Teachers are paid the equivalent of $8 a month. Doctors are paid $15.

"It's not changing the regime," a Yangon intellectual said. "It's just making life difficult for people."

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Officially, one in three children suffers from malnutrition; the real number may be much higher, putting the country on par with some of the most destitute nations in Africa. HIV is rampant.

"It's a desperate situation, and people are dying," said one international aid official who questions whether sanctions are doing any good. "The people are beautiful and kind. It's heartbreaking to see them suffer the way they do, especially the children."

Myanmar's isolation from the West has kept the country in a kind of time warp where many traditions remain intact.

Most men wear a longyi, a sarong-like garment that reaches nearly to the ankles. Women and children wear a striking yellow sunscreen that is made from the bark of the thanaka tree. Women spread thanaka on their cheeks in circles, rectangles or swirls, sometimes to stunning effect.

In central Yangon, life spills onto the streets. Families set up little kitchens in the roadway. Women sit in busy avenues selling vegetables. On the sidewalks, craftsmen make signs and mend clothes or umbrellas. Some shopkeepers run generators on the sidewalk to cope with power outages. Others set up small tables with telephones, charging 10 cents a call. Children claiming to be orphans beg for money.

Corruption has reportedly invaded nearly every aspect of commerce.

At the post office, people mailing a letter tip the clerk so she will mark the stamp instead of peeling it off and selling it. At hospitals, patients pay orderlies so they can see a doctor. "Even if blood is pumping from your artery, unless you tip the gurney operator, you will die on the stretcher," a diplomat said.

More overtly, the regime maintains control through countless restrictions. Anyone who allows guests to stay overnight must report their names to the police.

Access to Internet sites is limited and e-mail is delayed so government minders have time to read it. There are few cellphones, and foreign publications are censored.

Some people get around it, including Internet users who have become expert at accessing restricted websites. Others listen to the BBC and Voice of America on radio despite the ban. Illegal satellite dishes have sprouted from rooftops, allowing millions to watch overseas broadcasts.

Security in Yangon has been tighter than ever since May 7, when bombs exploded minutes apart at two shopping malls and a trade show. By official count, 23 people were killed and more than 160 were injured. The government has blamed the blasts on pro-democracy activists, the CIA and the Thai government. No suspects have been arrested.

Perhaps because of the Buddhist tradition of patience, or perhaps because resistance seems futile, the people of Myanmar wait quietly, work to feed their families and wish for the regime to collapse. Some hope reincarnation will free them from their hardships.

"In my next life," said a 47-year-old worker, "I want to come back in another country."

After Suu Kyi's arrest in 2003, there was talk of a compromise that might lead to her release. But since the arrest of Khin Nyunt, the most Westernized of the generals, there has been no negotiation. The last time a United Nations envoy visited Suu Kyi was 15 months ago.

The leaders of her political party, many of them retired generals from her father's era, plan to mark her 60th birthday by making large donations of food to Buddhist monasteries.

If Suu Kyi sticks to her regimen, she will rise early on her birthday to meditate. She might spend time with the two maids who live in the house and look after her. She is unlikely to have any chocolate, which she loves, or play the piano, which is said to be broken.

As always, anyone who approaches Suu Kyi's house will be stopped at police checkpoints, and army photographers will take their pictures before sending them away or arresting them.

But if her experience in detention is any guide, Suu Kyi will spend the day with the sense of celebration that comes from standing up for what she believes is right.

"You know, I always felt free," she said in a 1996 interview with the Los Angeles Times after her first six years in detention.

"I felt free when I was under house arrest because it was my choice. I chose to do what I'm doing and because of that I found peace within myself. And I suppose that is what freedom is all about."