BURMA DEBATE: 1997 SEP/OCT : FROM D

[suriya@xxxxxxxxxxxx]

FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT
BY
THET HMU

Translated by Maung Myint Thein

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Thet Hmu was a member of the Students' Union in 1988 and later, a member of the Democratic Party for a New Society.  He participated in the political opposition movement inside Burma and was arrested on October 22, 1990.  He was released from Tharrawaddy prison in April, 1996.  After participating in the student demonstrations in December 1996, lie fled the country and currently lives in exile.
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A blurred and hazy backdrop could be seen, behind the brick wall, which was twice the eight of a man and enclosed the prison barracks I called home.  The main wall, a second boundary around the prison barracks, arrogantly stood on high, looking down upon us.  One section was studded with a stockade and main office, as well as an arsenal.  Heavy locks and steel chains dangled on the iron doors.  For more than an hour we stared at one another, each with his own smile the jail's main gate and me.

A sentry in the tower lookout booth over the main gate sounded 5:30 am.  This was followed by calls from other sentry booths along the wall.  Then a dark silhouette came out of the morning mist and entered our special barrack.  All of a sudden, the quiet of the morning was broken by the booming command: 'poun-zan.'

It was the prison employee in charge of our section.  He flitted along the corridor of the special hall. I saw him moving around the east wing of the prison and then heading toward the west wing where we lived.

The west wing was still silent.  The prison guard, or "hall-in-charge," was only about twenty steps away and the silence in our barracks was unbearable.  I was upset and later would regret my decision, but I shouted the word 'poun-zan' at the top of my voice to wake my fellow inmates.

The word 'poun-zan' is prison terminology, which literally means to assume the squatting position with fisted hands on one's knees.  It is an order to be followed strictly by each and every inmate at the designated time everyday, whenever a prison official walks in, similar to the military command
'attention.' But I find it extremely degrading to hear a loud mechanical voice shout 'Poun-zan.' I also believe this system was introduced at every prison in our country with the objective of mentally torturing and eventually, dehumanising the prisoners.

This command is usually followed by beatings with rubber-clad iron pipes, bamboo sticks and the sounds of ankle chains and the 'daut'- an iron rod fitted on ankle chains that keeps legs constantly stretched apart, thus preventing normal walking.  In addition to these, tear gas bombs and other types of weapons are waiting on the sidelines that will crush those who try to move.

If any inmate refuses to follow the sitting ritual, all inmates of that barrack must do 'poun-zan' for sometimes up to 240 hours, sometimes from ten days to one year, depending on the seriousness of the act of disobedience.  According to our prison regulations we must perform the sitting ritual twice a day.  In the morning, we must do 'poun-zan htaing' (sitting prison style) from 5:00 am to 6:30 or 7:00 am when the sentry would signal for the opening of the prison hall doors.  This exercise is repeated in the evening from 5:00 to 6:30 p.m. when all prison doors are closed.  If a prison officer walks along the hallway, we have to do the sitting.  If an inmate has done something that breaks prison regulations, he must do 'poun-zan htaing' most of the day, stopping only when he sleeps.

A prison warden or someone in charge of the prison hall usually comes to inspect us performing our regular sitting duties.  He counts the number of inmates in our barracks.  If he makes a mistake in counting or finds somebody missing, we are doomed to do the sitting ritual through the night.

If SLORC officials or human rights committee members make a visit to our prison, we are not allowed to speak all day.  We have to sit quietly, and our daily meals and showers would also be late.  Now I have volunteered to take up early morning sentry duties before 5 o' clock so that my fellow inmates could sleep longer. I wake them up when the prison wardens approach our barrack.  If a warden or an employee is seen approaching, I shout 'poun-zan.' Although my loud warning benefits my fellow inmates in some way, my heart sinks every time I speak the words 'poun-zan,' the command that has always trampled our pride.

Today was an unforgettable day in my life because I was released from prison.  On this day I decided not to shout 'poun-zan,' the word I hated most.  Last night, in bidding me farewell, my friends and other inmates sang many songs, prayed for me and asked that I convey messages to their loved ones. I could not sleep at all; neither could my fellow inmates.  In the morning, they must have fallen into deep sleep, confident that 1 would wake them as usual.  Knowing this, my earlier decision was dissolved by my tears and 1 was nearly ready to shout 'poun-zan' again.

This morning I had the opportunity to pay my respects to the elders in other cells. I also managed to send some clothes to the cast-wing of the main jail.  The clothes, which were meant to be worn upon my release, were smuggled into the prison. I had kept them in a safe place because U Tin Aung Aung, the people's representative front Mandalay, U Paik Ko of Pakokku and Gangaw representative threatened that they would pour water on me on the day I was freed as it was Thingyan time, the water festival of the Burmese people.  While I was paying respects to the elders, someone from the prison office came to our barracks and told me that the prison officials waited to see me at the office.  First I went to change my clothes and I then walked slowly out of the east wing towards the main jail compound.

I gave a final look at the prison barrack I had made home for many years.  It was called 'Tharrawaddy Special Cells' and was surrounded by an iron fence.  There were three barracks in the compound, each made up of 12 cells.  The barrack in the front is well-known because Saya San lived there in his final days.  Saya San was a revolutionary hero among the farmers who organized a revolt against the British rulers.  Nobody occupies that cell now and it has been maintained as a small museum.  Inside the cell is a picture of Saya San and a brief biography.  Only prisoners of the 'Tharrawaddy jail are allowed to visit there and pay tribute to Saya San.  On the wall hangs a sign: "Maximum Security Prison Cells." It is in these cells where we made our home.

Walking through a small door of the brick wall that surrounded the cast wing, I arrived at the main jail compound.  In front of me lay a long stretch of ground covered with beautiful multicoloured flowers and a green carpet of vegetable fields.  Prisoners in dirty, shabby uniforms, which were originally, but no longer, white, were busy digging, carrying earth and moving broken bricks.  Some were weeding the fields.  The scene of prisoners working in the jail compound looked very much like a foreign movie depicting medieval slaves toiling in the fields owned by their landlords. I felt like a patient whose head has been bandaged for many weeks and has had the bandages removed for the first time.  For years I had been shut off from the outside world and suddenly, I found myself a free man, ready to start a new life.

After going through a series of interrogations, I got a chance to see the chief jailer.  It is a prison tradition that the chief jailer meets every inmate who receives a release order. I thought that he would most probably tell me that I should behave well when I got out of prison, however, when I sat at his desk he did not give me such advice.  Rather, he said that prison authorities had made every effort to enable prisoners to fully enjoy their rights.  He also explained that in some cases, though they had sympathy towards prisoners because they were government service personnel, the prison officials were not able to allow prisoners to do certain things - they could get fired or they might be given jail terms for not strictly following the orders from their superiors.

I told him that 1 understood very well the peculiar situation they were in. I went on to say that he should not go beyond the legal limits, and should always hold the view that prisoners are also human beings.  The officer seemed to agree with what I had said.

The jailer, U Hla Tun, was new, recently transferred to Tharrawaddy.  He and I went on to have a friendly conversation.  He began asking me about my plans for the future.  He said he would like to know what type of business I would take up; he also wanted to know whether I would leave the country.  With a smile, I replied that I would probably be back in jail and that I did not like the government.  Hla Tun was astonished and speechless.  He was shocked and scared to hear such a rebuttal.

 My heart was pounding when I walked through the main jail gate and as soon as I stepped through the gate my preconceived notion of life on the outside disappeared. I was greeted by a very distressful scene - women in shabby, dirty, patched clothes, carrying entirely naked children.  From the look of those women it was obvious that they have been exposed to the sun, rain and cold weather. I thought that their sun-burnt hair must never have been touched by any type of oil.  These women, in fact, were there to visit their husbands who remained in the prison.

The women were tussling with one another to get entry to the guest hall.  A child cried out in a desperate mother's arms.  Prison wardens were yelling at the women.  My friends now inside the prison were used to beatings and being yelled at by wardens.  It was our lifestyle.  It was a kind of hell, far removed from human society.  However, I was able to endure this ill-treatment in the prison because I always thought that 1 was in there to serve the interests of the people. I believed that it was the highest form of struggle for a man of honor.  Sometimes, I was angry and vindictive because of the physical and mental torture inflicted on inmates; sometimes, we would all make fun of it.

Now I was out of prison for just a couple of minutes and I could not bear the painful feelings in my heart when I saw those women and children who endured the severe blows of a political system they would never comprehend.  For six years I did not have a chance to witness the ills of society.  In fact,  I was totally unprepared to be greeted by the realities of the outside world.

I caught my breath and was actually relieved when a police lock-up van appeared on the road.  Ahead was the desolate and dreary road between the main jail and Tharrawaddy town. I gave a final look at the old fortress as I thought about what the others would be doing inside the prison.  This was the first time I ever had to ride in a blue police lock-up van. I have spent six solid years in prison but I never had a ride in the lock-up van before. I have never been to a police station. I have never been to t court.

Many a time I had been to secret interrogation camps run by Military Intelligence.  Several times I had been at secret military tribunals.  So it was hard to believe that I could be in prison for six years without knowing anything about a police lock-up, police station, judge, attorney or be aware of the provisions of the law.

When I was thrown into jail the judicial machinery seemed to be afraid of me.  It was strange. I did not have the opportunity to go through the normal judicial channels.  Even the colonels from the military tribunal looked nervous when they read out the order handing down my prison term.  They did it and then they abruptly left.

After I was arrested I was taken to a small building enclosed by several walls of wire mesh with only one door.  It was a military tribunal office, which looked more like a big birdcage.  The office compound was guarded by soldiers armed with all sorts of weapons.  Inside the building there also were soldiers carrying G 3 automatic rifles studded with bayonets.  They were surrounded by police officers armed with M-16 rifles.  My friend, who was arrested with me, and I were closely watched by officers of a special branch of Military Intelligence and the NIB (National Intelligence Bureau).  We were handcuffed together.  Through all this, I could never get an answer to my question: "Why military officials, surrounded and protected by armed soldiers in the heavily guarded office, could not solemnly hand down jail terms to us?"

While we were in prison we went through all kinds of hardships and troubles, and we survived.  Now I realised why the military officials were so nervous in giving us jail sentences, despite the fict that we were heavily guarded by armed soldiers.  Those who have integrity are feared by those who do riot.  Military officials tried to hide their fear by reasserting their military strength again and again.  Justice, however, can never be destroyed by force.  Being powerful and strong, they were in a position to handle judicial matters, but, they were morally defeated.

Not long after 1 got into the blue police van it stopped in front of a township police station among a cluster of 'kokko' trees, but I was informed that I could riot get out of the van. I saw a white car parked in front of the police station.  The car was a Japanese model and I thought perhaps it came from Rangoon.  Just as I wondered if it could be my family, I saw my mother and my nephew coming out of the car and walking toward us. I was hiding in a corner, as I thought they would feel ashamed to find me in a lock-Lip van.  When my nephew recognized me, he broke into a big smile, nodding his head.  But lie did riot make a sound.  He was about 11 years old when I was arrested, now he was as tall as me.

We got into the white car and I told my nephew to drive back to the jail.  There I managed to get some of the employees to give money and necessities to my friends still in prison.  We then drove back to Tharrawaddy town and I came across an old friend, a fellow activist.  Together we headed for Rangoon.  It turned out that my friend's father was a Pyithu Hluttaw representative who is still inside the prison.  It had been reported that his health was deteriorating.

On our way back to Rangoon, I did not speak to my mother or to my nephew and I forgot to talk about my family. I was asking my friend many questions about the changes and latest developments within the political parties.  My friend said that there were plans to stage demonstrations when tourists poured into the country, as that year had been designated "Visit Myanmar Year" by the government.  He also talked about the Student Union's movements, activities of the National League for Democracy, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi's public meetings and about her popular speeches.  Daw Aung San Suu Kyi has repeatedly said that we must have perseverance and courage. I believe she will attain power if she really means what she has said.  Moreover, I like her soft but firm strategy' to fight against dictators. I remembered a magazine article by Dagon Taryar, a wellknown Burmese poet and writer.

At the time I found his article in the magazine I was in barrack 4 of Tharrawaddy jail.  The article was also read and much appreciated by those from barrack 5. The title was "Softness & Strength" and it stated that if negotiations were possible between the whites and blacks, why not between Burmese people?" But I think Burma's politics are more subtle and more complicated.  In South Africa, everyone can easily see what is white and what is black.  In our case, we are the same color, but, we have been trying to define who is politically "white" and who is not.  It is because the differences cannot easily be seen.  To know the truth, perhaps hundreds more people need to go to jail.  Then they could clearly see.

All this time, driving in the car, I had forgotten to talk to my mother who was sitting in the front seat.  She must have thought of me as a crazy because, less than an hour after I had been released I was talking about how more and more people should go into jail.  When I looked at my mother's face she was fast asleep - she must have not slept at all the night before.

I told my nephew to slow down.  There had been an increase in the number of car accidents on the highways during the past month.  In fact, I met a dozen motorists who landed in jail because of reckless driving.

Motorists are not those of loose moral character or who are lacking responsibility, but they are usually riot in harmony with prison authorities.  Long-distance drivers have a lot of general knowledge because they constantly are moving from place to place in the country.  As they travel they meet people from all walks of life and they have their own philosophy on the nature of human society.  Therefore, we inmates would seek out these motorists, especially long-distance drivers, who have the most colourful lives.

In prison, there are two strong forces that form groups - the first group is made up of political prisoners who always oppose prison authorities and the second group is comprised of thieves and robbers.  Prison officials such as the chief jailer, wardens and other employees prefer to collaborate with thieves and robbers who come to the prison.

I also had to explain the meaning and seriousness of 'si-mann-chet' to my nephew.  You can call it a project or operation, sometimes similar to a military operation.  These so-called "projects" are often launched in our country when a governmental organization is no longer able to handle or solve problems.  If someone violates one of the traffic rules during a 'project period,' that person would surely receive penalties involving both a jail term-n and a fine.  During a project period, the authorities would riot think twice about the seriousness of an offense; neither would they care about the law.  Basically, it is a repressive measure taken against unsuspecting and unfortunate people for minor offenses. I told my nephew that even if a car brushes the side of another car, police will grab the motorist and send him before a judge who would hand down at least a one year imprisonment with hard labor if the accident should take place during a project period.

I heard a story of an unfortunate man who was driving his car on a road that stretched along the fields.  He pulled his car over to the side of the road to check his engine unfortunately it happened to be on soft ground which suddenly gave way to the pressure of the car.  The car slid into a roadside field.  Legal action was taken against him under the "road safety project regulations" and the court handed down two years imprisonment to him.

It is difficult for a judge who might be in such a situation, because he or any other judge, could not accept a bribe and acquit the motorist during a project time.  If you have a relative working closely for the SLORC authorities, your case may often be dismissed, but if you get involved in a car accident during 'si-mann-chet' period, it is likely that you would be given at least one year hard labor even though you are willing to bribe the judges at the township or divisional levels.  Besides, it takes a long time to file appeals for reducing your sentence you have to wait for at least six months.  Therefore, when you get the release order, you would have spent nearly 300,000 Kyat and already been in prison for about a year.

Being in prison is quite costly too.  When a new prisoner enters a jail he is greeted by the yelling, cursing and beating of warders or other prison employees.  The new inmate soon becomes aware that some inmates have to be hospitalized because of these cruel beatings.

It is compulsory for a new inmate who is there on criminal charges to pay an entrance fee, placement fee, cleaning fee, warder fee and many others though you do not exactly know for what the 'fee' goes.  In addition, if an inmate is unable to work or does not wait to work at yebet camps (prison labor camps) he has to pay 3,000 Kyat monthly and another 3,000 Kyat for light duties.  Prices vary depending on the nature of the favor.  To take daily showers you have to pay 1,000 Kyat per month and another 1,000 Kyat monthly for sufficient amounts of food.  There are many other things inmates have to pay, in fact, you have to spend as much money as staying at inexpensive hotel.  Do not be shocked if you are continually approached for "donations." If a prison employee gets married or his sister-in-law dies, you are supposed to make some contribution.  If toilets need repair or a prison barrack needs painting or some showers have to be fixed, inmates there for political reasons should be 
ready to make donations in cash.

If you are unable to pay or make donations, your entire prison life would be filled with reprisals and eventually you would end up in the hospital.  If you decide to work at the yebet camps, one should be aware of the fact that the survival rate at those camps is twenty percent.

There is a saying in prison circles among the chief jailers, jailers, wardens, prison employees and inmates; so many prisoners have died while working on the new Rangoon~Mandalay highway that if their bodies were laid down on the new highway, the line would stretch twice or three times the distance of that highway.  It is surprising that no one seems to know that the present military government has broken, many times over, the record set by the Japanese government during World War Two, which constructed the notorious 'death railroad' where thousands of people died while working on its construction.

I needed to explain these matters to my nephew.  We had spent so much time together while growing up, we were very attached to each other.  He is still very young and full of life.  He could not understand the prison system.  Again, I remembered my mother sitting beside my nephew in the front seat. I realized that she had suffered acutely painful feelings when I was arrested after the '88 crisis. I could not think of how many mothers have shed tears for their sons and daughters who lost their lives during these anti-government demonstrations.

We stopped at Hmawbi, about one-hour drive from Rangoon.  We had tea and snacks at a tea-shop named "Joy," but the owner of that shop did not appear to be happy. 1 knew that the tea-shop owner was U Soe, a Pyithu Hluttaw representative from Hmawbi township.  After having been elected by the people, he had been in and out of prison very often and was interrogated many times.  When he began his business, he invited me to attend the ceremony that marked the opening of his tea-shop.  But that was in 1989 and I was not able to attend.

Before leaving the tea-shop, I asked the owner whether or not "Joy" was the name originally given to the shop when it was opened, as I remembered it as having a different name.  "When I first opened the shop the name was 'Hero Zon,"' the owner told me. "However, the colonel of the township-level Law and Order Restoration Council told me to change it as it was too similar to Moe Thee Zun, the name of a leading student activist."

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