Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children as they grow up and begin to reason can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions.
– Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (1880).
When I was 13, my father and I hitched a ride in the back of a green Isuzu lorry bound for a secondary school in Padawan.
It was my first time leaving home, and I was heading to a boarding school I knew little about, next to a small Bidayuh village I had never been to.
The journey was quite long, with the lorry rattling over gravel, jarring potholes and slogging through patches of muddy road.
Each jolt and bump seemed to stretch the distance between home and the unfamiliar life ahead.
My father wasn’t a man of many words, but as we sat side by side, his presence was enough.
He didn’t try to soothe my anxieties or promise that everything would be easy.
He didn’t need to.
I knew he understood my disdain for school.
Instead, he did what he always did: simply placed his trust in me, silently teaching me that life would often require independence and resilience in the face of uncertainty especially when you grow up with so little to fall back on.
When we arrived, he helped me settle into the dorm, said a quiet goodbye, and then turned to leave.
There were no grand speeches, no lingering hugs, no dramatic farewells.
Just a simple: “Take good care of yourself. Don’t give up.”
(Sometimes I wonder if those words were meant more for himself or for me knowing full well the truancy, suspensions and occasional expulsions that would follow.)
He also left me with a reminder to fill out some forms he couldn’t read.
I stood there, watching him go and let out a yawn, unsure whether it came from exhaustion or indifference.
Yes, it was a small act, one that would never make headlines or draw applause, but it shaped who I became.
I chose a life path that most fathers today wouldn’t agree with.
A path often criticised as disrespecting elders.
But back then, I stayed quiet, hoping everything would somehow work out.
But on December 29, we laughed about those early days.
It was his 69th birthday, and as I called to wish him well, thinking how far we’d come.
Life had worked out after all.
And maybe, just maybe, that quiet trust between us was what made it possible.
My father’s quiet heroism lay in his steadfast duty, doing what needed to be done without seeking recognition.
In today’s world, heroism is often defined by visibility.
Social media has conditioned us to associate significance with likes, shares and public acknowledgment.
Activism, achievements and even acts of kindness are frequently amplified for the world to see.
There’s nothing wrong with celebrating success or causes.
Some stories need to be told but the quiet heroism of simply living right has been overshadowed.
Heroism doesn’t always require a stage.
There is profound courage in the unseen, the uncelebrated.
A mother sacrificing her personal dreams to ensure her children receive an education.
A son rearranging his life to care for an ageing parent.
A teacher who spends decades inspiring students, one classroom at a time.
There are so many other examples.
Marcus Aurelius, one of the most powerful men in history, left behind a body of work, Meditations, that reveals a deeply introspective soul.
Despite his position as a Roman emperor, he constantly reminded himself that his duty was to serve, not to seek glory.
“Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one,” he wrote.
In a society obsessed with self-promotion, Marcus Aurelius’s philosophy is a reminder that the truest heroism often lies in simply fulfilling our roles with integrity.
Whether as a parent, a friend, or a member of a community, our quiet contributions can ripple outward in ways we may never fully see.
Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist offers a similar lesson.
The journey of protagonist Santiago is filled with grand adventures, but the story’s heart lies in the simple moments: learning from the crystal merchant, listening to the desert’s silence and realising that his treasure was within reach all along.
Coelho reminds us that life’s magic often lies not in monumental achievements but in the quiet, persistent pursuit of purpose.
Just as Santiago learns to follow the “Language of the World”, we can find heroism in following our internal compass.
Raising a family with good values, being a reliable colleague, or simply showing kindness to strangers, these are acts of quiet courage.
They don’t demand recognition, but they build the foundation of a good life.
Living a quiet life requires its own kind of bravery.
It means resisting the urge to measure your worth by external validation.
It means finding satisfaction in doing what’s right, even when no one notices.
He didn’t need an audience to teach me resilience that day on the lorry.
He wasn’t looking for accolades when he left me at that boarding school.
Yet his actions instilled in me lessons that I carry to this day.
I’ve shared the story with my kids, focusing on my 13-year-old daughter since she’s about to head off to boarding school herself.
This time, I won’t be there either but I hope she’ll find the same strength her grandfather once gave me.
My father taught me that strength isn’t always loud and that some of life’s greatest acts of heroism happen far from the spotlight.
In a world increasingly defined by noise and spectacle, perhaps it’s time to redefine what it means to be heroic.
It’s not about the size of the stage or the amount of applause you receive.
True heroism is found in the commitments we keep, and in the everyday acts that may seem insignificant but collectively shape the world around us.
It’s in the person who picks up a piece of litter even though they didn’t drop it.
It’s in turning off the tap while brushing your teeth to save water or switching off the lights and fans when leaving a room to conserve energy.
It’s in the worker who stays late to help a struggling colleague meet an assignment deadline or the neighbour who waters someone’s plants while they’re away.
These actions don’t make headlines or win awards but they speak volumes about character and integrity.
It’s in these moments, often unnoticed, that true heroism resides – a commitment to doing what’s right simply because it needs to be done.
So as we manoeuvre through this age of visibility and constant attention-seeking, let’s not forget the heroes who walk among us silently.
Let’s honour the courage of those who simply do what is right, day after day, not for recognition but because they know it matters.
And maybe, the most heroic thing we can do in life is simply to do the same.
Quietly.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune.
