What I Saw, I Heard & I Felt
Wednesday, 29 April, 2026


Last month, I attended an adult camp.

Throughout the camp, the transmission was conducted in spoken and written Mandarin.
The spoken part was never a problem. Raised in a family that conversed mainly in Mandarin, listening was easy.

The written part, however, was another story.

Thanks to my decision to skip Mandarin classes three decades ago, I was now meeting the delayed consequences of that younger self.

So whenever the instructor wrote across the board, I could only sit there and look.

The Chinese characters recognised me.
Unfortunately, I did not recognise them.

Participants were not allowed to use their phones, so there was no translator to rescue me, no digital shortcut to hide behind. After struggling for a while, I gave up trying to copy notes and simply sat there doing the only three things left available to me:

seeing, hearing, and feeling.

I turned to my left.

The participant beside me was taking notes like a poet.

I turned to my right.

Another was writing with the calm confidence of an ancient scholar.

And there I was—occupying a seat in a Mandarin camp with the handwriting capability of a startled chicken.
I genuinely wondered what I was doing there.

Soon, a small group activity began.

Each participant had to read another participant’s name from the name tag and chant a repeated phrase aloud.

I panicked almost immediately.

There was barely any time to rehearse. The instructor demonstrated one round, and then everyone was expected to continue on their own. Different names, same phrase, instant execution.

I tried to memorise it.

The more I tried, the less familiar it felt.

Then, in what seemed like a blink, my turn arrived.

I stood up.

Read the first few words.

And stuttered.

Just as I was preparing to sink quietly into embarrassment, something unexpected happened.

The rest of the participants began repeating the phrase together with me.

Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just enough.

Enough for their voices to cover my broken rhythm.

Enough for my mistakes to become less visible.

Enough for me to feel as if I was singing karaoke with background music—where the music quietly carries the parts your own voice cannot.

And almost instantly, the pressure disappeared.

What should have remained a simple activity did not feel simple anymore.

It felt like a roomful of people saying:

“You matter.
We are here.
Pass slowly if you need to. We are not judging.”

Something in me softened.

When their turns came, I found myself repeating the same phrases back to them with equal sincerity.

Not because the instructor asked me to.

But because I genuinely wanted them to get through that awkward little moment the same way they had helped me get through mine.

That exchange lasted only minutes.
Yet the warmth of it did not leave with the exercise.

The next day, the main speaker talked about cultivation.

An input gives an output.
The same input gives the same output.
Until we change the input, the outcome remains largely unchanged.

It was a familiar principle.

Anyone who has encountered cause and effect, karma, or simple life logic would not find it revolutionary.

So I listened, but without much internal movement.

Until the sharing session began.

Participants were invited to share moments in life where their own decisions had led them into pain, regret, or consequences they wished they had understood earlier.

What caught me off guard was this:

They could have remained silent.
They could have told safer stories.
They could have protected their image.
Yet one after another, they came forward.

Some cried.
Some trembled.
Some paused halfway because memory was heavier than speech.

But they still shared.

Not their achievements.
Not their polished versions.

Their errors.
Their blindness.
Their misjudgements.

The places where life had struck them hard enough to leave understanding behind.

As I listened, the small group chanting from the day before returned to me.
This sharing session no longer felt like a separate moment.


Beneath both was the same quiet movement—
one person easing another through an uneasy place,
one person handing forward a caution earned the hard way.

Every confession I was hearing was, in its quietest form, an act of love.

Not sentimental love.
Not affectionate words.

But the kind of love that says:

“I fell here.
Take this memory.
When your road reaches this bend, walk with more caution than I did.”


(credit to the original creator of this image)

In that instant, every participant sharing his or her life mistake no longer looked like someone exposing personal embarrassment.

They looked like travellers placing warning signs along a dark road for people they may never meet again.
And suddenly I understood why the room felt warm.

Because warmth does not only come from comfort.

Sometimes warmth comes from people willingly handing over the painful tuition fees they have already paid in life, so that others may not need to pay the same full amount.


To donate money is kindness.
To donate time is generosity.
But to donate one’s lived mistakes—one’s hard-earned understanding, one’s private scars, one’s unhidden lessons—so that strangers may walk safer…

there is something profoundly sacred in that.
It is love with no demand attached.

No preaching.
No superiority.
No expectation of return.

Just a quiet placing of lanterns along the road.

And perhaps that was what I had really been seeing, hearing, and feeling throughout those few days—
people loving one another in ways that did not need the word love to be spoken.

Footnote:


This post has been edited by nihility: Apr 29 2026, 06:33 PM

Disclaimer
Thursday, 30 April, 2026

This space is reserved for the recording of unfiltered thoughts, written primarily for my own kinsmen.

Unfiltered thought is often the earliest form of refinement.

Before an idea becomes balanced enough for public acceptance, it usually first appears in a rougher shape — sometimes blunt, sometimes disagreeable, yet often carrying truths that should not be silenced too early.

For that reason, these thoughts are first laid here for those of the same blood to witness in full.

Words directed openly toward the public often invite needless criticism, argument, and challenge.

Without invitation, even sincere opinion can easily be mistaken for arrogance.

Words directed inward carry a different nature.

This is not written as public instruction.
This is written as internal correction.

I do not write because I claim to stand above others.

I write because every household must occasionally examine its own roof before commenting on the weather outside.

If strangers happen to pass by these notes and find something of use, they are free to take what serves them.

If nothing here proves worthy, then let these pages be ignored without offense.

To those who came before me —
I may never equal all that you have built,
but I offer what little strength I have to preserve what should not be lost.

To those who come after me —
I may not be the finest hand from which wisdom could be received,
yet whatever little understanding I have gathered, I leave here for your inheritance.

That alone is sufficient reason to write.

What follows are the undocumented notes of what I see, what I hear, and what I feel from the incidents passing through my life.

When a Student Shines

Thursday, 30 April, 2026
10:06 AM

When a student achieves outstanding results,
is it because the student is truly capable,
or because the school and teacher were good?




This post has been edited by nihility: May 6 2026, 01:50 PM

When a Student Shines ( Part 1 of 3 )

September 2025

That morning, I received news that another colleague had resigned.
The second resignation within the same quarter.

Both had served the company for more than seven years.

Even though they were not from my team, such departures rarely stay confined to one department.
An unresolved problem in one corner eventually becomes another team’s burden.
Then another.

These things ripple outward.
That is how collective damage begins to take shape.

Seeing what was likely to come my way sooner or later, my mood shifted slightly.
Not moody exactly—just a lingering thought sitting at the back of my mind:

could each one of us have done better to prevent such?

That question stayed with me until lunch.

The HR manager was having lunch with me that day.
Both of us knew the elephant in the room, though neither brought it up immediately.

After we sat down and placed our orders, there was a brief silence.

I decided to break it.

“Carrie… when a student achieves outstanding results, is it because the student is truly capable, or because the school and teacher were good?”

Her eyeballs widened a little.
Lips parted, but no words came.

Then a stillness.

One… two… three… four… perhaps five seconds.

She adjusted her sitting position, one eyebrow slightly crooked, both elbows resting on the table.

Maybe that was a slightly heavy question for a woman during lunch.

“It is the capability of the student…” she finally broke the silence.

To be continue…

When a Student Shines - ( Part 2 of 3 )


“Oh… why so?” I asked.

“There are limitations to what the office can guide and lead. The success of the staff eventually depends on their own effort and willingness to put in additional hours for themselves,” said Carrie.

“I was asking about students and teachers, but you answered me about office staff. No wonder boss looks after you so much,” I grinned.

“Ahh… cut away the pretense. At my age — I’ve eaten more salt than you’ve eaten rice. I know what you are trying to infer by posting such a question,” said Carrie.

“Want to know my version of the question?” I replied.

Carrie fell silent for a while, waiting for me to continue with my viewpoint.

~

“When I was 16 years old, there was a school science subject — Chemistry. It was taught by a teacher named Mr. Tan.

Whenever his class appeared on the school timetable, I would start thinking about how to survive that 30-minute or 60-minute session peacefully. Whenever he taught the subject, he would become deeply infatuated with his own explanation and understanding of the topic.

The problem was — the whole class would slowly fall silent.

Students would begin whispering among themselves with the common question:
‘Do you understand what he is teaching?’

Students raised their hands and asked questions, yet his explanation remained the same. You could clearly see that he was putting in tremendous effort to bridge the gap between what he intended to transmit and what the students were supposed to receive — but somehow, it just did not work.

I belonged to the group of students who had access to teachers within the school, where I could raise my personal opinions or vent directly to several teachers I was close with. I brought up this issue to them.

Interestingly, their responses carried one common pattern:
‘Mr. Tan was a genius in his generation — a brilliant student who excelled in this subject.’

Not one teacher. Not two. Almost six or seven teachers repeated the same overlapping point.

I swallowed this hard fact.

It seemed that nothing much could be done.

I had to struggle with the subject and console myself by thinking — at least others were suffering even more. Some students eventually gave up and lost interest in the subject entirely.

‘Chemistry knows me, but I don’t know Chemistry.’

Then the following year, the subject was taught by another teacher — also Mr. Tan. To avoid confusion, let’s call him Mr. Tan 2.

His way of teaching felt completely different. His explanations and examples allowed me to relate to the subject and retain the lessons in my own way — almost through metaphor and association.

During his time as my Chemistry teacher, I felt like a fish returning to water.

The hardship I faced during Form 4 was something I could easily recover from during Form 5 under his guidance. Eventually, I performed well in the subject.

Personally, based on this lived experience, I believe the one who teaches matters.

Teachers matter.
Schools matter.

Of course, people may dispute this and argue:
‘How can you take a single case and turn it into a conclusion?’

For that part, I have my own thesis.

Every year, there are several school clusters consistently producing outstanding students nationwide.
Among the boarding school clusters, institutions such as:
• MRSM Tun Ghafar Baba
• MRSM Taiping
• MRSM Kuala Kubu Bharu

are frequently recognized for their excellent academic performance and their consistent production of high-achieving students.

Among the Chinese secondary school clusters, schools such as:
• SMJK Jit Sin
• SMJK Chung Ling
• SMJK Keat Hwa
• SMJK Sam Tet
• SMJK Hua Lian

have also repeatedly demonstrated similar patterns over the years.

Even ancient records reflect this understanding. Mencius’s mother relocated three times simply to ensure Mencius grew within the correct environment for cultivation.

This recurring pattern itself proves one thing:
Teachers and environment matter.

Of course, we cannot put the responsibility of student's performance solely based on the teacher/ school. I witness an incident before - a distance relative. The late parent was rich & they could afford to send him to Chinese Independent School with the perceived "good environment" but if the son refuse to study & don't put in effort, no matter what good environment you send them, paid using cash to get the entry ,the result would be mediocre & even would drag down the performance of the overall school.

Separately, does this mean those without such teachers or schools are doomed to perform poorly?
From my observation — no either.

I have also witnessed outstanding students emerging from remote or underdeveloped areas without strong infrastructure, elite schools, or exceptional teachers.

Such cases direct us toward another truth:
The talent, discipline, and effort of a student can sometimes compensate for the shortcomings of the environment.

Eventually, such students themselves become the environment for others who are searching for one.

As Rumi once said:
‘If the surroundings are dark and without light, stop searching for the light. You are the light others are looking for.’

Having witnessed both possible realities, my conclusion to the original question is this:

A good teacher can awaken a student.
A determined student can transcend a poor environment.
The rarest outcome is when both meet each other.”

To be continued…