N came from an old, wealthy family. There was a family fight over an inheritance. One day the rumour spread that her family’s front gates were shot at by a passing motorbike man. Phooo-phoo-phooo-phoo-phoo. The crackle of bullets harmed no one. It wasn’t intended to. It was N’s uncle warning her father to let the issue of inheritance, and whether the uncle should get the bulk of the money, go. Let go the father did — message delivered.

This took place in my home country, which operates on violence and ornate superstition. Most homes have a shrine staked in the garden to protect the perimeter of the house. After the shooting, N’s family likely went to the temple and made merit, as if karma were a precise equation, as if violence could be banished by giving money to buy monk’s robes or temple roof tiles.

Would it have been better for the siblings to sit down and have a discussion? Yes, and yet — confrontation just isn’t done. Messages are sent, violence smoothed over with a donation, and everyone smiles, as if nothing could disrupt the placid waters of my tropical home.

This isn’t a story that would normally be shared with outsiders. It’s not that we have a secret culture; we have a polite one. It would be inhospitable to share a story that might make the other person uncomfortable, so unless you’re in a position to be uncomfortable already, you will not be bothered with some truth that could mess up your idyll, your beach vacation.

Your privilege is to remain comfortable. That’s the Western way of saying it.

• Tags: Issue 17, Sunisa Manning