Across Southeast Asia, mandatory military service is no longer just a defence policy — it is a lightning rod for debate about youth identity, gender equality, citizenship, and the future of the nation. From Singapore’s highly structured National Service to Thailand’s controversial draft lottery and Cambodia’s planned implementation of conscription in 2026, young people across the region are increasingly questioning what they owe the state — and what the state owes them in return.
In Singapore, National Service (NS) has been compulsory for male citizens and permanent residents since 1967. Most young men serve around two years in the armed forces, police, or civil defence. For decades, NS has been framed as a cornerstone of nation-building, a rite of passage that binds different ethnic and class groups into a shared experience. Government messaging emphasises vulnerability — the small city-state’s lack of strategic depth — and the importance of a “citizen army.” Yet youth reactions are evolving. While surveys consistently show broad acceptance of NS as necessary, younger Singaporeans also express concerns about career delays, mental health stress, and unequal gender burdens. Women are not required to serve, though they can volunteer, and periodic public debates ask whether true gender equality would mean conscription for all. Many young men voice quiet frustration online, arguing that the opportunity cost in a hyper-competitive economy is rising, even if outright opposition remains limited.
In Thailand, youth attitudes are more openly critical. The annual draft lottery, in which 21-year-old men draw colored cards to determine whether they must serve up to two years, has become a viral social media spectacle. Videos of emotional reactions — relief at drawing a “black card” exempting them, or visible distress at a “red card” mandating service — circulate widely. Critics argue that the system reinforces inequality, as wealthier families often find ways to secure exemptions or alternative placements. After years of political turbulence and military influence in governance, many Thai youths question whether compulsory service strengthens democracy or entrenches outdated hierarchies. Reform proposals periodically surface, including reducing service duration or moving toward a fully voluntary force, and youth-led political movements have amplified calls to modernise the system.
In Vietnam, conscription remains in place for men aged roughly 18 to 25, rooted in the country’s long history of war and defence mobilisation. Public dissent is less visible than in Thailand, but youth conversations online reveal mixed feelings. Some young Vietnamese frame service as patriotic duty and family honor, especially in rural areas where military careers can offer stability. Others, particularly urban youth pursuing higher education or international careers, see it as an interruption. Educational deferments are common, and the state emphasises discipline, technical training, and civic responsibility as benefits. While women can serve voluntarily, mandatory service remains gendered, reinforcing traditional expectations of male sacrifice.
In Myanmar, youth reactions have been shaped by crisis. After the 2021 military coup, the junta announced enforcement of a long-dormant conscription law applying to both men and women. The prospect of forced enlistment triggered fear, anger, and in some cases flight across borders. For many young people already engaged in civil disobedience movements, compulsory service under military rule is seen not as civic duty but as coercion. Social media platforms filled with posts seeking ways to avoid enlistment, and reports emerged of young citizens attempting to leave the country. Here, conscription debates are inseparable from broader struggles over legitimacy and state authority.
In Cambodia, a 2006 conscription law long remained dormant, but authorities have announced plans to implement mandatory service starting in 2026 for citizens aged 18 to 30. The move has sparked cautious discussion among Cambodian youth, particularly in urban centers like Phnom Penh, especially after the recent border clashes with Thailand. Some see potential benefits in discipline and skills training, while others worry about transparency, fairness, and the economic burden on families who rely on young adults’ income. Women are not expected to be conscripted, which has prompted quiet debate about equality and shared obligation, though public criticism remains muted.
Elsewhere in the region, policies vary. Malaysia does not have military conscription but has relaunched a voluntary national service program focused on unity and civic values. Philippines abolished mandatory Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) in 2002 after a corruption scandal and student protests, though lawmakers periodically propose reviving compulsory training. Brunei maintains a fully voluntary force. In Indonesia and Laos, military service frameworks exist but are less central to youth political identity than in Thailand or Singapore.
Across Southeast Asia, one of the most sensitive issues shaping youth reaction is gender. Most systems conscript only men, embedding assumptions about masculinity, protection, and sacrifice. In a generation increasingly attentive to gender equality, this asymmetry provokes debate. Some young women argue that equal citizenship should mean equal obligation, while others counter that equality should not mean expanding coercion. Many young men question why gender equity debates focus on corporate boards and politics but rarely on compulsory service.
Another defining factor is economic aspiration. Today’s Southeast Asian youth are more educated, mobile, and globally connected than previous generations. They weigh military service not only as civic duty but against internships, overseas study, digital careers, and entrepreneurial ventures. In rapidly developing economies, a one- or two-year interruption can feel consequential. At the same time, defenders of conscription argue that shared service builds resilience, social cohesion, and practical skills in disaster response and cybersecurity.
What emerges is not a uniform rejection of military service, but a renegotiation of the social contract. Young Southeast Asians are asking harder questions: Is compulsory service fair? Is it transparent? Does it distribute burdens equally? Does it reflect contemporary security realities, or historical anxieties? Governments continue to frame conscription as essential to sovereignty and stability. Youth, meanwhile, are reframing it as a test of whether states listen as well as command.
In a region marked by diverse political systems, from democracies to single-party states and military regimes, debates over conscription illuminate deeper generational shifts. Military service may once have been accepted as unquestioned duty. Today, it is increasingly debated as a matter of choice, equality, and trust.
Darlings, here is something uncomfortable: every time a government says “national service builds character,” I instinctively check who exactly is being volunteered for this character-building exercise. Spoiler alert — it is usually 18-year-old boys who would rather be building a start-up, finishing university, or simply figuring out who they are.
Across Southeast Asia, the old script says young men owe the nation two years of their lives. The newer generation is asking a very 2026 question: why?
I’m not anti-defence. We live in a region of border tensions, maritime disputes, and fragile peace. Security matters. But so does fairness. If citizenship means shared responsibility, why is compulsory military service still overwhelmingly male? And if equality is the anthem of our times, why does “equal rights” rarely come with “equal draft cards”?
In Singapore, National Service is practically sacred. In Thailand, the draft lottery has become a TikTok drama — red card, black card, tears, cheers, humiliation. In Cambodia, youth are quietly calculating what two years away from income might mean for their families. In Myanmar, conscription under military rule feels less like duty and more like coercion. Context matters, of course. But youth everywhere are doing the same math: opportunity cost.
Today’s young Southeast Asians are hyper-connected, ambitious, globally aware. They compare salaries in Seoul and Sydney. They build digital careers from Jakarta bedrooms. They speak the language of hustle, not hierarchy. So when the state says, “Pause your life,” they want more than a patriotic slogan. They want transparency, accountability, and proof that sacrifice is shared — not selectively imposed.
And here’s the deeper issue: trust. Conscription works best when young citizens believe the system is fair, professional, and necessary. It frays when they see corruption, inequality, or politics wrapped in camouflage. You cannot demand loyalty while ignoring legitimate questions.
Some argue we should draft women too, in the name of equality. Others say real equality means reducing coercion for everyone. I’m less interested in expanding the burden than in rethinking it. Could service include climate resilience, cyber defence, disaster relief? Could it be shorter, more flexible, better compensated? Could we treat young people as stakeholders, not raw manpower?
Because here’s what governments sometimes forget: youth are not just future citizens. They are present citizens. And the social contract is not a one-way street.
If a nation wants two years of a young person’s life, it had better offer something more than nostalgia and a uniform. It had better offer respect.