Every August, the city starts to dress itself in red and white. Flags appear in windows, on cars, and in neat little rows along our streets. The supermarkets sell cupcakes topped with tiny paper flags, and there’s a buzz in the air about the parade, the aerial flypast, and, of course, the fireworks. And while I’ll admit that I’m just as prone as anyone to standing under the night sky, craning my neck to catch the burst of colour above Marina Bay, I know deep down that National Day is about something far more enduring than the glitter that fades within seconds.
For me, National Day has always been more about the feeling that settles in the chest when I think about who we are as a people. We are not perfect—no country is—but we are a people shaped by resilience, by shared effort, by the stubborn insistence on making things work even when the odds seem stacked against us. That, I think, is the heartbeat of National Day: it’s not just a date on the calendar or a televised parade; it’s a mirror that reflects our story back at us, the good and the hard, the celebrated and the unsung.
In a world that changes faster than we can fully process, it’s easy to lose hold of the threads that once bound us together. Technology has made the world smaller, but it has also made our own sense of identity feel a little more fragile. We scroll past global headlines, absorb countless opinions, and sometimes forget to pause and ask, What does being Singaporean mean to me? For me, it’s not just the major milestones—independence, economic growth, world-class infrastructure—it’s the quieter moments that still hold their ground in my memory. It’s the smell of satay smoke curling into the night air at East Coast Lagoon. It’s my mother insisting we take the last piece of ngoh hiang, because “no one should go home hungry.” It’s strangers offering tissue packets to one another in the kopitiam when someone’s spill sends coffee across the table.
I think often about how many of my own National Day memories are tied to food, not fireworks. Our little island may be small, but our hawker centres are like cathedrals of culture, each stall a keeper of tradition, each plate a story that has survived migration, hardship, and adaptation. Gathering over simple hawker fare—chicken rice, laksa, rojak—is as much a celebration of our shared story as any parade could be. In those moments, seated around tables with friends and family, there are no titles or ranks. There’s just the joy of eating together, the unspoken understanding that we belong to the same story.
National Day is also, for me, a moment to remember the values we were built on. Fairness. Dignity. Shared sacrifice. These weren’t just nice ideas printed in textbooks; they were lived realities for the generation that came before mine. My grandparents’ stories still echo in my mind: the years when there was less, but neighbours looked out for each other; when water was precious enough to be boiled twice; when doors were left unlocked not because crime was impossible, but because trust was stronger.
And yet, holding onto these values in today’s world is harder than we might like to admit. We live in a time of speed and competition, where the measure of worth can sometimes be mistaken for the measure of wealth. In a society where we are always rushing—rushing for trains, rushing for deadlines, rushing to get ahead—it can feel almost counter-cultural to slow down and consider fairness, dignity, and the willingness to sacrifice for the common good.
That’s why I think it’s so important to remember that National Day isn’t just a celebration; it’s also a checkpoint. It’s the one day a year that invites us to take a long, honest look at where we’re headed as a nation. Are we still guided by fairness when it’s inconvenient? Do we still offer dignity to those who are struggling, without judgement or pity? Do we still believe in shared sacrifice, or have we started to protect only what benefits us personally?
When those values feel threatened—as they sometimes do—I hope we will continue to speak up. Not with the rage that divides, but with the clarity that invites understanding. I’ve learned that clarity is not about diluting our convictions; it’s about finding a way to voice them so they can be heard rather than dismissed. It’s not easy. It requires patience, courage, and the humility to accept that change often comes slower than we wish. But it is worth it.
I also carry an extra layer of gratitude when National Day comes around now—because I have returned to Singapore with my children, and they are growing up in a country that offers them something precious: safety. After living in America, I can say with certainty that this is not something to be taken for granted. Over there, safety felt conditional—something you had to actively work to secure every day, whether by avoiding certain areas after dark, double-checking door locks, or worrying about the possibility of violence in public places, even schools. As a parent, that kind of vigilance never truly sleeps; it hums in the background of every decision you make.
Here in Singapore, that constant hum is gone. My children can take the MRT on their own without me fearing for their lives. They can walk to the neighbourhood shops at night without the shadow of danger looming over them. They can grow up focusing on learning, friendships, and dreams, instead of navigating the invisible calculations of personal safety that American children too often absorb from a young age. That peace of mind is a gift I am deeply grateful for, and it’s one of the reasons I know I made the right choice in bringing them back here.
I remember one National Day when I was much younger, sitting on the floor in my living room with my family, watching the parade on TV. The national pledge was being recited, and for the first time, I really listened to the words. “...to build a democratic society, based on justice and equality…” These were not just ceremonial lines; they were a promise—one we make to each other every year. And the thing about promises is, they mean nothing unless we work to keep them.
Our struggles are real. Not every Singaporean feels the same sense of belonging, and not every Singaporean feels heard. There are still people living on the margins, still stories that don’t fit neatly into the glossy image of success we present to the world. But part of loving a country, I think, is the willingness to see it as it truly is—not just the beautiful parts, but the parts that still need work. Real patriotism isn’t blind; it’s clear-eyed and stubbornly committed to making things better.
So, when I think about National Day now, I think about more than the flags fluttering in the wind or the brilliant splash of fireworks across the night sky. I think about the people who came before me and the people who will come after me. I think about my children and the Singapore they will inherit. I think about the conversations we have at the dinner table, about what fairness looks like, about how dignity is something no one should have to earn—it should be theirs by virtue of being human. I think about the sacrifices we’ve made and the sacrifices we will still have to make to keep our shared home thriving.
This National Day, as I gather with my family and friends, I will celebrate—not just the progress we’ve made, but the values that have carried us this far. I will remember that fairness, dignity, and shared sacrifice are not just ideals from another time; they are the foundation of the Singapore I want to live in. And I will remind myself, as I hope we all will, that our voices deserve to be heard, especially when they speak not in anger, but in the steady, unwavering tone of care.
Happy National Day, Singapore. May we never forget who we are, and may we always have the courage to hold on to it.
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