During the summer of 2010, I stayed with my dad while my mom was away. Back then, my dad and I were not really close. I was an eleven-year-old and my dad was a workaholic political activist, so it was hard for us to connect. For the few weeks, he and I had been going to protest every day, because he had no choice but to take me with him. I didn’t feel like I was being forced to go, because protests were pretty fun for me. The atmosphere felt similar to a concert, with people camping out and music always playing in the background. Except instead of being for entertainment, it was in protest of an undemocratic government and was blocking up the main streets of Bangkok city. When my dad and I left for a protest on April 10th, 2010, I thought things would follow the same routine. Like usual, when we got to the protest, leaders were shouting out motivational speeches about how the democracy will always win, on top of music and loud cheering. But suddenly, the music on the speakers stopped and someone announced that the military was about to descend on a group of protesters in another part of the city. Everyone was very concerned because there had been rumors that real bullets would be used this time. Instead of going home, my dad drove us to the location where it was said that the military was shutting down protesters. The car ride there was exciting– looking back, it was because I wasn’t aware of the level of violence that the military could use. When we got there, the mood of the protest was not like that of the others I had attended. The place was quiet, everyone was in shock. The lights on the stage were off and the leaders were gone.

I remember walking down a small street with my dad, a dirty street with broken windows, burnt car tires, and even a leftover army tank that protesters had gotten control of. It felt like a war museum, but it was not. As we went deeper, I started to see bullet holes on walls and on signs. Anxious protestors were saying that real bullets had been used, some showing their wounds and the bullets they had found. Many didn’t really know how to act and some were nervously laughing about it. The mood of the street was very confused, and low in spirit. That was when I started seeing blood. First drops and then small splashes. I then noticed some sticks laying around in a circle, surrounded by candles, bottles, shoes and other random souvenirs. In the middle was a large pool of blood. It occurred to me that this was a memorial. Out of curiosity I moved closer, now noticing some pinky white fat sitting in the blood. I realized that the fat clumps were actually pieces of someone’s brain, and at that moment it started to hit me that someone was killed there.

My memory sort of stops there. The next thing I remember is the quiet car ride back with my dad, and the understanding and disappointment I felt when I turned on the TV at home. The Thai national news channels were showing something else about the protest and totally ignored the fact that the shutdown had been so violent. Remembering the scene, I began to realize how unfair the death had been. It could have been anyone, it could have been me. That’s when my faith in the Thai media was lost. People were killed by the military that night and their deaths were not even being recognized.

Thinking back to when I saw the memorial on the street, I remember that my dad didn’t say anything, he just stood next to me. I’m not sure if it was because he didn’t know how to comfort me or if he felt that simply seeing it was the best way to teach me about the reality of injustice in Thailand. From the look on my dad’s face, I knew that it was overwhelming for both of us, even though my dad had seen similar deaths before. The reality of what we saw that night made me feel a lot closer to my dad. It helped me understand the oppression he was fighting against on a deeper level, and drove me to promise myself that I too would not tolerate it.

Eight years later, I clearly remember what happened that night and the oppression that came along with it. I was definitely too young to see fresh brains and blood, or to even be at that protest at all. Still, the memory has turned into the fuel to my fire and as long as I’m alive, I will not let injustices go unheard.