The One Attempting to Hide Blood-Stained Hands
Nway Oo Myaing
Summer has arrived in our Anyar (central dry zone of Myanmar), and a sense of desolation meets the eye in every direction as the forests and trees shed their withered garments. With the arrival of every spring, old leaves inevitably fall, and just as river waters flow unceasingly, change remains an inherent part of existence. However, a dictator’s announcement that he will discard his military uniform bears no resemblance to the natural rustle of mature neem leaves, nor does it share anything with the rhythmic and surging flow of a river’s transformation.
A dictator shedding his olive-drab uniform to don presidential robes is nothing more than an unnatural ploy, and behind such deceptions lie atrocities that have reduced entire villages to ashes. These schemes carry the profound resentment of a populace bombed by jet fighters, leaving people suspended between life and death while being callously denied medical treatment. Min Aung Hlaing’s changing of robes will only serve to further crush the dreams of the people, acting like a violent gale that scatters delicate blossoms. He has publicly boasted that he dares to do anything, and indeed, he will continue to commit any act and any crime as he now attempts to deceive the global community with reports of his impending retirement as Commander-in-Chief.
In reality, this is merely the strategic repositioning of pawns on a chessboard to shield the king, and he intends to use the title of President and the armor of impunity to mask the crimes he has perpetrated. As military defeats mount and the people's revolution gains rapid momentum, Min Aung Hlaing is plotting to shed his skin and transition from a mastermind of genocide into a politician, yet no title or robe can ever stifle the scent of blood and the stench of smoke that stubbornly clings to his hands. The trauma of a young child orphaned by an airstrike, losing both the right to education and life security, cannot be concealed or erased by a presidential title, and across the land, the crimson graves of those who fell fighting the dictator stand as bold and defiant testimonies to these cruelties.
Moving pieces on a chessboard and using the presidency as a shield for crimes may provide a momentary sanctuary, but history is not a chessboard because history is the ground itself. The citizens burned alive, the cherished homes built through years of toil, the children lost to the skies, and the collective tears of a nation are all hallmarks of his cruelty that cannot be obscured by any curtain. No strategic move made upon this scorched earth can ever surpass the ultimate judgment of history, and though he may trade his military trousers for a Taikpon (traditional Burmese jacket) to evade the people's wrath, the public's revulsion remains unshaken.
No matter how he transforms his appearance, two distinct voices will continue to haunt his ears, including the thunderous applause of a people building hope and the visceral curses of a nation responding to injustice. Currently, the dictator is attempting to escape these echoes by trading his murderous fatigues for a seemingly refined jacket, but while he may change his attire at will, he cannot use his power to silence the reverberations of history. A position is merely a garment that can be replaced when worn or used as a temporary shield, however, a person's actions are not a cloak because they are dark historical stains that saturate the very flesh and blood.
No strategic maneuver can wash away or bleach those stains, and he can never outrun the people's curses through successive cycles of rebirth. He may believe his presidential robes are scented with perfume, but that fragrance is actually a distillation of the blood, sweat, and tears of his people. Even if he wears robes saturated in such a scent, the odor of the people's hatred will never dissipate, pursuing Min Aung Hlaing relentlessly like a cartwheel following the ox. No matter how securely he lives in a palace with a grand title, he cannot evade the curses that permeate the air he breathes.
Nature sheds old leaves for the sake of renewal and survival, but a dictator changes robes only to camouflage murder. Though he may live in luxury within a palace of honey-scented roses, surrounded by a hundred servants and air conditioning, the acrid scent of the fires he ignited will forever linger in his nostrils. No matter how pristine his white robe appears, the shadows of the lost children will always manifest as bloodstains upon the fabric. Ultimately, regardless of the guise Min Aung Hlaing adopts, our revolution must persist, we must remain united and steadfast in our mutual support, and in this way, we shall shatter his delusions and fantasies to celebrate our victory beneath the shade of lush green leaves.
This article is selected, edited, and presented to strengthen the revolution and to encourage diverse perspectives and analytical discourse among the public. The views expressed in this article belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of People's Goal, and readers are welcome to share their comments and participate in discussions.