A significant number of Western scholars have built their academic reputations by concentrating on countries like Myanmar, using the language of “decolonization” to mask what is, in effect, a continuation of the white savior complex and colonial dynamics. These academics often mentor local elites—those privileged enough to be aware of career paths in fields such as gender studies, political science, and anthropology. Meanwhile, the working class remains largely unaware of the very existence of such disciplines as viable professions.
In Myanmar, political engagement for ordinary citizens, including those from middle-class backgrounds, is fraught with existential risk. Entering politics is often seen as a pathway to imprisonment—or worse. As a result, most working-class individuals aspire toward professions regarded as safer and more practical, such as medicine, engineering, accounting, or IT. Others pursue livelihoods in manual labor, retail, or wholesale trade. Access to careers in political and developmental sectors is largely confined to the upper-middle class and their descendants, who are socialized into these opportunities from an early age. Such knowledge gap and income equality cannot be ignored in understanding the socio-economic situations in Myanmar.
For individuals who lack political awareness, consumer brands like Gucci and Louis Vuitton serve as superficial markers of social status and income. In activist circles, however, Western academics play a similar gatekeeping role. The white academics often monetize the lived experiences of oppressed populations—those suffering under authoritarian governments, entrenched elites, and exploitative capitalist systems. The predominantly white leftist intellectuals and NGO-affiliated researchers often marginalize local progressives and grassroots activists. They do so by reinforcing the perception that non-English-speaking advocates, who lack access to Western academic resources, are intellectually inferior.
Meanwhile, local activists risk persecution for even modest acts of protest, while foreign scholars benefit professionally from documenting those struggles—publishing opinion-based articles or conducting research that advances their credentials. There exists a deep contradiction within these scholars’ anti-capitalist claims. While criticizing global capitalism, they reside in housing far beyond the reach of the average third-world worker—luxury apartments whose down payments exceed what those workers could save even through extreme sacrifice.
This disparity reflects not only hypocrisy but also a systemic exploitation of suffering for career gain. Many of these academics rely on the hardships of others to maintain relevance; without these stories, their professional value might diminish, forcing a shift to conventional employment. Yet they maintain an air of intellectual and moral superiority, positioning themselves as the sole interpreters of foreign histories and struggles. This is the classical example of colonial mentality.
Despite this prevailing pattern, there have been exceptions—individuals who genuinely supported regional welfare. James C. Scott, for example, despite controversy surrounding his early affiliations with the CIA and alleged ties to anti-communist operations in Southeast Asia, demonstrated authentic concern for Myanmar and his family ensured that financial support reached Myanmar at his funeral. On the contrary, there are also certain white academics with savior complex racism who like to boss around the mass (some of which earn less than $3USD as the minimum wage is approximately $2.29USD in 2024 according to National Committee for Setting the Minimum Wage) from their big condo apartment with their status as “passport bros”, earning money and making career by writing about Myanmar and so on.
The Facebook page “Yangon Informer,” co-founded by Kirt Mausert—a Marxist-Leninist known for exhibiting traits of a racialized savior complex—has drawn criticism from some local leftists and academics for derogatory remarks toward ethnic Burmeseness and Buddhistness. Mausert has reportedly labeled average working-class Burmese people, many of whom earn less than $3 USD daily, as “stupid” and “racist.” His reasoning stems from a belief that Burmese ethnicity symbolizes political dominance and “whiteness” within Myanmar’s socio-political landscape.
However, this interpretation reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of Myanmar’s political history. The association of Burmese identity with systemic oppression ignores the ideological motivations behind past regimes. While military governments have claimed to represent the ethnic majority, their actions—marked by authoritarianism and violence against ethnic minorities—reflect centralized power structures rather than racial superiority. Since the 1960s, Myanmar’s military regimes have faced persistent resistance from both the working class and student activists. These groups have repeatedly mobilized in opposition to authoritarian rule, often at great personal risk, demonstrating a long-standing tradition of grassroots defiance and civic courage.
White savior complex racists such as Mausert’s framing simplifies a complex reality and ultimately misrepresents the lived experiences and historical context of Myanmar’s diverse working-class population (speaking from the perspective of someone with a diverse heritage—rooted in Kachin, Burmese, and Shan ethnic identities, and shaped by the experience of being born into a family exiled from Bangladesh). The military juntas since 1959 and even the post-independence governments claimed to represent “Burmese ethnicity” as they represent majority, whereas the political divide back then was more motivated by ideologies. The myanmar military claiming to represent “Burmese ethnicity” commited several war crimes to “karen”, “Kachin”, “Rohingya”, and other ethnic groups. Such white savior complex racists like “Kirt Mausert” and his fellow petitbourseogise elites who are trying to enter the similar career like their white master, are giving what the Myanmar military has been trying to claim since 1960s (probably earlier regimes as well).
White academia’s professed opposition to capitalism often masks a deeper investment in preserving existing power structures. Many scholars benefit financially and professionally from critiquing capitalism—receiving salaries to promote radical-sounding ideas that, in practice, remain detached from the real risks faced by grassroots activists. In contrast, organic activists in places like Myanmar are arrested for minor political gestures, such as displaying a photo of Aung San Suu Kyi or posting political content that support NUG on social media. This disparity is compounded by the persistence of crony capitalism, which increasingly resembles a technofeudal order. Within this landscape, the performative anti-capitalism of predominantly white NGOs and academic circles operates less as a force for change and more as a mechanism to safeguard their privileged positions.
These actors resemble historical examples like the Strasserites—leftists within fascist systems—who outwardly espoused revolutionary rhetoric while pursuing self-serving aims. Georges Sorel’s insight remains strikingly relevant: intellectuals are often driven by career advancement rather than genuine solidarity with the working class, and true revolutionary movements threaten their institutional comfort. The racial and hierarchical character of contemporary academic discourse—presented as “decolonization”—faces an emerging challenge from authentic decolonial movements led by formerly colonized communities. When these movements intersect with oppressed working-class populations in the West, they have the potential to disrupt the academic-industrial complex and reclaim interpretive authority from those who merely intellectualize others’ lived realities.
Perhaps true decolonization begins when white scholars relinquish their role as gatekeepers in the political discourse of formerly colonized regions. It may start when local voices—those with lived experience and cultural insight—become the principal architects of knowledge, rather than being overshadowed by Western academics who claim authority over regional narratives. Decolonization could also mean creating space for scholars of color—whether yellow, brown, or Black—whose pursuit of education is often sustained through gig work like Uber driving or food delivery, to freely choose and thrive in academic fields beyond utilitarian disciplines.
It might involve shifting privileges away from white academics who dominate the conversation under the guise of progressive critique, and inviting them to step back, even if that means transitioning to roles outside the ivory tower—say, bartending (unless they’re knowledgable on other professions such as engineering or medicine or accounting or any other careers like most working class people do)—in order to genuinely embody the values they espouse. Only when structural gatekeeping gives way to authentic empowerment can decolonization move beyond symbolic gestures and into transformative practice.
Discover more from Class Autonomy
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
