- May 4, 2021
- 3,155
Hard To Swallow
25 January, 2006
A glimpse of the Department of Exporting Revolution
The rain that day was not just rain; it was a downpour that would be etched into Thaksin's memory. In a cubicle within the communal workspace of the Department of the Revolution, each clap of thunder vibrated through the building, creating a chorus of oppressive sounds. The fluorescent lights, sickly and struggling against the gloom, did little to alleviate the oppressive mood while public servants stared blankly at the rain-soaked windows.
The sharp hiss of an electronically secured door startled the room except Thaksin. Eyes turned, confused, and then respectful, as the Director-General of the Department of Exporting Revolution—Surachai—entered. The room returned to its quiet chaos as Surachai approached the cubicle where Thaksin sat, his green cap with its crimson star symbol instantly catching Thaksin’s gaze. “Comrade Surachai," Thaksin greeted, his voice calm, yet deliberate, as the man sat next to him.
“Comrade Thaksin,” Surachai began, his voice tight, “we’re in dire need of the Prime Minister's attention. Our implementation of Regional Strategic Plan 001 is critically delayed.” He paused, the crimson star on his cap seeming to throb in the dim light. “The nation’s unity in the march towards the Southeast Asian Federation of Socialist States—the SEAFSS—rests on your shoulders, Comrade. We both know Thailand's dominance has been challenged lately, both in Asia and across the globe; Plan 001 acknowledges this. We must act now."
Thaksin took a slow breath, a barely perceptible sigh he tried to mask. "Comrade Surachai,” he began, a calm that seemed at odds with the tension clinging to the air, “Thailand remains the most democratic nation, the most egalitarian state to ever exist. The LTE is stable. Our socialist economy is secure, for now." His gaze flickered to a notification that had bloomed on his tablet. “This is the price of a multipolar world, I suppose. A more balanced world; but this kind of world where the old capitalist powers still hold the reins…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken implications hanging heavy between them.
Surachai’s gaze softened, a brief flicker of something akin to sympathy crossing his features. “It is difficult to awaken the global consciousness, Comrade. So many remain captive to the illusions of the ruling class.” He held up his phone, angling it towards Thaksin. “These figures, Comrade, our nation leads the world in civil liberties and human development. Yet, the promise of a better life, modeled after our society, is actively suppressed by the elites of the so-called liberal democracies.”
Thaksin’s head inclined, a gesture of acknowledgement rather than agreement. “Yes, Surachai, this is a familiar litany.” He paused, his eyes hardening. “Outside of our region, the revolution cannot spread without force, a truth only intellectuals recognize. That systems are nothing but sanctioned and normalized oppression.” A beat skipped. “If we were to annex Laos and Cambodia, and in the process raise their standards of living, the west and the capitalist nations of Asia would immediately condemn us – not for the act itself, but for creating a better, more just world.” A thunderous crack accompanied his words, momentarily shattering the strained silence.
Then, a figure emerged, her public servant suit crisp against the drab surroundings; the elected supervisor of the Bureau of Information and Analysis. Her gaze, sharp and appraising, swept over them, her lips forming a tight line before she adjusted her glasses with a sigh of thinly veiled irritation. “Tell me again,” she began, her tone laced with barely concealed annoyance, “why do the Prime Minister and the Director-General—both my direct superiors—insist on using this communal space for their… ‘deep’ conversations?" She scratched her head, her exasperation palpable. “Please, comrades, this isn't a theater. A new intern is scheduled for this cubicle, imminently. Might I suggest you both kindly allow my colleagues to proceed with their necessary arrangements?”
Thaksin and Surachai exchanged a fleeting glance before beginning to excuse themselves. But the supervisor stopped them with a raised hand. "Oh, but wait, since you've been occupying this space, a small favour?" She gestured toward a pile of boxes spilling over with administrative equipment. “See those boxes? Those two comrades over there can guide you. Thank you, comrades.” She flashed a smile, surprisingly bright and genuine, that cut through the preceding tension. Both men looked at one another again, a silent agreement passing between them, before spending the next twenty minutes hauling and arranging the office supplies.
“That felt… almost cathartic,” Thaksin murmured as they left the Bureau of Information and Analysis. “Like the old days, before the 1998 Revolution—a chaos, a struggle, but with a purpose that was so clear. Toppling that rotting Rattanakosin empire... I still cannot believe it led us to this. The first socialist society, here, alive.” He looked at Surachai. “It's been a long road, hasn’t it, comrade?”
Surachai offered a small, almost sad, smile. “Too long to turn back now, comrade.” His gaze drifted, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a heavy sigh. “We're not just maintaining this society, but shielding it from the outside world, the judgement of the so-called liberal and capitalist societies.” The canteen was in sight now, the last of the rain now merely a pitter-patter against the windows. “Let’s rest, grab some food. What do you say?”
Thaksin nodded, a slight eagerness returning to him, as they placed their belongings on an empty table. "Of course, let's enjoy something before I return to the Government House." The canteen hummed with the quiet energy of shared lunch breaks; the clatter of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation, and the scent of lemongrass and chilli filled the air. It was a vibrant tableau, colleagues from across the department engaged in animated talks, their stories and laughter blending seamlessly into a larger narrative of daily life. A shared history. A unified struggle. This serenity, however, shattered as a group of figures marched into the canteen, their bodies stiff, their faces gaunt. Their grey, close-fitting sweaters were adorned with the bold letters: 'LREA'. The Labor Rights Enforcement Agency. A ripple of unease went through the room, the joyful noise dying instantly.
“Comrades, apologies for the interruption,” the female leader announced, her voice cutting through the canteen’s low hum, a rigid formality masking a flicker of something else. “We are conducting a routine workplace inspection to ensure compliance with the Labor’s Right and Protection Act of 2004.” She paused, her gaze briefly fixed on the floor, almost as if mumbling to herself. Thaksin and Surachai, their hearing ever keen, caught the whisper, “Damn it… I hate feeling like the state’s fist.” She straightened, a sigh barely visible, before turning on her heel, her LREA colleagues following her like shadows. The canteen slowly returned to its usual rhythm, but the air felt thinner, the previous conviviality replaced by an undercurrent of unease.
“What was that?” Surachai asked, his eyes piercing with skepticism, their gaze locked as he was momentarily distracted by the sight of the LREA's rigid formation. Thaksin met his comrade's eyes, a weary knowing in his tone. “A necessary evil, I suppose. They were supposed to be a transitional organization after we collectivized the entire economy, ensuring no foreign enterprise abuses their rights while wearing the facades of the cooperatives." He looked at the back of the LREA. “And to show our domestic organizations that we still keep watch, as required by law, unfortunately." A pause. “Perhaps such a law needs a review.”
Surachai chuckled lightly before remarking. “Well, I suppose it was an excellent decision that we didn’t promote ourselves as a perfect nation, just the world’s best society. It seems like you have a whole lot of work to coordinate to ensure that a new elite class of the bureaucrats won’t emerge like what happened in the Soviet Union, right?” He paused, realizing that the canteen had become lively again. “See, people don’t care that much, they are back to normal now.”
A young female employee placed a food tray heavily onto their table, the clatter of metal momentarily breaking the silence, and sat down abruptly, her expression tight. "Did you guys hear...?" she began, her voice a shade too loud, "the Uyghur terrorists—Islamic ones, I think—have taken hostages at the Chinese Embassy in France. Just now, apparently." Her words hung in the air, the casual tone a poor mask for something deeper. She stabbed at her food with her fork, the sharp sound echoing the tension. "The French police are... handling it. Apparently, these Uyghurs want all their prisoners released, the recognition of some... Turkistan state, and reparations for a century of oppression." She continued to eat, the act performed with a strange, almost violent focus.
Thaksin’s brow furrowed, a subtle twist of his lips betraying his unease. “That’s… concerning. Another incident in France, and this time Islamic in nature? It feels, almost orchestrated.” His gaze swept the canteen, searching for answers in the mundane chatter of his colleagues, finding none. “The European Affairs desk will manage it. If it escalates… well, the Foreign Ministry can always issue a statement.”
Surachai shifted, a spark igniting in his eyes. “Wait – an official statement. That aligns perfectly with Plan 001, and our international standing needs bolstering.” He turned to their colleague, his voice suddenly animated. “Comrade, thank you. Would you join me? We can initiate an internal democratic consultation within the Ministry.”
The woman’s laughter tinkled, a delighted response to Surachai’s sudden fervor. “Plan 001 is always a catalyst for you, isn’t it?” She glanced at Thaksin and back to Surachai. “Of course. The sooner we refine our narrative, the better.” Their pace quickened, a near frenzy as they finished their meal, leaving Thaksin to watch as they all but bolted. Before he could fully register the shift, he was alone, the image of the two now lost in the teeming rush of the metro, the government house being his final destination.
The sharp hiss of an electronically secured door startled the room except Thaksin. Eyes turned, confused, and then respectful, as the Director-General of the Department of Exporting Revolution—Surachai—entered. The room returned to its quiet chaos as Surachai approached the cubicle where Thaksin sat, his green cap with its crimson star symbol instantly catching Thaksin’s gaze. “Comrade Surachai," Thaksin greeted, his voice calm, yet deliberate, as the man sat next to him.
“Comrade Thaksin,” Surachai began, his voice tight, “we’re in dire need of the Prime Minister's attention. Our implementation of Regional Strategic Plan 001 is critically delayed.” He paused, the crimson star on his cap seeming to throb in the dim light. “The nation’s unity in the march towards the Southeast Asian Federation of Socialist States—the SEAFSS—rests on your shoulders, Comrade. We both know Thailand's dominance has been challenged lately, both in Asia and across the globe; Plan 001 acknowledges this. We must act now."
Thaksin took a slow breath, a barely perceptible sigh he tried to mask. "Comrade Surachai,” he began, a calm that seemed at odds with the tension clinging to the air, “Thailand remains the most democratic nation, the most egalitarian state to ever exist. The LTE is stable. Our socialist economy is secure, for now." His gaze flickered to a notification that had bloomed on his tablet. “This is the price of a multipolar world, I suppose. A more balanced world; but this kind of world where the old capitalist powers still hold the reins…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken implications hanging heavy between them.
Surachai’s gaze softened, a brief flicker of something akin to sympathy crossing his features. “It is difficult to awaken the global consciousness, Comrade. So many remain captive to the illusions of the ruling class.” He held up his phone, angling it towards Thaksin. “These figures, Comrade, our nation leads the world in civil liberties and human development. Yet, the promise of a better life, modeled after our society, is actively suppressed by the elites of the so-called liberal democracies.”
Thaksin’s head inclined, a gesture of acknowledgement rather than agreement. “Yes, Surachai, this is a familiar litany.” He paused, his eyes hardening. “Outside of our region, the revolution cannot spread without force, a truth only intellectuals recognize. That systems are nothing but sanctioned and normalized oppression.” A beat skipped. “If we were to annex Laos and Cambodia, and in the process raise their standards of living, the west and the capitalist nations of Asia would immediately condemn us – not for the act itself, but for creating a better, more just world.” A thunderous crack accompanied his words, momentarily shattering the strained silence.
Then, a figure emerged, her public servant suit crisp against the drab surroundings; the elected supervisor of the Bureau of Information and Analysis. Her gaze, sharp and appraising, swept over them, her lips forming a tight line before she adjusted her glasses with a sigh of thinly veiled irritation. “Tell me again,” she began, her tone laced with barely concealed annoyance, “why do the Prime Minister and the Director-General—both my direct superiors—insist on using this communal space for their… ‘deep’ conversations?" She scratched her head, her exasperation palpable. “Please, comrades, this isn't a theater. A new intern is scheduled for this cubicle, imminently. Might I suggest you both kindly allow my colleagues to proceed with their necessary arrangements?”
Thaksin and Surachai exchanged a fleeting glance before beginning to excuse themselves. But the supervisor stopped them with a raised hand. "Oh, but wait, since you've been occupying this space, a small favour?" She gestured toward a pile of boxes spilling over with administrative equipment. “See those boxes? Those two comrades over there can guide you. Thank you, comrades.” She flashed a smile, surprisingly bright and genuine, that cut through the preceding tension. Both men looked at one another again, a silent agreement passing between them, before spending the next twenty minutes hauling and arranging the office supplies.
“That felt… almost cathartic,” Thaksin murmured as they left the Bureau of Information and Analysis. “Like the old days, before the 1998 Revolution—a chaos, a struggle, but with a purpose that was so clear. Toppling that rotting Rattanakosin empire... I still cannot believe it led us to this. The first socialist society, here, alive.” He looked at Surachai. “It's been a long road, hasn’t it, comrade?”
Surachai offered a small, almost sad, smile. “Too long to turn back now, comrade.” His gaze drifted, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a heavy sigh. “We're not just maintaining this society, but shielding it from the outside world, the judgement of the so-called liberal and capitalist societies.” The canteen was in sight now, the last of the rain now merely a pitter-patter against the windows. “Let’s rest, grab some food. What do you say?”
Thaksin nodded, a slight eagerness returning to him, as they placed their belongings on an empty table. "Of course, let's enjoy something before I return to the Government House." The canteen hummed with the quiet energy of shared lunch breaks; the clatter of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation, and the scent of lemongrass and chilli filled the air. It was a vibrant tableau, colleagues from across the department engaged in animated talks, their stories and laughter blending seamlessly into a larger narrative of daily life. A shared history. A unified struggle. This serenity, however, shattered as a group of figures marched into the canteen, their bodies stiff, their faces gaunt. Their grey, close-fitting sweaters were adorned with the bold letters: 'LREA'. The Labor Rights Enforcement Agency. A ripple of unease went through the room, the joyful noise dying instantly.
“Comrades, apologies for the interruption,” the female leader announced, her voice cutting through the canteen’s low hum, a rigid formality masking a flicker of something else. “We are conducting a routine workplace inspection to ensure compliance with the Labor’s Right and Protection Act of 2004.” She paused, her gaze briefly fixed on the floor, almost as if mumbling to herself. Thaksin and Surachai, their hearing ever keen, caught the whisper, “Damn it… I hate feeling like the state’s fist.” She straightened, a sigh barely visible, before turning on her heel, her LREA colleagues following her like shadows. The canteen slowly returned to its usual rhythm, but the air felt thinner, the previous conviviality replaced by an undercurrent of unease.
“What was that?” Surachai asked, his eyes piercing with skepticism, their gaze locked as he was momentarily distracted by the sight of the LREA's rigid formation. Thaksin met his comrade's eyes, a weary knowing in his tone. “A necessary evil, I suppose. They were supposed to be a transitional organization after we collectivized the entire economy, ensuring no foreign enterprise abuses their rights while wearing the facades of the cooperatives." He looked at the back of the LREA. “And to show our domestic organizations that we still keep watch, as required by law, unfortunately." A pause. “Perhaps such a law needs a review.”
Surachai chuckled lightly before remarking. “Well, I suppose it was an excellent decision that we didn’t promote ourselves as a perfect nation, just the world’s best society. It seems like you have a whole lot of work to coordinate to ensure that a new elite class of the bureaucrats won’t emerge like what happened in the Soviet Union, right?” He paused, realizing that the canteen had become lively again. “See, people don’t care that much, they are back to normal now.”
A young female employee placed a food tray heavily onto their table, the clatter of metal momentarily breaking the silence, and sat down abruptly, her expression tight. "Did you guys hear...?" she began, her voice a shade too loud, "the Uyghur terrorists—Islamic ones, I think—have taken hostages at the Chinese Embassy in France. Just now, apparently." Her words hung in the air, the casual tone a poor mask for something deeper. She stabbed at her food with her fork, the sharp sound echoing the tension. "The French police are... handling it. Apparently, these Uyghurs want all their prisoners released, the recognition of some... Turkistan state, and reparations for a century of oppression." She continued to eat, the act performed with a strange, almost violent focus.
Thaksin’s brow furrowed, a subtle twist of his lips betraying his unease. “That’s… concerning. Another incident in France, and this time Islamic in nature? It feels, almost orchestrated.” His gaze swept the canteen, searching for answers in the mundane chatter of his colleagues, finding none. “The European Affairs desk will manage it. If it escalates… well, the Foreign Ministry can always issue a statement.”
Surachai shifted, a spark igniting in his eyes. “Wait – an official statement. That aligns perfectly with Plan 001, and our international standing needs bolstering.” He turned to their colleague, his voice suddenly animated. “Comrade, thank you. Would you join me? We can initiate an internal democratic consultation within the Ministry.”
The woman’s laughter tinkled, a delighted response to Surachai’s sudden fervor. “Plan 001 is always a catalyst for you, isn’t it?” She glanced at Thaksin and back to Surachai. “Of course. The sooner we refine our narrative, the better.” Their pace quickened, a near frenzy as they finished their meal, leaving Thaksin to watch as they all but bolted. Before he could fully register the shift, he was alone, the image of the two now lost in the teeming rush of the metro, the government house being his final destination.
