Wordsmithery

Control over writers and the media seldom comes tighter than it does in Burma, where freedom of expression is suppressed, often brutally. But despite the hardships and risks a light still glimmers among the country's literary and artistic communities

By Brian Mockenhaupt/RANGOON
source : FEER-Issue cover-dated September 20, 2001

THE DRAWINGS are spare and simple, black on white. There are scenes of village life, comic exchanges between a citizen and a police officer, a child questioning a befuddled parent. But in each of the 200-or-so cartoons stacked in a drawer at Maung Sun Than's home, there is something forbidden. One insinuates government corruption, another hints at Burma being left behind as the world moves forward. All of them made it no further than the Press Scrutiny Board, the office that controls every word and image published in Burma.

"They hate me," Maung says. He is sure that military intelligence knows where he goes, whom he meets. His cartoons have made him a dangerous man for a government that uses its near-complete control of information to promote itself as Burma's best and only medicine--and stamp out anything that says otherwise. "I am not from the opposition party. I am not a rebel. I fight through intelligence," he says. "I am trying through the thinking way. I am trying the knowledge channel."

That is as hard today as it has ever been. The censorship that started when the military took over Burma in the early 1960s has become one of the most prominent identifying marks of today's junta. The campaign to control everything published inside Burma has spread well beyond journalism to poetry, literature and film-making. Art exhibits must be approved. Lyrics about politics and social change are snipped out of rock songs.

Censorship has left an information vacuum here, with people knowing little about what happens in their own country. The dozens of weekly journals and monthly magazines dwell on entertainment, culture and sports. There are no stories about government policies, living conditions in Burma or dissident minority groups. Writing about democracy is, of course, off limits. So is almost any form of criticism of the government, even mentioning the electricity problems of Rangoon. For the handful of daily papers in Burma--there were more than 30 in the 1950s--content is tightly controlled and centres largely on the activities of the ruling generals.

And for those who don't behave, there is always the censor's pen, or worse. According to rights groups, Burma is now imprisoning more than a dozen journalists--in 2000 this was more than any other country. Because of the risk of retribution, the names of several individuals quoted in this article have been changed.

READING BETWEEN THE LINES

And yet, there is a dynamic community of writers and artists in Burma that has survived and, in some cases, thrives despite being under the government thumb. Many can be found at the hundreds of outdoor teashops that dot city streets. They discuss philosophy or postmodernism or, in hushed tones, politics. Stories are assigned, manuscripts critiqued. At one central Rangoon teashop, the owner serves up to 300 cups of tea a day to the writers, composers and cartoonists who crowd around the low tables along the street. "It's nice to have these people as customers, but everyone is so emotional," the owner says. "Mostly they talk about not being satisfied with their work and with the government."

The two go hand in hand. For this community there is no topic of greater consequence, or frustration. Many of them push hard to get their message out, to find a way around censorship, but there is the fear of going too far. They are wary of speaking to or being seen with foreigners. They are afraid for their families' safety. They are afraid of prison. "We are afraid of everything here," says the editor of a weekly journal. "We need more freedom."

The government's answer? You can't have it. Not yet.

Now is not the time for individual rights, like freedom of expression, says the junta's spokesman, Lt.-Col. Hla Min. Now is the time for community rights, stability, peace, a stronger economy--and he says the two cannot happen together. "We are telling people to be more understanding and patient. Myanmar is going through an evolution. We don't want anyone to create a revolution," he says. "Some people say, 'Your country is not a democracy.' I say, 'You are speaking the absolute truth'."

He says: "We can't achieve what we need to achieve if we are too democratic. Everyone walks in different directions so we have to push and guide so everyone goes in the same direction."

CENSORS AND SELF-CENSORSHIP

Hla Min also plays down the bogeyman image of the Press Scrutiny Board, Burma's censorship office. Without irony, he notes that much of the censorship comes not from the PSB, but from the people themselves. "The people are very used to the old socialist habit. They don't want to give strong recommendations to the government."

Maung, now in his 40s, hardly agrees with that. He has plenty of strong recommendations for the government, and a drawer full of never-to-be-seen cartoons to show for it. "When I was a child, I wanted to be a cartoonist to draw funny pictures. Now drawing funny pictures is only the medium for carrying my ideas. I want to talk to the public," he says. "I will try to stop their eyes and I will try to make it stick in their memories."

The trick, then, is reaching his readers without tipping off the censors. Maung, who is paid $2 per cartoon and supplements his income by drawing advertisements, compares his work as a political cartoonist to a soccer match. He can only loft the ball in front of the goal; he must rely on the reader to head it in. "I always estimate the condition of the goalkeeper and the referee," he says. "The readers must jump very high." If the message is too obvious, it will be censored; too obtuse and the reader won't understand.

Like most writers and artists here, his work is a mix of metaphors and symbolism, hints and innuendo. There is no other way. "Direct criticism of the government is pretty much impossible to get away with," says a Western diplomat who has worked extensively in Burma.

Added to this is the petty corruption. "You can't pay to get things through that are politically dubious," he says, "but you have to pay to get things through that are perfectly normal."

Under law, censors can snip anything detrimental to the government, the economy, national unity, security or law and order. Incorrect ideas, obscene writing and nonconstructive criticism are also prohibited.

There can be justification, then, for censoring almost anything, and the censors will often err on the side of caution, rather than letting a potentially offensive passage slip through and putting themselves at risk. In recent years the government has also become more sensitive about what and how often it censors. Previously, offending passages were ripped out of a book or covered with ink. Now, prohibited material must be replaced with new writing to give the appearance it has not been censored.

This has created a powerful climate of self-censorship. Saddled with the cost of re-editing a film or reprinting a magazine if a story is censored, editors and publishers often do the work of the censorship board. "The editor is the first censor," Maung says. "Their mind is already censored." Likewise, writers and artists will change material to suit the censors or not submit it. Many writers and artists have been changed, and are doing what the government wants, Maung says. Others have fled to Europe, the United States or Thailand where they can work freely--or they have simply quit.

"People are less creative now because of censorship," says Kyaw Min Ya, who has been writing short stories about family life and society for 25 years. "If I think my story won't pass, I won't submit it." Sometimes she is lucky and the censors approve her stories largely untouched, but she must use ambiguous words that only hint. "Right now," she says, "it's a game of cat and mouse to avoid the censors." The effect, she says, is obvious: the writing is less interesting, so fewer people read it.

Were Gen. Aung San alive today, he would no doubt cringe at these policies--and he would find little favour with the junta. Aung San, the architect of Burma's independence, and father of opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi, spent his youth as a newspaper editor and union leader who rallied students in protest against the British occupation. Indeed, says one of the country's most prolific authors, the general is being written out of Burma. Before 1988, his face could be seen on currency. Not now. "One day, no one will know who Aung San is," he says.

The author is gathered with a group of men over a pitcher of beer at an outdoor café just down the street from Gen. Aung San's house--now a museum--and right next to the censorship office. One of the men is a government official, a few are book publishers. "It's very complicated, literature today. It's not satisfactory," says the author, who writes mostly about culture and religion. "The main factor is that office," he says, waving toward the censorship building. "No one has freedom. How can literature be successful if it is suppressed? How can it flourish?"

The government awards national literature prizes each year to books that no one likes. Stores are filled with dozens of magazines and journals, but they lack substance. "There are so many, but it is quantity, not quality. We don't like such publications, but what we like, they are not allowed to publish," the author says. "Good literature cannot be produced at the moment." Asked if the situation will change any time soon, there are hearty laughs around the table. "They censor for the sake of themselves," the author says. "They want to live for a long time."

Cracks are appearing. The government has eased its rabid attacks against Aung San Suu Kyi and an increasing number of Burmese have e-mail access. Some of the local press has been allowed to run stories about the country's HIV problem and visits by United Nations delegations. The Myanmar Times, a new English-language newspaper, has written about talks between the government and the opposition National League for Democracy and about the need to introduce the Internet. Such leniency, it is hoped, will filter down, giving the censors a lighter touch.

Maybe. But Maung is ready to wait a little longer. "The future is not sure, but you must work every day," he says. "My job is to create a beautiful future. If I have a chance to kick the goal, I must be ready. If I am sleeping and fat and I have the chance, I will kick away from the goal, so I must train every day." So he waits and he works and he plays the game with the censors. But he longs for more. "It's like eating a snack," he says. "It is not real food and I am hungry."