When the world feels fragile

Last week in Hong Kong, there was a massive fire in Tai Po that killed 168 people and shook the world. It didn't hit me personally as I didn't know anyone in those buildings, but deep down I felt the urge to show up and help out.

I cleared my Friday schedule and hopped on the train to Tai Po. I had this strange feeling because I didn't know what I could do to help. I didn't know anyone or any organizations. I was heading into the unknown.

On the train back and forth to Tai Po, I learned about humanity and myself.

I didn't know where to go to help, so the day before, I contacted a number of volunteer leaders on WhatsApp. As a father and educator, I wanted to see if I could help out with the young kids or elderly. You probably could have guessed it, everything was in chaos so not many, even the leaders, had a clear idea on what help they needed. It's normal.

On the train to Tai Po, I still didn't know what I could do.

Just minutes before arriving in Tai Po, I linked up with a volunteer at a community center. I grabbed supplies for a lady, got on the phone to confirm an elderly man's English name with the official, and set up a lot of chairs.

These were incredibly small things. They made you wonder: Am I really helping here? But in the grand scheme of things, a small gesture was still helpful for the people in need at that very moment.

A few days later, I saw a social media post about folks lining up for hours to lay flowers at a memorial for the victims. After 3 days, there was not much for the general public to do, so it was about grieving together and finding closure so everyone could breathe and move forward.

That's when I realized the reason I went volunteering.

I felt for the accident and I wanted to offer a hand. Instead of consuming social media posts and news, I chose to head over to feel, grieve, and find closure for myself.

By being there myself, I saw the reality: supplies stacked high, volunteers everywhere, people supporting each other in quiet ways. Yes, the fire was a terrible event, but it was the lowest point. What followed was a bunch of positivity.

In contrast, if I hadn't gone, I would have kept thinking this was a tragedy and kept having low moments thinking about it.

I was spending hours reading all the posts on social media about the fire. If I could share one thing to someone else who was doomscrolling the news, I'd say: go do the small thing that quiets your mind. Pitch in if you want or just do something in a quiet way. No one wants this tragedy. We all have to find ways to settle what's inside us. In a fragile world, that's how we keep going.

This wasn't new to me, actually.

Last month on a business trip to Singapore, I did something similar.

While I was there, I visited my old friend who had passed away seven years before. I headed to the columbarium with a bottle of red wine, stood there chatting with his photo for 20 minutes.

When I took a taxi over, the scenery whipped by so fast but I was calm. My mind was on one thought only: How am I feeling now? What am I supposed to feel? What should I do when I get there to reconnect with him?

My dad passed away when I was ten so I'm not unfamiliar with death, but so far I haven't had to go through this with a friend in life.

I think that's the bridge between the Tai Po fire and that visit. There's no certain way to respond.

Both times, I was doing what settled my heart.