Myanmar's Enemy Within

Myanmar's Enemy Within Plot Summary

Introduction

In June 2012, a wave of violence swept through Rakhine State in western Myanmar. Buddhist mobs attacked Muslim neighborhoods, burning homes and killing residents. This marked the beginning of a period of intense religious conflict that would spread across the country, challenging the narrative of Myanmar's democratic transition. The violence revealed deep-seated tensions between Buddhist and Muslim communities that had been manipulated by powerful forces for decades. Myanmar's transition from military rule to democracy, which began in 2011, unleashed unexpected forces. While the world celebrated the country's opening and the rise of Aung San Suu Kyi, a darker story was unfolding. The military had spent decades cultivating fear and division, creating a society where Buddhist nationalism could flourish and where Muslims, particularly the Rohingya, could be cast as dangerous outsiders threatening the nation's very existence. This historical exploration takes us through Myanmar's colonial past, military dictatorship, and troubled democratic transition to understand how religious violence became a defining feature of a country supposedly moving toward greater freedom and openness.

Chapter 1: Colonial Legacy: Britain's Role in Sowing Religious Division

When the British arrived in Burma in the early nineteenth century, they encountered a complex society where Buddhist kings had ruled for centuries. While Buddhism was the dominant religion, Muslim communities had existed in the country for generations, particularly in the western coastal region of Arakan (now Rakhine State). These communities had largely lived alongside Buddhists without major conflict. The British, however, would dramatically alter this landscape. The colonial power's most significant impact came through their dismantling of traditional power structures. In 1885, when Britain completed its conquest by deposing King Thibaw Min, they didn't simply replace one ruler with another. They severed an ancient relationship between the monarchy and Buddhism that had provided social cohesion for centuries. Unlike the kings who had served as protectors and patrons of Buddhism, the British showed little interest in maintaining this religious order. They transformed parts of the Royal Palace in Mandalay into an Anglican chapel and club for colonial officers, symbolically undermining Buddhism's central place in society. Simultaneously, the British engineered a massive demographic shift by encouraging Indian immigration into Burma. By the early 1930s, more than half of Yangon's population was Indian, both Muslim and Hindu. Local Burmese grew increasingly aggrieved as Indians took jobs at every level of the economy and society. The situation was particularly tense in the rice-growing Irrawaddy delta, where more than half of arable land fell under the control of "non-resident landlords," mostly Indian. This created a powerful narrative that foreigners were not just taking livelihoods but stealing the very land of Myanmar. The British also imported their obsession with racial classification, drawing boundaries between peoples where they hadn't previously existed. What had once been fluid notions of ethnicity calcified into hard distinctions between groups. Communities that had previously intermingled and sometimes even switched identities based on changing political loyalties were now fixed into separate categories. This artificial construction of ethnic boundaries laid the groundwork for future conflicts, as groups began to compete along these newly hardened lines of difference. By the 1930s, anti-Indian and anti-Muslim sentiment had reached a breaking point. In July 1938, riots broke out after Buddhist publications claimed a Muslim writer had insulted Buddhism. The violence spread across Yangon, with Buddhist mobs attacking Muslim neighborhoods. This pattern of communal violence, triggered by perceived insults to Buddhism and fueled by economic grievances, would be repeated decades later. The colonial period had transformed Myanmar from a society where religious differences existed but rarely led to mass violence into one where religion and ethnicity became primary markers of belonging and exclusion.

Chapter 2: Military Rule and the Construction of 'National Races' (1962-2011)

When General Ne Win seized power in 1962, ending Myanmar's brief experiment with democracy after independence, he launched a project that would fundamentally reshape the country's understanding of national identity. Under the banner of the "Burmese Way to Socialism," Ne Win began a systematic effort to define who truly belonged in Myanmar and who did not. At the heart of this project was the concept of "taingyintha" or "national races" - those ethnic groups considered indigenous to the country. By 1982, this concept was formalized in a new Citizenship Law that effectively created a hierarchy of belonging. At the top were the "full citizens," predominantly from the Bamar Buddhist majority. Below them were "associate citizens" and "naturalized citizens," with fewer rights and privileges. But most significantly, the law created a category of non-citizens - those who couldn't prove their ancestors had lived in Myanmar before British colonization began in 1824. This primarily affected the Rohingya Muslims of Rakhine State, who were increasingly portrayed as illegal immigrants from Bangladesh despite evidence of their long historical presence. "Today you can see that even people of pure blood are being disloyal to the race and country but are loyal to others," Ne Win declared in a 1979 speech. "If people of pure blood act this way, we must carefully watch people of mixed blood." This rhetoric of blood purity and racial loyalty became central to the military's governance. The regime circulated propaganda warning that "The Earth will not swallow a race to extinction but another race will" - suggesting that without vigilance, the Bamar Buddhist majority would be overwhelmed by foreign elements. The military's nation-building project extended beyond legal classifications into everyday life. Ethnic minority languages were replaced by Bamar language in schools. Non-Buddhists faced pressure to convert, while Buddhist communities were planted in regions populated by Christians and Muslims. In Chin State, where American missionaries had converted many to Christianity, the regime established "Na Ta La" schools where Christian students were forced to shave their heads, wear monks' robes, and learn Buddhist scriptures. Those who resisted conversion faced threats of forced army recruitment. In northern Rakhine State, where Rohingya Muslims formed the majority, the regime implemented an even more ambitious social engineering project. Beginning in the 1990s, the government built model villages populated by Buddhist settlers - often former prisoners released early in exchange for relocating to these strategic areas. Around 50 such villages were constructed, creating a Buddhist presence in predominantly Muslim areas. The settlers received houses, land, livestock, and monthly food rations - benefits unheard of in a country with virtually no state welfare system. Simultaneously, the Rohingya population was subjected to increasingly severe restrictions. In 1978, under Operation Nagamin (Dragon King), and again in 1991-92, military operations in Rakhine State sent hundreds of thousands of Rohingya fleeing to Bangladesh. Those who remained faced growing limitations on their freedom of movement, their right to marry and have children, and their access to education and healthcare. By 2005, authorities in Maungdaw had issued an order that "those who have permission to marry must limit the number of children, in order to control the birth rate." These measures were part of a systematic effort to make life so unbearable for Rohingya that they would leave the country altogether.

Chapter 3: Democratic Transition and the Eruption of Violence (2012)

In 2011, Myanmar began a carefully choreographed transition from direct military rule to a quasi-civilian government. President Thein Sein, a former general, initiated reforms that released political prisoners, eased media censorship, and allowed opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi and her National League for Democracy (NLD) to participate in politics again. The international community responded enthusiastically, lifting sanctions and rushing to engage with what appeared to be a reforming Myanmar. Yet beneath this narrative of democratic progress, dangerous tensions were building. In late 2011, seminars were held across Rakhine State warning of the "Rohingya threat" - claiming they were falsely appropriating Rakhine heritage and history. The Rakhine Nationalities Development Party (RNDP), which had formed to represent ethnic Rakhine interests, began circulating materials portraying Rohingya as illegal immigrants with a secret plan to take over the state. A magazine called Piccima Ratwan, whose editorial board included monks, police chiefs, and government administrators, repeatedly referred to Rohingya as terrorists and warned of a "Black Tsunami in humble disguise." On May 28, 2012, a young Buddhist woman named Ma Thida Htwe was raped and murdered in Ramree Island. Three Muslim men were arrested for the crime. Days later, on June 3, a bus carrying Muslims through the town of Taungup was attacked by a mob of around 300 Buddhists, who beat ten passengers to death. These incidents triggered a wave of violence that would transform Rakhine State. On June 8, after Friday prayers, Rohingya mobs in Maungdaw attacked Buddhist properties. Violence then spread to Sittwe, the state capital, where Buddhist mobs armed with machetes and flaming torches destroyed Muslim neighborhoods like Nasi quarter. Ko Myat, a Buddhist fisherman from a village north of Sittwe, described being bused into the city along with other villagers. They were divided into teams - one to burn houses, another to attack Muslims trying to escape. "It was like a movie," he recalled of the scene, with smoke rising from burning homes creating a surreal haze over the landscape. By the time the violence subsided, entire Muslim neighborhoods had been razed, and tens of thousands of people, mostly Rohingya, had been displaced. A second wave of violence erupted in October 2012, beginning with orchestrated mob attacks on Muslim communities in nine townships across Rakhine State. In Kyaukphyu, attackers arrived in fleets of boats; in Mrauk U, they descended on six villages carrying spears, machetes, and flaming torches. The violence was marked by what UN Special Envoy Vijay Nambiar called a "brutal efficiency" that suggested organization rather than spontaneous rage. By November, more than 100,000 people had been displaced. The aftermath of the violence saw the complete segregation of Buddhist and Muslim communities in Rakhine State. Muslims were confined to displacement camps along the coast or to barricaded ghettos like Aung Mingalar in Sittwe. Police checkpoints ensured they could not leave these areas. A new system of apartheid had been created, with Muslims denied freedom of movement, access to healthcare, education, and livelihoods. President Thein Sein suggested that the solution to the "Rohingya problem" would be for the UN to settle them in camps that they would manage, or for other countries to accept them. "We will take care of our own ethnic nationalities," he said, "but Rohingyas who came to Burma illegally are not of our ethnic nationalities and we cannot accept them here."

Chapter 4: The Rise of Buddhist Nationalism and Ma Ba Tha (2013-2015)

As the violence in Rakhine State subsided, a new and powerful force emerged in Myanmar - militant Buddhist nationalism. In early 2013, a monk named U Wimala began distributing stickers bearing the numbers "969" - representing the nine attributes of Buddha, the six attributes of his teachings, and the nine attributes of the Sangha (monastic community). These stickers appeared on shop fronts and taxi windows across the country, ostensibly to identify Buddhist-owned businesses that other Buddhists should patronize. The 969 movement quickly gained momentum under the leadership of another monk, U Wirathu, abbot of the Masoyein Monastery in Mandalay. In December 2012, U Wirathu had traveled to Meikhtila in central Myanmar and delivered a sermon imploring Buddhists to cut ties with Muslims: "Buy only from our shops. If our money goes to enemies' hands, it will destroy our whole nationality and religion." He warned that Muslims would "use that money to manipulate women, forcefully convert those women into their religion, and the children of them will become enemies of the state." In March 2013, violence erupted in Meikhtila following an argument in a Muslim-owned gold shop. Over three days, Buddhist mobs destroyed Muslim neighborhoods, killing at least 43 people. The brutality was shocking - men were beheaded in broad daylight, and a group of students from an Islamic boarding school was massacred. Police stood by as the violence unfolded, and in some cases appeared to facilitate attacks. Similar outbreaks of anti-Muslim violence followed in other towns across central Myanmar - Okkan, Lashio, and Thandwe - often following a similar pattern: a minor incident would trigger mob violence that seemed to be organized in advance. By mid-2013, the 969 movement had evolved into a more structured organization called Ma Ba Tha (the Organization for the Protection of Race, Religion, and Sasana). With branches in townships across Myanmar and millions of supporters, Ma Ba Tha became a formidable political force. It established Sunday schools to teach Buddhist values, published magazines and videos, and organized mass rallies. Most significantly, it drafted a package of four "Protection of Race and Religion Laws" that were submitted to parliament in December 2014. These laws restricted interfaith marriage, regulated religious conversion, criminalized polygamy, and gave local governments the power to limit reproductive rates in areas they deemed overpopulated. Despite opposition from the NLD and civil society groups, the laws were passed in 2015, demonstrating Ma Ba Tha's growing political influence. Activists who spoke out against the laws faced intimidation and threats. May Sabe Phyu, a women's rights campaigner who opposed the laws, received death threats and had her phone number posted on adult websites identifying her as a call girl. As Myanmar approached national elections in November 2015, Ma Ba Tha openly campaigned for the military-aligned Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP). They portrayed the NLD as too weak on protecting Buddhism and too strong on universal human rights. So powerful had the Buddhist nationalist movement become that the NLD rejected the candidacy of more than a dozen of its Muslim members, apparently to appease Ma Ba Tha supporters. When asked why the party wouldn't challenge the monks' hate speech, senior NLD figure U Win Htein explained: "We believe in reincarnation. We might suffer by crossing those high-ranking monks." The rise of Buddhist nationalism represented a profound challenge to Myanmar's democratic transition. What had once seemed a unified opposition to military rule had fractured along religious lines. Many former democracy activists now prioritized Buddhist nationalism over democratic values, while others who tried to bridge religious divides faced harassment and threats. As U Parmoukkha, a monk on Ma Ba Tha's central committee, explained: "When Buddhism is on the verge of extinction, violence could probably be used. If there is no Buddhism, there will be more violence, and the situation will be even worse."

Chapter 5: Apartheid State: Camps, Ghettos and Systematic Persecution

By 2015, three years after the initial violence, Rakhine State had been transformed into a system of apartheid. The once-integrated society was now strictly segregated, with Rohingya confined to displacement camps along the coast or to barricaded ghettos in towns like Sittwe. This segregation wasn't merely physical but was enforced through an elaborate architecture of control that affected every aspect of Rohingya life. Freedom of movement, a right taken for granted by most people, became a luxury for Rohingya. Police checkpoints were established throughout Rakhine State - 86 by 2016 - where officers would inspect identity papers and travel documents. To travel between townships, Rohingya needed to apply for permits, paying fees they could ill afford. Even with permits, they might be turned back if they failed to pay additional bribes at checkpoints. These restrictions effectively imprisoned Rohingya within their villages or camps, cutting them off from livelihoods, education, and healthcare. The impact on healthcare was particularly devastating. In villages around Kyauktaw, north of Sittwe, Rohingya were forbidden from traveling to the local hospital. Instead, they had to undergo a lengthy bureaucratic process to get permission to travel to Sittwe hospital, the only adequately equipped facility in the state that would accept Rohingya patients. The journey could take days and cost money they didn't have. Even emergency cases faced delays that could prove fatal. Aarif, a Rohingya man living near Kyauktaw, experienced this firsthand when his pregnant wife developed complications in January 2015. After calling for help, he waited a day and a half for an ambulance to arrive. By the time they reached Sittwe hospital, it was too late. The doctor examined his wife briefly, then ordered Aarif to leave. His wife died, and he was denied permission to attend her funeral. The $100 he paid for transportation - a fortune by local standards - had depleted the savings he had set aside for his baby. Access to education was similarly restricted. The only university in Rakhine State is in Sittwe, and before 2012, Buddhist and Muslim students studied there side by side. After the violence, Rohingya were blocked from attending. With no access to higher education, an entire generation of young Rohingya faced a future without prospects. Even primary and secondary education was affected, as teachers fled the violence and schools in Muslim areas were left understaffed or closed entirely. The restrictions also extended to basic economic activities. Rohingya farmers and fishermen could no longer travel to markets to sell their produce. Instead, they were forced to sell to Buddhist middlemen at reduced prices, further impoverishing an already marginalized community. In Sittwe, Ma Win, a Kaman Muslim woman who had sold vegetables in the market for 30 years, was beaten by her former trading partners when she attempted to return after the violence. "You are kalar, you are Kaman," they shouted, using a derogatory term for people with dark skin. Perhaps most insidious was the psychological impact of this system. Rohingya began to fear leaving their villages, even for life-saving medical treatment. Rumors spread that doctors at Sittwe hospital were poisoning Muslim patients, deterring people from seeking care until it was too late. The segregation also reinforced negative stereotypes among Buddhists, who came to see the restrictions as proof that Muslims were dangerous and needed to be contained. International aid organizations attempting to assist displaced Rohingya faced hostility from Buddhist nationalists. In March 2014, mobs attacked NGO offices in Sittwe, destroying supplies and forcing staff to evacuate. A local committee, the Emergency Coordination Committee, began to control aid distribution, insisting that assistance be split equally between Buddhists and Muslims regardless of need. U Than Tun, who ran the committee, justified this by claiming that aid to Rohingya created a "pull factor" for more "Bengalis" to enter Myanmar. The system of control extended to every aspect of life, including reproduction. Rohingya couples needed permission to marry, and those who married without permission faced imprisonment. Authorities limited the number of children Rohingya could have, and conducted invasive household checks to ensure compliance. If there was suspicion that a child in a household belonged to another family, the mother would be forced to breastfeed the child in front of visiting authorities to prove it was hers. This comprehensive system of persecution led many observers to warn that the precursors to genocide were present in Rakhine State. The isolation and restricting of a target group, their dehumanization, sporadic fits of violence against them, and the denial of state protections - all historical precursors to genocide elsewhere in the world - were now evident in Myanmar's treatment of the Rohingya.

Chapter 6: Voices of Resistance: Stories of Coexistence Amid Division

Despite the violence and segregation that had transformed Rakhine State, pockets of coexistence and resistance remained. In the small town of Buthidaung in northern Rakhine State, where Muslims outnumber Buddhists, the communities continued to interact in ways that had largely ceased elsewhere. One evening, in a dilapidated cinema hut in Buthidaung, Rohingya and Rakhine sat side by side watching a Premier League football match, cheering and hollering together as the game unfolded. This simple scene of shared enjoyment stood in stark contrast to the rigid segregation that had become the norm elsewhere in the state. The economic interdependence of the two communities played a crucial role in maintaining these connections. Aung Tun, a Buddhist businessman in Buthidaung who sold bamboo, employed mostly Rohingya workers because their labor was cheaper. Had Rohingya been herded into camps as they were in Sittwe, his business would not have survived. This mutual dependence created a pragmatic basis for continued interaction that helped prevent the complete rupture seen elsewhere. Even in areas where communities had been physically separated, individuals sometimes found ways to bridge the divide. In East Tonbyin, a Buddhist village near Sittwe, a Rohingya fish seller continued to visit the home of Win Zaw and his wife Mya three years after the violence. When the young man arrived one day suffering from malaria, Mya offered to contact a doctor in a nearby village who might help him. This small act of kindness suggested that the hostility between communities might not be as deep-seated as it appeared, and that continued interaction could gradually rebuild trust. In central Myanmar, where anti-Muslim violence had erupted in 2013, grassroots efforts to bring communities back together were taking root. Myo, a Muslim interfaith activist in Mandalay, developed a program for Kan Ywar village, where tensions had risen after the violence in nearby Mandalay city. Rather than addressing religious differences directly, which might provoke backlash, he organized workshops focused on common concerns like waste management and local governance. Buddhist and Muslim participants worked together on community projects, gradually rebuilding relationships that had been damaged by fear and suspicion. These workshops achieved several things: they allowed participants to get to know one another again, helped destigmatize the broader identity of the other community, and created a neighborhood watch initiative where leaders from each side held meetings whenever tensions arose. "We know these rumors come from the outside," one participant explained. "This community is very closed. We don't have much information coming in and these rumors create fear." The workshops provided a space where trust could begin to be rebuilt. Perhaps the most powerful example of resistance to the violence came from U Witthuda, a Buddhist abbot in Meikhtila. As mobs rampaged through the town in March 2013, he opened the gates of his monastery to anyone seeking refuge. Over four days, 940 people sheltered there - both Buddhists and Muslims. When an angry crowd gathered outside demanding he hand over Muslim families, U Witthuda refused: "I am helping those people who are in trouble. I can't. If you want to get them, you have to kill me first." These stories of coexistence and compassion received far less attention than the violence and hatred that had dominated headlines. Yet they offered crucial lessons for Myanmar's future. They suggested that the divisions between communities were not immutable, and that continued interaction could gradually rebuild trust. As one Muslim man in Kan Ywar explained, the workshops had united the community: "We have become united and we can now elect our own village heads." This empowerment gave residents tools to address grievances directly with authorities rather than allowing frustrations to fester and turn against neighboring communities. The experiences of these communities also highlighted the role of economic interdependence in maintaining peace. In areas where segregation would have damaged both communities economically, pragmatic cooperation often prevailed over ideological division. This suggested that development initiatives that created mutual benefits could help bridge religious divides. Most importantly, these stories revealed the courage of individuals who refused to accept the logic of division and hatred. From the abbot who risked his life to protect Muslims, to the Buddhist woman who helped her sick Muslim neighbor, to the interfaith activists who faced threats for their work - these people demonstrated that another path was possible for Myanmar, one based on compassion and shared humanity rather than fear and exclusion.

Summary

Myanmar's transition from military rule to democracy, which began in 2011, unleashed forces that transformed the country in unexpected ways. The violence that erupted between Buddhists and Muslims revealed how deeply the military had embedded divisions within society during its decades in power. Through careful manipulation of identity politics, the creation of a hierarchy of "national races," and the systematic marginalization of Muslims, particularly the Rohingya, the military had created conditions where communal violence could flourish even as formal democratic institutions were being established. The story of Myanmar offers profound lessons about the challenges of building genuine democracy in societies divided by ethnicity and religion. First, democratic transitions must address not just formal political institutions but the deeper social divisions that authoritarian regimes often exploit and exacerbate. Second, religious nationalism can pose as great a threat to democratic values as military rule, particularly when it becomes intertwined with notions of national identity. Finally, genuine reconciliation requires both institutional reforms and grassroots efforts to rebuild trust between communities. The examples of coexistence amid division - from the football fans in Buthidaung to the interfaith workshops in central Myanmar - show that another path is possible, one based on recognition of shared humanity rather than fear of difference. As Myanmar continues its uncertain journey toward democracy, these voices of resistance offer hope that the country might yet overcome its legacy of division and violence.

About Author

Loading...

Francis Wade

Francis Wade is an innovator, content author and management consultant. He owns Framework Consulting, a firm headquartered in Hollywood, Florida and spends much of this time in Kingston, Jamaica, a place he's called home since 2005. Francis is a graduate of Cornell University in Operations Research and Industrial Engineering, where he earned Bachelors and Masters Degrees. Most of his attention is spent on Time Management 2.0 and turning new productivity research into practical ideas that leaders of companies can use. He has done marathons and several triathlons, including one Ironman-distance race.

Read more