While there is life, there is hope. Silence is one of the most precious tools—it teaches lessons and reveals inner maturity. Learning to overcome strong emotions and remain silent can be a form of true enlightenment. This is how I felt in a moment when the world seemed too harsh and the pressure felt overwhelming nowdays. In that silence, I found strength, perspective, and the hope to keep moving forward. Anyway , we all have the same end .

Trouw blijven aan mijn morele kompas is niet altijd even gemakkelijk. Voor een gever en pleaser zoals ik ben. Maar toen woningbouwplannen het waardevolle gebied waar ik woon bedreigden, heb ik mij hiertegen verzet. In mijn verzet heb ik veel boosheid en bedreigingen ervaren van mensen die in het plangebied een enorme financiële slag konden slaan. Ondanks het nare gevoel dat ik van die aanvallen kreeg vond ik dat ik mijn verzet niet mocht staken. Omdat de natuur zichzelf nou eenmaal niet kan verdedigen. Dat motiveerde me in mijn strijd. De woningbouwplannen werden na 10 jaar strijd opgegeven. De natuurwaarden en de cultuurhistorische waarden zijn in tact gebleven en worden zelfs versterkt. In mijn ogen een zegen voor flora en fauna en de vele mensen die daar frequent van genieten.

Ik voel een sterke behoefte om te gaan helpen in Oekraine, maar wil mijn leven niet riskeren. Ik kom pas in actie als er een echte vrede is. Mijn doel is dan om een aantal mensen te vinden om al het glasvezeldraad welke gebruikt zijn voor de drones op te gaan ruimen.

Vroeger was is ik militaristisch, nu pacifistisch. Zie (al een tijdje) wat kwaad kan aanrichten

I work in San Francisco, where there are so many unhoused people living on the streets. Many of them are struggling with drug addiction, mental health challenges, and poverty, and some of them are in so much physical distress that it’s hard for me not to avert my eyes and look away. But when I do walk by individuals— some of them are literally lying in the street semi-conscious– I feel shame– for myself who has an urge to turn away, and for our society, that allows this suffering to persist in one of the richest cities in the world.

I heard a homeless advocate once say that the most compassionate actions we can take towards homeless people is to make eye contact, smile and say a few words of connection. This is what I consistently try to do. And I generally receive warmth and appreciation in return. It’s a very small act, but not always easy. Because when I see someone suffering, I want to distance myself, thinking ‘thank god, this isn’t me’. But that small human interaction reminds me that we all share a common humanity, whatever our specific circumstances. And I believe that humanity, at its core, is a good and beautiful entity that needs to be nourished, supported, and loved.

What comes to mind are the choices I make in my personal relationships. Moments when I need to speak up and stand for myself in what I think or feel – rather than giving in, or saying what the other person might want to hear, just to avoid conflict. Sometimes that hesitation comes from doubt, but often I realise that I dó know: my instinct is clear, even if I don’t immediately act on it.

I’ve also learned that there is a time and a place for things. Not everything needs to be said instantly in order to stay true to what I believe. Allowing a pause – sometimes even a few days – between what is said and my response can help me find a more balanced way to continue the conversation. Not the easiest thing!

I work in an environment where decisions are often made collectively, and where hierarchy plays a role.There was a moment when I felt that a decision being taken wasn’t right – not harmful in an obvious way, but not fair either.

I remember weighing it carefully. Speaking up would mean going against a group, possibly creating tension. Staying silent would be easier.

In the end, I raised it – cautiously, but clearly. It didn’t change everything, but it shifted something.There have also been times where I didn’t speak up. And those moments tend to stay with me longer.

For me, the question of staying true to a moral compass often appears in quieter, less visible ways. Not in dramatic moments, but in choices about what to make, what to say, or what to leave unsaid.

There have been times when I followed an inner direction that didn’t align with expectations and that felt like a kind of integrity.

But there have also been moments when I adapted, softened, or held back. Not out of fear exactly, but out of a desire to belong, or to be understood.

It’s not always clear where the line is. And perhaps that’s what makes the question interesting: that it rarely presents itself as a simple choice.

I often think about this question in relation to my children. There have been moments where I’ve had to stand up for them – in school situations for example, where something didn’t feel right.

In those moments, I found it quite clear. My instinct was strong, and I followed it without much hesitation. But when it comes to myself, it’s sometimes different. I notice that I can be more cautious – weighing consequences, trying to keep the peace.

So I recognise both sides: the clarity when something really matters, and the hesitation when it feels more ambiguous.

A moment that comes to mind is actually quite small. I was in a group setting where someone made a joke that didn’t sit right with me. Nothing dramatic – but it felt off. I remember hesitating. I thought: if I say something, I might make things awkward. If I don’t, I’m part of it.

In the end, I didn’t say anything in that moment. And afterwards, I regretted it. Not because it was a big situation, but because I realised how easy it is to stay silent. Since then, I try – not always successfully – to trust that instinct more quickly and to act before overthinking takes over.

I have always followed my instinct and never felt the need to conform. In that sense, I’ve been fortunate – perhaps also because I belong to a generation that grew up after the war, with a certain freedom and comfort. I’m aware that I’ve had it relatively easy.

At the same time, I’ve tried to stay true to the values I grew up with in the 1960s: peace, openness, and a belief in human connection. Those ideas have stayed with me throughout my life.
I can’t say I’ve ever faced the kind of pressure Noor must have known. But I recognise the quiet moments where you either speak or stay silent. I’ve done both. Sometimes out of care, sometimes out of hesitation.

What moves me most is the scale of her courage and the cost of it. That she gave her life for something larger than herself. It puts my own choices, small as they are, into perspective.