Twenty-One Years, One Sunday at a Time

My journey as a columnist did not begin with ambition or confidence. It began quietly—almost unnoticed—on the first Sunday of 2005, when I agreed to write a pro bono newspaper column. I remember the hesitation well. My English was far from polished, and I was keenly aware of my limitations. What carried me forward was not self-belief, but encouragement—especially from Sr. Mr. Liaw Lam Thye, who believed that sincerity, honestly offered, mattered more than linguistic perfection.

That first column was written without a strategy or expectation. I did not imagine continuity, let alone longevity. I wrote simply because there were thoughts that needed expression, and because someone had extended trust and invited me to give them voice.

Twenty-one years on, that first Sunday remains strangely close, as though time has folded in on itself. I find that both humbling and astonishing. Time, like logistics, rarely moves in dramatic leaps. It gathers momentum quietly. Once flow is established, acceleration follows—and before one realizes it, a tentative beginning has become a long, unbroken journey.

Many readers associate my writing with logistics. That is fair. Ports, supply chains, bottlenecks, throughput—these are the systems I understand. But logistics has never been merely technical to me. It is moral architecture. When flow is blocked, people pay the price. When access is uneven, inequality hardens. When decisions are delayed, costs compound quietly—and then suddenly. In that sense, logistics is a daily referendum on fairness.

As the years passed, my columns widened. I wrote not only about ports, cranes, and berths, but also about institutions, governance, and society, especially when I witnessed unfairness becoming normalized. I did not set out to be provocative. Silence simply felt irresponsible. Systems fail not only when policies are wrong, but when good people decide that speaking up is inconvenient.

Writing, for me, has never been about being right. Each new year begins with the same quiet recognition: I am not infallible. My views are shaped by experience, professional training, and the blind spots that accompany both. Reasonable people disagree with me—and they should. Disagreement is not a failure of governance; it is often its first sign of life. In logistics, friction tells us where systems strain. In governance, debate shows us where listening must deepen.

As the calendar turns, the question is not whether disagreement will arise, but how carefully we choose to hold it.

Institutions do not experience our intentions; they experience our behavior—and more precisely, our language. Words spoken in meetings, questions framed across the table, and emails released in moments of haste do not simply fade. They settle quietly into the organization, becoming record, precedent, and, in time, culture. Language, therefore, is not a soft skill. It is a governance infrastructure. Used with care, it clarifies judgment and strengthens trust. Used carelessly, it slows the flow, allowing misunderstanding and mistrust to take root.

A question meant to probe may be felt as doubt. Restraint may be read as indifference. Firmness may sound like hostility. Once language enters the system, intention no longer shields impact. That is why disciplined language is not merely a matter of courtesy; it is stewardship. Leadership asks this of us: to disagree without eroding, to question without wounding, and to speak with the awareness that every word placed into the system shapes whether it moves forward with clarity—or quietly clogs along the way.

Over time, I learned that consistency matters more than volume. A Sunday column will not change the world. But it can nudge a conversation. It can clarify an issue. It can remind us that systems do not run on goodwill alone. They run on disciplined choices, made repeatedly, even when applause is absent.

This is where legacy quietly enters the room.

Legacy is often misunderstood as something grand titles held, offices occupied, and milestones announced. However, in systems work, legacy takes on a different form. It looks like standards that outlast personalities. It looks like language that calms rather than inflames. It looks like younger professionals are learning that integrity is not optional, and that disagreement can be firm without being hostile.

As the new year opens, I find myself less interested in conclusions and more attentive to continuity. In logistics, continuity is everything. A momentary disruption can ripple across economies. In institutions, the same applies. What we hand over matters more than what we headline.

If there is one lesson these twenty-one years have taught me, it is this: progress is rarely the result of dramatic gestures. It is the accumulation of modest acts done with conscience—asking the extra question, documenting the uncomfortable truth, resisting the easy shortcut, choosing restraint over reaction. Writing has been my modest act.

I continue not because I have all the answers, but because systems require witnesses—people willing to observe, explain plainly, and insist that fairness is not an abstract ideal, but an operational requirement.
We may not share the same views, backgrounds, or priorities. But we share the same system. And systems improve only when enough participants decide to contribute a little—consistently, responsibly, and without demanding credit.

In logistics, progress depends less on dramatic breakthroughs than on disciplined continuity. The same is true of institutions, governance, and public discourse. This column has never been about conclusions, but about keeping the flow moving—making bottlenecks visible, making decisions clearer, and systems fairer, one Sunday at a time.

As the year begins, I offer this reflection not as a statement, but as a commitment: to continue observing, writing responsibly, and contributing quietly—so that the systems we share may keep working a little better for everyone.