The author is a journalist from Shan State. They received support from The Kite Tales to write these diaries.
I arrived alone, spotting three fellow journalists from another news outlet in the growing, agitated crowd of young people.
“If we have to run or something, please let me know,” I told them. I wasn’t familiar with this Shan State town that had become a focal point for the anti-coup movement during the dry season of 2021, and didn’t know the best escape routes.
It didn’t take long. While I was busy taking photos and videos from various angles, trying to capture the atmosphere of the protest, a caravan of police and military vehicles pulled up.
Despite the fact that the security forces were heavily armed, the protesting crowd refused to back down, shouting: "We don't want military dictatorship! Return power to the people!"
Minutes later, soldiers and police started firing tear gas into the crowd. The protesters had come prepared with buckets of water and soaking wet clothing, which they used to extinguish the tear gas canisters while slowly retreating and continuing to chant.
But the tear gas kept coming until it was so dense that the billowing smoke obscured everything before me. My eyes stung, and tears streamed down my face as I started having difficulty breathing.
I saw flashes of police and soldiers raising their guns and firing live rounds into the crowd, until the thick gas and tears running down my face obscured everything. The crowd scattered, running for safety. I blindly stumbled forward, following the heels of the person in front of me, all I could see through the haze of tear gas.
I lost sight of my fellow journalists, but caught glimpses of the chaos unfolding through momentary gaps in the smoke. I briefly took shelter in a residential home, where an injured protester was carried. After cleaning their wounds, an ambulance arrived and took them away.
The police and soldiers continued to fire tear gas indiscriminately, not only into the streets but also into monastery compounds, school grounds, and private residences, where protesters were hiding.
Along with four or five other young men and women, I hid silently in someone's house for nearly an hour. We kept quiet, listening intently to our surroundings. When the sounds of chaos mostly died down, people started leaving one by one, until only a young woman and I remained.
Feeling awkward about overstaying our welcome in a stranger’s house – especially one who had risked arrest to shelter us – we sat on the concrete ledge of a drainage ditch outside the gate. After a while, I checked our perimeter, informing my companion that the immediate area was clear. She walked home through an alleyway, leaving me alone. The problem was, my motorcycle was parked where the soldiers were stationed, and my home was too far to walk.
What’s more, my motorcycle helmet had "PRESS" prominently displayed on it. What should have protected me instead made me a target. The regime had been increasingly treating journalists as criminals to be arrested, or worse, as enemy combatants to be gunned down in cold blood.
I anxiously paced up and down the block for a while, before finally deciding to take the risk.I wrapped my rain jacket around the helmet to cover the press insignia and started walking over to my motorbike.
Only my motorcycle and the soldiers remained. My heart skipped a beat with worry,but I remained composed, acting like nothing had happened. I unlocked my motorcycle calmly, and slowly drove away. Once the soldiers were out of sight, I revved the engine, speeding away as fast as I could. I had escaped.
The artwork is by Songbird who is receiving support from The Kite Tales to produce illustrations.
