader, in
her
droning monotone, relates how so-and-so praised this or that new
achievement
and castigated the foreign axe-handles, lackeys and stooges - a.k.a. Suu
Kyi
and the NLD.

Even amiable, level-headed foreign minister Win Aung joins the assault
on
Suu Kyi. He tells me: "She opposes whatever the government tries to do.
She
is always attacking, adopting a confrontational approach. This is really
wrong." Yet his side does exactly the same. Myanmar's state-controlled
media
oppose whatever the NLD tries to do, relentlessly attack Suu Kyi and
adopt a
confrontational style of reportage about her party. The daily cartoon in
the
New Light of Myanmar shows Suu Kyi as a gap-toothed witch followed by a
sour-looking maven of NLD cohorts. Until the generals stop such
pettiness,
they cannot expect balanced observers to give any credence to their
contention that Suu Kyi does nothing but criticize.

Besides, she has a point. Even the generals admit their rule is not
blemish-free. Crumbling power generation, paltry foreign-exchange
reserves,
near empty hotels, closed universities, a bankrupt national airline,
lousy
relations with the West (and, now, after the recent Bangkok embassy
siege,
with neighbor Thailand, too), insurgent skirmishes threatening to flare
up
again - and these are only at the top of the list. Bizarrely, all the
military leaders I meet say they are making progress and contend that
criticism from the outside hinders their attempt to bring stability and
development. Col. Hla Min, one of junta strategist Gen. Khin Nyunt's
most
articulate officers, tells me: "There is too much barking from outside.
We
can easily get derailed."

The barking, however, can damage both sides. At the time of my visit,
almost
every Myanmar watcher is pondering reports that Suu Kyi not only opposes
humanitarian aid, but is critical of Red Cross assessment visits to nine
detention centers (including Yangon's Insein Jail and the central prison
in
Mandalay), and has condemned Australian moves to set up a human-rights
commission in Myanmar. It is a controversial and brave stand that draws
flak
from even her hearty supporters in the West; and it is one that the
regime
exploits. "She is the only politician I know," says Hla Min, "who
lobbies
against help for her own people, even humanitarian help."

This is one of the questions I plan to ask Suu Kyi when I meet her. But
I
have been warned that she is not an easy person to interview; diplomats
and
fellow journalists tell me to be careful posing "critical" questions.
There
is a sense with Suu Kyi (and with the regime, for that matter) that
either
you are with us or you are against us. Before going to see her, I visit
three so-called NLD rebels. All party veterans elected in 1990, they wax
indignant about how Suu Kyi runs the NLD in a dictatorial manner. When I
ask
one of them, Tin Tun Maung, about policy debate and decision-making, an
acetylene anger flares in his eyes. "She told us our heads are not for
nodding, they are for thinking. That we are supposed to question things.
But
when we question her decisions, she shouts at us and calls us traitors."
I
leave unsure whether they are sincere, or have been compromised by the
regime.

Suu Kyi in the Dark
I finally interview Suu Kyi for the first time in Tin Oo's house during
yet
another Yangon blackout (this one caused by a storm that has brought
down a
tree across the power lines outside the house). We sit for 90 minutes in
a
corner of the big, darkened room, the candles flickering in the gloom
and
dogs howling in the lane outside (perhaps disturbed by the intelligence
officers who have followed Suu Kyi and on this occasion are waiting to
take
my picture as I leave). I ask about her stand against humanitarian aid.
She
bristles. "What stand against humanitarian aid?" Even the candles seem
to
tremble.

I refer Suu Kyi to reports in staunchly pro-NLD foreign publications
saying
that the party under her leadership has opposed international NGO
involvement in Myanmar. "No, we haven't," she retorts, angrily. "We have
never said that all NGOs should leave Burma or not come in or anything
like
that. And we've never said that we are against humanitarian aid per se."
She
explains that her stance is that such aid should only come in "provided
you
make sure it is given to everybody in an even-handed way." Later, I
bounce
this off a Yangon-based NGO representative. "That is ridiculous," he
splutters. "There is no developing country in the world where you can
guarantee that some aid will not be misused by the government for its
own
purposes. If that was a rule, then no one would get any aid."

But if the pro-democracy advocates are to be believed there is ample
evidence that the regime has exploited such assistance in the past.
Whatever, the end result, as always, is that the people get screwed.
Little
aid reaches them because few Western governments dare go against Suu
Kyi.
Being culpable in the continuing impoverishment of the Myanmar people is
a
secondary factor in their considerations.

One of the most common comments you hear in Yangon concerns the futility
of
Western economic sanctions against Myanmar. I raise the topic with Suu
Kyi
to get her reaction to the increasing number of people - many of them
scathing critics of the regime - who say sanctions are ineffective and
hurt
only the ordinary people of Myanmar. I blink in surprise when her reply
comes out of the half-darkness. "Sanctions are not causing hardship to
the
people," she says. "That we can say. So to people like that, I would
just
say: Prove it, prove that sanctions are hurting the people of the
country.
And they can't really prove it. The U.S. sanctions are not such that
they in
any way affect the Burmese economy to a great extent."

The bottom line is that few people, even the most rabid anti-regimers,
believe economic sanctions will precipitate change. For most Myanmar
people,
the economy is as it was 40 years ago, with some marginal improvements
over
the past decade. Even outside Yangon, where the power supply is woeful
to
put it mildly, there is not the slightest sign of discontent. Rather
people
demonstrate a fatalistic acceptance that this is how it is, how it
always
was, and how it looks like it will be for the foreseeable future.

At the end of the interview, I mention to Suu Kyi that I had been warned
about her prickliness. She appears taken aback and affects surprise,
saying
that as a politician she has been interviewed by many journalists asking
much the same questions as mine and never takes offense. I appreciate
that
and thank her again for meeting me, especially since Tin Oo has said she
was
ill earlier in the week. She looks well now, surprising given the stress
under which she constantly lives. Frankly, I don't know how she endures
it.
I leave the house after her, smile for the intelligence officers'
cameras,
clamber through the branches of the fallen tree and head off down the
quiet
lane to catch a taxi back to the Traders Hotel. Tomorrow, I return to
Bangkok. And already I am thinking about when I will come back to
Myanmar.
Where nothing is ever quite as it seems.

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