Myanmar’s Gen Z combatants: Guerrilla tactics against a military dictatorship

The mist slowly lifts as the boat moves over the muddy waters of the Salween River in Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, close to the border with Thailand. On both banks, green walls of jungle rise up, and an opalescent sky, dotted with leaden clouds, heralds the arrival of a monsoon’s downpour. Young resistance fighters, seated on either side of the boat, tune their assault rifles and monitor the fog around them. Their eyes scan the forest, and every time they hear a distant sound, they turn off the boat’s engine to make sure it’s not the harbinger of an airplane belonging to the military junta that has ruled the country since its February 2021 coup d’état.

“Although we have taken control of this part of the border, that doesn’t mean that the SAC [State Administration Council, the official name of the Myanmar junta] doesn’t carry out attacks with its airplanes,” says 26-year-old Abel, whose nom de guerre is “Bye Bye.” He left his city Loikaw after the coup, fleeing to the mountains with hundreds of his companions, and later joined the KNDF, the Karenni Nationalities Defense Force. The revolutionary group is made up in large part by men of its titular ethnic group and operates in the state of Kayah, the nerve center of the civil conflict that has bloodied Myanmar for nearly four years.

Since 1962, the country has been governed by military juntas, and it wasn’t until 2015 that it celebrated its first free elections, which ended with the victory of the National League for Democracy, the party led by Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi. From 2015 to 2021, the country experienced a brief period of democracy, which allowed its younger generations to connect with the greater world. When, on February 1, 2021, tanks appeared on the thoroughfares of the capital and General Min Aung Hlaing seized power, thousands of people across the country flooded the streets in protest of the coup. Members of the military wanted to prevent changes to the country’s constitution, which reserves 25% of parliamentary seats and the control of the Ministries of Interior, Defense and Borders for the army. The electoral triumph on November 8, 2020 had given the NLD a sufficient majority to carry out that change.

The civilian protests were met with violent oppression, but many demonstrators responded by organizing. Now, fighting in coalition against the dictatorship are both members of the People’s Defense Force, the army of the National Unity Government currently in exile, and ethnic groups that have fought since 1948 for autonomy and the rights of Indigenous minorities.

Since the coup, everything has changed. Before that day, I was finishing school and wanted to go to university

Thu Ra Aung, guerrilla fighter

After hours of navigation, the boat lands on a small beach. The Karenni guerrilla unit quickly organizes and begins its march through the jungle on foot, in trucks and on the backs of elephants, in the direction of Demoso, a rebel stronghold. Humidity, malaria, fear of ambushes and constant streams that must be crossed make for a grueling and unavoidable reality. There is no time to rest: the risk of being spotted and bombed is high. The march stops only at dusk. Everyone hangs up their own mosquito net, spreads out the mat on which they will sleep, guards are assigned and bonfires are lit to boil rice.

It is amid the gentle clinking of spoons against cans of food and relaxed conversation, the smoke of cheerot cigars and the aroma of betel nuts that these enthusiastic and tireless revolutionaries reveal their true identities. They are Myanmar’s Generation Z, young men in their late twenties and early thirties aged by constant brushes with death. They are youthful and beardless, smiling in the glow of the embers.

“Since the coup, everything has changed. Before that day, I was finishing school and wanted to go to university and, like all young people in Myanmar, I was happy because for the first time in the history of our country, I knew that I was finally free. But those dreams were shattered and we had no choice but to take up arms. We either lost everything or we fought, there were no alternatives,” says 21-year-old Thu Ra Aung, a member of the KNDF’s Third Battalion. He lifts up his T-shirt and points to a date tattooed on his ribs: April 10, 2024, the day his brother was killed. “He was also a revolutionary. Since the day he was killed, I no longer know what it means to be happy.”

A song rises in the background, echoing through the darkness. It is a traditional ballad of nostalgia and the pain of being away from one’s mother. The young people sing it in unison, and Thu Ra Aung continues on, “Being a revolutionary means giving up everything: family, friends, plans… It is painful, but necessary. The junta commits unspeakable crimes: they bomb schools, hospitals, refugee camps.”

These young warriors are preparing themselves to go to the Loikaw front, where the junta’s troops are advancing and civilians flee amid columns of smoke and the sound of explosions. “We had no other option than to embark upon this war, but war is a monstrosity. I lost a 19-year-old brother who was murdered by the army, and not a moment goes by when I don’t think of him. But I also think about the soldier who killed him. From that day on, I stopped laughing,” says 21-year-old Pasqwar Let. He’s traveling with 15 companions in a pickup truck. The front is near and he offers a final confession. “Every time I go into battle, I pray to God to give my mother the strength to forgive me the pain I would cause her if I die,” he says.

In the end, we will win. We have no alternative; if we lose, I wouldn’t wish the hell we’d find ourselves in on my worst enemy

Maui, guerrilla general

In the village, fighting continues house to house, the whistling of bullets echoing across bushes and crossroads, large-caliber 120-millimeter bombs and Grad rockets shaking the walls of homes. “We need to make a strategic withdrawal, force them forward, get them into the rice fields, and once they are trapped in the swamp, then we attack them with small units from all sides.” This is guerrilla warfare; hit and run, exploiting the terrain to your advantage, attacking the enemy where they are most vulnerable. General Maui, a 31-year-old KNDF military leader, explains the strategy to his staff, then personally coordinates the withdrawal of his men. At night, in a camp near Demoso, the general declares: “Without enough weapons for a frontal assault, tactics and intelligence are everything in the outcome of the conflict. We must make sure that the army comes after us and falls in our trap.”

Maui has a degree in geology, has studied abroad several times and worked as an agronomist, but all that is in the past. “We are fighting for a country that respects Indigenous minorities, where the form of government is democratic federalism, where the mottos are justice, peace and work. We are not fighting for a flag; we don’t want the U.S., European or Chinese model; we want to live in peace and harmony with our land,” he says. Before leaving, he adds: “One thing I’m sure of: in the end, we will win. We have no alternative; if we lose, I wouldn’t wish the hell we’d find ourselves in on my worst enemy.”

Refuge in Demoso

The conflict has led to the death of more than 5,000 people, according to the United Nations, and three million internally displaced persons. In addition, 18 million people need immediate humanitarian assistance. The resistance controls slightly less than half of the country, as the insurgents, despite lacking significant ammunition and anti-aircraft equipment, enjoy significant support among the population, which suffers from the bombardment by Hlaing’s troops. Nearly 200 schools have been bombed, according to a numbers from Radio Free Asia, more than 300 hospitals and clinics have been hit and there have been an unquantified number of air strikes on refugee camps.

A little over six miles from the Loikaw front sits Demoso, the area’s second biggest city. Today, it shelters more than 150,000 people, more than half the region’s population, who have come seeking refuge in the city after rebel forces took it in November 2023. The fighting that rages in Kayah has driven most of its inhabitants to leave their homes and seek refuge in the city, which they consider liberated.

Demoso is a place of rare beauty, where everything has an air of timelessness, from the white-domed pagodas to the rice fields, where men and women with their heads covered by traditional conical hats work, and the green and gold mountains where their children have built shelters and dug trenches. But the true reality of Demoso lies beyond what the eye can see, and it is only upon entering the city that the conflict’s tragedies are fully revealed.

When the bombing stopped, I ran to the school to make sure no one was hurt, but I found the lifeless and mutilated bodies of four of my students.

Nay Lin Aung, teacher

“When I arrived at the school, the children told me there were airplanes flying constantly over our heads. I ran out of the classroom to see where they were headed, and as I looked above me, I realized that a jet was coming straight towards us,” says 26-year-old Nay Lin Aung, a mathematics teacher. On the morning of February 5, 2024, he was in class when the Daw See Ei school came under aerial bombardment. “I gathered all the children and we ran to the refuge. Soon after, there was an explosion.”

Six months after the bombing, Aung walks through the ruins of the school, his steps echoing in the empty classrooms. He looks at a blackboard strafed by shards and the shattered desks of his students. He picks up a carbonized pencil case and abandoned notebooks. “When the bombing stopped, I ran to the school to make sure no one was hurt, but I found the lifeless and mutilated bodies of four of my students. From that day on, I’ve been living a nightmare that gives me no peace, and I still hear the screams of my students,” he says. All that’s left is a photo of his class that shows smiling children posing in front of the camera, a reminder of what life was like before the explosion.

A hospital among huts and branches

“Most of the wounded who come here are victims of landmines, artillery shells or active bombardment. To save them, we have to perform amputations. We have very few tools and medicines, so we have no choice: we have to amputate the limb to save the individual.” Soe Ka Naing is a 31-year-old doctor who runs the only hospital in Demoso, hidden deep in the jungle. When the coup broke out, the doctor left Yangon and came to Kayah through clandestine routes.

“As soon as the coup took place, I participated in urban guerrilla actions in Yangon. Then I decided to come here, to support my comrades and the people living in this war zone,” he says. The hospital consists of a series of huts protected by tree branches that hide them from the junta’s surveillance. Inside, men, women and children are surrounded by blood, bandages and tubes. They don’t cry or despair, surrendering to their pain in silence.

Samuel was a farmer returning from the fields when he stepped on a landmine, and lost a leg and his eyesight. Oliver, now fighting for his life, was on the front lines in Pekon when his unit was shelled, shrapnel disfiguring his face and leading them to amputate his right leg below the knee. Mu Shwe Ye massages the amputated leg of his son, who is wearing an Argentina national team jersey; he dreamed of becoming a soccer player. “Official forces burn farms, kill families, loot and rape,” says Naing. “This situation has lasted for 50 years in Karenni [Kayah] State,” he says.

When the day ends, General Maui takes off his beret, his uniform and the tension of the front, puts down the M-16 and picks up a guitar. Accompanied by his companions, he sings a song, sweet as a lullaby and as authentic as a dreamer’s utopia. “Sometimes I drown in my tears, but I never let them bring me down. So when negativity surrounds me, I know that someday, everything will change because all my life, I’ve been hoping, I’ve been praying, that people will say they don’t want to fight anymore, that there will be no more wars, and our children will play: someday, someday, someday.”

Translated by Caitlin Donohue.

Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition