Last year, Thailand made history by legalising marriage equality, becoming the first country in Southeast Asia to do so.  I watched this moment not from home, not in the streets where I used to walk when I was younger, not with my beloved friends, but while in exile. As a member of the Thai LGBTQ+ community and former activist, I should have been celebrating this milestone in my own country. Instead, I remained abroad in silence, facing politically motivated charges for demanding something that should never be deemed criminal: “democracy”

Undoubtedly, this is a real and hard-won victory. Marriage equality is not a symbolic gesture; it changes lives. It brings legal recognition to love, security to families, and dignity to countless people whose love was long pushed to the margins. I celebrate it with all my heart. This progress is the result of years of tireless activism from the LGBTQ+ rights movement, allies, political parties, and lawmakers who refused to give up.

Historically, the Thai LGBTQ+ movement has always been intertwined with the fight for democracy. Many queer activists stood at the frontlines of protests not only to demand same-sex marriage, but to demand justice, freedom of expression, and accountability. We knew that political and social equality could not exist in a system that punishes people for who they are, for what they say, or for what they believe. We imagined a future that was freer in every sense, not only just the freedom to love, but the freedom to speak, to question, and to belong.

But even as we celebrate this milestone, we must also face the truth: such progress can coexist with deep repression. It often does. Authoritarian regimes have long used selective rights, especially those that win international praise, to cover ongoing crackdowns on democracy and civil liberties. The legalisation of same-sex marriage might lead Thailand to be depicted as an open and inclusive regime, but behind the scenes, peaceful protesters are jailed, opposition parties are dissolved, and speech is criminalised. In Thailand, this contradiction is not merely abstract.

Thailand remains far from free. The country is still governed under a constitution written during the military government after the 2014 coup. The constitution entrenches elite control through non-democratic bodies like the Senate and a highly politicised Constitutional Court. In 2023, the court dissolved the Move Forward Party, which won the most seats in the general elections, simply for campaigning and proposing to amend the lèse-majesté law, article 112 which criminalises criticism of the king, queen, crown prince, and regent. Peaceful protestors, many of them young and queer, continue to face criminal charges and harassment. Dozens have been jailed under laws designed to silence dissent. The same state that now celebrates love still punishes those who demand that power be accountable to the people.

Thailand is not alone in this pattern. Around the world, semi-authoritarian governments have strategically granted some rights to signal progress while suppressing dissent. Some rights that do not affect the status quo of the establishment might be used as convenient proof points, especially for international observers, to distract eyes from deeper democratic erosion. We must recognise this tactic as a type of image polishing which does little to stop the decay of democracy.

Being in exile is a kind of silence, one shaped not by choice, but by survival. I often feel caught between two lives: one I left behind and one that has not fully begun. I miss my family, friends, and other inspiring people who have directly or indirectly supported me. I miss the language, the food, and the feeling of being grounded in a place where I grew up. I carry the weight of unanswered questions. Will I be able to visit my hometown again? Will the rights we fought for ever include the right to speak and belong without fear?

Some days, exile feels like being erased in slow motion. You feel your voice fading from the world, you once tried to speak, and see your cause become someone else’s to carry. I admire those who continue fighting. Their courage gives me hope. I know that survival comes at a cost. And part of that cost is learning to hold both gratitude and grief at once.

Pride Month is a time for celebrating our resilience, but also for truth. Pride began as a protest, a refusal to accept silence and marginalisation. Today, as corporations and semi-authoritarian regimes cloak themselves in rainbow flags, we must remember that pride without justice is not enough. Legalising marriage equality is progress, but it cannot be the end goal. Pride must also mean protecting those who speak out, who challenge power, who demand liberty and equality for all.

Thailand’s legalisation of marriage equality must not be mistaken for genuine political equality. Rights granted under semi-authoritarian rule often come with unspoken conditions: STAY QUIET, DON’T CHALLENGE, and BE GRATEFUL. In semi-authoritarian countries, freedom is negotiable and often revocable. You can marry the person you love, but you cannot criticise the people in power or the divine and untouchable family. You can celebrate Pride, but you cannot call for constitutional reform on the street. This is why international recognition, while appreciated, must also come with caution. We cannot let a single victory distract us from the ongoing struggle for democracy and justice.

If Thailand can pass a marriage equality act, it can also free its political prisoners. It can stop prosecuting peaceful protesters. It can welcome home those of us who were forced to flee simply for speaking out without any special deals. That is the future I still believe in for Thailand—where equality is not empty rhetoric, and where dissent is not punished but protected. Marriage equality should be the beginning of a broader transformation, not the ceiling of what we are allowed to hope for.

Pride is not just about who we love. It is about the world we want to live in. I believe people want to live in a Thailand where no one is jailed for voicing their demands, where LGBTQ+ rights are not reduced to public relations strategies, and where supreme power belongs to the people. I believe people want to live in a country where no one has to choose between being free and being home. Until then, I will keep telling this story, not just for myself, but on behalf of those who are still risking everything to build that future inside.