The government in Burma calls itself the State Peace and Development Council. But we see it as a group of criminals with blood on their hands. I was forced to flee to Thailand because they order their troops to shoot at us and torture us. They say that I'm a terrorist and that explosives were found in my room. Those are nothing but lies.
The army's Western Command has its headquarters in my hometown of Ann in western Burma. My father is a carpenter and my mother is a market trader. We are poor, but we had enough to eat. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to become a monk. I entered the Wannitarama Monastery when I was 12 and was admitted as a monk at 20. When my abbot there could not teach me anything more, he sent me to Yangon.
FROM THE MAGAZINE
We heard on the BBC's Burmese service and on (Norway-based dissident media organization) the Democratic Voice of Burma that monks had been beaten in the town of Pakokku on Sept. 5 after a demonstration against the recent fuel price increase. At our monastery, we discussed what we could about it. We had heard that the monks in Pakokku had established the All Burma Monks Alliance. Should we try to contact them, we wondered? Our abbot was afraid. We would all be thrown in jail if we demonstrated, he said. You don't understand the military's brutality, he told us.
I went to see my student friends the next morning. They knew how to use computers, and we began printing flyers. Only a few of the monks from my monastery participated. We took the flyers to all the monasteries in Yangon, as well as to a few outside the city.
When the leaders of the All Burma Monks Alliance called for demonstrations on the radio on Sept. 18, I went to our monastery to get the monastery's flag, and that afternoon about 200 monks started walking toward the Botataung Pagoda. I don't know exactly how many there were, because I was walking in the front row. We chanted the sutra of benevolence. The people along the side of the street were clapping, which gave us confidence.
On Sept. 19, we set out shortly after noon, 2,000 demonstrators, including 500 young monks, first to the Shwedagon Pagoda. We were singing, and many brothers joined our march. We reached the Sule Pagoda at about 4 p.m. We sat down on the ground, but we didn't know what to do next. Our problem was that we didn't have a leader.
I mumbled a short prayer, gathered my courage and stood up. I was facing a sea of red robes. Someone handed me a megaphone. We needed leaders, I said, to make sure that the demonstration could continue peacefully. I asked for 10 monks to volunteer. About 20 or 25 stood up, and 15 were selected.
We called our group the "Sangha Representative Committee" -- an alliance of monks. I was elected to be their leader, and others were put in charge of food, donations, finances and maintaining order. Then I gave a speech. Our country is in a great crisis, I said. The people are starving. Horrible human rights violations are taking place under the military dictatorship. This is why I call upon all the people in Yangon to march with us. We will continue to demonstrate until we win, I said. This time we will not give up.
We would meet in the morning, discuss our plans and set out after breakfast. One of our rules was that each monk was to fold his robe precisely according to the rules of the clergy. This would enable us to immediately recognize government spies pretending to be monks.
One of the biggest problems was finding food for all the monks. The famous actor Zarganar, his colleague Kyaw Thu and the poet Aung Way helped us get rice for our brothers. The demonstrations grew from day to day. The military held back, clearing the roadblocks when we came. Some even bowed to us. The crowd had grown to more than 100,000. The people applauded. We hoped that the regime would soon relent. But that was a fallacy, as we learned on Sept. 26.
Someone called me at about 4 a.m. to report that the police had raided the Mingalayama monastery at midnight. That's the Buddhist university where they teach the ancient Pali script. Normally more than 200 monks live there. Their quarters were ransacked, books and furniture were scattered on the floor, torn robes and blood were everywhere. The soldiers and police had dragged off all the brothers.
We decided to set out even earlier that morning. It was raining. We arrived at the eastern gate of the Shwedagon Pagoda at about 11:30 a.m. Covered steps lead up to the pagoda from that entrance. It's a popular meeting place, and it was also where (opposition leader) Aung San Suu Kyi gave her first speech during the protests in 1988. That day our group consisted of 300 monks and nuns. We headed for downtown Yangon. But soldiers blocked our path before we could continue walking. We had the brick wall of a monastery at our backs.
An officer said: You cannot march into the city, but if you get on our truck we will take you there. It was a trick, of course. We sat down in the streets and sang religious songs. The soldiers didn't know what to do.
Then they attacked. They used tear gas, they tore the robes off of nuns, and many of us were arrested. Nevertheless, most of the group managed to make it to the Thein Gyi Zay market in downtown Yangon by about 4:30 p.m. I was about to give a speech when the military began launching tear gas grenades and moving in our direction. A few demonstrators threw rocks back at them. We fled.
That evening, when our committee sat down to discuss what to do next, we felt helpless. Many were afraid. It was clear to us that we could all die. Nevertheless, we went out to demonstrate again the next day. This time there were about 1,000 protestors and 300 monks. Security forces stopped us at a roadblock near the Kyaik Ka San Pagoda on the outskirts of Yangon around 3:30 p.m. Arrest them, an officer shouted, but his soldiers stood there as if they were paralyzed. The officer, seething with rage, began slapping soldiers in the front row. Then they attacked again. The crowd dispersed in a panic. I too ran away.
We held our last meeting that night, at the Malekukka monastery. Everyone was talking at the same time. There were rumors that hundreds were dead and that people had been arrested and taken away by the truckload. This convinced us to withdraw. Then we removed our robes. It was incredibly sad. I hadn't worn a longyi (Burmese sarong-style garment) and a T-shirt in years.
I hid in a dark, empty hut outside Yangon until Oct. 12. My hair had grown by then, and friends helped me to dye it blonde, got me a fake ID card and a cross, which I hung around my neck as a disguise when I got on a bus. There are more than eight police roadblocks on the road to the border town of Myawadi, but I wasn't discovered, and I arrived there late in the evening on Oct. 17.
At dawn, I took a boat across the Moi River to the Thai city of Mae Sot. Friends had given me the address of a Burmese exile organization, which gave me a place to hide.
The Thai police might arrest and deport me at any time, because I came here as an illegal immigrant. Besides, the city is full of spies for the Burmese military.
Perhaps it would be better for me to go into hiding again. But we won't give up that quickly.
Recorded by Jürgen Kremb.
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