Local Story, Global Voice: When Silence Speaks Loudest

In a society that prizes speed, fluency, and constant output, silence is often mistaken for absence. We move on quickly when conversations slow, when sentences stumble, when words do not arrive on cue. Yet on 13 December 2025, at Singapore Management University, a full-house audience was asked to do something quietly radical: to sit with silence, to observe it, and to listen to what it carries. The premiere of Can You Hear Me? was not simply a cultural event — it was a moment of collective reflection on how we define voice, dignity, and human connection.

The screening took place as part of Aphasia: Reframed, an initiative that sought to move public understanding of aphasia beyond clinical definitions and into lived reality. Rather than positioning aphasia as a condition to be explained, the event framed it as an experience to be encountered. The Mixed Media Human Library, which featured stroke survivors and individuals living with aphasia, was central to this reframing. Through personal presence, non-verbal communication, and shared vulnerability, these individuals revealed what often remains unseen: that behind every hesitation or fragmented sentence is a complete inner world — thinking, feeling, remembering, hoping.

At the heart of the programme was Can You Hear Me?, a short film created by SMU Espressivo IV in collaboration with Aphasia SG (新加坡失语症协会) and stroke survivor and award-winning author Terence Ang. For Ang, this marked his first foray into cinema, but it also represented something deeper — a reclamation of narrative agency. Rather than allowing aphasia to be spoken about from the outside, the film allows it to be felt from within.

The creative choice to minimise dialogue is not a stylistic gimmick. It is the film’s most important argument. Told through silence, movement, and emotional restraint, Can You Hear Me? resists the audience’s habitual dependence on words. In doing so, it exposes a hard truth: that our discomfort with aphasia often stems less from the condition itself and more from our own impatience, fear, and inability to slow down.

Watching Ang perform his own story is quietly devastating. His longing for connection is unmistakable, yet repeatedly thwarted by social misalignment rather than personal inadequacy. The film suggests, without accusation, that misunderstanding is often a shared failure — one rooted in systems, expectations, and social norms that privilege fluency over listening.

This is where Can You Hear Me? functions powerfully as an editorial statement. It does not plead for sympathy. It does not simplify recovery into inspiration. Instead, it asks a far more uncomfortable question: what kind of society do we become when we only value voices that conform to speed and clarity? Who do we leave behind when communication is treated as performance rather than relationship?

The response from the audience reflected the film’s emotional precision. Community leaders, advocates, and attendees spoke less about technique and more about recognition. There was a collective acknowledgement that aphasia remains widely misunderstood, even though it affects thousands of individuals and families. When speech changes, people often withdraw — not because they lack thought, but because the world stops waiting.

As one reflection noted, a stroke may change how a person speaks, but it does not change what they want to say. This distinction matters. Too often, society conflates fluency with intelligence, coherence with competence. Can You Hear Me? dismantles that assumption by foregrounding emotional truth over verbal polish.

The significance of the moment extended beyond the screening hall. As the film premiered in Singapore, Terence Ang’s literary work Thunderstroke was gaining international recognition, named a Distinguished Favorite in the 2025 NYC Big Book Award and reaching number one in multiple Amazon Best Seller categories. Even more symbolically, Thunderstroke and the Can You Hear Me? movie poster appeared on prominent billboards in New York City’s Times Square — one of the loudest, most visually saturated public spaces in the world.

The contrast is striking. A story rooted in silence, slowness, and internal struggle projected onto a global stage defined by noise and spectacle. Yet the message did not get lost in translation. If anything, it became clearer: aphasia is not a niche condition, and the desire to be understood is not culturally specific. From Singapore to New York, the human need for connection transcends language, geography, and ability.

For Flux Media, this moment speaks to the evolving role of storytelling in public life. Media is often drawn to volume — trending topics, viral clips, quick takes. Can You Hear Me? reminds us that some of the most urgent stories arrive quietly. They ask not for amplification alone, but for attention, patience, and sustained engagement.

The film also challenges institutions, communities, and individuals to rethink inclusion. Accessibility is not only about ramps and subtitles; it is about attitudes. It is about whether we allow conversations to take longer, whether we resist the urge to finish sentences for others, whether we remain present when communication becomes effortful. Awareness, in this sense, is not passive knowledge but active practice.

Ultimately, Can You Hear Me? is less about aphasia than it is about listening. It confronts us with a choice: to turn away from discomfort or to lean into it; to measure worth by eloquence or by humanity. In choosing restraint over explanation, the film trusts its audience — and in doing so, holds up a mirror to how we engage with those whose voices do not fit neatly into our expectations.

Sometimes, the most powerful stories are not the ones that speak the loudest, but the ones that force us to slow down. And in that pause, to finally listen.