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.

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.

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!