Where am I staying? It is a question I am often asked by people I meet. I always answer “No. There is no plan”.
My life is unstable with no clear future— limited career options, a migrant worker visa, and an uncertain legal situation. I thought I was free from the junta, but I am not yet free from fear.
What if I cannot extend my visa? What if I cannot renew my passport? What if I can no longer continue my life here? Forced migration is not a “plan” you get to choose.
Many people told me that I might have a strong chance of resettlement because of my queer identity, my history of activism, and the risk I face under the junta’s forced conscription law. In 2024, I allowed myself to hope. A doctor told me he would report my case to UNHCR Thailand and recommend Australia for resettlement. I submitted my stories and evidence, and for a moment, I began to daydream about a future elsewhere.
A year later, I was still waiting. I sent a follow-up email. and was told that only officially registered refugees are eligible for resettlement and that there is currently no process that would get me registered. I don't want to be a refugee, yet it hurts to hear I can't be one.
I was recently refused registration as a patient at a hospital in Bangkok because my visa paperwork was in the process of being updated, and was issued in Chiang Mai. In moments like these, I understand how easily a life can be suspended — not because it lacks urgency, but because it does not fit within a system.
My co worker was killed in an accident late at night after he dropped me off at my place. He was wearing an employee ID around his neck with his name and address on it. His body lay cold at the hospital in Chiang Mai. No one called his workplace. We only found out after reporting him missing.
If it were me lying dead, who would call? I now carry my passport whenever I go out. If I am stopped or questioned, it is the only thing I have to prove I exist. Over time, it has become worn from constant use. I am in an existential crisis. I want to spend my life with a man I love, but cannot belong here without a future. My heart belongs to him, but my body belongs nowhere.
Recently, I returned to my friend’s home where I had previously stayed. I packed the things I had accumulated over almost three years into a small bag. There were scattered notes, small gifts, clothes, and books.
I own very little. I don't buy anything that’s difficult to carry. I brought only one backpack from home to Thailand. Inside it was a poetry book — Salt by Nayyirah Waheed. Two years later, these lines resonate with me more than ever:
you broke the ocean in
half to be here.
only to meet nothing that wants you.
– immigrant