The bullet hit the tree which I was taking cover behind while taking photos. I heard the sound of bullets passing through the tree and the simultaneous splintering of the tree bark.

I felt furious with anger, but kept taking photos. I heard someone scream at me: “photographer, run! Run! Go!” I looked around and noticed that there were no more protesters nearby except four frontliners with shields and molotov cocktails in their hands. They were covering for the others to retreat.

I ran back to shelter, bending to dodge bullets. On the frontline of the protest, those men (on the other side) were shooting a mix of live rounds and rubber bullets while marching forward. When the people watching the situation from the upper floors of nearby buildings screamed: “a man was shot! A man was shot!” A few of the boys left where they were hiding to bring back the wounded man. I followed them to take photos. I was able to capture the look of despair in the eyes of people who carried that person, their scared expressions, and finally, a person whose face had been ruptured in half by a bullet. The boys were running to take cover and carried the injured man, while I was taking photos throughout the whole process. As soon as the man was laid in the van, his eyes rolled back into his head and he died. Only at that moment, I realised that he was the one - yes - the one who had just warned me to run.

As an experienced photojournalist, I was quite familiar with unpleasant scenes. I have seen piles of hundreds of dead bodies in Hpakant after landslides, scenes of people dying and houses collapsing during floods, and villages being burnt down. So I imagined this event could not move my emotions, and with that thought, I continued working the whole day. I only noticed the blood stains on my clothes when I got home. I took a shower and changed my clothes, but I couldn’t get rid of the image of that guy from my mind's eyes while I washed the clothes. The faces of all the dead bodies I had ever seen before flashed in my mind at once. My memories of all the terrible moments that I encountered previously resurfaced. I felt nauseous and then I threw up.

Due to security reasons for a photojournalist like me, I lived alone, away from my family. I felt like the night was quieter than it used to be. Isn’t it the case that insomnia happens when it’s noisy? But back then it was too quiet for me to fall asleep. I kept hearing: “photographer, run.” I saw big red stains whenever I closed my eyes. Eyes rolling back into the head. The face ruptured in half.

I had to play the guitar all night long.

It all started from that day. I could no longer sleep at night. I could no longer tolerate the quietness whenever I was alone. I could not forget the sound of the bullet passing close to my ear. I played guitar more and more because I needed to hear another sound. I wanted to talk. I wanted to hear someone speaking. I always felt disappointed for no reason. I easily got enraged. I no longer had patience for anything. I neither wanted to hear crying nor see tearful eyes. I could not even console my wife anymore when she cried; I yelled at her not to cry. I could not sleep at night. I did not want to fall asleep. I knew I needed to sleep. I knew it would be quite good for me if I could sleep soundly for at least for one night. I tried numerous ways to make it happen, both good and not very good ones. No matter how hard I tried, even if I fell asleep it would just be for a short moment. Every so often, I woke up from dreams hearing sounds and seeing things. I saw red stains everywhere. I heard crying all the time. Even though I tried my best to have a routine everyday, I could no longer feel normal.

After some time, I became accustomed to seeing red stains. I still see real red stains in the outside world even though I do not want to. In my camera, there are more and more pictures of faces with their eyes rolled back into their heads that I do not want to capture.

I also play guitar more and more at night.