Imagine a city where the vibrant streets mask a deep-seated fear, where the echoes of a coup still linger, and where the promise of democracy feels like a distant memory. This is Yangon, Myanmar, today. On the surface, it’s a bustling metropolis—commuters rush past street vendors, buses clog the roads, and young people gather at sunset to capture the glow of the Sule pagoda against a pink-blue sky. But beneath this veneer of normalcy lies a nation in turmoil, grappling with the aftermath of a military takeover that has left its people living in constant dread. And this is the part most people miss: Myanmar’s military rulers are now staging what they call the first elections since the coup, a move they claim will restore democracy and stability. Yet, the UN and Western governments have labeled it a sham, a charade designed to legitimize their grip on power. But here’s where it gets controversial: could this election, flawed as it may be, offer a glimmer of hope—or is it merely a tool to further entrench authoritarian rule? Let’s dive in.
Nearly five years after the military ousted and imprisoned Aung San Suu Kyi, Myanmar’s once-beloved de facto leader, the country’s scars remain raw. The streets of Yangon, once filled with protesters demanding democracy, are now quieter, but the fear is palpable. ‘We are always living in fear,’ a commuter confesses, her voice trembling as she pauses to speak. ‘Before the coup, we had hope. We trusted our government. Now, everything has changed.’ Like many others, she declines to give her name, a stark reminder of the risks of speaking out. But why does this matter? Because in a nation where silence is survival, every whispered word carries the weight of resistance.
The coup on February 1, 2021, unleashed a wave of violence that continues to ripple across Myanmar. Hundreds of thousands took to the streets in protest, only to be met with deadly force. By the end of March, over 400 people had been killed, and tens of thousands arrested. The conflict has since escalated into a full-blown civil war, with resistance groups forming in rural areas, often supported by ethnic armed factions long marginalized by the military. By late 2023, the war had engulfed two-thirds of the country, yet Yangon remains oddly detached—a city insulated from the daily airstrikes and drone attacks that terrorize other regions. But make no mistake: the anxiety is ever-present. ‘Yangon isn’t the same anymore,’ laments Hnin Sandar, an online influencer who spoke under a pseudonym. ‘It’s not a happy place like before.’ Her friends warn her against discussing politics, even in taxis or buses, for fear of being overheard. ‘I feel like I’m living in jail,’ she admits, a sentiment echoed by many.
The symbols of Myanmar’s past optimism have vanished. Images of Aung San Suu Kyi, once ubiquitous in shops and government offices, have been removed. Generators line the sidewalks, a testament to the worsening power cuts that force businesses to adapt at great expense. At night, the streets fall silent, save for a few young people seeking refuge in bars and clubs, where drugs offer a temporary escape from the political chaos. Most stay home, terrified of being arrested or conscripted into the military’s brutal war machine. And this is where it gets even more chilling: almost everyone knows someone who has been snatched from the streets. Aung Moe*, a Yangon resident, recounts how his friend was dragged into a taxi, blindfolded, and forced to call his family for ransom. When they couldn’t pay the $1,200 demand, he disappeared without a trace.
The military’s desperation became evident in 2024 when it enacted mandatory conscription after losing vast territories to anti-coup groups. Young men with the means to flee did so, leaving behind families torn apart by fear and uncertainty. Ei*, a garment factory worker from Rakhine state, hasn’t seen her family in seven years. ‘In my village, people are killed just for going out to fish,’ she says, her voice heavy with guilt and worry. She can no longer work overtime, as it’s too dangerous to travel late at night, and her side business selling cosmetics has collapsed as people flee the city. Meanwhile, inflation has skyrocketed, driven by the collapse of the kyat, Myanmar’s currency, which has lost 80% of its value since the coup. Since 2020, the country’s GDP has shrunk by 9%, erasing a decade of economic progress during its democratic transition.
The signs of Myanmar’s once-promising transformation are still visible in Yangon. When the country opened up to the world, foreign investment poured in, bringing luxury condos, hotels, and malls. Poverty rates nearly halved between 2005 and 2017, according to the World Bank. Today, however, foreign businesses have withdrawn, and tourists are nowhere to be found. At Bogyoke Aung San market, once bustling with international travelers, stalls now sit quiet. ‘Before the coup, we were chasing our dreams,’ Hnin Sandar reflects. ‘Now, we’re just trying to survive.’
The contrast with past elections is stark. In 2020, voters turned out en masse, the streets awash in red—the color of Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy (NLD). Today, she remains imprisoned at 80, her party banned. A young pro-democracy activist, speaking from exile in Thailand, remains hopeful but realistic. ‘We knew we couldn’t end the military’s dominance in five years,’ he says. ‘It could take another five or ten.’ But here’s the real question: Will this month’s election, held as the junta regains ground with China’s support, legitimize the military’s rule—or will it further expose their grip on power?
At polling stations, a jarringly upbeat tune plays on TV screens: ‘Hey dear friends, let us choose those who will shape tomorrow,’ the lyrics proclaim, as a smiling woman sways on screen. Nearby, armed police watch silently. Turnout was just 52%, compared to 70% in 2020 and 2015. In some areas, people voted out of fear, worried they’d be conscripted or barred from leaving the country. Large swaths of Myanmar, gripped by intense fighting, were excluded from the vote entirely. The military insists the election will be free and fair, but many remain skeptical. ‘It’s 50-50,’ a 23-year-old voter shrugs. ‘I didn’t feel excited, but it was my duty.’
Away from the polls, a young man pauses to watch the sunset, his mind drifting back to the 2021 protests. ‘Today, that’s impossible,’ he says. ‘The authorities find out immediately and arrest you.’ He didn’t vote, an act of quiet defiance shared by many in Yangon. ‘They want to show the world they’re democratic, but we all know the result,’ he adds. ‘There is no competitor.’
So, what do you think? Can an election under these conditions ever be legitimate? Or is it merely a facade for authoritarian rule? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep the conversation going.
