Plowing Ahead
Coming Soon…
“You had these new interesting critiques [after the 2021 coup] with some ethnic nationalities saying, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. We’re not going to be fooled again! Let us get out of this situation of even federalism in Myanmar. We want our own country!’ And then other people, Bamar people in particular, responding to this and saying, ‘Okay, we really need to address Bamarization.’ And then that opening up a big discussion of what exactly Bamarization is and what other kinds of intersectional challenges along the lines of class, region, gender would impact the supposed Bamarization that is making life in Myanmar so unlivable for ethnic nationalities.”
In our first podcast with Elliott Prasse-Freeman, we explored his analysis of Myanmar's transition period, focusing on how state absence—rather than direct state violence—shaped grassroots activism and survival strategies. He delved into the ways in which the lack of functioning institutions and what he describes as “biopolitical paradigms” affected resistance, sacrifice, and structural neglect. Building on this, in the current episode, Prasse-Freeman examines the dynamics of Myanmar's land rights, democratic transition, and the political struggles at the intersection of activism and state power.
After decades of military rule, Myanmar began its so-called “democratic transition” in 2011, during which the military junta did relinquish some power, but crucially, retained significant control over key aspects of the political system. This transition culminated in the 2015 elections, bringing Aung San Suu Kyi's National League for Democracy (NLD) to power, raising high hopes for political and economic reform. However, these hopes were soon undercut by the fact that the military continued to wield considerable authority behind the scenes, controlling key ministries and retaining a Constitutionally-guaranteed 25% of parliamentary seats. While the military was never trusted, the NLD became a particular disappointment after raising such high hopes, criticized for prioritizing accommodation over meaningful reform, a theme Prasse-Freeman returns to later in the discussion.
Prasse-Freeman characterizes Myanmar's transition period as “moribund” from its inception. Although the period was celebrated by international observers, he notes that its failure to respond to two key areas ultimately rendered it unsuccessful: one was the pressing need for political-economic reforms, and the other was addressing questions of justice for the country’s long-suffering, ethnic minority communities. He argues that these were really two sides of the same coin, as the failure to address economic issues was intrinsically linked to the broader failure to create inclusive policies for ethnic minorities. These two failures reinforced each other in a self-defeating cycle, ultimately undermining the promise of democracy. These dynamics ensured that the transition was unable to deliver the substantive changes many had envisioned, leaving key issues of justice, federalism, and equitable reform unaddressed.
Prasse-Freeman next turns to Myanmar’s agricultural sector, which he notes was traditionally not based on private property rights, but rather contingent on usage and labor. This was the called taungya: farmers cleared forested land for cultivation, with their rights of land usage tied to their labor clearing and cultivating it. This system rarely included formal documentation, however, creating ambiguities that left farmers vulnerable. This issue became especially acute under military rule, which restructured land management to prioritize privatization and neoliberal, economic reforms. These policies commodified land and shifted its control toward large agribusiness conglomerates. While some farmers were able to claim long-term ties to the land through land use practices or tax receipts, many others were left without recourse—particularly when the military or cronies seized land and brought in replacement workers. Economic inequality was exacerbated, traditional systems of land use were eroded, and the insecurity of small-scale farmers and laborers was heightened; many ended up being displaced.
As the transition unfolded, Prasse-Freeman documented the emergence of grassroots activism shaped by a profound sense of betrayal by and frustration with both the military and the NLD. Communities organized to address their needs and reclaim their dignity, drawing on lessons from past struggles to create a new wave of resistance. One notable such group, the Movement for Democracy Current Force (MCDF), exemplifies this sustained resistance. Comprised of activists with deep involvement in Myanmar's contemporary history of political dissent—including the 1988 pro-democracy uprising and the 2007 Saffron Revolution, both violently suppressed—they established a foundation for continued action. The group's name, which in Burmese has the sense of “continuous” or “never-ending,” reflects their view that the democratic transition was incomplete and required sustained pressure from the people to deliver its promises. They worked with communities of displaced farmers and laborers, supporting efforts to reclaim land that had been unjustly taken away during the transition.
These actions—a collaborative dynamic of direct action by farmers and strategic support from activist groups like MDCF—became known as the “plow protests,” a powerful symbol of farmers' attempts to reclaim their stolen lands and challenge systemic exploitation. They were not merely acts of defiance, but a direct confrontation with the state’s unjust policies. Farmers took tangible action to assert their claims, physically working the land they believed to be theirs, even in the face of state violence. These protests were both symbolic and deeply practical, as they highlighted the historical basis of land ownership rooted in cultivation and labor. Prasse-Freeman notes that this movement signified an assertion of ownership and agency, rejecting a system that prioritized capital-intensive enterprises over the livelihoods of rural communities.
Prasse-Freeman segues to the second of those interconnected issues: that the democratic transition also failed to create a fairer society for Myanmar's ethnic minorities, leaving grievances unaddressed and exacerbating ethnic tensions. The inability of Aung San Suu Kyi's administration to adequately distance themselves from the military led to further frustration among non-Bamar communities, and their failure to meaningfully push for federalism or negotiate ethnic grievances deepened the divisions. The Rohingya crisis of 2017, which culminated in mass atrocities and forced displacement, is mentioned as an example of how the NLD government failed to act as an honest broker or defender of all ethnic groups. Despite international condemnation, the NLD government showed little willingness to protect the Rohingya, instead siding with the military's narrative of the crisis. Aung San Suu Kyi's defense of the military at the International Court of Justice (ICJ) further alienated marginalized communities and underscored the deep fractures that persisted.
Returning to the theme of disappointment with the NLD, Prasse-Freeman discusses how it tried to balance its vision of reform with an avoidance of confrontation with the military out of fear of how the military would respond. This approach, however, left the NLD vulnerable to criticism, particularly from activists and marginalized groups who felt abandoned by the party they had supported. Many close to the NLD argued that the party was aware of the deep structural issues but felt constrained by the threat of another military coup. Prasse-Freeman, however, critiques this “sins of omission” excuse by highlighting their “sins of commission,” in particular emphasizing that they not only failed to support marginalized communities but at times actively vilified them (especially the Rohingya). He explains that these actions were not merely passive or constrained by the military, they were deliberate decisions that reinforced stereotyped and harmful military narratives, which highlighted a troubling complicity that went beyond inaction. He says, “One of the things that was pretty devastating was Aung San Suu Kyi welcoming the cronies into her fold with open arms, saying, ‘We can't have a transition without our national entrepreneurs,’” as she called them. These are people who had benefited off the exploitation of Burmese people for decades and then grown wealthy off the backs of this kind of immiseration. And to say that there would be no reckoning and no consequences for this action, but rather, they would continue to benefit in the exact same way, was a slap in the face to a lot of people who had suffered during this era!” He adds, “But I also think just bad economics and bad politics, because the sort of reforms that were being were being pursued were not ones that were really helping many people, or rather not helping people in a way that was equally distributed.”
Throughout the conversation, Elliott Prasse-Freeman reflects on a broader cultural shift that is now taking place in Myanmar, where traditional power structures are increasingly being questioned. This even extends to the once-sacrosanct, spiritual and moral authority of monks, particularly when perceived as complicit with oppression. As an example, he points to the recent, public critiques of influential Buddhist figures like Sītagu Sayadaw by younger generations and activists for his pro-military stance, something that would have been unthinkable up to just a few short years ago.
Prasse-Freeman next turns his attention to the successive military regimes, and explains how, since the country’s independence from Britain in 1948, it has positioned itself not as a provider of services (as most governing bodies at least pay lip service to) but as the protector of the nation’s cultural identity and the Buddhist religion. He notes that this concept is deeply rooted in Burmese history, where kings and rulers were expected to protect the Sāsana—the Buddhist religious order. This vision, steeped in symbolic acts of spiritual legitimacy—such as the military’s public displays of relics, veneration of white elephants, or association with revered Buddhist figures—provides the military with a self-justified mandate to rule, often at the cost of the population’s welfare, portraying its actions as necessary to prevent the country from descending into chaos. This informs how the military has responded to any proposed democratic changes and certainly to direct challenges to its grip on power.
The 2021 military coup threw all this into sharp relief. First, it exposed the fragile foundations of the transition period’s democratic experiment, when criticism of the NLD was often tempered by a fear of derailing the fragile progress towards democracy, and the need to maintain at least a veneer of progress. But more importantly, it forced many Burmese to finally confront uncomfortable truths about their country that had long been ignored. Some activists even expressed relief that the coup exposed the inherent flaws that had so often been swept under the rug.
In the wake of the coup, Prasse-Freeman notes how the patterns of resistance he had observed during his fieldwork at a grassroots level were amplified and adapted to the rapidly evolving political situation; in retrospect, the activism of the transition provided a kind of training ground for the resistance that emerged post-coup. Those struggles helped develop a culture of resilience, preparing the people for the more organized revolution that developed in response to the 2021 coup. For example, farmers who had engaged in the plow protests were among those actively resisting the junta. The revolution, in some ways, represents a continuity of the Burmese people’s ongoing struggle to assert their dignity and rights in the face of oppression.
Prasse-Freeman ends by distilling the complexity of the struggle down into this pithy reflection: “I saw the way that the activists would often partake in both of these stances: one being the sort of revolutionary, the taw hlan yay [တော်လှန်ရေး], the idea that you're really upturning things [from the Burmese word pha-lan (ဖလန်း), to lift up and turn over]. But they would often partake in conservative or paternalistic, maybe even patriarchal scripts that had already existed. So one of the things that they talk about is that you have to make people be their own heroes! But in order to do so, you have to act like a hero yourself, because people aren't prepared to be their own heroes in front of a military that's constantly exploited them.”