Can't Knock the Hustle
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“You need to pay attention to what the kids care about,” says Naomi Gingold. “It will inform so much about the place that you're trying to understand, be it politics, culture, all of it! And you do a disservice to the nature of what you're trying to understand when you don't.”
Gingold, a journalist and independent researcher, has dedicated years to studying Myanmar's hip hop scene. Her research and book-in-progress is on the unexpected rise of hip hop in the country; it’s a story that unfolds alongside the inseparable history and evolution of modern technology, the public sphere, as well as youth political sentiment and agency. She joins us here to discuss a genre that changed popular culture, the public sphere, and much more in Myanmar— a fact the whole world was shockingly made aware of when the military executed one of the country’s first hip hop stars in July 2022, Zeya Thaw.
Gingold traces the rise of Burmese hip hop back to the mid-late 1990s, a period when the country was still under strict military rule. At that time, youth culture began carving out a new form of expression through hip-hop, blending beats, slang, and self-assertion in ways that, while not necessarily overtly political, challenged cultural norms and expanded the boundaries of what was permissible in a tightly controlled society.
Gingold’s research, in part, highlights how subtle articulations of agency and discontent held profound political significance in a society where free expression was suppressed and could even lead to transformative change. The regime, intent on controlling the narrative, enforced heavy censorship as hip hop developed—rejecting entire albums, altering lyrics, and scrutinizing the visual content of music videos. Despite these constraints, rappers adapted with remarkable ingenuity, using slang, metaphors, coded language and double meanings to express their frustrations and aspirations. While not always intended as direct political resistance, their very act of self-expression often challenged cultural norms and conveyed potent, underlying messages that were disruptive to a regime that sought total control.
Among others, Gingold highlights the group Acid— a pioneering hip hop group that Zeya Thaw was a member of, that used the medium to explore themes which were often overlooked or suppressed, setting the stage for later artists to continue challenging societal boundaries. Their lyrics—infused with the energy of a generation yearning for change spoke directly to the experiences of Burmese youth. Initially rejected in its entirety by censors, Acid's debut album, when finally released (after many revisions), marked a significant, cultural moment. It was the first successful Burmese hip hop record, and the album’s synthesized beats and blunt lyrics, reflecting a range of emotions and situations not typically heard in local popular music, captivated the country’s youth.
Besides language, hip hop also introduced new fashion and attitudes into Myanmar’s youth culture, much of it borrowed from America but reinterpreted to fit the Burmese context. By adopting baggy clothes and embracing a style distinctly their own, these young artists were making statements that went beyond the lyrics of their songs, not to mention statements that went against the grain of the military's vision of a conservative, patriarchal society.
Gingold also unpacks the meaning of resistance within a Burmese context. Because much of her research is unpublished, she is careful with her words both here and throughout the interview, but Gingold is critical of analysis, predominantly by outsiders from liberal democracies, that
focuses almost solely on overt, political acts as resistance against an oppressive regime (and the lack of such overt acts the proof of its non-existence). Although the second half of her book addresses the evolution of youth political sentiment and overt political movements after the coup (that the hip hop community also played a role within), in the first half, she focuses on the subtle ways that Burmese hip hop artists challenged and changed political and cultural norms.
As Burmese hip hop developed, some artists aimed for commercial success above all, such as the hip hop star and entrepreneur Sai Sai Kham Leng. This alignment was not simply about personal gain; Gingold notes that it was also a way for artists to navigate the dangerous political environment. These choices, which were criticized as “selling out” by some, highlight the complexity of balancing agency with self-preservation in a repressive state.
Gingold addresses how hip hop changed during the so-called “transition” years before broaching the post 2021 coup era, when shifts in the public sphere aside, much of her research became centered around overt political movements and the Yangon Resistance, because of how the roles of artists were changing. She also discusses the momentous shift in civic consciousness that occurred after the coup, when many from the generations who’d grown up with hip hop and tasted freedom during the “transition” years forged a new political path.
In the summer of 2022, Gingold broke the full story behind Zeya Thaw’s tragic execution (to the extent she felt safe discussing) and later spoke at an online memorial for the fallen, alongside former U.S. Ambassadors to Burma and Ministers from the N.U.G. Like many, Gingold was deeply shaken by the murder of the hip hop star turned politician whose final act fundamentally altered the post-coup era. But for her and her research community, especially, Zeya Thaw’s execution was deeply personal.
Today, the regime’s brutality continues to reverberate throughout the country, even today. The relationship between art and politics is intricate and multi-layered, especially under a dictatorship. Naomi Gingold's work reminds us that resistance may, but does not always wear the face of protest—it often exists in the assertion of agency, in the everyday choices of what to wear, what to say, and how to express oneself. Subtle acts accumulate into powerful forms of defiance that push against the boundaries set by authoritarian control. Art does not need to be explicitly political to be revolutionary.
If you enjoyed this episode, consider checking out the past shows with related themes:
· Bobo, an early member of Generation Wave, shares how he had to adopt a fake identity and navigate extreme personal risk to stay safe and continue his political resistance after the coup. His story sheds light on the psychological and logistical challenges of activism under an oppressive regime and the necessity of subterfuge for survival.
· Bart Was Not Here describes how his art combines Burmese cultural and international influences, serving as a medium for subtle resistance and storytelling. His emphasis on humor and satire resonates with the theme of creative resilience, showcasing how art can both critique and illuminate life under oppressive sociopolitical conditions.
· 882021 explores the rise of political hip-hop in Myanmar, which he thinks symbolizes a cultural shift where music becomes a platform for protest, and an outlet for collective frustrations. To hm, the focus on the genre’s evolution parallels the broader struggle for freedom, highlighting how art forms adapt and thrive even in adversity.
· Htein Lin’s work lies at the intersection of art, meditation, and political resistance. It provides him the means to survive brutal prison conditions and contribute to a broader revolutionary narrative. His reflections illustrate the role creative expression can play in maintaining humanity and hope amid systemic oppression.
· Han Htoo Khant Paing spoke to Insight Myanmar before Phyo Zeya Thaw’s execution, noting that while the junta’s state killings represented individual tragedies, they were each also a profound symbol of resistance, a flashpoint for both fear and defiance within the broader struggle. This episode underscores the importance of collective action and international solidarity in resisting authoritarian regimes, connecting individual sacrifice to larger sociopolitical movements.