The teenage faces of the diminutive but heavily armed soldiers standing guard outside the cavernous Defence Services Museum in central Yangon register surprise verging on alarm at the sight of a western visitor.
Cyclone Nargis, which cut through the country back in May 2007 killing at least 78,000 and leaving a further 56,000 missing, decimated tourist figures already hit hard by the ruling military junta’s violent response to the previous year’s pro-democracy protests. Foreigners are now a rarity.
Entry visas are difficult to secure and the authorities have been diligent in their efforts to root out foreign journalists attempting to reveal the extent of the neglect and repression the Burmese struggle under. For westerners who do make it into the country, the junta’s Defence Services Museum is the last place on their list of must-sees.
The gates of the Defence Services Museum in Central Yangon
The formalities conducted at the doorway of the sprawling, mothballed complex consist of a search by an aggressive team of armed soldiers, the seizure of cameras, payment of a fee and the issuance of a visitor pass.
Although the museum was constructed just 17 years ago at a cost of around €6 million, the 60 tattered showrooms that make up its glum interior suggest up-keep funds are limited. The World Bank claims some 40 per cent of Burma’s national budget is spent on its 400,000-strong military, but little of the money appears to filter down to the museum.
Bringing along a local guide means one isn’t assigned from among the uniformed ranks. ‘Pha’ however, is virulently anti-government and as such is nervous about walking into an establishment swarming with military.
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A Burmese monk sits in Burma’s Shwedagon Pagoda
A high wall just inside the museum’s main door is decorated with a pyramid of portrait-style photos depicting men in military uniform. It outlines the structure of the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC), the body through which the all-pervading military runs virtually every aspect of the country, and the faces featured are those of its top generals. The benevolent countenance of senior general Than Shwe sits at its pinnacle.
A brief stop to examine the pictures prompts a bout of nervous shuffling, murmuring and gesticulation from the group of soldiers and green-clad staff members standing at the doorway and Pha, sensing the tension, indicates that the tour should proceed.
The dimly-lit ground floor consists mainly of disintegrating exhibits glorifying the exploits of the junta. Stern-faced photos of generals past and present are everywhere, alongside dusty flags and emblems of the country and military.
As we silently wind our way through banks of life-sized model soldiers kneeling around antiquated communications equipment and military transporters, the booted footsteps of the staff member assigned to watch us in the otherwise visitor-free wing are clearly audible over the slap of our flip-flops.
The echoing footfalls remain close by, stopping when ours stop for the duration of our time in the museum, although the individual responsible never comes into view.
Prominently displayed on the ground floor is the landmine exhibit. It features an endless range of grenades, anti-personnel mines and anti-tank charges. Running along the walls are graphic diagrams depicting how to set trip wires, direct blasts and maximise shrapnel spread in order to kill as many people as possible. If you lay a flat stone or a solid piece of metal underneath a trip-wire detonated grenade, the blast will be directed upwards into the face of the person who triggers it, rather than into their legs.
A Burmese girl in traditional make-up shops for food in Yangon
The British military cut across Burma in the 19th Century and after a series of long-remembered battles, a programme of detentions and mass executions quelled remaining dissent. By 1885 the Burmese King had been deposed and the country incorporated into India. By the 1930s however, an independence movement drawn mainly from monks and students and led by the mercurial Aung San, began an armed campaign.
Although the military pioneer was shot along with several members of his cabinet-in-waiting just months short of the final hand-over of power, he is hailed as the father of the nation by the Burmese people. He is also the father of Ang San Suu Kyi, the Nobel Peace Prize-winning public face of the present day pro-democracy movement currently under house arrest.
Historical exhibits from the time of Aung San proved difficult to locate – they are severely limited and hidden away in a corner of the second floor. There are however, ample exhibits detailing the Yangon City Water Supply System and the nation’s various power plants.
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Empty streets in Yangon – few ordinary people can afford fuel
The war the army is locked into against nationalist ethnic minority groups such as the Karen National Liberation Army (KNLA) fails to merit direct mention in the museum, likewise its campaign against internal dissent which has seen thousands of pro-democracy activists shot or imprisoned since the junta came to power.
A coach-load of stern-faced primary school students arrived for a tour of the facility shortly before we left. The message espoused within the walls of the Defence Services Museum is not often put to adult members of the general public as people rarely visit of their own volition.
Children however, are a different story. According to Pha, the junta obliges schools to bus their students onto the premises to be wowed by the array of tanks, missiles, fighter planes, and impressive claims of the soldiers.
“Burma has a poor human rights record,†says Jo Becker of the Children’s Rights Division at Human Rights Watch. “But its record on child soldiers is the worst in the world.†The military is understood to have forcibly recruited children as young as 11 and some 20 per cent of its active duty soldiers are believed to be under 18.
Former splendour – many historical buildings are in ruins
Recruited children are however, unlikely to be driving a tank or flying a fighter plane; youngsters can expect to engage in combat against opposition groups, burn villages, round up villagers for forced labour and even carry out executions.
Human Rights Watch interviewed two former Burmese child soldiers, aged 13 and 15 at the time, who admitted to being part of units which massacred a group of 15 women and children in the restless Shan State in early 2001.
We stroll back outside, hand in our passes and retrieve the confiscated cameras. We leave the children to learn the names of the generals running their ruined country and to examine the exhibitions on how best to lay a land mine.
Pha’s name has been changed to protect his identity.
