Myanmar’s Military Tightens Grip: Sham Election Leaves Democracy in Ruins

Paul Riverbank, 1/25/2026Myanmar's sham election cements military rule, crushing democratic hopes but underground resistance endures.

After five years of watching power slip from civilian hands into those of uniformed strongmen, democracy in Myanmar feels less like a promise and more like a memory. Aung San Suu Kyi, once the face of hope, is no longer a presence but a symbol—locked away, her party dismantled, her near-mythic popularity punished with show trials and exile from the public square.

The ruling junta offered assurances: this vote would return power to the people. Yet, outside analysts and embattled locals voice a different refrain—one shaded with skepticism, even resignation. Where ballots weren’t cast at all—remote enclaves still held by ethnic rebel groups, for instance—citizens marked Election Day with silence. In these areas, politics is a distant episode, overshadowed by violence or under the constant threat of air raids.

Within the fragments of the country where polls did open, voters described not jubilation but a heavy sense of duty. Zaw Ko Ko Myint, a teacher in Mandalay, shared that casting his ballot was less about hope and more about obligation. “I feel relieved after voting,” he said, “as if I fulfilled my duty.” Catching this mood, another Yangon resident was even more blunt, voicing what few dare say aloud: “I don’t expect anything from this election. Things will just keep dragging on.”

Official turnout barely crossed the halfway mark, a marked drop from the higher tides of enthusiasm seen before the 2021 military coup. The absence spoke volumes. In some frontline districts, the campaign was invisible—candidates lost to fear and intimidation, their voices replaced by the echo of repeated promises from men in pressed khaki.

The machinery of the election itself reveals a lopsided playing field. The USDP—the vehicle for military men swapping uniforms for civilian suits—has filled not just most lower house seats (admittedly, over 85%) and two-thirds of the upper chamber, but can also count on the 25% of seats reserved for military officers under a constitution drafted by the generals. This arithmetic ensures a parliament engineered for the status quo, and a president—possibly Min Aung Hlaing himself—appointed through legislative ritual, not public will.

Critics are blunt about the consequences. Tom Andrews, a United Nations rights overseer, warned that anyone embracing the results is, knowingly or not, lending cover to a military regime in search of legitimacy. On the ground, past and present blend grimly: ongoing airstrikes encircle villages; whole districts remain besieged, with hunger now weaponized as well. ACLED, a conflict monitoring group, estimates that more than 90,000 lives have been lost to post-coup violence—a figure both staggering and, in Myanmar, tragically plausible.

New laws, meanwhile, crowd the courts with dissenters: over 400 people have faced prison for comments or protests related to the rigged ballot—ten years for a remark, a song, a gesture. As the ballots are counted, the generals’ shadow grows longer, punctuated by photo ops—Min Aung Hlaing arriving at a polling station in civilian clothes, declaring, “This is the path chosen by the people,” as if repetition could conjure truth.

Look closely, though, and the cracks are plain. The bars are full, the jails fuller still. The old NLD landslide in 2020—tossed out on shaky claims of fraud—is a ghost that haunts every speech and official smiling through another “victory.” For those who dared dream of democracy, voting now is like dropping a pebble into a vast swamp.

And yet, in the margins, resistance flickers. The election may be over, but the real contest—the one for peace, dignity, and a say in the nation’s future—moves underground, waiting for its moment. Myanmar’s struggle is not finished, no matter what the generals announce.

It’s another dawn in Mandalay, and the city is subdued. The polls have closed across Myanmar—an election stretched so awkwardly over a month that no one’s quite sure when anything really ended. Yet, before the official numbers ever trickle out, it’s clear who’s claimed victory: the Union Solidarity and Development Party, a political vehicle as unmistakably military as the generals themselves. Their win, sweeping and absolute, no longer surprises anyone.After five years of watching power slip from civilian hands into those of uniformed strongmen, democracy in Myanmar feels less like a promise and more like a memory. Aung San Suu Kyi, once the face of hope, is no longer a presence but a symbol—locked away, her party dismantled, her near-mythic popularity punished with show trials and exile from the public square.The ruling junta offered assurances: this vote would return power to the people. Yet, outside analysts and embattled locals voice a different refrain—one shaded with skepticism, even resignation. Where ballots weren’t cast at all—remote enclaves still held by ethnic rebel groups, for instance—citizens marked Election Day with silence. In these areas, politics is a distant episode, overshadowed by violence or under the constant threat of air raids.Within the fragments of the country where polls did open, voters described not jubilation but a heavy sense of duty. Zaw Ko Ko Myint, a teacher in Mandalay, shared that casting his ballot was less about hope and more about obligation. “I feel relieved after voting,” he said, “as if I fulfilled my duty.” Catching this mood, another Yangon resident was even more blunt, voicing what few dare say aloud: “I don’t expect anything from this election. Things will just keep dragging on.”Official turnout barely crossed the halfway mark, a marked drop from the higher tides of enthusiasm seen before the 2021 military coup. The absence spoke volumes. In some frontline districts, the campaign was invisible—candidates lost to fear and intimidation, their voices replaced by the echo of repeated promises from men in pressed khaki.The machinery of the election itself reveals a lopsided playing field. The USDP—the vehicle for military men swapping uniforms for civilian suits—has filled not just most lower house seats (admittedly, over 85%) and two-thirds of the upper chamber, but can also count on the 25% of seats reserved for military officers under a constitution drafted by the generals. This arithmetic ensures a parliament engineered for the status quo, and a president—possibly Min Aung Hlaing himself—appointed through legislative ritual, not public will.Critics are blunt about the consequences. Tom Andrews, a United Nations rights overseer, warned that anyone embracing the results is, knowingly or not, lending cover to a military regime in search of legitimacy. On the ground, past and present blend grimly: ongoing airstrikes encircle villages; whole districts remain besieged, with hunger now weaponized as well. ACLED, a conflict monitoring group, estimates that more than 90,000 lives have been lost to post-coup violence—a figure both staggering and, in Myanmar, tragically plausible.New laws, meanwhile, crowd the courts with dissenters: over 400 people have faced prison for comments or protests related to the rigged ballot—ten years for a remark, a song, a gesture. As the ballots are counted, the generals’ shadow grows longer, punctuated by photo ops—Min Aung Hlaing arriving at a polling station in civilian clothes, declaring, “This is the path chosen by the people,” as if repetition could conjure truth.Look closely, though, and the cracks are plain. The bars are full, the jails fuller still. The old NLD landslide in 2020—tossed out on shaky claims of fraud—is a ghost that haunts every speech and official smiling through another “victory.” For those who dared dream of democracy, voting now is like dropping a pebble into a vast swamp.And yet, in the margins, resistance flickers. The election may be over, but the real contest—the one for peace, dignity, and a say in the nation’s future—moves underground, waiting for its moment. Myanmar’s struggle is not finished, no matter what the generals announce.