Myanmar’s Sham Election: Military Masks Control as Democracy Dies

Paul Riverbank, 12/26/2025Myanmar's election charade: military rule, silenced opposition, and vanishing hopes for real democracy.

Today, election posters hang on battered walls and conversations about politics are held behind closed doors if they happen at all. In Mandalay, a teacher—unwilling to risk more than a whisper of her real thoughts for fear of the consequences—shakes her head at the mention of the upcoming vote. “It’s theater,” she says quietly. “Not democracy.” The charged chaos of the last free election, with its heady mix of excitement and uncertainty, feels remote now—more memory than precedent.

The backdrop is grim. When the Tatmadaw, Myanmar’s military, abruptly seized power in 2021 citing unsubstantiated claims of voter fraud, the world watched. Foreign diplomats and Myanmar’s own election observers dismissed the accusations, but the coup leaders pressed on. What followed was a crackdown that upended Myanmar’s frail democracy and cost Aung San Suu Kyi—once an icon of hope—her freedom and her political party. The National League for Democracy was dismantled, its members scattered or silenced by threats of imprisonment.

Gone are the days of mass peaceful protests. In their place sits a long, draining conflict—one marked by sporadic fighting that sprawls across the map, especially in regions long controlled by ethnic minority groups. The military’s grasp is tight, but it doesn’t stretch far; large chunks of the country are lawless or beyond government reach, and countless families are left to cross haphazard checkpoints just to find safety, if anywhere is truly safe. The numbers alone are staggering: of 330 townships in the country, voters in less than a third will be able to participate, while another three million people are living as refugees in their own land.

What’s left of the political process has been downsized and stage-managed. Official numbers suggest more than 5,000 candidates chasing about 1,100 seats—on paper, a thriving contest. But dig deeper and the races rarely start on equal footing. The military’s favored party, the Union Solidarity and Development Party, wears the civilian mask; behind it, generals direct the show. Nearly all opposition parties have pulled out or been banned altogether, with leaders warning that pressing for real change is a surefire way to land in jail—or worse.

International organizations aren’t fooled. Amnesty International, the United Nations, and other rights groups have documented a relentless government campaign against anyone who steps out of line: more than 22,000 political prisoners are now behind bars, with the U.N. recording more than 7,600 deaths directly attributed to security forces since the coup. “The violence and intimidation has only deepened,” one observer at the U.N. comments. Streets once lively with protest now crackle with anxiety instead.

If you look beyond Myanmar’s borders, skepticism prevails, but governments are slow to act. Neighbors—particularly China, India, and Thailand—prioritize stability above all, quietly opting for calm over reform. Diplomatic statements sound cautious, bordering on indifferent, as economic ties and security concerns on shared borders edge out calls for meaningful change. It’s a regional pragmatism that leaves most citizens in Myanmar feeling abandoned.

Amid all this, the old dreams of transformation have withered. The sounds that fill the evenings are not chants or celebrations, but stories whispered between families split by violence, homes that have fallen to ruin, and dreams set aside. As another official day of voting approaches, it carries little weight beyond appearances. The machinery of control runs smoothly; for now, the generals’ grip seems unshakeable, and any talk of hope feels as fragile as ever.

For years, voting day in Myanmar felt almost sacred. It wasn’t just about dropping a ballot into a box; it was a promise that things could change, even if the sun wasn’t up when people started to line the streets. The hope that hung in the air then has since vanished, replaced with an unease that is now woven into daily life.Today, election posters hang on battered walls and conversations about politics are held behind closed doors if they happen at all. In Mandalay, a teacher—unwilling to risk more than a whisper of her real thoughts for fear of the consequences—shakes her head at the mention of the upcoming vote. “It’s theater,” she says quietly. “Not democracy.” The charged chaos of the last free election, with its heady mix of excitement and uncertainty, feels remote now—more memory than precedent.The backdrop is grim. When the Tatmadaw, Myanmar’s military, abruptly seized power in 2021 citing unsubstantiated claims of voter fraud, the world watched. Foreign diplomats and Myanmar’s own election observers dismissed the accusations, but the coup leaders pressed on. What followed was a crackdown that upended Myanmar’s frail democracy and cost Aung San Suu Kyi—once an icon of hope—her freedom and her political party. The National League for Democracy was dismantled, its members scattered or silenced by threats of imprisonment.Gone are the days of mass peaceful protests. In their place sits a long, draining conflict—one marked by sporadic fighting that sprawls across the map, especially in regions long controlled by ethnic minority groups. The military’s grasp is tight, but it doesn’t stretch far; large chunks of the country are lawless or beyond government reach, and countless families are left to cross haphazard checkpoints just to find safety, if anywhere is truly safe. The numbers alone are staggering: of 330 townships in the country, voters in less than a third will be able to participate, while another three million people are living as refugees in their own land.What’s left of the political process has been downsized and stage-managed. Official numbers suggest more than 5,000 candidates chasing about 1,100 seats—on paper, a thriving contest. But dig deeper and the races rarely start on equal footing. The military’s favored party, the Union Solidarity and Development Party, wears the civilian mask; behind it, generals direct the show. Nearly all opposition parties have pulled out or been banned altogether, with leaders warning that pressing for real change is a surefire way to land in jail—or worse.International organizations aren’t fooled. Amnesty International, the United Nations, and other rights groups have documented a relentless government campaign against anyone who steps out of line: more than 22,000 political prisoners are now behind bars, with the U.N. recording more than 7,600 deaths directly attributed to security forces since the coup. “The violence and intimidation has only deepened,” one observer at the U.N. comments. Streets once lively with protest now crackle with anxiety instead.If you look beyond Myanmar’s borders, skepticism prevails, but governments are slow to act. Neighbors—particularly China, India, and Thailand—prioritize stability above all, quietly opting for calm over reform. Diplomatic statements sound cautious, bordering on indifferent, as economic ties and security concerns on shared borders edge out calls for meaningful change. It’s a regional pragmatism that leaves most citizens in Myanmar feeling abandoned.Amid all this, the old dreams of transformation have withered. The sounds that fill the evenings are not chants or celebrations, but stories whispered between families split by violence, homes that have fallen to ruin, and dreams set aside. As another official day of voting approaches, it carries little weight beyond appearances. The machinery of control runs smoothly; for now, the generals’ grip seems unshakeable, and any talk of hope feels as fragile as ever.