The CommonWealth Games

In 1998, Kuala Lumpur buzzed with excitement. The Commonwealth Games had come to Malaysia, and everywhere banners fluttered, radios played upbeat jingles, and the city felt alive.

At that time, I was a volunteer teacher at a children’s home in Petaling Jaya, Selangor a refuge for the neglected, abused, and abandoned. These children had seen more pain than most adults ever would, yet their laughter still carried a kind of unbroken hope. When the home received invitations to attend the opening ceremony, the excitement was electric.

But there was one rule: only the older children could go. The younger ones those under six would have to stay behind. I still remember their faces. Tiny hands clutching my arm, wide eyes full of longing, little lips quivering with disappointment. My heart ached for them.

So I offered: "Tell you what while the big kids are at the stadium, why don’t you spend the day at my place? We’ll go to the poolside, have snacks, splash around, and make our own celebration."

And we did. The younger ones came alive that day. Their giggles echoed across the water, their little feet splashed and danced, and for a few hours, they forgot they were missing anything at all.

That evening, we returned to the home just as the older children came back from the stadium. I was eager to hear their stories.

"So, how was it? Wasn’t the opening ceremony amazing? I watched it on TV, but being there must’ve felt magical!"

Silence. They avoided my eyes.

One by one, they slipped away, their energy muted. Confused, I asked again. No one spoke. Finally, I pulled aside the oldest boy, one of my brightest students.

"What happened at the stadium?" He hesitated, looking down at his shoes. After a long pause, he whispered: "During the parade… everything was fine. But when the contingent from Singapore entered the stadium, the crowd started… booing." I blinked, stunned.

He looked up at me then, his face tight with sadness. "We know you’re from Singapore, teacher. And… we felt sad. We didn’t understand why they booed. Why did they do that?"

Later, I read about it in the media. It wasn’t just the crowd the Prime Minister, Mahathir Mohamad, seemed indifferent to the booing. He even brushed off criticism, suggesting that public sentiment was justified.

I remember sitting there, feeling a mix of anger and heartbreak. The children, abandoned by society, forgotten by families, and carrying their own scars, somehow knew better.

They felt embarrassed for what happened.

Meanwhile, the nation’s leader… didn’t. It struck me then empathy isn’t taught by power, nor does authority guarantee dignity.

Sometimes, it’s the children society discards who hold the deepest understanding of what respect means.