Life’s Twists and Turns 

by Hamamoto Satoshi and Choo Meng Foo

Walking has always felt to me like a form of thinking with the body.

It clears the mind, loosens the joints of thought, and somehow makes conversation flow more honestly. When two people walk side by side, there is no table between them, no fixed posture to defend. Sharing deepens without effort. Words arrive at their own pace.

Yesterday, I walked 4.2 kilometres—from Buddha Tooth Relic Temple to City Square Mall. A simple route. A simple act. Yet walking, for me, has never been merely about distance. It is about discovery: new streets, new ideas, new perspectives, new understandings, sometimes even new opportunities. Walking welcomes the world in, and in doing so, opens oneself.

Life, too, moves this way—through twists and turns that only make sense when we look back while still in motion.

As we walked, Siew shared a story from a time when he was the General Manager of a Hall. It was a story about a Pakistani student, and hearing it pulled my own memories of Pakistan to the surface.

Pakistan.

I had been there a few times in the early 2010s as an urban designer, part of a masterplanning team tasked with planning hospitals. It was an eye-opener. Karachi, in particular, stayed with me—its scale, its intensity, its contradictions. A port city shaped by colonial history, military influence, political turbulence, and deep social stratification, Karachi is a place where wealth and poverty sit uncomfortably close, where resilience is not a slogan but a daily practice.

When I was there, I spent time in bookshops, buying history books at prices so low they felt almost symbolic. I wanted to understand Pakistan properly—its politics, its society, its culture, its history. One cannot plan without context. Architecture and urban design do not begin with drawings; they begin with listening. Perhaps that was why Franky hired me. He knew how I worked, and what the project truly required before lines were ever drawn.

Siew’s story returned me to that context.

When the hostel opened for registration, a tall Pakistani student appeared at the counter. He did not greet. He demanded.

“Give me the key to my room.”

His voice was cold, hard, edged with entitlement. Siew, composed and professional, acceded. The student took the key and left.

Not long after, complaints came in. Loud music. Disturbance. Other hostel residents were unsettled. Siew sent staff to investigate and mediate.

Then something unexpected happened.

Three men arrived, presenting themselves as officers from the police investigation branch. They were looking for that same Pakistani student. Siew felt a chill run through him. Alarmed, he brought them to the unit.

Siew knocked. The door opened.

The student stood there, still aloof, still projecting toughness. As he spoke, two thin streams of smoke escaped from his nostrils. He looked unbothered—until the officers stepped forward, identified themselves, and ordered him to sit down.

In that moment, the transformation was stark.

The hard exterior collapsed. His face drooped into something frightened and small. He had stolen another student’s computer and sold it for money. Because he was a student, he was allowed to remain temporarily while investigations continued.

Soon after, his father flew in.

A schoolteacher, by profession. He sought out Siew and pleaded for permission to stay in the hall. Siew had to explain the rules patiently: visiting hours, conduct, shared facilities, the peak times for bathrooms and toilets. These were not punishments, merely structures—boundaries that make communal life possible.

Weeks later, the student packed up and returned home.

As Siew spoke, another memory surfaced for me.

I recalled a scholar from Hong Kong—Kam. At the time, I was working on photographs for the hall commemorative book in an easy-going way, guided by time and modest budgets. I came across an article describing an alumnus from Hong Kong had donated a large sum of money to a hostel. I was intrigued.

I had some time. A little pocket money. So I decided to fly to Hong Kong to meet him and photograph him for the book.

Before going, I contacted Siew and asked if I could interview a student who had benefited from the donation. I recorded a young student's story using my iPad. A few days later, I was standing in Kam’s office—vast, lavish, overlooking the harbour. The view was striking, majestic, and overiding. 

He told me his story.

He had grown up poor. He knew, early on, that education was his only ticket out. When Singapore began offering scholarships to ASEAN students during its period of rapid development, he prepared meticulously. He read every book he could get his hands on. He memorised data about Singapore—its economy, its governance, its ambitions.

When he went for the interview, he did not rely on charm. He relied on preparation. He aced it with facts.

He studied in Singapore, stayed in the hall, graduated, joined one of the Big Four accounting firms, and built a successful career. And then, at a ripe age, with grace and a grateful heart, he chose to return goodness to society.

What struck me was not his wealth, but his openness. He was genuinely happy to meet a stranger—a fellow alumnus. I was happy for his generosity, and quietly proud of Singapore for having been part of his journey. He even treated me to a ride in his Elon Musk electric vehicle and a meal at the Hong Kong Jockey Club.

Two students.

One humble, one obstinate.
One grateful, one convinced the world owed him.

Their paths diverged not because of nationality or circumstance alone, but because of something subtler—character.

As I walked yesterday, those stories walked with me.

I was reminded of a familiar truth, often paraphrased in different ways: opportunities come to those who are prepared; character determines the life one lives. Perhaps the verse is never exact, but the meaning endures.

Life does not unfold in straight lines. It twists, turns, surprises, and tests. Walking teaches us this. One step at a time, open to what appears, attentive to what is revealed.

And in the end, it is not brilliance or force that shapes a life most reliably—but gratitude, preparation, and the quiet discipline of becoming worthy of the opportunities that arrive.