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Dr. M Umar S Ch (he/him/his), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

My father never raised his voice to be heard. 
His silence carried more weight than most men’s words.

He wasn’t a man of speeches. He didn’t sit us down for long conversations or offer advice in big moments. Instead, he moved through life quietly—steady, composed and deeply present. At the time, I didn’t realize how much that presence would shape me.

Today, as I work across borders—from offering care to orphaned children in Kyrgyzstan to standing beside displaced families and migrants—I carry his strength with me. It lives in how I show up, how I listen, how I choose empathy over ego. My father taught me that strength isn’t in force—it’s in the stillness that holds others, in the calm that steadies storms.

There were days when he would simply sit beside me, saying nothing at all. And yet, those were the moments I felt most safe. That unspoken comfort—that quiet assurance—became my foundation for working in humanitarian spaces, where people often carry grief too heavy for words.

I remember standing outside a shelter in a foreign land, watching a mother rock her child to sleep under the open sky. I didn’t have a solution. I didn’t have the language. But I had presence. I stayed. I listened. And in that moment, I knew I was living out the very strength my father had shown me all along.

He was never in the spotlight. But he was the reason the light stayed on.

Even now, when I face moral crossroads or moments of burnout in global health advocacy, I pause and think: What would my father do? Not in terms of action, but in spirit. Would he stay calm? Would he choose compassion over control? Would he give space instead of rushing in with answers?

The answer is always yes.

My father’s way of being taught me that healing doesn’t always look like fixing. Sometimes, it looks like witnessing. Like standing with someone in their pain and reminding them—through presence alone—that they’re not alone.

He taught me that true leadership isn’t loud. 
That dignity doesn’t come from dominance. 
And that the deepest kind of love is the one that asks for nothing in return.

Even when we had little, he gave freely. Even when he was tired, he kept showing up. That silent strength—the ability to keep giving without being seen—has shaped every decision I make, especially in work that stretches across language, culture and hardship.

As I write this, I think about all the people I’ve met through my humanitarian journey. The ones who have lost everything. The ones who have held on anyway. And I see traces of my father in them too. The way they rise each morning, carry burdens without complaint and love fiercely, despite the odds.

There’s a kind of unity that exists only in quiet strength.
It bridges gaps where words fail. 
It connects people beyond borders, beliefs and backgrounds. 
It reminds us that we are all, at our core, simply human—longing to be held, heard and healed.

To my father—thank you. 
Your silence spoke volumes. 
Your strength built the bridge I now walk across to serve others.

Your love didn’t need to be loud to be unforgettable.

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Dr. M Umar S Ch is a physician and global health advocate whose humanitarian work spans crisis zones, orphan support and cross-border solidarity. His mission is to heal not only bodies, but broken systems, with empathy and action.