War and propaganda are inseparable.

I have never been in active combat, so I cannot describe what it is like to be in an actual battle. But Burma has been at war with itself for many decades, through which I have seen how propaganda works.

During the socialist era, we heard much propaganda related to armed conflicts involving the country’s ethnic nationalities and the Communists. It came in various forms: radio, newspapers, school curriculums, speeches by government leaders, songs, movies and, later, on TV.

But as a youngster, it took a while to realize what was real and what was propaganda. Sometimes, an event like the 1988 uprising helps one to learn to see and recognize the difference.

Born and raised in small rural town at the height of socialism in Burma against the backdrop of on-going civil war, I grew up believing that all armed insurgents were “destructive elements bent on destroying the country”—even with the particular twist that the Karen rebels were “hideous-looking.” I don't know where that particular slander came from, but it stuck in my head.

I had many good-looking and beautiful Karen friends, but it never occurred to me to stop and think if that belief I had about the rebels was really just nonsense.

And I was fond of one of the Burmese army’s signature tunes, which went: “Yebaw [soldier] never dies; but even if he does, he will not go to hell.” It was so catchy that it stuck in my head without ever thinking what it meant and what message it was designed to convey.

During the colonial wars, British and Indian soldiers were referred to as white and black “kalaar” respectively—a derogatory term for Indians—by the Burmese royalists fighting against the invasions at the turn of the 19th century. During the war, the Burmese nationalists called the Japanese “nga pu” or “dwarfs.”

There are similar examples, such as the Burmese army’s use of the word “thaung gyan thu” or “insurgents” for all armed groups. In the early 90s, the Burmese regime even called seditious monks “insurgents in robes,” though the term was later dropped after protests from the Buddhist clergy.

These examples of propaganda are, in fact, “nan hnein” at work. This Burmese phrase has a particularly nasty psychological implication—it means, and I paraphrase”—“crushing the mind and morale of the enemy by using a defamatory label that expresses his inferiority, while simultaneously affirming the inherent superiority of one’s own race or group to lift their spirits.”

During my time in the jungle around 1993, someone brought a video of a propaganda movie from the Communist Party of Burma. It was called “Inextinguishable Flames.” I do not remember when it was made, but it was very good, highly professionally made, perhaps with the help of the Chinese.

It was in Burmese and the message was very clear—that the communists were strong, resilient and united and that the flames of their struggle could never be doused.

To me, the film was very impressive, particularly the scene in which hundreds or thousands of Communist (Wa) fighters carried torches in the dark, singing continuously and creating miles of human chain along a mountain path, with the light from their torches reflecting and swaying gently in the darkness.

It gave me goosebumps to watch this scene. I was inspired, and for a long time admired the Communist party, for coming up with such a great idea.  

In the Wa camp too, I witnessed the propaganda machine at work against Khun Sa’s army.

Not long after we had arrived, the Wa and the Lahu celebrated their New Year. It seemed to me that they were celebrating the Chinese New Year because—if I am not wrong—it was in late January or early February.

Hla Win, one of the Wa officers who had attended the Academy for the Ethnic Nationalities in Sagaing, invited us to join the celebrations, so we went along with them to the festivities, which were being held in a nearby field.

It was a cool beautiful night and colorful flags were flapping in the breeze on the mountaintop.

When we got there, around 30 people—young and old, men and women with colorful dresses—were already in a circle dancing and singing. Others stood and clapped and watched the dance.

I watched as the Wa and Lahu stepped in and out the circle harmoniously. The songs were more like Burmese water festival raps—short and rhythmic.

I found myself somewhar engrossed in the dance. We were asked to join in, which we did. After a round or two of dancing, we were offered some alcohol, perhaps rice wine, although I couldn't be sure. I sipped it and spoke to Hla Win about the song and dance, and asked him what they meant.

I was pleasantly surprised. The songs translated into something like: “Our guns are good, and the gunpowder explodes. Bang! Bang! Bang! But Khun Sa’s guns get jammed. Chauk! Chauk! Chauk!” (Mimicking the sound of the gun jamming).   

I knew the Wa officers often made fun of Khun Sa’s army's weapons, often retelling the tale of how they would try to make 120mm guns, only for the things to explode during testing, killing their own men. 

One Wa officer even told me how his unit had captured one of those weapons from Khun Sa’s men, but they never tested it for fear of it blowing up in their faces.

The Wa’s fears of the poor quality of their enemy's weapons might have been justified, but my immediate thought was to wonder what Khun Sa and his men would say about the Wa—and how distant or close it would be from the truth. I had no doubt he would have something to say about them, something negative, some kind of standing jioke—even if it bore little resemblance to the Wa that I knew.

Indeed, war and propaganda are indivisible. And the same applies in the city as to the most remote mountains.