Q: “Your Name?”
Zargana

Q: “No, the original one?”
Maung Thuya

Q: “Do you have other names?”
No

Q: “Don’t you have names that your friends and colleagues use?”
Oh that! There are lots.

Q: “Go on”
LanchaKala
KalaAhPhoeGyi
OoPoneNya
ZartSaYar
Maung Yit
KaDingPone
Sean Conerry
Big Daddy
KoKo…

Q: “That’s enough, that’s enough”
Didn’t I tell you there are lots!

Q: “I will just put down KalaAhphoeGyi”

Up to you.
[…]

The above exchange was not an interview for a magazine. It was the beginning of my interrogation in No. 6 Military Intelligence Unit, and it started about half an hour after having been beaten in a small cell. Hands cuffed at the back, and the covering over the head were still not removed.

“We consider you to be a gentleman; we want to examine you in that manner. You can help us by not concealing any information. If not, then there are ways to make you talk. Our team don’t do that, but others will. We don’t want that to happen to you, so… ” The words are like sharp-edged spears covered with honey, sweet and penetrating.

The handcuffs and hood were removed and they continued questioning me about my personal details: which school I attended, date of graduation, how did I land a career in the performing arts, how many movies have I been in, etc.

Three men, a uniformed one with the camera and two others, entered the room. I thought it must be to record this interview, but I got it wrong. Three photos were taken of me against a wall, from either side and from the front, holding a board up which says “Thura or Zargana (Ba, meaning father) U Aung Thein”.

Once this photo shoot was finished, the second part of the interview began, about how I came to be involved in political activities. The questioning continued, interspersed with punches from left and right, mild and hard, until half past six in the afternoon. The military intelligence officer and police intelligence officer who did the questioning had been working for more than six hours and they got hungry, so they left the room and the process was paused for a while. I was left alone on a bench in the middle of the room as if I were not made of flesh and blood, as if I lacked any sense of tiredness or hunger.

Eventually a hero appeared. He entered the room with a little cup of tea and said: “I wish to offer you food, but I am not allowed to. Here is some tea, and also some cigarettes if you want.” He left the room swiftly. I considered the interviewers’ questions and my answers while I puffed on the cigarette and drank the tea…..

The night passed, and by 7am the interrogators seemed to be tired, so the session came to an end. I was then taken to a cell, again handcuffed and head-covered. The room this time was not as grand as the first one in which I had been beaten. The floor area seemed about 9 ft square, but the whole room was boarded up, the air vents covered with cardboard. It was filled with termite-eaten pieces of wood and rubbish. A dirty spittoon was in the corner and an incredibly thin mat lay on the floor. A quick wipe away of the dirt and rubbish, then I just dived down to lie on that mat. The pain of being beaten and sitting all night was penetrating my bones and flesh.

“Sssssh Ko Zargana! Do you want to drink some water?” Just having fallen asleep, I heard somebody whispering at the front bars. There was a man with a jug and a warm smile. I could not pretend I did not want the drink, so took the jug’s spout in my mouth through the bars and drank thirstily…..

[…] The next person I encountered was not an interrogator; it was the commanding officer Major San Pwint. He explained for more than two hours about the army’s objectives. I was promoted to become his captive audience. By the time I returned to my cell after this listening session, tiredness was forcing my eyelids shut. But my eyes widened again when Maung Htay [that is, Zin Wine, a famous Burmese actor] was brought into the neighbouring cell. He seemed so weak and looked like a terminally ill patient, weak with diarrhoea or lack of drink. I whispered to him after the guards had left. It was quite unbearable when he was under interrogation. A car arrived and a Major came in, smelling strongly of alcohol. That Major repeatedly screamed at him: “Are you ‘Zin Wine’?” and started punching and kicking. He was only saved when the people around pulled that Major away; I could then see the wounds on his shoulder and neck. It might be forgivable if a stupid, ordinary soldier had done this, but an officer -- it was ridiculous. But we can not do anything but feel anger in our hearts and gnaw the iron bars in front of us.