This blog begins with a bike accident I had on June 14. But the point of writing this isn’t really about the fall. It’s about what I realized after. So stick with me and apologies for the gruesome narration in advance, and enjoy the collages I’ve made of life so far in Khao Lak.
On Saturday, June 14, I had what might be the most ridiculous and stupid bike accident in history. After spending the whole day at the beach with friends, full of sun, snacks, and laughter, we were biking home. Everything was fine. The road was straight and calm. And then, out of nowhere, a soccer ball rolled directly into my path.
The ball hit the front wheel of my bike, and suddenly I was flying. I fell hard, then rolled straight into the middle of the main road. I don’t even know how long I was down there, but it felt like an eternity. Cars kept coming. Scooters too. I couldn’t get up, but I heard them coming. My body froze, completely overwhelmed. I entered this strange, slow-motion shock. I heard voices before I saw anyone. A group of Thai kids came running. Scooters stopped behind me. The kids were panicking and just kept saying sorry. I started laughing and crying at the same time.
Then Amina, my friend and fellow CAPI intern, ran up and told me I needed to move. I couldn’t speak. My whole body was shaking. Jordyn came next, and I just remember the look on her face. People helped move my scooter. They picked up my belongings. I was still just standing there, stunned. (A little bit of a side note, but looking back at it, it was really impressive how people around me reacted to the accident.). I noticed blood on my legs and arms, scratches all over. But I didn’t feel pain. Just embarrassment, confusion, and panic. When they got me off the road, the school principal offered to drive me to the hospital. I don’t think I responded properly. I was too in shock to talk.
At the hospital, they asked me to fill out a form. I couldn’t. I had to ask Amina to fill it for me. In the ER, they started cleaning the wounds. I remember thinking, “They’re going to think I’m one of those tourists. A bad one.” I kept repeating that it wasn’t my fault, but no one really cared or reacted. And honestly, why would they? They weren’t the ones lying there, crying while pieces of gravel were being pulled from their skin.
After that, everything becomes blurry. Even now, as I write this, I keep remembering little things I did that could have changed how it all unfolded, like how I randomly decided to lower my helmet visor a minute before the crash because the sun was hurting my eyes. Without that, this story might have ended very differently. I wish I had someone to blame, but I don’t. Not myself, and not the kids playing soccer. It just happened.
After reflecting on this surreal event, I came to two realizations. First, I am extremely afraid of being perceived as one of “those” tourists. But I think the second one is something that stuck with me even more. Something that feels bigger than the accident itself: my access to healthcare. I’ve always known I’m privileged. I have international insurance. I didn’t have to worry about how much the hospital visit would cost. I was able to pay for medication, hospital care, follow-up appointments, painkillers, antivirals — and not think twice about it. I didn’t have to choose between health and money.
Since I started working at FED, these issues have become painfully real. I’m part of the healthcare team, learning more about viral diseases — and the structure of the healthcare system — than I ever expected to.
One of my roles involves helping undocumented migrants enroll in a basic health insurance plan. It only covers the most essential services, yet even that is far too expensive for most of them.
I’ve seen mothers forced to make impossible choices — deciding which of their children can be insured and which will have to go without, simply because they can’t afford coverage for the whole family. Many of the people I meet live in constant fear of hospitals, even in emergencies. They’re afraid that seeking care will mean being asked for documents, and possibly being sent back to Myanmar. Because of that fear, many turn to private clinics where questions aren’t asked, but the prices are absurd. Even a simple health check can cost more than they can afford.
Thailand has a strong healthcare system. Citizens and legal residents have access to public hospitals through universal health coverage. Migrants with the right documents can also enroll. On paper, the system is meant to include everyone—but in reality, many migrant communities are left out. Take Myanmar migrants, for example. Even those born in Thailand often don’t know they have any health rights at all. Without that knowledge, they don’t get regular checkups or preventive care. Instead, they avoid seeking help until it becomes an emergency—if they can afford treatment at all. Many don’t realize they’re eligible for services, and even fewer know how to access them.
On top of that, migrants often work in risky jobs and face higher exposure to diseases like hepatitis, HIV, and mosquito-borne illnesses. These health risks are made worse by language barriers, low health literacy, expensive care, and the constant movement that comes with migrant life. And then there are the undocumented. One missing piece of paper can mean the difference between getting treatment or being turned away.
Before working with FED, I never thought deeply about what it means to have healthcare—to know you’re covered, to walk into a clinic without hesitation. I’ve always had that. Most of the people I now work with have not.
Healthcare is a human right. It should not be something only some people get, depending on where they were born or what papers they have. It’s essential to human well-being. It’s also the foundation for everything else — work, safety, dignity. So while this blog started with a freak accident, what I really wanted to talk about is what came after. The quiet realizations. The things I now know I took for granted.
Now comes the part I’m still struggling with. What can I do? What can I advocate for? This is where the frustration comes in, and where I feel helpless. It’s a feeling that has surfaced again and again throughout my internship. Maybe it’s guilt too, the kind of guilt that people with privilege, especially white people, often carry. But beyond that, it’s a very real awareness of how limited I am. The truth is, I don’t have a clear answer. It’s exhausting to witness injustice so close, especially when it’s about something as basic and non-negotiable as healthcare, and feel like there’s nothing you can do to change it.
I wanted to end this blog on a hopeful note. But I don’t think I have one right now. What I do have is anger. A deep, deep anger at the systems that govern our world. At the fact that your life can be shaped so entirely by a piece of paper. At how legality is used as a gatekeeper for something as fundamental as care. So if you’re reading this and you know how to turn anger into something useful, I’m all ears. Right now, all I can do is work to shift narratives about migrants by centring their dignity instead of their victimhood, and to make invisible experiences visible. Most importantly, I will keep showing up and stay uncomfortable with the idea that this is simply how things have to be.
