the wise and the foolish

...the same fate overtakes them both.

One evening on bus 145, I overheard this conversation. Well, there was no need to strain the ears because the conversation between the two strangers was louder than the bus engine. It was like a performance, and everyone else quickly quietened down to watch -

[The conversation in Mandarin. Old Man in a blue short-sleeved shirt sat near the front door of the bus. Old woman, also bespectacled, was standing beside Old Man's seat. Never once in the conversation did she look at him. They both wore smiles throughout. ]

Old Man: The next time you vote, I hope you vote the opposition party.
Old Woman: I don't need to vote.
Old Man: Why not? Everyone must.
Old Woman: Aiyah, I don't need to. Where I live, always don't need to vote.
Old Man: But next time, if you vote, must vote opposition party.
Old Woman: The next time? I'll be dead by then!
Old Man: You can't say that. The opposition is good. Vote for them.
Old Woman: Aiyah, whatever. Man must work. Man must eat.
Old Man: Yes, that's why you work so hard, you should enjoy -
Old Woman: Man must eat...
Old Man: You listen to me, I tell you -
Old Woman: Man must shit.
Old Man:[...] You work so hard, why must you give the Government all your money? That's why the opposition party -
Old Woman: Aiyah, I don't care what about this party, that party. I only want the Money Party.
Old Man: The opposition party won't take your money. Everything will be free. Like in Canada, Europe...
Old Woman: Why do you bother so much? There's no difference.
Old Man: You can, you can be like me. Next time you see anyone, just tell them to vote the opposition party.
Old Woman: Aiyah. Whatever will be will be. I tell you. It's like this heavy rain. It wants to rain, it rains.

Well friends, that's the latest report on political discussion in Singapore. Most of the time, the stifling humidity feels somewhat oppressive. And once in a while, it pours - though sometimes, the rain simply raises an equally unbearable heat from the ground.

border crossing

NEW! Life-size "Upgraded Lift Gods", available now at your friendly Town Council office. "Un-upgraded Lift Gods" are out of stock.

Yesterday, since we didn'tt get to vote, L&G, J and I, trooped across the border instead, across a narrow stretch of water to visit our Malaysian neighbour, Johor. It was perhaps apt, this short visit, on election day itself. It showed me at least 2 things:
1. We Singaporeans are a rude, impatient, ungracious lot - regardless of the "first/third-worldness" of our political scene. Stuck in a queue (or the semblance of one) for over 1 hour at the Checkpoint, we witnessed such poor behaviour from our queue-jumping/cutting, fist-waving, unruly countrymen.
2. There is nothing like leaving Singapore to appreciate its administrative efficiency. But over a dinner of assorted deepfried foods, we also talked about the importance of living away from Singapore to not only appreciate its comforts, but also to assess the alternatives we normally won't even entertain on this siege-like island.

But as the evening crept towards 10pm, we started to get a little anxious to be home for the election results.

When we finally crossed the border home and switched on our telly, we were just in time for the announcement of the Prime Minister's 66% win over the Workers Party's self-declared "suicide squad" of political novices. I was surprised that as many as one-third of voters in Ang Mo Kio had protested so clearly their dissatisfactions, but before any more could be said, I heard the lorries bearing the victorious Mr Chiam and blaring his message of thanks! I rushed down to the street (the lift, now "upgraded" to have Geylang-karaoke-style wood panels, stopped right outside the door of our flat), but was still too late to extend a friendly wave to the MP of my neighbour constituency.


image by J - the lorry has left, walking away a little disappointed

But congratulations nonetheless to our neighbours, the voters of Potong Pasir - Congratulations for sticking with Mr Chiam and proving that the offer of upgrading from the PAP candidate is not what will swing your vote!

Many times during these past 9 days, I tried to ask myself how I would vote if I lived on the other side of the Toa Payoh Lor 8 road, this 4 lane asphalt border we cross several times daily. After all, it is easy for J and I to root for Mr Chiam when PAP's upgrading efforts gave us a lift right outside the door of our flat this year - which was good news for the 80 year-old lady living across us. We have the best of both worlds: a living environment that is cleaner and feels safer (though no doubt we lose other things along the way); yet also easy access to our neighbour/the opposition ward's laidback, down-to-earth, kampung charm and its political underdog pride.

Would I decide, if I lived in Potong Pasir's slightly run-down estate (where the pavement slabs are cracked, the grey walls need a fresh coat of paint, the lifts don't stop at every floor and the grass always overgrown), to cast my vote for "upgrading" - let my political existence get caught in that endless material chase? Would I instead think my vote is valued more and deserved to mean more? Would I help provide, with my vote, other Singaporeans the opportunity to have a non-PAP voice in Parliament to test, question and exercise the government's policy muscles whenever there is a hint of possible injustice and myopia? Would I ignore Mr Chiam's hard work, integrity and dedication all these 22 years? Or let's say I lived in Aljunied GRC (just a 5 minute drive away), would I extend my vote to the Workers Party team led by the intelligent, human and articulate Sylvia Lim - thereby taking my vote away from a PAP team led by George Yeo, probably 1 of only 2 PAP Ministers who would pay more than lip service to the arts?

I think I have started to get some clarity as to what my answer to these questions may be. And I hope, by the next general elections:
1. I will get to give my anwer, however secretly.
2. The term "opposition" is dropped. Call each party and candidate by their name. Break out of having to define all questions asked or alternatives offered as mere reflexes or reactions to some unnamed hegemony. After all, both Mr Chiam and Mr Low, our two longest-serving and returning non-PAP MPs, have always said and proved that they would never oppose for the sake of opposition. After all, this is not a boys' playground fight.

If not, this border crossing to Johor may just become my 5-yearly ritual!

====
P/S: If like us, you've never crossed the causeway by public transport to visit Johor, here's a quick guide:
1. Take the north-South train to the Kranji train Station
2. From the bus stop directly across the station, take the 170 Bus to the causeway
3. Alight the 170 bus to clear Singapore customs
4. Re-board the 170 bus which will now bring you across the Causeway to the Malaysian customs
5. Alight the bus to clear Malaysian customs
6. Walk away from the Malaysian customs and see, on your right, the foundations for a bridge to Singapore that may never be.

night of love

吹哨子 - whistle courtesy of Jing's Rally Pack, image by J, workers-party blue T-shirt by yoshitomo nara!

The field was packed. But Jing's placard, duct taped to a wooden pole and declaring his love for Sylvia Lim ("I heart Sylvia Lim" on the one side, "Perseverence" on the other), did the trick. The uncles and aunties at Ang Mo Kio St.51 smelled the raw enthusiasm and clapped, as if welcoming a soldier returning from some battlefront. They made way for this young man to move towards the front of the crowd. Of course I followed behind - as did others who saw the opportunity to get a closer look at the Workers Party stage.

Ang Mo Kio is the destination of Workers Party's "kamikaze" attack on the incumbent Prime Minister. And I must admit that its young team, led by Yaw Shin Leong spoke confidently and with conviction. Yaw was also unabashedly passionate. Early in his speech, he too declared his love, not for Sylvia Lim lah, but for Singapore. In the midst of explaining why he had agreed to lead this team, he said "because I, too, love Singapore!" The crowd cheered, clapped, blew their whistles.

This is something we seldom hear our politicians and leaders declare. They may declare their servant spirit. They may declare their gratitude to a meritocratic system. But they seldom declare their love.

Of course such emotive language is suspicious. We have been brought up, most of us, to distrust such declarations. This is the language of theatre - of political theatre, a populist strategy (at the other end of the spectrum is shouting insults), I concluded skeptically. Yet it was strangely moving and everyone wanted to believe his sincerity - because he was not only declaring his love, by extension, for the Singaporean audience, but with the audience and also on their behalf! Such language is suspicious because it is precisely this powerful and expansive.

Of course, the highlight of that evening was WP's response to the incumbent Prime Minister's comment yesterday that by having 10 or 20 opposition MPs, parliamentary efficiency would be affected and a lower standard of governance would result.

But in the end, cut through all that stirring rhetoric - PAP or WP or SDA's: combative rhetoric, the rhetoric of statistics and cold empircism, the rhetoric of patriotism, the rhetoric of fear and blackmail - and I really wonder where all this leaves us in terms of this country's ability to address its diverse challenges and the growing internal divides. Does the opposition really understand the complexity behind every issue - which in Singapore's case, contains not just the domestic dimension, but our inextricable relationship with and dependency on the rest of the world? Does the PAP really think that having a stronger opposition representation at Parliament would diminish the rigour with which our policies are designed? Has the electorate, through all this, become a more informed electorate?

After the rally, Jing, L&G and I went for a bite at a nearby hawker centre. There, Jing's placard again proved useful and quickly secured us a table - albeit with a couple of half-drunk uncles.

The louder uncle of the 2 told us about his support for the Singapore Democratic Alliance and his anger at the government for the death of his niece (a doctor's oversight led to her death, but the court had ruled it a case of misadventure). We tried to tell him that that had nothing to do with the government - implicitly, don't blame the government for everything! But he said the court was appointed by the government. I didn't clarify that the judiciary was independent. He said if he was rich or if the one dead was the relative of a Minister, the court's verdict would have been different.

Then he reveals that he has been living in Queensland Australia for the past 6 years. Oh, how good life is there. There, he gets free treatment in the hospital. And he gets first-class treatment - he, a yellow-skinned man, gets first-class service from an ang moh, a white-skinned ex-colonial master of his island.

He catches sight of the beer lady (G tells me she is an icon for this hawker centre), and calls out to her. There is some harmless flirting and she proceeds to kiss him. Oh, G said, she kisses everyone here! Ah, I thought, so full of love! Then she grabs the Workers Party flag and the placard beside Jing, stands up on the plastic chair, and starts to cheer - "Workers Party Workers Party". She steps down from the chair and plants a loud kiss on Jing; demands, "introduce your father to me leh!"

So much love. Enough to get us to Queensland Australia and back - from colony to independent nation and back again to this post-colonial indeterminate 3rd-or-1st-world we love, still marvelling after all these years when a white-skinned man condescends to be polite to us, yellow/brown/muddy-skinned Singapore.



P/S: images from sgrally blogspot - if you see a tiny white square in the bottom photo, that's Jing's sign, with which he claims he will "whack" his young peers out of their apathy. Lucky I'm too old.

elections fever

potong pasir poster boys watching us over breakfast - image by J

Over dinner, Pa Y told us that his factory was broken in last friday. But all the burglar took were a stack of old and worthless printing plates... among them were 2 plates used to print some material for Singapore Democratic Alliance's Chiam See Tong.

[This conversation took place in mandarin]
Pa Y: It's not so simple.
Y: Huh? What's so not simple about it?
Pa Y: Why? Why did this person break in to take all these old plates? At most they can be recycled for a hundred dollars. So I ask you why? Why when they are so many more precious things in the factory?
Bro Y: It was too dark. The burglars didn't dare switch on the lights lah. So they just took what they saw immediately.
Pa Y: No, I tell you, don't be naive! I tell you, there's something fishy! [responding to the laughter from around the table] Hey, don't laugh, I was a civil servant once when I was very young.I tell you, last time (ed: by this, he means the late 60s, early 70s) during elections I saw all kinds of things happen... and you know, there's the Printing Press Act back then...
Y: But what could 2 missing plates do to harm anyone? It's so inconsequential, please. [trying to laugh, eat and talk]
Pa Y: But I ask you, the printing plates are so heavy, the burglars will need a van - this is no ordinary burglar. And why didn't they use the trolley in the factory or take it with them? There's something fishy, I tell you.
J: Yes, father, hmmm I agree with you. In fact, you are right to notice that they didn't take the trolley to move the plates. I think, in fact, that they used a crane instead! This must be why. They drove a crane to the factory and used it to lift all the printing plates away!


Ah, I take it that this is what happens when a person burns with fever - he may get delirious. Pa Y to insinuate such conspiracy, and J for mocking the father-in-law.

workers party

I finished painting this picture this afternoon when I could have cleaned the week-old floor. Ah, the dirt can stay.

I wish all workers, labourers, salaried slaves Happy May Day!

housework

This picture is still work in progress, but I wanted to post it here on Nomination Day.

This post is dedicated to Mr Chiam S. T.



Mrs C did not think at the age of 45, she would still need to be doing homework, but she is. Homework, housework - same thing - both give her the same headache she had from as young as 9 solving "problem sums". The only difference was that homework was what she did when she did not own the house she lived in, and housework what she did when she has to pay to keep the roof over her head. Of course, Mrs C has been reminded by her husband that they do not actually own their HDB flat since, technically, all HDB flats are on a 99-year lease from the state. Mr C's rule of thumb is that whatever his grandchildren will not inherit is not really his to own. "Not my house. Not my motorcycle. Not my job." He would occasionally lament. "Only my gene that will them diabetes is mine."

It is very likely that Mr C would be repeating these words this evening. Mrs C peeped at the newspaper the man beside her was reading - "PAP not returned to power. With only 7 walkovers, the PAP is facing a challenge in..." Yes, for the next two weeks, Mrs C has no doubts now her husband would be giving imaginary election speeches before the television.

"You talk so much you go and join the opposition lah." Mrs C had ventured to challenge the short but solidly-built man once.

"You siao ah! Then we will surely lose this house, not in future, but now!"

"It's not ours anyway, you always say, so what's the big deal? Now or 99 years later?"

Mrs C cannot remember what was the reply to that, but it was a long and hard to follow treatise about the defamation charges, undeclared income, mortgage, interest payments, something about upgrading and IKEA furniture.

But tonight, Mrs C had her own plans than sit around and listen to the man fight his imaginary campaign. She would need to mop the floor, put the laundry into the washing machine, take the fan apart and see why it is making that rattling noise, and maybe check on their son's revision schedule - the only son, Mini-C - whose mid-year examinations start right after May Day. Ah, May Day. The union had sent her an invitation for a pre-May Day dinner tonight. As with previous years, she did not attend. What was the union for anyway? Free but cheap dinners and discounts at the cooperative supermarket - cheaper if she bought the things from the market nearby, at least the stallkeepers there will tell her if something isn't fresh and let her bargain. She cannot remember why she had joined the union...oh, maybe it was a colleague who had asked her many years ago, saying something about the danger of losing her job when she hit 40. Well, she is 45 this year and she's still got her job. It's not anything that excites her, but it will do. It pays the utilities bill, it pays for her slimming pills (it's just an experiment, just to try and see if the advertisements work, she is that conscious about her looks), it pays for the flat, still.

So we're back to the flat, Mrs C thought.

And a good thing hers was at the next stop. Maybe there were too many people and it was too stuffy in the 6pm train, but Mrs C could already feel a headache coming.

human waves

Finally, a decent novel by Haruki Murakami to erase that nightmare Kafka on the Shore!

If there were any possible excesses in After Dark, they are reined in by the simple formal structure of the book. The novel unfolds from midnight till daybreak, following a set of characters through their sleep or sleeplessness. It is a most rhythmic book, the narrative mimics the slow descent of night with its darkening story, pace and tone; and into the lightheadedness of 4am, a time when secrets are often revealed. And the quick approach of a new day in the novel also offers a quick glimpse into a new start for 2 of the key characters - a reconciliatory, restorative sleep for the insomniac, and the promise of wakefulness for the one in the deepest of emotional slumber.

The passing of time is absolute, but the meaning of each hour is perhaps relative or relational. Four o'clock is of meaning only when it is relates to an activity or what does or does not happen at say three or five o'clock. In and of itself, four o'clock has limited meaning.

In the same way, human relationships offer the characters redemptive power. Alone, the characters disappear into mirrors or television screens - narcisism or insecurity. The heroic task here is for characters who can recover reference points for love and compassion outside of the self.

The one "problem" I guess the novel poses is this - If one does not even have a confident, healthy sense of identity, honest, loving relationships are also not possible. But the trick is, how do you achieve the former without turning into some narcissistic creature at some level, unable to engage in meaningful, non-exploitative relationships? It's a little of an chicken or the egg thing.

And it is here that Murakami, at his best, grounds his fantasies and escapades with a quiet critique of modern Japan. In this case, the narrative is scattered withthe things that encourage narcisism and a selfish living, but more importantly, erode our sense of identity and sabotage human relationships. The most obvious is Tokyo's distinctive "love hotels". The one in the novel is named pointedly after the movie Alphaville. It seems a little obvious, but of course, modern Japan runs the risk of turning into an Alphaville - a land where its people can no longer love or communicate.

The taxi driver who sent me home at eleven tonight taught me a new term for how humans draw out each other. "Human waves".

The passenger the driver had picked up before me was also living in my neighbourhood. Remarking on the coincidence, he went on to describe instances where he would send a passenger from pt A to B, drive fruitlessly to point C, before being brought to pt B to pick up the same passenger back to pt A. He laughed and said that maybe the fare meter had special "meter waves"... but he corrected himself and added that it must be "human waves" that they had sent to each other instead. I agreed and laughed. And I arrived home.

Heng again?

The newspapers confirmed that Mr Stephen Ooi Boon Ewe has decided to run for the Singapore presidency yet again:

Channel News Asia online, 2 August 2005
The Elections Department has received a third application form for the certificate of eligibility for the Presidential Election.

It was submitted by 64-year-old Mr Ooi Boon Ewe who had failed to qualify for an eligibility certificate during the 1999 Presidential Election [...] Mr Ooi told Channel NewsAsia earlier that he still does not meet the strict criteria to run for the office.

But Mr Ooi would have the benefit of experience this time, when he receives the confirmation that he has failed to meet the eligibility criteria for th race:

South China Morning Post, 9 August 1999
Career diplomat S. R. Nathan, a man at the centre of numerous spats with neighbouring Malaysia over the years, looks set to become the next president without a single vote being cast.

Two rivals submitted applications to run for the presidency by Saturday's deadline, but both are expected to be ruled ineligible before campaigning even begins.

They are veteran opposition figure and insurance agent Tan Soo Phuan, the little-known leader of the little-known Singapore Democratic Progressive Party, and private tutor Ooi Boon Ewe, a man even more obscure in politics.

Political analyst Ooi Giok Ling said: "The screening criteria are very rigorous and these two men are not likely to qualify."

The Presidential Elections Committee will only issue eligibility certificates to applicants who fulfil strict criteria, such as having held high public office or headed a S$100 million company.

Neither Mr Tan, 63, and Mr Ooi, 58, come anywhere close to qualifying and are expected to forfeit their S$30,000 deposits. -

His presidential ambitions thwarted in 1999, a quick google search revealed that Mr Ooi had also ran in the 2001 General Elections against Mr Chan Soo Sen for Joo Chiat. By then, he had become a property executive, and was no longer a private tutor (I wonder what he had declared as his profession this time round?). The same search also revealed (from an online dictionary of Singlish/Singapore English, under the entry for heng!) that although he did not emerge the winner in 2001, Mr Ooi knew he had the good fortune to garner 16.5% of Joo Chiat's votes and recover his $13,000 deposit:

The Straits Times, 4 November, 2001
An excited Mr Ooi Boon Ewe was at Temasek Primary principal counting centre for Joo Chiat… The independent candidate went there alone even before polls closed… He got his $13,000 deposit back as he polled 16.5 per cent of the vote. ‘Get back money — heng ah!’ he exclaimed…

Did Mr Stephen Ooi not learn from1999? Did he think he would be second, third time heng?

Always the Winner!

Or perhaps, Mr Ooi is trying to say that it is not important to win the race everytime? not even important to qualify for the race? But rather it is important to ask (again) those questions some of us might have at the back of our minds - why should there be "eligibility criteria" for those running for President? Does a CEO of a $100million company understand any better the responsibility of holding the emergency key to the nation's coffers? who should decide what are the desirable qualities for a President? Is it you? What do you think?

This man is a mystery, amongst other things.

Dream on!

Somewhat still inspired by Mr Stephen Ooi's grand ambition, I've been thinking of the answers friends have generally given when I asked what was their aspiration when they were young.


"Chuang Tzu's Ampulets: J dreaming he is a security guard dreaming he is J"

Of all the lawyers, teachers and civil servant friends I've asked, none I think ever said that they, as children, had aspired to the lawyers, teachers and civil servants they are today. In fact, often after considering quite carefully my question, most folks say that they never really had an aspiration, an ambition or a dream of what they wanted to do or be when they were young. Grudgingly, a few might say 'doctor'. Most of the time, however, the conversation quickly switches to what they wished they could be now. Then laughingly, the honourable 'Tai-Tai' and 'househusband' would emerge as answers.

Maybe I should have rephrased the question. Aspirations are somehow large, daunting things. You feel you have to cite something really grand. If you must dream, dream big. Climb Mt Everest - thrice. Separate Siamese twins. Be the nation's president.

Perhaps I should have asked instead what they've often wondered about or pretended to be. That might lead in a more modest direction. For me, I've always pretended to be a bus driver, a seller of chwee kueh or some other kind of hawker, a dancer (in a vague way, even if I can't dance, nope), a writer, the voice/dubbing artiste for cartoons... Or in the case of J, I think he once told me he wished he IS a cartoon. Oh well.

I think I much prefer these small dreams - human-sized ones - odd-shaped ones - or even those so small and light they are impossible to hold and see.

Que Sera Sera...

J and I took yesterday afternoon off work and walked around the city (ah, that's how life should be!). We spotted at the Speakers' Corner Mr Stephen Ooi's expression of his aspirations and hopes. No doubt, later that evening on those many podiums he has set up, he would share his vision and promises of the future if he were indeed Istana-bound.



Fellow islanders, ampulets may not have the same presidential aspirations and hopes as Mr Stephen Ooi, but we give you here our wish too for a Better Tomorrow.


Scene from a favourite restaurant#3: A Better Tomorrow (Click to see larger pic)