For much of the past five decades, Burma
has been a byword for political repression. The generals that seized
power in 1962 ruled with fearsome, often reckless, authority, stomping
out dissent and turning one of Asia’s breadbaskets into a barren, hungry
place. In the past two years, the story changed. The men in green
handed power to a quasi-civilian government, promising to end the
country’s isolation. In April, the world watched Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi
lead the National League for Democracy to a near sweep in by-elections
hailed as a landmark for the Southeast Asian nation. Suu Kyi, long
incarcerated by the junta, was now a parliamentarian acceptable to the
regime. The nation’s own reversal, it seemed, was only a matter of time.
But a recent spate of violence in the country’s northwest reminds us
that Burma’s transition is far from complete. Even as the West relaxes
sanctions and investors flock to Rangoon, swaths of the country
seethe. Since June, clashes between ethnic Arakan Buddhists and Rohingya
Muslims in Arakan (also called Rakhine state) have left at least 78
people dead and tens of thousands displaced. An investigation by
Human Rights Watch found government forces did little to quell the
violence, leaving terrified villagers to defend themselves with
sharpened sticks and homemade spears. Worse, police and paramilitary
forces have since launched a crackdown on Rohingya, conducting violent
sweeps, opening fire on villagers and arresting large numbers of Muslim
men and boys.
(PHOTOS: Sectarian Unrest in Burma)
The uncomfortable truth is that in Arakan, at least, the new Burma looks a lot like the old. This patchwork nation is
still split along sectarian lines, still divided by history, geography
and language. Military men still hold key positions in government. And
whereas reformers might have spoken out, many are staying silent,
turning away as Arakan burns. Fact is, most of Burma’s people don’t see
the Rohingya as part of the country’s ethnic fabric. Asked about the
Rohingya, President Thein Sein,
a former general, suggested refugee camps or mass expulsion as
“solutions.” “The government claims it is committed to ending ethnic
strife and abuse,” said Brad Adams, Asia director at Human Rights Watch,
in a statement accompanying the group’s 56-page report on the crisis. “But recent events in Arakan state demonstrate that state-sponsored persecution and discrimination persist.”
The immediate cause of the unrest was the alleged May 28 rape and
murder of an ethnic Arakan woman, allegedly at the hands of three Muslim
men. Word of the killing spread quickly, hastened by pamphlets steeped
in anti-Muslim propaganda. On June 3, Arakan villagers in a neighboring
township stopped a bus and murdered 10 Muslims onboard. Within the week,
riots broke out in at least two cities to the north, Human Rights Watch
found, escalating an ongoing cycle of mob violence. In the regional
capital, Sittwe, most of the Rohingya are gone. The Muslim quarter sits
shuttered. “It’s like looking at the aftermath of a natural disaster,”
an unnamed Channel 4 News correspondent said, surveying the damage in a dispatch from the city. “Except human beings did this.”
In many ways, the conflict has been brewing for years. The Arakanese
and the Rohingya live, literally and figuratively, at Burma’s
periphery. The coastal state, which traces the Bay of Bengal to the
Bangladesh border, is separated from the rest of the country by
mountains. It is poor, even by Burma’s standards, and most of its
residents are minorities in a country dominated by the ethnic Burmese of
the heartland to the east. Like the Rohingya, and indeed most of
Burma’s minorities, the Arakanese suffered immensely under military
rule. Unlike the Rohingya, they are citizens. If there is common ground
to be found between Naypyidaw and Arakan, it is the belief that Rohingya
don’t belong in Burma.
(MORE: Will Ethnic Violence Kill Burma’s Fragile Reforms?)
The Rohingya are among the most isolated and oppressed
people in the world. The end of British colonial rule left them
stateless, sandwiched between present-day Burma and Bangladesh. Though
many trace their Bay of Bengal roots back centuries, the Burmese
government insists they are illegal South Asian migrants, relics of
colonial times. They have never been recognized as one of Burma’s 135
indigenous races and have routinely been denied the right to travel,
marry or work. The ruling junta played on nativist sentiment, stoking
racial hatred. A Burmese diplomat once called them “ugly ogres.” Many
still see them as outsiders bent on stealing Buddhist lands.
The suspicion is such that even Burmese activists seem afraid, or
unwilling, to speak out. Suu Kyi, the symbolic heart of the country’s
opposition, has been accused of dodging questions on the matter. While
touring Europe in June, she responded to a query about the crisis by
saying, obliquely, that she does not know if the Rohingya are Burmese.
Absent opposition from inside Burma, Muslim groups from Saudi Arabia,
Indonesia and Turkey have rallied behind the Rohingya cause. The Burmese
government last week agreed to aid from the Organization of Islamic
Cooperation, but maintains that the conflict is nonsectarian. In a way,
of course, it’s right: this is, at its heart, a matter of basic rights
and government accountability. On both counts, the new Burma has far to
go.
(PHOTOS: Aung San Suu Kyi Travels Abroad for the First Time in 24 Years)Emily Rauhala is an Associate Editor at TIME. Find her on Twitter at @emilyrauhala. You can also continue the discussion on TIME’s Facebook page and on Twitter at @TIME
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