The military in parliament - form versus function

by Joseph Ball
Saturday, 12 December 2009 12:26

Mizzima News - Of the multitude of flaws commonly leveled against the standing 2008 constitution, typically at or near the top of the list is the 25 percent of reserved seats in parliament for appointees of the armed forces. Reasoning follows that the parameter was included as a means of safeguarding the interests of the armed forces. A bloc of military parliamentarians it is presumed will vote as a single entity. But, is this a realistic assumption? And should the inclusion of the clause be deemed a non-starter by the democratic opposition?

Put succinctly, the military in parliament must not be approached as an infinite, absolutist bloc. Just as representatives within a functioning multiparty democratic apparatus cannot be100 percent relied upon to blindly follow the national party’s line, neither should a military bloc in parliament be expected to automatically hold rank.

Further, the situation in Burma necessitates a high level of security sector reform. This should be a crucial task assigned parliament. However, the lead in this goal – though by no means the sole prerogative, likely falls under the jurisdiction of the armed forces. As de facto political actors, implementation of security sector reform in regional cases has conformed to this trend.

Not only were “the Habibie administration’s most assertive strides towards democratization taken, ironically, by two generals with hardline reputations: Lt. Gen. Syarwan Hamid and Lt. Gen. Yunus Yosfiah,” according to Indonesian security expert Peter O’Rourke, a similar observation can be made of the actions of military appointed parliamentarians and proxy parties both during and post-Suharto rule.

While still in power, Suharto’s political support base within the armed forces and Golkar, essentially a political organization invented to serve the establishment, split on the question of whether to use force in quelling domestic unrest. Following Suharto’s fall, the military’s representation in the MPR, People’s Consultative Assembly, showed that it was in fact anything but a tool in the hands of the establishment. When Habibie, the hand picked successor of Suharto, came up against a no-confidence measure, significant numbers of seated military representatives chose not to support the government.

Vocal in their support of security sector reform, the armed forces representation in the MPR nominally decreased from 75 to 38 seats, before being phased out – ahead of schedule – in its entirety in 2004.

The deal struck that permitted the above scenario to play itself out, however, was contingent upon the armed forces themselves being authorized to formulate their own reform agenda. This right, in turn, was only agreed upon confirmation of the military committing to eventually remove itself from the overt political process. The removal of the military from appointed positions within parliament was a vocal demand of the reform-minded democratic opposition in Indonesia – as it is in the case of Burma.

Eventually, the transitioning out of uniformed members of the armed forces in the Hluttaw should be a relatively easy and visible benchmark by which the Tatmadaw can demonstrate its commitment to security sector reform and democratic principles.

The Indonesian armed forces, nonetheless, did not simply abdicate their inherent political clout. Rather, the leadership came to appreciate that the institutional depoliticization of the armed forces did not significantly impact their level of political influence – a realization emblematic of the fact that their powers rested more in traditional security functions than on the number of MPR seats held. For the military elite, this provided evidence that its interests were compatible with the structures and dynamics of the democratic polity, while at the same time warning of the potential limits to early stage reform.

A complimenting example of the military relinquishing its right to hold a bloc of seats in parliament comes from the Philippines. For some time it appeared that the 1987 constitution, following the overthrow of Ferdinand Marcos the previous year, would be doomed by insistence on a clause prohibiting standing officers from competing for elected office. But, after prominent former coup plotters stood as civilians and won seats to parliament, the perceived need to undermine the system was drastically reduced as places within the new societal – and political – fabric were confirmed.

In the case of the Philippines, while originally viewed as a safeguard concerning the interests of the military, the need to hold physical seats in parliament was ultimately judged superfluous to the political space of both the military as an institution and the individual components of the said institution.

And even though there is scant historical evidence upon which to look at a voting history of the military and its constitutive parts in Burma, examples do still exist. The most obvious example, often sited by pro-democracy elements in justification of the opposition’s wide-ranging support, was the support given the NLD in the 1990 general election. More often overlooked, is the Third Party Congress of the Burma Socialist Program Party, at which former Brigadier General San Yu accumulated more votes for the position of chair than the incumbent Ne Win. True, neither of these examples met with success, but a military bloc in parliament will be better situated to expose and act on the inherent divides within the ruling clique.

So, what can be expected of the Tatmadaw in parliament?

The rules of the game will change in Burma following the elections – assuming polling is allowed to go forward and the process not sabotaged by elements either inside or outside the military establishment. Political actors will have new and different roles to fill – roles that ask searching and previously unasked questions of military representatives. Nonetheless, a near-term massive rupture in the ranks of the military in parliament should not be expected. The inclusion of the military appointees is an imperfect measure and any related process of political transformation also imperfect in design. However, outright denunciation of the 25 percent rule fails to recognize both its inevitability and opportunity – as triumphant denunciation fails to assuage the fears of the military in political transitioning.

Additionally, any Burmese model regarding the military in parliament will be significantly altered from that of either Indonesia or the Philippines in the sense that the previous utmost leadership will not have necessarily officially vacated the domestic political arena.

The principled stance of those opposed to a 25 percent clause rests on the primacy of constitutional form. In other words, a constitution should never reserve a pre-determined allotment of seats for the military. However, such an analysis perilously relegates the question of function. It is ultimately function that defines the success or failure of any governmental arrangement. Security sector reform is likely to take decades, and form itself is a component of reform.

Parliamentary (re)form, in the absence of the military from the chambers, will result not from the natural supremacy of a certain constitutional form, but rather with the time-sensitive realization of how the government and its constituent components can maximize function. And for this to happen, there has to be compromise on the matter of military representatives being appointed parliamentary seats – a compromise simultaneously sensitive to the concerns of the military and to the aspirations of the mainstream political opposition.


(This essay is an abbreviated adaptation of a sub-section to appear in the forthcoming Mizzima publication: ‘From Bullets to Ballots – Confronting Political Modernity in Military-ruled Burma’. This essay does not, however, necessarily represent the opinions of Mizzima’s editorial staff.)