YANGON - Few people in Myanmar were
prepared for the approaching apocalypse. The
government-owned news station reported last Friday
evening an "80% chance of heavy rain". It appeared
that no one knew that a major cyclone had been
ferociously whirling towards Myanmar from the Bay
of Bengal (aiming at Mon, Karen and Karenni
states, and the Irrawaddy and Yangon divisions),
despite days of prior knowledge by those outside
Myanmar.
So-called "natural" disasters are
particularly shunned and censored by the reclusive
and highly superstitious Myanmar military regime,
as disasters could be interpreted as astrological
signs of illegitimate misrule. As a result, no one
was prepared due
to
lack of government warning and planning.
A
few hours before dawn on Saturday, millions of
people suddenly awoke to discover the devastating
result of mixing "natural" disasters with an
isolated and abusive military regime - the outcome
less natural and more political. The result? As of
Friday morning, the official number dead reached
60,000 (unofficially 100,000 dead with tens of
thousands still missing), whole villages and
townships wiped off the map, and a complete loss
of physical and communication infrastructure.
Domestic news has only shown images of
generals meeting with homeless villagers, rather
than reports on which villages have been hit
hardest, emergency relief plans, or safe centers
to take refuge in. In short, the government -
quite predictably - has done little so far,
blocked by their own infamous red tape and lack of
resources and capacity.
In the days
immediately following the cyclone, no government
personnel were seen by this author anywhere within
the vicinity of Yangon. Most roads - both small
lanes as well as major roads - were blocked by
downed massive 100-year-old trees and concrete
power poles. Buses were initially kept from
running - keeping locals from checking up on loved
ones. Only recently were train tracks partially
cleared of fallen debris; the country's regional
transport hub is still disabled. Almost all phone
lines are down, as is electricity. In other words:
Yangon, as well as neighboring divisions and
states, ground to an abrupt halt on Saturday
morning.
Local Burmese expressed anger at
the absence of government relief, yet seemed
fatalistic, even confused by this writer's
question about who will help, as if the answer was
obvious. One newly homeless man wandering a
crowded downtown street motioned me over and said,
"[Junta leader] Than Shwe is nowhere to be found
here. He is hiding up in Naypyidaw [Myanmar's new
capital]." Other locals, not knowing where to go
or what to do, eagerly complained: "There is no
one here to help us. No one comes!" A destitute
woman sobbed in the middle of the street, "My
house is gone. I have no money. I haven't eaten.
What am I do to?" Another man wearing a well-worn
lungyi grumbled matter-of-factly, "The
police don't come to help."
Actually, the
police did come out in small numbers, but not to
help citizens. It's even debatable whether this
would be a welcomed response given the bloody
crackdown this past September which is still fresh
in people's minds. This author spotted five police
caravans driving past, full of uniformed police in
riot gear. Other informants have confirmed seeing
riot police driving past, including trucks of
soldiers.
But so far, none of them have
been seen giving a helping hand to locals in
distress or clearing streets. Clearly, the
government is aware that outlying townships have
been leveled, and those surviving would represent
a threat to "peaceful stability". In addition,
many riot police vans were stationed outside all
the entrances of the famous Shwedagon Pagoda, the
site of violent clashes with peacefully protesting
monks last September. Shwedagon Pagoda is still
closed to prevent open space for a symbolic
uprising.
On the fourth day after the
cyclone, army and police were finally seen - in
very small numbers - in the streets to help clear
fallen debris. However, this was mostly limited to
the wealthiest Yangon neighborhoods and the
soldiers were not being fed adequately. The
soldiers claimed that by late afternoon they had
not yet eaten a single meal.
Dereliction of duty The Myanmar government has yet to offer any
assistance to those devastated by the cyclone,
despite the vast number of sufferers and the
area's vital importance to the national economy.
Yangon is the center of business for the country,
and the delta region provides the nation's rice.
Despite the obvious reality facing all
people, and the massive scope of the unimaginable
tragedy, international news - before journalists
were allowed into the country - began to air
footage provided by the Myanmar Ministry of
Information. The provided videos showed soldiers
cutting down trees blocking streets, Than Shwe
addressing the military aid unit, and a momentary
glimpse of a few bags of rice that were to be
distributed as food aid - all meant to reassure
people that "help is on its way from the
government". This was propaganda, clear and
simple: the people are still waiting, except those
who received limited supplies for the staged films
of the government's "news".
But locals
already know this situation far too well. They
seemed to instinctively know how to get on with
it, perhaps from decades of being neglected from
any beneficial government services. Communities
came together and cleaned up their homes and
streets as best they could - entirely households
labored side-by-side at times using only kitchen
knives. Downed electrical poles were pushed aside,
and large trees blocking roads were slowly hacked
apart to allow traffic to resume.
Neighbors helped each other fix battered
roofs and displaced siding. And an interesting
phenomenon has arisen in well-to-do neighborhoods
where owners of big-name companies - such as
military-linked tycoon Tay Zaw who heads Air Bagan
and Poppa Aqua drinking water have donated their
labor teams, connections, and equipment to move
large trees and telephone poles to get their rich
neighborhoods up and running, much to the delight
of their neighbors.
This genuine
camaraderie is what has enabled Yangon to get back
on its feet, or at least off its knees.
Admittedly, however, community action
remains limited. The junta does not legally
sanction community organizing outside the junta's
arms, thus severely straining grassroots
mobilizing that would be prevalent in most other
countries. Instead, the regime has built up its
own rendition, known as the United Solidarity
Development Association (USDA), which oversees
most village-level functions. This is now having a
disastrous result in dealing with the cyclone's
aftermath. In effect, the USDA is MIA - missing in
action - and communities remain unable to fill the
void.
The disaster has also strained
community relations in poorer parts of town, with
some reports of villagers stealing each other's
bits of tin roof that had blown off. Patches of
metal roofing doubled, than tripled, in price (up
to US$12) - much like other commodities - keeping
the poor without roofing, and other essential
items, despite the onset of monsoon rains.
During a voluntary community clean-up,
several citizens shared thoughts on the
catastrophe and its inevitable political fallout.
"In [Myanmar], constitutions are very bad luck,"
commented an elderly Burmese woman. She spoke in
reference a much-publicized and hyped
constitutional referendum set for May 10 and
shrouded in allegations of coercion, intimidation
and vote rigging.
According to the woman,
the last big storm to hit the area was in 1974,
just before Myanmar was set to ratify an earlier
constitution. The parallels are uncanny. Worried
there could still be time to pull off the
referendum, one local said with black humor, "The
storm came one week too early!" He may be right;
the military has announced that the referendum
will go ahead as planned in the rest of the
country, but postponed the poll in severely
impacted outlying areas until later this month.
A taxi driver - who charged double the
normal fare due to skyrocketing petrol costs and
uncertain supply (he had to wait in line five
hours to get his petrol ration for that day) after
the storm - constructed another interesting
political parallel. "You know, in 8-8-88 in Yangon
the military shot people and many died. Now the
cyclone comes and kills all the big trees. It's
just like in '88."
While eating at one of
the few small restaurants still operating, a
customer explained the following political
innuendo with a wink, "All the 'big trees' fell
down. But the 'small trees' survived. The 'small
trees' have won. Very interesting, no?"
Misery
behind, misery ahead Despite the
devastation, Yangon residents seem resilient and
determined to get on with their lives. After all,
they've had to do this during other times of
unrest and deprivation. In outlying townships and
the Irrawaddy division, however, it's another
story: nothing left to rebuild, no place to go and
nothing to eat. In Yangon, this Buddhist calm of
smiling cheer and goodwill may perhaps wear thin.
In a few days most people will have run out of
water, having used up any that remains.
Without electricity to pump more water,
people will not be able to use their bathrooms nor
have water for cooking. The streets will become
one big public toilet, as has already started
happening since day two. People fear that their
gas tanks will run out, cutting off their ability
to cook. Drinking water is running out in most
shops. When I asked how many weeks it would be
until the electricity was back up, I was corrected
emphatically, "You mean months".
This is
an uncomfortable contrasts with some salaried
people who're going shopping to buy fancy
high-heeled shoes, decorative flowers and the
latest pirated karaoke CDs in the market, as if
the temporary closing of offices and schools has
presented a joyful opportunity to go on a spending
spree. Whether local residents really believe that
all will be fine, or if they are floating in an
air of denial, remains to be seen.
One
Myanmar office worker gave this desperate plea: "I
have no roof on my small wooden house. We lost
everything. What can we do? No one comes to help.
Please get this story out of Burma [Myanmar]. We
can only just sit and pray. This is all we Burmese
can do." The following day the same person asked
me in all seriousness what had happened to the
rest of the region, as little news has been made
public. On informing her, she inquired how she
could leave the country as a refugee. I didn't
have the heart to tell her that being born in
Myanmar is a one-way ticket.
Meanwhile,
the government has agreed to allow international
aid to trickle into the country, a rare occurrence
in isolated Myanmar. But this only pertains to
receiving emergency supplies, which are apparently
arriving in limited supply by airplane (Yangon's
port is totally destroyed), with government
agencies in charge of distribution - a hopeless
strategy that will greatly hamper any effective
aid. It remains to be seen logistically how this
will work; whether foreign aid workers will get
access to previously off-limits areas, which
government agencies they will have to work
through, and how much cooperation they will
receive.
So far, though, there has only
been unofficial strategizing and needs assessments
by some non-governmental organizations in Yangon,
which are doing their best to deliver required
emergency supplies. Emergency aid funds are
desperately needed, but problems of "absorptive
capacity" remain endemic in this war-torn nation.
The fear is that soon wells for drinking
water will run dry, food rations will fall too low
to feed the hungry and homeless, and cholera will
break out. Then, homeless villagers whose huts
were blown down in outlying areas of the city will
begin marching towards Yangon, and everyone will
be desperate and angry at the lack of assistance.
This is the recipe for another attempted uprising,
not unlike that in September 2007, which if recent
history taught us anything, will be violently
squashed by military force. The riot police are
positioned en masse around Yangon to intimidate,
and local residents know and fear their
capabilities.
But for the time being, the
atmosphere in Yangon is one of apathy, perhaps
learned over decades of continual disappointment
caused by their rulers.
Three middle-aged
men, huddled in a tumbledown previously
thatch-roofed bamboo noodle shop, beckoned me to
their side of a tree-strewn road. "I was here
during the cyclone. It was crazy! I am OK, but my
shop is gone, and I have nothing now. Look, I have
no money," said one of them, revealing an
almost-empty, mud-caked Myanmar whisky bottle. He
smiled, "So, my friends and I drink - the only
thing we have left."
Zao Noam is a
Yangon-based researcher. He is writing under a
pseudonym to protect his identity.
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