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By:

Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Red Romance

For long, the Naxalite in news was recognisable by the gun. But the more insidious version of Naxalism has never needed a rifle. It has thrived in varsity classrooms and newspaper and magazine columns, fostered by men and women sympathetic to it. These academics and other members of the so-called intelligentsia have long enjoyed their status as ‘respectable dissenters’ even when their politics offered intellectual alibis for Naxals carrying guns. Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s recent...

Red Romance

For long, the Naxalite in news was recognisable by the gun. But the more insidious version of Naxalism has never needed a rifle. It has thrived in varsity classrooms and newspaper and magazine columns, fostered by men and women sympathetic to it. These academics and other members of the so-called intelligentsia have long enjoyed their status as ‘respectable dissenters’ even when their politics offered intellectual alibis for Naxals carrying guns. Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s recent Independence Day warning about “dimaagi Naxals” should therefore not be dismissed as another political label. His larger point was that an insurgency does not survive on ammunition alone. It survives on ideas and people willing to make violence appear morally fashionable. The most revealing feature of India’s Maoist movement was never simply its brutality. It was the strange attraction it exercised over sections of the metropolitan Left elite. The Naxalite with an AK-47 could be transformed into a romantic revolutionary while the policeman he killed became an instrument of an oppressive state. This was not merely naïveté. At its ugliest, it was the intellectual laundering of political violence. The fantasy of the romantic revolutionary has always been seductive. In this narrative, amplified through sympathetic media priding itself on telling ‘truth to power,’ India was not a constitutional democracy struggling with inequality and corruption but an inherently illegitimate state waiting to be overthrown. In the minds of this elite Left, Maoist violence has often been recast as resistance while attacks on infrastructure as blows against capitalism. The armed overthrow of the Indian republic was the liberation they craved for. Some of India’s most celebrated intellectuals have flirted dangerously close to that moral inversion. The issue here is whether intellectual prestige can be used to sanitise an ideology whose practitioners have murdered civilians, policemen and public servants and terrorised some of India’s poorest districts. A university cannot be the place where Maoist romanticism acquires the legitimacy of a fashionable campus cause. Professors who turn armed insurgents into heroic revolutionaries are not merely exercising academic freedom. If they knowingly excuse violence, they are helping to construct the moral vocabulary that makes violence possible. Let’s be clear here. A professor who criticises the Indian state is not a Naxal while a journalist who exposes state excesses is not an enemy of India. But an intellectual who repeatedly excuses, glorifies or rationalises political violence cannot hide behind the word ‘dissent.’ India has paid an enormous price for the Maoist fantasy. Thousands have died. Entire regions were held back by fear while development was obstructed. The people supposedly being liberated were often the first to suffer. The armed Naxal is now being pushed towards extinction. But the Indian republic cannot afford to leave behind the romantic mythology that made the gun respectable. A democracy can tolerate dissent. It should never be expected to tolerate the glorification of those who seek its violent destruction.

Sham Democracy

Myanmar’s junta prepares for an election that is likely to be rigged amid civil war and authoritarian consolidation.

The generals in Naypyidaw are attempting a sleight of hand. Recently, Myanmar’s junta chief, Senior General Min Aung Hlaing, theatrically declared the end of the emergency rule imposed since the February 2021 coup and signalled a December election. This, he proclaimed, marks “the second chapter” in the country’s journey. But it is a chapter written by the same authors who torched the last manuscript of democracy, and it is likely to end with the military even more entrenched than before.


The announcement is part of a larger ruse to rebrand the military’s de facto rule in civilian garb. Since the coup that toppled Aung San Suu Kyi’s democratically elected government, Myanmar has descended into a violent and fragmented civil war. The junta has lost vast swathes of territory to ethnic militias and a burgeoning resistance, yet it clings to the illusion of control through electoral theatre.


Min Aung Hlaing now occupies both the positions of armed forces chief and acting president. The December election, touted by junta mouthpieces as a transition to multi-party democracy, is more likely to be a rubber-stamp exercise.


Indeed, the prerequisites for a legitimate vote in form of press freedom, universal suffrage and civil liberties are conspicuously absent. In their place, the junta has crafted an atmosphere of fear: new draconian laws threaten up to ten years’ imprisonment for anyone attempting to “destroy a part of the electoral process.” Yet even the preparatory census failed to reach 19 million of the country’s 51 million people, underscoring the logistical farce.


The opposition, including lawmakers from the ousted National League for Democracy (NLD), has pledged to boycott it. Suu Kyi remains imprisoned, along with much of the NLD’s senior leadership, having been handed a slew of convictions designed to eliminate her from public life. The political landscape has been sterilised of any real challenge to military rule.


The junta’s endgame is not the restoration of democracy but its reinvention under military tutelage.


For much of its post-independence history, the country has been under military rule, whether directly or cloaked in constitutional manipulation. The 2008 constitution, drafted by the generals, guarantees the army a quarter of parliamentary seats and control over key ministries. The 2021 coup was sparked by the military’s unfounded allegations of voter fraud in the 2020 election, which the NLD won in a landslide.


The upcoming vote may seek to reanimate the model of the military-aligned Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP) ruling under a quasi-civilian façade. The difference now is that the resistance is fiercer and more decentralised. Ethnic armed organisations (EAOs), along with the People’s Defence Forces (PDFs), have significantly eroded the junta’s reach in the north, west, and southeast. Any move to impose elections in these territories risks further inflaming hostilities. Already, the junta has resorted to offering cash rewards to rebels willing to surrender.


International response has ranged from cautious to complicit. China, Myanmar’s powerful neighbour and biggest investor, issued a bland statement supporting “resolution through political means under the constitutional and legal framework” — code for tolerating the junta’s roadmap so long as it protects Chinese investments and prevents Western influence. Beijing’s interest lies not in Myanmar’s democratic flourishing but in a stable buffer zone and access to the Indian Ocean.


ASEAN, the regional bloc, has offered a five-point peace plan that has largely been ignored. Western sanctions have failed to dislodge the generals or materially degrade their capacity to wage war. Meanwhile, arms continue to flow through networks in Russia, China, and North Korea. The civil war is increasingly internationalised, even as its victims remain largely voiceless on the world stage.


To many in Myanmar, especially the youth who took to the streets in 2021 and have since joined the armed resistance, the electoral pantomime represents a betrayal. It is designed not to heal the country but to ensconce a junta incapable of governing by consent. Elections can lend legitimacy when institutions are strong and freedoms respected. In Myanmar, they have been used to crush what remains of both.

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