In the bustling heart of New York City, where the pulse of life beat faster than the rhythmic clatter of the subway beneath, lived a man named Akil Thompson. Akil was a thinker, a dreamer, and above all, an observer. His friends often marveled at his ability to see the world without bias, to absorb his surroundings without letting his personal views taint his perception. He prided himself on this quality, considering it a form of higher intelligence, an almost Zen-like detachment. Mindfulness is something that he practiced so often as to forget that it also entails some evaluation.

Akil worked as a journalist for a leading newspaper. His job allowed him to traverse the city’s vibrant tapestry, encountering stories that ranged from the mundane to the extraordinary. However, his approach to his work was unconventional. Akil believed in observing without evaluating, a philosophy he considered crucial to his integrity as a journalist. He often recalled the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti, “The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence.” This quote became his mantra, guiding his every action.

One crisp autumn morning, Akil was assigned to cover a story about a local neighborhood dispute. The residents of a historic block in Brooklyn were at odds with a developer who wanted to build a high-rise apartment complex. The community claimed the new building would overshadow their homes, disrupt their tight-knit community, and erase a part of their history. The developer, on the other hand, argued that the project would bring much-needed modernization and economic growth to the area.

As Akil stood at the edge of the contentious site, his eyes scanned the surroundings. He noted the vibrant murals on the brick walls, the children playing hopscotch on the sidewalks, and the elderly couple tending to their garden. He saw the faces of the residents, etched with worry and determination, and he saw the developer, calm and collected, flanked by his team of sharp-suited lawyers.

Akil’s training urged him to observe without judging. He meticulously recorded every word spoken, every emotion displayed, every argument made. He filled his notebook with detailed descriptions, careful not to let his personal feelings seep into his work. After all, true intelligence, he believed, lay in his ability to remain neutral.

Days turned into weeks, and Akil continued his observations. He attended community meetings, listened to heated debates, and watched as the conflict grew more intense. Yet, he remained an impartial spectator, convinced that his detachment allowed him to see the truth more clearly than anyone else.

But as the deadline for his article approached, Akil found himself at a crossroads. His editor, a seasoned journalist named Margaret, called him into her office. She was known for her sharp instincts and no-nonsense attitude.

“Akil,” she began, “I have read your drafts. They might be thorough, but something is missing.”

Akil frowned, “What is missing?”

“Your voice,” Margaret replied. “Your perspective. Journalism isn’t just about reporting facts; it is about interpreting them, making sense of them for our readers. You need to evaluate, to judge, to tell the story that needs to be told.” ” You must use your instincts as well”

Akil was taken aback. “But isn’t it our duty to remain unbiased?”

“Unbiased, yes. Detached, no,” Margaret said firmly. “Our readers look to us not just for information, but for understanding. They need us to make sense of the chaos, to shine a light on what is right and wrong. Observation without evaluation is like a ship without a compass. It drifts but never reaches a destination.”

That night, Akil couldn’t sleep. He replayed Margaret’s words over and over in his mind. Was his commitment to passive observation actually a form of avoidance? Was he shirking his responsibility by refusing to take a stand?

The next morning, Akil returned to Brooklyn with a new sense of purpose. He visited the residents, listened to their stories, and felt their fears and hopes resonate within him. He spoke to the developer, understanding his vision and the pressures he faced. For the first time, he allowed himself to evaluate what he saw, to form opinions and judgments.

In his article, Akil wrote about the deep sense of community that defined the neighborhood, the historical significance of the block, and the potential impact of the high-rise. He balanced this with the developer’s arguments, acknowledging the need for progress and economic development. But he didn’t stop there. He called for a compromise, urging both sides to find a solution that preserved the spirit of the community while embracing the future.

The article was a hit. Readers praised Akil for his insight and clarity, for presenting a complex issue in a way that was both informative and compelling. Margaret was pleased. “This is your best work yet,” she said. “You didn’t just observe; you understood, you evaluated, and you had communicated in your ways.”

Akil realized that his initial approach, while well-intentioned, was flawed. True intelligence, he learned, wasn’t just about seeing without judging, but about using those observations to inform and guide others. It was about finding the balance between detachment and engagement, between neutrality and advocacy.

In the end, the neighborhood found a middle ground with the developer, preserving much of their historic block while allowing for some new development. Akil’s article had played a part in that outcome, a fact that filled him with a sense of purpose and fulfillment he hadn’t felt before.

From that day on, Akil embraced a new mantra: “Observation is the foundation, but evaluation builds the house.” And in that house, he found not only his true calling as a journalist but also a deeper connection to the world around him. He found empathy which was hidden inside him.