I once had a conversation with a friend who candidly pointed out that a teacher is — “bagai lilin membakar diri, menerangi orang lain” — like a candle, burning oneself so that others may find their light. I am sure that you must have also heard it before. And if you have ever met a teacher in the middle of exam season, you would know just how literal it can feel. Sleep becomes a luxury. Meals are rushed. Patience turns into a kind of performance art.
Long before the metaphor of the candle entered the Malay sayings, there was another known Malay quote “Tinta ulama lebih mulia daripada darah syuhada” — the ink of the scholar is more precious than the blood of the martyr. The ink wasn’t used to just write lessons or rules. It carried wisdom, moral clarity, and a kind of quiet compassion. It was a vessel for teaching the heart as much as the mind.
And here’s where I like to play with it a little — bring it into our classrooms today. What happens when that ink begins to run dry? Does it mirror a teacher’s level of patience? That, I think, is what burnout really is: not a lack of skill, or heart, or discipline, but the quiet drying out of one’s inner reservoir of care.
It’s in that moment — standing at the front of a classroom, lesson planned and papers stacked, yet feeling the weight of every hour — that the candle and the pen merge. The flame flickers. The ink thins.
And we begin to wonder if the light we’ve been keeping alive for others can ever survive for ourselves.
Ask any teacher in Singapore how they are and they’ll probably smile and say, “Okay lah.” Which, as we know, really means: “I’m barely holding it together, but let’s not talk about it.”
The truth is, being a teacher here can be quietly exhausting. According to the OECD’s 2024 Teaching and Learning International Survey, full-time teachers in Singapore clock an average of 47.3 hours a week — that’s almost 7 hours more than the OECD average. 7 hours! That’s practically a whole extra workday.
But get this — only about 18 hours are spent actually teaching. The rest? A beautiful buffet of meetings, admin work, CCAs, lesson planning, parent emails, counselling sessions, and “other duties as assigned.” You know the type — those mysterious tasks that appear out of nowhere like side quests you never signed up for.
A survey by the Singapore Counselling Centre found that over 80% of teachers said their mental health took a hit during the pandemic. 80%! And yet, only about 8% sought help. The rest? They just pushed on, like they always do. It’s like a ship full of seasick sailors —everyone’s dizzy, but only one person goes to the infirmary because the rest are busy steering the wheel.
It’s not that teachers don’t love teaching. We do — deeply. It’s that the system sometimes forgets to love us back. The relentless paperwork, the planning, the late-night texts that start with “Could you just…” — all of it adds up.
Teaching used to be a calling. These days, it sometimes feels like an endurance sport.
And yet, we stay. Because the kids make it worth it. Because someone has to. Because there’s still joy in those little sparks when a student finally gets it. But still — it’s tiring, you know?
Then there’s the classic comparison — “Look at Finland! Look at Denmark!”
In Finland, only 18% of teachers report feeling “a lot” of stress, compared to our 27%. Why? Because they’re trusted. They decide what and how to teach. There’s less micromanagement, fewer forms, and more coffee breaks that last longer than two sips. In Denmark, the culture values rest and trust too. They treat teachers like professionals — not perpetual employees in performance review mode.
Here, when we talk about fixing things, the conversation goes in circles: streamline admin, hire more teachers, reduce CCAs, send them to wellness workshops. All good ideas, sure. But it’s a bit like giving someone a scented candle when their desk is on fire. Smells nice, but the flames are still there.
Maybe what we really need is, perhaps, a change in culture.
What if teachers had their own CCAs? Not those “fun” team-building games with balloons and forfeits — I mean real CCAs. Imagine teachers forming a drama troupe, or painting after school, or jamming on the guitar with colleagues. Imagine teachers doing something creative that wasn’t tied to a KPI or “learning outcome.”
Because honestly, creativity isn’t a luxury. It’s survival. The arts are a kind of therapy — not the “paint your trauma” kind, but the kind that helps you feel human again. The kind that gives the teachers a space to sing badly, paint sloppily and dance crazily. A space where they can recharge.
We always tell our students to be holistic, yet so many teachers are running on half a tank.
Sometimes I wonder — what if one day, every teacher in Singapore decided to quit? Just… stop. No drama, no protest, just quiet resignation letters written with whatever ink remains, slid under the principal’s door.
Schools would open to silence. Bells would ring for classes that never begin. Parents would panic. Students would cheer for about an hour before realising no one’s there to explain the math question.
Would AI step in?
Sure, AI can mark essays, plan lessons, maybe even say, “Good job!” in a soothing voice. But can it care? Can it look at a child’s slumped shoulders and know something’s wrong? Can it read the sadness behind the curve of a written letter? AI might teach content, but it can’t teach compassion. It can’t love a child.
Without teachers, education becomes instruction. And instruction without care is just noise.
There’s another folktale I love — the Bamboo and the Oak. The Oak, proud and firm, tells the Bamboo, “I’m stronger than you.” The Bamboo just sways. When a storm comes, the Oak cracks, and the Bamboo, though battered, stands again. We’ve built our system to create Oaks — strong, efficient, unbending. But maybe what we really need are more Bamboos — flexible, still rooted, able to bend without breaking.
Because teaching is not just about transferring knowledge. It’s about transferring spirit. And if that spirit cracks, no amount of restructuring or AI innovation will fix it.
We can tidy up timetables. We can automate attendance. We can hire more teachers. But unless we change how we see teachers — as human beings, not human resources — we’ll keep thinning out the ink and burning out the candles.
And when ink runs dry and the candles burns out, we’ll look around and realise we didn’t just lose teachers. We lost something far more human.
Sometimes I think about that teacher— the one whose ink in his pen has run out. I picture him years later, walking past the classroom he once filled with laughter. He pauses. He listens. Maybe he still hears the faint echo of children reading aloud.
And he smiles — not because he misses teaching, but because he finally understands that silence can also be a lesson.
Maybe that’s what rest is — the pause between lessons, the breath between words. Maybe teachers deserve that pause too, so they can remember who they are before they write again.
So that when the ink returns, the words written will be bolder and truer, yet kinder.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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