Silent architects: honouring the generation that raised us

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In tracing the generational arc through my recent op-eds in these columns namely "Generation X" (February 28, 2025), "Gen X and Gen Z in Conversation" (March 18, 2025), "Generational Continuum" (March 31, 2025), "Millennial Journey" (April 22, 2025) and "Generation Beta: The Next Leap" (May 6, 2025) , I have explored the lives and futures of those who came after me. But in doing so, I have overlooked those who came before. The mentors, teachers and elders who not only taught us but often carried the weight of institutions on their shoulders. Many of them, in recent conversations, have reminded me with warmth, wit, and just a hint of reproach that their generation has yet to be acknowledged in my series. This is my humble attempt to correct that.

The generation I write about loosely spanning the Silent Generation and Baby Boomers, born between the 1930s and early 1960s, shaped the very soil from which we, their students and successors, have grown. They lived through colonial rule and witnessed the creation of nations. They survived wars, built universities and nurtured entire professions. Their values were not driven by visibility. They believed in discipline, in the quiet dignity of service, and in building something that would outlast them.

They are the ones who typed on manual typewriters and later adapted sometimes reluctantly, often gracefully, to emails and smartphones. They filled our libraries, built our laboratories and taught with chalk in hand. In an era before AI and PowerPoint, they relied on memory, clarity of thought, and a commitment to craft. Their classrooms were spaces of dialogue and discipline. Their criticism was pointed but never petty. Their expectations shaped us; their silence sometimes taught more than their words.

As someone from Generation X, who has written of my cohort as the bridge between analog and digital, I now see that we were only able to build that bridge because we inherited both ends from them. Their analog rigour gave us roots. Their early encounters with technological change gave us resilience. If we adapted, it was because they first endured.

But as we marvel at the innovations of Gen Z or project hopes onto Gen Alpha and Beta, we risk forgetting the value of pause, of depth, of reflection — qualities embodied by our elders. Today, in our obsession with rapid change, we too easily dismiss the slow, deliberate wisdom they offer. In a world where attention spans shrink and opinions flood timelines, their quiet conviction and historical memory are more vital than ever.

Yet I understand their unease. This is a generation that now watches their authority recede, their methods questioned, their institutions bypassed by speed and novelty. They are not angry, but they are understandably wary. And still, they continue to guide with fewer lectures now, and more gestures; fewer positions, but greater perspective.

In the shifting landscape of AI, automation and accelerated communication, we, whether Gen X, Millennial or Gen Z, must return to our roots, not out of nostalgia, but for anchoring. Because the world Gen Beta is inheriting cannot be sustained by code and innovation alone. It needs memory. It needs meaning. And it needs mentors who remember how societies are built — not just disrupted.

To the generation that came before, this is not a farewell, but a heartfelt thank you. You handed us tools, values and quiet wisdom without needing recognition. Your story isn't behind us but beneath us — the foundation on which we continue to build. You taught us integrity over applause, patience over impulse, and substance over spectacle. In a rapidly changing world, your steady example remains our compass. You are not just memory but you are relevance, still shaping our decisions and grounding the generations that follow.