in Arakan, and found almost invariably that NLD members shared the same assumptions about the Rohingya as Rakhine nationalists, government officials and, by all indications, large sections of Burmese society.
Understanding the roots of those prejudices became a sort of obsession for me, and for the next years it would be the main focus of my work. How could people who had made great sacrifices in the name of freedom, human rights and democracy harbour such hatred against a vulnerable and persecuted minority? Why had a beleaguered minority like the Rohingya come to be so reviled, and even feared, by so many people in the country? And, probably most centrally, how had national and ethnic identities come to be construed in the country?
The answers to these questions might explain how some of the horrors I had covered could possibly have happened. Of course, understanding violence and racial hatred does not mean condoning or justifying them. On the contrary, I believe that understanding the sources of such hatred and the barbarity to which it may lead is a moral endeavour and a precondition of fighting it. Sometimes the savagery to which those racial hatreds lead is impossible to comprehend. The cruelty many Rohingya have suffered defies language and logic, as it comes from the darkest depths of the human soul. But such hatred and savagery are only activated and made ‘permissible’ in a certain combination of circumstances. If we are to have any hope of understanding such behaviour, we need to investigate those circumstances – historical, social, political and psychological. To find answers to all those questions, it is necessary to look beyond Arakan, to other conflicts in Burma that at first sight might seem detached from what has happened there.
When the first wave of sectarian violence was sweeping Arakan in June 2012, I happened to be several hundreds of kilometres to the north-east, in the hills of Kachin state. I was in the territory along the Chinese border controlled by the Kachin Independence Army (KIA), an ethnoationalist armed group that had been fighting the Burmese military (known as the Tatmadaw) intermittently for five decades in the cause of selfdetermination for the Kachin people, a mostly Christian ethnic group. One year before, a precarious ceasefire between the two armies that had lasted for seventeen years had been broken, and the state was at war again. I had travelled there to report on the protracted conflict, which had displaced tens of thousands from their homes. The Kachin were hospitable hosts, and they went to great lengths to explain why they wanted independence, or at least autonomy, for their Kachin land, and why they did not regard themselves as belonging to the same nation as the Burmans – the most numerous and dominant ethnic group in the country.
But the KIA was not the only ethno-nationalist group fighting the government. Throughout Burma’s short history as an independent nation-state, many others had fought Burman domination. The Shan, the Karen, the Wa, the Mon, the Karenni, the Chin, the Rakhine and the Rohingya themselves – virtually every ethnic group in the country – have all at some point produced an armed insurgency, and some were still active during the transition. As a result, large areas of the country’s borderlands are beyond the control of the central state. At the beginning of the transition, more than six decades after independence, the project of building a Burmese nation looked very much like a failure.
One year later, in 2013, a new wave of intercommunal violence erupted, this time in the plains of Central Burma. Angry Buddhist mobs attacked Muslim quarters in several towns and cities. The violence was not directed at the Rohingya – a group the overwhelming majority of Muslims outside Arakan do not belong to – but at Muslims in general, both for their religion and for not being regarded as Burmese. The violence had been partly incited by extremist Buddhist monks expounding a hateful brand of nationalism, who had spread a variety of paranoid theories about the threat of an Islamic conspiracy to take over the country. Those extremist monks were at the forefront of a succession of ultranationalist movements that came to play a prominent role in Burmese politics during the transition, largely dictating the terms of public debate.
These issues – the plight of Rohingya, the wars in the borderlands (especially involving the Kachin), and a sometimes deadly Buddhist ultranationalism deploying very narrow criteria about who belongs in the country – constitute the main threads traced in this book. These three problems have usually been analysed separately, or the anti-Muslim violence in central Burma has been understood as a mere extension of the anti-Rohingya violence in Arakan – and, while each has its own specific dynamic and history, the three phenomena cannot be completely separated. In many ways they are interconnected, often feeding each other. All of them pertain to notions of belonging and nationalism, and to the ways in which these forces have shaped a country perpetually at war with itself.
This is one of the reasons why this book devotes more space to the conflict in Arakan and to the Rohingya than to other issues in the country. The liminal case of the ‘excluded’ is symptomatic of how the Burmese define themselves; every nationalism is just as concerned with who belongs to the nation as it is with who does not. The conflict in Arakan and the exclusion of the Rohingya thus serve to throw light on conflicts elsewhere in Burma.
The structure of this book reproduces the way I have approached Burma over the years, as a journalist covering contemporary developments, but often diverted to a study of the past in an attempt to find clues to its present enigmas.
Part I covers the period between the beginning of the democratic opening in 2011 to the election in 2015, which the NLD won by a landslide. The year 2011 was a dramatic turning point in the country’s recent history, which in many ways seemed to be a new beginning for a country that had suffered several false starts since its independence in 1948. It was a period in which the speed of history seemed to have been accelerated after decades of apparent stagnation under the military dictatorship. It is during this period that the immediate causes of the ethnic cleansing of the Rohingya, as well as the resumption of the war in Kachin state or the emergence of Buddhist ultra-nationalism, are broadly to be found, though their historical roots are of course deeper.
In Part II I rely mostly on secondary sources. It is an attempt to explain the history of the territory that we know as Burma in order to illuminate how that past affects the present, as well as how it has been interpreted, and often manipulated, for present political purposes. I rely here almost exclusively on secondary sources.
Part III takes up the narrative pursued in Part I, covering the period from late 2015 to 2019. During this time, while Aung San Suu Kyi and the NLD were in power, the war continued in Kachin State and the Rohingya suffered a brutal campaign of ethnic cleansing at the hands of the military, pushing a majority of them into neighbouring Bangladesh.
I do not believe that Burma’s past has determined its present in a mechanical, inflexible way. Many trends could have gone in other directions if chance and free human choices had been different. History is not characterized by an ineluctable fate beyond the control of its protagonists; but it does largely condition the sorts of choices available to them. As Karl Marx famously wrote: ‘Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.’
The title of this book pays homage to The Spanish Labyrinth, written by the British author Gerald Brennan in the aftermath of the biggest tragedy that hit my country in the twentieth century: the civil war that ravaged Spain between 1936 and 1939, leading to four decades of National–Catholic dictatorship. Brennan wrote on the background of the war, attempting to make sense of how a country that fascinated him so much had sunk to such depths of savagery. The book became a classic of Spanish studies in my country and abroad, and its translation was widely, and clandestinely, circulated in Spain during the years of Francoist dictatorship. Like Brennan, I write about a country that is not mine, but that
