The silence of the village that once raised us

I grew up in a Malaysia where the saying "It takes a village to raise a child" still meant something, not as a decorative proverb on government banners but as a social truth that structured how we lived.

My parents were from the boomer generation, the kind who believed that discipline was love and respect was non-negotiable. My father was not very involved in our daily lives, yet his presence alone commanded order, a quiet authority that made obedience instinctive. My mother, a retired sergeant from the force, brought that same discipline home with military precision, her voice steady as command.

Our upbringing could easily be described as borderline abusive by today's standards. Corporal punishment was common; it was part of the household routine. A rotan, a belt, or all-time favourite, a hanger. Those moments left invisible scars, and I later sought therapy to understand and heal from them. Yet despite those wounds, I still believe we turned out well because we learned the weight of respect - respect for elders, authority, and the rules that governed a civil society.

I do not glorify corporal punishment, nor do I wish for any child to grow up in fear. Yet, I believe discipline must be instilled from a young age. There is a Malay proverb, melentur buluh biarlah dari rebungnya, which means that shaping a person's character must begin in childhood.

My parents' way of instilling discipline came with flaws and pain, but it worked for its time. It was the norm then, not just in my home but in many others. Most millennials I know share a similar story of growing up in strict households with similar values. We may have been bruised, but we were also grounded.

Discipline extended beyond the walls of our home and into the veins of the community itself. In the suburb where I grew up, every neighbour functioned as a moral sentry. If one of us misbehaved, we'd get told-off, and a report would surely reach home - often faster than we could.

That meant another round of punishment for being caught. It was harsh but effective.

Every adult had authority, and every child knew that someone was always watching. Teachers, too, were part of this communal vigilance.

At the start of every school year, my mother would look my form teacher in the eye and say, "If he misbehaves, do whatever you must." This was not permission for abuse but an act of trust in the teacher's authority. When a teacher reported misconduct, the consequence at home was certain. The question was never "What did the teacher do to you?" but "What did you do to deserve it?"

That seamless continuum of discipline - from neighbours to teachers to parents - created a coherent world for a child. Home and school spoke the same moral language, and the entire neighbourhood functioned like an extended family invested in the moral survival of its young.

Teachers were not merely educators but moral collaborators, and their authority was reinforced rather than questioned. The village, in its truest form, was not metaphorical. It was alive, and its vigilance shaped us as much as love did.

Today, that trust has nearly vanished. I am not a parent, but I work with Generation Z students every day, and I often find myself managing both the students and their parents. Imagine a university student, practically an adult, having their parents come to my office not to correct their child but to defend them.

One case still lingers in my mind from a previous university. A student repeatedly skipped classes, and when I confronted the issue, the parent demanded an apology from me, claiming the student was "struggling mentally." Another parent complained that assignments caused "mental distress" and threatened to withdraw their child unless we reduced the workload. These were university students, yet their parents treated them as fragile children. It is as though higher education is no longer about preparing students for the real world but shielding them from it.

Empathy is necessary, but empathy without accountability breeds entitlement. That is exactly what I see more often today. This new approach does a profound disservice to everyone, especially the children. It teaches them that authority is conditional and that rules can be negotiated if met with enough resistance. It fosters fragility rather than resilience, leaving young people ill-equipped to face the demands of adulthood, where deadlines, discipline, and responsibility are real and non-negotiable.

The real question for parents today is not whether to trust teachers but how to do so wisely. Trust should be a partnership built on communication and shared goals, not blind surrender or hostility.

Parents must respect teachers' expertise in guiding and disciplining students while remaining attentive and engaged. Children should be allowed to face minor failures and corrections in a safe environment so they can build resilience. Yet parents must also intervene when discipline becomes humiliation or punishment turns cruel. Trusting teachers wisely means standing together, not against each other.

Because my perspective comes from someone without children, I sought another from Rafiqah Eliza Elias, a millennial mother of four raising Gen Z children and sharing her experiences on TikTok. Like me, she was raised by boomer parents, but her upbringing was gentler. While her parents' presence commanded respect, they preferred words over the rotan. Sharp tongues replacing the sharp sting of a cane. "While I was spared the physical pain, I was not spared the emotional one," she said. "It is one thing to cry for ten minutes after being hit, but another to carry the weight of harsh words. Although it is funny now to think about it, but back then my heart was ripped." Her parents believed words could teach lessons without leaving bruises, yet the scars were just as deep, though invisible.

Now, as a mother of four, Rafiqah stands between two worlds of parenting. She understands the structure and strictness our parents valued but also recognises the need for emotional awareness in modern parenting. "We are the in-between generation," she said. "We know what pain feels like, and we know what freedom can do. So, we are constantly trying to find balance. And striking the balance is never easy for parents who care." She trusts her children's teachers and school counsellors to be firm when necessary. For her, trust is not surrendering responsibility but sharing it.

Parenting today, she admits, feels like walking a tightrope. The values of the old world still matter, but the methods of the old world no longer fit. She believes in consequences, not cruelty. She wants her children to express themselves but not confuse expression with entitlement. "It is exhausting," she confessed. "You want to protect them, but you also want them to be tough. You want to understand them, but you also need them to understand you."

What we see in schools today reflects a society that has lost its balance between discipline, safety, and empathy. More than six thousand cases of bullying were recorded up to October 2024, revealing not just systemic failure but a deeper moral decay.

The recent rape case a few months back involving Form Five students in Melaka and the fatal stabbing in Bandar Utama are not isolated horrors; they expose a collapse of conscience and connection both in schools and at home. The father of the latter case described his son as an introvert unable to connect even with his own family, a chilling reminder that violence often begins in silence. When communication fades and parents are present only in form, not in spirit, empathy withers and isolation turns corrosive, spilling from private neglect into public tragedy.

Without understanding the emotional and social forces shaping student behaviour, efforts to curb misconduct will remain reactive and shallow. Campaigns, new subjects, cameras and stricter rules may look like progress, but without rebuilding trust and communication among parents, teachers, and students, we address symptoms, not causes.

The collapse of the old "village" has left schools less safe and children less grounded, as parents and teachers grow distrustful and communities withdraw. Children now grow up constantly watched but rarely guided, hyperconnected online yet adrift in values and empathy.

The saying "It takes a village to raise a child" is not a nostalgic relic but a timeless truth. It reminds us that no child grows well in isolation. What we need now is a new kind of village - one that combines the tenderness of modern parenting with the firmness of traditional values. Only then can we raise children who do not simply obey rules out of fear but understand the purpose behind them.

If we fail to rebuild that village, we risk raising a generation that walks alone, unanchored by guidance or consequence. But if we succeed, we will nurture a generation strong enough to stand tall, wise enough to listen, and humble enough to learn. That, in the end, is what it truly means to raise a child together.

Muhammad Naim Muhamad Ali, PhD, better known as Naim Leigh, teaches Communication and Media Studies at the University of Wollongong Malaysia, while Rafiqah Eliza Elias, a mother of four, shares her reflections on parenting and life online. The views expressed are the authors' own and do not necessarily reflect those of Sinar Daily.