Humans on the Divide

"Humanity needs no borders — only a heart that refuses to take sides."

1. The Day the World Stood Still, but Hearts Kept Beating

In the year when COVID-19 swept across the globe, it was as if someone had pressed a pause button on the entire world. Great cities fell silent. The sound of engines disappeared. Roads stood empty. People locked themselves indoors, eyes fixed on screens that counted the rising numbers of infections.

Yet, in quiet corners unseen by most, life continued to move — softly, almost imperceptibly. It was the movement of humanity.

In a small village along the Thai-Myanmar border, transport trucks stopped running. Shops ran out of goods. Migrant workers were ordered to remain inside their camps. But within the community, people came together to build a communal kitchen — not because they had plenty, but because they could not bear to watch one another go hungry.

Some brought half a sack of rice they had left. Others offered bottles of fish sauce. Someone borrowed a gas stove from the temple. A nun cooked rice, while Muslim villagers handed out coconut water. No one asked which side anyone came from. No one checked ID cards. There were only two questions:

“Do you have enough?”

“Are you doing okay?”

In a time when the whole world was paralyzed by the fear of death, a small group of people chose instead to help others live.

And in that darkness, we caught a glimpse of something luminous — the quiet light we call humanity.

2. The Fragility of Nations and the Fear Within

Whenever rumors spread about border tensions, lost territory, or foreign incursions, the instinct to “protect the nation” rises swiftly across Thai society.

We fear losing our land — yet what we often fail to say is that this land means nothing if the lives upon it are not safe.

Concerns about sovereignty are understandable, but when such anxieties are stirred and amplified beyond reason, they can become the most potent emotional weapon of all — one that makes people believe without question.

We have seen this time and again in today’s world: fear being managed, recycled, and repurposed across every sphere — from politics and national security to social media. The more fear grows, the quieter the voice of reason becomes. And whenever fear replaces understanding, humanity is always the first to disappear.

Because a nation is more than land — it is the sum of memories, connections, and shared identity. Yet sometimes, that shared fragility is magnified until it becomes fear. And when fear is skillfully manipulated, it turns into an emotional weapon so powerful that it divides even those who once stood side by side.

A few years ago, in a northern border village, a rumor began to spread — that the neighboring side was “taking over the forest.”

The whispers leapt from one phone to another, and within a single night, doubt became suspicion. Villagers who had lived peacefully with neighbors of different ethnic backgrounds for years began to look at one another differently.

One middle-aged woman whispered softly,

“I don’t hate them… but I don’t dare let my child play at their house anymore. I’m afraid they might find out about our village.”

Her words were not spoken in hatred — they were spoken in fear.

Fear of something she herself could not define.

Fear of a rumor no one could trace.

Fear that they might no longer be us.

“I looked around and saw a man standing across the road. His eyes showed the same unease. Both of us were afraid of the same thing — though neither of us knew exactly what that was.”

It isn’t only along Thailand’s borders that such spaces exist.

Everywhere in the world, there are places where rumors spread faster than reason, where fear is used to summon loyalty,

and where humanity is set aside — because ‘the nation must come first.’

We have witnessed this pattern over and over again.

The more fear is fed, the fainter the voice of reason becomes.

And when fear takes the place of understanding, humanity is always the first to fade.

3. Thai Education — When We Were Never Taught to Know Our “Neighbors”

Thai children learn the history of ourselves in meticulous detail, yet almost never the stories of those who live beside us.

We are taught to love the nation, but rarely to understand humanity.

We memorize the borders, but do not know the lives that unfold beyond them.

We know which river marks the boundary, but not who must cross that same water each day just to survive.

We know the wars we once won, but not the pain of those who lost.

And we speak the word enemy more easily than the word neighbor.

What is troubling is not merely what Thai students do not know, but what they have been taught to see only from one side.

History in Thai classrooms is told through the eyes of the victor—through a lens where we must defend the nation from them, the threat.

As a result, many grow up with an inherited image of neighboring countries as rivals or invaders, even when those events happened centuries ago.

No one ever asks:

How do they tell this same story?

There are no lessons inviting students to analyze how wars begin—or how they might be prevented today.

No teaching of conflict management between nations.

Hardly any discussion about the workings of international institutions such as the United Nations, the Security Council, or the International Court of Justice—how they function and why they matter.

All we know is our membership number, not the mechanisms that sustain peace.

And yet, these are the tools of the new century, the ones future generations need in order to coexist with awareness.

Thai students learn that conflict is dangerous, but not that conflict can be managed.

They learn that the nation is supreme, but not that humanity must also be preserved.

In some countries, history is not taught to instill pride but to cultivate understanding—

understanding of past mistakes,

understanding that war has no true victors,

and understanding that forgiveness is the root of peace.

But in Thai classrooms, children still memorize years and dates more than they ask why.

They recite events rather than reflect on how to keep them from repeating.

An education that lacks the dimension of shared humanity allows fear to grow unchecked.

We fail to see where hatred begins, or how it ends.

We do not realize that silence can become unintentional consent.

And once fear is awakened by those in power, it becomes all too easy for people to turn away from one another.

If Thai education—from its earliest levels—taught children to see neighbors as fellow inhabitants of the same world rather than as competitors,

if it taught that war is not a lesson in victory but a warning to preserve peace,

then perhaps fear would no longer pass from one generation to the next.

It would be replaced by understanding—the foundation of what it truly means to be a citizen of the world.

“We will never know what it means to have neighbors, until we dare to listen to the stories told from the other side of the fence.”

4. Field Notes

In one community, a local woman working as a volunteer with migrant workers shared her story:

“At first, we were afraid. We didn’t know who might be infected or not. But when I saw the little children in the rented rooms with nothing to eat, I just couldn’t stand by.”

She started with only a few packets of instant noodles. Then the neighbors joined in. Some brought bottles of fish sauce, others brought vegetables, someone else added a gas tank from home — until a small communal kitchen came to life.

“We didn’t think about which country they came from,” she said softly. “We just thought — they’re human, just like us.”

Her words sounded simple, yet deeply moving. Because in a world divided by borders and papers, she chose to believe in hearts, not nationalities.

Another story took place along the western border — a land that, on some days, was so quiet it felt suspended in time, and on others echoed with gunfire from the other side.

A small humanitarian team set up a temporary shelter for those fleeing across the narrow river.

They had only a few boxes of medicine, a few sacks of rice, and tents so worn that the fabric had been patched countless times. One volunteer recalled:

“We were scared too. If shooting started from the other side, what could we do?

But when I saw a mother carrying her feverish child walking barefoot across the river, there was no time left for fear.”

The woman offered them a single bowl of rice porridge to share.

They looked into each other’s eyes — no words, no shared language — yet somehow, they understood.

The next day, a local official warned the volunteers,

“Don’t help too much. It might look like you’re taking sides.”

The sentence was short, but heavy enough to make some hesitate.

One woman answered quietly,

“We’re not choosing sides. We’re choosing to save lives.”

In conflict zones, to help can sometimes be mistaken as to take a side.

The line between humanitarian work and politics is often impossibly thin.

But those on the ground know this truth:

if we wait for every side to agree before acting, there may be no one left to help.

As long as the gunfire continues, the voice of compassion must not fall silent.

One night, gunshots echoed from across the river — less than a kilometer away.

Yet inside a small canvas tent on this side, a child laughed while eating rice porridge the volunteers had prepared.

Watching the scene, one volunteer thought to herself:

Perhaps humanity isn’t as grand as the word makes it sound in reports.

Perhaps it happens in the very moment we choose not to turn away.

Because in the end — whether under the shadow of a pandemic or beneath the sound of gunfire —

humanity always begins from the same place:

a heart brave enough to believe that every life has equal worth.

5. Humanitarian Work — A Duty of “Absence”

Humanitarian work is not merely about helping people in times of hardship.

It is about protecting the dignity of being human — in war, in disaster, or amid conflict of any kind.

At its core, humanitarian work rests upon four universally recognized principles:

Humanity — Every life holds equal value. We help not because someone deserves it, but because they are human.

Neutrality — Taking no side in conflict, yet always standing on the side of life.

Impartiality — Providing aid based on human need, not race, religion, or nationality.

Independence — Acting free from political, religious, or economic influence.

At times, these principles may sound simple.

But in the field — when the world itself trembles — they are what must be held onto most firmly.

Humanitarians are not tasked with choosing the right side, but with saving those caught in the fire.

To stand for humanity means to stand without.

Not because we are perfect, but because our imperfections can harm others if left unchecked.

We must be without prejudice, which divides the world into us and them.

Without self-interest, which turns compassion into investment.

Without ideological zeal, which bends truth to serve belief.

Without attachment to our own righteousness.

And without fear, which keeps us from facing painful realities.

Because at the heart of humanitarian work lies trust.

And trust can only be built by hands uncolored — and hearts open enough to listen.

In a world saturated with the noise of anger, humanitarian work must continue to speak in softer tones —

the voice of reason, the voice of respect, and the voice of those who still believe in humankind.

6. A Connected World — When Problems No Longer Stop at Borders

Pandemics do not choose nations.

Natural disasters do not ask for race.

Climate change never pauses at borderlines.

And wars in one region inevitably ripple through the price of rice and oil in another.

This is the reality we all must accept — that no nation can survive alone.

To see the world through the lens of “us” and “them” is no longer just outdated; it is dangerous — for the future of our own children.

When we speak of humanity today, we must speak of it as citizens of the world,

not merely as Thais, or as members of any single nation.

Because the problems we now face know no borders —

and neither should the answers we seek.

7. Global Citizenship — Belonging to the World Does Not Mean Abandoning One’s Nation

Many fear that speaking of global citizenship means losing touch with Thai identity.

But in truth, being a citizen of the world does not mean we must abandon our nation.

It means recognizing that —

“Within our Thainess, there is always a shared humanity.”

To be a global citizen is to understand that the suffering of others, wherever they are, is in some way connected to our own lives.

When we help migrant workers, we are not helping outsiders —

we are protecting the collective health and safety of our entire community.

When we shelter refugees, we are not doing it for national image —

we are affirming that human dignity outweighs politics.

And when we look upon every person as equal in worth,

we are building a future where our children will live in a world safer than the one we inherited.

8. The Lines We Draw, and the Bridges We Can Be

The fear of losing sovereignty is understandable.

But when that fear turns into hatred, we begin losing our humanity before losing anything else.

The world does not need people who think alike — it needs people who can still see one another as human.

To be a human rights advocate, a humanitarian worker, or a development worker is not a noble profession — it is a state of heart.

It means standing in a place where both sides might distrust you, yet still believing that humanity can find better answers than hatred.

Humanitarianism is never distant.

It begins with not letting anyone go hungry,

not laughing when someone falls,

and not using the word “nation” to justify hurting another human being.

In a world filled with voices of anger, what we need may not be people who shout louder —

but those who speak from the heart.

Because in the end, fear may build walls —

but understanding builds bridges.

And when there are enough bridges,

the walls will have no work left to do.

© 2025 Khaoyai Connect. All rights reserved.

No part of this content may be copied, modified, or distributed in any form without prior written permission.