The Coffee
A hot cup of Americano, unsweetened, plus a croissant with a sweet or butter filling inside. That was the request of Arnon Nampa—Thailand’s most prominent prisoner of conscience. When I first asked him what he would like to have, he asked for Starbucks coffee but there were none in the vicinity of the court when I saw him last month. It was three years since I saw him last, and I felt guilty.
This is not my way of bribing my news source, who is now serving a combined 32 years in prison, mostly under the anachronistic and draconian lèse-majesté law—for defaming the monarchy.
Back in 2014, Arnon, who was at that time just 31 and a lawyer little known beyond the circle of human rights legal practitioners, patiently looked after my smartphone outside the Old Army Conference Room in Bangkok, where I was being processed for what the then coup-makers under Gen Prayut Chan-o-cha called ‘attitude adjustment’, which was basically detention inside an army camp without charge.
For about four hours, Arnon, who represented the then newly established Thai Lawyers for Human Rights (TLHR) group, patiently waited for me to emerge from the conference room before I was put in a military van and driven to an army base in Ratchaburi province, keeping my smartphone safe from the junta’s soldiers in the process.
A cup of freshly brewed Americano was thus a very modest way to alleviate Arnon’s suffering. After all, the day before I bought him another cup of Americano for the second time this week, on Monday, when he appeared at the Criminal Court, Arnon had written letter from prison, dated 19 October 2026, which was subsequently posted on his Facebook account by the person handling his social media.
Part of it read:
“Three teaspoons of coffee, brewed with hot water filling one-third of a cup, becomes an espresso. Sip about half of it, then add hot water until the cup is three-quarters full, and it becomes an Americano.
“Sip until only one-third remains, then add hot water again until the cup is three-quarters full. Now you have tea — hot tea with a faint aroma of coffee.
“Watching the morning rain drizzle outside, my thoughts wander through so many memories…”
A decent cup of freshly brewed Americano is more than a cup of coffee when you have been in prison for three years, and counting. That was the least I could do for Arnon at this moment — for a man who looked after my phone, and more, over a decade ago.
Time
While Arnon had some free time inside the courtroom on Monday, I asked whether he remembered how many years he has been sentenced to now. He said 32, but couldn’t remember how many cases made up the combined sentence.
Six years ago is a distant memory. That was when Arnon ignited and co-led the monarchy reform movement in Bangkok.
For the past three years, the red-orange political divide has ensured that these are not like the good old days when he led several tens of thousands on the streets of Bangkok.
Now, I told Arnon when I visited him in a courtroom last month, even 200 people cannot be mobilised to show up to rally, calling for the release of prisoners of conscience, including him. Some young protesters were disillusioned by the fact that the movement, which lasted about two years, didn’t bring about immediate monarchy reform, but rather widespread prosecutions and dozens behind bars.
I stressed to Arnon that he has to resolve on a clear strategy—whether he wants a royal pardon or to seek the stoic path of Nelson Mandela. I reminded Arnon to be resolute and steadfast, and to decide which path he wanted to take, adding that perhaps he couldn’t have it both ways.
Arnon asked if I had contacts with the Palace. I said no. He then asked if I could interview leading conservative figures who recognise the problem with the royal defamation law, like former Prime Minister Anand Panyarachun. I didn’t promise him that, but nodded and said Anand was very old and frail now at 94.
The Judge
Returning to my visit with him on Monday this month, the presiding judge who sat in the middle of the elevated row in Courtroom 903, suddenly said to Arnon in a kind and casual voice as the court wrapped up the process of dropping the case against Arnon and Ekachai Hongkangwan—a key member of the monarchy reform movement whom I will write about separately in a future column—for leading a protest outside the UN Office Building several years ago. The case has now been dropped as part of the current government’s recent bill seeking national reconciliation; however, the bill does not include royal defamation cases or convictions.
“If you confess, you should be out in no time,” the judge said to Arnon in a kind voice.
Minutes later, as Arnon sat back on the front bench next to me, he asked if I had heard the judge’s remark. As if to make sure I had not missed or misinterpreted his reply, Arnon said: “I shook my head and declined.”
This is the principled stance that Arnon kept reiterating to me: that all his criticism of the monarchy as an institution was expressed in good faith as part of free speech in a supposedly democratic society and was never meant to defame the monarchy, but to seek monarchy reform in order to truly reflect the changing times and the current political system.
Please note the word “supposedly” that I added in the sentence above.
The Pledge
Another day at the courtroom was drawing to an end. Knowing that Arnon also enjoys spirits, I quickly asked Arnon if he could legally and quickly drink a dram or two of rare single malt Scotch whisky outside the courtroom, adding that, as I am getting old I have been trying to drink less and have a few bottles sitting on a table at my flat. “Let’s drink when I am freed,” he told me.
Shortly before he and Ekachai were to be taken back to prison, I asked both to write a very short message in Thai to for the public on my small notebook.
Ekachai wrote:
“One day…
“justice shall prevail.”
On the right page, Arnon then wrote:
“Thank you for all the support. I remain strong and firm in the fight. With firm belief and faith.
“Arnon Nampa
“Lèse-Majesté political prisoner
“26 Oct 2026
“at the Criminal Court.”
