My Story
By Ningja Khon
The coup
In the first week of January 2021, in response to the word on the street about a looming coup in Myanmar, people began to mock the military chief Min Aung Hlaing on social media, with many girls posting, “Please seize me instead.” In the run-up to the November 2020 election, we dreaded that the military might sabotage the whole election itself. No one took the rumours seriously in January anymore. Why would the military, which had more power than the civilian government constitutionally and in reality, need a putsch? After all, the military and their cronies had been enjoying numerous privileges, including the wealth they had amassed over the past 30 years.
As soon as I switched on my phone on the morning of 1 February, messages about the coup popped up in group chats. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I immediately checked for reliable news. I heard that the Karen State minister had been apprehended in the middle of an interview with a Western media outlet. People who had been roundly ridiculed for reminding others that the military could come back to their previous position were now vindicated. For most of us, it took days to come to terms with the fact that the military generals had put an end to all kinds of development we, the numerous civil society actors and stakeholders, had built up over the past ten years.
I worked for an international non-governmental organisation (INGO). Security for our staff members and data became our top priority following the coup. We had to delete sensitive data from our personal computers and from our phones. All of a sudden keeping human rights reports became unsafe for all of us. Some documents were burnt. We took all necessary precautions such as installing a VPN (Virtual Private Network) on our devices and switching to more secure email clients and laptops. From mid-February, none of our staff members were allowed to use laptops or office computers. We relied on encrypted apps, such as Signal, for our communications.
After that, we were on a very important and risky mission to save Myanmar—we got in touch with protest leaders as well as members of the ousted parliament (Committee Representing Pyidaungsu Hluttaw, CRPH). Within days of the coup, we were providing financial and technical support to a plethora of protest groups across the country.
Bart Was Not Here (Kyaw Moe Khine), Dancing on Your Grave [2021]
Image description: A diptych of two brunette cherubs with greying hair flying over a green mountainous landscape. The cherub on the left is holding a homemade bomb made out of PVC pipe, battery, circuit board, and a phone. The cherub on the right is holding a grenade and Holy Hand Grenade from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The poses of the figures resemble Asian mythical creatures "Kinnari and Kinnara".
The protests
Having handed out a lot of cash to protest leaders in Yangon, I knew it would be unwise to go back to my flat. For a few weeks in February and early March I was given shelter at the houses of some former political prisoners in and around Yangon. I didn’t stay at the same place for more than two consecutive nights. Later it got increasingly difficult to get around in Yangon. Sandbags and various other blockades appeared on the roads. Arson was commonplace. Getting a taxi was extremely difficult, even when one was prepared to pay an exorbitant price.
From sunrise to 11 pm, demonstrations raged on and on every single day from the second week of February, including the banging of pots and pans at 8 pm every night. I would usually participate in evening protests and sometimes daytime protests around Sule pagoda in downtown Yangon, along with hundreds of thousands of people. As I didn’t have a car, getting around Yangon was very difficult. Once I spent the whole night at a guesthouse just to go to a place that is normally ninety minutes away. The sounds of gunshots from the military checkpoints were everywhere.
I had been sleeping in different places on the outskirts of Yangon for a couple weeks now. Sometimes I would have to go back to my flat on the sly. I was looking after a 6-year-old niece and a 10-year-old nephew, and they had been left in my sister’s care. Whenever my sister had to go out for something, the children would be left alone, terrified by the sound of gunfire and explosions from the neighbourhood. My niece would call and ask me to come back. I couldn’t resist her. I sometimes went back home to stay with the kids for a couple nights. The houses of some of my colleagues had been raided three or four times, but my flat was off the junta’s radar since I no longer lived there.
The call
In the last week of February, acting on a tip from one of our partner organisations, I went to the office for the last time to collect all my personal belongings. I had a premonition that our office was endangered. I looked out from my office window for the last time. The view from my desk was still very pleasant; I could see a lake and a park. I liked my desk, especially in the monsoon season. It was nice to be at my desk, typing away on a long report, enjoying the sight and sound of the rain dripping down the large glass wall in front of me. After visiting the office, I went to stay at a different address for security reasons. I decided to get my waist-length hair cut. I had not been to a hairdresser since the COVID-19 restrictions were announced in Myanmar in March 2020.
One day, in the second week of March, when I was hiding in a Yangon suburb, a colleague called me on Signal. She had been out of touch for three or four days. All of us were worried about her. I was very happy to hear her voice. We were both chatting normally, until she began to ask some abnormal questions, "Did you distribute the money you were supposed to?” I said, “Of course.” Then she followed up with a question probing for details, “Your funds were this and that amount, right?”
I began to get suspicious. Why was she asking me questions she already knew the answers to? I had already submitted my report to the office finance team. After talking with her, I immediately reported to my team about our conversation. I alerted them that she might have been coerced to call me from a military interrogation centre.
Following that incident our office group chat was deleted. Now we were to communicate only with the security person assigned by the office. No individual staff member was allowed to call another on their own. The idea was that even if one of us were arrested, the junta would not be able to track us all down by following our communication chain. For about a month, I had no idea if any of my colleagues were safe. I could ask the security person, who was based abroad, about them, but they rarely gave me a full picture.
The raid
Our office was in a new high-rise in a business quarter in Yangon. It housed one of the first international retail shopping centres in Myanmar. We could get almost everything there: popular banks, retail shops carrying international brands, hypermarkets and department stores as well as local and international food and beverage outlets were all there. We shared the tenth floor with three other organisations, including a bank. The security at the building was very tight. CCTV cameras were everywhere. Visitors had to present their identity cards at the reception desk before entering the office building.
It was said that they raided our office at night on 10 March, a day or two after I received the dubious call from my colleague. When soldiers went to our office building, people suspected they were going up to the tenth floor to rob the bank. Security officers were forced to kneel down at gunpoint, their phones seized before they could report to anyone about the raid. The soldiers ordered that all CCTV cameras be turned off before they entered the office building. In an attempt to restore democracy in Myanmar, some of my colleagues worked relentlessly in our office until the night the office was raided. The military would search our office three more times afterward.
On 16 March, Myanmar Radio and Television (MRTV) announced that nine of our staff and two board members were on the list of arrest warrants on suspicion of lending financial support to anti-coup movements. The Burmese spelling of my name on the initial list was incorrect. When they made another announcement in April, they corrected the spelling. However, they still couldn’t identify my hometown in Kachin state. They just put a Kachin township name as my hometown next to my name. I felt awkwardly relieved that they didn’t get my details right.
Bart Was Not Here (Kyaw Moe Khine), Pleased To Meet You, Hope You- Guessed My Name [2021]
Image description: A faceless male figure standing in front of a rocky field with a fiery orange sky. The figure is painted in a bluish-grey tone and wearing a Manchu Chinese jacket called a taikpon eingyi over a mandarin collar shirt. The figure is carrying a short glass of brown liquid in one hand and half of his face is covered in dripping black liquid with a black wing sticking out of the left side of his face.
The western border
Moving around from one house to another became increasingly difficult by day. After I got that call from my co-worker, I thought that the military might have already known my whereabouts. I began to look for a safer place. I heard some Western embassies had been helping some people since mid- February. As I had completed my MA in Canberra, the very first embassy I thought of was Australian. I called the embassy at least four or five times. Each time they said that they didn’t have enough space and asked me to contact them later. I kept begging them to consider my case, but to no avail. When I reached the Australian embassy through an influential friend, they finally made it clear that they were unable to provide me with any sanctuary. My friend turned to the US embassy, which suggested I go to stay at their safe house outside Yangon. After a long journey, I arrived at the US embassy safe house, only to be told by the receptionist that the room was already taken.
A sense of despair kicked me in the head. I was carrying my travel bag, but I didn’t know where to go. I tried to check in at some hotels in the area, but they asked me to present my identity card. I knew that the hotels were required to submit their guest lists to the authorities. Since I couldn’t negotiate with any of the hotels, I walked around, my heart pounding heavily. Fortunately, I found a taxi and the driver suggested a hotel where his cousin worked as a receptionist. As soon as I checked into the hotel, I decided I had to use a new SIM card. I chewed the old SIM card and flushed it down the toilet. I switched to a Thai SIM card I got from one of the protest organisers in Yangon. Thai SIM cards were very popular; one could still access the internet with them even when the internet was blocked in Myanmar. We switched SIM cards at least every week. We knew the junta was twisting the arms of mobile telecommunication companies to use data spying software.
During those days on the run, my brain was on a 24-hour alert. It kept telling me how I should stay safe. I hadn’t been able to sleep at night since mid-February. My brain was always asking what I would do if the door was kicked open by a squad of men. I would normally fall asleep around six in the morning only after I saw the sunrise. One night, I decided to flee to a remote area, somewhere I thought would be safer, somewhere I could stay for a long time.
During the third week of March, I took a bus to Kalay, a town near the Indian border in Chin State, western Myanmar, around 450 miles northwest of Yangon, that a friend suggested would be safer for me. In Kalay, I thought I would be able to cross the border easily if something happened. However, as soon as I arrived, there was intense civil unrest. To prevent military trucks from coming into the town, the townspeople had blockaded the main road with campfires and sandbags.
The soldiers cleared the blockades every morning but new blockades were erected by the people every night. During the nights, vigilante groups of young men would be doing rounds in their own wards. Dogs would be barking all night long and I still could not sleep. My ears became very sharp. I could hear as soon as the vigilantes started to walk around the street where I was staying. Where would I flee if the authorities came to check the household members list? I could hide at the construction site in the same compound. I could dislodge the temporary ladder after I got to the top floor of the building under construction. People would laugh at my super plan.
In Kalay, I put my cooking skills to good use. I would go to the market and prepare lunch and dinner for the host family. I didn’t use my mobile phone or the internet. I didn’t communicate with my office either. My friends were worried sick after they saw my name on the wanted list on state media. My mom couldn’t call me directly. When I wanted to talk to my family, I used someone else’s phone.
I was even thinking of changing my identity in Kalay. I asked someone who knew the immigration official there if I could use a Catholic name on my new identity card. The official, who seemed a very honest man, declined my request. Then I thought of changing my career. My mind was restless. Maybe I should start a small business? I was thinking of buying local produce in Kalay. Maybe I could sell them in attractive packaging in Yangon. I just wanted to keep busy with something I could focus my mind on. I wouldn’t survive long without something to do. I went to the local market and checked what I could sell in Yangon. I took some pictures and asked my friends, who had a grocery shop in Australia, for some ideas. I was happy with my imaginary business, building a warehouse in Kalay where I could package food products.
By early April the anti-coup movement had escalated and intensified all over Myanmar. In Kalay, locals had been fighting back with tumis or “handmade muskets”. Demonstrators had been dying almost every day since March. On 7 April alone, the army killed eleven protestors and injured many others. Khu Khu, a woman activist from Women for Justice whom I knew was among the dead. I was about to go to her funeral, but her body was taken to another town.
On 9 April, an updated list of arrest warrants with our photos was announced on MRTV and in state-owned newspapers, which I learned from my office when I got back online. Friends had sent me the web links and photos of the news articles. A couple of days later, there were rumours that the military would be going door to door at night, searching for people like me. I was very concerned about my hosts. They too would be in trouble if I were found at their house. I had to move again. I gave up my budding business dream. At first I thought of crossing the border into India, but the Indian government’s position on Myanmar put me off. I would go instead to the Thailand-Burma border. We had been working with some human rights groups in Thailand for years.
Travelling from Kalay to Yangon proved to be another challenge. Local resistance fighters, People’s Defence Force (PDF), had destroyed bridges and in some places blockaded the roads with felled trees. One of the buses I was on got stuck in a river bank for many hours as the driver negotiated rough terrain and narrow cliff roads. Having to stop at numerous military checkpoints was even more terrifying. I wouldn’t pray normally, but in those days, I prayed hard, especially near military checkpoints. God must have heard me. I arrived in Yangon safely.
Bart Was Not Here (Kyaw Moe Khine), Self portrait [2021]
Image description: A portrait of a figure wearing a navy blue suit jacket and white mandarin collar shirt sits against a dark red background. The figure has long flowy white hair that is blowing upwards and their face is obstructed by a black mask with abstract white shapes.
The eastern border
As soon as I arrived in Yangon, I got in touch with my office security person. I sent a heads-up to my friends, who were based in a Thai border town, that I would soon be seeing them. I changed my hairstyle again.
On 11 April I set out from Yangon with a couple of activists for the eastern border in a bus. A few days before the mass shooting in Bago; at least sixty people had been reportedly killed but the actual death toll was believed to be much higher. The checkpoints were very strict—they rifled through everything we brought with us. I was travelling light, carrying a fake identity card, three dresses and some cash. They checked all our faces carefully against our identity cards, but the driver was known to the checkpoint authorities. They didn’t ask too many questions when they heard we were going to Thailand for the Thingyan Buddhist New Year (“Songkran” in Thai), which was on 17 April. By sheer luck, we were able to cross all the checkpoints to Hpa-an, the capital of Karen State, about 100 miles southeast from Yangon.
Once in Hpa-an, we were picked up at the carpark of a shopping mall by an activist from a resistance group. As soon as he saw us, he reproached us for being in nice clothes. He wanted us to blend in with the locals. I was in a long-sleeve top. I wouldn’t call it my most fashionable outfit. He remarked that my shirt didn’t look local, as if I would know what was trendy for local girls. Then he kindly drove us safely to our lodging in a border town, where we were welcomed by a team of helpful activists.
We waited for a good day to cross the border. There were a few other activists waiting to cross the border like us. Our hosts suggested that we dress like local farm workers who would routinely cross the border to work as labourers in Thailand. I needed a worn-out dress. I picked a pair of oversized pyjamas I found in a room, probably left behind by an activist. After three days waiting, we were dropped on the Moei riverbank on the Thai-Burma border. Two young men would lead us to the other side. All of our bags and belongings were left at the shelter. They only let us bring the most important items like cash and identity cards. I was in a pair of pyjamas, clutching a purse.
It was around 12 noon, lunch break for Thai border guards, the best time to cross the border. I was horrified as I learned we would have to walk across the river. I couldn’t swim. The river seemed smooth and stable, but the water seemed pretty deep. Fortunately, a former political prisoner literally lent a hand. All the time, I was hanging on to his arm all the way across the river and never once did my feet touch the riverbed.
Once on the other side, we were totally soaked, but we still had miles to go. We walked across a sugarcane farm, a corn farm, many vegetable farms and several muddy ponds. We were behind the two young men, one of whom would usually check the route and give us an all-clear sign, telling us to step forward. When the guide said “Now run!” we ran. When he ordered “Now hide!” we hid. At one point we remained in a bush until he gave us an all-clear signal. I felt like I had turned into a proper refugee, but would I ever know the real flight of refugees from war and other conflicts? Some men in our group had to carry some labourer items as a disguise. A prominent human rights activist was carrying a bag of charcoal on his shoulders, and he was quite convincing.
I was just carrying a small shopping bag, but I got very tired and thirsty under the midday sun. I thought I’d like to take a rest in the shade of a tree. I wanted to go back home. I didn’t want to run away like this. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I felt like I had surrendered my pride and dignity. I was very embarrassed to be in pyjamas in front of strangers. I had never worn pyjamas outside my house in my life. I was also dead scared of being caught in ungainly pyjamas by the Thai border patrol. What if they took us into custody and took photos. I felt like it was a mistake to have come to Thailand. I hope no one saw, but I secretly wept.
After a long walk across the farms, we waited in a tent at a pickup point. An hour or so later the cars arrived. We jumped in and were rushed to Mae Sot, a Thai border town. That night was the very first night in a few months I managed to fall asleep. Still I woke up a few times during the night and reminded myself, “I am now in a safe place. No one would be knocking at the door. I can sleep without fear.”
During those days I came across several very helpful and generous people. I will never forget their kindness as long as I live. I counted at least twenty-seven individuals and nine organisations which were involved in relocating us to Thailand. The individuals belonged to some human rights organisations and resistance groups. The people who had helped us cross the border were from local communities. The Thai intelligence services, our regional office, our security firm, and the US embassies in Thailand and Myanmar—they all must have coordinated our rescue. The UNHCR (the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) took care of us in Thailand.
Bart Was Not Here (Kyaw Moe Khine), Altarpiece [2021]
Image description: A black and white image of a hand-sculpted resin altarpiece resembling the figure in Bart’s self-portrait. The figure is wearing long billowy robes and is holding a flute glass in one hand.
The third country
By mid-May 2021, I was able to sleep well without having to remind myself of where I was during the night. A month later, with the help of my organisation and many others, I found myself in what the UNHCR called a “third country”—the United States (the second country being Thailand). I was given a one-year “parole visa”. After one year, I could extend the visa for another year. We “parolees” were not given social security numbers and we could not work officially. Getting a bank account or a driver’s license in the US was almost impossible.
My life now depended on the host community. People brought me some rice, vegetables, meat and other necessary items. When I left Yangon I had over 1,000 USD with me. By the time I landed in the US, I had just 450 USD in my hands. I was in the care of different organisations and charitable individuals. Finally, after two months, my caseworker helped me open a bank account at a community bank. However, my bank doesn’t link with any online banking services. I could only save and withdraw cash at the bank. Since I did not have a driving license, I had to depend on others to get around. I had always been an independent person and I wouldn’t throw myself on someone’s mercy. I felt very uncomfortable having to rely too much on others for basic items like food and my personal needs.
Even before the coup in Myanmar, imprisonment was not an option for me. I knew exactly what would happen to me in prison, as I used to work with former political prisoners, including female political prisoners, and learned their survival stories. I wasn’t sure I would survive in a Myanmar jail. As long as I remained free, I thought I could still find ways to improve my country. After the coup I learned that, had I kept running inside the country, they would have caught up with me sooner or later. Besides, I would be endangering my hosts wherever I stayed. In the end I was convinced there was no place in Myanmar where I could feel mentally and physically safe.
The future?
Perhaps escaping from physical harm or persecution by fleeing one’s country is the easy part. Will I ever escape from the mental trauma that’s been with me ever since my first day on the run? Someone trolled me on Facebook, “From now on, you will only exist for your personal well-being. You are going to become a citizen there and live only for yourself, not for the community.” And another, “Why did you have to flee. It was just a military coup [...] you didn’t have to go that far.” Those messages broke my heart.
Although I am safe now, I am not as happy as I was before February 2021. I am not as active as I used to be. I sleep my days and nights away. Sometimes I binge on films. I’ve lost interest in news; video clips of people in distress trigger my anxiety. I avoid things that I normally enjoyed doing. I tend to get easily irritated. My memory usually returns to the flat I bought, my room, my desk, my books that I have not finished reading, my mom, my family, my talkative niece, my friends, my clothes, my cosmetics, my traditional Kachin dress, the restaurant that I normally ordered food— all the things I love are gone now. I have to build a new status, a new job, and a new credit history to prove that I am a good citizen in the US.
Some people suggest I work at an Amazon warehouse. What am I supposed to do at an Amazon warehouse? I don’t see how my past experiences are relevant for Amazon. I had worked for a better, a more equitable society in Myanmar. I would have to work for the world’s richest man if I chose Amazon. My former office continues to support me with everything, from dealing with complicated legal documents to my personal finances. I don’t feel right about it either. I find my uncertain status on a parole visa the most disturbing. Now I can imagine the life of an undocumented immigrant. What about Rohingya people who have been fighting for their legal status in Myanmar and some other countries?
For now I simply don’t know how to manage my mental health. Someone suggested I talk to a mental health counsellor to relieve the stress and negative thoughts associated with survivor’s guilt.
My hosts here assured me, “Now you can start a new life. You know English and you have had a good education. You will be fine after a while.”
And yet I am still undecided whether I should trade my ideals for my survival in the US. Perhaps it is okay to feel guilt. I believe my energy will return sooner or later. When I get my energy back I will definitely be back on track—for my people.
“My Story” by Ningja Khon appears in the recently published anthology Picking Off New Shoots Will Not Stop the Spring: Witness Poems and Essays from Burma/Myanmar 1988-2021, edited by Ko Ko Thett and Brian Haman (Southeast Asia: Ethos Books; UK: Balestier Books; and US: Gaudy Boy, January 29, 2022).
On February 5, 2022, Asian American Writers' Workshop, in partnership with PEN America and Singapore Unbound, convened a bilingual reading of work from the anthology Picking Off New Shoots Will Not Stop the Spring: Witness Poems and Essays from Burma/Myanmar 1988-2021 (USA: Gaudy Boy, 2022).
Ningja Khon was a program officer at a human rights organisation in Yangon in 2021. She had previously worked as coordinator for Kachin Women Peace Network in Myanmar and, prior to that, coordinator for Kachin Women Association Thailand, among others. She holds a Master’s degree in International Relations from the Australian National University (ANU).
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Bart graduated from Lasalle College of the Arts as a Fine Arts major in 2018. Since his first solo exhibition "God Complex" at Myanm/art Gallery, he has done a number of freelance collaborations with major brands like AIA, Bosch, Tiger Beer, etc.. He is an artist-in-residence at the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris, France for 2021-2022.
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Three poems by Teo Soh Lung, written while in solitary confinement in Whitley Center, Singapore.