Rules, and the People They Are For

I have been thinking about rules lately. Not deliberately. More like how a thought keeps returning even when you are not inviting it.

It started at a PhD graduation ceremony. Not mine. A colleague’s. Those ceremonies always feel slightly unreal. Everyone looks important. Everyone looks like they belong somewhere very specific, even if they are not sure where yet. At the entrance, there were security men. Casual clothes. Serious faces. The kind of seriousness that brings concern and does not invite questions.

My friend TK and his girlfriend Trinh were graduating around the same time. People came with balloons. Ordinary balloons. The kind you associate with effort finally paying off. Then I noticed a sign on the wall: “Balloons are not allowed.”

It was not framed as a request. It was not an explanation. It was a statement. I remember staring at it longer than necessary, wondering what exactly balloons threatened in that space. Sightlines, maybe. Safety. Or something as vague as decorum.

Before I could decide, a security man walked up to us. He told us that we could not bring them in. Then he left.

A few minutes later, another one came. Same message. Same tone. Then another. Each time, it felt oddly ceremonial, as though the rule needed to be re-announced to remain alive.

By the third time, I stopped listening and started wondering why this was happening at all. What were they trying to prevent? And more importantly, who was this really for? Because balloons are light. They float. They do not do much harm.

When we eventually went inside, I noticed something that unsettled me more than the rule itself. Some people had balloons. They walked in calmly, as if nothing unusual was happening.

Nothing happened. [At least, nothing that I could see.]

No one stopped them. No consequences unfolded. The ceremony continued. Seamlessly.

I felt something shift then. It wasn’t anger exactly. Something close. Or maybe it was disappointment. It was subtle, but it stayed. It occurred to me that the rule had not disappeared. It was still there. Just unevenly applied.

And so I started to suspect that some rules are not meant to stop everyone. They are meant to stop certain people. The ones who pause. The ones who ask. The ones who assume consequences are real and immediate.

I have noticed this pattern elsewhere too.

A few years ago in church, I smiled at a baby and said, “You have such a beautiful baby.” I had done the checks. Eye contact with the mother. A soft smile. No sudden movements. Still, the room tightened.

I learned later that in some places, calling a baby beautiful carries an unspoken weight. You are supposed to redirect the compliment. Say you look so much like your mum. Or something like, I bet you do not sleep at night.

I do not remember anyone writing that rule down. I do not remember agreeing to it either. But I remember feeling it. That quiet tension. The awareness that something had been misread.

That is when it started to feel clear to me that some rules are not about right or wrong. They are about interpretation. They exist to maintain a surface. An ease. An illusion of order.

I am not against rules. Some of them are necessary. Some of them save lives. But others feel different. Less solid. They make you ask permission for things that do not really require it. They teach you to overestimate fallout. They train you to imagine consequences that rarely arrive.

I have heard people say, “Ask for forgiveness, not permission,” and for a long time, I did not like how it sounded. It felt careless.

But lately, I wonder if it is less about rebellion and more about accuracy.

Sometimes permission is never coming. Not because what you are doing is wrong, but because the system is not built to respond. Forgiveness, on the other hand, often arrives quietly. If it arrives at all.

I do not know if this means we should ignore rules. I am not sure it means anything definitive.

I only know that I am more aware now of the rules I follow automatically. The ones I never agreed to, but still obey.

And I find myself asking, without much certainty: Which of these am I following because I believe in them? And which ones because I am afraid of what might happen if I do not?