“My girl has strong legs! Maybe she’ll be a sprinter. A high-jumper. Ooh, maybe a basketball player!” my mother thought. Alas, since impressing my mother with my powerful thigh muscles, my achievements in sports can only be considered dismal. As it turned out, I merely had a higher tolerance for pain, but otherwise had no more ball sense or patience for training than any other ordinary girl.

10 years ago, sports was something additional to our report card, something extra we did to ensure that we were healthy. But today, youngsters with an interest in sports could potentially ask themselves, “Do I want to take this further?” I look with envy at a new venue for individual development of this generation, namely the Singapore Sport School.

The Singapore Sports School was officially opened in 2004, becoming the first school in Singapore that provides a specialized training environment for young athletes. The school currently specializes in badminton, bowling, football, netball, sailing, swimming, table tennis, and track and field.

It is a sad fact of this country that we live in a very demanding academic environment, where children are judged by the schools they go to and the number of ‘A’s they score. One might remember leaders expounding on the need for a balanced lifestyle, and for our youngsters to be equally involved in extra-curricular activities so they may show their leadership qualities and develop skills and abilities outside of a classroom.

At some point, someone had a bright idea and said, hey guess what, let’s allocate points to the extra-curricular activities, so we could tell the good ones from the bad, like which would in fact involve “leadership qualities” and “skills and abilities outside of a classroom.” And with that, one has one additional A to score – in extra curricular activities.

Suppose now, however, you love sports. You have a talent for it, but your school much rather you spend your time studying, because ultimately it’s the examinations that really count. Besides, even if you could win medals for the school, your medals will not help you get a job when you fail to graduate from university.

It is the reality that many young talented athletes have therefore been persuaded to give up on their sports. To address this inevitable loss of athletic talent to a rational preference for the academic path, the Singapore government therefore set up the Singapore Sport School, where students can be trained on a special programme that would allow focus on sports as well as maintain certain standards in academic results.

Singapore Sports School positions itself as the place “where Singapore’s future sporting champions are groomed.” But I don’t see it that way. I see it as the place where champion dreams are realized, because you can now put your heart hundred per cent into it.

At the Sports School, students live on campus five days a week, and begin each day with a training session at six in the morning. After they go through lessons based on mainstream school curricula, they have another training session in late afternoon. Night time is spent on their studies again, and then off to bed they go at half past ten.

Do you have the discipline to go through such a structured and some say boring lifestyle? How far would you go, in sacrificing your personal time and space, to realize your dreams?

If you want to be a winner, you’d have to put in the effort, and the school is the structure that lends you the framework for development. If you can enter this school, you have proven yourself to be one of the top young athletic talents of the country, and no man in the street should think any less of you, than of a student in a top academic school.

I am optimistic for children of the Sports School, because at the very least they are given a shot at developing their talent to the fullest possible. There’s no guarantee that they would indeed be champions of their sport, but at the least they would have challenged themselves and one day say with pride, “I tried.” And not “I didn’t, because I needed to study.”

I could have been a sprinter. A high-jumper. Or a basketball player. But at the end of the day, I wasn’t because I knew it was not where my true interests laid. But certainly if I had dreamt even the tiniest bit of becoming a champion, I know I would have wanted to explore it further than I had. Since last year, for children of today’s Singapore, they now have the precious option of dreaming just that little bit closer to reality.

Cindy is a Halfway Staff Writer

I should be chewing myself out for not coming earlier, but I could not afford the time nor mental capacity to do so, rushing against time, and trying to figure my way through the maze of roads, all lined with similar shops selling similar souvenirs. I could see the sun setting, and as I squeezed myself through the crowd, against the general flow of tourists, I could almost feel time similarly flowing past.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

But I made it. There it was, set against an orange sky and gentle sun. It took a 3-hour flight and a 1-hour bus ride, but I made it. The Rock of Love. A pair of rocks actually, aligned on a short 50 metre path, situated in a small corner of the Kiyomizu Dera compounds, one of the most popular temples in Kyoto.

Legend – or school girls’ tales, perhaps – has it that, if a person could walk from one rock to its counterpart at the end of the path with one’s eyes closed, he or she would find true love. Silly, one might think, but this test was what I had come for.

I had already visited the Rock of Love once, some 5 years ago. I was intrigued by the legend, but knew I was not ready to try. At that time, the turmoil and confusion in my heart, compounded by the throngs of tourists and New Year’s Day visitors to the temple, shook all possible temptation to try out of my mind. But now, five years older and wiser, I thought my heart had finally matured into a comfortable capacity, and that perhaps I was finally ready. Hence my journey.

“Are you serious? Do you even believe in God? Or whatever it is being idolized in those Japanese shrines.”
It’s not a shrine, it’s a temple.
“Whatever. Wait, are you serious??”

It perhaps seemed a little frivolous, and even crazy, that I held this pair of rocks so close to my conscience, I had to make this trip, solely for the purpose of verifying my answer to an even more important question. Do I believe in love?

Do you believe in love? If you do, I don’t suppose it would be hard for you to take that first step in walking the path to find the other rock at the end of the path. If you believe in love, you possess the very quality of faith that the Rock of Love test challenges.

That one could voluntarily close one’s eyes to potential obstacles ahead, and bravely step forth to seek one’s blinded adventure, because of a pure conviction of the reward at the end. Typically everyone who tries the test has his or her arms stretched out, perhaps to sweep disturbances aside or to feel for clues along the way, but I see it also as an indication of their anxious impatience for the cool touch of the rock when they do reach it. Without a doubt, they think they can. And without an exception, they always do.

Possibly because only those who dared would make the walk, and only those who dared could succeed.

The principle was simple, I suppose, which was why the Rock of Love so seared itself into my mind, that I was ashamed when I left without trying the first time I came. I had something to prove, that’s why I had to come back. I needed to prove that I could.

Do I believe in love? I Could. I Can. I Do.

And the battle between the room full of laughter and the head full of loneliness rages on in my ear cavity.

Tomorrow I will be leaving this hotel room, as I take my flight home to Singapore. Then the day after, on Father’s Day, I leave again for Beijing for yet another business trip. Yes, Happy Father’s day, Dad.

Just two editions of Halfway Magazine ago, I flew home from an 18-month work stint in China. Just a month into my new job, I am away from home again. I must say my parents are not pleased, and I should not blame them for thinking I am leading a separate life as someone else’s daughter.

My work here in Manila has been completed, and suddenly my room seems emptier after my suitcase is packed with my clothes, and my work papers tidied into a neat pile. My room is lovely…but empty. Self-pity sneaks up on me and gives me a solid whack on the head. “I fly in on Saturday; I leave on Sunday so I have only one night to spend at home!” The thought persists in my head after all the background noise clears. Home eludes me.

An ex-colleague of mine used to have it worse, I remember. Back when he was younger and driven in his work, he used to have to meet his clients in a number of Southeast Asian cities within any regular workweek. One time, he woke up in a hotel room not knowing where he was, though he last remembered last being in Bangkok. He looked out of his hotel window in complete confusion and saw a cityscape typical of any other Southeast Asian country, rectangular buildings of different heights, either beige, grey or white. It was practically useless in helping him identify his city, and he wished it was a bad dream.

“My first reaction would have been to turn on the television,” I laughed when he told his story. “I did,” he replied in defense, but found his television tuned in to CNN, which again, helped not one bit, so he panicked. Finally, spotting pointed straw hats some ladies in the streets below were wearing, he realised that he had somehow found his way to Hanoi, where he had an appointment with Mr. Who-and-who at noon that day.

It was but a short two minute episode, but it extinguished his enthusiasm for the fanciful so-called mobile lifestyle. It was time to put an end to that, he concluded, seeing how his sanity was already at breakpoint. And so, he left his company.

That was his story, but perhaps also of many others. How many are still immersed in that crazy in-transit lifestyle? I wondered.

Coming from the tiny “red dot” of Singapore, it is a reality for many of us to have to travel for work. Go to China! Go to India! Go to ASEAN! Do not be left behind! Go, go, go!

If Singapore is home, on the other hand, it is where you come back. You come back when you are tired, injured or lost. Home always welcomes you. So come back, when you have to; to rest, to recuperate, to recharge yourself. Before you throw yourself out into there into the global jungle again, that is.

I feel like one of those little ants that roam the wilderness in search of food, before they return to their nest with their bounty of the day, to present to their queen ant, and to build up the ant colony’s food reserves in preparation for winter. I follow the trail of many others who have gone before me, because they tell me there is much food to be found outside. Of course, at the same time they also warn me of the perils of the big bad world. Dangerous or not, however, what choice do I have?

I sigh, and I pack the last of my work documents into my suitcase, tonight will be my last night in Manila, and tomorrow will be my only night in Singapore. One night at home is better than none, of course. At least I am spending Father’s Day at home this year, which is not a minor feat considering I have already missed it six years consecutively.

Home is a luxury. Some of us have a home, but have little time to savour the comforting taste of familiarity. What little time I have, however, I owe it to myself to savour it to its very last drop.

Cindy Khoo is a Halfway Staff Writer

Year: 2004
Starring: Atta Yaqub as Casim Khan / Eva Birthistle as Roisin Hanlon
MPAA Rating: R
Also known as: Bacio appassionato, Un (Italy), Beso cariñoso, Un (Spain), Just a Kiss (Europe: English title)

This review contains specific plot points.

Boy meets girl. Girls meets boy. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy.

“Your family will be ruined!” exclaimed the boy’s best friend, when he confessed his love for the girl, for the first time.

Why such grave consequences? Because he is a second generation Muslim Pakistani and she is a Catholic Irish, in Glasgow.

Casim worked as a DJ and dreamed of buying his own club. He dressed and spoke English like any other young white man in Glasgow. More importantly, like any other young Muslim man, his parents arranged for him to marry his cousin from Pakistan, and his proud father had eagerly planned and built with his own hands, a new wing to their house where Casim and his new family was to live after the wedding.

Life was not without its little bumps, such as when his family members met with racist abuse at school or on the streets, but it was the way of life. Other than Casim’s rebellious sister, nobody questioned their place in the community and their path to take.

Until Casim met Roisin.

As much as he knew falling for her was going to wreck all plans and beliefs shaping his life thus far, the magnitude of their love exceeded all expectations, and disaster brewed.

This film, Ae Fond Kiss, directed by Ken Loach, is not the only movie dealing with cross-cultural love in the UK, or America. Other examples include East is East, Jungle Fever, and to a certain extent, a more recent Bride and Prejudice.

But the understated brilliance of Ae Fond Kiss, is the way it takes no stand and allows no melodramatic story telling. The plain and straightforward portrayal of this particular love story makes one feel as though this is no exceptional love story at all, but one that happens every day. One that repeats itself in lives of many men and women in Glasgow, in the UK, in the world. Every day.

Unlike East is East, where stereotypical characters are key to its comic effect, Ae Fond Kiss gives even rationalization to every character’s beliefs and position so each person comes alive and the viewer cannot help but sympathize with them all, even when they are on two different sides of the fence.

Casim had never stood up to his parents’ expectations of him, not because he didn’t know better, but because he had an implicit understanding of his family and could not bear to hurt his parents any further with disobedience. His marriage was not to be his personal choice, but his parents’ because it implicated his family’s standing in the Muslim-Asian community. As a direct result of his scandal, for example, Casim’s elder sister’s engagement was called off by her fiance’s parents.

Torn between the woman and the family he both loved, Casim suffered immense stress and at one point, all the pressure erupted into one impassioned argument when he felt cornered by Roisin’s demands on him. Casim cried out that Roisin knew nothing of what his family had had to go through to find freedom in Glasgow. Roisin was insulted, but had no words to refute his accusation. The cultural gulf that existed between the two was never more sharply felt.

In a more tender moment later, Casim revealed that he was named after his father’s twin brother who was lost (and presumed dead) in their escape. It was a fact that had branded in his heart the burden of living in perfect goodness to make up for the older Casim’s misfortune, his very name a constant reminder of his father’s painful past.

Ae Fond Kiss makes no judgment on arranged marriages, I feel that is not the point to the film. Instead, it magnifies to heart wrenching proportions the dilemma between loyalty and responsibility to one’s family and one’s heart, possibly an issue that faces most interracial lovers today.

When Casim first spoke of breaking up with Roisin, he explained he could no longer continue with the relationship because it would break his parent’s hearts. Roisin pleaded defiantly, “What about your heart? What about my heart?”

Indeed, what about your heart? And mine? Whether or not you are involved in an interracial relationship right now, go on and take a journey with Roisin and Casim, this film would bring you right into the heart of someone who is.

Cindy Khoo is a Halfway Staff Writer

If you say “huh” to that, you are obviously not Singaporean. It is Singlish for “Can, I’ll wait. It’s okay, no problem.”

If you are Singaporean, on the other hand, you probably also would not be surprised even the smallest bit if I told you the person who said that was Indian. She was a nurse on the phone at the clinic I visited for my pre-employment medical examination.

Coming home to Singapore provided some reverse culture shock. As quickly as my skin grew more accustomed to the Singapore sun, my ears also gradually got used to the Singlish permeating public space. Which is to say, not very quickly.

Compared to my reaction to this horrid heat wave, however, my reaction to Singapore The Perpetual Booming Sound Room of Singlish leans towards positive glee. I cannot get enough of it!

It used to perk me up immediately when sounds of Singlish reached my ears when I was studying or working overseas. The most instinctive reaction was then to seek out the origin of the sound of home, after which I could slyly sneak up behind my countryman, just to soak up all that lah’s, lor’s and leh’s, especially when it might have been very rare. After all, Singapore’s four million population would have been spread very thin if it did travel to all corners of the world.

Today, living in Singapore, the tastes and sounds of home come from all directions, but I maintain a weird fascination and attraction to Singlish.

I continue to be amazed at the way sentences are strung together with a sampling of Malay, Hokkien, Mandarin and English, and how easily everyone understands each other and how we always almost instinctively know why certain combinations worked and why others didn’t.

It can be a pain to a person’s ears, when they would expect more formalized English such as when someone is making a speech (on any topic other than Singlish, I suppose.) Most other times, it is like music. Music of a less-than-mainstream genre perhaps, but certainly music to me.

As the time comes this summer – always summer in Singapore, but trust me we know when Real Summer is, because that is when the island is heated by the Great Singapore Sale – the government is launching a Speak Good English campaign. Teachers, concerned parents and well, other people who are just plain kaypo have written into the papers asking for Singlish to be expelled from classrooms, as it corrupts the young ones’ ability to learn proper Queen’s English.

Singapore Brief

Capital: Singapore
Population: 4,425,720 (July 2005 est.)
Ethnic mix: Chinese 76.7%, Malay 14%, Indian 7.9%, other 1.4%
Languages: Chinese (official), Malay (official and national), Tamil (official), English (official)
SOURCE: CIA Factbook

They argued the merits of re-emphasizing the grammar in the English language, to battle the apparent lack of order in Singlish.

The apparent lack of order, that is.

If you have listened to new foreigners feigning familiarity with Singapore by throwing in a couple of “lahs” and “lehs” in their daily speech, you might find some disastrous examples of how they should not be used. We must applaud them for effort, alas, the pain of hearing such abuse to our beloved Singlish! But they know no better, and who is here to teach these poor misguided expatriates the grammar of Singlish?

Perhaps we could open a Singlish clinic. We have the academic Professor Anthea Franser Gupta who gives credibility to Singlish lovers’ claim to the linguistic richness of Singlish. We have a ready dictionary and we have the enthusiasts like “mr brown” and The Calm One who are more than happy to spread the love (and lesson) in Singlish on the Internet. And then we have that huge market of expatriates in Singapore who are dying to crack that tough shell separating them from being a local and forever being an outsider.

Yes, there are rules to Singlish, and no, we don’t take lessons, but we all know them. It is a binding force among Singaporeans regardless of education, social status, income level and race, of which I am personally immensely proud.

My message to non-Singaporeans: “Don’t anyhow use ‘lah’ ok, where got so easy one?” (“Please do not abuse the word ‘lah,’ it is not as easy as you think.”)

Still, Singapore is an immigrant country, so we welcome you to come in and learn. Our language speaks as much about our history and culture as any language does. If you live here long enough and have learned to spout Singlish as well as any good old traditional Ah Beng can, who knows you could have added to the evolution of the language just as much as the language has shaped you.

This summer, the Singapore sun burns my skin, while Singlish warms my heart.

Cindy Khoo is a Halfway Staff Writer

(Credit: All definitions of Singlish terms I have used, such as “Ah Beng” and “kaypoh” can be found in the Coxford Singlish Dictionary at talkingcock.com.)

It was late, already 11 at night, as I rushed to the airport for my flight to Singapore at half past midnight.

My flight home.

After more than a year in Shanghai, after more than five years anywhere but Singapore, I was finally going back. For good.

I closed my eyes, to savour the moment. This moment I shared with my Shanghai-born middle-aged cab driver. This moment also known as the forty minutes I bade
farewell to my home for the last one and a half years.

How many “homes” is one allowed to have in a lifetime?

I was safely on the plane, when my nerves stopped jittering to that catchy tune and started to settle into a sleepy mode.

Does one have to choose, or does the choice come to you, that you’d just know?

Drifting slowly to sleep, I smiled as I pondered the question. I made a conscious decision to fly by Singapore Airlines, notoriously expensive but famously excellent in service. I cared for neither considerations, I chose it merely because it was our Singaporean pride-and-honour airline. Flying home on any other airline, to mark the end of my wandering
days, seemed oddly inappropriate.

Perhaps I had already decided then? Between the light of consciousness and the darkness of Sleepland, I found my life flashing before my eyes.

Briefly the idea that my plane was going to crash fleeted into my paranoid mind, but that thought was quickly overwhelmed by the headline flashing through my head, “Promising Young Scholar Perishes in Singapore Airline Crash” and the excerpt, “She had
spent many years abroad for her studies and work, and the night her parents expected her home, Singapore Airlines, which has never had a crash in its entire aviation history, succumbs to karmic probability.”

Morbidly, I chuckled to that thought. That would surely make a good headline for New Paper (a Singaporean tabloid).

But scenes of my life were still waiting for my (short-lived) attention, so yes, where was I? My life flashing before my eyes.