when words turned into swords
I was twelve when I wrote my first story, about a bird that ached to fly but its wings are cruelly clipped. Its mother had locked it in a cage, terrified that the cruel world would tear her baby apart, leave it bleeding and broken. But the bird didn’t care about the wounds, it would bear every scar, every drop of blood, if only it could taste freedom.
My teacher noticed I was quietly writing in the corner. When she asked what I was doing, I handed her the paper, and she read it. I was quite nervous at that time but she whispered that I had written something beautiful. For a shy student like me at those times, hearing those words from the “terror teacher” felt like being seen, truly seen, for the first time. My chest ached with a joy I couldn’t name. That day, a truth burned into my soul and never let go, words are swords. They can slash you open, leave you raw and bleeding—or they can carve a door through the bars of your cage. I found my freedom there, in the quiet dance of ink and paper, where every sentence was a wing, every idea as a heartbeat. Words became my refuge, my rebellion, my way to fly.
I’ve been captivated by their power. I scribbled stories in a worn notebook, marveling at how a single sentence could spark joy or sorrow. This awe inspired me to pursue many things and fill countless journals with my thoughts. It’s why I write monthly pieces, driven by a deep belief that words—whether spoken or written—carry immense weight. They can uplift or destroy. This truth has shaped me into someone who strives to be outspoken yet mindful, choosing each word with care for its impact on others and myself.
That belief in the power of language isn’t just personal—it echoes through history, where words have sparked revolutions and destroyed nations. Consider Jose Rizal, a Filipino writer during the Spanish Colonial Period. His novel Noli Me Tangere (1887) exposed the corruption of Spanish friars and the Catholic Church, igniting Filipino nationalism. In one of his passages, Rizal wrote: “The school is the basis of a society. A school is a book in which one writes the future of a people". But he also challenged, What kind of society emerges when its schools are prisons of the mind?. Through his pen, Rizal called for equal rights, freedom of speech and peaceful reform. His words were a sword of truth, slicing through centuries of oppression. They inspired revolutionary movements that paved the way for Philippine independence in 1898. Even today, Rizal’s courage remains a beacon of hope for Filipinos, reminding us that one voice, when used wisely can lead to huge changes.
But words are not always used to set people free. History also shows how they can be twisted into tools of oppression. Adolf Hitler used words to catastrophic ends. As dictator of Nazi Germany, he used fiery speeches and relentless propaganda to build a cult of personality rooted in nationalism and expansionism. His book Mein Kampf (1925) spread antisemitism and racism, fueling an ideology that led to the Holocaust and millions of deaths. In a 1925 passage, he chillingly advised, “Make the lie big, keep it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it.” Hitler’s oratory, amplified by a propaganda machine, shows how words can manipulate and devastate. His sword of hate pierced the world, leaving a dark legacy we must never forget.
Where Rizal’s words set people free, Hitler’s enslaved them to hatred. One used truth to liberate, the other, lies to destroy. Both men proved the same truth in opposite ways—that words are never neutral. They can be a sword that defends or a blade that wounds, depending on the hand that wields them.
These lessons aren’t confined to history books—they live in the everyday moments we witness. This month, I felt the sting of cruel words firsthand. During a moment in my life, I witnessed something unforgettable. I called on a boy to answer a question during recitation. I’ve never minded if the boy struggles or can’t answer at all—it’s part of learning. But before the boy could even try, an older person at the back interrupted sharply, ‘He’s been dumb ever since, just call someone else'. I saw the boy’s eyes brim with tears as he fought to blink them away. The room went still. My stomach knotted. I wanted to shout, that’s not discipline—that’s humiliation. But I stood frozen, my voice trapped in my throat. That moment shattered something inside me.
This environment is incredibly challenging. People expect me to punish like they do, publicly shaming for minor reasons, demanding blind obedience. They want me to act a certain way, to discipline in ways that feel wrong. To me, these methods aren’t discipline, they’re cruelty disguised as control, crushing the confidence of the young people involved. I’ve always noticed that people, whether children, teens, or peers my age feel comfortable sharing their stories with me. Listening to them has opened my eyes to new perspectives. But here, I’m being shaped into someone I’m not. They expect me to wield their sword of shame. I refuse. Silence, though, feels like complicity. So I write. If I can’t change their methods, maybe I can change someone's story. Maybe my words—spoken softly, written fiercely can be the sword that shields.
I’ve been trying so hard not to become like the people in this environment. I grew up around those who spoke bluntly—never sugarcoating their words but they weren’t aggressive, humiliating, or destructive. They never tore anyone down. For months, I’ve been working to make my words meaningful and comforting not just to share knowledge, but to uplift the younger ones, to remind them they matter, that they’re good and that they’re doing better than ever. I want them to grow mentally strong and believe in themselves. At the very least, that’s the impact I hope to leave and I hope I’m doing it right.
Words are powerful, almost paradoxical. They can uplift someone’s spirit, striking like a sword in a way that feels empowering and inspiring. Yet, they can also wound deeply, cutting like a sword when they carry pain or hurt. Rizal’s blade liberated a nation. Hitler’s slaughtered millions.
I remember the piece I wrote in 2022, titled Maybe Some Dreams Are Better Left to Die. Recently, I stumbled upon these lines:
“I guess teaching is not just a profession. It is a calling. You wake up each day as a shining star for a younger generation. Each time you speak, you change a life—often without even realizing it.”
Three years later, in 2025, I still hold this belief close. I may not always want to teach, but I know that when one does, it must be with genuine love and respect. Every young soul you meet in those rooms deserves guidance and support to grow into a good person and a responsible citizen. No matter what path I take, I will never let go of my deepest commitment: to extend kindness especially to the young without fail.
As John Keating said in Dead Poets Society, “No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.” This resonates deeply with me. Rizal’s writings sparked a revolution, Hitler’s speeches unleashed destruction. In my own life, I’ve seen words crush spirits and lift souls. This experience has strengthened my resolve to wield words as a force for good—to inspire, to understand and to foster connection. I’ll keep writing, speaking and dreaming, knowing that words can shape a brighter future. In a world that can be cruel, I choose to sharpen my sword with empathy, hoping one day it will carve a path to kinder words, braver voices and healed hearts.
