Who Knows Best?

One of the more engaging cases we saw this week had all the elements of a classic Hong Kong gangster movie. It was a secret society trial, replete with harsh initiation rites, gang beatings, charismatic leaders and hapless victims.

The main differentiating factor though, was that the average age of the parties involved was 12, 13 years old.

At the trial's conclusion, the judge very sternly rebuked the kids, and forbade them from ever fraternizing with each other in school again. No meetings, no sitting together during recess, no hanging out after lessons. Nada. Zilch. A complete separation, break, split.

And that was what struck me the most.

See, the children were friends to begin with, even before the gang recruited them. They might still be friends now, even after the gang was dispersed.

But the court didn't care. The court, applying an objective standard, had decided that it was better for the children to stay apart, that it was in their best interests that they be separated, never to cross paths again. The standard was arguably a reasonable one, culled from years of academic research into the behavioural patterns of gang members, years of accumulated wisdom regarding child rearing, so on and so forth.

It didn't matter whether the children still wanted to be friends - the understanding was that they were too young or immature to decide what was best for themselves, and that society's neutral, passionless objective standard decried that they be isolated from one another.

Children grow up. We grow up too. Eventually.

Does a consensus distilled from the opinions of a thousand reasonable men always outperform an individual's own reasoned choice?

I wonder, is there ever a point when we are wise enough to choose our own paths, or will we always yield to society's collective wisdom?

No Need For Words

We sat in the public gallery of the courtroom, all 12 of us Legal Service interns. We knew it was a criminal trial for charges of drug trafficking, but we couldn't help feeling a little bit detached.

After all, hadn't we already seen enough of these cases in our textbooks? Hadn't we already plowed through the arguments for and against the death penalty, in relation to Singaporean drug trafficking charges? Hadn't we already seen it all?

So there we were, insulated against cold, harsh reality. We were detached observers, mere spectators.

Until the accused came in. And started gesturing to his family in sign language. The thick panes of glass between them may have inhibited sound and distorted sight, but they did nothing to stem the torrents of understanding that flowed in those moments.

Fingers trailing down his cheeks, furrowed brows, a quick shake of the head. Don't cry for me. Whatever you do don't cry. A thumbs up, a tentative, manic grin. Of course I'm fine, why would I not be fine?

Open palms, nonchalent shrugs, undulating shoulders. I won't know what will happen, how could I? Why worry now? Chin tilted upwards, raised eyebrows, head jerking in their direction. Is mother fine? Is grandma fine? Are you two boys ok?

A crooked index finger. A quick draw across the neck. But still, still that cheerful, weary, belaboured smile. I will hang. I know I will. But life goes on, right? Don't be sad for me.

I tried hard to concentrate on the legal arguments being bandied around. But this wasn't a textbook case anymore. There was no court reporter here to excise all the cancerous emotions and reduce the proceedings to black print upon white paper. It was real.

In time I guess I will be desensitized, and I will learn to focus only on the arguments before me. But I hope that time will be a long time in coming.