When Cruelty Feels Like Power: What’s Happening to Our Children

(Originally published on LinkedIn)

Malaysia has been grieving. A child bullied to death. A girl raped by four SPM candidates. Another stabbed at school.
Every time, the question echoes: Who’s to blame?
But maybe that’s the wrong question.

The right one might be: How did we raise children so empty that cruelty feels like power?

We’re asking the wrong question.

Malaysia is reeling.

A girl who died after being bullied.

A girl r***d by four SPM candidates.

A girl stabbed to death at school today.

Everyone is asking: Who’s to blame? The Education Minister? Teachers? Parents? The system? But that’s the wrong question. The real question is: How did we raise children so empty that cruelty feels like power?

These children aren’t just evil. They’re abandoned. Not physically.

They have parents, homes, provisions. But emotionally? Spiritually? They’re empty. Raised by social media instead of present parents. Praised for performance but never truly seen. Taught that status matters more than character.

We gave them everything except what they needed: presence. Parents who are there but scrolling. Parents who love conditionally based on grades. Parents who measure success by social media posts, not by whether their children feel known, loved, safe.

Four boys. SPM candidates. Destroyed a girl’s life. Where did they learn that a girl’s body is theirs to take? That dominance equals masculinity? That “no” doesn’t matter?

They learned it somewhere. From fathers who dismiss mothers. From media that objectifies women. From culture that taught them everything except respect, consent, humanity.

This doesn’t excuse it. But if we want to prevent the next case, we need to understand how we’re creating boys capable of this.

This isn’t just about ministers or teachers or parents. This is about all of us.

Culture that values performance over presence. Social media that teaches worth through likes. Workplaces that demand so much, parents have nothing left. Systems that ignore bullying until someone dies. All of us.

So let’s stop blaming and start asking what we’ll do differently.

✓ Be present with our children, not just physically there?

✓ Teach values through actions, not just words?

✓ Show boys respect by how fathers treat mothers?

✓ Teach sons that “no” means no, that girls are human?

✓ Raise daughters who know their worth and right to safety?

✓ Measure children by character, not achievements?

✓ Love unconditionally, not just when they perform?

✓ Hold systems accountable when they fail?

We can’t undo what’s happened.

The girl who was r***d carries that trauma forever.

The girl who died from bullying died because adults failed.

The girl stabbed had her entire life stolen from her.

We owe them more than blame. We owe them change. Not someday. Now.

Because our children (the ones hurting and the ones being hurt) are telling us through these tragedies: They’re empty. And that emptiness is destroying them.

Will we finally listen?

I am disturbed by these cases not just as a Malaysian, but as a mother.

I have a daughter. And every time I read news like this, I feel a quiet fear. Because our children are growing up in a world where they are more connected than ever, yet more alone than we realise.

Many homes today function like hotels. Parents leave early, return late, and somewhere in between children grow up without guidance.

TikTok shapes their values. YouTube becomes their teacher. Strangers on social media become their emotional support system.

Not because parents do not love their children. Many are exhausted. Work demands more than eight hours. The pressure to survive is real. The race to look successful is even louder.

So, presence gets replaced with provision. Conversation is replaced with screens. Guidance is replaced with busyness. This is how emotional disconnection begins. Quietly. Slowly. Until one day it becomes a tragedy that nobody understands.

I have worked long enough to see how family slowly becomes the silent sacrifice of ambition. It does not start with bad intentions. It starts with one harmless sentence. “I have no choice.”

I once had a manager who questioned why I refused to stay back until eight or nine at night like others. I told her that once office hours end, my responsibility does not. I have a child who still needs a mother.

Not a mother who pays bills, but a mother who is present.

Some people are proud to say they leave home while their children are still sleeping and return when they are already asleep. They say it is a sign of commitment. But commitment to what?

Work will replace us the moment we resign. Children will carry the result of our absence for life.

Parenting cannot be outsourced. Not to a helper. Not to a tuition teacher. Not even to a good school. A child does not just need supervision. A child needs emotional stability. That can only come from a parent who is consistently present.

If we do not shape our children, something else will.

Someone once told me, “You perform well, but you are not visible enough. That is why it is hard to defend your rating.”

I asked a simple question. What does visibility mean?

Does it mean spending more time talking about work than doing the work?

Does it mean announcing exhaustion to look dedicated?

Does it mean showing struggle to gain sympathy?

I once heard someone proudly say, “I am drowning in work. I have not even prayed yet today.” And people praised her for being committed. If this is what visibility looks like, then something is wrong. Because now effort is measured by how loudly we suffer, not by how honestly we contribute.

If adults behave like this, what do children learn from us?

They learn that image matters more than integrity.

They learn that performance matters more than purpose.

They learn to appear good rather than to be good.

These are the same children who later turn into teenagers who hide their pain behind filters and silence. Children do not become lost overnight. They follow the values they see. Broken behaviour always begins somewhere. Cruelty is not born in a day. Whatever we see in schools today was shaped long before it reached the headlines.

When boys grow up thinking they have the right to control or harm, they learned it from somewhere. Maybe they saw women being dismissed in their own homes. Maybe they heard fathers call mothers weak. Maybe they saw respect treated as optional.

When girls grow up questioning their worth, that also came from somewhere. Maybe love in the house depended on grades. Maybe achievements mattered more than emotional safety. Maybe they were taught to stay quiet rather than speak truth.

Children watch us. They absorb us. They copy us. If they see parents solve conflict by anger, they will believe anger is power. If they see love only when they perform, they will believe they are only worthy when they achieve. If they grow up with silence at home, they will search for attention anywhere, even in dangerous places.

We keep blaming schools and society, but home is the first classroom. Character is not taught by words. It is shaped by what we model.

This is not a trending topic. It is an emergency.

We can talk about policies, security systems and punishment, but none of that will fix what is breaking if we ignore the root. The real crisis is not academic. It is emotional. It is moral. It is spiritual. It begins at home.

Change does not start with a minister. It does not start with the school system. It starts with us. It starts with how we speak to our children. It starts with what we reward, what we tolerate, what we model.

Be present, not just available. Listen, not just instruct. Guide, not just provide. Protect, not just finance. Raise character, not just achievers.

We cannot bring back the children already lost to violence. But we can protect the ones who are still with us.

All of us have a role to play. Parents. Teachers. Leaders. Communities. Children do not need perfection. They need adults who care enough to show up.

This is not a rant. It is a worry. It is a concern shared by a mother who knows she cannot be with her daughter all the time. None of us can.

One day our children will step outside our homes and walk into a world we cannot fully control. That is why what we build inside them matters. Their values. Their conscience. Their capacity to choose what is right when no one is watching.

I am not writing to judge any parent. I am still learning every day how to do better. I am writing because silence has a cost, and these tragedies are proof of it. If we care about our children, then we must care about the environment that shapes them. Home is still the strongest influence. Let us not surrender it.

I wrote this as a mother, not a policymaker.
Not to assign blame, but to call for awakening.
Every tragedy begins quietly at home, in the spaces between presence and distraction, between what we teach and what we model.

If this reflection moves you, pause tonight.
Look at your child. Speak, listen, stay.
Because no policy can replace what only presence can give.