Imagine living in a city where the streets buzz with life, yet beneath the surface, fear and uncertainty grip every heart. This is the stark reality of Yangon, Myanmar, today. At first glance, Yangon appears as any 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 the sky. But this facade crumbles when you scratch the surface. Nearly five years after the military seized power in a coup, upending the nation and imprisoning de facto leader Aung San Suu Kyi, the city’s pulse beats to the rhythm of anxiety and silence. The junta now claims to be restoring democracy with its first post-coup elections, a process the UN and Western governments have bluntly labeled a sham. But here’s where it gets controversial: while the regime touts this as a step toward stability, many locals see it as a thinly veiled attempt to legitimize their grip on power.
‘We are always living in fear,’ a commuter confides, her voice trembling as she pauses mid-stride. ‘Before the coup, we had hope. We trusted our government. Now, that trust is gone.’ Like everyone else interviewed on Yangon’s streets, she refuses to give her name, her words trailing off as if the air itself might betray her. This is the part most people miss: the suffocating silence enforced by fear. ‘We can’t speak freely,’ she adds. ‘Not even in taxis or buses. Someone is always listening.’
Rewind to February 2021, and these same streets were alive with protests. Hundreds of thousands demanded democracy, only to be met with brutal force. By March, over 400 lives were lost, and tens of thousands have been arrested since. The resistance persists, but it’s fragmented, with rural groups fighting alongside ethnic armed factions seeking autonomy. By late 2023, war had engulfed two-thirds of the country, though Yangon remains oddly detached from the daily airstrikes and drone attacks that terrorize other regions.
Yet, life in Yangon is far from normal. ‘It’s not the same city anymore,’ says Hnin Sandar, an online influencer who spoke under a pseudonym. ‘Yangon isn’t a happy place like before.’ Her friends constantly warn her: Don’t talk politics, not even in a taxi. ‘I feel like I’m living in jail,’ she admits. The once-ubiquitous images of Aung San Suu Kyi, Myanmar’s beloved leader, have vanished from shops and offices. Generators line the pavements, a stark reminder of the crippling power cuts businesses endure.
Nightfall brings an eerie silence. Some young people seek refuge in bars and clubs, drowning their fears in drugs and temporary escapes. Most stay home, terrified of being arrested or conscripted into the military’s brutal civil war. Almost everyone knows someone who’s 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. They demanded $1,200—a sum his family couldn’t afford. He hasn’t been heard from since.
The junta’s 2024 conscription law only deepened the exodus. Young men with means fled, while others, like Ei*, were left to agonize. Ei works in a garment factory but hails from Rakhine state, a conflict hotspot. She hasn’t seen her family in seven years, torn between staying in Yangon to send money home and returning to a village where people are killed for simply fishing. ‘I wish I could escape everything, even for a week,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to hear bad news anymore.’
Inflation has skyrocketed, driven by the kyat’s 80% devaluation since the coup. Myanmar’s GDP has shrunk by 9% since 2020, erasing a decade of economic progress. The signs of that progress—luxury condos, malls, and hotels—still stand in Yangon, relics of a time when international investment poured in and poverty rates halved. Today, foreign businesses have fled, and tourists are nowhere to be seen. At Bogyoke Aung San market, once bustling with global travelers, stalls now gather dust. ‘Before the coup, we were chasing dreams,’ Hnin Sandar reflects. ‘Now, we’re just trying to survive.’
This month’s election, held as the junta regains ground with China’s support, feels like a charade. Turnout was just 52%, compared to 70% in 2020 and 2015. In some areas, people voted out of fear of conscription or travel bans. Large swaths of the country, engulfed in fighting, were excluded entirely. At polling stations, upbeat tunes blared from TV screens, juxtaposed with armed police nearby. ‘They pretend they’re restoring democracy,’ a young man scoffs, ‘but we all know the result. There’s no competition.’ He didn’t vote, joining many in Yangon in silent defiance.
Will this election change anything? ‘It’s 50-50,’ a 23-year-old voter shrugs. Many refused to speak, fearing retaliation. A pro-democracy activist, now in exile, remains hopeful but realistic. ‘The military’s power is decades old,’ he says. ‘We knew we couldn’t dismantle it in five years.’ Young people are prepared to resist for another five, maybe ten years.
But here’s the real question: Can a nation truly heal when its people live in fear, and its elections are a facade? And what does this mean for the future of democracy in Myanmar? Let’s discuss—do you think this election will bring stability, or is it just another chapter in the junta’s playbook? Share your thoughts below.
