It’s almost impossible to put all together to be a picture perfect for what had happened at once. But, I still wanted to emphasize one at a time whenever they popped up in mind. Our firm stands and determinations while living in the graveyards so called the prisons in Burma, where the people were buried alive, had challenged the atrocities and brutalities of the ruthless dictatorship with our sharpest possible courage.
U Win Tin had introduced the new word “the inbeastly tortures” in stead of “inhumanely tortures” in this regard. The point he wanted to make in the cases of the horrific tortures by the dictatorship was that their tortures were not just beyond the humane but beyond the beast itself. In reality, for someone who lived in such hell for more than 5, 800 days, he would have more than a thousand stories to tell for sure. Perhaps, spending for such long period of times in the prisons had probably chewed up some of our memories with regard to our pains and agonies already.
In those dark-days, the prisons could be assumed as the museums of the heroes for the people. As a “not so brave person” myself, I wouldn’t put myself into the hero category for just living in the prisons for sure. But, at a certain point, I had to follow the examples of the leaders, who fought for our rights, in order to preserve their prides for the generations to come. For some people like me, the fear of being considered as the irresponsible persons by others had led them to confront the adversaries regardless. Some of the coincidences in this regard had come back to me slowly but surely.
In the prisons, they said that the walls had the ears. It could be right in some cases. But, I would like to impute further. They also had many stories with the rants, teeth grindings and curses as well.
In a long long ago story, I used to listen about the king who secretly ate the rice husks. Unfortunately, someone saw the eating, and he was threatened not to tell anyone by the king. But the guy couldn’t keep the secret at all. Therefore, he finally rushed into the woods and put his head into a hollow trunk of a tree, frequently yelling, “The king eats the rice husks.” in order to let the secret out of his chest. What happened then was that, that hollow trunk of the tree was supposed to make the drum to beat for the king’s daily dining. Thus, the trunk became the drum later. Ever since, at every time they beat the drum for the king’s feast, it sounded “The king eats the rice husks” instead of sounding a drum beat. At that point, the king realized that no such secret could be hidden.
The point I would like to relate it here was that the brutalities of the dictators and their attempts to cover them up had no place to hide either. Any brutality they’d done had a catch for us to force them to pay back.
Many stories were written on the prison walls to prove my case. The real stories written on the walls may not be aware by many, but they still were the useful information for us. Though, none of these stories could be fascinated. Still, more and more of these stories were developed under the dictatorship rule for years. No matter where they were detained, not even on a small island, the political prisoners would fight back the atrocities with their spirits and determinations. Their leaderships and wisdom had enlightened us how we kept on our fights forward. Behind these closed doors and brick walls, we had challenged the “hell” with their spirits. No matter how the dictators tried to proselytize or cover their sins up, we still could manage to break their silence. End of the day, their cover-ups would be uncovered. Their conspiracy would be brought it out. If someone were to collect all these stories together, he/she still could hear the sounds of the rants and jaw clenchings everywhere in the prisons, just like the sound of the drum in the long long ago story.
The interrogation in its real name was the “hell section”. Based on the true stories of both others and mine, the torture was most highly likely to be happened there. After suffering the constant beat-ups in the “hell section”, we would be sent back to the jails. The severe pains all over my body had allowed me to stay awake and walk back and forth in the jail. That’s how I found the letters on the ceilings and the wooden polls. The small letters written on the oil soaked wooden polls had shared someone’s feelings with me. It’s the birth right for people to express themselves at any rate. It’s a universal acceptance. And, the reason that the dictators were trying to shut us down was simply because they didn’t want the people to know what’s going on in the “hell section” and elsewhere in the prisons. To our parts, we would express whenever we got a chance regardless.
Now, I was reading the letters on the oil soaked wooden poles written by the tiny broom sticks. Some of them were written only names and dates. “I don’t understand why they’re so cruel to their own people.” said a letter expressing the brutality. This ten letters or so words had scratched my heart. These letters could tell you what’s going on in our country. Some of us were killed here by the hell mercenary, who would never reluctant to do so in order to maintain his status quo. While they were trying to kill the people for their ranks and promotions, the people they killed had sacrificed their lives not for themselves but for the people of Burma. They put aside their own problems and confronted these atrocities for the freedom of the people. They put their loves and loneliness aside for the people. Putting aside their sufferings by the constant beating, they wrote the letters for the others to be aware and useful. I still hear someone yelling “Never forget or forgive.” in my mind while reading their notes. Their messages could harness me a pride to keep on the fight. Their rants permeated in me to hold still their spirits. These silent words were the loudest speeches to me soothing my bloods to fight forward.
I learnt something after reading U Win Tin’s book, revealing how he got a piece of paper rolled and stuck in a hole in the family visit room, and how he used it as the technique later on. His message in this regard was simple. The success could be easily defined as long as we could manage to pass on our notes one after another for the information. I didn’t know how important it was before. If I did, I might write the letters on the ceilings or anywhere available all night long for sure. However, I could manage to leave a few short notes and a poem for the newcomers instead. While the dictators were writing their stories by holding the whips, iron-fists and electric shocks, we sacrificed our bodies for the people. We invested ourselves in the prisons for the freedom of the people. The tortures in the hell section were nothing but just a fraction of our long hard slog for the freedom of all.
We must share all these information for the generations to come. By following this path, they would know and prepare for their better defense and offense ahead. They could turn the hell cell into the education center by following the message of our predecessors. An unnoticeable note in the corner of a cell could bring the responsible dictators into justice one day no doubt. The reckless and ruthless atrocities by the dictators hoping to remain in the power forever must be the evidences for their death knell by our notes one day. We had to let the evil dictators knew that our pains and sufferings by the hell section were not for the sorrow and grievances, but the evidences for them to bring into justice one day. We must follow the path of our leaders who led us by example in this regard. We must chin up and aim high while learning how to trick and treat against the tortures by the hell section, by their notes.
No notes we found in the prisons were useless. These notes were the lights and guidance for us to confront the atrocities ahead of us. Whether they were written on the walls, on a piece of paper or even on the internet, we had to put them all together making our case to be useful for the new breeds of fighters on one hand, and to bring the dictators into justice one day on the other.
Ashin Zawana
Fromer political prisoner
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