The King is Dead, Long Live the King

by Katrina Martin (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Thailand

I heard the scream before the news. It was more of a wail than a scream – the type that rushes without regard from deep within the chest, scampers up the throat, over the tongue and between teeth. It tilts the head back and pulls the shoulders forward – the knees collapse. Sometimes there are tears, sometimes it is only the sound of loss which reverberates across the concrete and causes your hair to stand on end. I am in a coffee shop when I hear it, sipping Thai tea and breaking up with my lover who is across the sea. I break my heart and his in hiccups; the spotty wifi connection forces us to lose each other in intervals. His face is frozen on the screen, and I’m trying to catch my breath when I hear the wail again, rising steadily through the thick evening air. A few others join in. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and the barista stands behind me, her eyes blank. “We close now,” she says. “The king is dead.” At the time of his death, King Bhumibol Adulyadej was the longest reigning monarch in the world. He wore the crown for over seventy years and was revered by Thai people as both a father and a demi-god. In the months that would follow, I would grow accustomed to his kind yet solemn face, his sharp jaw and youthful glow enclosed in regal gold framing. He would watch over me from the walls of the classroom, the clock tower, or even the food cart across the street from my apartment. Swaying precariously on the tarp roofing of the cart, King Bhumibol observed me through square glasses as I, dipping my chin and pressing my palms together, thanked the woman and took the steaming plastic bag from her withered hands. His eyes would follow me as I stood with my students in single file lines outside the school, bowing to his portrait and murmuring words I did not understand. I have seen individuals, families, and even cities grieve, but never before have I seen an entire country in mourning. King Bhumibol’s death is announced at 6:45pm on October 16th. By the time I climb into the Songthaew the next morning, the country is already dark. Sounds of joy and business are replaced with eerie silence. Mannequins are dressed in black. The sun has barely risen, but a woman sits outside her shop, clutching a photo of the king as she weeps. Mourning has no hour, it comes with the dawn. Foreigners – farang – we don our black clothing and press together in the streets, shoulder to shoulder. A portrait of the king is placed in my arms and I don’t refuse it. I am engulfed in a sea of black, and I let it carry me through the chaos. Candles appear, and I hold the trembling flame close to my chest, despite the already suffocating heat. A man walks by with a handwritten sign: The King is dead. Long live the King. For a moment I am amused at the pandemonium as selfie sticks stretch over our shoulders and iPhones flash while Thai people pose and wai for the camera. Then, as suddenly as the wail which rang through the streets the night before, a deafening silence washes over the crowd. I cannot decide which is more haunting. The silence is followed by a voice, wavering yet resolute, which rises from the sea of black. Normally spirited and strong, the Thai anthem is now wracked with pain as thousands of voices join in solidarity. I let my eyes drift to the woman next to me, a small old woman with rivers of silver running through her black hair. She has her eyes closed, and sways slightly as she croons, lamenting a king who she loved, who she lost. I close my eyes too, and think about him – whom I loved, whom I lost. I hold the portrait to my chest, and let my tears flow openly.