Conscription lottery lets us down

Actor Pachara Chirathivat tries his luck in the draw (file pic)

Ball pulled a red card, so will have to serve in the military as a conscripted soldier.

He will join the army for two years, based in Bangkok.

Each year’s intake is split into two, with the first group leaving in May. Ball will join the second group, leaving home in November.

This means he can be present for the birth of his first child, expected in early June. If he had been assigned to the May intake – it’s only by the luck of the draw that he wasn’t – he would have missed it.

Conscripts must spend the first three months at a training camp, and cannot return home until training is over. However, families are allowed weekend visits.

Once the camp ends, he can visit home at weekends.

Conscription day was held at a temple school. Ball and his girlfriend Jay went together in early morning; I took Ball's mother a few hours later.

More than 300 young men reported for the draw, though 130 sought a deferral to next year, mostly because they are studying. The military wanted 70 soldiers from Ball’s district, but 28 applied, leaving them with just 42 to find.

The young men who took part in the draw sat in rows of 15 each. Ball was in the second row.

Their names are called one by one. When his name is called, each young man stands up, and walks to the front of the crowd where soldiers have set up a small pot sitting on a stand.

He dips his hand into the pot, and pulls out a card...actually, a piece of curled paper which will tell him his fate.

A soldier unwraps it for him, and reads out the result – while another soldier, an avuncular looking type aged in his 50s, holds the young man around the waist or across the chest in a warm embrace.

Well, it looks warm, but I suspect he is really there to stop young men who pull a red from falling into a distressed heap, or bolting for freedom.

No one wants to be a soldier, and the army knows it. Before the draw, one soldier joked with would-be conscripts through a microphone that they might want to pray to their favourite deities to bring them good luck.

Those who pull a black card can return to their friends and families, who watch from behind a cordon.

Many young would-be conscripts turn up with their friends, who cheer them as their names are called.

Of the first 15 names called, only two or three young men drew red cards; the rest drew black, which meant they regained their freedom.

Only one drew a red in the second row before Ball’s name was called. By then the numerical odds of his drawing a black were against him. He pulled a red, though put on a brave face, smiling throughout.

Some of the other young recruits weren’t so steadfast. One young man who pulled a red started to cry, while another staggered around and looked so unsteady on his feet that I thought he was about to collapse.

Those who pull red join a queue to sign various forms, and are told what happens next.

Ball joined a queue along with half a dozen other young men who pulled red before him. He was the smallest one there, in height and in build.

Ball’s height, 162cm, was right on the minimum which the military demands of a potential conscript. If he had been just a little shorter, they would have sent him home.

A handful of Ball’s friends from the slum were there to take part in the draw, along with their families. Ball knows only a couple who, like him, pulled red. The rest breathe a sigh of relief and carry on with their lives.

Conscription day – with its stallholders selling food, parents mingling, boisterous young men cheering, and children running around – felt like a temple fair, and with a hint of gambling (the conscription draw, where youngsters chance their luck with lady fate) thrown in.

But having been there for hours, and now having learned the grim outcome, we did not hang around.

I was the first to meet Ball when he finished signing his forms.

‘Where’s Jay?’ he asked.

His pregnant girlfriend had taken herself off to a quiet corner for a cry.

Mum, who went through this drama a year ago when her eldest son Boy was conscripted, left us several hours before rather than wait for the outcome of the draw. She called a moment after it was complete to find out the result.

We found Jay, and I took her home in a taxi. Ball went back alone on his motorbike.

While Jay and I have shed tears many times since he pulled red, Ball has yet to cry for himself.

'I don’t want to be a soldier,’ he told me several times later that night, as we drowned our sorrows in whisky. I shouted the family a Korean-style bar-b-que, so at least we could enjoy a good meal as we lamented Ball’s fate.

That was a week ago. Since then, Ball has had the chance to talk to his brother and friends about what life as a soldier will be like. He is starting to accept his fate, and at times even says he is looking forward to the experience.

'You will pass through many emotions before November, but in the end I believe you will be ready to serve,’ I told him.

‘I don’t want people crying for me,’ he told me one day, as he saw tears welling in my eyes.

‘You are always the tough one in the family. Sometimes it is okay to let go,’ I said.

If he still feels sad, I seldom see it. Ball has been dealt his fate, and knows life will just have to carry on.

‘We will visit every weekend, and bring your favourite food. Jay and I will also write letters, so I hope you reply,’ I said.

He looked at me bravely – an intense gaze, right into my eyes, as if he wants to make sure I will stick by him – and smiled.