The wounds of nearly five decades of brutal military rule are slowly healing, but many of Myanmar’s former political prisoners are still waging a fierce war: the quiet struggle to overcome the havoc that years of imprisonment and torture have wrought on their mental health.
Activists, poets, teachers, and dissidents released under successive presidential amnesties walked back into a society that, at best, didn’t understand them — and at worst, shunned and turned its back on them. Meeting these persecuted masses at the prison gates was a cripplingly underdeveloped healthcare system, so some of Myanmar’s former prisoners of conscience got to work.
Ex-political prisoner Bo Kyi founded the Assistance Association for Political Prisoners (AAPP), perhaps the country’s best-known organization for imprisoned revolutionaries, on the Thailand-Myanmar border in 2000. From the AAPP’s Yangon office, Bo Kyi told DVB that most of his peers couldn’t articulate their mental problems. Partnering with an international university, AAPP began training former inmates in Common Elements Treatment Approach counselling, known as CETA in the mental health sector.
Despite working to support the mental health of his peers for nearly two decades, Bo Kyi said many are still grappling with the same issues.
“What I am seeing is depression and also anxiety, because they always worry, ‘What time will I be arrested again?’ Another thing is, many former political prisoners drink,” he said.
Tales of depression, anxiety, and alcohol abuse are common within the ex-political prisoner community. According to Than Than Htay, a senior AAPP counsellor, some patients have struggled in silence for years before learning about mental health.
“People were not aware about mental health. During 1990 and 2000, we did not have a chance to do awareness [raising] and counselling. After 2014, many former political prisoners became familiar with the concept of ‘mental health.’ Some of them used to think that mental health is all about being insane and having to go to the mental hospital. They do not know anything about depression or trauma,” Than Than Htay said.
Extensive reporting by an increasingly liberalized news media in recent years has highlighted the miniscule funding assigned to health care under the previous, nominally civilian regime. It’s been more than a decade since the most extensive study on mental health in Myanmar was conducted by the World Health Organization.
But many hoped the arrival of the National League for Democracy government — itself made up of scores of former political prisoners — would see a greater emphasis placed on caring for the victims of successive despotic military juntas.
More than a year since the NLD took power, however, mental health workers can barely conceal their disappointment.
“Daw Aung San Suu Kyi doesn’t want to talk about the past. So, therefore, they do not want to talk about the past. I think we need to train ourselves. We cannot rely on the government,” said Bo Kyi.
“That will be their history. Until now, the National League for Democracy party has not recognized the existence of political prisoners; has not tried to help the situation. They must do something on this issue.”
When asked about a national plan for mental health care, let alone one that focuses on political prisoners, spokespersons at the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Social Welfare declined to comment.
Not ‘ayuu’
Public awareness on mental health is improving, and veterans of the movement like Bo Kyi are quick to point out that more help is available than ever before. But mental health is still undeniably a relatively new — and somewhat awkward — topic in Myanmar, and most are scared to be labelled “ayuu,” or “crazy.”
YMCA Yangon counsellor Su Myat said many of her clients are terrified that if they openly acknowledge mental health woes, they’ll be promptly sent to a mental hospital, which are notoriously under-resourced.
“Sometimes it is difficult to refer to the psychiatrist or even to the mental health hospital. They say, ‘We are not crazy, we don’t need to go to the hospital,’” said Su Myat.
Senior AAPP Mental Health Assistance Program counsellor Cherry Soe Myint agrees: “When you go to a mental hospital, it can be very, very crazy. Some people are naked, some are locked up with chains. It is very scary. That is the image in the heads of people in the community,” she said.
Already facing a suspicious and wary reception among many members of society, openly admitting their mental struggles has been a challenge too great for many ex-prisoners. And while much of the nation now respects the sacrifices of the iconic ’88 Generation, many from that persecuted cohort report that the acute feelings of shame and isolation followed them years after their release, complicating attempts at re-joining daily family life.
Building a framework
Than Than Htay of the AAPP, who is also an ’88 Generation activist, was imprisoned for more than 11 years for her pro-democracy ideals. Her sister and mother were also shut behind bars for their resistance work, and it was their shared experience that softened the blow when the AAPP senior counsellor returned to her community. Many others did not have that shared experience, she says.
“For me, my family members understand me. The first time I was imprisoned, my sister was imprisoned as well. Next, my mother was. Because they know what it is like to be imprisoned, they [did] understand me. For other families, they do not have such understanding family members. Some family members blame the political prisoners, saying they are the one who put the family into trouble,” she said.
Concerned civil society organizations have undertaken the bulk of caring for the country’s former political prisoners and their mental health. The current NLD-led government, despite having several former inmates among its ranks, has not yet made strides toward bringing Myanmar’s mental healthcare infrastructure into the 21st century.
Private clinical psychologist Hannah Kyaw Thaung said without a proper national framework and medication guidelines, general practitioners and hospital psychiatrists are dispensing inconsistent support and, alarmingly, medication regimens.
At a client level, “national treatment guidelines can help to provide a care pathway to identify and support individuals and families who live with mental health problems,” she told DVB.
“For mental health workers, guidelines provide clear standards and define models for promoting and treatment mental health to ensure safe and effective treatment.”
Bo Kyi told DVB that AAPP has no contact with the Ministry of Health and Sport, but does communicate with the Ministry of Social Welfare, Relief, and Resettlement.
The veteran of the mental healthcare movement in Myanmar is calling for more than just national treatment guidelines — he wants a reparations policy and financial support for victims of the state-sanctioned abuses of the past. It’s a tough ask for a government that has yet to even decide on an official definition of “political prisoner.”
“Internationally, there is no set definition of ‘political prisoner’ and in Myanmar as well … [it] is a very complicated issue, and globally as well,” President’s Office spokesperson Zaw Htay told DVB.
While the spokesperson is technically correct, a political prisoner or prisoner of conscience is widely accepted to be an individual imprisoned or unjustly punished for their political activities or ideologies.
Support networks crucial
Many former inmates found their networks had disintegrated during their incarceration. Feuds along social and ideological lines further fractured support systems following their release. Upon returning to her hometown after two stretches of prison time, former activist Ni Mo Hlaing describes acutely feeling a lack of direction in her life as a free woman.
“If someone who was engaging in political activities applied for a job in any commercialized fields, say applying to be a salesperson, [he or she] would not get the job,” she said, describing those like herself as “shunned.”
“So, I worked as a private tutor for my survival. It is like an unwritten law that a job applicant should not have any party affiliations or engaging in any political activities,” Ni Mo Hlaing said from the Yangon office of Sisterhood, an organization she founded to support other former prisoners and exiles.
She told DVB that even now, she struggles to find adequate employment opportunities and support.
“At this age, I do not know how to earn money. No chance for me to work for NGOs, as I do not have sufficient knowledge. I was ostracized by other political activists because I lack knowledge and proficiency in English. Even in NLD, I could not get a position. There is still no sufficient support to former political prisoners.”
Critics point out that the government has yet to break ground on the development of a national mental healthcare plan. Calls to six offices in the respective ministries of health and social welfare were either referred on or went unanswered.
There is little indication that the trauma and depression that thousands of the country’s former political prisoners grapple with is on the agenda in Naypyidaw, leaving the grunt work to a network of former inmates, those that care for them, and private health care professionals.
Hannah Kyaw Thaung said: “All prisoners should have mental health support — particularly when their conditions have been as dire as they have here.”
This story by Kimberley Phillips was originally published by DVB here.
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