O G M A o n l i n e
ISSUE 1 Released June 2020. Ogma is a digital magazine for writeblrs offering a fresh new perspective of life, culture, activism and writing with a passion for storytelling.
m a g a z i n e
"Summer and Activism" Submissions Feature Articles Coronavirus & Black Lives Matter Movement Articles
What's Inside? 04 06 08 10 12 15 16 24 27 29
The Editor's Note Summer & Activism Golden Girl
30 33 38
Land of Endless Summer The Summer of Two In Aestatem
The Summer Sun Facemasks & Beer
The Endless Summer City An Inherent Self-Examination into Grave Mercy
41 45
It Tastes Like Honey A Millennial Summer
Concrete Circles
Together Alone The Surprising Nuance of Teen Beach Movie
48 49
Patient The 'Rona in Singapura
ogma Editor-in-chief Analeh
Content Writer & Social Media Coordinator Copy Editor Copy Editor Photo Editor Photographer Content Writer & Music Coordinator Literary Reviews Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer Content Writer
Parker Nicole Goldie Abby Zoé Céleste Jade Carmen Dian Iman Jesse Katie Laura Lucia Molly Norah Sakeenah Zhana
O G M A
Ogma is a creative digital magazine for young adults featuring work by up and coming authors and articles discussing life, culture and activism with a passion for storytelling Submit your work to be featured | ogmamagazine@gmail.com www.ogmamagazine.tumblr.com
EDITOR'S NOTE
Welcome to Ogma's first issue! This magazine is something the whole team and I are so excited for. A few weeks ago I was searching for a summer project to do, something creative and fulfilling! I came up with the idea to start a magazine that can showcase the work of talented young writers from tumblr and feature articles covering important topics such as activism, life and culture to share experiences and perspectives.
PAGE 4 | OGMA
The theme for our first big issue is "Summer and Activism". Featuring work inspired by our summer prompts and discussions on the meaning of summertime this issue also highlights the recent events in our world, looking closely at the personal experiences with the Coronavirus and the Black Lives Matter Movement.
On our blog page you can find a link to subscribe to our newsletter so you never miss out on updates. The newsletter also features exclusive playlists curated by our music coordinator Ephine and book reviews & reccomendations by our literary reviewer Jade. The international team here at Ogma is driven
The newsletter also has
by a passion for storytelling and art, and we
fun things like writing
plan to create a fun and fresh new magazine
prompts and sneak peeks
that inspires many people!
of our July issue.
This magazine is also a space for members of the writeblr community on tumblr to share their work. Submit your writing to us via email (ogmamagazine@gmail.com) to be featured in the next issue!
PAGE 5 | OGMA
- Analeh THE EDITOR
SUBMISSIONS
SUMMER SUMMER & & ACTIVISM ACTIVISM A collection of work submitted by our followers and staff writers
OGMA MAGAZINE
| 6
CONTENTS 8
GOLDEN GIRL Prose by Emma
10
LAND OF ENDLESS SUMMER Short Story by Nerissa
12
THE SUMMER OF TWO Short Story by Zhana
15
IN AESTATEM Poem by C.M
16
IT TASTES LIKE HONEY Short story by Kashmira Majumdar
24
A MILLENNIAL SUMMER By Jesse Law
27
THE SUMMER SUN Prose by Molly
29
FACEMASKS AND BEER Prose by Carmen
30
CONCRETE CIRCLES Diary poem by Katie
33
THE ENDLESS SUMMER CITY Discussions of elitism and modernity in the endless summer city, Singapore, and its reflections in local literature, by Nurul Iman.
38
AN INHERENT SELFEXAMINATION INTO GRAVE MERCY By Céleste-Ephine Autry
41
TOGETHER ALONE Short story by Ash
45
TEEN BEACH MOVIE ESSAY By Parker
48
PATIENT By Lucia Trask
49
THE 'RONA IN SINGAPURA By Dian Loh
golden girl two summers ago i worked at an inn by the sea. it wasn’t much, just a few rooms with peeling wallpaper and fans that didn’t work. worn by salt spray, the whole building was damp and stifling, but none of that mattered. i loved it with every fiber of my being.
i’d like to say my love was because of her. i don’t know where she came from. i think the sea brought her to me, which was very kind. in the setting sun she requested a room. i never asked for her name, unable to understand how she was made of gold. all she gave me was a smile. in return, i gave her room 12.
i forget how long she stayed. but i do remember one night when she was on the beach, in that sundress. no longer gold, she was blue. bluer than the water and bluer than the falling sky. it was a long time before she saw me. she looked like she was made to stand there, in front of the sea, the wind grabbing at her hair and her dress.
I can’t hear it. she called. I don’t understand what it's telling me.
she was laughing. her hands floated up to keep the hair from her face. for a moment i didn’t know what she was saying, why she was laughing. then a soft shush sounded against the rocks, and i laughed too. i offered to translate.
OGMA MAGAZINE
| 8
it’s telling you what you need. and what is that? to listen closely.
she took my hand and together we listened closely. she didn’t ask again, so i hope she heard it. i heard it.
soon after came the day she left. once again, the sun was setting. she made sure to give me her goodbyes, and i will always be grateful for that. it was strange to watch the girl made of gold leave, but it would have been stranger for her to stay.
— golden girl; e.t.
PROSE BY @EMDRABBLES ON TUMBLR
The Land of Endless Summer The sun and the moon were fixed in the heavens. The whole world grew weary as summer stood still – Heather Dale, White Rose
Legend says that many years ago there were different seasons. Once there was a time when the sun disappeared for half the day. The temperature varied every day. There was even a thing called “snow”.No one truly believes those stories. It’s been summer for longer than anyone can remember. There can never have been a time when things were different. The first year of summer was the result of long experiments. A group of people who thought themselves very important held a meeting. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, they asked, if they could eradicate pesky inconveniences like cold weather and changing seasons? If they could make it eternally summer and never again have to deal with ice and fallen leaves? They planned for many years. At last, they put their plans to the test. They pacified the public with excuses. “We may see some unusual weather patterns. Don’t worry, this is perfectly natural,” they said. They said it so many times that people believed them.
Written by Nerissa
Summer lasted for eight months that year. Most of the public accepted it without question. Only a few people complained. “Our crops aren’t growing properly!” the farmers protested. “I’m sick of this endless sunshine,” some people grumbled. But they were ignored or shouted down by the majority. This weather was perfectly natural, after all. What did they think they would change by complaining? The second year of summer seemed like it would never end. Harvests failed. Water grew scarce. More people complained this time. The group behind it all made up new excuses and invented ways to silence the angry murmurs. They developed new indoor methods of farming. They dug new wells and began searching for a way to make artificial water. No one knew when the second year ended and the third year of summer began. Time began to lose its meaning. With the new methods of growing food, there was no longer any risk of famine. People who had once complained now shrugged and accepted the strange new world. By the fifth year, scientists who were in on the plan came up with explanations that sounded reasonable. Scientists who weren’t could only scratch their heads and go along with the majority.The voices that had once been loud in opposition were now silent. There was barely a whisper against the eternal summer.
By the tenth year, the group who invented the whole thing congratulated themselves on how successful they’d been. Now they came up with a new plan: get rid of night. It was such an infernal nuisance to have the days continue to lengthen and shorten as they always had. By the twentieth year, the artificial sun shone down on the country as soon as the real sun sank below the horizon. By the twenty-second year, the artificial sun was more popular than the real one. It kept the entire country the same temperature, and it was never blocked out by clouds. The group didn’t have to think of excuses to blot out the real sun. The public begged them to do it.
By the hundredth year, no one remembered how the world had once been. There were eternal summer and eternal daylight. There had never been anything else. Legend says that many years ago there were different seasons. Once there was a time when the sun disappeared for half the day. The temperature varied every day. There was even a thing called “snow”. No one truly believes those stories. It’s been summer for longer than anyone can remember. There can never have been a time when things were different.
By the fortieth year, things like seasons and night were only dim ideas, more dreams than memories. By the fiftieth year, they were quietly removed from the history books. No one noticed they were gone. By now the surviving members of the group and their successors didn’t bother with excuses at all. No one objected to any idea they came up with, no matter what it was.
OGMA MAGAZINE
| 11
SHORT STORY WRITTEN BY ZHANA
THE SUMMER OF TWO Two pairs of shoes hang on the wire outside my window. My house has a tall fence, so I can’t see the cars go past or the people walking by. It’s just trees, wire and sky. And now shoes.
I spend these days on quiet walks, sun in
my
eyes.
It’s
stomach.
My
spending
time
to
you.
I
a
slight
discomfort
friends on
know
your
it’s
often
own
true,
is
but
I
say
getting I
don’t
know what else to do or where else to go.
I don’t know when the shoes got there but
they
have
been
there
for
the
entirety of summer. It’s somewhat of a comfort to me: a constancy. High top (does
anyone
even
wear
these?)
and
low rise vans.
I
like
shoes.
to
wear
I’m
a
sophisticated.
soft
colors
blend My
of
friends
and
black
boring would
and say
sophisticated is boring if you don’t put the effort in. I guess they’re right.
They look worn and yet have
I
withstood
storms
tired of waiting for others to read my mind.
since hanging on the wire. I
My friends would say why don’t you just say
get
it out loud. It doesn’t make sense; it makes
up
(at
sleeping and
heavy
10,
schedule
open I
the
sway
in
is
my
dead)
curtain.
linger shoes
the
raining,
12;
my
Sometimes watch
11,
kick
the
perfect
gravel
sense.
logically.
I
at
I
don’t
their
don’t know
driveway.
—
I’m
can’t—
how
to
say
so
think it
out
and
loud. I rely on my friends to talk sense into
gently
me. I see a shadow in my friend’s window,
breeze.
If
it’s
sometimes
I
imagine touching the soggy
the
light
is
falling
in
sheets
and
reflects
back at me. I can’t see who it is, they can see me, though.
fabric. The driveway is a stretch of no man's land. I’m
yearning
one
of
again.
my
I’m
many
on
walks
Leonard
at
the
doorway,
arms
crossed
and face crushed into tired confusion.
where
I
stand
outside
one
—
of
friend’s
houses
and
with
my
is
Do
you an
really
air
of
think
quiet
I
still
care?
He
grievance. I
says
shrug
in
contemplate
knocking.
anticipation of him spewing why he should
Tongue-in-cheek,
not
still care. Why I should still care.
funny
way
way),
I’m
(in
a
biting
in
a
waiting
myself
to
—
I
did
that
care
you’re
about
you.
struggling
I
do
right
understand
now.
He
leans
beat the hesitations. I want
forward a bit as if to lessen the blow of his
to
words.
tell
them
they
mean
something to me.
Like
driveway
leaning
into
separates
us
a
hug.
into
The
right
and
wrong.— I didn’t mean to ghost you. I say. It It’s
summer
and
I’m
lonely.
was
my
time
speak,
It’s summer and my coming-
harsher
of-age
remember my voice to be.
teen
unfolded minutes.
in
a
It’s
movie
hasn’t
neat
ninety
summer
and
it
doesn’t end.
—
Do
on
to
you
forget?
my
tongue
think
I
say,
it’s
you
than
could
hands
louder
and
what
forgive
digging
I
and
into
my
pockets, trying to pull me into the earth. I
know
on
shoes
telephone
drug Let
that
dealer me
wires
is
have
in
hanging mean
the
this
a
area. sweet
reminiscence for a moment.
—
There’s
nothing
to
forgive,
you
didn’t
mean to crash the car, he says, and I wince at
the
words.
Look,
he
continues,
I
know
this is weird and tiring and lonely being the result of a near-death. I didn’t like that you didn’t
talk.
yourself
off
I
didn’t
because
like
that
you’re
the
you only
shut other
person that’s experienced the same thing I
PAGE 13 | OGMA
have. That’s conscious at least.
— I didn’t think of it like that. I
I’m at home and Leonard is
say and relax my shoulders. I step
ordering a pizza. Like we used to
forward into the driveway. So
on Saturday nights. When there
does Leonard. In a leap, we’re in
were three. The shoes on the wire
a hug. It’s a sorry and it’s an I’m
are a weird reminder. I’m not sure
okay.
of what. Maybe that I’m alive. Maybe that I am safe. Maybe that I
My friends keep me warm. I
should get up earlier. I’m not sure,
should trust them more. We break
it feels nice in a way.
apart and I look to the ground. He’s wearing high top Vans. Who even wears these? I let out a gasping laugh.
PAGE 14 | OGMA
IN AESTATEM
15 june and july are the cruellest months, when life hangs wilting beneath naked heat. and all through the pavements and cracking streets, stillness lies prostrate like a man before death, slumbering in the exhaustion of this final indignity. the yellow tinge of decay sinks lazily to the ground: sickly, as it sugars over summer flowers. the earth is dull, and heavy with the desire to explode, and all its small tensions vibrate through red-dusted air. when the world lies waiting to be burnt, do you run from it, or take a match and watch it set alight under unforgiving sun? - 01.06.20
BY C.M
Short Story By Kashmira Majumdar
IT TASTES LIKE HONEY There is no devil. Only the fear of him when you look into the heart of your closest friend.
The nuns say this to remind their charges that the world is not all goodness and sugar. Nobody ever listens because they know better. The devil cannot come to Lillian Academy: it is on consecrated ground; its bricks were laid by the monks who are buried under the loamy, breathing soil of the grove. And the grove is full of sunlight to burn the skin off the devil as he approaches so that all will see him as he is, without artifices or defences. Alolika is fondest of the grove at midday. It’s when the boughs bend and drop their old flowers like sighs. Under their curious eye, her regulation skirt balloons with her new treasures. The flowers are pretty. She gouges out their insides for the strange seeds that crunch between her teeth at first, and gradually become sweet pulp mid-chew. The ritual of it is peaceful. “Some people would call that stealing.” —Until one day, the grove collects her right back. Alolika is crouched against the boundary wall like a trapped rabbit. Shading her eyes against the sun, she looks at the intruder and turns up a smile. It’s a smile that says, Please don’t eat me.
It earns her a hoarse, scratchy laugh. “Don’t worry.” A finger presses against what must be lips. “I won’t tell anyone.” On this side of the wall, the tree resembles a girl if you’re looking with tears stinging your eyes. Her hair is knotted twigs stuffed full of leaves; her limbs coltish, scabbed over with bark. Jui, she calls herself. Dryad is what the other Lillian girls would call her. “Got tired of waiting for you to pick me,” says Jui. “Figured I’d introduce myself instead.” Hi. The word lies leaden in Alolika’s mouth. What she means is, Me? “The seeds are the best part,” says Jui, and Alolika knows at once why me. Jui leans forward, and suddenly Alolika feels a hand hooking into hers. Jui’s fingertip pierces the flower by the petal, dragging it gingerly from Alolika’s fist. Alolika is too stunned by the casualness of the contact to move. And by then, it’s too late. “May I do the honours?” Alolika can barely nod as Jui removes each petal of the flower until she’s cradling a palm-full of seeds. Alolika wonders if they’ll taste different now. Jui pinches some seeds between two fingers. Alolika obligingly parts her lips. Jui’s touch is gentle, but Alolika’s cheek stings from the splinter. It’s a second of wild abandon before the syrupy richness hits, when it tastes like a kiss. Dryads rarely cross the wall into Lillian, but they seldom leave. One has been on the student council for at least fifteen years. They are a part of Lillian wherever Lillian goes: they sit in auditoriums and join the applause, they hover in classrooms and take notes as dutiful assistants, and they teach kindergarteners not to smash square toys into the round hole.
Alolika came to Lillian as a gawky thirteen-year-old with grades that made her a pariah. The trees were curious about her, but she hadn’t rewarded them with reciprocity. They moved onto more gratifying students soon enough. She never realised that ignorance bred vulnerability, how exposed it left her for later. Trees live for hundreds of years. They always knew there would be a later. ~ Piano practice is how Alolika gives back to Lillian. Her teachers say she plays beautifully, but not so much that she’s ever led hymn assemblies. When Alolika plays, trees sway, their branches knocking in tune against the windows, demanding to be let in. This ode is to the dew on snowdrops on the first morning of winter. Alolika grew up on a hill, in a wooden house smaller than the school chapel, but with windows painted blue and framed by apple-red curtains. The closest she’s been to snowdrops is in the pages of library books and bygone sonatas. “You play beautifully,” says the tree. Jui always looks like she’s smiling because her mouth is one broad slash. Being teased by her is a tingle at the ends of Alolika’s nerves, a daunting but pleasurable scrape of her senses. Alolika tentatively crosses the distance between them, the tips of her fingers brushing against Jui’s pointed knee. “When you wore it,” asks Alolika, “did your school skirt come this far?” Jui lets out a bark of laughter, pushing Alolika’s hand further down what her leg should be. “Lower,” she rasps, her gaze locked on Alolika. “They told us to be modest.” A muscle jumps in Alolika’s hand.
“This was our old maths classroom, you know,” says Jui. “I still remember where I used to sit: behind Shiori, who had long hair falling down her back. I used to look at her braid. I wanted to undo it, just to see what happened.” “When you did it, did she transform into something else?” Jui looks sharply at Alolika, her mouth thinning appraisingly. Alolika’s presumptions are stabs in the dark that slide between the folds of Jui’s bark. “Did Shiori play the piano, too?” “You play better.” Alolika resumes from her place on the sheet music. The air is thick with winter. When a cheek presses into her shoulder, uncertain and longing, she can feel Jui willing away the splinters. ~ Alolika goes to the chapel and imagines herself praying. The pew is so hard and uncomfortable that she feels more Christian for suffering it. Her father’s temple grew its own flowers. Sitting on the front steps of their house, stringing together marigolds, was Alolika’s solace. She reaches for the memory when Lilian tries to leave her out for not caring that she doesn’t belong. Someday, she might take Jui home. Jui is kind to people, but nature is kindest to a tree. The monks meant for the grove to protect Lillian forever. As the chapel door opens, she wonders why no one thought to protect Lillian from itself.
“Jui blows in on a gust of wind, flung towards the altar. Alolika angles away as Jui drops to her knees and touches her forehead to the floor. It’s the first time Alolika is really, truly surprised by Jui. “Appalled, are you?” asks Jui, rocking back on her heels to gaze up at Alolika. “Heathen as I am, it’s peaceful here. I couldn’t mooch off that without paying my respects.” She lets loose her wide, grotesque grin, and Alolika’s heart flips over in her chest. ~ *The flower seeds make for a good cake. It’s plainly decorated, but looks spongy-soft and traps Jui’s attention like a flame. It even looks nice enough to be enclosed with the weekly letters home. Click goes the shutter. Jui picks up the broad-bladed cake knife. Click again as Jui approaches, knife flat against her thigh. Alolika’s finger is frozen on the button. The dull-steel grey is a shimmer in the viewfinder. The blade sinks through the cake, fluidly carving out a slice. Click. Jui, frozen, staring at the slice. There is no longing, no want. Jui looks like she’s forgotten what it tastes like. Click. Alolika burns the serene inhumanity of her expression into film. “Put that away,” says Jui. “Come have this.” “I’m not fond of woodlice,” replies Alolika, teasing.
“Dewdrops,” counters Jui. “Petrichor. Sunlight.” “Those don’t taste like anything.” “And to you, this only tastes like cake.” Alolika sets the camera down. She doesn’t look twice at the cake. She cradles both palms around Jui’s face, hooking a thumb around a strand of ivy, and closes the gap between them with a kiss. Jui tastes like sticky honey. She’s the scrape of bark against Alolika’s cheek. She’s the feeling of dancing on needlepoint. It feels like a dizzyingly, heady kind of falling. Jui pulls away first, Alolika’s hair tangled in her fingers. “We shouldn’t,” she says, “do that again.” Alolika bites the inside of her cheek. “What, kissing?” “You get hurt.” Jui curls her clawed hands closed. “It’s not exactly pleasant.” Do you know, wonders Alolika. Am I the first girl to have kissed a tree? “What if I say you’re wrong?” “I say I’ll live until the day you get tired of pretending.” Alolika replies by kissing Jui again. She rolls the taste of honey in her mouth, feeling it sweeten. ~ Sister Graça summons Alolika on the last day of the summer term. The Headmistress, old as the bricks of Lillian, sits with her back to the window until she is an ominous penumbra.
“The day’s theme is the usual caution. Don’t be fooled by them, child. They have watched the earth beneath our feet erode century after century. They hold together the ground we stand on with their toes. They would topple us if they wished. Alolika’s own toes curl inside her school shoes. Graça dismisses her with a warning. Outside, the rosy afternoon has enveloped Lillian, softened by the shadows of trees and the sight of Jui leaning against the wall. It has no cracks, no breaches, but Jui finds her footing in the mortar, scaling it easily. “We’re not allowed,” protests Alolika, but Jui glances back just once. This is Alolika’s chance to turn back. Run. Nobody will know that she did. Being on the other side of the wall is like being thrust into Jui’s chest. For a second, she thinks she is alone. That Jui has transformed back into a tree. The grove is a terrible place to be alone. Its tranquillity is only for show. Underneath, she can feel things thrash with fevered life. Alolika wants to beat her wings and launch off the ground, corkscrewing upwards in a giddy spiral, the backlash of her flight bending down these trees. Maybe that’s why the grove is birdless: they must have all had to scream to get out. “If I kiss you here,” says Jui, from behind her, “only we’ll know. Not the nuns, not the other girls. Not the trees or the wind or the sky. Only you and me. It’s the first thing that’s just ours.”
“All along Alolika has known (she has loved) that Jui is a force of nature, wild as a hurricane, unrelenting as quicksand. Jui must feel the thump of Alolika’s heart, loud enough for two. When Jui presses her mouth to Alolika’s, her teeth are sharp. It makes Alolika’s head spin, her eyes fluttering close over the sound of some invisible lead snapping and tearing. That, she realises, was my lifeline. The trees hear it too. They say nothing, silent, listening—and complicit. ~~~ Three hundred years later The world has changed; Lillian grows. The trees wait until Graça is in the ground, her holy habit becoming food for them to suck out of the dirt. They wait until the paint flakes from her portrait in the hallway, until her memory is withered in the unformed heads of the students. Only then does Alolika leave the grove, letting the sunlight peel her artifices back and leave her bare. Her fingers are sharp and spindly, hands that held Jui’s for centuries. She crosses the ground that monks died to consecrate, and she walks into the school, seeking… seeking whatever Jui had found in her. The future would be so lonely without it.
PAGE 23 | OGMA
a millennial summer
WORDS
BY
JESSE
LAW
This summer season is a little more
"Boomers" love to make things not-
grim
their-problem,
than
Face
we're
masks,
used
high
to
seeing.
death
tolls,
of
ignoring
racism and riots are what seems to
comes
be
when
the
theme
this
year.
As
an
"essential employee" in this time of
Unlike
quarantine,
when
disturbing points
of
I've parallel
older
conservative of
people
masks we
noticed
and
enforce
in
the
generations
town; who
the
social
view in
same
refuse
become
a
to
enraged
it
new
them,
science, make
we
planet
inhabitable. paint
a
a
professionals
won't
the
have
vivid
especially
still
money. be
becomes
Climate picture
of
barely
scientists what
our
and
the
reality of it has set in for those of
when
us
were
like
here
wear
are
look
it
lifetimes
who
will
when
them
will
history
kinds
distancing,
often climate change deniers.
this
to
and
once
anything we ever wanted.
promised
Hardest is watching our grandparents, who shamed us for trying, scoffed at our attempts to make the world last longer, stand at Capitol steps with guns demanding to not have to wear a mask in public. The hypocrisy is astounding, although not surprising.
The "American Dream" I was raised on doesn't exist anymore, and regardless of nationality, the sentiment seems to be the same across the board. Summers will only get hotter, and longer, every year, for the rest of our lives. Ice caps will melt. Sea levels will rise. Fresh water sources will dry up; species will go extinct; air quality will worsen. We will fight over resources. People will die. People are dying.
These things are hard to hear. Even harder is that there is nothing that we as individual people can do to bring change. No amount of riding bikes and driving electric cars, composting, going vegan, or reduce, reuse, recycle is going to tip the scales towards a brighter future.
PAGE 25 | OGMA
This is the beginning of a new era. A revolution we may win, but it will be too late to make a difference. The apocalyptic warning signs give me chills, but it's just a taste of what's to come.
You can try to make a difference. We have approximately twelve years before it is entirely too late. Call or write your senators and congress people. Find yours at www.senate.gov , www.house .gov , and your local officials at your individual state's official websites. While you're there petitioning for climate reform, don't forget to mention the blacklivesmatter movement and The truth is, if our planet
police brutality.
continues on this path, all your education will mean nothing.
If you're still skeptical about
"What you want to be when you
climate change, it's causes, the
grown up" will mean nothing.
count down clock, or what
There will be no jobs left in a
effect it will have on our world,
world struggling not to
check out these sources.
dehydrate. The heteronormative house, spouse, and 2.5 kids, the
https://climate.nasa.gov/eviden
"American dream", will
ce/
disappear when food, water, and shelter become scarce.This
https://www.worldwildlife.org/s
summer we will feel the heat
tories/our-planet-is-warming-
rising, both metaphorically and
here-s-what-s-at-stake-if-we-
physically.
don-t-act-now
the summer sun BY
MOLLY
there comes a day of boiling passion, of beaming warmth, of lazy heat. when i fall to my knees in the bright green grass and pray above to the sun goddess herself. she answers my hopes and wishes, listening to each word as it slowly falls from my mouth. i close my eyes and feel her rays upon me, holding me gently in her arms as she whispers, speaking of all things ambrosian. the birds twitter in the throes of summer. even the flowers turn their heads to the skies and open themselves to blossom. and then it’s the bees, flying, spiralling, leaving behind the syrup of wild honey that finds itself on these sunny days. like myself, they are born from fire and depth, the cousin to the snowy, winter escape that comes to shrewd the earth. the summer rays rest deep within my soul. they whisper and weave, like smouldering beams of love and light and life. the sun goddess does all this and more, throwing her warmth to her worshippers down below. sun-kissed and blessed, it tastes like fire and ash and smoke. it’s a curiosity, an actuality, that summer is the season of the wanderers, the dreamers. hoping forever to be more, do more, see more. i float and twist, finding myself ready to follow the sun as she sways across the earth. and then even more so, i dance and twirl and laugh for summer is beautiful and i am existing in its burning embrace.
facemasks and beer WRITTEN BY CARMEN it’s always like this: you leave the city behind— Madrid, with its endless deserts of asphalt and concrete, with its blistering heat that settles in your brain and proliferates inside your veins, with its tourist-loaded restaurants and avenues and no local in sight. you leave the city behind. summer means: narrow winding streets and a string of tiny bars on the main road where everyone’s face is a face you know and where the days are as long and wide as the universe itself. summer means: you go out as soon as you wake up and don’t get back home until the sun is peaking again over the mountains that guard this sacred place; you sit, shoulders and thighs touching, with people who are your friends and people who aren’t and you munch on sunflower seeds while lying in the park all huddled together. summer means: beer and calimochos and tapas and barbeques and paellas and nights brimming with non-blood family; no plans because summer requires no timetable, just the beat of your heart and the certainty that you are free and the owner of time. it’s always been like this —you leave the city behind and let yourself be welcome in the tight arms of the village, you melt into the pine trees and are dissolved in the skinny rivers among all the other familiar souls. it’s always been like this, but not anymore.
now, summer means: you’re waiting for something you know, you’re full of senseless hope, you’re always aware of eyes on you and whispered words about safety —and maybe you can handle everything else, but not the awareness, not the constant tension and the nagging sense of responsibility. summer is not like this; summer is supposed to be loose and careless and empty of duty. now, summer means: you’re watching the days dwindle into winter without really living summer at all.
AMGO | 33 EGAP
now, summer means: saying hello by bumping elbows and leaving a space of two meters between you and the world —two meters can be ten can be light years— and you’re always looking behind you back, and you’re always checking you have your facemask with you and you’re always dreaming with music-filled nights.
page 30
ogma magazine | june 2020
Katie
concrete cirlces a poem
day one
day four
day six
It’s the first day of summer and there were no kids lining the entrance to the parkno queue for the old rollercoaster it’s as if the spinning of the rides hasspun the world right off its axis.
I’m in charge of the biggest rollercoaster in the park.I pull a lever, send the cart off into the stars, listen as the kids scream and laugh and shoot across the sky. The cart and the kids fall like asteroids and then their eyes glow for the rest of the day.
It rained today, rinsed the swings so clean that I could almost see the colour drain into puddles on the ground.
I could walk through the entire park without stepping on chewed gum or in melted popsicle or through time. Still, out of habit, I tied my laces extra tight this morning. My ankles were swollen by the time I got home. day twelve
I forgot how long the road was where the food trucks usually situate. There’s nothing to see now and yet it feels like it takes twice as long to walk. I think I’ll take the back way to my rollercoaster from now on.
I don’t have to pull the lever these days. I think if I did, the sky would fall apart. day seventeen
People walked past the entrance today. I was just beginning to forget that they could do that.
day eighteen
I turn the neon lights of the rides on at night now, in case the kids come walking again. day twenty-four
My mother asked me this morning if it was even worth it, coming to the park everyday. I told her yes. I’m not sure if I was lying or not. day twenty-nine
They were kids, one closer to ‘kid’ than ‘adult’ and one not.The younger one said, “when can we go inside?” “We can’t,” his sister said soberly, but I could see her intrigue as she eyed the puddles of colour pooling under the swings.
The fun house feels different when you go through it alone. The mirrors looked different. I could have sworn they were supposed to make you look taller, wider, distorted, different. But today, I saw something I’d never seen before. Today I just looked like myself.
day thirty-five
day thirty-nine
My rollercoaster creaked today, and I almost thought about talking to it. How ridiculous is that? A talking rollercoaster?
Midnight tastes different from the top of the world.
I didn’t talk to it. I didn’t think I needed to.
Under the glow of the lights it was almost like I could hold the moon in my hands.
I talk to the stars instead.
day forty-one
I think I lied to my mother. day sixty-four
I climbed the rungs of the ferris wheel and just sat.
day forty-eight
day fifty-six
The kids walked past again tonight. The younger one’s favourite colour is red.
I had to test the sound equipment on the stage today.
I changed the colour of the park lights for him.
I don’t know how to explain why performing feels so natural to me.
day seventy-one
I received my paycheck in the mail today.
I ran my rollercoaster today just to see if it still worked. day sixty-six
It’s the last day of summer and there were no kids lining the entrance to the park no queue for my rollercoaster it’s as if the colour has drained from every inch of every ride in this park. I could pass through time without running into fallen stars or on broken mirrors or through neon lights. Still, out of habit, I tied my laces extra tight this morning.
It was worth my weight in gold.
My shoes fell apart by the time I got home.
PAGE 32 | OGMA
The Endless Summer City WORDS BY
Nurul Iman
Discussions of elitism and modernity in the endless summer city, Singapore, and its reflections in local literature, by Nurul Iman.
Singapore, the tropical island city located in Southeast Asia. Otherwise known as the Lion City, it is a booming economic and financial hub, with a worldclass education system and a stunning skyline, among other things. The first prime minister of Singapore, the late Lee Kuan Yew, built this city from the ground, alongside his first cabinet of ministers. In less than fifteen years, the nation progressed from a third world country to a first world country under his leadership. On the surface, Singapore has a seemingly utopian feel, with the country being reputable in almost all aspects.
The defining factor of Singapore’s society would be its high standards, which stems from the belief of meritocracy. Meritocracy is a society which is governed by people selected according to merit. Discipline and hard work, are traits which are heavily valued in Singapore’s relatively traditional society. It is reinforced into the citizens from a very young age that everyone starts off equally in life, and hard work and discipline would get you higher. Hence, the education system sets high standards for its students, and firms set high standards for its employees. However, meritocracy is beginning to reveal its faults, with the coming years leading to an increasing class gap, and the people of Singapore slowly beginning to adopt an elitist, classist mindset. Inequality is beginning to become more prevalent. According to Oxfam’s Commitment to Reducing Inequality index, Singapore ranked 149 out of 157 countries, in an index to tackle the wealth gap between the rich and the poor.
This issue of elitism and inequality has been frequently discussed in many aspects of local culture - from plays to literature to casual discussions at the dinner table. However, in this article, I would like to bring light to how elitism is viewed in the Malay community. I myself, am part of the community, and I am familiar with how we are viewed in my society. It’s no secret we are a minority, and others view the Malay community as incompetent, stupid and lazy, to name a few common stereotypes. It breaks my heart to see our own Malay people unwilling to associate themselves with the community. Perhaps what most Singaporeans (and the rest of the world) don’t know about us is that we are inquisitive people who carry an artistic sensitivity. This often translates in the art we create, from literature, to fine art and theatre. In this article, I would like to bring forward a short story titled ‘Yang,’ which was written by local author Jamal Ismail. Originally written in Malay, this short, yet impactful story was written in 1977, when Singapore was on the brink of its progression towards modernity. The country was young and hungry, just like its people, and ambition was running wild in the veins of the people.
PAGE 34 | OGMA
The story is a fairly simple one. It follows a character, Simpati (whose name translates to Sympathy in English), who attends a job interview in a modern, 101 storey building. He meets a secretary, and they ride the lift up to the 101st floor, where his interview is being held. As they are in the lift, they converse with each other. When the pair reach the 101st floor, Simpati is interviewed by another character, the Head of Department, and is given the job. However, Simpati refuses, claiming he feels alienated in the building. Simpati walks out of the office. The story closes with a confused Secretary watching the Head of Departments chase after Simpati, begging Simpati to take the job.
At first glance, the story seems particularly odd. However, upon closer inspection, readers may realise that it has a very abstract feel to it, and is bursting at its seams with symbolism. The story above all, is a social critique. Let us begin with the symbolism of the 101 storey building. The building represents Singapore’s society, as a whole. Singapore is perceived as a ‘perfect’ society - the people are hardworking, highly educated, and disciplined, to list a few common traits. We are competitive people, always striving for more and more. However, in the pursuit of success we have turned into ruthless creatures, and have forgone sympathy.
The building has a number of striking features. It is painted a soulless black, and the walls of the building are built with one way mirrors. Hence, people inside the building are able to see its exterior, but those outside the building are unable to see its interior. The one way mirrors represent elitism and exclusivity in society, how those who perceive themselves to be ‘elite’ do not prefer to associate themselves with those inferior to them. They also appear to be closed off from the rest of the world, as they hold the opinion that outsiders will not be ‘good enough’ to be a part of them. This is very much reflective in contemporary Singaporean society, where many communities of a certain social class prefer not to interact with or even acknowledge those beneath them. The rich and privileged exist within their enclaves, hidden between the winding roads leading to the driveways of their grand mansions. Meanwhile, the homeless of Singapore emerge by night, with desperation in their eyes, looking for yet another place to hide. PAGE 36 | OGMA
The characters in these story, are incredibly flawed and intriguing as well. The character of the Secretary, claims that the building and the workers are devoid of flaws. Due to the Secretary’s high perception of herself, she goes to the extent of criticizing Simpati, despite only knowing him for a few minutes. One important character trait of the Secretary is her unwillingness to admit that she (and the rest of the workers in the building, for that matter), has her own individual flaws. This trait is reflective in, more notably, certain politicians who still harbour an unwillingness to admit the flaws in society, such as the stifling censorship laws which have been notoriously known to be borderline oppressive. Perhaps the only character willing to recognise the building and its organisation’s flaws is the Head of Department. The Head of Departments begs Simpati to take the job, which tells the readers that he recognises that the building is not as perfect as everyone claims it to be. There is a evident lack of sympathy, as workers are too preoccupied trying to chase after perfection and to be the best, just like most Singaporeans in contemporary society.
Jamal Ismail’s cleverly written story, despite being written in 1977, is still highly relevant now, as its message transcends the boundaries of time. From the overarching theme of achieving perfection in society, to its incredibly flawed characters, this story serves as a gentle warning, that a lack of sympathy amongst our people is preventing us from becoming a good society. It ultimately raises the question, is it worth sacrificing human values, such as sympathy, in the pursuit of economic progression and materialistic successes? What will become of our society, and what will we do about those who have become victims of modernity? PAGE 37 | OGMA
38
An Inherent SelfExamination into Grave Mercy By Celeste-Ephine Autry
February is a month associated with many things: love, romance, passion, and vitality are just a few common links. Others may associate the month with the heart, due to Valentine’s Day, or health and wellbeing. For me, and others in the Black community, the month is most notable for being Black History Month. For members of the community, other activists, and especially the Martin family, February holds the memories of another boy being plucked from the hands of comfort, warmth, and family.
February 26, 2012. Trayvon Martin. 17. Shot and killed by a neighbourhood watch volunteer, George Zimmerman. The Black Lives Matter Movement, sparked by the acquittal of Zimmerman for murdering Martin, gains momentum. The Black Lives Matter Foundation, Inc is a global organization that spans the US, UK, and Canada, with an aim to eradicate white supremacy, combat and counter acts of violence, and build power locally as a way of intervening in violence inflicted on Black communities. Since 2012, the list of men and women murdered because of the colour of their skin has continued to grow well into 2020.
Jordan Davis. Renisha McBride. Eric Garner. John Crawford. Michael Brown. Laquan McDonald. Tamir Rice. Freddie Gray. Jamar Clark. Anton Sterling. Philando Castile. Charles Kinsey. George Floyd. Breonna Taylor. Aiyana Jones. Pamela Turner. Isak Aden. Sandra Bland. Said Joaquin. The list continues to grow, more names are added and none receive justice. How are we supposed to live in a world that holds so much disdain for us? At this point in time, the answer is that we can’t.
When white people say, "I don't see colour" that's them saying they don't see a problem, so why should we? They’re admitting that they’re choosing not to see us and choosing not to see the struggles that we face. How can you ignore the shades of red that spill when someone in blue murders a Black woman or man? As a privileged White American, colours are everywhere for you; from the clear blue skies of freedom and equality to blue uniforms to protect you from the destruction you cause and the lives you take, to the green bills, you place your abstract faith in order to hush us. I see colour as well; the dark red that spills from the bullet wounds of my brothers’ and sisters’, the bloodshot red eyes that come from the tears we shed, and the black skies that hover us and threaten to swallow us whole. I see colours of anger, of pain, of despair, and hopelessness. If you don’t see colour, then I want the power to not see them either.
Short Story by Ash
It’s been over a month since we ran away. Your hand is still in mine, and mine is in yours, and we look at the sky. The sun is bleeding all over the horizon, and its heat is stifling us.
together alone
“Do you think anyone came looking for us?” you ask. I shrug. “We’ve seen no one.” Your hand leaves mine as you go to wipe your brow. The sun is setting and it should be getting cooler, I know, but it doesn’t feel any different, even though we left and traveled on the road that no one travels by and met the hanged man at the crossroads. We freed him and he… he… he gave us things that we still don’t understand. It’s like we’ve been through nothing at all.
Or at least, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve figured it out.
“We should rest for tonight,” I say, if only to fill the silence.
I shrug. “In the grass, I suppose. We can press some of them down to make it flat and sit there.
“Where?” you ask, gesturing around. There are only plains in sight; tall grasses and tall flowers filling the landscape and, cutting through it all, there lies the road we’re traveling on. We don’t know where it goes. OGMA | PAGE 41
”You consider that, and then nod. I go in first, treading through the grasses and making a path so the grasses won’t bother you much. You never liked how they felt.
After the path, I push down and stomp down a place large enough for us to sleep. I wish I had been smart enough to bring a blanket, or something larger to cover the downtrodden ground with. I settle for my jacket. “Thanks,” you say, taking the place I made for you. I lie down on the ground, nod, and look up at the sky. It’s been a while, apparently. The sky is no longer bleeding, retreating instead into darkness. The stars are starting to appear, and in my ears, there are the sounds of crickets and the rustle of the grasses. “Do you think it was worth it?”I turn my head towards you. “Do I think what was worth it?” “Leaving,” you say, and put your chin on your knees. “Do you really think it was worth it?” “Duh.” “Think about it,” you say. “We gave up a future by leaving. There’s no one here who can possibly help us. We just get lucky when we find food and water.” “Still seems pretty nice here,” I note. “Think about it,” you say, a mix between tired and exasperated. “We haven’t seen people in ages. The last person was the hanged man, and I don’t really think he counts. I don’t think he even was a person. ”I turn my head back to the grasses and try not to think of the hanged man. “I mean, we have to reach somewhere eventually.” “Do we know that?” I think you’ve turned to look at me, but I’m not looking back. “Do we actually know we’ll reach somewhere? A man who should’ve been long dead was the one who led us on this path. He gave us… what? Maybe you’ve managed to figure it out, but my head just feels like it’s heavy and… and stuck in a fog. Is it any different for you?"
I rub my face instead of answering. “I thought so,” you say. “I just want to say that that doesn’t exactly lead to ‘belief’ or ‘trust’. We shouldn’t have trusted him, and since he’s the reason we’re here… don’t you think it was a mistake?” I can’t say anything to that, not for a while. You let me think and grapple for some sort of answer. It’s a disappointment, I know, when I respond with a question of my own. “Do you want to go back?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Do you want to go back,” I repeat, less of a question this time. “‘Cause we can either continue, or we can go back. You don’t like going forward, but would you like going back?” It takes you a long time to respond, but that’s okay. The breeze that’s been blowing through the grass finally drifts over to us, and for the first time since the day started, I feel cool. “I don’t think so.” “Huh?” “I don’t think I want to go back,” you say curtly. “That means we go on,” I say after a beat. “Alright,” you say. “But was it worth it? If you had the choice, would you leave again?” I don’t know. That would be the easy answer, because I don’t, but I know that you won’t take that as an answer. Nothing has changed, but rather, everything has shifted. We are away from the town but we are away from everywhere now. We have only had each other, and, as long as the road continues, we will still only have each other.
“I think so,” I say at last. “How do you know?” “I don’t.” I push myself up and gesture at the land around us. “Who do you see?” "Seriously?” I nod and you roll your eyes. “No one. We’ve kind of established that.” “So is that good or bad?” “You know things aren’t as black and white as—” “Just play along,” I say, raising my hands up. “Please. Which is it more like, bad or good?” “Bad,” you say. “If either of us needs help, we’re doomed because we’re alone.” That word hits you. Your eyebrows furrow slightly and there’s a downward pull to your lips. “We’re alone here.” “But before, who did we have?”You look at me and the realization dawns on you. “No one.” “Yeah,” I say, sitting back down again. “I like being alone this way better.” You lie down, your hands resting by your sides, your knees bunched up to fit on the jacket. “I think I do, too.” The heat returns. Of course it does. It’s summer after all, and the sun will exude its heat like it always does and it will bleed come the end and beginning of days. That hasn’t changed. And maybe not much has changed with you or me since we left. Maybe all things have done is shift. It’s not the life either of us wanted but it’s the life we have now. And we think it just may be worth it.
PAGE 45
Fancy Prep Schools Aren’t Feminist If They Make You Miserable: the Surprising Nuance of Teen Beach Movie BY PARKER WRIGHT
Teen Beach Movie came out right in the middle of the window of time when I cared about Disney Channel movies, so of course I was all over it. It’s a movie full of dichotomies: surfers vs bikers, girls vs boys, the 1960s vs the modern day. It’s not especially remarkable that the narrative was built on these, because binaries make for easy characterization. Easy characterization makes for nice, fun kids movies. The remarkable thing is how these opposing ideas inform each other in a way that allows all of the characters to grow within their specific situations. Teen Beach Movie (dir. Jeffrey Hornaday) uses the interaction between the present and the past to demonstrate the importance of considering different perspectives and your own wellbeing when making decisions about the future.
The movie begins when Mack and Brady come home from a day of surfing to find out that Mack’s aunt has come to take Mack to the impressive boarding school she’ll be attending for the second half of high school. The next day, instead of getting on a flight back to the East Coast, Mack and Brady go surfing together one last time and end up transported to Brady’s favorite movie, a 1960s musical about a biker and a surfer who fall in love despite the fact that the rival groups hate each other. Mack and Brady accidentally interrupt the plot of the movie when Mack runs into the surfer guy, Tanner, and Brady catches the biker girl, Lela, when she falls off the stage, leading both movie characters to fall in love with the characters from the real world instead of each other. Over the course of the film, Mack befriends Lela and Brady befriends Tanner as they try to set the plot of the movie on course again. After they succeed, Mack and Brady go home and Mack finds the confidence to listen to her heart and tell her aunt that she wants to stay where she is for the rest of high school.
Rather predictably, there is a stark contrast between Mack and Lela because of the difference in time period and because Lela is a character from a musical. Lela is constrained by the dominating belief of 1960s media, that a boy and a happy ending are one and the same. She and Mack debate this back and forth during the song “Like Me,” with Mack arguing in favor of girls having more autonomy when it comes to relationships and just in general. The ending of the movie-within-the-movie validates Mack’s perspective because Lela is the one to figure out how to dismantle the villain’s evil machine. Without knowing Mack, she probably wouldn’t have thought to try.
Lela’s and Mack’s central conflicts interact in interesting ways. Lela is caught between her gut instinct to let boys decide and Mack’s message of girls choosing for themselves. Mack must make the decision to either follow the wishes of her aunt and dead mother to go to a prestigious prep school, or stay where she is with her boyfriend. By the logic she uses to instruct Lela, the choice should be obvious. And yet, it isn’t. This is a more complicated issue than just feminism/patriarchy. It’s not girls vs boys, it’s following a narrow and stressful path based on a dead parent’s presumed wishes vs keeping your options open and not growing up too fast. Ultimately, Mack decides to stay. Fancy boarding schools aren’t feminist if they make you miserable. Mack only realizes this after her adventure in Wet Side Story. She needs to explain it to Lela before she can fully understand it for herself. As much as Mack helps Lela reach her full potential, Lela helps Mack too.
For Mack, going back in time serves as a chance to step back from a stressful decision she’s being forced to make and reassess. Through her friendship with Lela, she finds the strength to make the decision that’s best for her. It’s important to note that the decision she makes is best for her, not some nebulous “future.” This is an important takeaway for teenagers today, who are often pressured to leave thoughts of their own wellbeing by the wayside when it comes to making decisions about their education. Sure, take 5 APs. Sleep over the summer. Why be happy now when you can be happy in 15 years? Education is important in the sense that learning things is important. In the sense where education’s primary purpose is to train the youth to keep up with the crushing demands of capitalism, education is killing us. Of course, there may not be very much overlap between high schoolers slaving away to get the GPA they need and people who are open to considering the messages behind a Disney movie from nearly ten years ago (if there’s any at all). Still, taking care of yourself is a value worth promoting.
patient a poem by lucia trask I am waiting For a postcard or letter Envelope yellowed, My name scribbled in your favorite purple ink That will never arrive. Dear Dad, I write to no one We’ve had so many rainy days here. I wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again.
Does it rain where you are? Can you hear it fall between The crack of gunshots See it dripping down Between the running red?
I sit by the window And if I focus enough (Or rather, drift far away) I can hear your footsteps on the stairs Hear the door swing open And if I close my eyes and play pretend once more I’m five years old again And you’re just returning from work Waiting for your welcome home hug. But as long as I’m in the here and now I will never get to give you another welcome home hug Or smell the cigarette smoke Or see you hang your hat and coat on the peg Ever again.
PAGE 48
PAGE 49
THE ‘RONA IN SINGAPURA BY DIAN LOH WHAT’S IT LIKE IN THE LAND OF ETERNAL SUMMER?
Summer
in
Singapore
usually
feels
like
a
blur
—
a
technicolour
whirlwind
of
activity. Swimming pools brimming with more beings than the water can bear; tuition
centres
seeing
their
class
attendance
rates
double;
corporate
coffee
chain employees with sharp tongues and even sharper eyes, watching out for the
occasional
between
the
errant
soft
student;
ends
of
rectangular
rainbow-coloured
blocks bread
of
ice
slices;
cream the
nestled
searing
of
in hot
playground plastic on bare skin; prayers of thanks for the air-conditioning units in
all-too-crowded
thick,
humid,
shopping
holiday
air;
centres;
late
nights
the and
thunderous bright
eyes
reverb and
of
airplanes
activities
in
galore
because in a land only one degree north of the equator, Summer is a season that is quite literally, never-ending.
During
the
middle
months
of
2020
however,
all
of
this
is
simply
a
mirage:
a
nostalgic daydream crafted from fragmented memories of Summers' past. No, the
people
of
Singapore
are
not
at
play.
They
are
instead,
seated
behind
desks of chipped wood, their oily faces staring dead-eyed into hollow laptop cameras, boredom teasing out cholers they never knew they were capable of. They
are
dancing
in
front
of
their
phones,
picking
at
their
cuticles,
ordering
too much takeout, and taking several showers a day or none at all. Their limbs are laced with lead and upon their shoulders sits the weight of the world and the
painful
feeling drink
consequences
for
their
their
wallets
seventh
of
24-hour
shift
now
and
again
coffee
that
every
mug
of
work. as
They
they
morning.
are
hollow-hearted,
listen
They
are
to
the
news
watching
and
the
day
escape them with their soft palms wrapped around metal gates, mouths open for a taste of outside air. They are breathing hard, walking fast, clad in pale, sheeted
blue
and
dressed
in
responsibility,
with
complexions
the
colour
of
slate. The Summer solstice is upon all of us and Singapore is still in lockdown.
As of 2 June 2020, Singapore has left her ‘Circuit Breaker’ period and entered ‘Phase
1’
—
the
first
of
three
phases
that
are
focused
on
easing
the
old
girl
back into her regular routine. I’ve had the fortunate chance of interviewing a couple
of
individuals
experiences essential
this
opinions Most
of
sourced
institutions.
in
and
them
working
year,
workers
backgrounds,
adults
in
were
most
the
what from
are
Only
who
I
be
motley
pursuing of
public
whom
elaborate
students
industry.
presenting crew
diplomas
them
to
are
healthcare shall
a
one
of
willing
is
hospitals.
of
still
degrees
in
While
people
is
in
as
be
their
a
of
whom of
a
are
varied
culmination and
The
tertiary
others
group
of
religions.
respective
school.
sundry
summertime
are
ethnicities
secondary
this
their
some
would
different
and
and
These
here
on
as
I
are
could
gather, I would still like to have it be known that Singapore has an incredibly diverse that
population
the
interviews
of
approximately
I’ve
conducted
5.6
are
million.
limited
in
Therefore, their
this
content
would
and
mean
are
in
no
way a complete representation of the entire nation.
Asroff*
was
one
of
the
first
people
I
interviewed.
Having
celebrated
his
17th
birthday during this past Spring, Asroff is a first-year student at a polytechnic in Singapore. COVID-19 has left him without a proper introduction to his new school.
This
appears
to
be
a
light-hearted
issue
—
one
that
you’d
toss
back
and forth across the dinner table in a series of jokes and mockery — but truth be
told,
contact don’t
the with
know
alone.”
situation’s all
my
anyone
left
Asroff
secondary in
my
new
extremely
school class.
distressed
friends,” I
don’t
he
really
says, talk
and
lonely.
“I’ve
disappointed, to
anyone.
I
lost
“and feel
I
so
In
addition
to
this,
Asroff’s
stress
levels
have
been
at
an
all-time
high
from
being kept at home. Having the whole family be within 5 metres of one another for weeks on end introduces an entirely new dynamic. The friction builds, and the energy crackles and it feels like an intense static shock when the facade of
harmony
emotions
collapses
and
in
running
on
has
itself.
been
He
his
can’t
only
seem
respite.
to
He
find
an
usually
outlet
makes
for
his
his
rounds
near the edge of the Marina Bay waterfront — a good 5KM from his flat. The people there are few and far between, which allows him that sense of privacy and personal space. Each night he breathes in the clean city air and feels the ache
in
his
shoulders
dissipate
into
the
blackness
of
the
sky.
It
floats
away,
liquid ether turned gaseous mixture, and for a while, he feels free.
Asroff isn’t exactly the biggest fan of the home-based learning (HBL) classes that have replaced normal lessons in schools. most
of
the
student
interviewees
as
well.
This is a sentiment echoed by
These
classes
are
impersonal,
distant. No one quite speaks, save for the lecturer. No one quite moves either. No one quite does anything. It’s a daily session of blank staring into too-bright computer The
screens,
students
rubbing
aren’t
as
the
sleep
motivated
out to
of
their
learn,
eyes
and
every
most
half
of
hour
their
or
so.
questions
pertaining to the subject at hand are left unanswered. The Internet is a great tool, but it simply does not and cannot replace face-to-face, heavy-duty, twohour
consultations.
Something
else
worth
mentioning
would
be
the
online
examinations that feel like absolute Hell. It’s always a desperate rush for time with
the
every
lecturer’s
twitch
camera across
in
of
a
the
in
arm,
badly-lit
keyboards,
setting
beady
when
eyes
every
watching
quietly
condominium.
ink
the
little
scratching
professor
It
uttered is
against
presses
every
laborious
vulgarity
near-silent thinned
her
watch
breath
through
madness:
foolscap against
a
grainy
hands
paper,
the
taken,
the
screen
flying dread
to
show
that there are merely five minutes left. Neela knows this routine all too well.
Nikh
studies
at
one
of
the
three
best-known
universities
in
Singapore.
She’s
just finished her first year there. Nikh majors in Engineering and this sees her main
modules
involving
a
multitude
of
Mathematics
and
Physics
concepts.
Naturally, she’s no stranger to this, but HBL is a semi-new concept to her. “It’s difficult
to
conduct
pressurizing we’ve
never
Singapore entire
to
the
ever
decades
interviewees,
max,”
experienced
hasn’t
two
yourself
Nikh’s
she a
when
continues,
pandemic
initiated
of
you
living
university
school in
this
provided
can “and
of
this
closures
feel
you’ve
of
this
Unlike
students
eyes
gotta
severity.
country.” its
their
At
on
understand least
I
magnitude some
with
you,
of
optional
it’s that
haven’t.
during
the
my
student
classes
for
free in order for them to spend more time on their modules. Nikh says that she is
greatly
appreciative
of
this
but
acknowledges
that
they
did
not
make
the
online examinations any easier. She is especially unfamiliar and uncomfortable with Zoom, the medium in which said
examinations were held. The latter feeling stems from the server having been compromised enjoying
on
her
its
time
security
at
home.
in
recent
She
has
months.
been
Academics
dedicating
her
aside,
emptier
Nikh
is
hours
to
activities she feels are best for her mental and physical health. Revisiting old language
pursuits,
watching
abdominal
exercise
videos,
and
spending
her
Fridays having House Party-cum-Netflix catchups with her friends are just some of the things that have taken her mind off of the terrible state of the world. Nikh
shares
that
she
does
experience
stress,
but
it
isn’t
comparable
to
how
grateful and safe she feels, tucked away in the hearth of her flat unit along the
expanse
of
Boon
Lay
Way.
Oftentimes,
she
sits
with
a
mug
of
Milo
and
watches the sunset on the horizon, streaks of deep orange sinking into creamcoloured
buildings
and
piercing
through
hedges
of
dark
green.
She
snaps
a
picture with her phone, updates her Whatsapp chat group with another day’s stunning
shot
of
the
sky.
It’s
not
perfect,
but
it’s
something.
“Here’s
to
the
holidays,” she muses, the drink sweet on her lips.
Several bus-stops away, Shiv receives this message and her heart grows warm. She misses her friends dearly. She texts back like she always does, enthused and encouraging, wishing her flat window would allow her similar views. Shiv is also
a
student
different
one
at
one
from
of
the
Nikh’s.
“Big
Her
Three”
cheeks
universities
are
flushed
in
and
Singapore,
her
eyes
albeit
flash
in
a
the
evening light as she informs me of her current situation via a Skype call. She believes that Life has been fairly kind to her. Her university chose to replace the examinations with graded assignments and she didn’t have any classes for the
time
being
that
the
Circuit
Breaker
was
taking
place.
Focused
on
her
physical fitness and intent on developing her relationship with her father, Shiv has
been
thanked
busy
my
lectures,” can’t sia!”
lucky
she
imagine To
her
teaspoons starfruit,
with
stars
I
heard
shuddering
having
juggle
is
to a
turmeric
with
when
professes,
right
of
self-improvement
salt
tall
pitcher
and
that as
the we
she
It
of
is
sour
healing
didn’t
wiped
schoolwork
powder.
flakes
and
while
ginger
the
tea,
hidden
have
to
by
seasoning
a
off
up
boiled
wounds.
attend
sweat
cooped
accompanied plum
of
at
her
brow,
with
platter
sprinkled
those
home.
down
long
all
over
“I
“I
Stress several
of
the
sliced top.
It
looks both familiar and foreign — flashbacks of the rare sick days that bring out the herbalist in every Asian parent. However, Shiv lets me know that this is all
her
doing.
strengthen
Her
her
diet
is
immune
an
avenue
system.
She
she’s lives
been
right
utilising
beside
in
a
an
attempt
polyclinic,
so
to her
pandemic-induced health kick is well understood. Our chat finishes up within the next 40 minutes and as I watch the clouds fade into translucent wisps of blue-tinged pearl, I catch Shiv with her eyes closed and her open-faced palms pushed past the square gaps between the metal window grills. She stretches her
hands
warm
at
blessed
out,
dusk
—
who’ve
eventually
end
fingers a
fluttering
good
35
managed the
call,
Thursday at twilight.
℃.
to
while
The
brief
snatch
leaving
her
trying
it, to
slip even
her
to of if
catch air
is
only
tranquil
a
the
breeze.
cooling
for
a
relief
second
wind-seizing
It
on
is
still
to
the
or a
so.
I
balmy
Alisha
and
Iskandar
nights
from
young,
she
each is
are
cousins,
other.
sprightly
Alisha and
2
is
years
a
apart,
secondary
spirited,
her
and
with
school
opinions
birthdays
student.
on
the
only
Only
15
pandemic
four
years
and
its
resultant government intervention methods stemming from an intrinsic need to simply get outside. “The entire experience was pretty numbing, actually,” she shrugs, think
“I
it
don’t
just
quite
took
a
know
toll
what
on
me
to
in
feel
about
general.
it
I’ve
all,
so
never
I
can’t
felt
this
offer
much.
lethargic,
I
like,
ever.” Alisha is an active member of the drama club in her school and COVID19 has also affected these extra-curricular activities of hers. She would dance and sing and act and play on stage forever if she could, and her club was in the
midst
of
planning
the
annual
school
musical
when
the
nationwide
‘Stay
Home’ order was announced and subsequently enforced. Her words are laced with a slight bitterness when she speaks about the ‘could have’s, ‘would have’s and
‘should
Alisha
have’s
finds
of
herself
it
all.
listless
sufficient
when
compared
constant
bombarding
With
these
and
unmotivated.
to
of
the
bad
festivities
heavy
news
content
via
social
temporarily
put
on
Her
lessons
aren’t
her
syllabus
bears
media
channels
hold,
exactly and
has
the
been
detrimental to her mental health. More than anything, Alisha feels suffocated. A
Muslim,
her
community’s
voices
have
been
quelled
by
insensitive
remarks
from those who don’t share in on the celebration of Hari Raya Aidilfitri — also known
as
pained
Eid
al-Fitr.
silence
dismissive
In
rather
comments
Singapore,
than left
with on
the
the
the
religious
usual
posts
pomp
of
holiday
and
various
was
observed
in
splendour.
Hundreds
of
dismayed
Muslims
have
rendered Alisha tired and weary. The end of all her nights have only ever seen her eyes glazed over with jaded fatigue. She puts her phone on airplane mode and
presses
her
face
into
the
pillows.
It
seems
like
all
she
wants
to
do
nowadays is sleep.
Iskandar begins the interview by clarifying that he does recognise the setbacks faced
by
both
understand
the
the
global
community
consequent
and
hysteria
his
they
fellow
countrymen
display.
He
but
respects
fails
the
to
laws
administered during this period of terrifying uncertainty. He abides by them to the best of his ability. He just simply cannot comprehend the hypochondriacal nature
some
of
his
peers
have
adopted
as
a
means
of
protection
from
the
virus. Washing your hands for 20 seconds? Sure. Wearing a mask? Okay. Using hand
sanitizer
after
touching
foreign
surfaces?
No
problem.
Panic-buying
bubble tea? What? Stocking up on Clorox? Huh? Renting entire public spaces for
personal
raising
of
Breaker’ Fairprice supplies however,
use?
certain
has
left
aisles the are
Excuse
DORSCON
many
and
most, also
me?
In
his
levels
Singaporeans
Guardian aren’t
and
them.
enough
the
and
Pharmacy
getting
privileged
defense,
to
the
alarmed
implementation
non-locals stores. The
response
alike,
The
people
afford
the
luxury
the
stranded
people who
of
who
are of
to
the
‘Circuit
in
empty
need
these
getting
them,
excess
and
the
indulgence of storage space on an island only 721.5km2 small. In Iskandar’s own words, “it’s unbelievably selfish.
I
can’t
help
experience
but
nod
except
in
for
agreement.
the
fact
that
He
he
reveals
feels
his
little
about
classmates
his
are
academic
too
noisy
to
have his lessons be effective. He tells me that he prefers to be alone with his notes
rather
Technical diploma
than
engage
Education
in
a
in
(ITE),
Singapore
the
raucous
Iskandar
chaos.
hopes
polytechnic
after
to
his
A
student
do
well
in
the
enough
conscription.
He
Institute
to
of
pursue
prays
that
a his
increased concentration during the ‘Circuit Breaker’ will boost his grades and aid him in achieving his goals. It’s a prayer that holds a great deal of promise. His brow furrows and his voice deepens as he starts to lecture me passionately on
the
wastage
increased
we’ve
takeouts
accumulated
and
food
as
a
deliveries
country
during
thus
the
far
—
all
pandemic.
I
a
result
tuck
my
of
hair
behind my ears, lean forward, and listen.Lin* and Daniel* are working adults. They
are
the
only
people
who
aren’t
schooling.
Their
jobs
involve
being
in
direct contact with COVID-19 patients.
DISCLAIMER:
I
won’t
be
able
to
give
a
tell-all
with
regard
to
these
two
interviewees as they are looking to avoid the breaching of the doctor-patient confidentiality
agreement.
These
people
are
working
night
and
day
to
save
lives though, so the time they’ve taken out of their schedule to participate in this
interview
is
a
blessing
in
and
of
itself.
We
are
indebted
to
both
these
individuals and the rest of the healthcare workers in Singapore and around the world. To all of you who are risking your lives to keep whole nations alive: We are so appreciative of your service. We cannot thank you enough.
Lin
works
around she
as
the
was
shores
a
nurse
block.
mentally
of
in
She
the
experienced
prepared
Singapore.
COVID-19
The
when
suspect
the
the
H1N1
first
exponential
ward.
This
pandemic
wave
growth
of
in
isn’t
several
COVID-19
cases
saw
her
first
years
ago,
arrived the
time
at
so the
COVID-19
suspect ward requiring more staffing, which meant for Lin’s deployment to this department. “I was reluctant due to the shift work — I have young children at home with no nannies to take care of them — but my husband and mother were so kind and accommodating. They offered to rearrange their schedules to fit mine so that the children wouldn’t be too affected by the sudden change in hours. Honestly, I don’t know if I could’ve handled all my new responsibilities without
them.”
she
smiles
a
tired
smile,
visibly
worn
out
but
grateful.
She
continues, telling me that she can’t remember being seated for more than five minutes
at
a
time.
“It’s
tiring,
no
doubt,
but
it’s
so
worth
it.
This
is
what
I
signed up for anyway. It’s my job. No big deal,” she chuckles, “I do miss my kids lah. I feel guilty whenever they call and I can’t answer. I’m sure every parent gets it. It absolutely breaks your heart, you know.” Her feet are blistered and her
skin
shifts.
is
She
covered smells
in
like
routine all over again.
a
faint
sheen
humanity
and
of
oil.
It’s
resilience.
the
end
of
Tomorrow,
one it’ll
of be
her the
longer same
Daniel is a pediatric surgeon at a private children’s clinic. He hasn’t had many surgeries
scheduled
very
surgeries.
few
since In
the
the
pandemic
thick
of
started.
June,
he
Plenty
checks
his
of
appointments,
bookings
and
but
realises
that there will be none of the latter for the next month or so. “Parents only visit me when their child is extremely ill,” he emphasises, “they don’t want their kids near any other sick children if they can help it. Given our kiasee culture, it’s understandable.”
His
clinic
only
operates
on
alternate
days
—
Mondays,
Wednesdays, and Fridays — and is closed during the weekend. Daniel says that their
staggered
‘Circuit
opening
Breaker’
help
hours
them
and
‘appointments-only’
prioritise
their
more
severe
policy
cases.
during
“The
the
parents
don’t always welcome it, they say it’s troublesome,” he sighs, “but what can we do?
This
is
the
best
option
in
ensuring
the
safety
of
both
our
patients
and
staff.” On days that the clinic is open, Daniel sits in a white coat with a mug of black coffee on his desk at 8.30 AM sharp, ready to see the children. They grimace in pain and then beam with relief, Vitamin C tablets melting on their tiny tongues. On nights that the clinic is closed, Daniel sits at his dinner table, face
illuminated
by
the
light
of
his
laptop
screen
as
he
checks
in
with
the
parents of his patients. He asks them questions, gently broaching the topic of the
children’s
health.
They
answer
him,
warm
and
thankful.
He
smiles.
And
tomorrow, like Lin, it’ll be the same routine all over again.
Summer in Singapore 2020 has been like no other. We’re only midway through June, and Phase Two begins in two weeks. On one hand, despite the strict laws still in place, it all seems like a slow, creeping start to Singaporean society’s reemergence. On the other, the city-state is still a ghost of what it once was and
the
This
unpredictable
piece,
serving
circumstances
as
a
glimpse
make into
the
the
future
lives
feel
alien
a
couple
of
and
bleak.
of
these
Singaporeans during the pandemic, is merely a sliver of the current ongoings of
a
country
battling
the
coronavirus
during
its
hottest
months.
We
still
have
such a long way to go but I’d like to think that we’re on the right track. One day,
in
room
the
for
near
the
future,
monsoon,
perhaps the
city
when
will
Summer
prosper
has
once
said
more.
goodbye When
and
that
made
happens,
we’ll all be able to walk along the Marina Bay waterfront; dance on stage; feel the
wind
whip
our
cheeks
as
we
turn
our
faces
skywards.
We’ll
be
able
to
speak our truth in person, play with our children, and make up for all the lost time. At the moment, however, Summer is still in full swing and Singapore is in the
course
of
mending
her
broken
bones
but
her
people
will
towards the Sun and waiting for this day to arrive. Because it will.
be
looking
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