The phone rings. I hold my breath. Every time there's news of an attack in Narathiwat, my hometown, I call my dad to check. It's a ritual now. One I wish I didn't have to follow.
"Are you safe?" I ask, trying to sound calm. "We're fine. I could hear the bomb -- it was about two kilometres away from the house." his voice is steady, almost resigned. No panic, just the exhaustion of someone who has lived through this for too long. Then, a pause. "Don't come home yet. It's not safe." I was planning to go home this week.
This time, five people are dead and 13 wounded in the latest mayhem on the weekend. Another attack. Another reminder that peace remains an illusion in Thailand's deep South. The conflict in southern Thailand is one of Asia's longest-running. Since 2004, this conflict has claimed 7,314 lives and injured over 13,584 people. More than 61% of casualties are civilians -- shopkeepers, school teachers, mothers, and children. For local communities, this is not just a battle between insurgents and security forces; it is a conflict that turns daily life into an act of survival.
Despite billions spent on security and development, the violence persists. In 2025 alone, the government will allocate over 31 billion baht to address the conflict in the deep South. But where does this money go? It hasn't brought peace nor rebuilt trust. It hasn't stopped local natives who worked elsewhere like me, to call my home regularly to check if our loved ones are still alive and well.
At the heart of the issue lies a deeper failure: a refusal to address the root causes of the conflict -- historical grievances, ethnic and religious identity, and political exclusion. The Malay-Muslim people of the deep South have long been marginalised by the Thai state: their language, culture, and autonomy systematically eroded. Instead of meaningful engagement, successive governments have relied on military crackdowns and surveillance, fuelling resentment and deepening the divide between the region and Bangkok.
Despite numerous military checkpoints, security cameras and even biometric profiling, we barely hear about the outcome of each attack. Each explosion, each shooting, each act of violence fades into silence. We ask for accountability, yet justice remains elusive. The system is built to contain, not to resolve.
It is important to note that while the conflict has severely impacted women, they have been largely excluded from the negotiation table. Despite bearing the brunt of violence, displacement, and economic hardship, their voices remain absent in formal peace discussions. Without the inclusion of women and affected communities in decision-making, any attempt at reconciliation will be incomplete and unsustainable.
So what's the way forward? First, real transparency and accountability in how conflict-related funds are spent. The deep South does not need more military checkpoints; it needs development projects that come from and empower local communities and create economic opportunities.
Second, accountability must extend beyond financial oversight -- there must be justice for victims. We rarely hear whether police apprehend those responsible for attacks. Families are left without answers, and communities lose faith in the very institutions meant to protect them. Investigations must be thorough, and the genuine perpetrators must be identified and, where possible, brought to justice.
Third, we need genuine political dialogue that includes the voices of those most affected, not just security officials and policymakers in Bangkok. Sustainable peace will not come through military might but through trust-building and justice.
Some will argue that negotiations with insurgents are making no progress and that the military must continue its hardline stance. But two decades of violence have proven otherwise. Elsewhere in the world, a path to conflict resolution has been found through dialogue involving communities from Aceh to Mindanao. Why should the deep South be so different?
For too long, this region has been treated as a problem to be managed, not a community to be heard. The people of the deep South deserve more than checkpoints and curfews; they deserve a future where calling home is an act of love, not one of fear. Where children grow up without the sound of bombs echoing in the distance. Where people could leave home without worrying whether they will return. Where home feels like home again.
Thailand must stop pretending that billions in security spending can replace justice and genuine reconciliation. This must involve all parts of the communities and ensure that women's voices are heard, too. Until then, I -- and many others -- will keep making that call home, dreading the day the phone rings and there is no answer.
Saijai Liangpunsakul is from Narathiwat and is the founder of Stop Online Harm, a group that works to assist those facing digital attacks and build a safer online world.