In early 2020, four-year-old Megan Khung died after more than a year of horrific abuse. The child was found in a metal pot, her small body bearing signs of repeated violence. The recent review panel convened by the Ministry of Social and Family Development (MSF) revealed a grim truth — multiple agencies had interacted with the family, yet lapses, delays, and miscommunication meant the system failed her.
According to the Child Fatality Review Panel Report (MSF, October 2025) and coverage by Channel NewsAsia(“Multiple Lapses Found in Handling of Megan Khung’s Abuse Case,” 25 October 2025), officers did not escalate concerns swiftly, injury reports were incomplete, and the false notion that “only a family member can make a police report” caused dangerous hesitation. The panel concluded that clearer inter-agency coordination and proactive investigation protocols are urgently needed.
But this tragedy isn’t an isolated one. It’s a mirror — reflecting our collective blind spots in how we respond to abuse. The truth is that Megan’s story sits alongside many others, unnamed and unseen, where signs were noticed but dismissed, warnings were raised but softened, and help came far too late.
We must ask why. Why are abuse cases so often overlooked or mismanaged? And perhaps more painfully, what does this say about the rest of us — the bystanders, neighbours, teachers, and citizens — who sense something amiss but stop short of ringing the alarm?
To explore this, I turn not to policy or statistics, but to something older and more enduring — a folktale that has echoed across this region for centuries: the legend of Hang Nadim, the boy who saw danger but was silenced.
The story goes that when swordfish once attacked the shores of Temasek, now Singapore, the people were helpless. The sea turned silver with the slicing of their bodies. A young boy, Hang Nadim, suggested a simple yet brilliant idea — to line the coastline with banana stems so the swordfish would impale themselves. The plan worked. The people were saved. But the Sultan, threatened by the boy’s intelligence, ordered his execution. The child’s blood, they say, stained the hill red — and so Bukit Merah was named.
It is a story of wisdom ignored and innocence punished. And in many ways, it mirrors what happens when warning signs of abuse are silenced by bureaucracy, fear, or pride.
In Megan’s case, the first sign appeared as early as March 2019, when preschool staff noticed bruises on her face and legs. A report was made, but the description of her injuries was incomplete, and assumptions about her home situation muted the sense of urgency.
The Review Panel later noted that the staff treated it as an isolated disciplinary issue rather than a symptom of ongoing violence. This pattern — the normalisation of harm — is painfully common. Teachers hesitate, not wanting to overreact. Neighbours stay quiet, not wanting to intrude. Social workers tread carefully, hoping cooperation will emerge over confrontation. Each person waits for certainty before acting, but certainty never comes.
Like the villagers in Hang Nadim’s story, everyone sees the swordfish, but no one acts until it is too late.
The silence deepens between agencies. The Review Panel found that the Child Protective Service, social service offices, and police each had fragments of the truth, but these fragments were never stitched together. Some officers misunderstood their authority, believing only family members could make a police report. Even after the child’s mother tested positive for drugs, the case was not escalated with the urgency it demanded. When institutions operate in isolation, accountability becomes blurred. Everyone is responsible — which, in practice, means no one truly is.
It is a bureaucratic version of the Sultan’s court — each official too bound by formality to hear the child’s voice of truth.
But the problem does not lie with agencies alone. Beyond the walls of institutions, we too are complicit in a quieter kind of silence. The bystander effect, well-documented by psychologists, tells us that people are less likely to intervene when others are around — each assuming someone else will. In Singapore, we saw this unfold during the Beach Road chopper attack in 2022, where witnesses filmed instead of intervening. Commentaries in Channel NewsAsia (“Why Do Bystanders Freeze in Emergencies?” April 2022) observed that confusion, fear, and a misplaced sense of politeness often stop people from stepping forward.
That same inertia plays out in everyday life. We hear a child crying in distress. We see a student come to school with bruises. We notice a toddler left unattended for hours. And we hesitate. We tell ourselves it’s probably nothing, that it’s not our place, that the authorities will know what to do. But the truth is that abuse thrives on exactly that — silence disguised as civility.
In the legend, Hang Nadim was killed not just by the Sultan’s order, but by the silence of the people who said nothing. Their quiet obedience protected power, not justice.
If Megan’s death is to mean anything beyond grief, it must push us to act differently — at every level. Agencies must have clear protocols for escalation, as recommended by the Child Fatality Review Panel in 2025, which urged that all suspected abuse cases be managed by dedicated child protection agencies with proper oversight. Educators and community workers need deeper training, not only to recognise bruises but to notice patterns of withdrawal, fear, or neglect. Documentation should be seen not as bureaucracy but as evidence that protects a child’s life.
More importantly, we as a society must shift our mindset. Reporting suspected abuse isn’t an act of interference; it is an act of care. You do not need to be related to a child to raise concern. You do not need to have proof to make a report. You only need compassion strong enough to overcome hesitation. Anyone who witnesses persistent signs of harm — frequent injuries, prolonged absences, or neglect — can contact the police, the MSF hotline (1800-777-0000), or the Child Protective Service.
The legend of Bukit Merah ends in tragedy. The boy’s wisdom saves the city, but his death becomes its stain. The hill’s redness is not just his blood; it is the memory of a warning ignored. If we see Megan’s case only as another tragedy, then that stain will remain — a permanent mark on our collective conscience. But if we treat it as a turning point, as the moment society finally learns to listen to its Hang Nadims, then perhaps her name will come to mean something more.
Abuse thrives in silence — not only the silence of victims, but the silence of systems and of bystanders. We live in an efficient city, where we are trained to respect boundaries, follow procedure, and mind our own business. But as Minister Masagos Zulkifli said in his press briefing on 25 October 2025, “We are sorry for this outcome.” A system can apologise, but only people can act. Efficiency cannot replace empathy.
The legend and the tragedy converge into a single lesson: when the warning bell is muted, the cost is always paid by the vulnerable.
A warning, no matter how inconvenient, must be heard.
A life, no matter how small, must be protected.
If we can build a city from reclaimed land, we can build a culture where no child’s cry goes unheard. Let Hang Nadim remind us that when truth is silenced, blood marks the ground. Let Megan Khung remind us that when cries are ignored, innocence becomes the price.
We cannot rewrite the endings of their stories — but we can make sure they are never repeated.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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