In Myanmar, if you want to change policy, you clash with authority … But we can do many things despite the military government. We can make a change starting from a small, non-sensitive issue. Changing the policy is important, but we cannot wait for the structure to change.1

This chapter centres on the notion of ‘space’, or room to manoeuvre, for civil society under authoritarian rule. Under the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) government, Myanmar civil society actors operated in a very restricted political space. Many of them adapted to working under the radar of the government, while others refused to make concessions and faced regular repression, imprisonment and threats to their lives. In the course of the political transition, new opportunities opened up for civil society to get involved in politics and contribute to policy development. For others, including ethnic nationalities and vocal dissidents, room to manoeuvre remained limited, or even diminished. This created tensions within civil society over the nature of this new space, and the question of the extent to which civil society in transitional Myanmar could really operate independently from the government. This chapter and the next illustrate both sides of the debate. They show how the space experienced by various actors was determined by a number of factors including individual background and strategies to mobilize support, the location and timing of activities, and the language in which they were phrased.

While the whole military-led ‘Roadmap to Democracy’ was contentious, particular contestations emerged around the 2008 constitution and the referendum held in the days after cyclone Nargis, as well as the local and international humanitarian responses to the cyclone. Heated debates arose once elections were announced for 2010. The main political opposition decided to boycott the elections due to their unfair nature and the obstructions it faced to meaningful electoral participation. Others, particularly those affiliated with the previously mentioned Third Force, saw the elections as a unique opportunity to create political platforms outside the influence of the military. This chapter discusses the ruptures that occurred within Myanmar civil society as space opened up for some but closed down for others. The following chapters focus on the way these discussions were portrayed towards outside observers, with the 2010 elections as a specific case study.

Despite increasing academic arguments for a deconstruction of ‘the state’ and an emphasis on civil society as potentially hegemonic (Hedman, 2006; Chandhoke, 2007), populations under authoritarian rule experience state power in very real ways. Myanmar’s military is known for its pervasive influence on people’s everyday lives, as well as its influence in the formal political sphere, from law making to international relations. This is not to say that the government necessarily forms a single entity; in fact, as this chapter demonstrates, people often rely on personal relationships in order to obtain privileges or increase their room to manoeuvre. Many families, moreover, have connections with both the military and the opposition, and a decision to become active in the military is often based on economic or other practical considerations (Fink, 2009: 4, 129). In terms of formal space for civil society, however, the military has had a decisively negative influence by repressing civic associations both in law and in practice. Due to its violent and extortive practices, the military is distrusted by the general population, particularly since the latest military coup in 2021, which took away many of people’s recently acquired liberties and opportunities. This chapter describes how Myanmar’s military and affiliated authorities managed to exert power over the population and regulate society, while civil society actors simultaneously attempted to carve out space for their activities, sometimes in opposition to, and sometimes in tactical interaction with the authorities. It starts with an exploration of the growing body of literature on civil society in authoritarian environments and demonstrates that a sole focus on overtly political activities does not do justice to the subtle ways that many local actors find to contribute to social or political change under repressive circumstances.

Civil society under authoritarian rule

Academic literature on civil society has largely focused on bridging the gap between state and citizens in established democracies, or on the ability to overthrow a government deemed illegitimate in regions where democratization processes occurred, such as Latin America and Eastern Europe in the 1970s and ’80s (Foley and Edwards, 1996; Glasius et al, 2004; May and Milton, 2005). The much scarcer literature on civil society under durable authoritarian circumstances displays a more flexible understanding of the shape civil society may take, and its ambiguous relationship with state authorities (Howell, 2007; Hsu, 2010; Spires, 2011; Wells-Dang, 2012). The dominant focus among outside observers on public protest in Myanmar in the 1990s and 2000s provided relevant insights into contestations of military rule. However, it also resulted in a one-sided view of civil society actors as politically vocal activists, ignoring the many others who tried to find room to act independently from, or even through cooperation with state actors.

As Alagappa (2004: 5) reminds us, ‘mass movements and rallies are not the everyday expression of civil society. They erupt at moments of crisis and opportunity when a number of organizations combine efforts to mobilize public opinion.’ James Scott (1985) showed that people in rural areas are more likely to engage in smaller forms of everyday resistance, rather than large protests and public dissent; the same has been argued in relation to Myanmar, where rural areas are often occupied by people of minority backgrounds and/or in economically marginalized positions (Thawnghmung, 2004; Karen Human Rights Group, 2008; Fink, 2009; Malseed, 2009; Prasse-Freeman, 2012). Many civil society activities, moreover, fall somewhere between public protest and everyday resistance. Under previous episodes of military rule, activists in Myanmar had become particularly skilled at tactics intended to have a societal impact while avoiding overtly political messages that might endanger the continuity of their activities or the personal safety of those involved. Contrarily, a smaller number of overtly political actors refused to adapt their actions or messages to the repressive environment. This way, they were able to test the boundaries of military rule, but they also risked continuous threats to their freedom and safety.

The interaction between space provided to and opportunities created by civil society actors themselves can be analysed in terms of the debate on structure and agency. Structuration theory holds that both individual behaviour and social, political and economic structures determine people’s room to manoeuvre (Giddens, 1986). This analysis can even be applied to highly repressive circumstances, as people still have the ability to bring about change through individual actions, although the possibilities may be more limited, and the stakes can be very high. All civil society actors in authoritarian Myanmar have to operate within an unpredictable political and economic climate, where structural factors such as repression, poverty and conflict affect their own lives and the lives of people around them. As this chapter demonstrates, they have become particularly skilled at ‘navigating’ this uncertain and unstable environment (see Vigh, 2009).

Restrictions on public speech

I came all the way to Thailand because I have a toothache.

Do you not have dentists in your country?

Yes, but in Burma we are not allowed to open our mouths.

This joke is attributed to the Moustache Brothers, a comedy act that performed for small groups of tourists in Mandalay during the SPDC era. It sums up the sense of repression in Myanmar under authoritarian rule. Of the many restrictions imposed by the military government, the lack of freedom of speech had perhaps the most noticeable effect on Burmese society. After the 2007 demonstrations and the aftermath of cyclone Nargis and before the 2010 elections, over 2,100 persons were imprisoned for their political beliefs, protest activities or criticism of the government (Human Rights Watch 2010). As previously discussed, the State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC, later SPDC), which took power in 1988, abolished the 1974 constitution and ruled largely by decree. It frequently invoked the 1950 Emergency Provisions Act to sentence journalists, opposition members and other dissidents for voicing criticism of the government.

The military government applied its rule of law in unpredictable and inconsistent ways, whereby anyone who was ‘flawed politically’ could become a ‘public enemy’ stripped of the right to judicial remedy or political participation. Those accused of ordinary crimes had the right to defend themselves or could attempt to buy off judges, while such options were not available to ‘public enemies’ prosecuted for their political views or actions (Cheesman, 2015). Some of the laws used against these persons, such as the Official Secrets Act and the Unlawful Associations Act, stem from the colonial period. In the early 2000s, dissidents and ‘assorted troublemakers’ complaining about state failure were increasingly criminalized, as were their lawyers (Cheesman and Kyaw Min San, 2013; Cheesman, 2015). The effect of imprisoning people for their dissenting beliefs or non-violent actions goes beyond the immediate repercussions for the individuals involved. Family members and friends of those detained are often harassed or watched by the authorities, and former political prisoners feel shunned and stigmatized in their communities, which limits their opportunity to participate in future activities. Experiences of repression also deter other potential dissidents from engaging in politically ‘dangerous’ activities such as demonstrations. As a result, many prominent activists felt forced to leave the country if they wanted to criticize the military government without fear of repercussions.

Working under the banner of a civil society organization (CSO) could provide protection to individuals, but it could also lead to new forms of prosecution. The Unlawful Associations Act, established by the British in 1908 and revised in 1957, criminalizes membership of, or support for, illegal organizations, and limits freedom of association. It has been used strategically to obstruct student organizations, religious organizations, political opposition groups and ethnic nationality organizations. In conflict areas, men could arbitrarily be accused of assisting ethnic armed organizations. Research in China and Vietnam has shown that registration can be used strategically by authorities to control the activities of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) (Howell, 2007; Hsu, 2010; Spires, 2011; Wells-Dang, 2012). Registered organizations draw more attention from the government, have to meet certain reporting requirements and risk losing registration if they displease the authorities. On the other hand, registration with the government can increase organizations’ room to manoeuvre, as they no longer have to operate secretly and have more opportunities to take up office space and open a bank account.

Myanmar’s military governments are particularly notorious for controlling and obstructing civic initiatives, contributing to a wariness among organizations to register with that same government for fear of arbitrary application of regulations. In response to the student uprising in 1988, the SLORC issued the Law Relating to the Forming of Organizations that requires NGOs to register with the Ministry of Home Affairs and prohibits organizations which may disrupt law and order or ‘the regularity of state machinery’ from registering. In order to avoid scrutiny as well as high registration costs, many of the smaller organizations working under military rule chose not to register.2 Others were refused registration or were sent from one ministry to the next. Some registered as a business or education facility or tried to obtain a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) with the government, in order to be allowed to conduct social, environmental or humanitarian activities. When they did not succeed in obtaining an MOU, they sometimes worked under a different banner such as religion, or in a larger network. As one respondent explained:

The government does not allow registration, but we can work because we got an MOU. Sometimes we work with environmental groups, sometimes we make an MOU with the Ministry of Agriculture or the Ministry of Social Work, and sometimes when we do education, we need an MOU with the Ministry of Education.3

I asked another respondent whether they could work without registration, to which he replied:

Actually, we are doing without. We work with other organizations … Even if we work in the community, we don’t use the name of the organization. We just perform our programme, like child development programme. M: right, no larger organization. No. So if one programme ends … They don’t know about the others, ah ok.4

These are examples of various forms of civil society agency despite highly restrictive administrative structures. Respondents also encountered more direct forms of surveillance.

Dealing with surveillance

Although the Military Intelligence Service (MIS) had largely been dismantled with the removal from power of General Khin Nyunt in 2004, informers continued to operate on every level. Respondents detailed how they suspected spies were attending their meetings in supposedly safe spaces, such as the American Center in Yangon. These rumours were shared among friends and meeting participants and contributed to a widespread fear of informers, as well as many creative ways to evade them, often with the help of befriended local authorities. Respondents were also skilled at solving problems by personally lobbying local authorities, offering ‘tea money’ (small bribes) or giving them an honorary role in public events, in the hope of placating them and being allowed to continue with their activities. Such tactics only worked in certain cases and were mostly unavailable to well-known critics of the government (Cheesman, 2015).

One of the new rules imposed by the SLORC in 1988 was a ban on public gatherings of five or more people (SLORC order 2/88[b]). Although this rule was reportedly not frequently invoked, many civil society actors considered it a limitation on their community activities. Combined with the fear of infiltration by informers, it made people reluctant to speak their minds in the presence of strangers or people they otherwise distrusted. This also affected the environment in which researchers inside the country had to operate: respondents would occasionally joke that certain activities could lead to ‘free housing’ or ‘free transportation’ – meaning arrest or deportation (Matelski, 2014: 64). Respondents also expressed concern about speaking out in front of other people, who could potentially be spies. Some said they refused to answer political questions unless they were outside the country. Speaking about politics or views about the military required familiarity and trust. For this reason, much research before the political transition period, including part of the research underlying this book, took place with respondents outside the country.

Apart from secret informers, the SPDC government also maintained a strict hierarchy of state officials reporting from the very local level upwards (Fink, 2009: 135), generally referred to as the ‘ten household’ model. One respondent conveyed how he encountered a township administrative officer while trying to conduct social work in his area:

I went to a small township, providing medical health service to the elder people, with doctors. And I was at the first house talking to an over 80 year old woman. She was very happy to talk with us, she was very poor, no guests in her house, like this. At that time the township administrative officer phoned to me: “Who are you? Why are you doing such kind of activities in my administrative area? Will you come to me or should I come to you?” [laughs] “Oh sorry sir, I am going to come to you!” [laughs]

M: How did he get your phone number? Because you know as soon as I arrive in this area, I go and meet with the ten household administrative leader. I say I come from my organization to do medical care for elder people in your area, my name is … and that is my phone number. And he put it to the township administration officer, here are some strangers, working like this. So I halted my activities. Did they tell you to stop? Yes. They [the local authorities] asked, if I want to do such kind of activities, you better try to get an MOU with the government. See? This means, you better do [this] in next life. [all laugh]5

The laughter of this respondent and others present at the focus group discussion illustrates the absurdity of the situation he described: for the seemingly harmless activity of caring for the elderly, he was not only checked on extensively, but also threatened and effectively prevented from carrying on. Although the consequences of conducting such non-sensitive activities were limited, this example demonstrates the pervasiveness of the authorities in people’s everyday social lives, as well as the direct and unpredictable control over their activities. As one (male) respondent phrased it: “The government is like a mad woman. Hard to understand them. One thing good, one thing not.”

As detailed by Selth (2013), the task of gathering domestic political intelligence under the Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP) government was split between the Special Branch of the Myanmar Police Force, which falls under the command of the Ministry of Home Affairs, and the MIS, which comes under direct command of the armed forces. In practice, their tasks often overlap, and there is a continued risk of duplication and competition. One respondent conveyed how various branches of the government, from military intelligence to police or village chiefs, all asked the same questions while competing for information, sometimes without a clear idea what should happen with such information. This frequent obligation to provide personal information and explanation about activities contributed to feelings of arbitrariness and insecurity on the side of those under surveillance, but also resulted in a population skilled in evasion. Civil society actors were very careful, for example, not to refer to politics in any of their meetings, even if they dealt directly with political matters such as responses to the 2010 elections. Human rights matters were discussed in covert terms, such as ‘development’. One respondent described his organization’s activities as follows: “We have programmes on livelihood, environment, shelter, disaster risk reduction and protection. Protection means … [laughs] … Protection is like a hide [that is, a cover-up]. We can’t mention human rights, or women’s rights, very sensitive in Myanmar. That’s why our strategy is, we change to protection.”6 Another respondent similarly explained how he managed to talk about human rights: “I use other names, not human rights. We are now, you know, ‘studying law’, something like that you know, now we are doing ‘copyright’ here … We can also include business law in my curriculum, and social entrepreneurship. With these names, we can include human rights issues.”7 These examples show the semantic creativity civil society actors had become accustomed to in order to carry out their activities without drawing unwanted attention from the government. In some cases, however, civil society actors actively sought cooperation with state authorities in order to further their goals.

‘Contingent symbiosis’ between state and civil society

Research on Vietnam and China has shown that civil society actors in authoritarian environments do not always strive for maximum autonomy from the state (Spires, 2011; Wells-Dang, 2012; Salmenkari, 2013; Waibel, 2014). Instead, a complex interaction takes place in which both state and civil society actors simultaneously seek to benefit from each other while trying to avoid unwanted interference. Wells-Dang (2012) describes how civil society actors in China and Vietnam organize flexibly in order to maximize their influence and rely on informal structures and personal connections with state actors when necessary. Similarly, Spires (2011: 2) uses the concept of ‘contingent symbiosis’ to describe the ‘mutual suspicion and mutual need that permeates the NGO–government relationship’ in contemporary China, which implies that the relationship between authoritarian governments and civil society goes beyond a one-way system of control. In many cases, particularly in China, researchers find that civil society actors value the financial and operational ability to have societal impact, display solidarity and engage in networking as more important than the opportunity to criticize the government (Hsu, 2010; Salmenkari, 2013). Such studies indicate that civil society does not need to (openly) oppose the state in order to have a societal impact. In environments where the potential risks of political activities are high, many organizations and individuals try to disguise their politically sensitive activities by hiding them from the authorities, while others choose to stay away from such activities altogether.

While antagonistic organizations in repressive circumstances may be forced to hide their activities, flee or stay silent, less threatening civil society activities might actually be beneficial to authoritarian regimes, as Spires (2011) observed in China. The appearance of an independent civil society can legitimize the ruling government, as well as complement its socio-economic work, although organizations may lack the access and resources to do so on a larger scale. Wells-Dang (2012) therefore refers to civil society networks in China and Vietnam as ‘informal pathbreakers in health and the environment’. Such activities may result in government endorsement, but they may also cause local authorities to view civil society actors as competitors. In Myanmar, some respondents reported being obstructed from carrying out social services such as education or humanitarian assistance because the authorities themselves wanted to be seen to provide such assistance. Other respondents reported better personal relationships, as a result of which they were allowed to conduct their activities. One respondent explained:

Ground level staff, township level staff, they understand the situation … From the top level they are not interested in what happens. But in the township level, they also feel [the effects of] … water shortage, they also get the same feeling with the community. They understand and they like to help.8

While most respondents found local authorities to be more attentive to community needs than higher officials, some conversely made use of personal contacts higher up when local authorities proved difficult to work with. Civil society actors used their contacts in relevant ministries or within the military in order to obtain permission for their social activities, if local authorities would not cooperate. However, such avenues were only available to those who had established these personal connections and usually not to well-known dissidents.

In addition to making use of existing contacts, another way to obtain cooperation is to actively foster personal relationships. Representatives of CSOs would invite government officials to their ceremonies, pay regular visits to inform them about the organization’s work, and give them tokens of appreciation in order to show respect and ensure smooth collaboration. Such tactics may be referred to as ‘clientelism’, which according to Kyaw Yin Hlaing (2007c) has characterized state–society relations in post-colonial Burma. Respondents also conveyed contrary dynamics, such as being asked to donate to state schools which lacked sufficient government funding (Matelski, 2015: 209). Another frequent practice described by respondents was giving authorities the opportunity to ‘look the other way’. Although they might privately support certain civil society activities, authorities want to avoid being held responsible by giving formal approval. For this reason, they often refused to give their permission in writing, relying instead on informal understandings. Consequently, activities that officially would be illegal could often still take place, but permission was highly dependent on individual contacts and could be withdrawn at any time. Moreover, there were severe restrictions on openly addressing the main causes of many societal problems. As one respondent explained:

For example youth groups start talking about environmental issues, like don’t use plastic bags, don’t cut the trees. But if you look at government projects, huge projects, they are cutting the whole forest down but we cannot start pulling that issue. If we point out the poor man cutting the tree, we have to also point out the government cutting all the trees … [It is] putting medicine in the wrong place.9

The opportunity to influence authorities and obtain room to manoeuvre depends not only on the individual representative, but also on the nature of the activity and the persons conducting the activity. The more public a certain activity, the more difficult it is for local officials to look the other way. Moreover, as detailed later on, prominent civil society actors are more likely to mobilize people and draw attention from the authorities than lower-ranking civil society actors. As the next section will show, temporal and geographical aspects also determine how much ‘space’ civil society actors experience under authoritarian rule.

The contested notion of ‘space’ for civil society in the run-up to the 2010 elections

The elections announced for 2010 elicited varying reactions in Myanmar. Despite some excitement about being able to vote for the first time, especially among younger generations (since the last elections were held in 1990), there were few indications that the outcome would be credible. The military had entrenched its continued power in the contested 2008 constitution, the main opposition party the National League for Democracy (NLD) called for an election boycott, and its leader Aung San Suu Kyi remained under house arrest. While the most outspoken political activists used the elections as a rallying point in their transnational campaigns against the military government (as covered in Chapter 6), many other civil society actors had started looking for more subtle ways to bring about social and political change on the ground, especially in the humanitarian space created after cyclone Nargis. Non-political civil society actors sensed a change in state–society relations from which they could potentially benefit.

This positive depiction of the early years of the transition was highly contested among both civil society actors and outside observers. Optimistic respondents said they wanted to use and expand the available space to conduct their activities, even if it meant not criticizing problematic aspects of the government’s roadmap, such as the 2008 constitution. They also commented that government officials would have to grant increased civic space for the 2010 election process to appear credible. Moreover, for the first time in 20 years, state authorities would have an external incentive to satisfy their constituencies or risk losing power. The idea of available space, and civil society’s ability to expand this space provided by the government, formed a key point of contention between optimists and pessimists about the political transition. Optimists were willing to put aside their objections in the hope of achieving durable societal change, whereas those with a more pessimistic view or principled objections were unwilling to make such concessions. They pointed out, for example, that the military would dominate the post-2010 landscape, both through the 25 per cent of parliament reserved for the military in the 2008 constitution and through the remaining 75 per cent which the military-led USDP was expected to dominate. One respondent commented cynically: “Some say there is more space after the elections. Which space?! There is more space for the government’s friends, but not much for the rest of us.”10 Others expressed hope that a new government would expand the space available to civil society, which turned out to be the case in the early years of the post-2010 Thein Sein government.

The ability to make use of this increased space, however, proved highly dependent on individual characteristics, connections and reputations. Being located in central Myanmar or one of the ethnic states, for example, resulted in completely different experiences regarding the space granted by the military. Not only did ethnic nationalities encounter discrimination in a range of fields including social services and employment opportunities, but a significant number of them also experienced the direct consequences of armed conflict. It is in these ethnic areas that the worst human rights violations have been documented, with populations being exposed to forced labour, rape and extrajudicial killings. Populations in the ethnic states also face higher levels of poverty, ranging from land confiscation to a lack of infrastructure and facilities such as schools or hospitals. The threat of armed conflict before and during the political transition not only raised suspicion between the central authorities and ethnic nationalities, but also made people living in conflict areas more reluctant to engage in durable community activities. A respondent from Kachin State explained:

Kachin people are very afraid of civil war. If they build a big house, it can all be destroyed in a civil war. So they don’t want to build anything nice, plan long-term projects. This is a big challenge, because if the policy of our country changes, they get nothing.11

This comment, made in 2010, proved painfully accurate when conflict in Kachin State resumed in June 2011. Unsurprisingly, people living in ethnic areas were less likely to seek cooperation with the military or affiliated authorities. People living in the border areas generally tend to have stronger ties with their Thai, Indian, Bangladeshi or Chinese neighbours and with cross-border activist groups than with Burman people or state authorities from central Myanmar. Apart from ethnic areas, heightened surveillance has also been noted for Nargis-affected areas in south-east Myanmar and areas known to have high numbers of NLD supporters. Prominent civil society leaders are particularly likely to come under scrutiny. The Free Funeral Service Society led by film actor and director Kyaw Thu, for example, encountered frequent government harassment as a result of its societal influence. Popular comedians such as Zarganar and the Moustache Brothers were also subject to regular surveillance and imprisonment, because they had the potential to mobilize the masses through their jokes and performances. After the 2021 coup, the military again targeted celebrities who spoke out against their practices. For this reason, other civil society actors explicitly chose to operate ‘under the radar’, despite them having a smaller reach and being unable to take public credit for their activities. Risk taking remained part of their daily reality, which civil society actors learned to cope with; as one respondent explained: “If we [are] afraid too much, we can’t do anything. We are always at risk here. [It is] everyday life. So if we can’t deal with that risk, we can’t do anything.”12

Representatives of the democracy movement took a more principled stance on the risks and benefits of speaking out against the government, but many showed understanding for other activists who preferred to keep a low profile. They were less lenient, however, towards members of the Third Force (introduced earlier) who were openly involved with high-level officials and military leaders. Myanmar Egress was the most public supporter of the ‘space discourse’, as their slogan was ‘creating space and engaging civil society’. The organization was criticized for its close relations with government officials, yet credited for contributing to the public sphere in the form of political trainings and development of media outlets and a think tank, all with Western donor support. In their trainings and publications, members of Myanmar Egress frequently expressed the view that the political opposition should accept the government’s roadmap and participate in the 2010 elections. They also ‘explained how the constitution should be understood and how the upcoming elections could open up the political space for ethnic minority groups’ (Kyaw Yin Hlaing, 2014: 36). The organization’s founder and frequent contributor of political analyses for The Voice newspaper, Nay Win Maung, had called for the opposition to let the military win the 2010 elections as the only way towards a political reform process. Many people had come to suspect that Egress was able to engage in openly political activities in return for supporting the military’s reform process. Representatives of the democracy movement argued that the ambiguity around the relationship between Myanmar Egress and the military government could lead to popular distrust, as one prominent democracy leader explained in 2011: “In a country like Burma, you really need the public trust. Unfortunately when you are still supported by the authorities, you lose the public trust and confidence.”

At the same time, Myanmar Egress was also credited for reaching out to young people and ethnic nationalities and for talking openly about politics. Several respondents had participated in its political education activities, which were generally considered of relatively high quality. Some were rather mild on the privileges obtained by the organization: “Because they agree with the government, the government gives them a chance, that is natural. Because if I am that organization, I will also take that chance too, that is no problem. If I am jealous or something maybe I am not mature enough.”13 Others were more critical, saying “Egress is not creating space, but a barrier. They are sitting on the fence, and then when one side is powerful, they change to that … I think it’s totally bad, potentially.” Another respondent and Egress alumnus was positioned somewhere in between: “To make a dialogue, they have to make trust between the military leaders, because they have absolute power. They are trying to make a channel between the government and themselves … It makes lots of sense to me. We cannot just wipe out the generals tomorrow.”14 In short, many people in Myanmar considered high-level civil society achievements to be the result of benefits provided by the authorities, rather than entitlements that they themselves could also claim. Some Third Force members perceived a culture in Myanmar in which it was easier to criticize than to give credit. When services were provided to certain communities, people were quick to point out how these initiatives discriminated against other groups, contributed to elitism or were conducted with selfish motives. We will now look at the implications of these different approaches in Myanmar for the broader discussion on civil society in repressive environments.

Civil society beyond the overtly political

In repressive environments, civil society activities that are not overtly political may well be overlooked by outside observers. Foley and Edwards (1996: 48), for example, assert that

[w]here the state is unresponsive, its institutions are undemocratic, or its democracy is ill designed to recognize and respond to citizen demands, the character of collective action will be decidedly different than under a strong and democratic system. Citizens will find their efforts to organize for civil ends frustrated by state policy – at some times actively repressed, at others simply ignored. Increasingly aggressive forms of civil association will spring up, and more and more ordinary citizens will be driven into either active militancy against the state or self-protective apathy.

This illustrates the frequent depiction of civil society and mass mobilization as dichotomies: civil society existing continuously but largely inactive due to repressive circumstances, and mass mobilizers being more vibrant but only occasionally visible in large-scale public protests. In his work on civil society and political change in Asia, Alagappa (2004: 5) warns that ‘[a]n undue focus on mass rallies and protests may overstate the strength and consequence of civil society … [and] obscure the more mundane and less visible functions of civil society in normal times, functions that may be just as crucial as its actions in moments of crisis’. Some researchers writing on civil society in military-ruled Myanmar emphasize its political role. Hewison and Prager Nyein (2010: 13), for example, wrote during the early years of the political transition process: ‘For all of this enthusiasm about the recent efflorescence of community-based organisations and NGOs … we see the political space available for civil society as remaining remarkably constrained.’ They oppose a broader definition of civil society ‘in favour of a focus on civil society organisation that is political’, as ‘these are organisations that seek to establish and expand the political space available for non-state actors’ (Hewison and Prager Nyein, 2010: 16). In other words, they suggest a hierarchy in civil society activities, whereby social welfare organizations can only function independently after (and to the extent that) political civil society has paved the way for their political freedom.

Other researchers writing on state–society relations present a more diverse picture of forms of contention. In his overview of methods of ‘non-compliance’ among Karen populations, Malseed (2009) distinguishes covert, semi-covert and overt resistance against central authorities and argues that most resistance in Myanmar in the late 2000s took the form of ‘the covert and everyday’. Thawnghmung (2004) comes to a similar assessment regarding rural populations’ daily survival strategies. These patterns of covert resistance or non-compliance are augmented among civil society actors, who tend to come under more scrutiny from the authorities than other people due to their organized form and potential popular influence. One respondent explained in 2011: “[M]any of us want political change, but because of the situation, we have to call it social change” (Matelski, 2014: 67). As the political space opened up in the early years of the USDP government, however, many activists and organizations that had previously worked under the banner of education or humanitarian work became more explicitly involved in political affairs, such as civic education around the upcoming elections.

While this growing body of research on authoritarian environments contributes to our understanding of civil society’s strategic avoidance of overtly political matters, the definitions of civil society used by academics and practitioners should not become fully dependent on the political space allowed by the state. Narrow definitions of civil society as non-political may inadvertently legitimize boundaries set by repressive states that determine the types of activities allowed under their watch. There is a risk of undermining the position of dissidents who feel forced to leave the country and continue their antagonistic activities from abroad, as these voices are ignored by researchers focusing exclusively on forms of civil society that are visible inside authoritarian states. Salemink (2006), for example, notes that Vietnamese organizations that dare to bring up ‘politicized’ topics such as ethnic minority rights frequently run into problems with the authorities. Researchers and practitioners focusing on antagonistic activities tend to pay more attention to the views of civil society actors in exile, as they are considered to be in a better position to voice criticism towards the state. This discrepancy can help explain why researchers working on the local level inside authoritarian states find civil society there to be much more vibrant and diverse than researchers engaging in comparative work on the (trans)national level.

Although it is safe to assume that political activities are less acceptable to an authoritarian government than socio-economic activities, it does not follow automatically that political organizations should necessarily pave the way for community-based organizations to be able to function, or that they always seek to do so. If anything, the data on Myanmar point towards an opposite sequence: while demands on the military government to step down only resulted in more repression, the influx of development organizations after cyclone Nargis gradually resulted in an enlargement of political space that was both demanded from, and reluctantly granted by the authorities. This does not mean that political civil society has no role to play; rather, it suggests that political and non-political goals may be sought after simultaneously and are highlighted or downplayed strategically depending on the situation and the individuals involved. One respondent explicitly referred to the diverse civil society goals in Myanmar as a strength:

So many people in Myanmar are working to strengthen civil society … Most of the NGOs are just working in the humanitarian sector, and some are very eager to change [to a] positive political situation … Small or big, no matter, I only care what they are doing for civil society.15

These data show that the presence and relevance of civil society should not be determined primarily by people’s ability to engage in overt political action, but instead by their ability to raise issues that resonate with everyday experiences, which are mostly expressed as socio-economic needs but often carry political undertones.

Testing the waters during the transition

This book focuses on the early years of the political transition period in Myanmar, from the 2010 elections to the unexpected liberalization and increased civic space under the USDP government. As discussed earlier, President Thein Sein explicitly called for civil society involvement in policy debates and invited exiled dissidents back to the country. Many respondents reacted to these invitations. Members of the youth organization Generation Wave were among the first to move their activities from Thailand back inside the country. Looking back in 2014, they described their decision to return in December 2011 as follows: “The situation was not so stable yet. We decided to celebrate our anniversary and challenge our freedom. The government said the country is changing, in transition, so we tested our freedom. If they come and arrest us, it will show that the country is not changing.”16 Similarly, a representative of The Best Friend commented in 2012, after one of its foreign associates was deported for distributing stickers with peace messages: “The junta claims to want peace … We have to test if they really mean this … Are they serious about their calls for democracy? Then why do they arrest people who call for exactly the same?”17 Although Generation Wave activists were able to hold their anniversary celebration, they were followed closely by Military Intelligence and frequently had to move office, as their landlords were intimidated by the authorities. Despite remaining unregistered, they soon became involved in a dialogue with the government on issues such as the NGO Registration Law. They were also one of the lead organizations in the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) Youth Forum which took place in Yangon during Myanmar’s ASEAN chairmanship in 2014.

Other dissidents in exile, including members of the Third Force, were similarly quick to take up the president’s invitation to return to the country. The founders of Vahu, who despite their willingness to cooperate with the government had remained outside the country, paid preliminary visits in 2011, as did the director of the Euro-Burma Office, Harn Yawnghwe. The arrest in August 2012 of a returning former lawyer for the NLD showed how fragile the security of returning exiles really was (Duell, 2014: 121; Cheesman, 2015: 127). The exiled director of the Human Rights Education Institute of Burma (HREIB) was invited in 2011 to observe the situation and was reunited with his relatives after more than 20 years. Although he was reluctant to move his organization inside Myanmar, given the relative safety of their activities in Thailand, by 2014 he had managed to open branches in various Myanmar cities, albeit under a different organizational name: Equality Myanmar. He was later appointed minister in the National Unity Government, as described in Chapter 8.

Several respondents referred to a door which had been opened by the government in 2011, and which they had to push gently in order not to lose momentum. Returning exiles often had trouble getting their residency and their organizations legalized. The director of HREIB commented in 2014 that “the country is good at kicking people out, but not at bringing them back in”. In March 2014, his and other former exile organizations played a prominent role in organizing the ASEAN Peoples’ Forum that took place in Yangon. Nevertheless, he considered the situation “not really open yet”, as most changes had come from the top, while local authorities were slow to change their attitudes towards NGOs and other activists. While the civil society sector was visibly growing, he commented that they were merely “testing the water”. Representatives of more openly critical organizations such as Burma Partnership and the Assistance Association for Political Prisoners also returned to the country but reported continuous pressure from the authorities, and even threats to their security if they did not stop talking to the media and the international community about human rights violations.

Civil society actors who had remained in Myanmar also took up the invitation to contribute to policy discussions and political debates. Many felt encouraged by President Thein Sein’s State of the Union speech on 1 March 2012, in which he emphasized the importance of civil society. Several organizations rolled out new activities or expanded to new locations. Activists from the 1990s student uprisings, who had operated semi-covertly under military rule, set up the Yangon School of Political Science and the Myanmar Institute for Democracy. By 2014, they could instruct people how to lobby political representatives who had taken office after the elections and hold them accountable, something which had been impossible under military rule. When politically oriented activities were organized outside Yangon, however, military surveillance was still very tangible. As organizations had trouble registering with the authorities, they remained unsure about what they were able to get away with. As Buddhist nationalism grew and the Rohingya were increasingly targeted by the military, moreover, Muslim organizations experienced increased threats from Buddhist non-state actors such as MaBaTha, as described in Chapter 2. Meanwhile, some splits occurred within other organizations whose leaders or membership held varying views on the plight of Muslim minorities.

One consequence of the increased space for large sections of civil society during the political transition was the fast professionalization of civil society leaders. As mentioned, some of them entered the arena of formal politics. Others used their experience and education, often obtained through training abroad, to contribute to policy making and capacity building for civil servants. One respondent encountered how this created embarrassment among some government officials:

Almost all government staff is afraid of CSOs and ashamed to deal with them because their [own] education is lower [than from the CSO leaders]. They try to hide this by giving very rude responses to the community and CSOs. And the big CSOs look down on government staff. People from the government sector feel angry and easily misuse their power. It’s a big problem to build trust among CSOs, Political Parties, Army, Government Sectors.18

Civil society actors inside the country, including returning exiles, also had to learn to engage in dialogue rather than just criticize the authorities, as some had done before. Those entering politics, moreover, became subject to the same criticism they had previously issued to other power holders. One civil society leader commented in 2012 about the lack of experience among new parliamentarians: “It is the blind leading the blind. They need expertise, but they do not trust outsiders.” This was illustrated during a study trip to Delhi in 2012, where Indian academics would meet with civil society actors and new politicians from Myanmar (both opposition and USDP). While the civil society participants were experienced in such study trips, some of the political representatives had never left the country and had to be closely supervised, particularly at the airport, where some of them missed their flight. These increased interactions between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ groups in advocacy platforms and other public fora during the transition will be explored in the next chapter.