By Bywar Oo / MPA May 27, 2026
“I had to carry my own stock and load it onto their truck myself. I only dare to complain to my husband at home; I didn’t even dare look up at them,” says Daw Cho (not her real name), her voice trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and suppressed rage.
At 75 years old, Daw Cho is a veteran of Yangon’s streets, having spent over half a century selling goods on the pavements to sustain her family. Yet today, she finds herself facing an unprecedented crisis—one she describes as the worst period in her entire life.
Under the banner of junta chief Min Aung Hlaing’s “100-Day Plan,” the municipal authorities have launched an aggressive campaign aimed at completely eradicating street vendors from Myanmar’s commercial capital. In reality, this beautification drive has turned working-class citizens, including the elderly like Daw Cho, into collateral damage.
‘Hunting Down’ Livelihoods
On May 19, harrowing scenes unfolded near the Shan Road Market on Sanchaung Township’s central Central Boulevard. Municipal workers—acting as enforcement agents for the military regime—swooped in with overwhelming force to clear the streets. Daw Cho’s family did not even have time to pack up their heavy baskets filled with fresh mangoes before municipal officers confiscated everything.
“They told us we couldn’t redeem our goods because it’s a special operation. They took everything, right down to the wooden planks we sit on. Even the 12 hands of bananas hanging from the post were seized,” Daw Cho recalls, tears welling in her eyes. “When I asked how long this crackdown would last, they told me it could be three months, a year, or a lifetime. We can’t make a living anymore. Our only choice left is to beg.”
The Yangon City Development Committee’s (YCDC) Market and Administration Departments have been enforcing this 100-Day Plan for over a month, leaving a trail of economic devastation. While city officials previously allowed vendors to reclaim seized assets upon paying a fine, the current operation enforces permanent confiscations. For already impoverished vendors, losing their entire inventory means losing their capital, trapping them deeper in a vicious cycle of debt.
“They told us we couldn’t redeem our goods because it’s a special operation… We can’t make a living anymore. Our only choice left is to beg.”
An Unsolved Urban Equation
The friction between street vendors and the authorities is not a new phenomenon in Myanmar. Successive governments have attempted to clear the pavements, but none have truly succeeded. Daw Than Nwye, another veteran vendor, remembers the harsh clampdowns during the previous military dictatorship in the 1990s.
“Back then, it wasn’t just fines—you could face prison time,” she says. “I’ve been doing this since the municipal days. Street vendors, municipal workers, and trishaw drivers have always had a love-hate relationship through every era. But no matter what they do, they can never completely eliminate us. Once vendors find a viable spot, they dig in. Dislodging them permanently is nearly impossible.”
However, the scale of the issue has escalated dramatically since the 2021 military coup. With the national economy in freefall, hyperinflation soaring, and formal job opportunities vanishing, hundreds of thousands of citizens have turned to the informal street economy as a desperate last resort.
Past democratic administrations attempted to mitigate the issue by constructing multi-story market halls and designated night markets in townships like East Dagon, Ahlone, Kyimyindaing, Thaketa, Hlaing Tharyar, Insein, and Mayangone. Yet, because both vendors and buyers prefer the convenience of established roadside locations, the numbers never dwindled.
Regulation vs. Extortion
Urban planners often point to neighboring Thailand, where street food is celebrated as a vital cultural asset and a major tourist draw. Experts argue that instead of outright bans, Yangon could introduce a structured registration or licensing system focused on maintaining health, safety, and hygiene standards while designating legal trading zones.
Admittedly, the current crackdown does have some supporters among local residents who argue that unregulated vending exacerbates Yangon’s notorious traffic congestion and blocks drainage systems.
But under the current regime, the focus appears less on public order and more on exploitation. Vendors report that plainclothes individuals—unmarked by any official municipal uniform—patrol the streets daily to extort “street fees” by force, regardless of whether a vendor has made a single sale.
In a country where basic human rights are systematically denied by a military dictatorship, these informal workers remain entirely unprotected.
The Endless Game of Cat and Mouse
Back on the pavement, Daw Cho suddenly glances around nervously. “Here come the vultures again,” she whispers. Down the road, a municipal truck bearing down swiftly on their position.
Instantly, Daw Cho and a handful of nearby vendors scramble to gather their baskets in a frantic rush, muttering curses under their breath.
“When we see them coming, we grab our baskets and run. When they leave, we set up again. It’s an endless cycle of ducking into alleys and coming back out,” she says.
This is the grim reality of daily life on Yangon’s pavements—an endless, exhausting game of survival between a desperate working class and the enforcement apparatus of a ruthless regime.
