Thursday, July 11, 2013

Rule of Law, Political Prisoners, and Military Intelligence

When you think of political prisoners in Burma, what comes to mind? A pro-democracy activist? A monk protesting the brutalities of a military government? A student activist leading a march down the streets of Rangoon?

You probably don't think of a military intelligence (MI) officer, maybe one who was responsible for the arrest, maybe torture, of other political prisoners. But during the many internal power struggles of Burma's regimes since 1962, an unknown number of military intelligence officers were imprisoned on political charges, for political grudges. Some, including former chief of MI Khin Nyunt, have already been released.  An untold number of others remain behind bars, and the government-civil society Scrutiny Committee for Political Prisoners has no intention of recommending their release at this point.

What to do with these MI prisoners? This question poses a challenge for any efforts to deal with political prisoners in Burma. It also invokes larger questions of dealing with the past. The imprisoned MI officers may  fit the definition of political prisoners – one definition advanced by a group of civil society organizations is “any individual who is detained or being legally punished for participating in various forms of political activity due to a belief that it would serve the interest of the country and its people or that the people are suffering, and any individual persecuted by a government or a government authority with a political motive.” [Emphasis added.] While this is not the official definition, it brings up an important point that is likely to be present in any definition – a person imprisoned with a political motive. Would the MI officers imprisoned on political charges or due to political grudges not qualify?

However, there is more to this story. The MI officers are not the same as other political prisoners. They are allegedly responsible for serious human rights abuses. It seems logical that they should stay in jail. But carrying that argument to its conclusion may raise some uncomfortable issues. They are not imprisoned for these abuses, they were never tried on these charges. If you are trying to establish the rule of law, you can't make political exceptions to political prisoner release, and you can’t keep people in jail on an illegitimate charge because you suspect them of being guilty of an unrelated crime. Instead, you need a more legitimate reason for keeping them in prison, or at least to treating them differently.
This difference can come from a vetting process. It's true that MI officers should not be treated in the same way as pro-democracy activists. The reason that they are different is that they come from an organization suspected of massive human rights abuses. One solution may be to subject MI officers who have otherwise met the definition of political prisoners to a vetting process, to screen them for connection to human rights violations, including torture and arbitrary arrest.

The problem then arises that, if they are found to have connections to human rights abuses, in order to justify keeping them in jail, they must have due process of law. There should be some legal determination made. But this raises the uncomfortable, highly controversial specter of trials for human rights violations. Not to mention that it is likely unconstitutional given that Article  445 prohibits any investigation into crimes committed under past regimes. One solution would be to release them with conditions. For instance, when Khin Nyunt was released, there was widespread concern that he would return to politics. A provision barring former MI officers of whom there is reasonable suspicion of involvement in human rights violations could assuage some public concerns while maintaining rule of law.
The situation of MI officers imprisoned during purges and internal power struggles is one that will require a difficult discussion among the relevant actors. Sooner or later, however, this issue must be resolved if Burma is to reach its goal of having rule of law, and no political prisoners.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

What Transition Looks Like from Outside

Mae Sot, Thailand
November, 2012 

The anxiety in this town is palpable.  We all get sucked into it, all of us working in the NGO community.  It doesn’t matter what field – health, education, livelihoods, law.  Everyone lives one day to the next, never knowing what will happen next week, next month.  This is what transition looks like from outside.

For some, it comes in the form of offices slowly thinning out, of getting to work in the morning to hear of more people who have left for Burma since last night, not knowing if or when they will return. It’s not getting any warning.  It’s not getting to say goodbye.  It’s sitting in an increasingly-empty office, waiting for someone to give you work to do, or wondering if the project you’re working on will survive the transition.

For others, it’s watching your funding get cut, donor meeting after donor meeting, below the point of sustainability.  It’s going from conversations about how to be more efficient with your spending to choosing between cutting food rations or medical supplies. It’s being told by your funders to shift attention to livelihoods training, so that you are forced to train refugees how to farm when they can’t leave the overcrowded camps, while meanwhile they have no food.  For when they go back. They don’t want to go back.

It’s begging for funding from donors setting up shop in Burma, who tell you that they don’t fund projects on the border anymore, even though nothing has actually changed on the border.  Sharply reduced funding for the camps to fund projects for returnees, even though no one has returned.  No more funding for migrant schools, even though there are still migrants.  No funding for civil society, that’s all gone to buy office space in Yangon. 

But for others, for the Burmese, it’s worse. It’s living in a camp knowing one day, with no warning, you will be packed up and shipped back across the border into a jungle full of landmines and burned villages.  If living in the camps you were helpless, at least you had chosen to be there. 

It’s watching your organization, which you built for twenty years in exile, become increasingly irrelevant and ignored. It’s wondering if you should ‘go back.’ If it’s safe. If you can do your work there. If you can afford it.

It’s watching all your colleagues get off the blacklist and wondering, ‘why not me?’ It’s getting off the blacklist and wondering if the government can be trusted, or if it’s just a trap.  If exile forced you from the national life of your country, at least you were accompanied by hundreds of other exiles.  Supported by the international community.  Legitimized.  Now, you may be sitting on the border in an emptying office as your former supporters clamor to meet with the same people you have fought for decades. 

Transition is hard, it’s messy, and it involves asking existential questions for all involved.  But here on the border, it’s amplified by a feeling of being out of control, of losing all relevance, influence, and capacity to act.  And yes, ultimately, when things settle, it may turn out for the best for everyone. No one wants to stay in refugee camps, in exile, forever.  But during the transition, all there is is uncertainty and change.

[For more about the process of returning refugees, from the perspective of refugees and camp-based civil society organizations, see Burma Partnership’s short documentary Nothing About Us Without Us].