Burma's Dear Leader

Like Burmese monarchs of old, Than Shwe also has embarked on a pagoda-building spree. The state-run press lauds each new monument by printing Pravda-esque encomiums and running photos of Than Shwe receiving blessings from monks. As Jagan notes, the government produced a film in which the face of a famous 11th-century Burmese king, who fashioned a glorious empire, morphs into the face of Than Shwe.

As Than Shwe travels the country, he stops in villages to issue so-called "necessary instructions" to peasants and officials on such subjects as construction and oil drilling, about which he knows nothing. When he arrives, the general often is greeted by rallies organized by the Union Solidarity Development Association, a government-linked national mass movement resembling fascist brownshirts.

Nightly television broadcasts are centered around Than Shwe: Than Shwe giving alms to monks; Than Shwe welcoming foreign visitors; Than Shwe blessing crops, as if he had the power to bring rain. Some observers say broadcasts feature Than Shwe with his grandson, to perpetuate the idea of a dynasty in the making.

This personalization of rule has made the regime more paranoid and unpredictable. When a bomb exploded in Rangoon last year, the regime blamed it on democracy activists and unnamed foreign powers -- i.e., the CIA. When the International Labor Organization criticized Burma, the country threatened to pull out of the organization. Than Shwe's regime has expressed a desire to obtain nuclear technology, which it could potentially finance from sales of newly discovered petroleum deposits. The government has also developed a closer relationship with North Korea.

Than Shwe reportedly makes almost every decision alone, including the choice to move the government from Rangoon to Pyinmana, 250 miles north, partly because he may view Pyinmana as safer from foreign invasion, and perhaps partly because ancient Burmese kings built capitals to leave their imprint on the country.

Though Rangoon had served as the capital for a century, Than Shwe ordered a vast complex built in Pyinmana, complete with bunkers, tunnels, his palace and extensive protections -- just in case the CIA attacks.

Then one morning last November -- at a time Burmese believe to be chosen by a court astrologer -- the regime started moving civil servants and military officials to Pyinmana in massive truck convoys laden with furniture. By March, dozens of construction companies were furiously building there, and Burmese exile groups were claiming that the government had forced people out of their homes to make way for the construction.

The regime refuses to release much information about the heavily guarded complex. Burma's information minister told reporters that Pyinmana "has quick access to all parts of the country" and thus would be easy to get in and out of, even though it previously had no real airport. "It's insane," one diplomat told me. "Are we going to have to move our entire embassy to that place?"

Than Shwe's bizarre approach seems to be working for him. The domestic intelligence apparatus, consisting of thousands of informers, helps him keep control, and in Rangoon each night I noticed far more police and military checkpoints than I'd seen during previous trips. Since 1990, the size of the military has more than doubled. Though the United States has imposed sanctions on Burma, the regime has discovered new sources of revenue: Asian nations -- in particular, China -- have expanded their trade with Rangoon, and foreign firms have found sizable new gas reserves in Burma.

The personalization of rule has proved disastrous for average Burmese. A nation rich in resources has fallen to among the poorest in Southeast Asia, with health indicators equivalent to those of sub-Saharan Africa. (The government claims implausibly high growth rates of some 13 percent.) In years of traveling to Burma, I have never seen the population more desperate than this March. Beggars crowd Rangoon's sidewalks at night, or sleep in slag piles underneath half-finished construction sites.

In the late '90s, it seemed possible that Burma, one of Asia's most culturally rich nations, would enjoy a tourism mini-boom. The temples of Bagan, dotted across a plain, have survived for nearly a millennium. The region outside Mandalay contains ruins of ancient capitals of Burmese kingdoms and hill stations that resemble British resorts. Even chaotic Rangoon boasts a wealth of crumbling but still magisterial colonial architecture. But the country gets fewer than a million visitors per year. The gleaming Mandalay airport sits empty, a lone staffer wandering its cavernous halls.

There are signs that other nations are beginning to take notice. In December, the U.N. Security Council agreed to hold a briefing and discussion of the situation in Burma. And Beijing does not desire instability on its borders -- which could increase the flood of illegal exports and migrants into China. During a recent visit by Than Shwe to Beijing, Chinese Prime Minister Wen Jiabao expressed concern about the flow of drugs from Burma into China, an unusual amount of criticism of another country for any Chinese leader.

The last evening of my recent trip to Rangoon, I dined with a prominent figure in Burma's publishing scene, who has managed to dodge new censorship regulations and continue printing his books. As we strolled back to my hotel, stepping over bodies slumped on the streets for the night, he admitted that even his patience is nearing its end.

"Some of my friends moved to [Thailand] in 1990," he told me. "I thought my work was here." He paused.

"I need a plan to get out of here."

jkurlantzick@ceip.org

Joshua Kurlantzick is special correspondent for the New Republic and a visiting scholar at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace.