My father has spent four years in a Myanmar prison – I won’t rest until he’s free

Suddenly, I was no longer just an artist or an educator – I was a target, writes Sai, who has been in hiding since the military coup in Myanmar on 1 February 2021

On 1 February 2021, I went into hiding. That day, Myanmar was seized in a military coup. The country’s de facto head of state, Aung San Suu Kyi, and senior figures from the National League for Democracy (NLD), were arrested in early-morning raids. My father, the chief minister of Shan State, was among those taken.

I am not a supporter of any political party. For years, my work as an artist, curator, educator and human rights advocate was focused on conflict transformation and peace-building – I often critically analysed not just the military but also the failures of elected governments. For five years, almost no one knew I was the son of a chief minister because I rarely visited my parents – it was too dangerous. My father told me that the coup could happen anytime. I built my own life, my own work and my own income.

But the coup changed everything. Suddenly, I was no longer just an artist, interpreter or educator; I was a target.

In the days following the coup I was forced into hiding as the military began hunting down activists and their families. The junta transformed ground-floor buildings into hidden interrogation centres, while the floors above became places of refuge. I hid in such a place for 244 days, just a few floors above where people were tortured. I had been building shields for protesters while translating Hong Kong protest manuals for demonstrators in the early days of the movement.

My father, Dr Linn Htut, was transferred to Nyaung Shwe State Prison on 16 July 2021, after being held in an unknown military compound for five months. When they were finished torturing him, they threw him in prison. I reached out to numerous human rights organisations for guidance, asking how I could register my father as a political prisoner – and how to fight for his release.

Silence.

Even the International Committee of the Red Cross refused to register him as a prisoner. That’s when I realised that if I stayed in Myanmar, my father would die in prison, and I would never be able to advocate for him.

At the same time, my partner, K, was actively supporting the Civil Disobedience Movement. The last person she had contact with had been arrested. It was only a matter of time before they came for her, too. We had no choice: we had to run.

Ma ▇▇▇▇, an NLD MP, and her young daughter in a quiet moment near the Thai-Myanmar border; an aerial view of Insein Prison (Sai)

We reached out to embassies for emergency assistance. The US embassy rejected our request. Others refused. Some embassy staff privately told us: "Only famous activists, social influencers, or celebrities who publicly claim to support the revolution are being helped."

I wasn’t famous. I wasn’t a celebrity. I was underground; a nameless artist in hiding who wanted to save his father. Having reached out to other political prisoners’ families in the time since, I realise I am not the only one who experienced this.

Desperate, we applied for visas for Dubai in October 2021 – the destination of the only available relief flight out of Myanmar. But applying meant handing all our documents over to the junta-controlled ministry of internal affairs.

On the way to the airport, I saw military vehicles stationed at immigration checkpoints. Security was tight. I handed my passport to the officer, knowing full well that one Google search of my name would reveal my father’s identity.

I braced myself for arrest or death.

The officer hesitated, staring at my documents. An intelligence officer watched over his shoulder. This was the moment.

And then, he stamped my passport.

I walked through. I waited for soldiers to burst in and drag me away, but it never happened. I escaped.

Since then, I have used all my energy to travel across multiple countries, refusing to seek asylum, so I can continue advocating for political prisoners like my father and the people of Myanmar. I do this while babysitting, dogsitting, woodcutting, making sushi – any kind of work that allows me to survive and continue my advocacy.

My recent work focuses on the plight of former political prisoners and their families along the Thai-Myanmar border. Many risked everything to escape, but freedom remains elusive. Without official documentation, they live in constant fear of deportation, extortion and further persecution. No country fully recognises them – and no international institution prioritises their survival.

Now their situation has become even more desperate following Donald Trump’s recent foreign aid freeze, which has forced medical clinics serving 100,000 Myanmar refugees to shut down. These clinics, mostly run by the International Rescue Committee with US funding, provided lifesaving treatment to refugees in the Mae La, Umpiem and Nu Po camps along the border. Many patients – including pregnant women, critically ill people and those dependent on oxygen tanks – were suddenly left with nowhere to go. Even water distribution and sanitation systems within the camps were disrupted, further worsening the humanitarian crisis.

In the course of my research, supported by Magnum Photos, I met Ko ▇▇▇▇, a former detainee who was arrested along with his mother and brother when the junta failed to find his younger sister, a student activist. He was tortured at an interrogation site inside a military base in Naypyidaw. He remembers the screams of detainees, the smell of blood and the sound of bones breaking. His brother never made it out. To this day, Ko ▇▇▇▇ does not know if he is alive or dead.

Then there is Ma ▇▇▇▇, a former elected parliamentarian, who was arrested while on the run. In front of her young daughter, a black bag was placed over her head and she was dragged away. To force a confession, they threatened her child’s life. After three days of relentless interrogation, she suffered a miscarriage.

Today, she survives by selling food along the border, but Thai police extort what little she earns.

The cruelty does not stop there. Those I met described how Myanmar refugees have become "human ATMs" for Thai police, who systematically take money from them. Some officers even have Myanmar bank accounts to directly funnel their illicit earnings, making bribery and corruption an institutionalised system of exploitation.

I was even told by a former political prisoner from the 1980s – who is now a Myanmar country director for an international organisation – that I had no right to advocate for political prisoners because I had never been imprisoned myself.

I refuse to accept that logic.

Sai and his mother at their home after the arrest of Sai’s father (Sai)

Even within Myanmar’s opposition, the voices of political prisoners are ignored. The National Unity Government’s (NUG) human rights ministry has no real policy on political prisoners. When I met the minister in Paris, he dismissed my advocacy outright. An adviser from the ministry later told me informally that “political prisoners are not a NUG issue”.

I just want to keep people like my father alive. Is that too much to ask?

Myanmar’s crisis has been pushed to the margins of global attention. While other conflicts dominate headlines, Myanmar is treated as a footnote. Governments that claim to support democracy continue to arm or appease the military junta. The UN Security Council has failed to act. The Association of Southeast Asian Nations’ so-called peace plan is a diplomatic farce, shielding the junta from accountability.

Meanwhile, many human rights organisations preach about “victim-centred documentation” – yet actual victims have no space to speak.

Myanmar’s struggle is not over. Those imprisoned, tortured, and exiled cannot afford to be forgotten.

The international community must take concrete action: support legal accountability, open humanitarian corridors and provide safe pathways for political prisoners and their families.

Now, our revolution has reached an advanced stage of resistance-led nation-building. The military junta is losing territorial control and alternative governance structures are being established. But the junta remains a severe threat due to its increasingly desperate reliance on indiscriminate violence. The situation is at a critical juncture, where strong international support could accelerate the collapse of military rule and ensure the success of a federal democratic transition.

Myanmar’s Special Rapporteurs, the NUG and human rights entities must go beyond words and create real platforms for victims to speak.

I work with activists all over the world and assist them in any way I can. I do not have any freedom until we all do. I am a child of 28,444 political prisoners from Myanmar.

Meanwhile, my father is growing weaker in solitary confinement. He may not survive another year. February 2025 marks 1,461 days of our revolution – and 1,461 days since my father was abducted.

I hope it doesn’t happen to you or your family. If it does, I’m here. Oppression thrives in silence. Will you stay silent?

‘Please Enjoy Our Tragedies: Art as a Voice for Myanmar’s Forgotten Struggle’ is a 25-minute Al Jazeera Witness documentary by Charlie Scrimgeour. It features the story of Sai – an artist who fled Myanmar following the 2021 coup and uses art to keep the world engaged in the plight of his nation. You can find the film here or on YouTube