ON March 23, 1989, Aung San Suu Kyi turned to Ma Thanegi and said with a wan smile, “I must admit, Thanegi, that I am a bit tired.” “I said,” her friend wrote in her diary, “that must be a gross understatement.”
Things were happening so fast: good things, bad things, terrible things. On that very day, for example, Min Ko Naing, the third-year Rangoon University Botany major who had become the charismatic leader of the militant students, was arrested. Five days earlier Aung Gyi, the former general and crony of Ne Win who for a couple of months at the end of 1988 had shared the leadership of the National League for Democracy before being expelled, had renewed his attacks. In a letter released internationally by his lawyers, the regime’s former critic repeated his earlier accusation that “eight above-ground communists . . . are dominating in the leading positions of the League,” and claimed that Suu and her allies in the party “lied” when they said the ex-general had resigned voluntarily from the party.1 He maintained that they had expelled him, and had not followed “the provisions of the party constitution” when they did so. The man they now suspected of having cut a deal with SLORC was determined to give the party as much trouble as he could.
It was pressure they really did not need. Thrown together in haste, the NLD had no clear ideology. Some of the founding members had left-wing backgrounds, as Aung Gyi alleged—the intellectuals, people like the veteran opposition journalist Win Tin and his protégé Daw Myint Myint Khin, the leading lawyer—though there has never been any evidence that the party was subjected to “entrist” attack by communists. Then there were the former senior army officers who had long ago fallen out with Ne Win, biding their time for years to take revenge, who were steeped in the conventional, conservative values of the armed forces. In any mature democracy, the intellectuals and the old soldiers would have belonged to different parties. Within the NLD they always made awkward bedfellows.
Then, most disruptingly of all, there was the yeast of the movement, the students who had launched the revolution one year before, who had paid for it by the thousands with their lives in August and September and who now provided the movement with its marshals and bodyguards and poor bloody infantry. Many thousands of them had escaped to border areas after September 18th and were now training in guerrilla warfare with the regime’s ethnic enemies. Inevitably, many of those who remained inside the country were full of sympathy for their vanished comrades, and wanted Suu and the NLD to follow the hardest line possible against the regime.
But from the start of her involvement in the revolt, one thing had been very clear to Suu: Nonviolence was a must. She had expressed it on the very day of the crackdown, September 18th, remonstrating with the students in her house not to try to meet the army ranged outside the gate with force. Partly it was Gandhi, partly it was Buddha, but it was also common sense. The military regime had decided to treat the democracy movement as a military threat, the equivalent of the Karen or communist insurgencies on the border: The rebels were to be gunned down, eliminated, exterminated. The moral advantage Suu possessed, like Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., in other times and places, was that she and her followers would never meet violence with violence. This was immensely difficult to sustain in a movement boiling with rage, grief and resentment. Already, in the past months, rebels had resorted to drumhead trials and decapitations. If Suu had given even a hint that she endorsed violent tactics there would have been a surge of righteous delight within the movement—but subsequently SLORC would have found easy justification for any action it chose to take against it; while the party’s international prestige, that precious, invisible commodity that perhaps only the well-traveled, cosmopolitan Suu really understood and appreciated, would be forfeit.
Yet at the same time Suu needed to keep the students on board. On February 22nd, Ma Thanegi wrote in her diary, “The NLD youth have been in a ferment for days. They want to form a separate party because they say they need freedom of movement. Ma Ma and the Central Executive Committee promised them more freedom but they want a separate and perhaps in their minds a more powerful status . . .” With fierce arguments—one of the students “burst into protest” after Suu shouted at him—and by adroit use of her own prestige she had succeeded in talking them out of splitting away. But it was hard going. “I don’t believe in armed struggle,” she told a journalist during these difficult days, “but I sympathize with the students who are engaged in armed struggle.”2 That was the tightrope she had to walk.
But then there was the good news. Despite all the official harassment, Suu and her colleagues were continuing to travel, and everywhere they went tens of thousands of new members flocked to the party: By the spring of 1989, press estimates of membership ran as high as three million, in a total population of around fifty million.3 The regime was sticking to its promise to hold elections: At the beginning of March it had published the election law, though Colonel Khin Nyunt, the intelligence chief, continued to be evasive about the date, insisting that three conditions would have to be met—the restoration of law and order, regularization of public transport and an improvement in living standards—before they could be scheduled.
And if international opinion was to be a crucial factor in the respective strengths of the two sides—and the army’s deliberate shooting of foreign photographers during September’s atrocities suggested that the regime was acutely aware of and anxious about its international image—things were looking up. Suu, despite her strange name and the obscurity of her country, was beginning to make her mark.
Terry McCarthy of the Independent had got on friendly terms with her back in September, and his paper had scooped the world with an important article she wrote the same month. But the first sign that she was beginning to attract wider attention came in January.
Steven Erlanger of the New York Times had first introduced American readers to Suu on January 9, 1989: “the charismatic forty-two-year-old daughter of the country’s independence leader,” he wrote, “symbolized” the NLD. He reported:
Two weeks ago, after only her second political trip outside Rangoon, to Moulmein in Mon state, thirteen local organizers of her party were arrested. Before the visit, the populace was ordered by loudspeaker not to come into the street to see Ms. Aung San Suu Kyi, not to cheer, give her flowers or shout the traditional Burmese “good health.” The warnings proved to be futile, however, as large crowds gathered and inundated her with blossoms.
“The authorities are still trying to deceive themselves,” Suu told Erlanger when he visited her at home. “If they’re able to face the truth, they must know that this is a great upsurge of popular feeling against an oppressive regime. Yet they keep going on about a communist conspiracy. There is no such thing. The utter lack of confidence in the authorities is very sad. But it is a reflection of how badly people have been treated. Once the waters of a revolution start flowing, you can’t push them back for ever . . .”
Two days later Erlanger returned to the subject in the long New York Times piece that probably did more than anything else to put her on the world map.4 “She gave the impression of a sensible politician,” he wrote, “articulate and straightforward.” If that was a little patronizing, by the end of the piece he was a signed-up fan. She was “charismatic, decisive, altogether admirable,” he gushed, “but also very lucky.” How so? He quoted an “adviser” to Suu pointing out that “everyone talks about democracy, but this is Asia, and what many people think of her has little to do with democracy. It’s like Benazir Bhutto or Corazon Aquino.”
Suu laughed at the remark, he said. “I’ve always accepted that,” she replied. “I don’t pretend that I don’t owe my position in Burmese politics to my father . . . I’m doing this for my father. I’m quite happy that they see me as my father’s daughter. My only concern is that I prove worthy of him.”
Suu seemed to understand well, Erlanger wrote, that “Burma’s military must be preserved as a united institution if the country is to achieve democracy of any sort.”
She told him, “I know a split army is against the interests of the nation. In the end we need their cooperation to get where we want, so the people can get what they want with the least amount of suffering. We just want what my father wanted: a professional army that understands that a really honorable army doesn’t engage in politics.” She was to remind people in many different forums that her father had set his nation a fine example when he resigned his army commission—from the army he himself had founded—to fight independent Burma’s first general election, refusing even to take his army pension.
“I have a rapport with the army,” she told Erlanger, “I was brought up to regard them as friends. So I can’t feel the same sort of hostility to them that the people now feel. And while I understand this anger, I find it very, very sad.”
She explained how her involvement in politics had in the end been inescapable. “I obviously had to think about it,” she said, “but my instinct was, ‘this is not a time when anyone who cares can stay out.’ As my father’s daughter, I felt I had a duty to get involved.” The decision was a long time coming: For the first four months after arriving in the country, she told Erlanger, even after Michael joined her from England, she slept alongside her mother in hospital. But with her growing political commitments, that became impossible—which was “the only thing,” she said, that made her wonder if she was making the right choice. “But I’m sure this is what [my mother] would have wanted,” she said. She recalled her mother’s iron self-discipline after hearing that Suu’s younger brother had died in a drowning accident in a pond at the family home. “She stayed and finished her work,” she said.
That difficult memory brought her round inevitably to the subject she has veered away from in every interview since, and which has long provided fuel of various sorts to her enemies: her commitment to her own family, in particular to her sons Alex and Kim. “Obviously you have to put the family second,” she said. “But the kids are at an important age. Really families need to be together all the time.” She paused, then said, “. . . My mother was very ill,” and here a tear ran down her cheek, “it was important to be here with her.”
It was the conundrum in which she was caught. Her bond to her mother had brought her running across the world to nurse her. But now a family bond which was even more commanding—the care and nurture she owed her sons, both at crucial, tender ages—had been cast off—in favor of what?
As Ma Thanegi’s diaries reveal, Suu did harbor doubts in those early days—though if she shared with her friend the agony she felt in being separated from her family, Ma Thanegi, writing the diary for Michael’s consumption, was tactful enough to keep it to herself. But the only way to deal with doubt, if you did not intend to surrender to it, was to live your new commitment to the full, holding nothing back at all. The most terrifying test was yet to come.
*
The day after Suu’s rare confession that she felt tired they were off again, once more to the Irrawaddy Delta, which drew them as a flame draws a moth throughout the early months of 1989. Here, in the sodden hinterland of the capital, the expectant crowds were huge—but matched by a fierceness of repression seen nowhere else in the country.
Ma Thanegi wrote in her diary,
March 24, left Rangoon 6 AM by boat . . . At Htan Manaing village had to eat lunch in five minutes because someone said he had already told the abbot of the monastery that we were coming and there was no time to waste. Then on to Wa Balauk Thauk village in small boats, along streams winding through swamp-like jungle country, very much like the Vietcong country we have seen in movies. Ma Ma said how Kim would love it.
Reached Kim Yang Gaung in evening but no one came out of their houses. The whole place deserted, people peeping from deep inside darkened huts, only a few dogs going about their business. Learned that a local man who was democratic-minded was shot dead through forehead by army sergeant or corporal one week ago.
From there a long cart ride to Let Khote Kon. Easier to have gone on by boat but one of the NLD organizers felt we should visit that place and he was right. Ma Ma made speech in compound of a dainty little old lady named Ma Yin Nu. A very big crowd. I gave Ma Yin Nu a photo of Ma Ma . . .
Equally long cart ride back to boat, though it felt longer. Soon it became very dark. We never saw such large stars. As usual I pestered Ma Ma, telling her the names of my favorites. Halfway along our cart met a bunch of armed soldiers, five or six, who rudely called out to us, asking who we were, where we were going etc. There were about six carts in our caravan, our boys were traveling behind us but immediately they brought their cart up and parked it between us and the soldiers . . .
Back on boat at 8:30 PM and found out that we couldn’t leave because it was overloaded with people—NLD people from the villages we had visited had come along for the ride. Damn. And the tide was going out. Our luggage in Kunchangon where we thought we would stay the night. We slept on moored boat, one corner partitioned off with two mosquito nets where Ma Ma and I curled up unwashed.
March 25: boat left very early with the tide. We arrived in Kunchangon at 4:30, staggered sleepily and dirtily into village, rested a bit then bath and breakfast and on to Ingapu by car.
Back in January when they were in this area the local army commander, Brigadier Myint Aung, had done everything in his power to stop their party from meeting the local people: Suu had told Michael she was having a “battle royal” with him. Now they were on the opposite bank to his headquarters, and none of them had forgotten the feud.
“On the way out to the Irrawaddy river we passed Dedaye on the other side of the bank,” Ma Thanegi wrote, “and since it is in Irrawaddy division we talked wistfully about how nice it would be to drop in unexpectedly and annoy Myint Aung, the very tough guy who hates NLD. Toyed with the idea of placing large raft in middle of the river, the boundary line between Rangoon and Irrawaddy divisions, and holding a rally there, people would come in boats and if Myint Aung appeared would slide over to the Rangoon side.
An hour after passing Dedaye, a boat with two NLD men caught up with us, both hopping mad that we passed close to Dedaye without stopping because they’d been told that we would stop. Utter bewilderment and confusion. Found out they had been assured last night that we would stop and nobody told us anything. They were actually jumping up and down in fury. So back we went to Dedaye where Ma Ma had to go on land to make a speech to hundreds waiting patiently.
They had trespassed on Myint Aung’s patch after all, without even planning to. “We were delayed by two hours, but we enjoyed that unexpected fulfillment of our wishes. Back on boat we talked about how mad Myint Aung would be.” As they puttered back to Rangoon’s Pansodan Jetty and home, they laughed at the brigadier and his rages. Less than a fortnight later the joke would backfire on them, with nearly fatal consequences.
*
The harshest season of the year was upon them: The mildness of Burma’s brief winter was only a memory, the relief of the monsoon still a month or more away. The water festival of Thingyan, the Burmese New Year, the time when everyone soaks everyone else and all bonds of manners and hierarchy are briefly relaxed, was still weeks ahead; beyond that, a month or more of fierce heat awaited them—and, for Suu and her colleagues, weeks of frantic traveling and organizing.5
Back at home, Ma Thanegi squeezed the chores of everyday life into a few quiet hours but Suu hardly stopped to draw breath:
March 26: I stayed home, did laundry etc, firmly requesting Ma Ma to rest as I left. Not having much faith in her I called in during the afternoon to find out she was holding a press conference which had actually been scheduled for the next day. I rushed over but it was a wonderful show . . .
March 29: Ma Ma upstairs for hours. I thought she was resting but she was cleaning out bedroom and came down at intervals with loads of papers, photos, cards etc and looking apologetic.
More party members were being arrested: The persecution of democratic activists was already growing familiar. And, as Ma Thanegi noted, word of the growing discord between students and their elders inside the party had reached the outside world.
“April 3: In evening met with families of NLD members arrested in Mon state . . . Ma Ma saw Asiaweek article about split between students and NLD . . . Someone denied having sent out an open letter about the split . . .”
The next day Suu, Ma Thanegi and their convoy were on the road again, back to the Irrawaddy Delta for the fourth time since January—heading for the encounter which would imprint forever an image of almost unbelievable courage on Suu’s name.
“April 4: left home at 5:30 and had to wait for an hour at Insein jetty. We took two cars, Tiger’s car and a green pickup. Arrived at Meizali village, army said we could not stay there.” They set off again, stopping by the roadside to drink sugar-cane juice while they waited for the green pickup, which had fallen behind, to catch up.
Leaving Rangoon they had driven almost due west; at Meizali they joined a river which they now followed as far as the next village, Hsar Malauk: “A long village,” Ma Thanegi recalled, her descriptive powers failing her for once, with “a nice loo.” “Ma Ma stood on a table at the front door of the NLD office,” she added, “to address public.”
But trouble was brewing again.
Near end of her speech two cars arrived and parked on either side of the crowd, and started blaring on about decree law 2/88 etcetera [the martial law provision banning public assemblies, of which Suu and her party were flagrantly in breach everywhere they went] and making such a racket. Ma Ma talked through this and the crowd which had until that point listened in silence started clapping and cheering and whistling. Then one car after another in turn repeated the announcements. We all made a show of listening carefully, Ma Ma included, turning our heads to each car in turn, then when one of them was a bit delayed Ma Ma called out “Aren’t you going to start?”—at which they gave up and went away.
Ma Ma said goodbye to crowd and we went home to lunch. A lot of reserve firefighters and people’s voluntary forces standing around but looking sympathetic. Lovely lunch of nice seafood—sellers in market had cut prices to get rid of their wares faster so they could listen to the speech. Ma Ma able to rest in the afternoon, boys had football match on the beach in evening. Lovely dinner also, fish, fish.
Next day they left Hsar Malauk and drove north alongside a waterway so broad you could barely see the far side, to the township of Danubyu, where in 1824, during the First Burma War, the Burmese Army had lost a critical battle to the British. The authorities here, under Suu’s old enemy Brigadier Myint Aung, had decided to make things difficult for them. As at the village of Kim Yang Gaung, which they had visited on March 24th, the army had ordered the population at gunpoint to stay indoors—though not all obeyed. And at the entrance to the town Suu’s convoy was stopped and told they could not drive through the town’s main street but must take a different, circuitous route to reach the party’s office.
“April 5,” Ma Thanegi wrote, “arrived in Danubyu and found there were certain roads which we were not allowed to pass through. They had given us a longer alternative route.” The two sides parlayed tensely over the arbitrary restriction, until Suu discovered the perfect loophole, an excellent legalistic reason why they could not obey: The new route “unfortunately meant we had to go the wrong way down a one-way street. Ma Ma firmly said we must not break traffic rules, so joyfully Tiger turned into the forbidden road leading to the market past cheering crowds and then to NLD office. Local SLORC secretary followed and parked a little way off, looking furious.” Win Thein, one of the student bodyguards, remembered seeing scores of soldiers lined up in front of the party office, guns at the ready.
The officer in charge of the troops, Captain Myint U, acting under the orders of Myint Aung, told Suu that Danubyu was under martial law and that she was therefore forbidden to address the public. Suu was obliged to compromise. “Ma Ma made a speech inside NLD office, then we all left the office to walk to a jetty nearby, intending to take a boat to some of the outlying villages.” With the local supporters who had joined them, Win Thein remembers there being some eighty people in the group—but under the dire regime of Brigadier Myint Aung, even walking in a group was a violation of martial law. “As we walked along, SLORC followed in a car warning us not to walk in a procession,” Ma Thanegi wrote in her diary. “Three warnings were given to the effect that if we did not break up they would shoot to kill.”
It was the first time they had been subject to such a direct threat to their lives.
“Order was given to load and aim. Arms loudly loaded by soldiers standing near officers as we passed and we looked calmly at them and walked on. Ma Ma told one soldier, ‘Hey, they are telling you to load, aren’t you going to, soldier?’ They raised their rifles on first warning but after that we were at jetty and already on boats.”
They were on the water, and safe. “Stopped at villages, glorious lunch which I sat through with gritted teeth while party supporters recited two poems. With the exception of very few I would like to hit poets who are writing poetry, usually very bad, about doing this and doing that in the movement and reading them aloud . . .”
The military presence did not stop at the town limit. “Armed soldiers all along the way,” Ma Thanegi wrote. “Two majors followed in their own boat and one soldier on it grinned and nodded several times when we waved at him.”
Despite all the intimidation they had experienced in Danubyu, they planned to return to the town in the evening and spend the night. Not everyone in the party thought this was a good idea: Win Thein says that he was among the voices urging Suu to pass the town by and land further downriver; their cars could drive down from Danubyu and pick them up there. But Suu insisted on sticking to the original program.
Sure enough, the army was there on their return to the town, in the form of a single guard, forbidding them to disembark. “Came back to Danubyu at 6 pm,” Ma Thanegi wrote, “when armed and lone soldier tried to stop us from landing. But we said no we are landing. You mustn’t come on land, he said, yes we will we said. And we did.”
They set off through the almost deserted streets to walk back to the NLD office for dinner. But even though the market was long closed and the townspeople were indoors, the army was still determined to impede their progress. “On the way we were told by one military policeman that the road in front of market was not allowed to us.” The order seemed ridiculous to Suu—just another attempt to bully and humiliate them. “Market closed by that time and streets almost deserted. Route given quite a bit longer . . .” Again Suu flatly ignored the army’s command. “Ma Ma said ‘We’ll take shorter one.’ MP shouting angrily after us as we passed him.”
By now the sense of danger was acute. “I quickened pace to get ahead of Ma Ma and boys . . . I managed to get right out in front beside Bo Lwin, our very tall, very dark and very nice cameraman and Win Thein, our hot-tempered bodyguard who was carrying the flag.” Meanwhile an army jeep roared up and screeched to a halt at the end of the road down which they were walking.
I kept one eye on Win Thein and one on Captain Myint U, who had halted his jeep at the top of the road. Six or seven soldiers jumped down from the jeep and took positions, three or four kneeling, three standing. The kneeling chaps pointing guns somewhat low, at our midriffs, standing ones guns pointed upwards. Someone on jeep turned on a song about army not breaking up etcetera—we had heard the same song played from afar this morning as Ma Ma spoke at Danubyu’s NLD office.
A furious captain swung around to shout and the music stopped in one bar. I felt a bit giggly at this but only for a moment. Captain Myint U came towards us, one arm outstretched and finger wagging, shouting at us to stop walking in procession.
People react to terrifying situations in unpredictable ways. Ma Thanegi’s reaction was to get angry herself. “How the hell did this fool expect our group of forty to walk?” she wrote. “Indian file and ten paces apart? We were just hungry, hot and longing to rest. I thought I had better tell this fool the true meaning of 2/88, and called out to him that I would like to talk with him. I shouted this several times but he didn’t hear, he was too intent on shouting to Ma Suu that he would shoot if people blocked road.”
Suu now offered a compromise. “Ma Ma called out to us to walk at the sides of the road—I didn’t hear because I myself was still shouting at the captain. But somebody came up beside me and pushed me towards the side of the road.”
Suu herself recalled,
In front of me was a young man holding our NLD flag. We were walking behind him in the middle of the street heading home for the night, that’s all. Then we saw the soldiers across the road, kneeling with their guns trained on us. The captain was shouting to us to get off the road. I told the young man with the flag to get away from the front, because I didn’t want him to be the obvious target. So he stepped to the side. They said . . . they were going to fire if we kept on walking in the middle of the road. So I said, “Fine, all right, we’ll walk on the side of the road . . .” And they all moved to the sides.6
But for the irate young captain, the gesture was too little, too late. “Captain Myint U said he would still shoot if we were walking at the sides of the road,” Ma Thanegi wrote.
At this point Ma Ma walked out into the middle of the road, the boys after her, and by that time she was so close to the soldiers that she brushed past them. They stood petrified, clutching their arms to their chests and looking pale.
I had such a stab of sick fear when I saw her pass through but within seconds she was safe.
Just before this I vaguely heard someone shouting, “Don’t do it Myint U, don’t do it Myint U!” and I thought it was one of our NLD people, not knowing it was one of the majors who had been ambling behind after us.” She learned later that his name was Major Maung Tun of 1-08 battalion. “He came up running and ordered Myint U not to fire—the captain tore off his epaulettes, hopping around in the dust raised by our group and his own feet and shouting, “What are these for, what are these for?”
I listened for a few minutes thinking he was speaking to us but then realized it was not so. Then I followed Ma Ma and others home to the NLD office . . .
Why did Suu walk back into the middle of the road, risking death? She explained that the captain’s rejection of her proposal to walk at the side of the road struck her as “highly unreasonable.” “I thought, if he’s going to shoot us even if we walk at the side of the road, well, perhaps it is me they want to shoot. I thought, I might as well walk in the middle of the road . . . . I was quite cool-headed. I thought, what does one do? Does one turn back or keep going? My thought was, one doesn’t turn back in a situation like that.”7 In a later interview she said of that split-second decision, “It seemed so much simpler to provide them with a single target . . .”8
She added, “I don’t think I’m unique in that.” In situations of sudden danger, “you can’t make up your mind in advance what you’ll do; it’s a decision you have to make there and then. Do I stand or run? Whatever you may have thought before, when it comes to the crunch, when you’re actually faced with that kind of danger, you have to make up your mind on the spot . . . and you never know what decision you will take.”
She remembered noticing the reaction of the soldiers who had been aiming at her. “We just walked through the soldiers who were kneeling there. And I noticed that some of them, one or two, were actually shaking and muttering to themselves, but I don’t know whether it was out of hatred or nervousness.”
It was this incident which, more than any other, created the mystique of Aung San Suu Kyi, while at the same time—in this land of the zero-sum game—effectively dismantling that of the army. If anyone still doubted that she was her father’s daughter, true-born child of the man who had defied both the British and the Japanese and come out on top, they could doubt it no more. When, on July 19, 1947, assassins burst into the conference chamber where he was holding a cabinet meeting, Aung San’s response—as instinctive as Suu’s in Danubyu—was to stand up and face them: Their bullets tore apart his chest. That was heroism, and returning to the middle of the road in Danubyu and keeping on walking was heroism, too. Suu may be right in saying that she is not “unique” in the way she reacted to a moment of grave peril, but her whole prior life had been a preparation for that moment.
“Ma Suu and I were once tidying the glass-fronted cabinets where [her mother] Daw Khin Kyi’s clothes were kept,” Ma Thanegi later recalled. “She took out a white scarf with a large patch of dried blood on it, and said that when her father died all her mother could say was, ‘There was so much blood! There was so much blood!’
“It was her father’s blood. I broke out in goose pimples; I was trembling, with tears in my eyes, to be touching the blood of our martyr, our hero, our god. That must be the most memorable moment of my life.”
Word of what had happened and what had so nearly happened helped to consolidate Suu’s reputation among the deeply superstitious Burmese public, many of whom now began to consider her a female bodhisattva, an angel, a divine being. The fact that she had survived the army’s attempt to kill her was proof positive of her high spiritual attainment: only someone “invulnerable to attack,” “guarded by deities” and “subject to adoration” could have come through alive.9 She was “a heroine like the mythical mother goddess of the earth,” one admirer wrote three years later, “who can free [us] from the enslavement of the evil military captors.”10
In January Suu had told the New York Times reporter, “I don’t want a personality cult; we’ve had enough dictators already.” But it didn’t really matter whether she wanted it or not. Now she would be stuck with it, forever.