Story Contributed by Nadira, Community Worker
I’m still new here. Some days it feels like I’m learning a new language – the rhythm of the neighbourhood, the way neighbours call out to each other from corridor to corridor, the moments when you realise someone has been carrying more than you knew.
The birthday parties at Ang Mo Kio started as a simple suggestion during a small meeting. I remember sitting there, still figuring out my place, when Delia* said, “Why not celebrate together?” Instead of separate celebrations, there could be one gathering each month where everyone contributes in their own way. It wasn’t something Beyond planned, it came from the residents themselves.
Last Wednesday was only the second time they’ve done this, but already it felt like a tradition. Balloons swayed in the breeze, music floated out of a small speaker, and Sanrio characters peeked out from the decorations, chosen by neighbours wanting to bring a little nostalgia and delight to the kids.
Then it rained. Hard. The ground turned slick and shiny, but it didn’t stop the children. They played musical chairs with shrieks of laughter, slipping, helping each other up again. We had to remind them to slow down, to be careful, but their excitement didn’t fade.
I noticed 12-year-old Ana* watching with a proud smile. Earlier, she had helped make egg mayo sandwiches that disappeared in minutes. Other residents brought drinks and snacks, and a partner contributed goody bags. It didn’t feel like an organised event, it felt like neighbours leaning in, sharing what they could, because that’s what you do when you care about each other.
While we were tidying up, an elderly auntie turned to me and said softly, “If my helper goes home, I’ll be all alone.” She wasn’t looking for pity. It was simply the truth she carried. I kept thinking about her long after. These Wednesdays aren’t just for children. They’re moments where loneliness eases, where neighbours truly see one another, where a simple party becomes a promise that no one will be left behind.
People ask me what it means to build community. As someone just starting out, I thought it meant running programmes or introducing new activities. But that night, in the rain, watching people laugh, steady each other on wet tiles, and share food they made themselves, I realised something deeper:
Community isn’t something we build for people. It’s something we hold together, one small gesture at a time. It stays alive because everyone gives a little of themselves.
And as Singapore turns 60 this week, it feels fitting to remember that it’s these everyday moments – neighbours coming together under one block, one shared meal, one small act of care – that truly shape the nation we call home.
From all of us at Beyond, Happy National Day.
*Not their real names