Min Ma Naing is a Myanmar exile artist based in Berlin. She started her career as a press photographer and later moved on to a slow contemporary documentary practice. She co-founded Myanmar’s first women photographers’ collective to challenge gender inequality in the industry. In 2021, she was forced to flee her country when the military crackdown in Yangon started to intensify and become increasingly dangerous.
Beyond image-making, she uses photobooks as art objects, inviting viewers to engage intimately with her narratives. Drawing from her experiences of exile and diaspora, her recent work intertwines personal history with themes of political upheaval, borders, and displacement. Her photographs unfold like visual poetry, offering glimpses into her emotional landscape. Through what she calls “soft ruins”- badly damaged and imperfectly scanned negatives- her past emerges quietly, woven by a subtle tender beauty. It is as though she were inviting us into her world, but softly, asking us to tread lightly, for fear that the memories that she holds might shatter. Each image resonates with a palpable emotional charge, which makes us feel her story as much as we see it.
She adopted her temporary pseudonym, Min Ma Naing, to continue her work after the military coup.
I had the great privilege to speak with Min Ma Naing about how her passion for photography started, the events that led to her exile, and how she navigates the emotional upheaval of having had to reinvent herself in a new country far from home.
How did your photography journey begin?
It all started by accident—I wasn’t trained as a photographer. I was actually studying to become a teacher. I chose that career because, when I was younger, I didn’t like the education system and hated my teachers. I wanted to learn how to be a good one myself, so my decision was pretty emotional. I moved to Hong Kong to do a Masters Degree in Education and Management, a subject chosen for me by the scholarship committee. But my heart just wasn’t in it. Back in 2009, that was what people thought Myanmar needed—more people trained in education management, which was considered more useful for the country. I hated my classes and the subject matter, and I hated my tiny room that was the size of a matchbox, like most apartments in Hong Kong. To escape the feeling of being trapped, I would go sit outside in the park.
Coming from Myanmar, sitting outside alone as a woman was often considered unsafe, especially in certain neighborhoods. So, when I found a park near my apartment in Hong Kong, it became my refuge—it was my first time living abroad, and everything felt new. I would smile or make a friendly gesture at people I thought I recognized from the neighborhood. But those signals were quickly misinterpreted. People started thinking I was a sex worker or an immigrant housemaid looking for extra work. They approached me with little pieces of paper with their phone numbers written on them. It felt like harassment, and I had no idea how to handle it. Finally, I decided to bring a camera with me, hoping that if I looked like a tourist, people would leave me alone.
That’s how I started taking photos in the park, and gradually, I began talking to people. Normally, I wouldn’t approach strangers like that, but with the camera, I felt I had a reason. It gave me a sense of purpose and the courage to mingle and start conversations. It almost felt like I was creating a new version of myself—I felt more confident. The camera became a kind of shield, protecting me from unwanted male attention.
Instead of going to class, I started hanging out with journalists. It was a whole new experience. I even joined some student protests that were happening at the time—it was inspiring and made me want to explore this new world even more. Still, photography was just a hobby.
When I went back to Myanmar, my passion for photography kept growing. I wanted to tell stories; I became a serious hobbyist, wanting to show the everyday lives of people. I remember one of my first projects was at the harbor, trying to capture the story of the ships that sailed along the rivers in Myanmar, where people would sell their goods. These ships would stop at various towns, and it was an essential part of life for those communities. But then, some wealthy businessman tried to buy the ships to turn them into a luxury hotel, threatening the livelihood of all those sellers. Those sellers wanted me to tell their story, but at the time, I had no idea how to do that—I just knew how to take pictures. That was when I started looking into storytelling. But it was difficult to learn on my own online.
In 2014, I found a workshop at Pathshala South Asian Media Institute in Bangladesh. Even though photography was still a hobby for me at that time, I was accepted, and I spent three months studying and developed my first photography project for that workshop. It was in Meiktila, where communal violence had broken out in 2013 between Buddhists and Muslims. My idea was to highlight the peaceful connections, the friendships that still existed between the two communities. Working on that project meant visiting some sensitive and prohibted areas, and I knew the police were watching me. But even their harassment didn’t stop me—it made me even more determined. It was then that I knew this was the career for me. It felt exciting, and the more I was challenged, the more sure I felt that this was my path. So, I quit teaching and applied for a position at the Myanmar Times, a bilingual newspaper. That was the real start of my career as a photographer.
In 2021, you were forced to flee your home in Yangon. What were the circumstances that led to this event?
After just 11 months, I decided to quit my job at the newspaper and began working as an independent documentary photographer. At the same time, I co-ran an organization focused on providing resources for photographers and filmmakers. The organization was registered in my name since I was the local partner, while my counterpart was British. The work we did wasn’t well-received by the military—particularly our coverage of the extractive industries and a photo exhibition we hosted on the Rohingya. The displeasure from authorities was clear.
Soon, I realized I was being watched by the Special Branch of the military. I was under surveillance for several months and was questioned a few times. Before the 2021 coup, I had learned how to deal with them, how to play their game. I was aware of the risks, but I accepted them. Because we were doing what was necessary to fill the gap for local photographers like me.
Then the coup happened, and things escalated. I began to feel increasingly at risk, both as an artist and as the person in charge of the organization. One day I was at a protest, documenting it as a photographer and also participating as a witness, as I had done many times before. During crackdowns, it was common for us to have to run and hide from the police. In March 2021, I found myself at an artist-led protest in a neighborhood with many residential buildings but also government offices—offering us fewer places to hide. I was with a group of eight artists, and when the police began chasing us, we ran into a nine-story building, hoping to find somewhere to hide. We knocked on so many doors as we ran up the stairs, but none opened. Finally, on the ninth floor, a door opened, and a family of Indian descent let us in.
I knew the police would be following us and that it was only a matter of time before they came knocking at that door. But there were eight of us, and the family already had seven members—fifteen people in one small apartment wouldn’t be believable. I had to think quickly, and my experience as a journalist kicked in. I asked the family if I could change into a sarong and wear a bindi on my forehead to better blend in. They agreed and helped me change while I urged my fellow protesters to do the same. They didn’t think it was necessary, insisting that staying in trousers would help them run faster if needed.
Then we heard the sound of footsteps—the police were running up the stairs toward the ninth floor. The sound of their boots is something I still remember vividly. They knocked, and of course, the family had no choice but to open the door. The police entered and said, “Family members on the left, protesters on the right. We know you’re here—make yourselves seen.” I stepped to the left with the family members while my fellow protesters were taken away. They were interrogated; some were released, but others ended up spending months in prison.
I will be forever grateful to that family for saving me that day. There were vulnerable people, one was a pregnant woman, young twins who looked like they were in eighth grade, and an elderly couple. The entire family played along, kept their calm, and protected me. They were a Hindu family, of Indian descent—a minority in Myanmar—and it struck me deeply that a minority family was risking themselves to save me, someone from the majority ethnic group.
At the same time, my organization was facing threats. I was the local partner, while my British partner left Myanmar two weeks after the coup, leaving me and the local staff unprepared. The pressure and risks were increasing daily. Our landlord began acting strangely, and the township authorities started asking for reports on our activities. We then had to stop running our activities and prepared resignation letters for the local staff. I realized that my presence in Myanmar was becoming too dangerous. I knew I needed an escape plan, and I was fortunate to be invited by Cornell University to join their artist-at-risk program. I left Myanmar in June 2021.
Having started as a press photographer, you eventually later shifted towards more personal, long-form storytelling. How does it feel to approach photography in this more introspective way compared to your earlier work?
Working as a press photographer, whenever I pitched a story, I had very limited time—at most, only about three days to cover or develop it. The news world, with its tight budgets and fast-paced nature, always felt rushed. I remember once covering a story about a Rohingya woman; I wanted to know more about her life and really understand the challenges she was facing. But I simply wasn’t given enough time, and I couldn’t afford to stay on my own for the two weeks I felt were needed to tell her story in the right way.
The rushed nature of the press room was something I struggled with. It felt like I was only scratching the surface, giving an incomplete picture of what was happening. With my background in teacher training, I had learned the importance of listening. But in press photography, I didn’t have enough time to really listen to people, and it felt like something important was missing from my storytelling. That’s what ultimately led me to decide to quit my job as a press photographer.
I don’t regret my time in that role, though—it helped me develop valuable skills, like making quick decisions in crucial moments and trusting my intuition in dangerous situations. Working under stress as a press photographer taught me a lot, and those lessons have definitely come in handy in my career since.
Your project ‘of solongs and ashes‘ draws deeply from the fleeting memories and references to the ephemerality of life. You mentioned that this began as a visual diary at your therapist’s suggestion, ultimately evolving into an artistic project. Could you tell us more about this project?
It was a very difficult decision for me to have to decide to flee my country. My sister had been arrested in March of 2021 and was still in prison when I felt forced to leave. I left my mother behind and all my friends, including the ones I had made through the photography collective I had set up. And I couldn’t tell anyone about my decision for security reasons. The only two people who knew what I was planning were my mother and a very close friend.
I was overcome with guilt and shame for leaving my country. I thought back to what my friends were doing, covering the events that were unfolding in Myanmar at the time. There were also young people risking their lives in the revolution. Everyone was doing important things and I felt ashamed about being in Cornell. I wasn’t happy nor was I proud of what I was doing. For a long long time I couldn’t take any photos so I started a project using archive photos. As I was working on this project which involved making a quilt I heard about the tragic news of five young people who jumped out of a building to escape the police. That was the day I broke down and stopped what I was doing. I tore up the quilt but never went back to working on it because I kept thinking what was the point of making a quilt in a comfortable life while others were risking theirs? I was very unhappy with my situation. Also my identity was based on being a photographer and yet I wasn’t able to photogragh anymore and this brought up a lot of contradictions in myself. I was able to see a therapist for about 10 sessions and she encouraged me to pursue things that made me happy- so there I was trying to read and write because I couldn’t face taking photos, but it just didn’t feel natural.
With time I thought I need to do what feels natural to me and I thought that I could revisit my past photography and use photography now as a catharsis. Like I would just go out and shoot without a plan or a project in mind. While working with my therapist I discussed the fact that being a tactile person I wanted to make a book. So I started to combine pictures I had taken in Myanmar shortly before leaving. One or two days before I knew I was leaving Myanmar I had taken walks around my neighbourhood in Yangon and in downtown with a small camera I had with me, and I started working on combining these photos together. The past ones and the present ones. It was a very tough process for me. And then I sat with these pictures in the dummy book for a year. Only later when I found myself in Nepal as I couldn’t return to Myanmar after my fellowship in Cornell and Harvard, I decided that I would use the resources from Nepal to turn this dummy book into a book. The first edition was sold out.
How do you navigate your identity in exile and how has this dislocation affected your sense of self, both as an individual and as an artist?
Everything has changed for me since this forced pause in my career and my life in exile. It has made me slow down, not just in my work but in my entire approach to life. Before the coup, I was always working on one project after another. While I used to think of myself as a slow photographer, this time has made me slow down even more. My personal projects have always revolved around people, and I’ve always been part of a community. Now, in exile, it’s challenging to find that sense of community, and that’s probably been the biggest change I’ve felt.
Lately, I’ve been revisiting my archive from Myanmar, looking through photos I had once discarded. It’s striking to see how differently I perceive them now compared to before. I’m working on a visual narrative that’s become a journey of reconciliation—between who I was and who I am now. Having the distance from those traumatic events has allowed me to see things from a different perspective and to learn more about myself. It feels almost like I’ve started to embrace the challenges I went through. In the past, I used to focus on “why did this happen to me?” and would blame everything else. But now, I feel a sense of appreciation for what I’ve had to endure. I can’t say I’ve fully overcome it, but I am in a more positive place, learning to appreciate myself.
You adopted the pseudonym “Min Ma Niang”, which means “the king cannot beat you”, as a form of protection. Can you tell us more about how the act of choosing this name has influenced your art?
I took on this name right after the coup in 2021. It’s the name of the neighborhood where I lived, notorious for being a place where gangsters thrive, not caring much about the authorities. I’ve always liked the name, especially because it sounds very masculine, which I thought would help distance it from a female artist or photographer. The meaning of the name—“the king cannot beat you”—resonates deeply with me. Despite being in exile, I still want to express my dissent against what’s happening. It represents my fight in defense of the oppressed.
In the Western world, complex conflict issues like those unfolding in your country are frequently overlooked until they align with economic or political interests. What are your feelings on this topic and in what ways can photography shed light on the struggles and conflicts faced in your country?
Thank you for this question. We often feel abandoned and alone in our struggle, and it can be frustrating to see how the world has largely ignored our fight. Similar to other small countries, Myanmar isn’t on the agenda of the powerful, and we end up being overlooked in the global political context. I see this lack of interest even in places like Berlin, where there seems to be little awareness or curiosity about what’s happening in Myanmar.
Part of the problem lies in the perspective presented by international media. When the Spring Revolution began in early 2021, it felt like the media offered a very surface-level view of the protests—focusing on a broad political angle while avoiding more personal, human stories. This same one-dimensional approach often carries over to exhibitions about Myanmar as well. In my view, covering personal stories could help bridge the gap between the West and other countries, allowing people to better understand the challenges faced by those enduring conflict, leaving their homes, and losing loved ones. The international media has largely failed to provide this perspective.
I also believe international media needs to be more connected to the local context by involving local photographers and journalists to better reflect what’s truly happening. I remember when a correspondent from a major news channel came to Myanmar for a few days, conducted some interviews, and then left—while the people she interviewed were left to deal with the consequences. It’s equally important to highlight the impacts felt by the Myanmar diaspora in other countries, as their experiences are also part of the broader story of the struggle.
I remember a foreign male war photographer once asking me bluntly why he should care about my personal life, and I find this attitude is more prevalent when it comes to women photographers sharing their stories. There needs to be more education and awareness that these personal narratives are just as important and deserve to be heard.
‘Another family‘ is a beautiful and lyrical tribute to the lives of extraordinary individuals from war torn areas of Myanmar. You spent time photographing a group of young nuns in a Buddhist convent. Could you tell us more about this project?
I began this project in 2019, commissioned by an NGO. At that time, the norm was to look for sad, dramatic stories, so I decided to explore monastic institutions that were sheltering many displaced children from war zones, particularly from northern Shan State. These children came from various ethnic and religious backgrounds, including some who were Christian. Most of them were young girls sent away from home to escape the dangers of war. I assumed I would find a tragic situation—young girls forced into becoming nuns due to circumstances beyond their control.
To better understand their situation, I asked the head nun if I could spend time with the girls. I suggested doing a photography workshop with them, which would give me a chance to teach them some skills while also building trust. I ended up spending two weeks at the monastery, and what I found was entirely different from what I had expected. Instead of the rigid, heartbreaking scenario I had imagined, I discovered a place where the girls, despite their diverse backgrounds, supported one another and genuinely seemed happy to be there. The monastic school was progressive in many ways—allowing the girls to have dinner, for example, something that went against traditional practices but which the head nun saw as essential for their growth and well-being.
If I had only spent a few days there, I might have left with a very different, more stereotypical view of their lives. Instead, I contacted the NGO and explained that the story had shifted—the reality I had encountered was different from what we initially thought. I told them if they were open to this new narrative, I would continue; otherwise, they would need to find another photographer. I had no intention of portraying anything but the truth. They agreed, and I moved forward with the project.
The experience truly opened my eyes. I was deeply touched by the girls’ sisterhood and how they formed a new family despite their differing ethnic backgrounds—backgrounds that, back home, were often in conflict. The resilience they displayed inspired me, and I realized how important it was to tell positive stories like this. Stories that showed unity, strength, and hope amidst hardship, helping to connect different aspects of the broader narrative unfolding in Myanmar.
Sadly, one of the young nuns recently lost her life in the typhoon that hit Myanmar. Revisiting my photos, I felt the same admiration for their resilience, but also a sense of exhaustion on their behalf—wondering how long we can keep expecting them to be resilient. It was a sobering realization, and I found myself wanting to update the story I had once told. My perspective has changed over time, and it’s made me reflect on how our narratives shift as we gain distance and new experiences.
Time changes our view of things, and I’m increasingly fascinated by how it shapes our stories and approaches, challenging us to revisit and redefine what we once believed.
You wrote about ‘The Faces of Change‘ project calling it “a subtle, human-focused portrait gallery of ordinary individuals who are participating in the revolution and—as strangers acting in unison—radically changing their country’s history. This gallery of ordinary people—at an extraordinary juncture in their lives—is aimed to bring a needed counterpoint perspective to the imagery of Myanmar’s Spring Revolution”. Can you tell us more about this project.
This project is very close to my heart, and I feel deeply involved in it. I wasn’t just a witness—I was a part of this protest. I felt the anger, the desperation, and the overwhelming hopelessness as the coup shattered our dreams and altered the course of so many lives.
The idea of double exposure came from the need to protect the identities of the collaborators. I didn’t want my photos or portraits to put anyone in further danger. We had no idea how long this fight would last or where it would lead, and I had a bad feeling, often thinking back to the 1988 revolution, though I was still very young at the time. Some protesters said they didn’t care and wanted their faces shown—they were proud to be part of the revolution and wanted to be seen. But I convinced them, promising that when it’s all over and we’ve won our battle, we’ll celebrate by revealing their faces, free from the double exposure.
Where do you find inspiration in the face of hardship?
I felt disconnected from everything for a few years, unable to look back or reconnect due to the overwhelming guilt and shame of having left. During this time, I couldn’t work on any projects. Before my exile, I drew inspiration from many sources: my community of artists who supported one another, the women’s collective I had set up—it was a vibrant environment. In exile, it felt like I had lost my identity, and I was very sad and depressed for a long time.
Eventually, I grew to accept my situation, and slowly things began to change. I started to see my limitations not only as constraints but also as unexpected sources of inspiration. For example, after my fellowship in the U.S., when I couldn’t return home and found myself in Nepal and India, I began to see that this negative situation was also an opportunity to explore new places.
Recently, I had to undergo surgery on my primary hand, which left me unable to hold a camera or do many other things. During this time, a close friend suggested that I revisit my archive—not only the photos of the protests or the coup but everything, to reflect on my journey.
I started going through my old photographs and asked my friend to scan some of the negatives I had to leave behind when I fled Myanmar. Interestingly, these scanned negatives have defects and imperfections, perhaps because of the humidity in Yangon or my friend’s inexperience. It’s been fascinating to look at these familiar yet now strange images. They resonate with how I revisit my past—with a mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity. In a way, my limitations have become a significant source of inspiration for me.
Can you tell us what you are working on at the moment?
I have given my current project the title “Soft Ruins,” and it is inspired by the character from Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. This project is very close to my heart, much like my work on “of solongs and ashes”.
“Soft Ruins” is still a work in progress. I’m delving into my archive and revisiting the theme of reconciliation—exploring what remains, who I once was, and what has been left behind.
Are there any particular photographers who have inspired or influenced your work?
I really love the work of Katrin Koenning, a German-born photographer now based in Australia. I find her process very poetic—she addresses politics and conflict, but in a slow, thoughtful way, which I deeply appreciate. I love how the passage of time is visible in her work. Her photos inspire me to think, pushing me to interpret the images.
Another photographer I admire is Sohrab Hura, an Indian photographer. I really appreciate how he fictionalizes violence and conflict to build his visual narrative. Looking at the works of these photographers allows me space to reflect on my own narrative within their images. Despite the Australian and Indian contexts being quite different from Myanmar and my personal experiences, the way these photographers develop their narratives helps me create my own stories, seeing reflections of my emotions and thoughts within their pictures.
What advice would you give a young and aspiring photographer?
Although I am an experienced photographer, I draw a lot of inspiration from the work of young photographers. I find that the more experience we gain, the more we get influenced by an agenda. I’ve caught myself thinking about what projects might do well in open call competitions and selecting themes based on what I think would be better received, rather than focusing on the work that genuinely drives me. Young photographers, on the other hand, often follow their real excitement and creative heartbeat without these external pressures.
I was disconnected from this feeling for a long time, but my exiled state has helped me reconnect with it—the Myanmar issue isn’t front and center on my agenda anymore. Strangely, this limitation has pushed me to think like I used to when I first began my journey in photography. This mental freedom has allowed me to be more intuitive and connect more deeply with myself.
I would encourage young photographers to always follow their heart and soul, as those instincts can get lost over time. Don’t just look at what projects are winning awards or who’s getting exhibited and try to emulate them. As one of my close friend says, pursuing your own personal projects may mean you’re not following the latest trend and may even mean losing out on certain opportunities to exhibit your work. But in the long run, following the beat of your own soul is what will bring you fulfillment and make you proud of the work you do.