The author is a Kayah journalist who is receiving support from The Kite Tales to write these diaries.
Because I have a small child, waking up in the middle of the night has become a habit for me. That day, when I woke up around four in the morning, I automatically picked up the phone that was lying on the bedside table. These days, this is what we all do - grab the phone as soon as you wake up. If you can’t find it, you search frantically and once you’ve got it, you don’t feel satisfied until you have opened Facebook and scrolled through the feed.
But that morning, when I switched on the phone, there was no connection. No phone lines. No Internet. I turned the phone on and off to see if it was broken, or the SIM card had a problem. I switched to another SIM card.
Worried now, I went around the house checking the phones of the rest of the family. They were the same.
It was the morning of February 1, 2021, and I thought the military must have seized power in a coup.
It was just a rumor last month. Now it had come true.
“Get up! Get up! There’s been a coup!” I shouted as I ran around the house.
It was still before dawn when we drove to our city's busiest open air market at Demoso to stock up on things we might need in the coming days. But when we got there we were faced with a large number of soldiers blocking the road to the market. They forced us to turn around.
My heart was pounding. I wondered what they would check if we did try to pass. I decided to try a different route to get around the checkpoint. But I didn’t know where else we’d encounter these troops.
When I reached the market, I stared around me in amazement. There were only a few vendors from the neighborhood, virtually no one else had made it into the network of stalls. We shared whatever information we had, our heads full of questions. With no no telephone connection, we could only pass on the news that we had face-to-face. It was like we were transported back to the days before 2010, when we had never held a cell phone in our hands before.
The vendors said the military had blocked the market vans coming from the Kayah capital Loikaw and shared the locations of roadblocks and patrols. I noticed fear on their faces.
We found an uncle who often takes a walk in the mornings through the market and used his radio. Together we heard the announcement of the coup d'état, citing vote rigging in the 2020 elections as a reason. They were reverting back to the bad old system, that no one could be happy in.
Afterwards on the Loikaw-Demoso highway, we saw military vans full of armed soldiers, guns at the ready. There were tanks. Was it a show of strength?? I don’t know. They drove back and forth in front of our houses. I wanted to take some pictures but I did not dare. I was scared so I just stood in front of the house unobtrusively and observed what was going on.
A few days later, the whole city, the whole nation, heard the cries of the people pouring out onto the streets and demanding three common things - the scrapping of the military dictatorship, the release of detained leaders and the establishment of federal democracy.
Our daily lives were already full of frustrations caused by the pandemic. The coup and the need to avoid the pursuit of the military junta compounded our problems. I can still see people running on the streets of Demoso on May 21 amid the sound of heavy artillery fire.
Three months after the coup, soldiers raided our house. How can I forget the day?
An acquaintance called me while I was out.
“Soldiers and police have surrounded your home and are searching for you. They took away all of your belongings,” they told me.
Luckily I had already moved to another place with my family just before the raid. But that night, we left our temporary shelter and ventured into the unfamiliar jungle, with young children in tow.
Before the coup d'état and COVID-19, I had a life with family, children, with regular work and office life. My husband had a shop and my parents looked after our children. During holidays we would travel to famous landmarks as a family. This has been completely destroyed.
Now I have no security at all. A year after the military coup I am homeless, my children have no future and we are forced to live wherever we can.
Despite all this, I am trying to be positive and optimistic.
While running away from the junta, I have spent time with refugees who fled war. Using the phone that is still in my hands, I am still working as a reporter, documenting the experiences and difficulties of the refugees as well as my own experiences, so that the world will know what’s happening in Myanmar. I’m also continuing to write about the lives of young people and their families who have joined the revolution.
Many are not only unemployed but also homeless. Some no longer have their full families. Others cannot return home, or are in prison. Some are in the jungle.
The future is uncertain. The tears have dried up. I look forward to the day when this dictatorship is eradicated and families will be able to return home. Together.
Top illustration by JC. Second illustration courtesy of Art for Freedom (Myanmar).
