The Resistance Will Not Be Dammed
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“I focus on research that's mostly relevant for climate resilience, and I look at Myanmar as the most interesting and important case.”
Kyungmee Kim, an associate researcher in the Climate Change and Risk Programme at the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute, brings a substantive level academic, political, and emotional engagement to her work on Myanmar. Speaking with the Insight Myanmar podcast from the International Institute of Social Studies in The Hague, she discusses the convergence of extractive industries, conflict, environmental injustice, and climate vulnerability in Myanmar.
Kim’s initial research for her PhD focused on community resistance to hydropower dams in Myanmar’s ethnic minority regions, primarily in Karen and Chin areas. While these regions are rich in hydropower potential due to their river systems, they have also been historically marginalized and subject to long-running armed conflict. That dual reality—resource abundance alongside political vulnerability—makes them prime targets for state-backed, extractive infrastructure projects that often proceed without local consultation or consent. While large-scale hydropower is frequently presented as a clean energy solution, Kim highlighted how, in these cases, it is fundamentally just an extractive industry that deepens environmental and social injustices; affected communities face displacement, cultural loss, and ecological degradation, all under the banner of “renewable development.” Kim’s research underscores the need to critically interrogate who benefits from such projects and who bears the cost.
One of the most illustrative cases Kim discusses is the Myitsone Dam project, initially negotiated in secret between China Power Investment and Myanmar’s military government in the early 2000s, It was planned for the confluence of the Mali and N’Mai Rivers in Kachin State, an area that holds ecological, cultural and spiritual significance. Amazingly, the dam project only came to light by accident, when someone stumbled upon a Japanese engineer’s project booklet that had accidentally been left in a tea shop! Once the impact of the dam became clear, activists translated the documents, raised awareness, and organized to stop the project from moving forward. Eventaully, that localized resistance evolved into a broader, nationwide campaign to “Save the Irrawaddy,” as the confluence of the two rivers also happens to be the source of the Irrawaddy River, which runs through the country’s heartland. This strongly resonated with the Bamar majority, due to the river’s historical and symbolic role as “the mother of the country.”
The movement also tapped into latent, anti-Chinese sentiment stemming from its longtime backing of Myanmar’s military regime. Kim notes how the twin narratives of environmental justice and national identity fused to create a powerful, collective message. The dam’s suspension, surprisingly declared by Thein Sein, became a landmark case for Myanmar, and also caused Chinese investors to reconsider how they could better engage with local stakeholders in other countries in carrying out their many planned investment projects.
Kim explains that these overlapping threads—ethnic resistance, ecological protection, cultural reverence, anti-authoritarianism, and geopolitical skepticism— not only mirror the complexity of Myanmar’s current revolution, but also point to the likelihood of its eventual success. “The most successful movements always have very broad framing,” she says. The triumph of the Myitsone Dam protest also suggests the potential integration of climate justice into Myanmar’s broader resistance struggle.
Although Myanmar’s tiny economy does not contribute much in the way of carbon emissions, climate change aggravates the suffering of the Burmese people disproportionately, according to Kim: over five million people live in low-lying areas vulnerable to sea level rise, cyclones, and floods, while the country’s rural majority remains dependent on climate-sensitive agriculture. And this vulnerability is not merely due to natural factors, Kim argued, but is profoundly shaped by conflict and militarization. Protracted displacement, state collapse, and limited access to governance or social services all diminish communities’ adaptive capacity. Therefore, she sees climate action not as an additional burden to be asked of an already overburdened population, but as an important complement to other revolutionary aspirations.
So while Myanmar does not have a large carbon footprint, the Burmese people suffer disproportionately from climate change. However, the issue of climate justice is further entangled by the fact that the Myanmar military’s revenues are heavily tied to the country’s oil and gas exports—in other words, Myanmar itself does not have a large carbon footprint, but it readily supplies fossil fuel to others that do. And as long as energy demand from countries like China, India, and Thailand persists, so too will the junta’s funding. Kim drew parallels to other petro-authoritarian states, like Russia, arguing that natural resource extraction not only funds repression but further entrenches militarized political economies. Ethnic minorities face especially severe fallout from this dynamic, as their geographic and political marginalization reduces their access to legal land titles, state protection, and education—all of which correlate with lower climate adaptability. Many rely on fragile, rain-fed agriculture without irrigation, making them acutely vulnerable to shifting rainfall patterns, which recent projections suggest will become more erratic and intense.
Kim then turns her attention to discussing the country’s extensive rare earth mineral mining operations—Myanmar currently accounts for 60–80% of China’s rare earth supply, and up to 25% of the global supply! Rare earths are of course crucial for the batteries in smartphones and computers, as well as renewable technologies like electric vehicles and wind turbines, so are becoming increasingly essential to modern life and green energy goals. But their extraction in Myanmar comes at a devastating human and environmental cost. The untreated water used in mining operations becomes toxic and leeches into the watershed, leading to severe health risks in already vulnerable communities. Working conditions are unsafe and unregulated. Armed groups profit from issuing permits, creating a “conflict economy” that benefits from instability while harming civilians and ecosystems. Even within the resistance movement, some justify extractive activity by citing the need to fund the revolution.
Kim emphasizes that this terrible irony—green energy developments building on the suffering of marginalized peoples—is one of the most troubling moral dilemmas in global climate action, and warns against the false hope that this mining can ever be truly “sustainable.” She argues that short-term military or economic gains must be weighed against irreversible environmental degradation and long-term injustice.
Still, she acknowledges the tension between urgent humanitarian needs and long-term climate resilience, noting that climate change is rarely prioritized in emergency contexts. But Kim returns to her point that the two agendas of revolutionary resistance and climate action should be seen as reinforcing each other. In fact, many local actors and ethnic organizations already see conservation and sovereignty as interconnected. For example, indigenous-led conservation areas, such as the Salween Peace Park, not only protect ecosystems but assert ethnic self-determination. These initiatives demonstrate how environmental stewardship can serve both ecological and political goals.
Stepping back a bit, Kim describes a growing tradition of grassroots, environmental activism in Myanmar that has developed over the past three decades. Even today, despite the conflict, small organizations continue working on renewable energy, reforestation, and youth education. One example she gives is a renewable energy foundation in Shan State that installs and repairs micro-hydropower turbines. Entirely volunteer-run and operating on a shoestring budget, the group exemplifies how technical knowledge and community cooperation can substitute for state capacity in times of collapse.
This project and others could be supported through climate funding, she says, especially since some development and humanitarian donors are now rebranding their work as “climate resilience” projects to access still-available international resources. But doing so requires bypassing junta-controlled institutions. “You cannot, obviously, give the money to the Ministry of Natural Resources and conservation in Naypyidaw!” Kim stresses, citing instances in which conservation has been weaponized to displace communities or criminalize local land use, and which further highlights the complexity of the issue.
Besides supporting these local initiatives, Kim deems that helping them scale up to reach more communities is essential, even though that is often complicated by high administrative costs and a lack of infrastructure. She believes that the political mobilization networks built through the Spring Revolution could be leveraged to identify local leaders and channel resources in decentralized, bottom-up ways.
The conversation also touches on the tragedy of the 2021 coup. Kim notes that Myanmar had been making slow but meaningful progress toward grid electrification, conservation, and decentralized renewable energy prior to the military’s takeover. Corruption was endemic in the system, but there were beneficial projects underway—some supported by IFIs (International Financial Institutions) and some led by locals—to bring solar and micro-grid electrification to remote areas like Chin State. “Now it’s just very difficult,” she says.
Kim reiterates her deep admiration for the way environmental values persist even under the most harrowing conditions. But the conversation turns reflective when she describs the polarity of Myanmar’s situation: on the one hand, community-level care, conservation, and resilience juxtaposed against rampant state-level extraction, corruption, and violence. These extremes define not only Myanmar’s present, but also its possible futures.
Toward the end of the interview, the focus shifts to how Kim’s background as a South Korean researcher has enabled her to relate to Myanmar’s experience of military dictatorship, development struggles, and resistance. “Democracy is like an ecosystem,” Kim says. “When democracy is attacked, it's basically a test for everyone, right?” She elaborates on the similarities between between Korean and Burmese struggles; South Koreans carry generational trauma from its history of dictatorship, and this experience fuels solidarity with Myanmar. In Korea, there is widespread public support for Myanmar’s resistance, she notes—even as major corporations like POSCO continue business dealings with the junta, reflecting a stark contrast between grassroots solidarity and corporate interests. She describes her memories of protests against hydroelectric projects in Korea during the 1990s; seeing the displacement of communities for the building of dams helped shaped her interest in Myanmar’s similar struggles. “We used to call these people who were displaced by dams ‘the people who are destroyed by water.’”
In closing, Kim contrasts Korea’s developmental trajectory with Myanmar’s potential path. She cautions against hyper-capitalism, social atomization, and overreliance on GDP metrics like Korea, noting that its welfare system still fails many people. She hopes Myanmar will avoid the pitfalls of rapid industrialization without justice or sustainability, underscoring the richness of its values, local knowledge, and collective resilience.
Kim offers a sobering but committed vision for the road ahead: “Unless we also consider the climate and the environment, we cannot expect better future for Myanmar and also the future population, the future generations.”