The language of a nation
An exploration of Singlit
“I envy words for doing what we can never do— how they can tell all of themselves simply by standing still, simply by being.” - Ocean Vuong
Singaporean literature sure seems like it has an obsessive fixation on using Singlish or distinctly Singaporean elements— as if the Singaporean writer is inexplicably chained to her own identity, as if the colour of her passport supplies the soul of her words, as if the value of a Singaporean writer’s craft lies solely in the way her work is a reflection of the singaporean identity. But, to what extent is the word ‘Singlit’ just a label, and to what extent has our Singaporean identity morphed into a mould we have become too scared to break out of?
Well, grab the shovel, we’re going digging.
I think of writing in the sense that it is much more than simply the words on the page; in the way its grasp reaches further than our eyes into our hearts. The moment we are willing to dissect the words we read, to lay them on a metal table and pick the living, breathing creature tucked in between the vowels on our words, is when we will truly appreciate the richness that Singlit has to offer.
Because of singlit books like Sherlock Sam and Crazy Rich Asians being the only taste of Singlit the general public has come into contact with, the current perception of Singlit is that the genre focuses of surface level homages to Singapore in an attempt to hook in Singaporean readers. And as a kid who religiously read these books, I absolutely understand where they are coming from.
As a kid I greatly disliked Singlit. I thought it was a dying genre that was bland, unoriginal, and relied far too much on singlish to keep it interesting. It was also, ironically, the reason why I never really strayed outside of the bubble of internationally popular Singlit works, which, to be fair, were exactly what i have just described. I never really thought much about it, this deep seated dislike for anything too blatantly Singaporean, and how it manifested in my disinterest in Singlit.
But as I’ve grown older and gotten more of a feel for the genre, I really got the impression that my initial dismissiveness was really rooted in a skewed perspective born through me not giving Singlit a chance. It was then when I started to see a different picture of Singlit— that rarely is Singaporean culture used as a cheap gimmick to pull readers in, but in fact it is a medium which incorporates our daily way of life and weaves it into a complex take on various issues.
Before I branched out from this admittedly very small section of singlit, it was all I was reading, and so to me, this was what Singlit was. It was only after I began to look beyond children books and into the wider range of adult Singlit works, that I realised many Singlit works utilised— with a brutal efficiency enough to bring a man to his knees— both a graceful mastery of language and an intimate sensing for the gems hidden within Singaporean culture.
Singlit writers are able to take very grounded parts of Singapore— mrt rides, chilli crabs, HDB void decks, and use it to portray the most complex parts of life: intangible concepts that feel far out of reach, you know, all the things we wanted to say but never properly made it out of the depths of our hearts.
It is a unique feeling, being able to look at love, and pain, and the struggles of life through the metaphor of oily woks and sticky hawker centre tables. Snippets of our lives are used as the building block to convey vast emotions, almost like how tiny blocks of lego have the power to bring magnificent landscapes to life. It ties our Singaporean identity even closer with our own lives, so much so that they almost bleed into each other, creating connections that we rarely stop to think about.
This is difficult to explain if you haven’t felt the feeling before, so allow me to quote one of Ann Liang’s poems, ‘Claws’ from Burning Walls for Paper Spirits as an example.
“To avoid cut lips, we talk around/the shards of exoskeletons/and the pinched extractions of flesh”
She uses an image we know all too well, the chilli crab, to convey the feeling of a high tension argument between two people. The beauty of this poem is that the metaphor she uses isn’t just a striking image, it’s also an experience we have lived through, which makes the poem feel all the more real. We know what ‘shards of exoskeletons’ feel like, the sharp edge of crab and prawn shells digging into our fingers when we try to peel them, we know what ‘pinched extractions of flesh’ look like, having participated in the very act she’s writing.
The fact that Singlit often references experiences us as Singaporeans have lived through makes the metaphors they use all the more real and impactful. And so when reading Singlit, being Singaporean means we take part in a collective experience of viewing the literature in a distinctly Singaporean lens that foreigners would not have access to.
It’s important to acknowledge that as much as Singlit draws from Singaporean culture, it is simultaneously creating new aspects of the culture. For example, while the series Ellie Belly takes place in a Singaporean primary school and as such holds distinctly singaporean elements, it was also— at least back in 2016— a key monument in the landscape of Singapore children’s fiction, being one of the only Singaporean books children were actively reading.
Such a prominent Singaporean voice amongst the media we consume is important in making sure our identity stays rooted in Singapore, because the media we consume often overflows into our daily lives, and if our media becomes too westernised, there is the chance that our very identity will be skewed far too much towards western ideals, erasing the Singaporean culture we grew up with. This trend is already happening, as can be seen with a lot of old Singaporean cultural staples like traditional games and even traditional dialects being forgotten in favour of the West. Singlit is one of the mediums we use to view the past, to understand what it was like and to relive out the memories of our forefathers long gone.
The fact that my life, my own identity, appears nowhere else but Singlit, is one that is equally as incredible as it is scary. I have long thought that the emotional core, the heart of a country exists solely in the art its people dream up. And, if us Singaporeans denounce Singlit, if we reject an integral part of the arts scene in Singapore, how else would the world be able not only to look, but also to feel the very essence of Singapore?
Singlit is one of the few things that is uniquely ours. It’s not just a representation of Singaporean culture, it is Singaporean culture. And so I implore any doubtful readers out there, to understand that just like the orchid is our national flower, and the lion is our national animal, Singlit, is our national word.
Should Singlit be one day hunted to extinction by the very people who refuse to look further than the surface level, and they look around and lament that there is nothing that represents a Singaporean, then the only reply left is the toss of a shovel towards their way, and a hope that 6 foot under, they will find the body they shot and buried not too long ago.