A catalog of Burma’s multi-generational fight for freedom, told through the eyes of all those that dedicated their lives to the movement. This is not a story of Aung San Suu Kyi, but all those surrounding her that were instrumental in making Freedom a reality.
Although Schrank’s chronicle stops in 2011, the story continues to unfold. The National League for Democracy, Suu Kyi’s Freedom party, won the election in 2015 and came into power earlier this year. All eyes are on Auntie and her government to see if they can bring their country out of a near 60-year rut caused by the outgoing destructive military Junta. Of particular focus will be on if she can be a leader for all people of her country, not just the Buddhist Burmese that make up the majority.
Notable Excerpts
A few holdouts—the United States, Britain, and other countries of the West—aligned with democracy activists who refused to recognize the SLORC’s usurpation of power. They preferred “Burma.” They preferred “Rangoon.”
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I employ “Burma,” and “Rangoon,” in lieu of “Myanmar” and “Yangon.” This is a choice—and I take it in stride. Scholars prefer to employ the usage of the junta since 1989 as a way of distinguishing between the separate historical periods and governments. I follow the usage of the newspaper that first sent me, which in turn followed the usage of the US State Department. Likewise, this is a story told from the vantage point of people who have for the most part resisted that name change, and I here follow their lead.
Yet out of the amorphous masses, we find our heroes, picking them from a field of dead, scattering the old bones into dust but letting one, the unknown, the not-yet-fallen soldier, rise and hover as a symbol, the better angel of our nature, reminding us that when you hit us, we will answer. In the scarred silences of curfew, under leaden skies of dictatorial new dawns, someone will steal out like a rat and disappear to fight. Someone—not you, not me, but him, that simple boy, no more unique, perhaps, than any of the rest—he’ll hear the call. Rest easy then. Duck your chin into your chest and sell your wares unquestioning in the early morning markets. Pack your daughter’s tiffin box with curry, fuel your battered car with rations. Know that someone, however ordinary, carries with him all your hope.