The writer, La Pyae, receives support from The Kite Tales to write these diaries. 

The April sun in Yangon is unforgiving, yet the crowd does not move out of its blistering rays and neither do I. There is shade nearby, but I won’t go to it. I want to stay right here because this is the closest I can get to the main front gate of Insein Prison. 

I have been here since 7:00 am. It is now 10:30. We are still standing, still waiting.

On my way here, I decided what I would do. When the convoy of buses emerges from the gate, I will ask: “Are there political prisoners on this bus?” I will ask about their charges. I will call out the names of those I knew, the friends I made inside, hoping they are on board.

Suddenly, the crowd surges.

A line of grey minibuses rolls out through the gate. For a moment, they do not look like vehicles at all, but like clouds passing too quickly to grasp. Around me, people raise the sheets of paper they have prepared with the names of their family members written on them, holding them high. I hear a woman in her 30s talking to her younger sister, “Mom will be on it, won’t she?” Her hand is already stretched above her head gripping a piece of paper with her mother’s name on it.

Today is April 17, 2026, the Myanmar New Year. Traditionally this is when the military government announces amnesties, pardoning prisoners at whim.  

The first bus approaches and the crowd runs toward it. Voices rise all at once and mine is lost in the shouting. The second bus passes too quickly. Then, as the third bus comes into view, I see a familiar face at the window. We lived together in the female ward over four years ago. I run to the window where she is sitting and shout her name. When she sees me, she yells back: “Nyima is here! On the next bus! The next bus!”

Nyima had been charged under Section 50(j) of the regime’s Counterterrorism Law and sentenced to ten years for providing financial support to revolutionary groups. If she is here, if she has been released, then others might be too.

A driver shouts that the buses cannot stop at the gate and tells us to follow the buses to Insein Park. Without hesitation, many of us begin crossing the flyover under the burning sun, chasing hopes and possibilities.

At the park, the buses stop and people begin to disembark. As reunions unfold, I witness both joy and heartbreak. Nearby, I hear sobbing. I turn and see the two sisters from earlier. “Mom probably didn’t make it out this time,” one of them says. They are weeping and holding each other tightly.

I spent four New Year’s Days inside Insein Prison. On days like this, hope circulates quietly among the cells. Some cling to it; others learn not to. 

From experience, I know what these releases mean. They are small, calculated gestures from coup leader Min Aung Hlaing. The number of political prisoners freed is always painfully low. This year the most significant news is the commutation of all death sentences to life imprisonment. So at least the political prisoners will not face execution, like MP Ko Phyo Zeya Thaw or 88-Generation student leader Ko Jimmy.

I read that our elected President U Win Myint, detained on the day of the 2021 coup, has also been released. But many people I know remain behind bars: young students, ordinary people and the ones whose names will not appear in headlines. The housewife sentenced to life for donating 10,000 kyats. The teacher charged under the Counterterrorism Law for giving 20,000 kyats to displaced families. Most members of the elected party are not among those freed either. So many are still inside.

I keep searching with the crowd. But what or who exactly am I searching for?

I was the only one in my family who was imprisoned. I was arrested shortly after the coup. There is no one I am certain to find here.

So why did I come?

Survivor’s guilt. I am here because it does not feel right to be free while tens of thousands of political prisoners remain behind bars. Standing here will not change their fate, but at the very least I can join their families on a day like today. Looking around, I recognise some of the names from my four years inside among the signs carried by waiting families. From experience, I know many of them will not be going home today.

With a heart heavy with these realisations, I turn to leave. My feet moving, even as they resist walking away.

The artwork is by Songbird who is receiving support from The Kite Tales to produce illustrations.