LOCKED DOORS CANNOT STIFLE THE CALL FOR LIBERTY "Czechs and Us"
Mainichi Daily News, Monday, May 11, 1998
Eight years ago, about this time of high summer, I had a conversation with some of my "minders" (I was under house arrest then) about the symbols that various political parties had chosen for the elections that were to take place soon. It had been decided by the powers that be that the people of Burma were not yet sophisticated enough to vote for parties by name and that the process would be simplified if each party were represented by a symbol.
There were hats and musical instruments and household objects, including a clock that showed 9 o'clock. Why 9, people mused: was it because that was the lucky number for the military regime? In that event, the clock became the symbol of the party of the democratically elected first prime minister of independent Burma, while the National Unity Party (NUP), which supported the junta, was represented by a stalk of rice paddy (canny choice, that one, supposed to attract members of Burma's large agricultural community; but the farmers and peasants of Burma were even cannier, the NUP won only 10 out of over 470 parliamentary seats).
"It would be very appropriate if the symbol for the National League for Democracy (NLD) were a locked prison door," I remarked. "Oh no, that would be most inauspicious," said one of the nicer minders, in all seriousness. "But everybody would know that such a symbol could only represent the NLD and they would not mistakenly vote for another party," I explained.
The minders were at a loss for words for a few moments, then they directed the conversation to more innocuous symbols. Although it was not a locked prison door, the symbol that fell to the lot of the NLD could not have been better: It was a /khamauk/, a wide, conical bamboo hat, the kind worn by peasants and other outdoor laborers throughout much of South and Southeast Asia. I heard on a BBC news program a short time before the elections that the portents were good for the NLD, because at a football match up in the Sagaing division the spectators had turned up /en force/ wearing khamauks.
All that was eight years ago, but I recalled vividly that conversation about symbols recently when reading a collection of writings by a Czech dissident writer of the 1970s and 1980s. These /feuilletons/ had originally been brought out by the samizdat Padlock Editions, which reminded me of my whimsy about locked prison doors. In "A Cup of Coffee with My Interrogator," Ludvik Vaculik described some of his experiences with members of the Czech secret police and used the expression, "my lieutenant colonel" to refer to the officer who habitually interrogated him. I could not suppress a reminiscent smile as I thought of the references I too had made at one time to "my lieutenant colonel." He had started out as a major and is now a full colonel, but is sadly no longer "ours" because he no longer seems to be directly connected with the activities of the NLD. We understand that the subjects of his attention these days are of a much more passive nature. Does he find the change restful, I wonder, or does he miss the hurly burly of life with dissidents just a little?
Dissident minds often run along similar tracks because their encounters with authority are often of a similar nature. Let me reiterate that my preferred definition of "dissident" is "one who disagrees with the aims and procedures of the government." It is fascinating for us to read about the experiences of others who have struggled against authoritarian regimes, to engage in a stimulating mental comparing of notes. I must confess to a particular affinity for the writings of Czech dissidents (or perhaps one should say ex-dissidents, except that I think perhaps some of them will be dissidents for life, their intellectual combativeness ever ready to question the ways of authority, whosoever that may be).
My awareness of Czechoslovakia started as a child in the good old days of Burmese democracy, which were the bad old days of communism in Czechoslovakia. I was taken to an exhibition where there was a variety of cumbersome agriculture machinery and quantities of cut glass. It was a baffling introduction to the production policy of a socialist state. There must have been other exhibits, but my memory has retained only the farm equipment, which included a stubby tractor, painted flamingo-tangerine, displayed in state in the middle of a large marquee; sawdust on the ground; ranks of chandeliers (who in Burma would have bought them? Were they presented to members of the government?); and an antiseptic smell which I could not identify. I cannot pretend that the impression I gained of Czechoslovakia from that exhibition was entirely favorable, but the point was that an impression had been made.
It is a considerable leap from tractors and chandeliers to the good soldiers Svejk and Charter 77. A sketchy knowledge of Masaryk and 1968 and articles about Czech food in gourmet magazines constituted little bridges here and there along the years, but it was still a leap. Once arrived at Charter 77, however, I was on what was soon to become familiar ground.
Cerny's declaration that "there is nothing illegal or anti-state in the idea of a voluntary movement of citizens to defend human rights and civil liberties" could have been the slogan of the movement for democracy in Burma. The principled stand of the intellectuals of Czechoslovakia inspired me and the news of the quick, bloodless victory of their velvet revolution delighted me during the days of my house arrest. As the similarities between us underlined the tedious sameness of authoritarian regimes, the differences showed that as far as repressiveness, there were varying grades.
The military regime of Burma is certainly one of those which could make a reasonable bid for grade A. Reading the letters of Vaclav Havel to his wife, Olga, I was as much struck by his philosophical and literary talents as by the fact that he was allowed to write them at all. True, the number of pages he could write were limited, his letters were censored so rigorously he had exercise considerable ingenuity to convey his thoughts to the world outside, an that there were times when he was deprived of his letter rights. But still, he could write letters to his wife from prison! How many people in the world realize that political prisoners in Burma are not allowed reading or writing material of any kind and that the only way they can communicate with their families, if they are not allowed visiting rights, is by smuggling out clandestine messages which often cost them a considerable sum in the way of bribes?
There are in the prisons of Burma now men and women of high intellectual and moral fiber, writers and journalists whom the Chartists would, I am sure, recognize as their peers. In particular, I would like to mention U Win Tin, a member of the Central Executive Committee of the NLD, who is serving his third consecutive term in Insein Jail. He is in his 70s and in ill health but indomitable. We understand that his last sentence, imposed last year within months of the conclusion of his second term, was in connection with a handwritten volume that the prisoner had managed to bring out to commemorate a political event. One day I hope that volume may be published throughout the world in many languages including, of course, Czech.
Aung San Suu Kyi
