Walking backward, holding a baton wielded by her captor in her handcuffed hands, Burmese author A Phyu could see through gaps in her blindfold to the paddy field under her feet. “It was worth walking backwards while breathing fresh air,” she writes, “instead of smelling blood.”
Myanmar’s junta has intensified restrictions on free expression since the military coup in 2021. Last year, the junta jailed at least 10 writers for their expression, but, for many, despite the risks, writing remains a tool to resist the violence of the dictatorship. In Women’s Voices from the Revolution—an anthology published by ALTSEAN-Burma that features 40 pieces by participants of their Women Writers Workshops—Myanmar women showcase how literature can be harnessed as a powerful tool for restoration and healing.
In this excerpt from “I Was Not Alone,” first published in Women’s Voices from the Revolution, A Phyu recalls her experiences surviving detention and interrogation at the hands of Myanmar’s military. With her distinct storytelling, she honors her own resilience and encourages other survivors to do the same.
A Phyu joined the PEN/Barbey Freedom to Write Center and ALTSEAN-Burma for an online conversation with writer-activist Ma Thida and ALTSEAN-Burma founder Debbie Stothard to discuss Women’s Voices from the Revolution on May 29, 2025. Watch the recording of the event on YouTube.
Excerpt from “I Was Not Alone”
By A Phyu
I followed. I tried to look down through the gaps of my blindfold, I realized that I was walking through a paddy field. It was worth walking backwards while breathing fresh air instead of smelling blood.
“When we get to the interrogation site, you must tell everything truthfully. Even if you don’t answer, we know everything. We want to check if you answer right.”
That guy must think I am crazy. How could he know anything without my answers. They don’t know, so they bring me here to ask questions.
“Hey, just say yes. If you talk back, you would die.” Luckily, my rational self is back with me.
“Yes, sir.”
This time they use a different method—“form 10”—instead of tricking and beating me throughout the night during interrogation. I have to tell them about what I did month by month, year by year. If something was wrong, I would have to start all over again.
This military never gave me anything my whole life. I don’t owe them anything so why should I answer? Instead, I asked, “Are my friends ok, sir?”
“They died.” Only two words. Was it that easy? While I was answering his questions and trying to gather my wandering thoughts, I fell face down on the table in front of me, my head hanging. I can’t say whether it was falling asleep or fainting, but all five senses were indeed lost. The reasonable mind no longer gave any warning. She might also be tired, too.
When I came to my senses, they were kicking my back with boots.
Shit! Here we go again.
“Don’t act, we are not in a movie,” they sneered.
Hah! I know I am beautiful, so you call me an actress.
“Hey, is your back so strong that you can afford to be rude?” My rational self was awake. That was lucky.
I was trying to hold on to the stick while walking backward to my cell. In my mind I was also singing Soe Lwin Lwin’s lyrics ‘Saying goodbye to broken dreams’ and I arrive in an empty room. The guy in military boots took a cuff off one wrist and said, “Don’t dare take off your blindfold.” The sound of the door being locked served as his goodbye.
As soon as I was thinking why not take off the cloth with the one hand that’s free, I did it. I realized the strong smell of blood that followed me came from my blindfold. I tie the cloth around my forehead so that I could pull it down quickly when I hear anyone coming. Looking at my own shadow from the setting sun, I tidied up my messy hair. Although I was trying not to notice, I saw that the nails of all ten fingers were purple like long eggplants. Shit, I need a distraction.
There were 9 squares on the ceiling, and CCTV in the left corner of the room. Directly below the CCTV was a message that said ‘Be strong’. On the wall, ants surround the tallies marked by those who did not know when they would return home. I realize I was sitting on a 6-foot square “kut pyit”, a bamboo bed with no mattress. A piece of dark green cloth, a color that I hated, was on it. Opposite was the interrogator’s table.
I would have to use a mosquito to keep track of how long I would be staying in this room. I kill a mosquito after waiting to be bitten. I use the blood to mark as many days as possible with the blood. This would be my calendar. There were less than 10 days. Was it a sign I would be home by 10 days? Thank you, dear mosquito.
Hey, you think you’re Pollyanna? My sarcastic side was back.
The scenes from the night flashed back again when I tried to sleep. Did those guys really die? So I have to face the events of the night. First, I have to breathe.
A Phyu is a Burmese Muslim woman who was arrested in 2021 for raising her voice against the military coup in Myanmar. Now resettled in the United States through a refugee program, she continues her work as a mental health support worker, focusing on the emotional well-being of vulnerable Burmese communities. Her advocacy centers on the power of storytelling as a tool for healing, resistance, and restoring dignity.
“I Was Not Alone” by A Phyu was originally published by ALTSEAN-Burma in the anthology Women’s Voices from the Revolution. This excerpt was re-published with permission of the writer and ALTSEAN-Burma.
To learn more about ALTSEAN-Burma’s work, watch their video introducing our virtual conversation on May 29:
