The fog of war has a peculiar odour in Myanmar at present. It smells of cordite, jasmine rice, and the faint but unmistakable tang of polished crocodile leather briefcases belonging to a delegation of British trade envoys. Yes, as rebel groups lose precious territory to the junta's artillery and the dream of a free Burma flickers dimmer, Her Majesty's finest corporate negotiators have arrived to discuss quotas for jade and natural gas.
Let us paint the scene. In the north, around Lashio, the sound of mortar rounds thuds like a bass drum at a funeral for democracy. The Ta'ang National Liberation Army and its allies are being pushed back, their fighters melting into the jungle with the grim knowledge that air power and Chinese-supplied shells are a hard argument to counter. Yet in the grand ballroom of the Strand Hotel in Yangon, the lighting is soft amber, the wine is Chilean, and the aproned waiters serve canapés that cost more than a field hospital's daily supplies. A British trade mission, sanctioned by the Foreign Office with a delicate cough and a sidestep, has arrived to do business with men whose fingerprints are on the trigger of every recent atrocity.
Now, I am no stranger to moral compromise. My own liver has been on a cocktail of bad decisions for decades. But this? This is a fresh level of invertebrate diplomacy. The junta, you see, is desperate for legitimacy. They crave a handshake from a London functionary the way a vampire craves an invitation over the threshold. And we, in our infinite wisdom, have provided a firm, clammy palm. To be fair, the rebels are not angels. They have their own warlords, their own rackets. But they are currently losing. And we have chosen this exact moment to cosy up to the victors, like vultures who first offer a free moisturiser sample before the main feast.
Backlash, predictably, is a gentle word for the storm erupting. Human rights groups are emitting noises that oscillate between exasperation and outright fury. On Twitter, the usual finger-wagging is accompanied by muttered curses from retired colonels and furious students alike. But the junta's generals care not for tweets. They care for hard currency, which the British delegation is rumoured to be dangling like a set of car keys at a high school prom. And the rebels, bleeding in the jungle, must watch their Western hopes evaporate quicker than a gin spill on a hot pavement.
Let us not forget the irony. Britain, the country that once ruled Burma with an iron teak fist, is now returning not as a liberator but as a supplier of diplomatic WD-40 to the gears of oppression. We abandoned the cause of democracy years ago, but this trade mission adds a layer of hypocrisy so thick it could be used as body armour. The generals know this. They attend the dinners, smile for the photos, and count the minutes until the Brits leave so they can resume the shelling with slightly cleaner rifles.
And the rebels? They are tired. Their ammunition is low. Their leaders are arguing. The British decision is a wet blanket thrown over their campfire. But they will not surrender. They never do. They will retreat further into the hills, where the gin is non-existent but the bitter taste of betrayal is a constant companion.
This is not diplomacy. This is a fireside chat with a serial killer while he is mid-strangle. The only saving grace is that the junta does not trust us either. They know we are fickle. They will take our money, laugh behind their menus, and tighten their grip. Meanwhile, the rebels lose ground, and the world does not care. But a satirist must care, even if only to sharpen his pen. And so I shall sit here, sipping warm gin from a chipped mug, and write this sorry chapter for the history books. The trade mission will achieve its targets. The junta will survive. The rebels will bleed. And our souls will have a new, faintly jade-coloured stain.
