Aviation security has become very good at imagining the enemy outside the aircraft. Terrorists. Hackers. Drones. Missiles. Saboteurs. Cybercriminals. Foreign intelligence services. Every year brings another sophisticated threat model, another security conference, another technological solution promising to make the skies safer.
And yet, sometimes the most dangerous person on an aircraft is already inside the cockpit. That is the uncomfortable lesson aviation still struggles to absorb. An international security review following an incident in which a flydubai co-pilot assaulted the captain during a flight should not be treated as some bizarre personal drama, an unfortunate exception caused by one unstable individual. It should force a much more disturbing question: what happens when the human being operating the machine becomes the threat?
The aviation industry has spent decades building layers of technical redundancy. Aircraft have multiple engines, navigation systems, communication systems and increasingly sophisticated automation. Cockpits are designed around procedures, checklists and disciplined cooperation. But there remains one primitive assumption buried beneath all this technological sophistication: that the two people sitting in the cockpit will remain psychologically capable of cooperating.
That assumption is no longer good enough. Pilots are human beings. They experience exhaustion, depression, anxiety, rage, financial pressure, relationship breakdown, grief, medication problems, addiction, professional humiliation and private crises. They can have extraordinarily bad days while being expected to perform an extraordinarily precise job thousands of metres above the ground.
And the industry has historically preferred not to look too closely. The reason is obvious. Aviation depends on confidence. Airlines do not want passengers wondering whether the pilot is psychologically fit to fly. Regulators do not want to create systems that appear intrusive. Pilots understandably fear that admitting psychological difficulties could damage their careers. The result is a dangerous silence disguised as professionalism.
The cockpit is not a normal workplace. Two people can become a closed operational system with enormous responsibility and very limited escape. If one of them suddenly becomes aggressive, irrational or incapacitated, the other may have seconds or minutes to understand what is happening and respond correctly.
Yet crew training remains overwhelmingly focused on technical competence and predictable emergencies. Human conflict is often treated as a communication problem when it can become something much uglier.
The answer is not to create a flying police state where every pilot is psychologically interrogated before boarding. Nor should mental-health difficulties automatically become grounds for professional exile. That would simply encourage pilots to hide problems even more effectively.
The answer is honest prevention. Airlines need stronger confidential psychological support, meaningful fatigue monitoring, better peer-intervention systems and clearer procedures for recognising behavioural deterioration before it reaches the cockpit. Crew members should be trained not merely to manage disagreement but to identify when a colleague's behaviour has crossed from stress into operational danger.
And there must be mechanisms allowing a crew member to say, “Something is wrong,” without being branded disloyal, weak or professionally suicidal. This is where aviation's obsession with technology becomes almost absurd. We can build an aircraft capable of navigating oceans with extraordinary precision, yet we remain remarkably primitive when it comes to recognising a human crisis sitting behind the controls.
The future of aviation security cannot simply be another firewall, another biometric scanner or another automated warning system. It must include the messy, unpredictable, uncomfortable human being. Because the cockpit does not become safe merely because the aircraft is technologically brilliant.
The machine can be redundant. The software can be monitored. The doors can be reinforced. But the people behind those doors remain human. And pretending otherwise may be the most dangerous security failure of all.
There is something beautifully offensive about giving the Nobel Peace Prize to a woman whose life has been devoted to international law, human rights and the stubborn idea that power should answer to justice. Offensive, that is, to the warmongers, the political bullies and the self-appointed emperors who believe that the law is something for other people to obey. If Navanethem “Navi” Pillay is being celebrated for promoting peace and international law, then perhaps the greatest achievement of such recognition is the number of powerful people it might make uncomfortable.
And frankly, some discomfort is long overdue. Pillay represents precisely the kind of international responsibility that today's political circus finds inconvenient. A South African jurist of Tamil descent, a survivor of the injustices of apartheid, a former judge of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda and a former United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, she has spent decades confronting the uncomfortable truth that justice means very little if it bends its knee before political power.
Her career is a reminder that international law was not invented to decorate diplomatic speeches, provide impressive quotations for United Nations ceremonies or give politicians something to invoke when their enemies commit crimes. It exists because human beings have repeatedly demonstrated what happens when power is allowed to operate without consequences.
Apparently, this is a dangerously radical proposition in the twenty-first century. The modern political strongman has a remarkably simple philosophy: international law is magnificent when it prosecutes the other side, suspicious when it examines an ally, and intolerable when it dares to investigate him personally. Human rights are sacred when useful for propaganda and disposable when they interfere with strategic interests. Civilians become statistics, refugees become political weapons, and the dead are conveniently buried beneath the vocabulary of national security.
Then these same politicians stand before cameras and lecture the world about civilisation. One could almost admire the efficiency of the hypocrisy if its consequences were not so bloody. Donald Trump provides a particularly revealing example of the political contempt for international institutions that has become fashionable among authoritarian-minded leaders. His hostility towards international constraints, his attacks on institutions that challenge his authority and his transactional understanding of diplomacy embody a worldview in which power is not merely a means to an end; power itself becomes the argument. The strongest man in the room decides what is legitimate, and everyone else is expected to applaud.
But international law cannot function as a restaurant menu from which presidents select their favourite rules and reject everything they dislike. Nor can peace mean simply the silence that follows the destruction of a weaker nation's ability to resist. Peace without justice is submission. Security without accountability is privilege. And sovereignty without responsibility can become an elegant excuse for brutality.
This is where Pillay's work matters. Her contribution is not that she has somehow persuaded the world to abandon its conflicts, nor that international courts possess magical powers capable of stopping every war criminal. They do not. International justice remains painfully vulnerable to political obstruction, selective enforcement, inadequate resources and the cowardice of governments that prefer profitable alliances to uncomfortable principles.
Yet the existence of these weaknesses makes her work more necessary, not less. International law is not discredited because powerful governments violate it. It is discredited when the rest of the world decides that violations are acceptable whenever the perpetrators possess sufficient military strength, economic leverage or political influence. A system that prosecutes the powerless while protecting the powerful is not justice. It is
For years, European governments have treated housing as an irritating technical problem for housing ministers, economists and property developers. Build a few thousand apartments, announce another investment programme, subsidise a mortgage, blame planning regulations and congratulate yourself on having done something.
Meanwhile, rents climb, house prices become obscene and an entire generation is being told that adulthood is apparently an unaffordable luxury. This is no longer a housing crisis. It is a political crisis wearing a mortgage. Spain is only one of the clearest warnings. When housing policy becomes powerful enough to destabilise governments and trigger political confrontation, the message should be screaming across every European capital: people do not riot over architecture. They riot when they believe the system has decided that their lives are less important than somebody else's balance sheet.
And politicians still don't get it. They keep talking about "the housing market" as if they are discussing potatoes. Housing is not just another market. A person can live without a new car. They can postpone buying a television. They can survive without the latest smartphone.
Try postponing the need for a roof. Housing is the foundation underneath employment, family life, education, health, security and dignity. Without it, the rest of society becomes a grotesque exercise in pretending that everything is functioning.
Europe has created cities where the people who actually keep those cities alive increasingly cannot afford to live in them. Nurses commute ridiculous distances. Teachers struggle to rent near schools. Young workers remain trapped with parents. Couples postpone children. Students compete for tiny rooms at absurd prices. Elderly people fear losing homes they have occupied for decades.
And then the political class produces another PowerPoint presentation about productivity. Enough. The European housing system has become a machine for transferring wealth upward while politicians stand beside it holding a microphone and explaining that market forces are complicated.
Of course they are complicated. So is poverty. So is homelessness. So is watching your salary disappear into rent while someone who already owns five apartments becomes richer without lifting a finger.
The most poisonous consequence is not even economic. It is democratic. People who cannot afford to participate in society eventually stop believing society belongs to them. When the young are told that ownership is for their parents' generation and stability is for people who already possess capital, democracy starts looking less like representation and more like an exclusive club with elections every four years.
That is political dynamite. And the far right is perfectly happy to pick it up. The extremists do not need to manufacture people's anger. Governments are manufacturing it for them. All they have to do is point at immigrants, refugees, Brussels, foreigners, environmental regulations, universities or whatever convenient enemy happens to fit the day's propaganda.
The tragedy is that the original grievance is often completely legitimate. A young European who cannot afford an apartment does not need a lecture about tolerance. They need an apartment. A family crushed by rent does not need another speech about competitiveness. They need security.
A nurse who cannot afford to live anywhere near the hospital does not need politicians praising essential workers. She needs somewhere to live. This is where Europe's supposedly sophisticated political establishment has become intellectually bankrupt. It has treated housing as an investment opportunity when it should have treated it as national infrastructure.
Nobody argues that roads should exist only where property developers can make money. Nobody suggests that hospitals should be built exclusively for the wealthy. Nobody tells soldiers that national defence should depend entirely on whether private investors find missiles sufficiently profitable.
Yet when it comes to housing, suddenly the sacred invisible hand must be protected from the vulgar demands of ordinary human beings. That is ideological nonsense. Markets have a role. Property owners have rights. Private construction matters. But when the market systematically produces a society where working people cannot afford to live where work exists, governments have a responsibility to intervene.
Not with another committee. Not with another glossy strategy. Build homes. Public housing. Social housing. Affordable rental housing. Cooperative housing. Serious long-term planning. Land policies that stop cities becoming casinos for property speculation. And policies that recognise housing as infrastructure rather than another playground for wealth accumulation.
Because this is no longer about whether Europeans can buy their dream home. It is about whether Europeans can afford to remain Europeans in their own cities. Ignore that question and the consequences will not arrive politely through parliamentary procedure. They will arrive through elections, protests, rage and political extremism. The European political establishment should understand one brutally simple fact: People can tolerate many things.
They can tolerate bad governments. They can tolerate bureaucracy. They can even tolerate politicians lying to them. But when you take away the possibility of having a home, you are no longer asking them to tolerate bad policy. You are asking them to tolerate humiliation. And humiliation is where democratic patience goes to die.
Europe likes to believe that its political crises are about ideology, immigration, security, climate or the endless argument over Brussels. Increasingly, they are about something much more primitive: where people are going to live.
Spain has just provided another ugly warning. Housing decrees intended to protect vulnerable tenants, restrain rent increases and put some limits on the increasingly aggressive property market were defeated in parliament. The political arithmetic may be complicated. The social arithmetic is not. People cannot afford their homes, and governments cannot afford to ignore them.
This is where Europe's housing crisis becomes something much bigger than a dispute about rents. It becomes a crisis of democracy. For decades, European governments encouraged citizens to treat property as the safest form of retirement, family security and personal wealth. Housing became not merely somewhere to live but an investment, a pension substitute and a financial asset. Entire generations were told to buy property and watch its value rise.
And it worked. For those who already owned a home. The problem is that every successful property market eventually creates a political class with something to lose. Older homeowners want their houses to retain and increase their value. Investors want reliable returns. Landlords want higher rents. Developers want fewer restrictions. Banks want healthy mortgages. Politicians want all of them as voters.
Then there are the young. They want a home. That apparently has become the unreasonable demand. The European social model has walked directly into this trap. Governments are expected to protect citizens from unaffordable housing while simultaneously protecting the property economy that makes housing unaffordable. They are trying to be referee and bookmaker at the same time.
Spain exposes the contradiction brutally. A government can promise tenant protection, but parliament can kill it. A government can promise affordable housing, but municipalities can struggle to build enough. Politicians can denounce speculation, but property remains one of the easiest ways to accumulate wealth. Everyone knows there is a problem. Nobody wants to pay the political price for fixing it.
So the crisis gets postponed. And postponed crises become political explosives. The most dangerous consequence is not that young Spaniards, Swedes, Germans, Greeks or French citizens become angry about rent. It is that they begin to conclude that democratic politics is incapable of representing their basic interests.
That is exactly the sort of vacuum the far right loves. When a twenty-five-year-old works full-time and still cannot afford an ordinary apartment, telling that person to be patient while somebody else owns three properties is not social policy. It is political suicide. When governments lecture young people about responsibility while housing consumes an absurd proportion of their income, they should not be surprised when those young people stop listening.
And there is another hypocrisy here. Europe constantly worries about its ageing population and falling birth rates. Yet it has constructed housing markets in which starting a family increasingly resembles a luxury purchase.
Build affordable homes and suddenly demographic policy becomes more than a speech. The answer is not simply rent controls. Nor is it simply more construction. Europe needs both supply and protection, alongside serious public housing, taxation that discourages speculative hoarding and political courage strong enough to challenge the idea that every square metre of housing must produce maximum private profit.
Housing is infrastructure. It is as fundamental to a functioning society as schools, hospitals, roads and electricity. Spain's parliamentary revolt should therefore be read beyond Spain. When governments begin collapsing, weakening or becoming politically paralysed over housing, the message is brutally simple: Europe has allowed shelter to become a commodity before remembering that it is a human necessity.
And when democracy cannot guarantee people a place to live, people eventually start asking what democracy is for. That question is far more dangerous than any rent bill.
Many people have a difficult time in finding an effective mental health counselor that will help them get their life back on track.
The key is to find someone that you can trust in discussing your anxieties and depression.
With this in mind, here are seven suggestions on how to find a great mental health counselor that works for you.
1. Talk to your doctor or primary care physician: Your medical or family doctor is a great source in finding a therapist. Explain to your doctor your problems and he or she can point you in the right direction in seeking the proper treatment. Your primary care physician may even know of some low-cost services that you can use to your advantage.
2. Go to your local hospital: Your local hospital is another source you can use to find a good counselor and they also know of many different mental health programs in your area. Your emergency center can also handle your situation right away if you are struggling with fear and anxiety. This is just a few examples on the importance of getting mental health assistance in your life.
3. Ask your friends and relatives for advice: Use your network of friends and relatives to see if they know of any reputable counselors that are nearby. Many churches and nonprofit agencies offer a variety of mental health programs in your area. Asking the people who attend these groups may be aware of some programs.
4. Join a local mental health support group: Go to a support group in your area and ask if anyone knows of a therapist that can help you with your mental health issues. Many people who are active in these groups will be able to give you some names of people in the area that can help you out. In addition, the people in these groups will be able to relate to your situation.
5. Find a counselor that you can work with: When asking for a therapist, always ask for someone who has a good reputation. Remember that finding a counselor to help you depends on how you interact with them and how they interact with you. It may take a couple of times to find the right person, but do not give up. Finding the right person will pay off for you in the long run.
6. Measure your progress: The key components of having an effective therapist is affordability, the ability to effectively talk to your counselor, and how effective they are in finding the answers to your current problems. Remember that your main goal is to find the answers that will help get rid of your mental health issues.
7. Do what is best for you: Choose a mental health professional that you feel comfortable talking to and then go from there. You can always change counselors down the road so don’t pressure yourself if things don’t work out. If you do not see any improvement in your mental health after a couple of months, you may want to find someone else who can help reduce your fears, anxieties, and depression.
Stan Popovich is the author of the popular managing fear book, “A Layman’s Guide to Managing Fear”. For more information about Stan’s book and to get some more free mental health advice, please visit Stan’s website at http://www.managingfear.com
The current U.S. military withdrawal from Iraq adds another layer of uncertainty to an already fragile regional security environment in West Asia. Such transitions inevitably create openings that different actors may seek to test or exploit. This is precisely why the Muscat Process is needed now more than ever: to preserve channels of communication and confidence before security gaps become new escalations.
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At a time when international diplomacy is under extraordinary pressure, the proposedMuscat Process – advanced by a Group of Friends of the Process – deserves strong and sustained support. Its value lies not only in the possibility of achieving a particular political agreement, but in preserving channels of dialogue between the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) states, Iran and Iraq throughout the entire crisis cycle—from prevention and early warning, through escalation and crisis, to de-escalation, stabilization and, ultimately, political settlement.
The crisis cycle should also be understood as more than a political or security phenomenon. Every major geopolitical crisis generates an economic crisis cycle. Rising tensions increase uncertainty; uncertainty affects investment, trade and financial markets; disruption to energy supplies, transport and supply chains increases costs; and economic pressure can in turn reinforce political instability. Security and economic risks therefore become mutually reinforcing.
In an international system increasingly shaped by competition among major powers, smaller states are sometimes perceived primarily as recipients of international decisions. The Muscat Process demonstrates the opposite: a smaller state can be an important provider of international security and diplomatic stability.
Oman is a particularly compelling example. Its influence does not derive from military power or economic size comparable to the largest global actors. It derives from trust, credibility, consistency and the ability to maintain relationships across political divides. Oman has demonstrated that diplomatic influence can be built through reliability rather than coercion.
This is a significant lesson for the wider international system. Smaller states can sometimes create diplomatic space that larger powers cannot. Major powers often carry strategic interests, alliances and political expectations that can make direct mediation difficult. A smaller, credible and relatively trusted state may have greater freedom to communicate with all sides without appearing to seek dominance.
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The big eats the small, but the fast resists the slow
Smaller states can contribute at every stage of crisis:
At the prevention stage, they can provide early-warning channels and maintain contacts that larger powers may find politically difficult to sustain.
During escalation, they can provide discreet communication and help parties explore possible compromises without requiring immediate public concessions.
At the crisis stage, they can serve as trusted intermediaries capable of transmitting urgent messages and reducing the risk of miscalculation.
During de-escalation, they can facilitate confidence-building and help transform temporary pauses into more durable arrangements.
And during stabilization and recovery, they can support the restoration of economic connectivity, trade, investment and regional cooperation.
The economic dimension is particularly important. Geopolitical crises do not remain confined to diplomatic rooms. They affect energy prices, shipping, insurance, investment, supply chains and consumer confidence. The consequences can quickly become global.
For a country such as Oman, located at a strategically critical intersection of the Gulf, Indian Ocean and wider Middle East, regional stability has a direct economic dimension. But Oman’s role goes beyond protecting its own interests. By helping to reduce the probability of escalation, it contributes to the stability of wider trade and energy networks on which many countries depend.
This illustrates an important principle: economic interdependence can be both a vulnerability and an instrument of peace. When countries understand the economic costs of confrontation, shared interests can create incentives for restraint. Diplomatic regional processes can help translate those shared interests into practical cooperation.
The Muscat Process would therefore therefore represent something larger than a particular negotiation. It is an example of how small-state diplomacy can contribute to global governance.
Such contributions are often most valuble precisely because they are quiet, long-term oriented and above all, non-confrontational.
The broader lesson is that international diplomacy should move from a purely crisis-response model towards a crisis-cycle model combining political, security and economic dimensions. We should ask not only how to respond when a crisis erupts, but how to identify risks earlier, prevent escalation, protect economic connectivity, maintain energy and trade flows, de-escalate confrontation, stabilize affected economies and create conditions for sustainable recovery.
The Muscat Process could embody this approach.
Its strategic value is therefore both political and economic—and its success demonstrates that diplomatic influence does not have to correspond to the size of a country. In some circumstances, the ability to listen, communicate with all sides and create trust can be more valuable than power.
The international community should therefore support the Muscat Process while respecting its distinctive Omani character and its emphasis on discretion. It should recognize Oman not simply as a host or facilitator, but as an example of the constructive role that smaller states can play in an increasingly fragmented international system.
The strategic objective should be clear: prevent crises where possible; manage them when necessary; de-escalate them when they become acute; protect economic connectivity; stabilize afterwards; and use trusted smaller-state diplomacy to keep the door to political settlement open.
In a world increasingly defined by geopolitical fragmentation, the Muscat Process offers an important lesson: small states may not have the power to determine the international order,but they can have the diplomatic capacity to help keep that order from breaking down.
Olga Algayerova is a former UN Under-Secretary-General and Executive Secretary of the UN Economic Commission for Europe (UNECE). She previously served as Permanent Representative to the International Organizations in Vienna and as State Secretary at the Slovak Ministry of Foreign Affairs.Olga is Director General of the Global Academy for Future Governance (GAFG).
Contrary to the popular misconception that anti-Rohingya sentiment is a contemporary phenomenon, the roots of ethnic and religious xenophobia in Burma run exceptionally deep. While modern attention often focuses on post-colonial developments, exclusionary hostilities can be traced back to the imperial rulers of Myanmar since at least the 11th century when King Anawrahta Minsawfounded of the Pagan Empire. A pivotal historical turning point occurred in 1784, when Burmese King Bodawpaya annexed the independent state of Arakan. This conquest resulted in the enslavement and forced deportation of tens of thousands of Rohingya Muslims to Mandalay, while triggering a massive exodus of indigenous Rohingya Muslims and Rakhine Buddhists seeking refuge in the Chittagong district, then administered by the British East India Company.
This complex demographic landscape was fundamentally upended following the total British conquest of Burma in 1886following the conclusion of the Third Anglo-Burmese War in November 1885. To consolidate the administration of the new province under the British Raj, the colonial government imported a vast apparatus of educated Indians and Bengalis. Trailing behind this administrative influx came British financial institutions and speculative capital, which paved the way for non-Burmese financial actors. Among them were Chettiars — a caste of Hindu moneylenders from the Tamil region — as well as Marwaris. Engaging in aggressive predatory lending, these usurers frequently seized the land and property of defaulting Burmese peasants. By the early 1930s, Chettiars controlled roughly a quarter of Burma’s lower agricultural landmass. This extensive land loss and economic marginalization fostered intense, widespread resentment among the native population. Crucially, the indigenous population did not differentiate between predatory financiers and working-class South Asian immigrants; anyone possessing South Asian facial features became a target for xenophobia, drawing Tamils, Bengalis, and the indigenous Muslims of Arakan into a singular, hated category.
This volatile atmosphere provided the perfect fertile ground for right-wing, ethno-nationalist groups like the Dobama Asiayone ("We-Burmans Association") and radical figures like U Saw (Galon U Saw). Together, they systematically weaponized these economic grievances into violent anti-Indian and anti-Muslim riots throughout the 1930s. The outbreak of World War II pushed these tensions to a horrific climax. When Japanese forces advanced into Burma in 1942, the British administration hastily retreated, leaving behind generations of South Asian and Muslim communities who had built their lives in the country.
As radical Burmese nationalists aligned themselves with the fascist Japanese forces, these abandoned populations became the immediate targets of vicious pogroms. Even the indigenous Rohingyas of Arakan — widely targeted under the accusation of being pro-British collaborators — faced horrific violence executed with a definitive genocidal intent. The resulting fascist pogroms escalated into the region's first major genocide, during which entire Rohingya-majority towns in southern Arakan were ethnically and religiously cleansed. This systematic violence forced the surviving Muslim populations to flee en masse to the north, creating a segregated demographic concentration bordering modern-day Bangladesh. It also triggered a harrowing mass exodus to India known as the "Long March," forcing hundreds of thousands of Bengalis and Indians to flee the country on foot before Burma finally achieved independence in 1948.
Economic Strife and the Rise of Dobama Asiayone
To fully comprehend the rapid ascent of ethno-nationalism in the 1930s, one must examine how the socio-economic structure of colonial Burma buckled under global pressures. Following its annexation, Burma was tightly integrated into the global marketplace, primarily serving as the primary rice bowl of the British Empire. This economic machine relied heavily on the imported South Asian workforce to fill structural gaps. By the early 20th century, South Asian immigrants held a dominant position in urban labor markets, dock yards, financial networks, and the lower ranks of the civil bureaucracy in major hubs like Rangoon (Yangon).
When the Great Depression struck, global trade collapsed, and the crash of rice prices plunged the indigenous Burmese peasantry into immediate bankruptcy. Unable to service their debts to the Chettiar moneylenders, millions of native farmers suffered land dispossession. Displaced from their ancestral villages, native Burmans migrated to urban centers in search of basic livelihood, where they found themselves in direct, desperate competition with established South Asian laborers.
Amid this widespread economic trauma, the Dobama Asiayone was founded in Rangoon in 1930. Born in the volatile months following deadly racial clashes between native Burman and Indian dock workers, the association sought to overthrow British imperialism while simultaneously asserting Bamar cultural and political supremacy. The organization popularized an uncompromising, ethno-centric slogan that left no room for minority inclusion:"Burma is our country; Burmese literature is our literature; Burmese language is our language."
Members adopted the title Thakin ("Master") as a psychological rebellion against British colonial rulers, signaling that the indigenous population alone should be masters of the land. While the Dobama Asiayone contained various ideological factions — including leftist student radicals who would later lean toward socialism — its dominant right-wing elements capitalized heavily on popular survival anxieties. These right-wing factions systematically scapegoated the entire South Asian community, framing them not merely as tools of colonial exploitation, but as parasitic entities. This ideological pivot transformed a standard anti-colonial liberation struggle into an aggressive nativist campaign demanding the total political, social, and economic exclusion of non-indigenous populations.
U Saw, Thuriya, and the Mechanics of Exclusion
While the Dobama Asiayone fostered an intellectual and grassroots base for ethno-nationalism, the practical mechanics of right-wing populism and media-driven anti-immigrant agitation were mastered by U Saw. A fiercely ambitious and ruthless political operator, U Saw built his political career by positioning himself as the ultimate champion of native Burman interests against foreign influence. Unlike the university-educated elite who dominated early nationalist circles, U Saw possessed a background as a provincial lawyer, a factor that heightened his populist appeal to the grievance-driven lower and middle classes.
U Saw’s primary vehicle for ideological dissemination was his ownership and editorial control of the highly influential Burmese-language newspaper Thuriya("The Sun"). Under his guidance, Thuriya became a powerful mouthpiece for xenophobic and anti-Muslim propaganda. The publication regularly featured sensationalized reporting, aggressive polemics, and editorials that portrayed South Asian immigrants — including Tamils, Bengalis, and Muslims — as existential cultural and economic threats to the native Buddhist population. By continuously running inflammatory narratives regarding immigration and religious friction, U Saw effectively stoked public resentment and manufactured a state of constant cultural panic.
This media-driven hostility found a destructive outlet during the widespread anti-Indian and anti-immigrant riots of 1930 and 1938. The 1938 riots, in particular, were directly aggravated by ethno-nationalist press coverage led by Thuriya, which seized upon a controversial religious pamphlet to instigate countrywide anti-Muslim and anti-Indian pogroms. U Saw capitalized on the chaos of these riots to strengthen his political capital, outmaneuver moderate opponents, and solidify his stance on restricting immigration.
Beyond print propaganda, U Saw institutionalized his exclusionary agenda through physical force. He established the Galon Army (Galon Tat), a highly disciplined paramilitary organization named after the mythical bird of Hindu-Buddhist lore that destroys the serpent (Naga). Dressed in uniforms and subjected to strict militaristic training, the Galon Army served as an instrument of intimidation. Through this potent combination of media manipulation and paramilitary force, U Saw’s political platform explicitly demanded the containment, disenfranchisement, and eventual ouster of South Asian populations from Burma's civic sphere.
The Terminology Transition and the Roots of Modern Identity
When examining the exclusionary campaigns of 1930s Burma, a critical distinction must be made regarding the terminology of identity. In contemporary international discourse, the plight of the Muslim population of Arakan (Rakhine) State is intrinsically tied to the term "Rohingya." However, during the colonial era of the 1930s, this specific political and ethnic designation was not a part of mainstream public or administrative vocabulary.
Instead, the British colonial administration, along with Burmese nationalist groups, employed broad, collective, and often derogatory categorizations. The Muslim populations residing in the western frontier of Arakan, alongside transient laborers arriving from the Chittagong division, were universally classified under generic headers such as "Bengalis," "Indians," or the sweeping vernacular term "Kala."
By failing to differentiate between multi-generational residents of the frontier regions and recently arrived economic migrants, 1930s right-wing nationalism established a dangerous precedent: it treated all individuals of South Asian descent as a singular, undesirable bloc. The formal introduction of the modern term "Rohingya" into the public political lexicon did not occur until the post-World War II era. During the late 1940s and 1950s, as Burma transitioned toward independence from British rule, local intellectual and political elites in Arakan began utilizing "Rohingya" to assert a distinct indigenous identity, seeking constitutional recognition and protection from the central government.
Nevertheless, the foundational mechanics of exclusion developed in the 1930s — which equated South Asian ancestry and Muslim faith with foreign intrusion — persistently cast a shadow over this identity, leaving it vulnerable to state-sponsored rejection.
The Cataclysm of World War II: Fascist Alliances and Pogroms
The structural xenophobia cultivated throughout the 1930s found its ultimate, catastrophic expression during World War II. In 1942, as the Japanese imperial army swept into Southeast Asia, the British colonial administration underwent a rapid and chaotic retreat. In their wake, the British abandoned hundreds of thousands of South Asians and Muslims who had built their homes in Burma over generations. Left without state protection, these minority groups immediately bore the brunt of deep-seated nationalist resentments.
Believing that the Axis powers would guarantee Burma’s absolute independence, radical Burmese nationalists formed a wartime alliance with the fascist Japanese forces. To these nationalist factions, the remaining South Asian population was viewed not merely as an economic burden, but as a hostile, fifth-column element fiercely loyal to the British Crown. The indigenous Rohingyas of Arakan were singled out for particularly brutal treatment under the accusation of being pro-British collaborators — a geopolitical alignment forced upon them as they sought British protection against local hostility.
The resulting collision of Japanese militarism and Burmese ethno-nationalism triggered a wave of fascist pogroms that escalated into the region's first major modern genocide. In the southern regions of Arakan, nationalist militias carried out systematic campaigns of ethnic and religious cleansing. Entire Rohingya-majority towns and villages were razed, and their populations were systematically executed or driven out. This targeted violence fundamentally altered the demographics of western Burma; surviving Muslims fled in desperate masses toward the north, seeking safety in numbers near the border of Chittagong (modern-day Bangladesh).
Simultaneously, the broader South Asian population across Burma faced complete dispossession. This sparked the harrowing historical exodus known as the "Long March", during which upwards of 500,000 Indians, Tamils, and Bengalis attempted to flee Burma on foot through treacherous mountainous terrain to reach British India. Countless thousands perished from disease, starvation, and rebel attacks along the way. The descendants of those survivors who managed to escape or endure the march still carry the trauma of an exodus that permanently fractured their connection to the land they called home.
Conclusion: The Lasting Legacy of 1930s Xenophobia
The rise of right-wing ethno-nationalism in 1930s Burma provides a stark historical case study in how deep-seated cultural friction and economic trauma can be weaponized by populist leaders to justify systemic exclusion. Driven by the severe economic disruptions of the Great Depression and the predatory actions of colonial financial systems, the Dobama Asiayone successfully shifted public discourse toward an aggressive, monocultural definition of citizenship. This framework established the enduring national myth that Burma belonged exclusively to the ethnic Bamar majority. Concurrently, figures like U Saw demonstrated the volatile efficacy of combining media propaganda with paramilitary intimidation, transforming socio-economic grievances into violent anti-immigrant pogroms that laid the groundwork for wartime atrocities.
The rhetoric, tactics, and demographic engineering forged during this era did not disappear with the conclusion of World War II or the achievement of independence in 1948. Instead, the practice of viewing Muslim and South Asian populations through a lens of permanent foreignness became deeply embedded within the institutional memory and legal frameworks of the modern state. By exploring the deep historical trajectory of King Bodawpaya's early conquests, the economic displacement caused by the Chettiars, and the fascist pogroms of U Saw's era, one uncovers the direct ideological roots of the modern human rights crises that continue to isolate and persecute minority communities in the region today.
Dr. Siddiqui is a peace and human rights activist.
