In mid-May 1998, Indonesia’s political landscape erupted in chaos, a maelstrom of violence that cruelly targeted the Chinese population. I devoured unfiltered news reports online, a torrent of raw, unedited accounts, a chaotic mix of truth and speculation, of reasoned argument and raw, emotional outbursts. Each piece, though flawed and potentially biased, pulsed with an undeniable authenticity, leaving me reeling in a maelstrom of anger, a burning indignation that choked me with its intensity, and a profound, gut-wrenching sorrow.

        By late June, I found myself signing an online petition:  a desperate plea from international organizations urging the United Nations and Indonesian authorities to address the escalating violence, to acknowledge the human rights violations against the Chinese community, and to investigate the horrific rumors of women being trampled. I signed without a second thought. It felt like a tiny spark of defiance, a feeble gesture in the face of overwhelming suffering, the only action within my reach as a powerless scholar.

        I forwarded the raw data and the petition link to friends, hoping to ignite a similar fire within them. Evenings were spent glued to the screen, obsessively monitoring the unfolding tragedy. The weight of it all settled upon me, a suffocating blanket of despair that silenced my already quiet voice.

        My emails, however, vanished into the digital ether, swallowed by the indifference of the online world. My friends’ replies continued, a relentless stream of jokes and virus warnings, a stark contrast to the grim reality unfolding thousands of miles away. Their silence was deafening.

• Was it a calculated disengagement, a serene acceptance of the status quo?

• A conscious choice to remain unaffected by the suffering of others?

• Or was it simply a misguided belief that silence was the safest course?

        I didn't know.

      Then, a lifeline. An email from a Chinese pen pal studying in America. His words mirrored my own anguish, a shared burden of helplessness and sorrow. He, too, was spreading awareness, sharing the news and the discussions he'd heard on campus. Reading his message, tears streamed down my face, a torrent of grief and relief. Were they tears of comfort, a validation of my feelings? Tears of regret for my inability to do more? Tears for the plight of the Indonesian Chinese? Tears for my own isolation, my feeling of being out of sync with the world, my sense of impotence in the face of such injustice? Or were they simply the result of hours spent staring at the glowing screen? Even now, I'm not entirely sure.

        On April 25, 1999, the Falun Gong demonstration in Beijing unfolded. The swift response from the local authorities, the immediate suspension of qigong activities, left me both impressed by their efficiency and questioning my own assumptions about the nature of political apathy in Singapore. Was it apathy, or was it something else entirely? A hyper-sensitivity, a nervous overreaction?

        Perhaps we lacked the tradition of public protest, a deep-seated respect for order and discipline. Our national context is different; we didn't need to replicate the social actions of other countries. The spring struggles in Japan, the student uprisings in China, the confrontations in South Korea, or the protests in Europe. Singapore's size alone made large-scale demonstrations seem unnecessary.

        The lack of response to my emails, the liaison office manager's overreaction. These weren't about their views or political leanings. They forced me to confront deeper questions: How do we truly live? Are our thoughts calcified, our responses programmed? What are the foundations of these programs? Stripped of these programs, what remains of our human instincts? Can we think critically, independently? Do we even understand our own actions? When faced with doubt and uncertainty, can we find our own solutions, take responsibility for our own lives?

        Diana's death and the subsequent events surrounding Prince William's attendance at her funeral highlighted a poignant contrast. The initial reluctance of the royal family, followed by their concession under public pressure, and finally, William's tears—these weren't a sign of weakness. They were a powerful testament to human emotion, a reminder of shared grief and vulnerability, a demonstration that even royalty could feel the sting of loss. Similarly, Zhu Rongji's grief-stricken expression during the aftermath of the bombing of the Chinese embassy in Yugoslavia was not a political statement, but a profoundly human one. It was a reminder that leaders, too, are human, capable of feeling pain, sharing sorrow.

        It is our humanity that matters first. Then, we are princes, prime ministers, or whatever roles society assigns us.

        Don't dwell on our freedom of speech. Ask yourself:

• Am I truly human?

• Am I alive, capable of feeling, of experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion?