The death of Thailand’s long-ruling monarch has failed to translate into a clear national moment of mass grief, report Edoardo Siani and Matthew Phillips. Here’s why.
Since the evening of Thursday 13 October, millions of Thais have been mourning the loss of a monarch who reigned over their country for 70 years.
Ambiguously located between the realm of the humans and the gods, thought by many to be a Buddha-to-be and widely regarded as a father-figure for all, few Thais remember a time when the kingdom was not under his supposedly enlightened guidance. As an extended period of official national mourning begins, therefore, the assumption is that Thailand’s population is ‘united in grief’.
Yet what has perhaps been most noticeable about the reaction to the King’s death is how, so far, it has failed to develop into a clear national moment of mass grief. This is not to diminish the feelings of those who currently mourn. If anything, it is to recognise how profoundly dignified the response has been. The feeling here appears subdued and contemplative. There has been little evidence of hysteria, and public displays of anguish have been distinctly lacking. For most, the grief appears personal — even private.
The announcement
To some extent, the reason for this seems to be either by design or by a series of mismanagements by state authorities. Take the announcement of the King’s death.
Rumours had been circulating for days that the moment was imminent, and yet discussion through the national media was extremely limited. On the day itself rumours about the King’s passing proliferated, at one point substantiated by a death certificate that was later claimed to be a fake. On social media, many were talking openly about the news, until at some point between 6.45 and 7pm an official death certificate was made public via online newspapers such as Matichon.
Then, shortly before 7pm, all TV channels cut to a brief written statement in Thai language – white on a dark background – announcing that ‘the King has passed away’. This was followed by a presumably live address delivered by an anchorman with an eccentric hairdo. Speaking with a deadpan expression, he proceeded to soberly spell out the King’s long ceremonial name, followed by the words ‘has reached the heavens’. In the minutes leading up to the announcement, anyone tuning in would have had no idea what was happening. There was no live moment where a newsreader and the public might together share in the first report of the news.
At 7.20pm, stations along the state-run rail networks in Bangkok were still shouting out loud advertisements and old news as if nothing had happened. Below the colorful screens that hang at all station platforms, commuters were reading what had happened from smartphones. Many silently sobbed. The private grief was palpable, but the state seemed curiously uninvolved. Eventually, the screens at all stations and in all trains switched to a poem about the royal death, white on a black background with no sound. The imposition of silence almost felt like an admission of guilt by those who had missed the original queue.
The procession
Scenes of dignified popular commotion were still visible in Bangkok the following morning, as commuters, most of whom were dressed in black, made their way to work as usual. At around 10am, the flow of people seemed to change direction as more became aware the government had declared a bank holiday (wan yud rachagan). This made it a day off work for public servants and a non-compulsory holiday for corporations. By 11am, the roads leading to the area where the procession that would take the kings body to the Grand Palace, were clogged with traffic as people made their way to the site.
The official announcement had said that the procession would begin at 1pm, but by 11am the crowds at Sanam Luang – the green space in front of the palace — were already thick. Police and military officers were telling attendees to find space to sit on the footpaths, stating that they would not be allowed to sit on the road. Those who had positioned themselves already, guarded their spot religiously. At times they verbally attacked newcomers who tried to muscle in.
The authorities seemed confused about how to manage the crowd. Streams of newly arrived people forced them to redirect entire groups to alternative spaces, but they also had to make concessions. As a result, by 3-4pm, groups of hundreds of people could be seen migrating from one side of the road to the other, sitting down, standing up and at times defying orders altogether.
As this drama proceeded, the two of us found ourselves squeezed into a spot by an incoming crowd. From that point on we were hemmed in and so decided to settle down and wait.
The next few hours were gruelling. We sweated profusely, felt cramps in our legs and back, got sunburned, and showed the first signs of serious dehydration. By 3pm we were both experiencing visual impairment, headaches and tingle