At the end of August 2018, as this book was about to go to press, the United Nations Human Rights Council (UNHRC) released its report summarizing the main findings and recommendations of its Independent International Fact-Finding Mission on Myanmar. The report outlines serious human rights violations and abuses in Kachin, Shan and Rakhine States. It recommends that six senior military figures be investigated for genocide against the Rohingya, including Myanmar's armed forces commander-in-chief Senior General Min Aung Hlaing, and that the case be taken up by the International Criminal Court (ICC), or alternatively that an ad hoc international criminal tribunal be created (Human Rights Council 2018). The report notes that “The role of social media is significant. Facebook has been a useful instrument for those seeking to spread hate, in a context where for most users Facebook is the internet. Although improved in recent months, Facebook's response has been slow and ineffective” (p. 74). Facebook quickly responded to the report's release by removing the accounts of eighteen high-profile army figures in Myanmar, including Senior General Min Aung Hlaing, and fifty-two Facebook pages, which had a combined total following of close to twelve million users (Facebook 2018).

A few days later, two Reuters journalists, Wa Lone and Kyaw Soe Oo, were sentenced to seven years in prison under the Official Secrets Act over accusations of holding secret government documents that they intended to share with international media and the ethnic armed group Arakan Army (Sithu Aung Myint 2018). The two were arrested in December 2017 after investigating a massacre of Rohingya men and boys in the coastal town of Inn Din in northern Rakhine State. After responding to a call from police officers, who met them in a restaurant and handed them documents, the journalists were arrested for having the documents in their possession. As they were being taken away from the court after the sentencing, Wa Lone was quoted as saying, “We know we did nothing wrong. I have no fear. I believe in justice, democracy and freedom” (Shoon Naing and Aye Min Thant 2018, ¶22). The arrest and subsequent sentencing were met with national and international condemnation, as was the rejection of their appeal in early 2019.

The opening of online spaces and the rapid dissemination of mobile phones since the beginning of the political transition have made possible a forum for discussion unlike any before in Myanmar's history. Yet shocking examples of online hate speech have dominated international media headlines. Facebook, especially, has been identified as a significant forum for inciting the brutalities perpetrated against the Rohingya Muslims in Rakhine state. In March 2018, the chairman of the UN Independent International Fact-Finding Mission on Myanmar, Marzuki Darusman, told reporters that Facebook had played a “determining role” in the conflict. In April, Facebook's CEO Mark Zuckerberg testified in front of the U.S. Congress about his company's response to these accusations. And in August, a UN-mandated factfinding mission released its report calling for Myanmar's top military leaders to be investigated and prosecuted on charges of genocide, crimes against humanity and war crimes, and highlighting Facebook's role as a tool for those intending to spread hate. The release of this report sparked Facebook's decision the following day to remove eighteen Facebook accounts, one Instagram account and fifty-two Facebook pages affiliated with the military, including the official pages of Senior General Min Aung Hlaing, commander-in-chief of the armed forces, and the military's Myawaddy television network (Facebook 2018b).

Facebook's role in hate speech and the resultant waves of violence have dominated discussions and are detailed in the introductory chapter and the chapter by Sarah Oh in this volume. Yet the ways in which social media are bringing more hopeful new or hybrid forms of communication and expression are also important to highlight.

In December 2016, I made my twenty-fifth reporting trip to Rakhine State in western Myanmar. More than any other state, and any other conflict, Rakhine has changed me and my understanding of my country.

Even though my family is a mix of four ethnicities, I grew up as a Burman Buddhist. That gave me a double majority status and privilege, both religious and ethnic. Living in the capital Yangon, my life was coloured by propaganda from the military government. In our school history books we could only read about the Great Burmese empire. The histories of the minorities were left out. From the state-controlled newspapers we learned that the ethnic armed struggle was an insurgent, rebel movement created by people who wanted to destabilize the country. No one mentioned that the Burman-led military had unjustly taken control of the ethnic lands. All I knew about minority ethnic groups was their traditional costumes and dances. I did not know why they were fighting, or how their lives were affected by conflict. I grew up in ignorance.

In this chapter I explore the challenge of gaining access, and remaining independent, in an ethnic state where you are expected to be on one side of the conflict or on the other. For decades the military junta restricted access to information and wielded a powerful propaganda strategy. This has had a long-lasting impact. There is a massive communication gap between the Burman lowlands and the ethnic states, characterized by historic misunderstandings and misinformation, especially now that social media platforms are the primary way to share information. This has both caused and perpetuated intercommunal conflict between Rakhine Buddhists and Rohingya Muslims. Information is a power and a weapon, with all sides distorting and exaggerating it. It is hard to trust what people say and to do accurate media coverage. Even the words you use to describe northern Rakhine and the Rohingya are highly sensitive. The fact that the military has closed off a large area in the north of the state where the Rohingya historically lived makes access and understanding all the more difficult. In this chapter I use my own experiences doing fieldwork, conducting interviews and building trust to explore identity and language politics in Rakhine State and to explain the challenges of getting to the truth.

In editing a collection such as this one, we are faced with the issue of what to call the country: Burma or Myanmar, or both? Using which criteria? This issue has long been contentious, and any discussion of the transition period must in some way address the concerns that continue to be raised about the country's name and how it should be historically referenced.

The country became the Union of Burma upon its independence from the British in 1948. Shortly following the massive and violently suppressed uprisings of 1988, the military regime, the State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC), enacted the 1989 Adaptation of Expressions Law, changing the name of the country to the Union of Myanmar and many place names to reflect their Burmese-language pronunciation rather than the anglicized spellings prescribed by British colonial authorities. Rangoon, for example, became Yangon. Although the SLORC argued that the switch to Myanmar was more inclusive of ethnic minority groups, the name change was met with stiff resistance by opposition activists pushing for democratic change, who argued that it was made by an illegitimate, unelected regime without the people's approval through a national referendum. Many of those who sympathized with the opposition felt the name Burma was more inclusive than Myanmar. As a result, the use of one name over the other was, and remains for some, an indication of one's political position with respect to the military regime (Rogers 2012). The reaction of ethnic minority groups in the country has been mixed, but many feel that both names lack a sense of inclusion because they refer to the country's dominant ethnic group (Dittmer 2014).

International news outlets and governments around the world have taken different positions on this issue. The name change was recognized during military rule by the United Nations and by the governments of Japan and France, for example, but was not recognized by the United States, United Kingdom, Australia or Canada, which continued to refer to the country as Burma. The British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) also referred to the country as Burma during the period of military rule, which they argued was due to the familiarity of the name rather than politically motivated (BBC 2007). The policy of the U.S. National Public Radio (NPR) network was to use Myanmar but to then reference the fact that the country was once called Burma (Memmott 2011).

In September 2017, editors from the ethnic media network Burma News International (BNI) gathered for a closed-door meeting in Hpa-An, Kayin State to discuss the fresh outbreak of violence in northern Rakhine and the impact on its network. Its Rakhine Buddhist member Narinjara News attended the meeting. Its Rohingya Muslim member Kaladan Press did not. One year later, in September 2018, there are no stories by Kaladan Press on BNI's website. In the current environment, being the only network in Myanmar with a Rohingya member is challenging and contentious.

The Rakhine crisis presents one of the most complex dilemmas BNI has faced during its fifteen-year history. Tensions surfaced with the first wave of anti-Muslim violence in June 2012, in the early days of the political transition. BNI's editor-in-charge, a Buddhist from Rakhine State, decided to stop posting stories from Kaladan Press on the network's news site. This unilateral move silenced the voice of the Rohingya member at a vital time and ensured that only the Rakhine member was heard. This was an abrupt wake-up call for the BNI leadership, already struggling to comprehend the political changes unfolding inside the country. To mitigate a potentially volatile internal crisis — and to create breathing space to evaluate the network's coverage of the anti-Muslim violence — a moratorium was placed on stories from both members.

The tensions did not stop there. In 2016, at BNI's annual ethnic media conference — held for the very first time in Rakhine State, in the historic town of Mrauk Oo — the Rohingya camps and the conflict were the elephant in the room, absent from the conference agenda. Kaladan Press was also absent. A group of Rakhine media outlets had made it clear that they would boycott the conference if BNI's Rohingya member attended, and there were concerns that the Rohingya editor would not be safe if he tried to cross the border from Bangladesh. One of the local Rakhine outlets, Root Investigative Agency — known for its coverage of the Rohingya plight — was also absent.

In August 2017, when violence again flared in northern Rakhine, BNI was once more confronted by its internal membership struggles. Once again, the leadership placed a moratorium on stories from its Rakhine and Rohingya members and endeavoured to calm tensions.

Local filmmaking has played a crucial role in Burmese society since the first Burmese feature film hit the silver screen in 1920. Even during the decades of supposed economic stagnation and political isolation, Burmese film studios continued to produce feature-length movies that entertained audiences in the hundreds of cinemas throughout the country. Numerous black and white Burmese motion picture classics continue to be shown on Myanmar television, and, from the 1990s, aspiring filmmakers have increasingly made use of digital production and distribution. With changing technologies, the establishment of the Yangon Film School and the momentum of international film festivals, a new generation of filmmakers in Myanmar have been using film to point to formerly taboo topics, and they have been engaging film communities in the international arena with their works.

In a context in which creative expression inside the country was heavily stifled by a stringent government censor board, what happens when international filmmakers and political documentarians are suddenly allowed to mix with local filmmakers? How has the atmosphere changed for the motion picture industry during the political transition of this decade? In her book on political transition and Brazilian women's filmmaking, Leslie Marsh observed that political aperturism in the country coincided with technological advances in film and video, which set the ground for greater alternative video production (Marsh 2013, p. 32). Although Marsh's study coincided with the transition in video production from celluloid to video, we can also consider the ways in which entirely digital video production, and even smartphone video cameras, have affected the ways in which people document social worlds and produce and distribute motion pictures about them.

Following a summary of secondary and primary sources on the subject of film production in Burma, I will present an overview of the history of the Burmese film industry, from the British colonial period, to independence, to the years of the Burmese Socialist Program Party, and then the SLORC/SPDC years of strict censorship.

In the mid-2000s, journalists from Burma working in exile in neighbouring countries faced constant safety challenges, be it intimidation from local police or surveillance by the Burmese military intelligence. In 2017, journalists from these same publications, now back in the country, faced new challenges: intimidation by government officials and arrests within the country. Given the uneven pace and patterns of change in Myanmar (see the introductory chapter to this volume) and the importance of media in covering these developments, it is useful to investigate how collecting and reporting news about Myanmar have evolved in line with the promises of that change.

In this chapter we use the twin concepts of precarity and mobilization to explore the tensions associated with media reporting about Myanmar over time, analysing the reporting of the (formerly) exiled media publication The Irrawaddy. The chapter explores coverage through an examination of the sources utilized and the substantive content and tone of the articles. We begin by reviewing The Irrawaddy's history and then position it through the lenses of mobility and precarity. After a discussion of methods, we compare the coverage in The Irrawaddy of three natural disasters, in both the English and Burmese editions, and supplement our analysis with interviews with members of staff. Our findings indicate that risks associated with reporting have lessened considerably, but tension remains as The Irrawaddy is hamstrung by conflicting goals that influence its coverage.

The Irrawaddy: Outside-In

The story of Myanmar's incomplete reforms would itself be incomplete without a discussion of The Irrawaddy, whose role as a publisher, in turn, of a monthly magazine, weekly print journal, video content, and now digital media has secured its place in the country's media history. Founded in exile in 1993 by Aung Zaw and other exiled journalists, The Irrawaddy went from an “amateurish, four-page newsletter” (Cochrane 2006, p. 87) to a website that reaches millions. Operating as exiled media from Thailand for its first two decades, The Irrawaddy's position — simultaneously out-of-reach from Myanmar's restrictive government but proximate to events in Myanmar at a time, prior to the internet, when information was not as easy to share across restrictive borders — allowed it to offer credible counter-narratives to official government sources. Its readership has included people both inside and outside the country, both English and Burmese speakers, and both military and opposition leaders (the latter while in prison), as well as other stakeholders.

In this chapter, I explore the challenges and opportunities that the 8 November 2015 national parliamentary elections presented for the Myanmar media, and their difficult relations with the Union Election Commission (UEC). A critical benchmark for the country's democratic transition, the elections marked the first time in more than half a century that a Myanmar government had been democratically elected and was able to take office. The quasi-civilian government headed by President Thein Sein acknowledged the defeat of the army-backed party, the Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP), and the civilian party led by Aung San Suu Kyi, the National League for Democracy (NLD), assumed power.

The findings in this chapter stem from field observations, interviews and print sources in Myanmar and English languages collected between 2014 and 2016. I observed these processes from within the UEC, where I worked as a senior technical advisor for international organizations supporting the electoral processes. I was personally involved in negotiations related to media access and journalists’ accreditation.

The first section of the chapter provides a brief overview of the legal framework that defines the concept of media space, with a specific focus on election day. Regulations included constraints on journalists’ ability to cover the elections, which affected their access to polling stations. The second section presents two very different — and often diametrically opposed — views held by the UEC leadership and private media representatives. The root causes of the deeply entrenched mistrust that I observed will be placed in the context of recent private media expansion in the country following the lifting of pre-publication censorship. This includes very different institutional cultures, fundamental disagreements about the role of private media, and diverging political preferences. As a result of the mistrust, there were numerous missed opportunities that could have improved communication among key stakeholders and, in turn, increased awareness about the voting process among the general public. That being said, on election day, media played a fundamental role in legitimizing the vote and enabling a wider acceptance of the results.

Media During the Pre-election Period

The people in Myanmar had previously witnessed their electoral choices being ignored by the military government (after the 1990 elections) or affected by systematic fraud (during the 2008 referendum and 2010 elections). This political history triggered a number of challenges for media covering the 2015 elections.

These reflections by Jane Madlyn McElhone begin to clarify the inextricable connection between the two decades of international aid during the military junta and the struggle to protect and increase the space for free expression and free media inside the country since the political opening. Although plans for top-down, government-led media reforms began shortly after a purge of military intelligence in 2004 (Kean 2018), media development efforts in, and for, the country have a much longer history. Empowered by decades of aid support — in the form of educational opportunities, training, and funding — editors, journalists, writers and free expression advocates from inside the country, the borderlands, and exile have seized the unprecedented opportunities presented by the political opening. They are pushing the boundaries of independent journalism, advocating and fighting for free expression and free media, and playing leadership roles, including mentoring what Ye Naing Moe affectionately calls “our new generation of watchdogs” (Interview 30; see appendix). They say these historic aid opportunities have provided an important impetus for change, and that they have helped them navigate the new media development narrative which some aid recipients, including some contributors to this book, argue too often prioritizes state media development and foreign policy agendas above local ownership and decision-making, public service, diversity and access for all. As they have always done, these media practitioners are working within, and pushing against, the constraints of the shifting space allowed for free media and free expression established by the government, the military and their cronies.

Against the comparative backdrop of international media development, we examine the dynamics that drove this historic support in Burma.

In the surrounding darkness, bright lights focus on the speaker on the stage, a famous writer. The noise of an electric generator competes with his voice. He uses vivid metaphors to illustrate the wrongdoings of those in parliament and the government. The audience responds with a roar of cheers and applause: “Yes, they are idiots! Curse them some more!”

The speaker needs to wait a while for the people to calm down. But soon enough, words from his speech hit a nerve once again, and the audience goes wild.

This is a typical scene at literary talks in Myanmar. Historically, such talks were a traditional affair that became popular during Myanmar's colonial days, but they were unofficially banned by the military junta during its rule. Though they have once again become popular since the relaxation of restrictions in 2010, most attendees have never before experienced such events. In fact, the audience, especially those from rural areas, has had no exposure to literature at all, given the overwhelming censorship during the junta years.

Even among users of social media — who are likely to be urban, well off and with greater exposure to literature — it is clear that awareness of different literary forms is low. So much so that posts on online forums such as Facebook often include the disclaimer, “The following is a satire. Please don't take it seriously before you make (terrible) comments.”

A History of Repression

This lack of awareness is a reflection of how the dictatorship crippled literature, the arts and media. From 1962 until 2000, all major print and broadcast media were owned by the state. The small-scale private media covered uncontroversial topics such as music, celebrity news, entertainment and sports. As a result, many citizens — including some writers — think the media are merely a tool to be used as a weapon for shaming or for propaganda. People also underestimate their own right to information, and the role of the media in ensuring this right. State media were used for government propaganda, and the media in exile turned into activist media determined to counter heavy censorship and the severe forms of control that stymied access to stories. In taking on the role of promoting democracy, the media in exile often lapsed into anti-government propaganda.

The moon is shining, some villagers are laughing out loud, and others weeping while they sit together in a village compound watching human rights films. A young girl stands up and reads Article 26, “the right to education”, from a printed handout of the thirty articles of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. If this were pre-2010, it would have been a dream. In 2004 a group of young men in Yangon were arrested because they handed out human rights flyers in commemoration of human rights day (VOA 2004). For almost five decades while the country was under military rule, even the words “human rights” were forbidden in public spaces. The dream has come true today, but it did not come effortlessly.

In 2013 I became the co-organizer of the Human Rights, Human Dignity Film Festival in Yangon. We organized the festival for a simple reason — we were very suspicious of the political reform process initiated by the Thein Sein administration, the transformed military government. Like many of our fellow citizens, we wanted to push the boundaries of the so-called quasi-civilian rule, by using the human rights film festival as a tool. That's how Myanmar's first international human rights film festival came to be. The landmark human rights event was held in Yangon for five years. A mobile film festival that brought human rights films to audiences across Myanmar also grew in scope.

The abolition of pre-publication censorship in Myanmar resulted in a certain level of media freedom for the print media, but not for the film industry. In 2014 the film censorship board was recreated as the “Film Classification Board” under the Ministry of Information. In order to screen human rights films in downtown cinemas, authorization was required from the Film Classification Board. Without that official piece of paper, none of the commercial entertainment companies would allow us to host the human rights film festival in their theatres.

Therefore, in order to keep the festival running, we did not select overly sensitive films. That might be called self-censorship; yet, in 2013, the first year of the festival, all films submitted to the Film Classification Board — including a documentary film about human rights violations in Myanmar prisons based on the story of a political prisoner — got the go-ahead to be publicly screened.