We live in a noisy world, don’t we? Our days are filled with personal dreams, endless to-do lists, and the constant buzz of screens promising connection but often leaving us feeling alone. Amid this rush, the idea of the "Common Good" might sound old-fashioned, like a faded postcard from a simpler time. We hear it in speeches or read it in hopeful articles, and part of us wonders: Is this just a nice phrase, empty of meaning? Yet, when we pause and look at our shared struggles—inequality, division, a warming planet, trust that frays like old fabric—we feel a quiet longing. We yearn for a way to live together, not just as strangers sharing space, but as neighbors building a good life side by side.
The Common Good is not a new idea, nor is it a vague dream. It’s a practical, living hope—a way to balance our individual desires with the truth that we need each other. (We also discussed this here.)

For centuries, people have asked: How do we live well together? In ancient Greece, thinkers like Aristotle didn’t focus on individual rights as we do now. Instead, they imagined cities thriving through what Aristotle called "Political Friendship"—not warm fuzzies, but a practical trust among citizens. It was the idea that even people who disagree can cooperate for the sake of their shared home. Later, Roman and Christian thinkers like Cicero and Aquinas wove this into visions of peace and justice, tying the Common Good to fairness and the dignity of all.

The Enlightenment brought a shift. Philosophers like Locke and Bentham saw society as a collection of individuals chasing their own goals. The Common Good, they thought, would emerge naturally from everyone’s self-interest. This idea sparked progress but also planted seeds of disconnection, leaving us with a world where personal gain often overshadows shared purpose.
In the 19th and 20th centuries, the Catholic Church revived the Common Good as a counterpoint to unchecked individualism. Popes like Leo XIII spoke of workers’ rights and social justice, while later thinkers like John Rawls offered modern tools—ideas like fairness and cooperation across differences—to build just societies. The Common Good, they all agreed, is not a fixed answer but a living project. It asks us to negotiate, to balance our freedom with our responsibility to each other.
These ideas are not relics. They are a map for navigating our messy, interconnected world—a reminder that our happiness depends on the happiness of others.

Now, imagine a place where this map has been torn apart, where the Common Good is not just neglected but actively crushed. This is Myanmar today, a failed Nation-State project whose story reveals what happens when trust, fairness, and cooperation are replaced by control and division.

For decades, Myanmar’s military, the Tatmadaw, has held a tight grip on power, starting with a coup in 1962. Instead of building a place for all its peoples, internal nations and ethnic groups, the military chased a narrow vision of control. However, here is nuance. Even before the military came to have full blown power, the Burmese politicians tried to centralize power and created problems among its people. Myanmar has never been an accountable normative state since then. The military favored its own survival and a Bamar-centric idea of unity, sidelining minorities and their dreams of equality. This wasn’t Political Friendship; it was domination. The result was not a Common Good but a fractured society, marked by poverty, distrust, and endless civil wars.

The military’s rule created a system where resources flowed to the elite and their allies, leaving millions behind. Ethnic groups, promised a federal union at independence, faced marginalization or violence instead. The economy served the state, not the people, deepening inequality. Trust eroded, not just between citizens and the state, but among communities pitted against each other by a system that thrived on division.

A brief hope flickered in 2011, when Myanmar began a fragile liberalization. For a moment, it seemed the country might pursue a broader Common Good—fairer elections, open dialogue, a chance to heal old wounds. But the military never fully let go, and deep grievances, like the persecution of the Kachin, Karen, Shan, Rohingya, and others, remained unresolved. The dream of inclusivity and cooperation stayed out of reach. The civilian leaders (mainly statists) tried to reached negotiation with the military but in the process the ethnic institutions were largely marginalized.

Then came the 2021 coup, a brutal turning point. The military seized power again, shattering any pretense of working for the common good. Since then, Myanmar has plunged into a crisis that feels like a betrayal of everything the Common Good stands for.

• No Benefit for All: The military’s focus is control, not care. It has killed over thousands and thousands civilians, bombed villages, and destroyed schools and hospitals. Nearly half the population now lives in intense poverty, a stark reversal of earlier progress.
• No Fairness: Power and wealth are hoarded by the military and its cronies. Since the last coup, estimated over 20,000 political prisoners languish in jails, punished for speaking out. Resources are weaponized, not shared.
• No Inclusivity: The military silences dissent with bullets and arrests. Ethnic minorities, from the Karen to the Chin, face renewed violence, while the Rohingya remain stateless, their suffering is largely ignored and even weaponized. Even Bamar civilians protesting the coup are now targets. No one is invited to the table.
• No Sustainability: The economy is collapsing, with millions food insecure. Conflict scars the land, from deforested hills to polluted rivers. The future is being stolen from generations not even yet born.
• No Cooperation: Trust is impossible when fear rules. The military’s terror—torture, airstrikes, mass arrests—destroys any chance of Political Friendship. Even in the recent devastating earthquake, military was continuing bombing civilians. Communities, under pressure, struggle to unite, though many resist bravely, but still far away from success. The international community is not helping effectively.

The numbers tell a grim story. 2.5 to 3 million people displaced, millions hungry, countless lives lost or caged. But beyond the statistics is a deeper loss. It is the loss of hope that Myanmar could be a place where all its people matter. The military is even frankly bombing schools, hospitals, markets and places of worship. The military’s actions are not just a failure to pursue the Common Good; they are an attack on its very possibility. Every bomb dropped, every voice silenced, is a choice to prioritize power over people, division over trust.

Remember Myanmar is not a normative state that is accountable. The military has never listened to anyone and never empathized minorities in good faith. The central problem lies in its narrative of guardian ruler of the Nation State - the institutional narcissism and grandiosity.

What makes Myanmar’s tragedy so severe is not just this active destruction but the long, stubborn refusal to commit to the Common Good in the first place. For decades, the military could have chosen dialogue, federalism, or justice. It could have built schools instead of barracks, listened to ethnic voices instead of suppressing them. Even after 2011, it (and statist politicians) could have embraced democracy’s fragile promise. Instead, it chose control, sowing seeds of distrust that now bear bitter fruit. This lack of commitment—rooted in a refusal to see all Myanmar’s people as equally worthy—has left a nation not just divided, but broken.

Yet, even in this darkness, there are communities of resistance. Across Myanmar, ordinary people, like students, farmers, monks, ethnic fighters, defy the military, forming local councils, sharing food, protecting each other. These acts, small as they seem, echo the Common Good’s spirit: a belief that no one should be left behind. They remind us that the Common Good is not dead in Myanmar, only buried alive, waiting for a time when trust can grow again.

The Common Good is not a grand solution or a perfect utopia. It’s a humble invitation—to remember that our lives are woven together, that our joys and sorrows are shared. In a world that celebrates individual triumphs, it asks us to pause and consider what we owe each other. Myanmar’s pain shows us the cost of forgetting this: a society torn apart, a future dimmed. But the Common Good also offers hope. It reminds us that we can choose differently—to build trust, to share fairly, to listen to every voice. It’s a project we undertake together, not with certainty, but with care. Perhaps, we can build a future with a commitment to live not just for ourselves, but for each other.

We often think of hierarchy as either something we must accept or something we must fight. But the truth is less dramatic. Hierarchies are not carved into the nature of things. They don’t fall from the sky or rise up from the earth. They are made by people, for reasons that often seem sensible at the time: to bring order, to divide work, to avoid chaos. Of course, they may sometimes be created by of certain people for certain tasks resulting inclusions and exclusions.

To think clearly in a world like ours is to grow comfortable with the idea that many things we treat as permanent are, in fact, temporary. Hierarchies included. They are not natural laws but human decisions, built on customs, symbols, habits, and shared expectations. Some peoples need to construct them for their struggles. And if we built them, we can question them too—not always to destroy, but to understand, to improve, and sometimes to let go. They may be "tools", but not "truths".

Being skeptical of hierarchy doesn’t mean we must rebel against every system. It means we develop a calm and honest curiosity. We ask: What is this structure doing? Who is it helping? Who is being left out?

Sometimes, hierarchies help. They offer clarity and organization in complex situations. But they can also become rigid. Titles can replace understanding. Traditions can be mistaken for truth. And when that happens, a gentle kind of questioning becomes necessary. We might ask: What story is this hierarchy telling us? Who gets to speak and be heard? Who is invisible in this arrangement?

A thoughtful skeptic doesn’t blindly say all hierarchies are good or bad. Nor do they rush to replace one system with another, equally fixed. Instead, they stay close to the messiness of human life. They understand that power is always shifting, always partial, and always needs to be examined with care. This kind of questioning is not a political slogan or a moral rulebook. It is a habit of attention. A way of noticing when authority starts to feel untouchable, when confidence turns into arrogance, or when leadership forgets to serve.

In this way, skepticism is not chaos. It is a form of care. A way of protecting the complexity of human experience from being flattened into one single version of the truth. It reminds us that good leadership listens. That rules are only as good as the dignity they preserve. Still, we do not need to despair. Power doesn’t have to mean control when properly used. Structures don’t have to be prisons all the times. With reflection and effort, we can shape more open and honest systems—ones that are clear rather than confusing, flexible rather than frozen.

To question hierarchies is to demand accountable flexibility. To question hierarchies is to improve structures that serve evolving needs in designing systems where power is earned through ongoing consent, not inherited as natural law. To question a hierarchy is to show that we care. It is to want something better for everyone, not just those at the top. And it creates space for what might be the most generous kind of relationship: political friendship. Political friendship is built on mutual respect, shared purpose, and room for disagreement. We live in society for our survival, safety and growth. Thus, we must care.

The healthiest societies are not those without leadership, but those where leadership is transparent, accountable, and responsive to real human needs. In these places, power isn’t inherited—it’s earned, again and again, through trust, attentiveness, and fairness. When the old ways stop working and new ones are still forming, it’s tempting to reach for certainty with a quick fix. But perhaps the better path is to listen a little more and ask the quieter but braver questions.

Question everything. Critique hierarchy with care. Build bridges.

Negotiation and mediation are not just tools for diplomats or conflict resolution experts. At their core, they are the practices through which people—often with differing needs, fears, and aspirations—attempt to live together without domination. They are the language of political life in its most honest form: not the imposition of one will over another, but the patient effort to craft a future from disagreement.

To negotiate is to recognize that no single person or group holds the full truth. It is to acknowledge that others have claims, that those claims may not vanish through force or denial, and that something better might emerge through dialogue. Mediation builds on this. It introduces a third space, a process or a person that helps facilitate understanding—not by erasing differences, but by holding space for them in a way that still moves toward resolution.

But these practices only work under one essential condition: a relative equality of political bargaining power. Without this, negotiation becomes theatre. Mediation becomes manipulation. The weaker party is pressured to accept terms not because they are just or wise, but because they have no choice. This is not peace—it is submission repackaged.

Bargaining power does not only come from money or military force. It includes voice, visibility, recognition, and the ability to walk away. In societies where some groups are routinely denied these things—due to history, structure, or prejudice—talks may occur, but they are not truly negotiations. They are performances in which the outcome was already decided by unequal starting points.
For a society to be just, this must be addressed.

A good society is not built on the illusion of harmony, but on the ability to confront real tensions with fairness. This requires that communities, especially those historically marginalized, are equipped with the power to bargain meaningfully. This includes access to knowledge, platforms to speak, time to organize, and security from retaliation.

Only when power is rebalanced can negotiation fulfill its deeper purpose: not just to end conflict, but to generate a shared future that no one group could have imagined alone.

What makes this process even more fragile is that power rarely confesses itself. It hides behind politeness, behind procedures, behind appeals to neutrality. Mediation, then, must also be skeptical. It must question the silence in the room, the invisible hierarchies that shape who gets to speak and who gets to decide what “reasonable” looks like. It must ask: Who benefits from the current arrangement? Who pays the cost of peace?

To mediate well is not to be above the fray, but to lean into the complexity with care. It is to listen deeply, to amplify the voices that have been muted, and to build outcomes that reflect not the will of the strongest, but the dignity of all.

The idea of the common good emerges from this kind of work—not as a blueprint from above, but as a rough, negotiated space from below. It is not perfect or final. It is a process. A promise that justice is never complete, but always in motion—reshaped by each new act of dialogue and each new generation’s participation.

In societies marked by deep division or recent wounds, this task becomes even more vital. There, negotiation and mediation are not only about compromise. They are about rehumanizing those who have been made enemies, rebalancing systems that have been made unfair, and reconstructing trust where it has been betrayed.

Equality in bargaining power is not a luxury—it is the ground on which hope is built. Without it, even the best-designed agreements will fall apart. With it, even the most painful histories can begin to heal.

Let us then treat negotiation not as a tactic, but as a philosophy of shared life. Let us approach mediation not as neutrality, but as responsibility. And let us remember that in the long journey toward a good society, the question is not who wins—but whether we have created a way of living together that no longer requires winners and losers at all.

The heart of a just society is not found in grand speeches or majestic flags. It is built, piece by piece, in the quiet architecture of its institutions—those everyday structures that shape who gets to speak, who is heard, and how decisions are made. If we want a politics rooted in fairness, dignity, and the common good, then we must turn our attention not just to outcomes, but to the design of the places where negotiation and deliberation happen.

For negotiation to be fair, and deliberation to be meaningful, the space in which they occur must resist inherited imbalances. Institutions are not neutral by default; they are often born from history, shaped by power, and maintained by habits that favor the familiar. This is why deliberate design matters. Without intentionality, the table at which we all supposedly sit is already tilted.

To begin, institutions must ensure inclusion without tokenism. This means that diverse groups, especially those historically marginalized, are not only invited to speak but empowered to shape the agenda, influence the framing, and challenge the premises. Representation is not just about presence—it is about voice, leverage, and the freedom to dissent.

Secondly, time and resources must be equalized. Those with privilege can often afford to negotiate endlessly; the oppressed may be pressured by survival. A fair institution provides translation, accessibility, stipends, and safe spaces. It knows that justice is not just about ideals but about logistics.

Deliberation also demands rules of engagement that guard against domination. No one should be allowed to speak over others, to weaponize expertise, or to drown out discomfort with procedural jargon. Fairness is not just about equal time—it is about relational equality: the sense that your words carry weight and your presence matters.

Moreover, institutions must embrace slow thinking. In a world addicted to speed, deliberation suffers. Genuine dialogue takes time. It requires the space to reflect, to listen deeply, and to change one’s mind without losing face. Rushed consensus is often a disguised coercion. Good institutions build in pauses, revisits, and multiple rounds—because wisdom rarely arrives on a single deadline.

Importantly, institutions must be transparent and accountable. Decisions should be traceable. Power must be visible. If something is decided, people must be able to see how, by whom, and with what justification. Without this, even the fairest processes become opaque rituals that lose the trust of the public.

A just institution also values conflict not as failure but as signal. When tensions arise, the task is not to suppress but to inquire: what truth is trying to surface here? The best-designed institutions are those that know disagreement is a teacher. They turn arguments into insight, and friction into fuel for collective thinking.

Crucially, institutions that support fair negotiation must themselves be open to revision. No structure is sacred. Feedback loops, sunset clauses, rotating leadership, and experimental spaces must be built in. This creates a living institution, one that evolves with the people it serves.

And finally, behind all this is a cultural foundation: a shared ethic of mutual regard. Institutions alone cannot guarantee justice. But they can nurture the habits that make it possible. By setting standards for respect, curiosity, humility, and collective responsibility, they cultivate not just agreement—but understanding.

We do not need perfect institutions. We need responsive ones. Institutions that understand their own limitations. That learn. That adapt. That do not pretend to be the answer, but commit to holding the question well.

When negotiation and deliberation are rooted in such structures, society begins to transform. People no longer see politics as war, but as dialogue. They no longer fear difference, but meet it with readiness. And slowly, trust becomes not just a memory or a dream—but a practice, made real through design.

This is not idealism. It is architecture. And like all good architecture, it begins not with concrete or stone, but with a clear intention: to make space for each other.

Imagine a home. In this home, the rooms are different. One is painted with stories of mountain spirits, another echoes songs from the coast. Some rooms burn incense, others cook with turmeric. The people in these rooms are family, but not the same. They don’t always agree. Sometimes, they fight. But there’s one thing they do agree on: this house should not belong to just one of them. It should belong to all of them.

That, at its heart, is the spirit of federalism. Or at least, it should be.
But let’s slow down. What is federalism—not as a textbook definition, but as a living political idea?

Federalism is NOT a Map. It’s a Conversation. Many people in countries like Myanmar talk about federalism as if it’s a kind of jigsaw puzzle. How many states? How should we draw the lines? Who gets what resources? These are important questions, but they are not foundational questions. They ask how federalism works, not why it exists.

From my point of view, federalism is not about fixed destination or ancient divisions. It is not about drawing borders around "pure" ethnic groups or enforcing neat, eternal truths about who belongs where. That’s essentialist thinking—imagining that there are timeless, unchanging groups with permanent entitlements. But human groups are not static. Cultures mix. Languages evolve. Power shifts. What we call “ethnic identity” is often a strategy—sometimes for survival, sometimes for resistance, often for recognition.

Federalism, then, must be a tool, not a truth. A flexible structure, not a sacred formula. A conversation, not a command.

Let’s return to the house. Imagine one room insisting that its furniture, music, and customs are best—and demand the others to just copy them. That’s not harmony; that’s domination. For a people, it’s colonization.

Let me invites you to ask: Whose values are being universalized? When a majority claims neutrality, they often hide power. When one cultural group is called “national” and others with similar characteristics are called “ethnic tribes,” the language itself creates hierarchy. And that is the problem with many centralized states—especially those built through conquest or colonization.

Federalism matters not because people are essentially different, but because people have historically been treated differently. The choice is strategic. The point is not that communities must govern themselves in isolation, but that they should have the right to do so—especially after generations of being told they could not. Besides, it is the original spirit of international order that every people must have the right to self-determination, isn't it?

So, federalism is not just administrative—it’s historical. It is an invitation to heal from forced assimilation, cultural erasure, and imposed uniformity. It is a chance to say: “We are different, and that’s okay. But we still choose to share a future.”

Let us draw our attention to a country like Myanmar, where different internal nations—yes, nations, not just ethnic groups—exist, the most just path forward is not one single mold for all. It is a plural mold, one that allows people to shape their political future while still being part of a shared country. We must respect their differences in political heritage.

This is what multinational federalism offers. Not one identity, but many. Not one center, but many centers working in coordination. It resists the pressure to blend everyone into one "nation-state mythology". It instead offers a framework of co-existence, with room for autonomy, heritage, and solidarity.

Some may ask: “But won’t this break us apart?”
Indigenous peoples will reply: “Pretending sameness has already broken you.”

The real strength of a country lies not in how similar its people are, but in how well it manages their differences with justice and dignity.

Let me also reflect a few points on what Federalism Is NOT.

• It’s not just decentralization.
• It’s not about giving power from above (or below so to say).
• It’s not a technical fix to appease rebels.
• It’s not about freezing identities into rigid boxes.
• It’s not about carving up the land for political games.

Federalism is not something “granted” by a central authority—it is negotiated by peoples who refuse to be "ruled" without consent. It is not a gift. It is a contract.

Of course, federalism is hard. There are risks. Power struggles don’t vanish just because we redraw boundaries. And yes, identities can become rigid, competitive, even exclusionary. That’s why we need vigilance—to keep asking: Are we using federalism to empower people, or to entrench new forms of domination? We must be watch out for the signals if our new system is entrenching the different forms of inequality.

We must remember that identities are constructed. That doesn’t make them fake. It is like what Buddhists call "Sammuti Sacca"- conventional  realities. These identities are political. So we, for building a peaceful society, must build systems that treat them with care, not with negligence. We must design a future that sees federalism not as a final answer nor product of rigid essences, but a living pragmatic strategy for solving the crisis of shared dignity at this point.

In a intellectually free world, federalism is less about fixed truths and more about shared agreements. Less about who you are and more about how you want to live together. It exists because the alternative (aka forced assimilation for sameness) is violence in slow motion. Federalism is a strategic compromise. It is not necessarily a recognition of innate differences but a pragmatic response to historical oppression. So let us teach the next generation not to ask, “Who is the real owner of this land?” but instead, “How can we all be stewards of this future?” Let us move away from fear of difference and toward a politics of negotiated coexistence.

The type of federalism Myanmar need is, thus, in some aspect, the quiet courage to live with many truths in negotiation, in one fragile, shared world.

“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”
— Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Human society has always been a project of value-making. From the earliest rituals around fire to the algorithmic regulation of digital life, we have never lived outside of meaning. We construct it, negotiate it, and fight over it. Meaning is not optional; it is inevitable. In this sense, society is a system of negotiated meanings that give rise to moral orders, identities, roles, and ultimately, hierarchies.

But this meaning-making comes with consequences. As soon as a society begins to name values—what is sacred, who is respectable, which labor is dignified—it also begins to create gradients of worth. Hierarchies originally arise not from evil intent, but from the natural drive to coordinate, organize, and sustain collective life. However, once a hierarchy is formed, power becomes sedimented. The inevitable temptation follows: to exploit, to preserve advantage, and to rationalize that advantage as natural, deserved, or even divine.

In ancient societies, hierarchy was often justified cosmologically. Kings ruled by divine right, castes by spiritual purity, and men by virtue of "rational superiority." These essentialist claims were narratives, not facts. But they were effective. They rooted oppression in the soil of myth and transmitted it through generations as tradition.

Oppression, in this classical form, was visible. It was formal, brutal, and often physical. People were chained, silenced, exiled, enslaved. Social orders made no attempt to hide domination; they justified it.

In modern societies, however, this mode of domination has undergone a transformation. Elite may not oppress through ugly violence, but they seduce.

Where once power ruled through visible chains, today it operates through invisible scripts. We are not beaten into submission—we are persuaded into desire. The modern citizen is not told “you must serve,” but rather, “you must succeed.” The chains are now internal, in the form of self-optimization, brand-building, and emotional labor. Exploitation wears the perfume of freedom.

Having said that, it is also important to note that oppression is not completely gone. Not all societies are linearly moving from brutality to seduction. Myanmar is one of these examples of violent oppression. The transformation is not necessarily a complete replacement but rather a layering of control mechanisms, where subtle "seduction" often coexists with more traditional forms of domination, sometimes even reinforcing them. Burmanization is still exist as coerced assimilation of indigenous people but it is more and more legitimized by the power of seduction for instance. Our focus here, however, is the manufacturing of desires, fabrication of consent and internalization of oppression.

We know it is bad to be exploited by stimulating anger, sadness, guilt or fear. However, we don't necessarily feel bad for being exploited by stimulating "happiness" or "pleasures". The pursuit of Dopamine is affecting everyone. After all, these all emotions are not good, not bad or not neutral. They are natural. We should not be taken advantage of them, should we?

Let us look at marketing or a fashion trend. It is not simply a neutral economic act; it is an act of desire-production. It exploits not just values or labor but attention, affection, identity, and aspiration. Capitalism itself is a value creation mechanism that created our "progress" but hierarchy created by unlimited accumulation of non-expiring wealth (or money) can be used in many ways to go beyond "just personal freedom". People may be more happy and more miserable at the same time. As Amitai Etzioni once asked: "Is happiness the wrong metric?"

In a post-industrial society, we are not just workers—we are consumers, influencers, dreamers, and brands. We are not commanded to obey; we are seduced to participate. Social media, advertising, careerism, and romantic ideals all converge to create a logic of self-exploitation. We curate our suffering for visibility. We grind not because we are told to, but because we believe we must. This is the genius of seduction—it does not oppose your will; it co-opts it.

In classical oppression, there were rulers and the ruled. Today, the system is more diffused. As Byung-Chul Han puts it “exploit themselves in the belief that they are realizing themselves.”

We have become our own taskmasters. The boundary between the external power and the internal “self” is blurred, if not broken. You no longer need to be silenced; you voluntarily curate your expression. You no longer need to be marginalized; you can be commodified. You no longer need to be denied freedom; you can be sold the fantasy of it.

This form of seduction is not benign. It erodes emotional freedom and disorients agency. When the rules are invisible, you cannot rebel against them. When the master speaks in the voice of your dreams, you cannot disobey. In this world, “freedom” becomes a strategy of control.

To be emotionally free is not merely to escape physical violence but to discern the subtle pressures that shape your desires. Human agency in such a context is not about declaring independence from society because no such exit exists within the realm of narrative animals. It is about navigating the social field with strategic awareness, resisting seduction where it erodes agency and reshaping meaning without being trapped by it. It is not to renounce worldly desires and become a monk. It is about intellectual independence.

Every society needs meaning and to create values. But meaning breeds order, and order not only breeds security, it also breeds power. Power itself can be a force of progress and provide foundations of human agency itself but its hierarchy creates exclusions. Let us have skepticism and critical awareness towards hierarchies. Let us first check against oppression, then against seduction. The challenge of emotional freedom and human agency, then, is not to destroy society but to unmask its scripts, to refuse essentialized hierarchies, and to live with strategic awareness. Individuals can cultivate critical awareness, self-reflection, and engagement with diverse perspectives. Practices like critical media literacy and conscious consumption can help individuals identify and resist the temptations so that we don't loose our focus on creating a society of freedom, political friendship with our fellow humans and the construction of Common Good.

Society will always attempt to name what is right, beautiful, worthy, and desirable. But we do not have to blindly accept those names. We can reclaim our right to redefine them. In that act of redefinition—not as a final truth but as a living negotiation—emotional freedom becomes possible again.

In an era defined by convenience and hyper-accessibility, human lives are increasingly shaped by the consumption of values through media, education, cultural norms, or economic goods. From political ideologies to personal identities, many individuals passively absorb ready-made meaning systems. This trend, while seemingly benign, poses a threat to the integrity of human agency. For a person to truly be free, not just legally but existentially, they must not only consume values but also engage in the more difficult, vital task of creating values. This essay argues that value consumption alone makes humans reactive and dependent, while value creation is fundamental to autonomy, dignity, and the full expression of human agency.

From childhood, we are immersed in layers of social, cultural, and political meanings that tell us who we are, what to believe, how to behave, and what to desire. These values (such as nationalism, religious morality, economic success, or romantic love) are rarely interrogated but often internalized. To consume values is to inherit a worldview without deliberate authorship. While this process is a necessary starting point for human development, it becomes a trap when individuals stop there. Without critical engagement or transformation, the consumer of values becomes a vessel, not an author, of meaning.

When we rely solely on consumption, we outsource our moral compass to authority, tradition, or fashion. We react to social expectations, trending ideologies, or charismatic leaders rather than shaping our own direction. This reactivity is particularly dangerous in political life, where citizens may follow slogans instead of principles or react to fear and resentment rather than engage in thoughtful deliberation. The result is not freedom, but conformity wrapped in the illusion of choice.

Agency is the capacity to initiate, to reflect, to choose deliberately, and to act with intention. A person who merely consumes values lacks this capacity in a deep sense; they follow scripts written by others. Value creation, on the other hand, is the deliberate crafting of one’s own meaning systems based on lived experience, reflection, and critical engagement. It means asking: What do I believe? Why does this matter to me? What do I want to stand for in the world?

This is not the same as relativism or creating values arbitrarily. True value creation is both personal and social, for everyone is interconnected. No one creates values from vacuum. It draws from history, community, and language, but it refuses to be defined only by them. It tests inherited values, modifies them, or rejects them when they conflict with one’s deeper understanding of the world. A free person is one who does not merely inherit values but shapes them in dialogue with others and in alignment with their own integrity.

Value creation is therefore about ownership. It’s not freedom from values; it’s freedom with values that one has consciously shaped. It is in this way that value creation becomes an exercise of sovereignty, self-determination, a declaration that one is not merely a recipient of the world but also a co-author of its meanings.

A society of value consumers tends to become fragile, polarized, or easily manipulated. Why so? Because unexamined values can become rigid dogmas or tools for domination. People cling to them as identities rather than use them as frameworks for thoughtful living. This rigidity undermines pluralism, solidarity, and democracy.

By contrast, a society that encourages value creation fosters citizens who are capable of disagreement without dehumanization, who see others as fellow meaning-makers rather than enemies or converts. This is essential in democratic life, where diverse values must coexist, conflict, and be negotiated toward a shared common good.

Moreover, value creators are more resilient. They do not collapse when their inherited frameworks fail; they are practiced in rebuilding meaning from the ground up. In political struggle, resistance, or crisis, it is the value creator who sustains moral clarity, adapts wisely, and leads authentically.

Thinking about how we form our identities and beliefs reveals that they are not fixed essences but constructed strategies, tools for navigating an unstable and complex world. To consume values without creation is to treat strategies as essences: rigid, sacred, and non-negotiable. But to create values is to recognize the strategic nature of meaning-making. It allows one to adapt, resist, collaborate, and transform without losing coherence. Therefore, value creation is not a luxury; it is a discipline. It demands critical thinking, emotional maturity, and a willingness to live with uncertainty. But it is precisely in this space, where values are not given but made, that human beings come closest to freedom.

Freedom is not the absence of constraint; it is the presence of agency. To be free is to author one's life in relation to the world, not merely to exist within it as a passive inheritor of someone else’s values. While value consumption is an inevitable part of social life, it must be balanced—and ultimately transcended—by the deliberate act of value creation. This act affirms not only individual dignity but the very possibility of a meaningful collective life. It transforms politics into dialogue, ethics into practice, and identity into evolution. A truly free person is not one who consumes values that fit them best, but one who dares to craft values worth living, and even dying, for.

Many interpretations of "democracy" exist today, and its practical challenges are often overlooked. Instead of romanticizing the word "democracy" and relying solely on the outcome of votes, imagine a political system where thoughtful dialogue and debate among community members drive decisions. This is the core of deliberative democracy. Let's imagine a model that prioritizes collective reasoning and informed consent over simple majority rule. Let us expand our democracy beyond voting to include debates, dialogues and discussions among the people.

When citizens gather as equals to exchange reasons, weigh evidence and navigate disagreement, they engage in something profoundly different from mere preference aggregation. This deliberation process must honors the complexity of public issues by cultivating spaces where diverse perspectives can be articulated, challenged, and refined.

Think of Rousseau's concept of the General Will. Rousseau distinguished between the mere "will of all"—the sum of individual preferences—and the General Will that emerges when citizens deliberate with the common good in mind. "The General Will alone," Rousseau argued, "can direct the State according to the object for which it was instituted." In this interpretation, deliberative democracy might be understood as offering practical mechanisms for discovering this elusive General Will through structured, inclusive dialogue.

Similarly, John Rawls argued that "public reason" provides theoretical underpinning for deliberative approaches. Rawls envisioned citizens engaging in public dialogue by offering reasons that others could reasonably accept, rather than simply advancing claims grounded in their particular comprehensive doctrines. His famous "veil of ignorance" thought experiment—asking us to design principles of justice without knowing our future social position—represents a deliberative ideal that pushes beyond narrow self-interest toward more impartial reasoning.

Our contemporary democratic systems, however, suffer from a troubling short-sightedness. Polarizing electoral mechanisms, with their predictable cycles and emphasis on immediate results, systematically privilege short-term thinking for many people. This "democratic myopia" often renders our governance structures peculiarly flawed to address long-horizon challenges like climate change or intergenerational justice. The majoritarianism also left out the consent of the lost. The political discourses polarize the people and create a soft war within.

When elected officials operate with one focus perpetually on the next election, how can they adequately represent those whose voices remain unheard. Future generations, distant populations, or even non-human species affected by our decisions are left out as well. Deliberative processes offer a potential remedy by creating spaces where participants can temporarily step back from immediate interests to consider more expansive timeframes and communities.

The process of deliberation typically unfolds through several interconnected phases. Communities first identify and frame the issues warranting collective attention—a process that itself benefits from inclusive participation. Information sharing follows, drawing on diverse knowledge sources from expert testimony to lived experience. The heart of the process lies in the ensuing discussion, where participants articulate perspectives, challenge assumptions, and collectively reason toward decisions that reflect their deepened understanding.

Consider how this may play out in citizens' assemblies, where random community members convene over extended periods to deliberate on complex issues. In Ireland, a citizens' assembly helped break decades of political deadlock on abortion rights by creating space for nuanced discussion outside the polarized rhetoric of electoral politics. The recommendations were later endorsed by national referendum. It may be seen as a promising example of how deliberative forums can sometimes navigate contentious terrain more successfully than traditional political institutions. There are other examples, but I think that we got the point.

The deliberative approach fundamentally reimagines citizens' role in governance. Rather than occasional voters or passive recipients of policy, community members become active co-creators of public decisions. This transformation asks more of citizens—requiring time, engagement, and openness to changing views—but also offers more: a deeper form of political agency and connection to one's community.

This vision of active citizenship recalls Rousseau's assertion that freedom comes not from the absence of constraint but from living under laws one has helped author. "The people being subject to the laws," he wrote, "ought to be their author: the conditions of society ought to be regulated solely by those who come together to form it." Deliberative processes embody this principle by making citizens genuine authors of collective decisions, not merely their subjects.

We would be remiss, however, to present deliberative democracy as a panacea without acknowledging its considerable challenges. The deliberative struggle of equal participation collides with stubborn realities of power imbalance, resource constraints, and social inequality. Even in carefully designed forums, certain voices may dominate while others remain marginalized, reproducing rather than remedying existing power disparities.

Reaching meaningful consensus presents another formidable challenge. As societies grow more diverse in values and worldviews, finding common ground becomes increasingly difficult. Here, Rawls's notion of "overlapping consensus" offers a promising direction—suggesting that citizens with different comprehensive doctrines might nonetheless converge on political principles they can affirm for different reasons.

The resource-intensive nature of deliberation raises questions of scale and sustainability. How might deliberative approaches, which typically flourish in smaller settings, address issues requiring national or global coordination? Digital technologies offer intriguing possibilities for expanding deliberative reach, though they bring their own complications regarding access, authenticity, and the quality of exchange.

Despite these challenges, deliberative democracy offers something our political systems desperately need. I mean spaces for collective reflection amidst the noise of modern politics. By reasoned decision-making and creating structured opportunities for listening and learning, deliberative processes can help restore the declining capacity to reason together about our common future. Deliberative democracy doesn't claim perfect outcomes or uncontested truths. Rather, it suggests that decisions improved through inclusive dialogue, while still fallible, carry a legitimacy and wisdom that undeliberated decisions typically lack.

But there is a nuance. Think of deliberation as a lively space where we find ways to cooperate even with different opinions. It is not a place of sermons or producing truths. We don't need everyone to become the same; it's about different groups strategically agreeing on shared goals and ways to communicate so we can all move forward without losing our unique aspirations and our identities. This approach, although seeking to gather people as equals, must also recognize that we are all different and that power isn't always equal. So, when we discuss, we should always ask ourselves the following questions. Who is really being heard? How are we making decisions? And are we making things fairer for everyone? Whom was left out? Deliberative democracy must actively disrupt dominance e.g. active inclusion of marginalized voices. Otherwise, it risks replicating the hierarchies it seeks to replace. Only by being this thoughtful can talking things out help us create a community that respects everyone's differences and is fairer for all.

Might deliberative approaches offer not just a theoretical ideal but a practical necessity? Perhaps the path toward more responsive governance lies not in abandoning our democratic commitments but in reimagining how those commitments are realized through creating spaces where citizens can practice the art of thinking together about the world they share, apply their agency and promise together to create.

On 1 February 2021, the military of Myanmar staged a coup, abruptly halting the democratic trajectory set by its civilian government. Since then, the people have faced not merely political repression, but a calculated campaign of terror. This is not rhetoric—it is legal, definable, documentable terror. The institution once tasked with safeguarding sovereignty now operates like a classic terrorist organization under both domestic and international legal frameworks.

Terrorism, despite lacking a universally binding definition under international law, has achieved conceptual clarity through various UN documents. The 1994 Declaration on Measures to Eliminate International Terrorism defines it as "criminal acts intended or calculated to provoke a state of terror in the general public, a group of persons or particular persons for political purposes." The five critical components—intentional violence, targeting civilians, an audience, political motives, and the generation of fear—serve as a diagnostic lens.

Under Myanmar’s own Counter-Terrorism Law of 2014, the legal bar is even clearer. Section 3 defines terrorism to include acts causing death, serious injury, or destruction with the intent to intimidate or coerce. Critically, the law does not exempt state actors or military institutions from liability—an omission that today holds monumental implications.

In the 36 months following the coup, over 4,700 civilians have been killed and 26,000 arbitrarily detained, according to credible documentation from Amnesty International and the Assistance Association for Political Prisoners (AAPP). Victims include children as young as 20 months and elderly individuals in their 80s. This is not collateral damage. It is systematic targeting. (The data as in SAC-M report of 2024. Current reported data is much more.)

In one well-documented incident, a five-year-old girl was fatally shot, and in another, a two-year-old lost both legs after junta forces opened fire. In Sagaing Region alone, dozens of villagers were tied, executed, and their corpses set alight—some booby-trapped with landmines, a technique disturbingly reminiscent of tactics used by the ISIS.

These are not isolated excesses. They form a consistent pattern of intentional violence designed to sow fear. Vehicle ramming against peaceful protestors, torture televised on state-controlled media, and hostage-taking of family members when political targets are not found—these are all hallmark terrorist behaviors. And they meet every legal criterion.

The 2014 Myanmar Counter-Terrorism Law, especially Section 5 and 7, explicitly includes acts that “intimidate a population or compel the government” as terrorism. Despite the junta’s attempt to brand the Committee Representing the Pyidaungsu Hluttaw (CRPH) as terrorists, the inverse more accurately reflects the law.

Internationally, Myanmar is a signatory to major counter-terrorism conventions—the 1979 Hostages Convention, 1997 Terrorist Bombings Convention, and 1999 Terrorist Financing Convention—yet its military flagrantly violates their spirit and letter. Though these treaties often exclude intra-state military actions, they still set normative standards. Meanwhile, the ASEAN 2007 Convention on Counter Terrorism, to which Myanmar is a party, imposes obligations that are incompatible with state-sanctioned terror.

The National Unity Government (NUG)’s designation of the military as a terrorist organization on 7 June 2021 is more than symbolic. It aligns with domestic law and international moral clarity. Conversely, the military junta’s designation of the NUG’s CRPH as terrorists on 8 May 2021 is a cynical maneuver to cloak aggression under the veil of legality.

The Special Advisory Council for Myanmar (SAC-M) has compiled overwhelming evidence from UN Special Rapporteurs, the Independent Investigative Mechanism for Myanmar (IIMM), and major human rights organizations, urging the global community to act. The call is unequivocal: recognize the military as a terrorist organization, enact comprehensive sanctions, cut arms and cash flows, and employ international legal mechanisms for accountability.

The principle of Responsibility to Protect (R2P), reaffirmed by the UN in 2005, obliges the international community to prevent mass atrocities when the state fails. Here, the state is the perpetrator. Here, the UN is also failing.

When night raids become routine, when toddlers are maimed, when protest leaders are abducted and tortured, and when entire villages are reduced to ash—then the state has become indistinguishable from the very threats it claims to defend against.

The global hesitation to confront such realities due to concerns over sovereignty or geopolitical balance is understandable—but increasingly untenable. The precedent set here will echo beyond Myanmar. It will speak to every fragile democracy, every authoritarian temptation, and every community pleading for protection under the law.

If the definition of terrorism means anything at all, it must also mean that uniforms and official insignias do not grant impunity. The world must call this military institution what it legally is: a terrorist organization.

(This piece is in reference to Special Advisory Council's Report with the same name)

There is something strange about how quickly we accept the idea of authority. We listen to people because they wear uniforms, because they hold microphones, because they sit behind desks with polished nameplates. Some tell us they were born to lead. Others say they’ve been chosen. But if we pause for just a moment, we might ask: Who gave them that right? And what makes it right at all?

In our view, this question becomes not just academic, but essential to how we live together. We are invited to see that no one has a natural right to rule over others. There is no divine stamp on anyone’s forehead, no eternal truth inscribed in bloodlines or institutions. Authority, in truth, is a human invention. It is something we’ve collectively agreed to, and which we can just as easily reshape or withdraw.

Power, then, is not a gift or an inheritance. It is simply a tool—like a hammer or a pen. In the hands of someone responsible, it can build homes, write laws, and protect the vulnerable. But in the hands of someone careless, it can destroy. We should be slow to glorify power, and quick to question those who wield it. The right to lead must never be assumed; it must be earned and continually re-earned.

This leads us to the idea of the mandate. Mandate is not inherited status or raw force. It is what makes authority legitimate. Mandate does not come from history books or sacred scrolls. It comes from people—from their free, informed, and ongoing consent. We allow others to lead us not because they are better, but because they have shown they are worthy of our trust, at least for a time.

And even then, the mandate is fragile. It is not a one-time permission slip; it is a continuous dialogue. Those who lead must listen. They must explain. They must respond when things go wrong, and be willing to step down when they can no longer serve. Authority that forgets this becomes stale, corrupt, or even violent.

To know whether a leader truly has a mandate, we can look for certain signs. Is their process open and clear, or hidden behind closed doors? Are they willing to be questioned, or do they silence critics? Do they make space for everyone, especially the quiet and the excluded? Do they act with a sense of care—not just for those who voted for them, but for those who didn’t, and even for those who cannot vote at all?

True authority, if it exists, must always serve something larger than itself: the common good. It is not simply about serving people’s preferences. It is about protecting their dignity, their freedom, and their ability to thrive together. It is also about protecting the planet that sustains us. If a leader acts only for a few, or for today alone, they do not have a mandate. They have simply grabbed the steering wheel of the bus we all ride, without asking if we agree on the destination.

This is why skepticism toward hierarchy is not cynicism. It is care. It is the belief that power needs limits, because no one, no matter how wise, should be trusted without question. The more someone holds, the more they must be watched. We do not watch out of hate, but out of love for what could be broken.

These ideas are not new. Rousseau, for instance, imagined something called the “general will”, the shared desire for the good of all. He warned that this is not the same as just adding up everyone’s wishes. Sometimes, it means doing what is fair even when it is unpopular. Rawls asked us to imagine designing society from a place where we didn’t know who we would be in it—rich or poor, powerful or weak. From that place, we might choose justice that is fair, not just convenient.

In the modern world, we often think elections give a mandate. But that only works if the elections are really open, fair, honest and responsive. When they aren’t, the idea of mandate becomes a mask for tyranny. Some communities have tried something else: citizen assemblies, where people discuss and decide together. Others turn to grassroots movements where ordinary people rising up when power forgets its place.

Technology, too, can play a role. It can spread awareness and shift mindsets, though it must be used with care. We have seen how easily it can divide us. But we’ve also seen how it can amplify unheard voices and connect those working for justice.

The future, perhaps, belongs not to those who take power, but to those who are trusted with it. Power should be shared, not hoarded. The best leaders will not be those who shout the loudest, but those who listen, who welcome difference, and who are brave enough to step aside when others must lead.

At the heart of this lies a simple idea: No one owns the world. We walk it together. To lead is not to dominate, but to guide, gently, with love. The planet is not a resource to be consumed, but a companion to be cared for. Authority, if it is to mean anything at all, must be humble. And we, as citizens, must be awake. For not to fight every authority, but to ask the right questions. Thus, when power is given, it is given wisely, and when it is used, it serves us all.

In the wake of the devastating 7.7-magnitude earthquake that struck last week, Myanmar faces an unprecedented humanitarian crisis. The disaster has claimed over 3000 lives and injured thousands more, with the death toll expected to rise as rescue operations continue. The disaster's impact extended even to nearby countries like Thailand.

The earthquake majorly hit the Mandalay and Sagaing Regions and nearby areas where people are already tragically struggling with the ongoing conflict. For months, people there have been caught in the crossfire and bombardments. This existing turmoil is now making it incredibly difficult to get help to the people who need it most. Imagine being injured or losing your home, and then facing even more obstacles to getting food, water, or medical attention.

Just when things couldn't seem any worse, there are horrifying situations that the military has continued launching airstrikes in the very areas hit by the earthquake. Imagine the fear and despair of survivors, already repeatedly traumatized and vulnerable, as they hear the sound of more explosions. Human rights groups are rightly condemning these actions, pleading for an immediate stop to the violence so that aid can finally reach those who are suffering. But who can actually hold the junta military accountable?

Under intense pressure from around the world, the military regime has announced a temporary ceasefire, saying it's to allow for recovery efforts. But many are understandably skeptical. How can people trust this promise when there are still reports of military attacks? They are obstructing aid groups. They are even documenting young men who are helping on the ground, so that they can conscript these good people later.

Right now, people are desperate for the most basic things: clean water to drink, food to eat, a safe place to sleep, and urgent medical care. Aid organizations on the ground are painting a grim picture of widespread destruction and a healthcare system on the brink of collapse, with hospitals overwhelmed and supplies running out.

Time is running out. The monsoon season is just around the corner, threatening to bring even more hardship. If we don't act quickly and work together, the combined impact of this terrible earthquake and the ongoing conflict will lead to even more lives lost and unimaginable suffering for the people of Myanmar.

As the world watches, we dare ask this. Who can even take a responsibility to step in and make sure help reaches those in desperate need, without any barriers?

The Myanmar military is cruel, unaccountable and not serving the people at all. They must go anyway.

We live in a world saturated with answers. Slogans, doctrines, ideologies, and algorithms all promise clarity. Yet, beneath this surface of confidence lies a deeper human need. It is not for certainty, but for understanding. And understanding begins with a question.

Questions are not just tools for acquiring information. They are acts of care. To ask a question sincerely is to acknowledge that we do not know, that we want to know, and that the person we are asking matters. In this way, questioning becomes a form of respect—a quiet recognition of another’s experience, insight, or struggle. When we ask, “What do you think?" and mean it, we humanize both ourselves and the other. When we ask, “Why is this the way it is?” we resist passivity. We take the world seriously enough to inquire into its making.

Questions open space. They do not force agreement or demand obedience. They invite dialogue. They create breathing room in rigid systems, allowing reflection where there was only repetition. In spaces where power looms large—whether in politics, classrooms, families, or institutions—questions are the first act of reclaiming human agency. They whisper: you are allowed to think. You are allowed to doubt. You are allowed to imagine something better.

But not all questions are created equal. Some are posed to control or to shame, to corner or dominate. True questioning, however, comes from a different place—not from ego, but from humility. To ask deeply is to acknowledge that no single perspective holds the whole truth. It is to be willing to unlearn and relearn, to be changed by what we discover. That is why questioning is a profoundly humbling act. It cuts through arrogance and demands vulnerability.

At the same time, questions are also a source of empowerment. In societies where silence is enforced and obedience rewarded, the mere act of asking a question becomes radical. To ask “Why must it be this way?” is to chip away at fear. It is to remember that the way things are is not the way things must be. It is the first step in imagining alternatives. Every meaningful movement for justice began not with an answer, but with a question: What if things were different?

In this sense, questions are the lifeblood of transformation. They move us beyond the static, beyond dogma, beyond conformity, beyond resignation. They are how we build bridges across difference. They are how we learn to listen, not just react. They are how we stay alert to the misuse of power and how we protect ourselves from the illusion of certainty.

And yet, in many cultures, asking questions is undervalued. Children are told to stop asking "why." Citizens are taught not to question authority. Followers are told to submit. But when we suppress questions, we suppress the very core of what makes us human: our capacity to wonder, to reflect, to connect, and to grow.

To revive the importance of questioning is to revive the culture of curiosity with compassion, of inquiry with integrity, of knowledge with humility. It is to remember that questions are not a weakness but a strength. They are how we care for ourselves and others. They are how we cultivate solidarity and mutual understanding in a divided world.

Ultimately, to live with questions is to live with openness. It is to resist the false comfort of final answers and to dwell in the in-between. It is to honor the complexity of life, of people, of systems. And it is to choose, again and again, to meet that complexity not with fear—but with care. So let us keep asking. Not to win arguments. Not to prove others wrong. But to build relationships, to deepen understanding, and to stay close to the fragile truth of being human.

Humanity's desire to capture the essence of society in a single document manifests in constitutions. These texts are crafted with noble aspirations, genuine hopes, and faith that words can bind the future to our present conception of justice.

A constitution represents humanity's most curious invention—a document designed to outlive its authors, to speak with authority to unborn generations, and to constrain the very power it establishes. Created in moments of crisis or clarity, we hope these words may prove wiser than we ourselves could be.

Consider America's founding experiment beginning with those seductive words: "We the People." Three words performing conceptual alchemy—making the dead speak for the living and conjuring unity from discord. What faith this requires in language itself!

Constitutionalism carries quasi-religious undertones—a belief in principles transcending ordinary politics. Constitutions metaphorically create what the Greeks called a temenos: sacred space demarcated from daily affairs. In our secular age, they become secular scripture. Yet constitutional drafting contains inherent melancholy. The need for such documents acknowledges humanity's darker nature—that power intoxicates, majorities tyrannize, and today's justice may become tomorrow's oppression. Thus constitutions embody profound pessimism about human nature.

Different traditions manifest this tension differently. American constitutionalism embraces the paradox of using state power to limit state power through checks and balances. The British tradition trusts unwritten customs over codified text. Post-colonial constitutions struggle to reconcile Western frameworks with indigenous legal traditions. What unites these approaches is recognizing the need to distinguish ordinary law from fundamental principles. Constitutionalism answers Plato's enduring question: How might we be governed by reason rather than human caprice?

Yet constitutions don't interpret themselves. They require human actors to breathe life into clauses—to define "equal protection" or "due process" in contexts their authors never imagined. Herein lies the irony: documents meant to constrain human judgment ultimately depend entirely upon it.

Debates between "originalism" and "living constitutionalism" mirror theological disputes—arguments about how to read sacred texts, the relationship between dead and living, whether wisdom resides more in past or present. Nonetheless, there are more or less features of adjusting things to our lives. Take a look again to famous US Constitution. "We the People", at that time, was actually for a number of people but it today try to be inclusive.

Constitutionalism fascinates as our boldest attempt to solve time's problem in politics—creating institutions that bend without breaking, principles that endure yet adapt. Constitutions represent messages in bottles to descendants: "Here's what we learned about justice and governance. We hope it helps."

Let me be clear. The effectiveness of a constitution goes beyond its written words, depending heavily on the practical mechanisms established for its enforcement. While judicial review, citizen oversight, and independent commissions are designed to uphold constitutional principles, their success varies significantly across different political landscapes. In established democracies like Germany, judicial review has proven effective, but in less stable nations, it's often undermined by authoritarianism or corruption. Citizen oversight and independent commissions can be ineffective due to apathy or resource scarcity. Legislative manipulation, like in Myanmar, also disgustingly weakens constitutions. Cultural, historical, and political factors hinder constitutional success. Achieving tangible governance from constitutional principles requires constant vigilance, strong institutions, and active citizens, recognizing the inherent difficulty of humans enforcing rules on themselves.

At our most honest, we recognize constitutions as acts of faith—in language, reason, and principles that might transcend history's vicissitudes. They embody our highest aspirations while acknowledging our deepest fears. In a changing world, they offer the comforting illusion of constancy—fixed points from which to build just societies.

The concept of "135 ethnic group" is said to aim to demonstrate multi-ethnic and multi-cultural coexistence and unity, but in reality, it is a political concept intended to deconstruct indigenous nations and assimilate them under a single national identity, that of the Bamar/Myanmar. It is a concept that reduces political heritage to cultural groups.

In his book, "The Conditions of Diversity in Multinational Democracies," political scientist McRoberts states that many countries tend to reduce their internal nations to "ethnic groups" rather than recognizing them as national communities. In Myanmar, successive authoritarian regimes have used similar strategies. For example, in Myanmar, large ethnic groups that were previously ruled by monarchies were given the name "major ethnic groups," but this term was never clearly defined. General Aung San himself attempted to define this term in conjunction with "Nation," but stated that a proper Burmese dictionary was needed for a satisfactory definition.

The list of 135 ethnic groups has many problems. For example:

1. The detailed division of Karens into White Karen, Sgaw, Mon Karen, etc., means that it can no longer be called a list of national communities (Nations).
2. The Chin ethnic groups are counted up to 53 types, conflating languages and parental lineages.
3. Some ethnic groups have overlapping names with two different designations.
4. The forced counting of the Bamar ethnicity as 9 types, is considered a matter of astrology, as 1+3+5=9. (to align Burmese astrology The Holy Number of 9)
5. This list is neither a list of national communities, nor a list of ethnic groups, nor a list of languages, and cannot be clearly defined.

The political existence of this concept has led to several consequences:

1. To fragment indigenous groups formations/to aid in "divide and rule."
2. To make national communities with their own political formations loyal only to the Union of Myanmar.
3. To create narrative stories for central government legitimacy.
4. To reduce the self-determination and historical rights of indigenous peoples under the name of "Bamar also being an indigenous ethnicity."
5. To assimilate the distinct characteristics and cultures of indigenous peoples.

Professor James C. Scott states that indigenous peoples, not only in Myanmar but elsewhere, have devised various methods to resist the dominance of mainstream culture and central governments since ancient times. They have developed their own writing systems. This action enables:

1. The preservation of their culture and language.
2. Freedom from state control.
3. Strengthening of distinct characteristics.
4. Becoming a symbol of resistance against the state's standardized writing system.
5. The ability to resist state centralization and information gathering.

Indigenous peoples' writing systems play a more important role than just a simple communication tool. It becomes a unique form of political resistance. Literature serves social purposes:

1. Cultural purposes:
   • Recording and preserving the history and traditions of the ethnicity.
   • Passing on traditional culture and arts to future generations.
   • Enabling systematic teaching and learning of the mother tongue.
   • Preserving unique identities and symbols.
2. Political purposes:
   • Resisting the cultural assimilation of the central government.
   • Symbolizing self-determination and freedom.
   • Promoting unity within the ethnicity.
   • Freeing from state information control.
3. Social purposes:
   • Building a communication network within the ethnicity.
   • Exchanging knowledge and ideas.
   • Educating future generations.
   • Strengthening the unity of the social community.

The concept of "135 ethnic groups" is a political weapon intended to weaken indigenous peoples by fragmenting them and reducing their political rights. This is not a personal problem but an institutional problem.

The main points here are:

1. Attempts to assimilate the unique identities and political heritage of ethnic groups often encounter resistance.
2. This resistance is not only the right thing to do but also a moral choice.
3. Indigenous peoples tend to find innovative ways to protect their rights.
4. Literary culture can be an important weapon for political liberation.
5. Mechanisms that strengthen ethnonational unity and identity play an important role in their political struggle and are key parts of moral resistance.
   

The indigenous resistance will continue to preserve their unique identities continue to strive while building a modern and developed federal democratic system. Their cultures and literature will continue to play an important role in this journey.

(Infographic courtesy from "The Art of Not Being Legible" by Piers Kelly.)

Recently, it has become common to declare democracy in retreat, citing the rise of populist leaders and democratic authoritarians. However, a deeper examination reveals a more complex picture. Democracies—including the United States—continue to function within their constitutional frameworks. The election of figures like Donald Trump and other populists worldwide does not necessarily signal the decline of democracy itself but rather exposes a widening disconnect between political institutions and public needs.

One key driver of this disconnect is the growing chasm between governing elites and the everyday experiences of citizens. Political institutions—parties, bureaucracies, and traditional norms—often appear distant and unresponsive. Economic inequality, fueled by globalization and technological change, has deepened public alienation. This detachment extends beyond material concerns: many feel like mere cogs in an impersonal system, stripped of purpose in their work and communities. This isolation epidemic manifests in addiction crises, declining civic engagement, and growing cynicism about governance. When wealth and power concentrate in the hands of a few, people naturally question whether their leaders truly act in the public interest.

Another critical factor is the nature of political representation. Elected officials, caught in a cycle of campaigning, fundraising, and party maneuvering, often appear more accountable to their own agendas or special interests than to their constituents. This perception erodes trust in democratic processes and creates fertile ground for populists who promise to "return power to the people."

The rapid pace of information dissemination further complicates the landscape. Traditional institutions struggle to keep up with the volatility of public discourse. Social media amplifies outrage over reasoned debate, accelerating polarization. Meanwhile, repeated failures of institutions to address socioeconomic problems and material conditions deepen disillusionment. When standard democratic mechanisms appear ineffective, people seek alternatives. This shift is evident in the increased reliance on judicial intervention on administration, declining trust in legislatures, and the appeal of "effective" democratic authoritarians who claim to bypass bureaucracy in pursuit of decisive action.

Crucially, even when electorates choose authoritarian-leaning leaders, these decisions often occur within democratic frameworks. Those who romanticize democracy as inherently self-correcting should take note: democracy is not a panacea. It has never been flawless, and to recognize its limitations only now is shortsighted. Democracy must be constantly recalibrated, guided by a shared vision of the common good, liberty, security, and rights. It is childish to think that democracy is always good and it is not democracy if it is not delivering. At the same time, the Iron Law of Oligarchy reminds us that even well-intended institutions, when left unchecked, can be captured and exploited. Continuous scrutiny and the development of public reason are essential.

Misdiagnosing the problem invites misguided solutions. In conclusion, the anxieties surrounding a supposed "retreat of democracy" are more accurately understood as a symptom of a significant institutional disconnect. This analysis reveals that the enduring strength of democratic frameworks is being tested not by their outright rejection, but by their perceived failure to adequately address the needs and aspirations of the populace. Bridging this gap requires more than simply defending past norms; it demands a proactive and continuous effort to recalibrate institutions, foster genuine representation, and cultivate a public sphere grounded in reason and mutual understanding. The future of democracy hinges not on romanticizing the word "democracy" or its past, but on the active and engaged work of adapting its structures to meet the challenges of the present and the demands of the future.

During the colonial era, the term "Burmanization" was initially used by the British as a simple process. It aimed to make the administrative machinery more practical for locals by utilizing the Burmese people and customs. However, over time, this process evolved into a more complex and deliberate strategy. Today, Burmanization refers to a pressured process of imposing Burmese identity across the entire country, forcing indigenous nations to prioritize Burmese history, identity, and way of life. It has become a state-sponsored process of pressuring non-Burmese cultures, languages, political heritage, and symbols to exist under the dominance of Burmese heritage and culture.

The core of Burmanization cannot be separated from centralization. Centralization refers not only to political power but also to monopolizing the authority to use violence, monopoly of economic power, and monopoly of control over historical narratives. Through these methods, power becomes concentrated in the hands of the military and a few elites. The state that promotes Burmanization policies uses culture as a tool to strengthen their authority.

When Burmanized, non-Burmese indigenous peoples become Burmese, but may not be fully so. This increases social capital for the Burmese population. Speaking Burmese and having Burmese identity becomes economic capital and value. Burmese people understand the language of the law better and have more advantages. They dominate in culture and history. A Burmese person doesn't need to validate their existence. The history taught in school doesn't differ much from what they learn at home. Social networks, friends, understanding, and processes like taking matriculation exams in Burmese language or obtaining ID cards are accessible without much effort. These benefits exist to varying degrees.

The methods of Burmanization range from literature, video, music, art, and educational materials to establishing social "standards" and "routines." Additionally, migrant workers and economic influences support this process. In this way, the state suppresses indigenous ethnic identities and appropriates their traditional cultures. As a result, indigenous nations become disconnected from their history, economically disadvantaged, faced with land seizures and human trafficking, and socially fragmented.

Burmanization not only changes cultural expressions but also transforms the basic infrastructure of society. It weakens traditional governance systems and removes challenges to state sovereignty, making it easier to resolve legal issues related to land and resources. When the state seizes land, people are trafficked while seeking work in other countries. When working in other regions, the weak are trampled like in the law of the jungle. As indigenous peoples' rights weaken, the state gains easier access to natural resources like minerals, timber, and water. This leads to economic exploitation and resource extraction.

Let's list some points:

• Land seizure and territorial control - Abolishing indigenous peoples' land rights makes it easier for the state to seize land.
• Resource extraction rights - Unclear land regulations allow the state and companies to easily extract natural resources.
• Removing power challenges - Replacing traditional governance systems reduces forces resisting state control.
• Political centralization - The state can consolidate power without negotiating with autonomous groups.
• Simplified legal system - Using a single official system eliminates the need for contracts with multiple ethnic groups.
• Cultural and language abolition - The country's costs for maintaining diverse languages and cultures decrease.
• Social identity control - The state's categorization of ethnic groups reduces their collective resistance.
• Labor force - Indigenous peoples enter low-wage jobs and support the basic economic foundation, yet their labor isn't adequately recognized.
• Reduced ethnic land rights - Weakened cultural memories make it harder to reclaim lost lands.
• Normalizing Burmese influence - The state's singular identity becomes normal, and ethnic diversity is left behind.
• Weakening resistance movements - Cultural discontinuity breaks resistance based on historical foundations.
• Propaganda in education - The state's education system replaces indigenous knowledge with state values.
• Buddhist Nationalists - Dominant Buddhism is used to reinforce state and Burmese dominance.
• Reducing social welfare costs - Integration reduces social welfare costs that would be needed for separate responsibilities.
• Cultural appropriation and exploitation - As ethnic cultures weaken, their cultures can be reproduced and marketed for tourism.
• Military reinforcement - People integrated into mainstream Burmese politics can provide manpower for the military, either as individual soldiers or as Border Guard Forces (BGF).
• Narrative control - The state rewrites history and portrays an inward-looking colonial-like system of domination as historical progress.
• Reducing international criticism - A formally unified society can reduce international criticism regarding minority rights violations.
• Legal absorption under private ownership - Collective ownership moves toward private ownership for cronies and large businesses, supporting economic development.
• Tax options expansion - The integrated population increases tax revenue.
• Reducing social cohesion - The collapse of traditional support systems increases dependence on the state.
• Cultural homogenization - A single culture is easier for bureaucrats to manage.
• Reducing language revival costs - The state no longer spends on supporting multiple languages.
• Developing state branding - A unified narrative allows simpler representation of the state globally.
• Weakening indigenous systems - Traditional legal systems are replaced by the state's legal system.
• Aggressive urban expansion - Cities become centers of economic dependence and control.
• Shifting resistance to private life - Ethnic political identity changes into a traditional custom.
• Paternalistic legitimacy - The state portrays its legitimacy and exploitative actions as a "legitimate" mission.
• Fragmenting indigenous unity - Creating divisions among indigenous peoples into smaller ethnic groups weakens their collective action.
• Role of international organizations - A uniform society projects an image of stability and progress internationally.
• Some indigenous people accept Burmese identity for survival, but most engage in armed resistance to protect their culture and political heritage. These internal conflicts create misunderstandings and tensions between the Burmese majority and ethnic minorities. Additionally, the separation of seven divisions creates Burmese leadership and Burmese accountability fragmented, with the military becoming the only unified political power holder. Everything else becomes power competition with the military, with no accountability to the Burmese public.
  

In reality, the main beneficiaries of Burmanization are not ordinary citizens but the economic elites and state elites. The military expands its power and profits, using this process to gain economic benefits. Those connected to the group receive uncompetitive economic opportunities, and Burmese politicians use paternalistic legitimacy to build power. International organizations also find it easier to work with a centralized state rather than multiple ethnic groups. It benefits the elites the most.

Burmanization is a strategy that uses cultural diversity as a weapon for political and economic control. It is a tool of centralization used by authoritarians to simplify administration, control resources, and rewrite narratives, while eliminating the identities of ethnic groups. While this system appears to benefit the Burmese public to some extent, elites gain benefits, the military creates its legitimacy by showcasing civil war, recruits soldiers, and seeks economic profits. These eventually harm the Burmese public as well. In Myanmar, this problem is an open wound that needs to be addressed.

By now, I am sure that you have been familiar about LGBT Pride—and many of you may have even celebrated it. Just as we take pride in our existence, today I wish to speak about Indigenous Pride.

To stand as an indigenous person and to embody resilient indigenous identity goes far beyond clinging to ancient views or merely belonging to an ethnic group. It is about carrying a deep history, robust traditions, and the generational heritage of a land that has, for countless generations, nourished its people. It encompasses not only the physical sustenance of working the land and the spirituality attached to it but also the political heritage of deep-rooted connections. In essence, the indigenous mark is like a precious gem that has survived countless challenges and relentless attempts by the powerful to erase it. It is a carefully developed strategy of resistance.

For indigenous peoples, the land is more than just a place to live. Every individual must construct narratives to explain who they are, and the land is the very life force of the indigenous story. Unlike how nation-states view land merely as a project, a site for tourism, or a space for economic development, the mountains, rivers, and forests are imbued with the memories of ancestors, echoes of past battles, and traces of victory. They are invested with the beliefs and traditions passed down through generations. The land teaches us about nature, balance, and respect. When outsiders try to seize or alter the land, indigenous peoples have stood firm to protect it—protecting the very rivers of life that flow from it.

Whenever authoritarian power rises, the first line of meaningful resistance is in one’s “habitat.” The indigenous habitat embodies this very idea. Within it, the ways of living, music, arts, and storytelling are essential elements of indigenous identity. Even when the state sponsors collective visions and attempts to appropriate indigenous lifestyles or impose other ways of life, these traditions are far more than mere cultural practices. They are, first, methods of transmitting wisdom and history from one generation to the next, and second, strategies of resistance. Every song, every legend, every tale carries the spirit of defiance against the erasure of the past and a hope for the future.

Some prominent indigenous leaders have, when confronted by the encroachment of hegemonic powers or the appropriation by other cultures, chosen not to confront with weapons but to craft new writings and discourses—a point some historians note. For ages, authoritarian governments and groups around the world have sought to silence indigenous voices and erase cultural markers. In America and Canada, in earlier times, children were forcefully taken to boarding schools in an attempt to strip them of their identity—sometimes to the point of near genocide. They believed that by controlling indigenous lands and traditions, they could secure dominance over nature and people. Yet indigenous peoples have stood resilient and proud. Among all forms of resistance, the most decisive is the proud assertion of one’s indigenous identity—declaring, “You cannot control us with the tyranny.” This, in its own subtle way, is a powerful challenge to the arrogance of those in power.

What we often hear are old, outdated ideas clinging to obsolete beliefs. Some ask whether certain cultures have lost touch with these old ways—and indeed, they are aware of them. Nowadays, some indigenous leaders are even welcoming LGBT identities within their homes, and we see signs proclaiming “a safe space free from domestic violence.” The question then is: who gets to revise what is old? From an indigenous perspective, isn’t it a matter of self-determination? When external forces, like domineering patriarchal figures, claim “we will fix you,” the indigenous response is to reject such interference. When the power of self-determination lies with the people, then if they choose to change, that is natural; if not, they will stand up and protest, entering the struggle for human rights—just as in other nations.

Today, indigenous peoples include those who are educated and have studied abroad. They integrate traditional practices with modern ideas. In facing modernity, many continue to hold fast to their roots and political heritage rather than compromising for superficial gains. Indigenous networks in America, for instance, are striving to teach others the importance of living in harmony with nature, rooted in their cultural heritage. Although in earlier times people saw themselves as the lifeblood of nature, with the shift from agrarian to industrial modes of production, attitudes changed—people began to dominate and exploit nature, seeking fleeting pleasure. Yet even amid a rapidly changing world, global indigenous networks continue to emphasize respect for both the land and humanity.

Every indigenous artwork, every tale, every festival speaks to something deeper. They remind us that power is not solely the domain of money or those who hold conventional authority. Their legitimacy is intricately tied to history, to the strength of communities, and to the will to protect what is sacred. To stand as an indigenous person—even if others label you as “the other,” exclude you, or reduce you to a decorative symbol during national celebrations—is to hold a pride that endures the oppressive weight of authoritarian domination. It is a call for even more visible networks among those who have suffered, a call for political solidarity. Under the banner of “indigenous,” it is not about everyone being the same, but about celebrating the diverse streams that flow together. Simply put, both “Unity in Diversity” and “Diversity in Unity” are vital for embracing our multifaceted nature.

When one declares, “I am indigenous, a member of the Indigenous/First Nations,” it is a proud defiance against those who try to coercively reshape cultures or appropriate political legacies. It is a testament to a history, a land, and a habitat that remain unbowed amid oppression. This pride is not a boastful display; rather, it is a beacon of hope for all those who resist authoritarianism—a reminder that “we can endure.”

Myanmar’s conflict is deeply intertwined with the absence of an overarching power structure capable of serving as a responsible coordinator in state-building, the lack of an accountable state, and the inherent discord in national reconciliation. The country’s long history of conflict and political instability is rooted in a perpetually fragmented governance structure. The so-called “governments” that have wielded state authority have often been nothing more than factions engaged in power struggles rather than fostering true unity.

Throughout successive eras, the political arena has been dominated by two major factions locked in constant power struggles—for instance, between AFPL (Socialists) and the Communists, between military and the Communists, between the military government and the NCGUB, between the military government and the NLD, between the USDP and the NLD, and between the military council and the NUG. This persistent discord at the intersection of political and military power has entirely prevented the emergence of a trusted central authority that could govern responsibly. In fact, the initial foundation of the country was negotiated by the Burmese based on the guarantee of "sense of honor, sense of respect" as described by General Aung San and later the contracts and constitutions which all failed ultimately. Consequently, long indigenous liberation struggles have been impacted by these conflicts and left without a reliable collective body to coordinate discussions and advance shared political objectives. The State of Myanmar has thus evolved into not a normative state, but a prerogative and a mafia state.

Today, Myanmar remains historically split between three major parts - military elites which has been entrenched, statist civilian political groups who wants to assimilate the whole countries and the indigenous liberation fronts who have been struggling to defend their political heritages. The military and the statists are vying for control of so-perceived of "nation-state". Meanwhile, the Indigenous struggle is not a monolithic group but these groups all take their pride in resistance against the forced assimilation. One group has maintained a reciprocal dynamic that undermines the legitimacy and administrative capacity of the other. Traditionally, the military has seen itself as the sole guardian of unity, favoring a centralized, nationalist model of the state dominated by Burmese cultural characteristics. On the other hand, although civilian politicians support democratic transformation, they have failed to comprehensively address the deep-rooted grievances of internal nations necessary to forge a more robust political unity. In this environment—where ethnic  armed groups are divided by myriad differences and competing power centers—it becomes nearly impossible to chart a strong political roadmap.

Because the indigenous nations do not accept the coerced nation-state formation, they also reject the constitutional framework, thereby remaining insurgent forces. Lacking a central authority capable of responsibly mediating these insurgencies, it has become entirely unfeasible to engage in meaningful coordination and dialogue with the liberation fronts. For example, the Nationwide Ceasefire Agreement (NCA) and its related accords, along with subsequent political dialogues, have collapsed again. Armed insurgent groups find themselves not only facing a state that consistently lacks an accountable negotiator authority, but also confronting divergent priorities between military and civilian leaders that prevent effective consolidation of power. As a result, they must contend with governments and military regimes that have no genuine interest in ending the internal conflict. In particular, the military is not inclined to sincerely put an end to the civil war.

Radical Security Sector Reform is a must and military that operates like a state withing state and only knows how to bomb has to end. In the meantime, we all must answer one crucial question - How do we set up an accountable state from this prerogative criminal mafia state?

Myanmar’s revolution is marked by visible struggles, but beneath the chaos lies a quieter, more personal battle: the search for self-change. For generations, a military-dominated, patriarchal system has shaped everyday life, making transformation a challenging task. This uprising is not only political—it also calls on individuals to rethink their lives, beliefs, and actions.

Rapid shifts in ideas and social norms force many to wear masks in public, creating a gap between their true selves and the personas they present. This tension causes discomfort and even psychological distress. While many speak of starting fresh, old habits and deep-rooted beliefs die hard. It’s easier to let go of material possessions than to abandon a lifetime of conditioning. People rebel to build a better future, not to erase their past. Fear of rejection often forces individuals to hide their true thoughts, leading to a performance that strays from genuine conviction.

This pretense undermines trust and unity. When everyone seems to be acting, real connections fade and communication becomes just another performance. Even leaders risk becoming mere figureheads, struggling to guide a population that is not fully authentic. In this way, the nation itself risks turning into a stage for these constructed personas.

The future now feels uncertain and confusing. Information becomes unreliable, disconnected from genuine beliefs and facts, which only deepens moral fatigue and psychological distress. When people cannot accept change as a natural part of life, it triggers identity crises and further suffering.

It is essential for each person to pause and reflect—to realign their personal lives, beliefs, and actions. If you stand for justice and change, ask yourself: do your everyday choices and habits truly reflect those values?

Revolution demands participation, but it also calls for cultivating an authentic self, free from pretense. True change happens not only in the world around us, but also within ourselves.

Democracy, often romanticized as the pinnacle of political systems, has long been celebrated and romanticized for its ability to give voice to the people and protect individual rights. However, the notion of a "perfect democracy" is a dangerous illusion that can hinder genuine progress and reform. To truly improve democratic systems, we must first acknowledge that democracy, like any human-designed institution, is inherently flawed and requires constant scrutiny and refinement.

The idea of democracy as a flawless system can lead to complacency and a reluctance to address its shortcomings. This idealization can blind us to the very real issues that plague democratic societies, such as voter suppression, the influence of money in politics, and the marginalization of minority voices. By recognizing that there is no perfect democracy beyond human design, we open ourselves to the possibility of continuous improvement and adaptation.

One of the most significant shortcomings of modern democracies is the growing inequality that often persists despite democratic processes. Economic disparities can lead to political imbalances, where wealthy individuals and corporations wield disproportionate influence over policy-making. This undermines the fundamental principle of "one person, one vote" and can result in policies that favor the elite at the expense of the broader population.

Another critical issue is the vulnerability of democratic systems to manipulation through misinformation and propaganda. The rise of social media and the rapid spread of information have made it easier than ever to sway public opinion through false or misleading narratives. This challenge to the informed citizenry that democracy relies upon highlights the need for robust education systems and media literacy programs.
The tyranny of the majority is another inherent flaw in democratic systems that must be acknowledged and addressed. Democracy has two parts: "Rule of the Majority" and "Consent of the Lost". Especially in Myanmar, "Consent of the Lost" is neglected. Without proper safeguards, pure majority rule can lead to the oppression of minority groups and the erosion of individual rights. Recognizing this shortcoming allows us to implement checks and balances, constitutional protections, and other mechanisms to ensure that democracy serves all members of society, not just the majority.

Furthermore, the short-term focus often encouraged by polarized electoral cycles can hinder a democracy's ability to address long-term challenges such as climate change or demographic shifts. Politicians may prioritize immediate gains over sustainable, long-term solutions to curry favor with voters. Acknowledging this limitation can lead to discussions about how to incorporate long-term planning into democratic governance. The complexity of modern governance also poses a significant challenge to the ideal of direct democracy. As societies become more intricate and interconnected, the issues facing governments become increasingly complex. This can lead to a disconnect between the electorate and the decision-making process, potentially undermining the very principle of popular sovereignty that democracy is built upon.
Let me also list some of the "assumptions" among the people, especially in Myanmar.

• The assumption that the people will be able to elect and appoint those who can best work for them.
• The assumption that those appointed by the people will work best for the people.
• The assumption that those appointed to the three branches of government will control the other branches, even from their own positions.
• The assumption that the majority of the public will make the best decisions for the country's interests, based on rational thought.
• The assumption that the minority will accept the decisions of the majority, even if they disagree.
• The assumption that giving victory to the majority will lead to a stable political system.
• The assumption that the government will be able to meet the needs of the people.
• The assumption that one-person-one-vote is the best way to represent the various peoples and proportions of a nation.

To address these and other shortcomings, we must foster a culture of continuous improvement in our democratic systems. This involves encouraging critical thinking and open debate about the strengths and weaknesses of our institutions. It requires a willingness to experiment with new forms of civic engagement, such as citizens' assemblies, to complement traditional representative democracy.

Education plays a crucial role in this process. By promoting education for human agency and social unity as well as critical thinking skills, we can create a more informed and engaged citizenry capable of recognizing and addressing the flaws in their democratic systems. This educated populace is essential for holding leaders accountable and pushing for necessary reforms.

The "iron law of oligarchy" states that all forms of organization, regardless of how democratic they may be at the start, will eventually and inevitably develop oligarchic tendencies, thus making true democracy practically and theoretically impossible, especially in large groups and complex organizations. We have no choice but to strengthen transparency and accountability mechanisms to combat corruption and ensure that democratic institutions serve the public interest. This includes robust freedom of information laws, protection of human rights defenders, independent oversight bodies, grievance and accountability mechanisms and protections for whistleblowers.

​In conclusion, the path to improving democracy lies not in pursuing an unattainable ideal of perfection, but in the ongoing process of recognizing and addressing its shortcomings. By acknowledging the limitations of human-designed systems, we can approach democratic reform with humility, creativity, and a commitment to continuous improvement. Only through this honest and critical approach can we hope to create more just, equitable, and effective democratic societies that truly serve the needs of all citizens.

Myanmar has been embroiled in one of the world's longest-running civil conflicts since its independence in 1948. At the heart of this conflict lies the struggle for self-determination and recognition of diverse national identities within the country. 

It is crucial to understand that the term "ethnic groups" in Myanmar fails to capture the depth and complexity of the identities involved in Myanmar's conflict. Instead, we must recognize these entities as distinct nations, each with its own history, culture, language, political heritage and worldview. This perspective aligns with the idea that Myanmar is not merely a country of diverse ethnicities but a land of multiple nations coexisting within internationally recognized borders. Each of these nations has its own aspirations for self-governance and recognition of their unique identity within the broader Myanmar state. Myanmar's Civil War is essentially internal "nations" resisting forced assimilation of "state" for the sake of their agency.

The fight for ethnonational liberation in Myanmar has its roots in the country's colonial history and the subsequent centralized rule imposed by the Bamar-dominated government after independence. Myanmar is a failed nation state project left by the British. The various nations within Myanmar have long sought greater autonomy, political representation, defending political heritage and protection of their cultural and linguistic rights.
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Key aspects of the ethnonational liberation struggle include:

1. Armed resistance: Many nations formed their own armed groups, such as the Karen National Union (KNU) and the Kachin Independence Army (KIA), to fight for their rights and protect their territories.
2. Political movements: Alongside armed struggle, political organizations have emerged to advocate for the rights of their respective nations through non-violent means.
3. Cultural preservation: Efforts to maintain and promote unique languages, traditions, and cultural practices in the face of perceived "Burmanization" policies.
4. Economic control: Demands for greater control over natural resources and economic development within their traditional territories.

Multinational federalism offers a promising framework for addressing the root causes of Myanmar's civil war while respecting the aspirations of its diverse nations. This approach disables the tyranny of majority, equalizes political bargaining power and then recognizes the multinational character of the state and seeks to accommodate various national identities within a unified political structure.

Key features of multinational federalism that could benefit Myanmar include:

1. De-centering power: Granting significant autonomy to subnational units based on national identities, allowing for self-governance in areas such as education, culture, and local administration.
2. Power-sharing: Ensuring representation of all nations in central government institutions, including the legislature, executive, and judiciary.
3. Protection of minority rights: Constitutional guarantees for the rights of internal nations and ethnic groups and provisions for their participation in decision-making processes.
4. Resource sharing: Equitable distribution of natural resources and revenue between the central government and subnational units.
5. Cultural and linguistic rights: Official recognition and promotion of diverse languages and cultural heritages throughout the country.

Implementing multinational federalism in Myanmar will face several challenges:

1. Resistance from centralized power structures: The military and some Bamar political elites may resist decentralization of power.
2. Defining boundaries: Demarcating territories for each nation could be contentious, especially in areas with mixed populations.
3. Balancing unity and diversity: Striking the right balance between national autonomy and maintaining a cohesive state.
4. Trust-building: Overcoming decades of conflict and mistrust between various nations and the unaccountable state.
   

Despite these challenges, multinational federalism offers significant opportunities:

1. Sustainable peace: Addressing the root causes of conflict by recognizing and accommodating diverse national identities.
2. Inclusive development: Empowering local communities to drive their own development agendas.
3. Cultural preservation: Safeguarding the rich tapestry of languages, traditions, and worldviews that make up Myanmar's diverse society.
4. Democratic consolidation: Fostering a more inclusive and representative political system that reflects the country's multinational character.

The recognition of Myanmar as a multinational state, rather than merely a multi-ethnic one, is crucial for understanding and addressing the underlying causes of its protracted civil conflict. Multinational federalism offers a promising framework for accommodating the aspirations of diverse nations while maintaining the territorial integrity of the state.

By embracing this approach, Myanmar has the potential to transform from a battleground of competing different nationalism into a harmonious union of nations, each contributing its unique strengths to the country's development and prosperity. While the path to implementing such a system will undoubtedly be challenging, it represents a viable and potentially transformative solution to ending Myanmar's long-standing civil war and building a more inclusive, peaceful future for all its nations.

In a world captivated by speed, self-expression, and survival, one idea seems almost quaint, like an old family heirloom left on the shelf—respected but rarely used. This idea is the Common Good.

We occasionally hear the term thrown around in speeches or written in mission statements, as though invoking it might bless a policy or justify a difficult decision. But behind the vagueness, there lies a noble, almost revolutionary thought: that we, despite our differences, are capable of living not just side by side, but with a sense of shared purpose.

It wasn’t always so elusive. Ancient thinkers—Aristotle, Cicero, and later Aquinas—grappled with this notion earnestly. They saw the good of a society not simply as the wealth of its rulers or the freedom of its merchants, but as the flourishing of its people together. They knew that peace was not merely the absence of violence, but the presence of just relationships.

Still, their visions were rooted in particular times—anchored by theology, empire, and assumptions about who counted as a “citizen.” As the world changed, so too did the framing of what society owed to itself.

Some, like Hobbes and Locke, retreated into more manageable territory: if each individual pursued their own interest, perhaps the sum would lead to a kind of order. But this logic often leaves the weakest behind. Like asking everyone to swim when some have boats and others, only their arms.

In moments of rupture—revolutions, wars, and industrial upheaval—new voices reminded us that society could be something more than a marketplace of private desires. The Catholic Church’s social teachings in the 19th and 20th centuries, particularly under Popes Leo XIII and John XXIII, reintroduced a compelling vision: that dignity, rights, and shared responsibility could define a moral economy. And yet, if the Common Good were only a matter of doctrine or statecraft, it would remain lifeless. What brings it to life is a very different force: the gentle but firm demand that we live in relationship, not competition.

Aristotle called this political friendship—a mutual concern for the other’s well-being, strong enough to build cities, lasting enough to resist the temptations of domination. Rousseau offered the idea of a general will—not just what most people want, but what a society would choose if it remembered to care for everyone. Rawls, in our modern age, reminded us that we must imagine justice as if we didn’t know our own advantages—an invitation to fairness wrapped in humility.

These are not just philosophical flourishes. They are tools for peacebuilding. Because peace is not what follows war—it is what prevents it. It is what grows in the spaces where people are not merely tolerated, but taken seriously. Where decisions are made not with the logic of winners and losers, but with an eye toward how everyone can move forward without being left behind.

The Common Good, then, is not a doctrine—it is a practice. It begins in homes, expands to schools, appears in workplaces, and must be defended in parliaments. It is not one thing, but a way of asking the same question again and again: What kind of world do we want to live in together?

And when we answer that question sincerely, five ideas tend to recur:

• Benefit for All – A society must be judged not by its wealth or its innovation, but by how well the least powerful are doing. A good society lifts everyone, not just those who run fastest.
• Fairness – Fairness is not a fantasy of perfect equality, but a commitment that rules and rewards will not be written only for the few.
• Inclusivity – The Common Good must include the uncommon—the minority voice, the outsider’s grief, the perspective that interrupts our assumptions.
• Sustainability – Any good worth pursuing must last. The Common Good does not mortgage the future to pay for the present. It considers the child yet unborn.
• Cooperation – In a deeply fractured world, the rarest virtue is not strength, but willingness: the willingness to listen, to adapt, and to act with others, not against them.
  

These are not lofty ideals reserved for saints or scholars. They are daily decisions. In how we speak to someone who disagrees with us. In how we vote. In what we support, tolerate, or resist. To work for the Common Good is to engage in a kind of quiet resistance against apathy, against cynicism, and against the seductive belief that we are only responsible for ourselves. It is to plant a flag not in victory, but in shared humanity.

Of course, the Common Good is not a destination. It shifts, because people change. It must be revisited, not revered. But its importance lies in the direction it offers—a north star in an age of fragmentation. If we were to think of peace not just as a treaty, but as a daily ethic—an ongoing willingness to make room for one another—then the Common Good becomes more than political theory. It becomes a habit of the heart. And perhaps, a quiet revolution.

The term 'politics' is a complex and multifaceted label that has been applied and interpreted in various ways by scholars, politicians, and thinkers throughout history, reflecting diverse social and intellectual contexts. In this blog post, we'll explore different perspectives on what has been labeled 'politics' and how these perspectives shape our understanding of these crucial aspects of human society.

Harold Lasswell, a prominent political scientist, viewed politics as a process of "who gets what, when, and how." This succinct definition highlights the distributive nature of politics and its role in allocating resources and power within a society.

For David Easton, another influential political theorist, politics is about "the authoritative allocation of values for a society." This perspective emphasizes the role of politics in determining and enforcing societal norms and priorities.

Vladimir Lenin, the Russian revolutionary leader, took a more economic approach, stating that "politics is the most concentrated expression of economics." This view underscores the close relationship between political power and economic systems.

Bernard Crick offers a more comprehensive definition, describing politics as "the activity by which differing interests within a given unit of rule are conciliated by giving them a share in power in proportion to their importance to the welfare and the survival of the whole community." This perspective highlights the role of politics in managing diverse interests and fostering cooperation within a society.

Adrian Leftwich expands on this idea, suggesting that politics encompasses all the activities of cooperation, negotiation, and conflict that arise when people come together to use, produce, and distribute resources in the production and reproduction of their social and biological life. This broad definition recognizes politics as an inherent part of human interaction and social organization.

Despite these varying interpretations, it's clear that the practices and power dynamics we label 'politics' are deeply intertwined with ordinary people's lives. In fact, our behaviors and lives are constantly influenced by political institutions, while we, in turn, shape these institutions through our actions and choices.

The diversity of these perspectives highlights that 'politics' is not a monolithic concept with a fixed essence, but rather a dynamic and evolving set of practices, discourses, and power relations that we categorize as such.It touches every aspect of our lives, from the most personal decisions to global affairs.

Understanding these different viewpoints on "politics" can help us become more informed and engaged citizens. By recognizing the various dimensions of politics - from resource allocation and value determination to conflict resolution and social cooperation - we can better appreciate its importance in shaping our societies and our individual lives.

Let me give my personal favorite! Mark Warren focuses that politics is the intersection of Conflict and Power. I also add a directional factor there: collaboration. Therefore, one way to understand what we call 'politics' is to see it as the intersection of conflict and power, where increasing the space for collaboration can be considered a more 'political' approach within this framework. On the other hand, the less collaborative and more polarized, it becomes less political and more like a war.

I must, however, note that power is mostly unequal between the entities. This is where Political friendship is critical. It requires acknowledging unequal starting points. It is not naive unity but a deliberate effort to redistribute power—a strategic adherence of shared goals to dismantle entrenched hierarchies.

A strong and harmonious society is built on a foundation of good political systems, which in turn are shaped by an informed and active citizenry. By engaging with politics and understanding its multifaceted nature, we can contribute to creating more just, equitable, and prosperous communities for all. Let's focus on our political friendship and common good!