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Over the past two decades, economic hardship and political conflict have driven Burmese migrants, refugees and political dissidents across the border from Myanmar into Thailand at an unprecedented scale. According to estimates, the number of Burmese migrant workers in Thailand may have reached about three million whereas the number of Burmese asylum seekers registered with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) approximates 15,000. While the past decades saw a massive flow of Burmese nationals coming across the border into Thailand, in recent years a counter-current has emerged with the return movement of Burmese exiles to Myanmar. This is due to a series of political and economic reforms in Myanmar which began to take place in 2011. A new civilian government has loosened internet restrictions, freed political prisoners and pursued economic reforms to attract more foreign investors. As part of the reforms, in August 2011, Myanmar's president Thein Sein called on all exiles to return. According to government rhetoric, Burmese exiles’ departure to escape persecution by the military resulted in a massive drain that deprived Myanmar of some of its best minds.
As a result, over the past two years, a growing number of Burmese political exiles have returned to their home country. Returnees state the reason for return as “we want to contribute to the country” (Rose 2012; Horn 2012). Cheery Zahau, in her talk about returnees at the Burma Update Conference 2013 at the Australian National University, states that, in the past two years, three types of returnees may be identified: those in armed resistance groups, activists, and immigrants who see opportunities in Myanmar. She notes that all three groups go back because they want to contribute to the country's development (Cheery Zahau 2013).
While an aspect of Burmese exiles returning home has been celebrated in the press as part of the reforms, the question of whether Burmese labour migrants have contemplated return has been largely ignored. In May 2012, the international press (BBC 2012; Whiteman 2012) wrote about Aung San Suu Kyi's visit to Burmese migrants at Mahachai in Thailand, a hub for processing and canning seafood which employs tens of thousands of Burmese workers.
This chapter provides a concise map of faith-based and secular humanitarian assistance to the Karen in the Thai-Burmese borderland to show the emergence and development of a humanitarian economy for Karen villagers in southeast Myanmar, and in the nine refugee camps in northwest Thailand. I understand humanitarianism to be a culture of humanitarian aid, compassion and relief, but prefer a broader definition that includes agency which encompasses a range of services — from emergency healthcare to advocacy work, such as training for documentation of human rights violations. I suggest that decades of civil war and repression in southeast Myanmar have created a particular landscape of humanitarianism in the borderlands of southeast Myanmar and northwest Thailand that is characterized by the dense presence of local and international humanitarian organizations. The chapter advances the thesis that humanitarianism takes over state functions in the social services as the economy, health and education sector in southeast Myanmar have largely collapsed (South 2012; Decha Tangseefa 2006). Humanitarianism thus contributes in a crucial way to the consolidation of social support networks of Karen villagers and a parallel state or self-governance of the Karen in the context of open state terror and hostility.
Outlining this specific culture of humanitarianism as it developed in the Thai-Burmese borderland, I find the theory of landscape useful. Describing landscape, cultural geographers were either interested in the materiality of landscape or in the politics of representation and power. I am interested in the relationship between the two: landscape is the way in which specific actors shape a region or area with their practices and the way that a region is imagined and represented. I thus concur with Janet C. Sturgeon's claim that landscapes are more than just physical topography and land cover, but sites for manoeuvre and struggle (Sturgeon 2005, p. 3ff). Humanitarian work, in its informal and underground nature (as in southeast Myanmar), or formal and engineered (as in the camps in northwest Thailand) can be seen as what Sturgeon calls “landscape plasticity”, that is a contribution to negotiated landscapes. In this sense, landscapes are being constantly remodelled and the presence of humanitarian organizations and city-like camps contribute to shaping the materiality of the borderland (Agier 2002).
Often viewed as marginal spaces at the edge of a nation, borders are in fact sites of social, political and cultural change that impact local and national politics. This edited volume underscores this relationship by drawing attention to the significance of the frontier regions in defining and exemplifying many of the dilemmas that beset Myanmar. As van Schendel and de Maaker assert, “[t]he making of borders cannot be separated from attempts to define nations” (2014, p. 3).
The border is often understood as the “line of physical contact between states” (Paasi 1999b, p. 13). In everyday parlance and in the field of international relations, borders are taken to be stable features that separate one nation state from another (Minghi 1963, p. 407), created by and negotiated between state agents, and codified in maps.
This book takes a different approach. It conceptualizes borders — and boundaries — as social practice — processes rather than objects (Berg and van Houtum 2003; Baud and van Schendel 1997), verbs rather than nouns (van Houtum 2011, p. 50) — that are constantly being enacted.
The production and reproduction of boundaries is part of the institutionalization of territories — the process in which their territorial, symbolic and institutional ‘shape’ is determined (Paasi 1991). Therefore boundaries manifest themselves in numerous social (economic, cultural, administrative and political) practices and discourses that may be simultaneous and overlapping (Paasi 1999a, p. 670).
Boundaries may be viewed as constituting
lines of separation or contact [that] may occur in real or virtual space, horizontally between territories, or vertically between groups and/or individuals. The point of contact or separation usually creates an ‘Us’ and an ‘Other’ identity, and this takes place at a variety of sociospatial scales (Newman and Paasi 1998, p. 191).
Looking at this obversely, we can say that the act of creating boundaries is the act of constructing figured or symbolic worlds. Practice theory is used in this introductory chapter to frame local practices of border-, boundaryand world-making while referencing larger structures and sociohistorical production. This enables us to consider Myanmar's frontiers not just as entities defined by the border but as spaces where symbolic worlds emerge from local context, partly transforming widely circulating models of nation, identity and culture, and vice versa.
How do Burman people perceive and live the borderlands? It has been a few decades since academics started working on Burmanization to explain the national construction of the Union of Myanmar's “geo-body” — the search for a homeomorphism between a territory defined by national borders and a national “identity” (Thongchai Winichakul 2005) — and notably the power struggles between the central state and ethnic areas partly under the control of insurgent armed groups. Walton (2013) even recently discussed the “wages of Burmanness”, an ill-defined national Burman identity resulting from the Burmanization process that, if substituted for the creation of an inclusive national identity, could hinder the development of a democratic Union and the place of ethnic minorities within it.
Nonetheless, only a few studies deal with the perception of a Burman identity by the Burmans themselves, or at least Burman discourses of identity relative to their relationship with other minorities (see Boutry and Ivanoff 2008; Boutry 2015). How do Burmans represent their geographic or imagined territories and define their borders? It seems “easier” to find strong identity markers defining “limited social spaces” (for example, the Moken or Khumi social space) than “extended social spaces”, such as the Burman or Tai ones. Among other reasons, extended social spaces tend to be assimilated to structures of a larger scale such as kingdoms or states, while limited social spaces are deprived of such power structures. The fact that limited social spaces are mainly viewed as in danger of being assimilated by extended ones (Moken assimilated by Burman through Burmanization, for example) explains the greater focus given to studying “disappearing” or “changing” identities on the part of minorities. Yet, nobody seems to find interesting the possible changes occurring within the majority in contact with minorities. Numbers lay down the law. Yet, is it not necessary to try understanding Burman identity when talking of Burmanness or Burmanization? Or are these concepts only political constructions aimed at controlling populations?
From some examples taken along the Myanmar littoral zone, I would like to draw attention to how borders (administrative but also based on identity as we will see) contribute to the different facets of Burman identity.
• The political education of members of Thailand's Red Shirt movement took place through the electoral process, and through learning how political institutions and the judiciary could be systematically used to topple the elected government. The main sources of instruction were the Red Shirt TV programmes followed by Bangkok rallies.
• In Chiang Mai Province, for example, Red Shirt activities centred around a radio station and participation in political gatherings. The former involved dissemination of information, the latter connected activists with those from other parts of Northern Thailand.
• The relationship between the United Alliance for Democracy against Dictatorship (UDD) and satellite Red Shirt groups was rather distant. The UDD leadership showed little interest in strengthening Red Shirt forces outside Bangkok and in turn, there was little participation by Red Shirt leaders from other provinces in Bangkok activities.
• Yingluck's elected government focussed on maintaining Party popularity among voters rather than on structural democratic reforms. At the same time, the UDD, the Red Shirt movement, the Party, and other parts of society did not actively pressure the government to enact such reforms. This contributed to the political deadlock that emerged before the military coup.
• In the wake of the military ban on all political gatherings, only a few Red Shirt radio stations remained open, but their programming changed drastically from political broadcasts to social broadcasts. Red Shirt groups have transformed into social clubs and now organize social events that do not include political activities.
The deaths of people (at Ratchadumnern Avenue and Ratchaprasong Intersection) during April and May 2010 brought about “Eye-opening” (Enlightenment) among villagers. They have now understood how the state is ready to use violence and suppress its people…that the state sees a people's demonstration not just as a call for democracy, but war. The state sees people as its enemy and intends to destroy them. The killings in Bangkok have transformed those villagers to be fighters who are ready to die for democracy.
Pinkaew Luang-aramsri, 2013
INTRODUCTION
Throughout the year 2013 and in the early stages of the following year, Thailand was filled with political excitement generated by Red Shirt demonstrations both in Bangkok and outside, in support of the elected Yingluck Government. This led many to believe that the Red Shirt movement was a strong democratic force, particularly in the northeast and northern regions. It appeared ready to oppose the return of an authoritarian regime at all costs, and if a military coup were to be staged, the Red Shirts seemed prepared to establish a government in exile, or even carve out a Federation of Isan-Lanna States from Thailand's existing territory.
Andrew Walker's 2012 study of peasants in rural Chiang Mai presented a vivid picture of the extent to which villager-farmers and rural politics have been transformed since Thaksin's Pheu Thai Party came to power in 2001 and created a strong impact there after the coup in 2006. There are two frequently-quoted studies on the Red Shirts in Northeast and Northern Thailand. The first was written in November 2013 and published in 2014, and the second was published in September 2014. Both confirm the findings in Walker's study, describing strong political activism among Red Shirt villagers in these two regions. They tell a developing story of villagers growing into politically-active and brave fighters, ready to protect and sacrifice their lives for the sake of democracy. The second work is particularly important because its field research was conducted on Red Shirts in the conflict zones of the four districts of Chiang Mai Province. These are the districts of Mueang, Sankampaeng, Doisaket, and Fang-Mae Ai (considered the capital of the Red Shirts in the North).
The economic, political, strategic and cultural dynamism in Southeast Asia has gained added relevance in recent years with the spectacular rise of giant economies in East and South Asia. This has drawn greater attention to the region and to the enhanced role it now plays in international relations and global economics.
The sustained effort made by Southeast Asian nations since 1967 towards a peaceful and gradual integration of their economies has had indubitable success, and perhaps as a consequence of this, most of these countries are undergoing deep political and social changes domestically and are constructing innovative solutions to meet new international challenges. Big Power tensions continue to be played out in the neighbourhood despite the tradition of neutrality exercised by the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).
The Trends in Southeast Asia series acts as a platform for serious analyses by selected authors who are experts in their fields. It is aimed at encouraging policy makers and scholars to contemplate the diversity and dynamism of this exciting region.
The economic, political, strategic and cultural dynamism in Southeast Asia has gained added relevance in recent years with the spectacular rise of giant economies in East and South Asia. This has drawn greater attention to the region and to the enhanced role it now plays in international relations and global economics.
The sustained effort made by Southeast Asian nations since 1967 towards a peaceful and gradual integration of their economies has had indubitable success, and perhaps as a consequence of this, most of these countries are undergoing deep political and social changes domestically and are constructing innovative solutions to meet new international challenges. Big Power tensions continue to be played out in the neighbourhood despite the tradition of neutrality exercised by the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).
The Trends in Southeast Asia series acts as a platform for serious analyses by selected authors who are experts in their fields. It is aimed at encouraging policy makers and scholars to contemplate the diversity and dynamism of this exciting region.
• The foreign policy issue in the 2014 Indonesian presidential election was the rejection by both candidates, Joko Widodo (Jokowi) and Prabowo Subianto, of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono's high-profile globalism. Both promised instead a foreign policy directed to the real economic and social interests of the people. This raised concerns by Indonesia's international partners that its new foreign policy would be more nationalistic and inward looking. A year and a half into Jokowi's presidency, it is possible to make a preliminary assessment of the course of Jokowi's foreign policy in relation to the goals that Jokowi the candidate set forth for Jokowi the president.
• Indonesia's foreign policy under Jokowi, like his predecessor's, is that suited to a rising middle power with a claim to regional leadership. Its operating principles have been unchanged since first enunciated in 1948: “bebas dan aktif” — independent and active — shaped pragmatically to existing situations.
• Jokowi revived Sukarno's trisakti (“threes pillars of the state”) as the organizing principles of his presidential campaign — an Indonesia that is sovereign, economically independent, and with a strong socio-cultural identity — and these are reflected in his foreign policy. In his “Vision and Mission” manifesto for the presidential election, Jokowi listed the action agendas necessary for achieving his four foreign policy priorities. These were (a) promotion of Indonesia as an archipelagic maritime state, (b) promotion of Indonesia's middle-power regional role, (c) a new focus on the Indo-Pacific, and (d) reforming the foreign policy process.
• Five critical areas in particular define Jokowi's foreign policies. These are (a) building the Global Maritime Axis, (b) economic diplomacy, (c) Indonesia's role in ASEAN, (d) navigating between China and the United States, and (e) Indonesia's role in the South China Sea.
• The bedrock of Indonesian foreign policy since at least 2001 remains firm. The country continues to be a responsible, cooperative international partner sharing interest in economic growth and a peaceful, secure international order with like-minded states. However, heightened tension in the South China Sea is limiting the space for Indonesia's hedging strategy.
On 19 October 2014, Joko Widodo, known to all as Jokowi, was inaugurated as Indonesia's seventh president. He had no personal, career, class, or political ties to the outgoing administration and was viewed by the policy-making establishment as a newcomer lacking the attributes considered necessary to lead the country. Concerns were voiced about the future directions and constancy of Indonesian foreign policy. More directly, would term-limited President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono's outward-looking internationalism be replaced by Jokowi's inward-looking nationalism? Now, approaching two years into Jokowi's term of office, it is appropriate to essay preliminary answers to these questions.
FOREIGN POLICY AND JOKOWI'S ROAD TO THE PRESIDENCY
President Jokowi was elected on 9 July 2014, defeating retired General Prabowo Subianto. The presidential candidates could not have been more different. Prabowo had followed a military career. Once commander of the army's feared Special Forces (KOPASSUS), he has a record of alleged human rights abuses which, if elected, would have made him unwelcome in liberal democratic countries. He is a former son-in-law of President Suharto and a staunch defender of the Suharto government when it was toppled in 1999 and Indonesia's democratization began. Jokowi came to office from a Central Javanese middle-class socio-cultural stratum with no roots in Indonesia's pre-democracy political history. Before entry into politics, he was an entrepreneur in a Surakarta (Solo)-based furniture manufacturing and exporting company. His political career began with him being the mayor of Surakarta [Solo] (2005–12), whose administration emphasized infrastructure, education, social welfare, and anti-corruption. Backed by the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P [Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan]), he was elected governor of Jakarta in 2012.
The new Jakarta governor was soon touted as a possible presidential candidate in 2014. The PDI-P is the political vehicle of former president (2001–04) Megawati Sukarnoputri, daughter of Indonesia's first president, Sukarno. Defeated twice for election to president by outgoing president Yudhoyono, Megawati still had her eye on the presidential prize. Polling showed that Jokowi was overwhelmingly preferred over Megawati. In the competitive atmosphere of an open presidential seat, Megawati had little choice but to anoint him as the party's flag-bearer if the PDI-P hoped to win the election. For both Megawati and Jokowi, it was a marriage of convenience, not of passion. Megawati made it known that she considered Jokowi beholden to her.
The theme for the Australian National University (ANU) 2015 Myanmar Update Conference was “Making Sense of Conflict”. The weeks leading up to the conference, held in the first week of June, added to the theme' poignancy and urgency; at least 25,000 Muslims were fleeing persecution and poverty by making the dangerous trip from Rakhine State across the Bay of Bengal (UNHCR 2015). My paper at the conference presented findings from research into the ways people in Myanmar talk about this violence and, in particular, how those Buddhists who direct a sense of threat and antagonism towards Muslims explain and justify it. I had spent the preceding six months managing a “listening project”, born from my belief that to make sense of conflict we must listen carefully to the way it is discussed in everyday life. This research formed a part of the Myanmar Media and Society (M.MAS) project, a partnership between St Antony's College, Oxford University and the Myanmar ICT for Development Organization (MIDO).
One of the things I raised in my conference presentation was the similarity between discourses about Islam that I was hearing in Myanmar and those I had heard in my home country, the United States. We should note parallels between these discourses, I said, and consider what it may mean that the arguments called upon to justify anti-Muslim sentiments in Myanmar are strikingly similar to those I remember in the US after 9/11. You may notice similarities to discourses in the US or Australia today, I also suggested. The first member of the audience to ask a question refused this parallel. “Why are we spending so much time listening to bigots?” she asked. “Would we give such careful attention to the beliefs of Holocaust deniers?” The question presented a different analogy, in which those expressing anti-Muslim sentiments in Myanmar are equivalent to deniers of the Holocaust. This was its refusal: the question positioned discourses in Myanmar as far from home as possible, more analogous to Holocaust deniers — a fringe group most reviled — than anything commonplace on the streets of Sydney, New York, or London.
I would like to take this question seriously by asking: what are the consequences of such a refusal? Conversely, why might it be important to explore relationships between anti-Muslim discourses currently circulating in Myanmar and those elsewhere?
A few weeks after Myanmar's historic November 2015 national elections, images of opposition leader Daw Aung San Suu Kyi crouching in grass to pick up trash went viral on Facebook. Following high-profile meetings with President Thein Sein, Senior General Min Aung Hlaing and former dictator Than Shwe, Daw Suu made one of her first public appearances since the poll: to collect rubbish in her electorate in Yangon. After fifteen minutes flanked by jostling photographers — who she commanded to “Help pick up the garbage!” — she disappeared back into her car and zoomed away (Fuller 2015).
At the Lady's orders, similar clean ups were occurring across the country, led by local party members and welfare groups. In Taungoo, an hour or so south of Naypyitaw, volunteers from local welfare groups and private schools collected rubbish from the streets surrounding a government housing project next to the railway tracks. Above an entrance to the housing project, a large green signboard erected prior to the November 2015 election declared this a ‘USDP [Union Solidarity and Development Party] village’. That morning though, an oversized dump truck backed slowly through the gate, driven by a member of a local welfare group wearing a red T-shirt of Aung San Suu Kyi's National League for Democracy (NLD).
Within the housing project, in a small clearing surrounded by dilapidated wooden houses and filled with decades of accumulated domestic waste, women bathed and washed clothes from a well while chatting about the spectacle surrounding them. As the dump truck reversed into the clearing, NLD candidates fresh from their political clean sweep of the township a few weeks prior helped a squatter move his makeshift bamboo hut out of the path of the incoming vehicle. A few minutes later, a bulldozer driven by an off-duty policeman began to scoop up piles of old rubbish, lungyis and even a writhing snake, and dumped everything into the waiting truck.
The businessman who donated the industrial vehicles stood proudly alongside the township development officer, watching as decades of accumulated filth was removed. Both took photos on their phones, loading them to Facebook as local residents looked on, bemused yet pleased. “Is this a political campaign?”, I asked the businessman, who was wearing a flashy golf cap to keep the sun off his face.