Merdeka.

It’s fitting, in a sense, that when news of Mr. Lee Kuan Yew’s passing broke I was out to dinner with friends from Singapore. Fitting that I should, in a way, be home. Someone read it out from their phone. Everyone fell silent. I didn’t really know what to think. In the end we talked it off, ate our ice cream, concerned ourselves with other things. It was only back in my room, sitting in front of a computer screen 6000 miles away from home, watching Mr. Lee Hsien Loong address the nation, that I began to cry.

I’ve never met Mr. Lee. I don’t think I’ve ever been remotely close to him – wasn’t alive during his premiership, never saw any of his speeches, haven’t (to my shame) read his books. And yet when as I was watching the broadcast I felt like the Prime Minister wasn’t the only one to have lost a family member. Of course his pain will be more real, more acute, but I’m sure that every Singaporean will have felt a yawning, gaping hole in their beings as well. Because Lee Kuan Yew was Singapore. Whatever you thought about the man or his policies there was no way you could remain unaffected by him. By virtue of your being a Singaporean, regardless of race, language or religion, wherever you are in the world, he is a part of your life. A father to all of us, if you would.

So perhaps it might seem strange that I’m so cut up about a man I’ve never met, and perhaps it will seem especially odd to people unfamiliar with our country. I can’t think of any other nation in the world who’s had someone like Mr. Lee. Yes, other countries have been built from ground up. Singapore isn’t alone in this. But was there ever any country where one man, one man’s vision, one man’s drive created one of the most successful nation-states in the world? Who dominated the political landscape for more than fifty years, who needs no statue or memorial because the country is his? I don’t think so. The closest parallel I can imagine is Winston Churchill, and even then that’s a poor man’s comparison.

I know we’re fed what is essentially propaganda in school and social studies, but there is truth in all of these things still. Look past the perception of ‘overexaggeration’ and ‘routine’ and really think about it. Think about being forcibly removed from a country in a manner most unexpected, being forced to fend for yourself immediately (this is a country we’re talking about; there’s no self-pity and scurrying under blankets for a few days), having to build something with no resources, with little infrastructure, what is essentially nothing at all. Think about industry, public housing, transport systems, trade, international standing, and so much more, all of which we have managed to achieve to the highest levels, surpassing many more established countries, within fifty years. Think about the fact that you don’t even have to think about the police force, because you know that they can always be counted on. Think of how comfortable and safe and secure and well provided-for we all are. It feels so strange not to be in Singapore when this happened, but even the fact that I am writing this while pursuing university in London on a scholarship would not be possible without him. Never has the term ‘founding father’ been more apt.

When people say that there will never be anyone like him again I don’t find them exaggerating. There’s not going to be anyone with that vision, leadership, tenacity, charisma – a curious mix of wonderfully good speaking and characteristic bluntness that was strangely endearing – ever again. He had a personality which was more like a force of nature, sweeping up everyone alongside him as he shouted again and again Merdeka! And even if there was someone like him, they wouldn’t be able to do what Lee Kuan Yew did. The means by which he pursued success would more than likely not be condoned today, and even in the later years of growing criticism, his reputation and legacy was that which carried him through.

And now we come to the most contentious part. His policies. I’m not going to lie, I’m a supporter of the PAP; I admire greatly what he has done and find criticism against him more often than not ridiculous. Personally, you can’t build a country this successfully without resorting to authoritarianism. And to go back to that other statesman, Churchill once said “you have enemies? Good. That means you have stood up for something, sometime in your life.” But this is neither the time nor place to get involved in such discussion (as regrettably a few people have done). This is about honouring a man, not a government. And it’s a poor person who can’t separate one from the other. Whatever it is, he gave his life to build a nation in a way no one else could or would have. He did what he thought was best for Singapore, and who can ask for any more?

Perhaps we’ve been expecting it, especially after his wife died, but all the same it doesn’t make things any easier. It seems so…surreal, to know that he’s no longer around. Frail and weak he might have gotten towards the end of his life, but he was still that all-knowing, all-seeing presence, the essence of the country. In a way he was no longer a man but a symbol. And for the reality of mortality to hit something like that is something that can’t really be explained. Singapore won’t fall apart now that he’s gone, but it’ll never be the same. Not really. This year’s National Day – our fiftieth anniversary, as a country – is going to be the first one without him there. It’s an almost unimaginable concept. No more of that familiar white shirt embossed with floral patterns. No more close up of him singing the national anthem of the country he helped to create. It’s so cruel that he couldn’t live to see our fiftieth, it really is. But at the same time I know that it’s pointless wishing he could have stayed. He would have gone some day and it’s time for us to let go.

Everyone will have something to say about him because he touched all of our lives. People will remember and speak of him differently, of course, but we will never forget. We can never afford to forget. I just hope that on National Day they give him the proper tribute he deserves. He may have been known for his coldness, but he is the reason when I think of home I think of Singapore, and my heart fills with an indescribable warmth.

To The End

When Winston Churchill was born in 1874 my great-grandfather hadn’t even been born yet. When he died in 1965 my father was ten years old. I don’t have any sort of conceivable connection with Churchill – no true memories, no familial bonds, nothing whatsoever – yet even I, like so many Britons, hold him in something of a mystic regard. No one else has such a wide-reaching legacy as he does; no one else has such worldwide respect.

I might, of course, be overstating this a bit. There are as many Churchill-haters as there are Churchillians. The new fashion in history seems to be one debunking the Churchill myth, as if anyone taken up by the stories of their childhood is an idiot who doesn’t know better. Certainly he is not the giant that many people make him out to be and not the immortal that he has been elevated to. His detractors would have made his flaws well known by now. Awful military strategy, always interfering in things that he had no experience in, and believing that his way was the right way. Gallipoli, the Norway campaign, the Balkans, the delaying of the Second Front all smears on his military record; thousands of lives lost, so on and so forth.

Arguably more controversial (for we have all had our share of bad military commanders) his views on empire and race. Churchill, as expected for someone whose emotions not brains drove him, was a hopeless romantic. If he was the sort to have tattoos he probably would have gotten ‘the sun never sets on the British Empire’. It was the ultimate form of prestige, something that had to be defended at all costs. He was a man little given to change, preferring to keep his set beliefs regarding other peoples. I doubt he would have been quite impressed with this Chinese girl writing things about him. Insert things about Gandhi and ‘half-dressed fakirs’; insert something about Indian famine; insert something about poison gas against uncivilised peoples.

As a wealthy man one cannot describe him as being attuned to the problems of the poor; his less famous home policies in the twenties and thirties spring to mind. A man, shall we say, out of touch, ineffectual, never a peacetime leader, and rightly deposed at the end of the Second World War. As a historian I suppose I should be affronted at his rewriting of history, the generation of a myth widely believed and long-held. Certainly he admitted that he intended to write it, and this egotistical demonstration does not speak as well of his character.

But what I have always admired about Churchill is how he was successful in spite of, perhaps even because of, his flaws. He would have been the first one to admit that he was not perfect, I’m sure. But despite his bouts of depression he picked himself up and got on with his job. Despite his wilderness years and in the face of mounting opposition, calls for him to retire, that sort of thing, he shouted them all down. His stubbornness to get his own way was one of his defining features, and while it might have led to military disasters, it also led to human triumph; one wonders, had Churchill not become Prime Minister, whether Britain would have discussed peace terms with Germany. His racial attitudes are inexcusable, and rightly should be, but it has to be remembered that he grew up in the age of Queen Victoria and imperialist jingo. I doubt any other white men of his day would have been sympathetic to the peoples they saw beneath them, either. It’s even noted that he was less harsh in his assessment than some of his colleagues; and he did change, in the end, to become less prejudiced, hardly easy to unlearn years of institutionalised racism.

Where his inability to relate to the common people might have hindered, Churchill reached out. Everyone knows the famous story of the old lady going ‘look, he’s crying. He really does care.’ And Churchill did; far more than the politicians of today, even. Certainly very few of the people who actually knew him disliked him; his staff were all devoted to him, despite his insistence on working at odd hours. His egotism has led to many humourous comments, has built his charisma and wit, has pushed him to do things that he might not otherwise have tried. It might be seen as a bad thing to be an egotist, but personally I would love to be one. It means that you’re confident in yourself no matter what other people say. That you believe in yourself. If Churchill hadn’t believed in himself, how could he have gotten an entire nation to do the same?

When I look at the people I admire I find a common thread amongst them – the passion for doing what they love. Churchill was no stranger to letting his emotions get the better of him, but it is this state of half-crazed enthusiasm that I find so endearing. He jumped with boundless energy from painting to bricklaying to writing. This is what truly defined Churchill, past the politics and the speeches. The endless devotion. The uninhibited dedication to do what he loved and thought was right. From this passion I think extended all of his other great qualities; stubbornness and determination was, after all, to protect that which was dearest to him. His rousing words, mobilised and sent into battle for the cause.

Yes, Churchill was a romantic who believed in the greatness of the Empire that was instead to come crumbling down around him. But it was this romanticism which led him to fight so hard. To protect his Island at all costs. Perhaps it has become mythical, but he held it as a symbol of hope and inspiration. Funnily enough, that’s what’s been done with Churchill as well. A mythical figure held to be an inspiration for a people who need it, especially in the climate of these days. Of course Churchill was flawed. But the inspiration lies in that he was able to achieve everything despite being flaws. The greatest human, if you would.

Sometimes I will go to Westminster to see his statue in Parliament Square. A strange feeling overcomes me. I stand there and stare at it. I swallow. I try to smile, I bite my lip, I try to say something, but I can’t really think of anything to say. It’s difficult to capture what the emotion in my chest is, a sort of gnawing, bittersweet feeling that only he can stir. Perhaps the word is gratitude. In the end I am always reduced to using his words instead; I suppose he would have quite liked that. I whisper, “we shall go on to the end.” Perhaps not his most famous quote, but my favourite one. Because that was what he was, when all is said and done. Not a giant, not an immortal; nor did he have to be. Simply the man who carried on when no one else could have.

It’s ‘its’

Say ‘its’ out loud. Now say ‘it’s’ out loud. Besides the stunning number of apostrophes in the second sentence, there’s not much of a difference – or is there?

Much like the great mysteries of life, like Where’s Wally and Who Is Adele Dazeem, many people cannot comprehend the difference between the two. It’s almost as if you had identical twins, one of them had a ear missing, and you still can’t tell the difference.

Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Google is alarmingly clever when there’s a clever person using it.

Anyhow, let’s take a look at one of the most famous lines in cinematic history (and no, I’m not talking about the thin red one) –

Looks good? No, but a) we’re talking about the grammar here, b) I’m using a Bamboo tablet with NO PEN PRESSURE and c) it’s Frankenstein’s monster, what did you expect. At least it makes sense, right? Now how about if we consider this:

Frankenstein in this case, is noun-ifying the word ‘Alive’ and it becomes an actual physical Thing, like a weird combination of Olivia Newton John and Benjamin Grimm. Now you know the true reason why people were running out of the cinemas.

The easy-version of this is: its is a posessive pronoun rather like ‘his’, ‘hers’, or ‘theirs’. Just as ‘his’ belongs to him, ‘hers’ belongs to ‘her’ and ‘theirs’ belongs to ‘them’, ‘its’ belongs to ‘it’.

Meanwhile, ‘it’s’ is a contraction, although less painful than pregnancy, of the words ‘it’ and ‘is’ or ‘it’ and ‘has’. Basically, you’re being lazy.

Now, putting everything together and also throwing in a zombie movie just because we can, we get:

Obviously, the guy who’s about to get eaten is questioning the state of the zombie’s head: or rather, why there’s only about two thirds of it left. This is correct and normal (in the context of a zombie movie). If you add a random stroke that so happens to be between the ‘t’ and the ‘s’, though –

then the thing that the guy who’s about to get eaten is pointing to is an entire head. (Oh my god – it is head.) This is not so correct and not so normal, even in the context of a zombie movie.

Now that you know the difference, you can become a grammarnazi who goes around drawing irrelevant comics on other people. Or don’t. Its actually super annoying.

Five Things You Need To Know: The Crimean War

That little spot south of Ukraine continues to fascinate people all around the world, and should Putin ever decide on a singing career, his version of Crimea River would surely rake in 140% of the top billboard spots. At the same time, I’m sure that no one’s interest in the previous events which made Crimea famous has been piqued. That’s all right, because as a history student I specialise in things that no one cares about.

So just what was the Crimean War? On the first level, you would say that it was a war which happened in Crimea. And you wouldn’t be wrong – but if you’re going to say this and pass yourself off as a military history expert, then you’ve got about as much chance as any given unnamed character in a Rambo movie. Here, therefore, are five things you need to know about the Crimean War:

1. The One Where Everyone Was Against Russia

History, like Keanu Reeves, doesn’t change, and predictably the whole thing began with Russia. First of all, Russia rushed through the Expandables 1, 2 and 3 in twenty years, and talks were in for a fourth. Second, they demanded the Ottoman Empire let them protect Eastern Orthodox people in Turkey. Obviously the Ottomans were having none of that.

So what did Russia do? Clue: it’s something they do all the time. 

Britain and France weren’t happy about this, of course. They generally aren’t happy about anything (read: each other) but this was particularly pissifying. The French in particular were annoyed, because they’d been trying to gain a religious upper hand in the Ottoman Empire. So what did they do?

They sent a fleet to the Dardenelles. Now anything France does Britain has to do too.

So they sent a fleet to the Dardenelles as well. All this happened without a formal declaration of war; so we have three European countries wondering around in Ottoman territory. Tired of having to figure out which red, blue and white flag was which, the Ottomans made it simpler for themselves by declaring war on Russia and promptly attacking them. And after Russia rejected a proposed treaty, so did Britain and France. Russia must have felt very proud of itself.

2. The Charge of the Light Brigade happened during the war.

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume it wasn’t quite like this.

The Charge of the Light Brigade is part of the Battle of Balaclava, which is not quite the same as the battle for balaclava (terrorists running around shooting each other in order to get the last ski mask on sale). Originally, the Light Brigade was going to handle something they were capable of handling, but someone made a massive mistake when his sweep of the arm to locate their targets included some pretty heavy duty guns. There are two lessons to be learnt from this: a) don’t sweep your arms and b) if you don’t want to get the blame, die. (The guy who swept his arms got killed later on.)

They rode horses into cannons. The leader, Lord Cardigan (the Battle of Balaclava was really the precursor of any given fashion week today), survived and went off to have champagne on his yacht.

3. Florence Nightingale was around.

For a war that not many people care about, it sure spawned a lot of famous names. The Lady with the Lamp went around with some 38 volunteeer nurses trying to fix up wounded British soldiers – most of whom were suffering from disease more than actual wounds. Whether she participated in the Charge of the Light Brigade was not known.

4. It gave the Americans Alaska.

You that little bit on the map that’s always the same colour as the USA even though there’s this big chunk of Canada in between? Yep – the Crimean War was the reason why. After the war ended, the Russians were so far in debt that they decided to sell off the land. Unfortunately, they didn’t know just how valuable it was going to be until 13 years later, when the USA discovered oil and shit.

Then again, the Russians were responsible for Sarah Palin, so we all know who the real winner is here.

5. The last surviving veteran of the Crimean War was a tortise.

Timothy was actually a girl (anyone who knows a Timothy, you might want to check) and served as a mascot on multiple Royal Navy ships. At her time of death she was around 165 years old and lived a long, fruitful life. After serving with the navy, she decided that enough was enough and took up residence in an Earl’s home, where she got the Earl’s motto etched onto her underbelly: “Where have I fallen? What have I done?”

Admittedly, this is not one of the best mottos around.

And thus concludes five things you need to know about the Crimean War. This article was written for no reason except to use the Crimea River joke.

Review: The Imitation Game

The short of it: ★★★★
A film that everybody should watch, even if it’s just for Cumberbatch’s acting alone.

There were three reasons i was ridiculously excited for this movie. The first was the history: as probably anyone who’s been about this blog for a bit will know, I’m so much of a history nerd it isn’t even funny. Alan Turing holds a special place in my obsession because I find him so under appreciated, and my heart goes out to under appreciated individuals. I really hoped that he would be represented well.

The second reason is that I’m a Cumberbatch fan. (The Cumber Collective, as they’re supposed to be known; the Cumberbitches, as they’re not supposed to be, but still are.) I’m not a very active member, to be fair; but a requirement of being on tumblr is giggling every time someone mentions Eggs Benedict, and it was with high hopes I went into the theatre with a ticket for The Imitation Game in my hand.

(The third reason is Matthew Goode, but more on that later.)

As a cynical pessimist I have learnt that life is full of disappointments, like losing 4-0 to MK Dons and learning that the Big Bang Theory has been renewed for more seasons. Thankfully, this was not one of them. It was everything I’d expected of it and even more. I’d definitely teared up more than once by the time the credits began to roll, and the whole thing was an emotional roller coaster propped up by the beautiful plot and even more beautiful acting.

Warning: spoilers ahead.

First, the requisite plotline recap. The film traces (in a haphazard, jumping-around manner) Alan Turing’s life, from his schoolboy days in 1928 to his arrest for homosexuality in 1951, but concentrating the most heavily on his involvement at Bletchley Park during the Second World War. Turing was of course famous for his involvement with Operation Ultra, where the undecipherable Enigma Code was, well, deciphered.

Can I just take a moment to mention that, well, moment? The point where the enigma code is finally cracked. When Turing’s machine does what he’s been telling everyone it will. When tensions, up to that point crackling with energy, where everything seems hopeless, suddenly gives way to hugs and cheers. I cried with relief, and I think that’s the mark of the film: it’s gotten you so involved with their journey that their relief feels like yours. You are happy for them, you are happy with them. It feels like you’ve won the world cup or you’ve saved a million people from burning buildings – which is essentially what they did. The direction of the moment – the music, the zooming in onto Turing’s face, cracking with emotion – sweeps you up completely. It’s ridiculously well done. Anyone who doesn’t feel even something at that moment probably is in reality made of metal and was sent here by aliens to conquer the world.

From micro to macro, and the direction as a whole was fantabulous. Of course there were certain obvious shots, like for an interrogation scene the table-length viewpoint, but the colours were really nicely put together. The one problem I had was the weird overlays of actual footage with the ticking machine, but it’s a very small annoyance of mine.

Of course, what’s a film without the acting? Benedict Cumberbatch, everybody. Benedict Cumberbatch. If ever there was a time you thought he couldn’t act, I beg you to go watch this movie. Just listen to his voice – the nuances, the pauses, even the words are so ridiculously crafted. It couldn’t have been more well done if it was an overcooked steak. And how he absolutely changes after the chemical castration; his shaking fingers, paler face, wide eyes. An absolute performance to die for, and I will be very disappointed if he doesn’t at least get nominated for an oscar, if not win it.

As a literature student, this movie was a feast for my read-too-deep tendencies. There are so many little things which are so significant, like the fact that he buys them all apples – surely the story of Alan Turing taking cyanide but leaving an apple by his bed you’ve heard of. Or the fact that, in the second last scene, he switches off the lights to the machine – symbolic of letting it go. All of these little ideas fit so perfectly into the narrative.

As a history student I was somewhat more disappointed; I didn’t like the allusion to him being a Soviet spy, although I understand the motivations for dramatic tension and all. But Turing was a real British patriot, highly unlikely to have ever been harbouring a Soviet Spy (which he did in the movie), much less be one. The slander in that sense was something I highly disliked. Other small historical inaccuracies include Hugh still being around the bonfire when he was transferred in 1944, though that’s just a quibble. I didn’t like either the skipping over so quickly of 1943-45, just done through numbers and voiceovers – although that might have been the intended effect.

But when it all comes down to it, what gets me the most about this movie is just the story. The real story behind it. The inherent importance of Turing’s work, of the work of the men and women behind the scenes; the highlighting of unsung heroes, not just the ones we are so used to seeing. When they crack Enigma you are not once left without the gravity of what they have just achieved. When they have to decide who lives and who dies. The very fact that the movie gets you talking and thinking after you leave, that’s the most powerful point. How this hero of Britain was chemically castrated for something that shouldn’t even be punished in the first place. How he was driven to suicide. How he didn’t get a pardon till sixty years later. Alan Turing is so important – without him, humanity would be at a loss – and I think it’s great that at least people are opening their eyes to that.

And if that’s not enough a reason to watch it, I present to you:

MATTHEW GOODE.

GOOD ENOUGH.

The Three Most Annoying Singaporean Habits

I’m going to put a disclaimer here because I don’t want anyone getting offended and taking me to court: this is simply my opinion. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people whose opinions run the world, and I am largely inconsequential as a human being; hence, if anyone at all is actually reading this, please do not take offense. The fact that I like 90s boybands who thought it was a good idea to wear chain jackets and leather for their first video shoot largely renders my thoughts irrelevant.

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1. Taking Up Seats On The Train

Having been one of the lucky few to enjoy the Mummy Express throughout my years of schooling, I was thankfully shielded from the woes of public transport. I rode it from time to time, although never every day. But then everything changed when the fire nation attacked tuition began. Now I ride the trains and buses two to four times a day, and by god some people just make me want to become Edward Norton in Fight Club (not the whole having two people thing, but more of

Singaporeans are brilliant at taking up seats. We are a people who like our privacy and even I get annoyed when someone sits next to me on the bus; sometimes on the train even though there are seats I just stand up because I would very much like not to  have to squeeze myself between the woman religiously watching a Korean drama with her face two inches away from her phone and the guy sporting a hockey stick that might kill me and an amount of sweat that will. But I’ve got nothing against these people; they’re keeping to themselves and it’s just an unfortunate side-effect of sports. It’s the people who actively discourage you from sitting next to them that annoy the hell out of me. Recently I watched as an old lady put her hand on the seat next to hers and leaned on it; obviously, no one can tell her to get her hand off because if you tell an old lady anything but ‘can I help you with those bags’ or ‘do you need a seat’ then you are immediately the scum of society. That lady was milking her societal privilege like what happens on a cow farm.

Other people spread their legs so wide that if you sat down you’d have to sit on their laps – this might or might not be a pick up line rather than attempt to ensure a comfortable amount of space, but either way it is still something that makes me want to buy masking tape and pull a Quicksilver from Days of Future Past. There are those who mistake the slight raised bump in between two seats as a resting place for their butts. People who are sitting firmly in one seat but somehow have the physical capacity to position the upper half of their body in the next. And people who seem perfectly normal but the moment you sit down attempt to drill several holes into your head with their eyes.

There’s already a lack of seats on public transport. DON’T MAKE THIS ANY MORE DIFFICULT.

2. People with zero sense of spatial awareness

Yes, people with phones, I’m looking at you.

I understand that train rides and bus rides get boring. If you aren’t the sort who feels like throwing up in the first five minutes of the Hurt Locker (i.e. me) then one of the best ways to relieve boredom is ostensibly to play games or watch movies. This is fine if you are sitting down and/or are generally unmoving. Unfortunately many people see the need to do this while they are moving, hence turning themselves into disturbers of the peace. If you’re rushing to get somewhere and you find yourself stuck behind someone texting, you can bid your hopes of making it on time goodbye. People on their phones have absolutely no concern for people who are not themselves. On travelators they sway from side to side but always end up hogging the entire road so you can’t get past them at all. On escalators they are less culpable because everyone seems to want to stand on the right whether they are carrying phones or otherwise. Is it so hard to stand on the left – or if you’re not sure what the left is, stand where other people are already standing? While Singaporeans have certainly improved, it simply hasn’t been enough. Forget all that loss of communication bullshit; this is the real reason phones are Trouble.

This probably extends to people who have no sense of decorum. Just today on the MRT I was accosted by two teenagers evidently unable to keep to themselves; they shouted their conversation across the carriage while taking their shoes and socks off and sitting on the floor. 

3. Smoking

When I visited Japan last year I saw that the Japanese have these designated smoking points in and around public areas or offices or places like that – and every single smoker went down to that point to smoke. I thought it was a stupid idea at first because I walked immediately past all of them and got a full blast of the smoke, but two minutes later the air was as fresh as a vegetable market on a Sunday morning. (Depending on your definition of fresh, that simile, really.) 

Now back to Singapore – there are no smoking points around, which means that office workers get out of their offices and the first thing they do is blow smoke into the faces of poor innocent passersby. I’m a lazy butt and I don’t like moving around for other people’s convenience so okay, feel free to smoke along the street in front of your building – but at least face the other way so that you don’t contaminate the souls of people. 

These aren’t the worst, though: the worst are the people who smoke while they walk. Smoking while you’re walking is just not cool, okay. If you’re walking at a relatively fast speed it probably means that people can’t overtake you and are stuck behind you breathing in the smoke for as long as you’re on the same road. It’s almost literally a death trap. I don’t even have to quote stats to show how bad smoking is because everyone knows how bad smoking is. So if you want to ruin your own lungs then please go ahead – but don’t involve anyone else in the collateral.

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This article was originally meant to have five annoying habits, but unfortunately I can’t remember the others I wanted to talk about. Oh, well – I suppose there’ll have to be a part two.

What In The World Is KI?

One of the questions invariably asked in the arena of polite-but-awkward-social interaction (including, but not limited to distant family members and university tea sessions) is ‘so what subjects did you do for A Levels’? It’s just as well that the standard recitation includes your language subject at the end because I love watching the surprise that colours people’s otherwise-bored faces when I finish with ‘…KI’.

The next invariable question is ‘what’s that like?’

Everyone has a general (no pun intended) of what GP is – basically a more in-depth continuation of the argumentative O Level essay. People have less of an idea what KI is – and this includes people who actually do the subject. If you take a gander at the ‘syllabus’ document for KI you’ll see that we don’t actually have a syllabus. It’s as much of a mystery as the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot.

In the interest of alleviating some of that mystery, I thought I’d write a post about KI (and also about GP). Now I admit that, having never done the subject, I couldn’t call myself a GP expert, but hopefully this help people in understanding KI a little bit better as well as whether you should choose to do this horrendous subject. Keep in mind that my KI training came from the two-man KI department of VJC, so this might not be true across all JCs in Singapore.

With a subject as vague as Knowledge and Inquiry, there are bound to be a ridiculous amount of stories, none of which make sense. I thought I’d start with dispelling some of these myths.

1. KI is about philosophy.
If you’re thinking of buying TOK papers from the IB programme to practice, the only thing you’re going to practice is wasting your money. KI is not so much about philosophy as it is about the logic and reasoning behind philosophy. Think of it as swimming: philosophy is the springboard you dive off, but then there’s this huge pool of water down below that is a whole other story.

The first thing we were taught is not to involve too many philosophical concepts. Which means when you’re talking about, say, moral philosophy, your aim is not to talk in detail about what it is (explaining deontology and utilitarianism is a huge no-no, as I found out the hard way). Your aim is to explain whether and why they are valid – the reasoning and logic behind the concepts. I did my Independent Study on moral philosophy in the death penalty debate and I concentrated not on moral concepts but on reasoning as a form of justification for moral concepts, and why it is not necessary for there to be wholly reliable and universal moral concepts for moral knowledge to exist. 

(I’m re-reading my IS right now, and I have no idea what I’m saying. Ah, the good old days.) 

2. KI is all about smoking.
If you don’t know your stuff properly, you’re never going to get anywhere. Consider my first point – philosophy as itself is not important, but it is very important as a supplement for your arguments. No one cares whether you can define ‘a priori knowledge’ to the letter. But everyone cares when you use that definition of a priori in a sensible, rational way as part of your argument. 

This point also depends very heavily on your definition of ‘smoking’. If you define ‘smoking’ as ‘throwing stuff up randomly in the hopes that something will be come out of it’ then good luck, expect to see a D. If you define smoking as ‘I don’t know anything about philosophy but let’s see whether I can reason my way out of this’ then you’ve still got a chance of acing the paper. The most important thing about KI is not to lose your head when writing your essays – you have to plan and make sure all of your points flow in a logical, comprehensive manner. Again, KI is all about reasoning and logic, so that’s a huge part of the grading process, and you can probably scrape by if you don’t know your content but know your reasoning very well.

If you define ‘smoking’ as ‘lighting a cigarette’ then you’re probably not an arts student and I apologise. 

3. KI is easy / you don’t have to mug.
LOL, no. It’s true that our classes are very lax (considering our short-staffed department, our lessons consisted of sitting around just talking and occasionally eating chicken nuggets). But when it comes down to the actual exams and you don’t ‘get’ KI, then you are officially screwed. I took history, which involves loads of mugging, literature, which involves loads of thinking, maths, which is just horrible, and economics, which is also horrible – and I have to say KI was the hardest subject. It’s true that we have three hours to do two essays (which is a ridiculous amount of time when you take the four-essay three-hour history paper). But the thing about KI is that we don’t actually know what’s required of us. You don’t know whether you’ve written a good essay until the grade comes back. And what’s worse is the second paper: the long and short passages. Three passages to analyse and squeeze in content in two hours is a ridiculous amount of time in the opposite way from the essay. Short passages are easy but the long passage is something else. I think the highest grade I ever saw on a long passage in my cohort was 19/30. Consultations don’t help – my teacher patiently explained the long passage to me, or so I thought until I left the consult and realised I still had zero idea how to write one. 

And you must mug. 

Now that I’ve addressed some of the myths of KI, let me go into the differences between KI and GP. 

1. GP is easier.
I taught GP at SRJC for a period of about two months, including the A Level results day, and thank goodness I got an A for KI otherwise I’d be ruing the day I took the bloody subject. While I taught I realised that GP was the easiest subject I’d done for a long time. It’s just point, elaboration, explanation, and as long as you know your content you can definitely score and A. And you have twelve questions to choose from, what even! In KI we have a one out of two choice for one essay and one out of four for the other. And when your paper was done in a DAFUQ year like mine was, there really is only one essay question you can choose to do. (Men cannot know what women know. I mean what?) GP requires very little thinking – at least, this is compared to KI – it really is just an extended O level English essay. As long as your points make some sort of sense and you memorise enough examples you’ve definitely scored well. 

Another thing that makes GP easier is the sheer amount of model essays there are. KS Bull is a popularly referenced resource and schools always give out model essays anyway. We didn’t have a single model KI essay to read (those in KS Bull don’t count because to be honest we didn’t think they were very good). The passages are stunningly difficult compared to comprehension. And finally, GP doesn’t have a 3000 word research essay that most people end up winging close to the deadline because of all the other subjects they’re taking. We often say that KI shouldn’t be a H2, it should be a H3, because it’s that difficult.

2. GP is more structured.
GP has a very set, specific way of doing things. With KI it’s more of an ‘anything goes’ phenomenon, which is why an A for KI is guaranteed much, much less than an A for GP. Even the best command of English won’t help you if you don’t actually know what you’re talking about and don’t have a semblance of reasoning (as I found out, again, the hard way). And comprehension? They’re actually giving you questions to answer, I mean MAN I would love if they did that for KI. But nope – in KI, you pick your own question for the independent study, and if you pick the question wrongly then you’re pretty much screwed no matter what you do for the next six months. I can’t stress enough how rigid the GP method is compared to KI – so if you think that writing an argumentative essay is difficult enough because you have to think independently, don’t even think about taking KI. 

3. KI is a lot more interactive.
The best KI lessons are when everyone speaks up and you get to hear different opinions. We argued a hell of a lot in our classes and people always had some sort of disagreement going on – which really forms the backbone of KI. In GP there’s mostly only one way of doing a question (unless it’s a really open-ended question). You guys even have ‘absolute’ questions – the only ‘absolute’ we have in KI is ‘absolutely not’ written above your U grade. I guess the good thing about this part is that we get to explore a lot of avenues that GP doesn’t give you, but at the same time it’d be nice having a set answer to fall back on, which KI doesn’t provide.

4. KI is a lot broader and deeper.
My experience of GP is just learning rote facts for different areas. But even these areas are constrained to what’s going on in the world today. KI meanwhile delves into all sorts of areas, both past and present – central to it all of course is the umbrella topic of epistemology, but we explore philosophies of anything from maths to art to history (yes we do the history of history) to of course my pet (by pet I mean I never want to hear the words ‘moral’ or ‘ethical’ again) topic morality/ethics. Every branch has like a dozen mini-branches and it gets very messy and complex and deep. The upside of this is that you’re always prepared to talk about any conversation topic thrown at you during parties. 

So should you take KI or GP? 
I took KI because I thought it would be interesting and it is – just that when it comes to the actual exam it’s very painful. It’s a good subject to take as a side hobby-type thing, but not as an A level examination unless you’re confident with your reasoning and argumentation skills.

Taking KI shouldn’t be done out of an interest in philosophy because KI is a lot more than philosophy. You should take KI if you enjoy arguing, independent thinking, and learning to look at things in different ways (let’s be honest – if you take KI you’ll never look at life the normal way again). Also take it if you’re not doing A Levels just for the sake of getting the grades, because KI is more of a holistic experience rather than to get an A. It develops your thinking and improves your critical appreciation of things by a vast amount. The skills I learnt with KI are invaluable. 

If you want a safe A, go with GP. The importance of a safe A in the Singaporean ‘everyone gets an A’ context cannot be underestimated. 

It all really depends on what sort of person you are – whether you enjoy studying, or you enjoy results. KI is ridiculously hard – there’s no doubt about that. And it doesn’t get enough recognition for all of its difficulty. But looking back at the journey I have very few regrets going on the road less taken.

P.S. if you need some KI help, my academic blog has some incoherent KI ramblings that might be of use 🙂

It’s All English To Me

Because of a series of circumstances (including but not limited to a) my over-eagerness to study in the United Kingdom and b) my desperate need to acquire money despite having nothing to spend it on) I have been spending my pre University days giving tuition to a host of colourful characters. The great thing about tuition is that you get to meet a lot of people you wouldn’t ordinarily have met – the downside is that you’ll have to teach things that you wouldn’t ordinarily have taught. Raised on a diet of thick academic history books and friends who have actually read Hemingway, teaching kids whose standards of English are shockingly low came as a bit of a rude awakening. 

One of my students is this little old Indian lady who took it upon herself to go to ITE and learn English. I think this is a very courageous decision and it’s certainly great to hear about someone who, though old, wants to continue learning. Unfortunately, the recent change in the English syllabus has done nothing to help her. Instead of the good old proper comprehension, you now have ridiculous things like ‘name three things that help the advertisement to achieve its purpose – font size, layout, colour of text etc.’ It’s probably done in the name of cultivating a sense of literature (because it’s quite obvious that the comprehension paper is now skewed towards literature) in the young, but I don’t believe that this is the right way to go about doing so.

Literature is great. It’s a really useful subject because it broadens your mind to a lot of different things and allows you to examine situations from different perspectives. After literature (and Knowledge and Inquiry) I never looked at anything the same way again; I’m always digging from hidden meanings and even in a normal book or movie I’m going ‘my god what symbolism’ or other things that make my parents give me strange looks involving raised eyebrows. But the fact of the matter is that English and Literature are vastly different subjects and each of them should be kept to their own arena. This is what is done in JC, with GP and Literature two completely different subjects. Literature requires a standard of English beyond what is regular and this is why only certain types of students choose to venture onto that dangerous path.

By blurring the line, the O level syllabus has made it even harder for students to improve. The simple fact of the matter is that a lot of students don’t have the requisite standard of English to pass a normal comprehension paper, let alone something Literature based. Going back to the little old lady, she doesn’t understand words like ‘weave’ and ‘images’.  She asked me to explain to her what ‘bits of sticks’ meant. How is someone like that going to be able to understand concepts like irony and tone and symbolism? And it’s not just her – another student is seventeen years old and can’t string together a grammatically-correct sentence. Still more children are struggling with the very fundamentals. By skipping these fundamentals completely and going on to a higher-level topic, we are coming dangerously close to leaving even more children in the lurch. The students I taught at SRJC were woefully underprepared for the rigour of the GP syllabus; making the English paper at O Levels even tougher (and demanding different things that GP does, to boot) does not solve the problem.

Another thing I don’t like about the syllabus is that there is no right answer, yet they persist on giving ‘right’ answers nevertheless. For a secondary school paper it’s important that there are proper answers. Secondary school I feel is where English is really drilled into you; the rules of grammar, of vocabulary, of writing a proper essay that will then make the transition into GP easier. The syllabus now is, for the lack of a better word, fluffy. The ‘name three things’ question is ridiculous – any number of things could help the advertisement achieve its purpose, and it all depends on you as a person which features stick out the most. And all of the questions are like that. Just go take a look at any given Section A paper nowadays. You’ll probably not get all of the questions right regardless of your prowess in English, which is stupid. A paper meant to test the standard of English is wrong when someone who has an excellent command of the language is able to fail.

Finally, you can’t expect teachers to set papers like this when they evidently have no training in the area. All the papers I’ve gone through with my students have mistakes in them, be it with grammar or with reasoning or with the actual answers. How can you expect students to improve in English when their teachers are making mistakes? Already my students have picked up some bad habits like problems with subject verb agreement and tense – habits that were found in the papers they were doing. It’s easy to demand a higher standard and much harder to implement it, I know; but all the same steps have to be taken to ensure that we don’t pass down the wrong values and ideas to students. 

I would personally much rather reinstate the old syllabus. At least that was a good drilling of English, covering actual comprehension; allowing students to understand the basic level before choosing to move on to something more complex. Despite the common perception that literature and English are similar (hence the term English Literature) it couldn’t be further from the truth. Pursuing this mix won’t help students to appreciate Literature more; it’ll simply lead to more students failing English and hating both subjects. Students who want to take literature will take it without having to be force-fed. If you want to increase the appreciation for literature, then do it properly – by fostering interest in the subject as a subject and not cross-breeding it with English. That’s something best left for mad scientists holed up in top secret labs to pursue. 

That Day of Days

This is going to be an emotionally-charged piece which will probably not make sense and jump from here to there as I try to clear my thoughts, but it is still something I needed to write.

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Every year on the 6th of June, I turn on the TV, start up the DVD player, and watch the first and second episodes of Band of Brothers. And every year as I see their faces, the word runs through my head again and again: dead, dead, dead. Some of them had the good grace and fortune to die peacefully in their old age; others would die just fifteen minutes later. The list is always growing longer. My brother’s favourite soldier, Bill Guaranere, died March 8 this year. My own, Richard Winters, died three years ago. There are an estimated 1200 Normandy veterans still alive, most if not all older than ninety, and soon they too will pass beyond the field of living memory. Already people forget them; before I came along I’m fairly certain none of my friends even understood what D-Day was, let alone when it happened.

Personally, I have no connection whatsoever to those men who stormed those beaches. I don’t know any veterans, and I will probably never know any. But when I watch those sweeping shots of C-47s heading towards France, those clouds lit up with what is certainly not lightning, I always start crying, because it has everything to do with me, and you, and them. The significance of D-Day is often overstated, but it was important nonetheless, the opening up of the second front that Stalin had demanded for so long and that signaled the beginning of the end that Churchill had once spoken of. If D-Day had not succeeded, who’s to say what might have happened? but the one thing for sure is that even more millions of people would have died, and the war would have dragged on. If those boys – some no older than me – hadn’t fought their hearts out I, many other people, possibly a whole race, might not even be here today.

You’ll often hear people deriding the need for history. What’s the point of remembering, they’ll ask, something that happened seventy years ago? What’s the point of all these memorials and ceremonies and thinking? The past is the past and there’s no point looking back. We’ve got to focus on the future. And they’re right; the future is important. But anyone who thinks that the past isn’t needs to watch the veterans, streaming back to Normandy for what might possibly be their last time. Kneeling down at friends’ graves, bowing their heads in front of the pristine white crosses. Needs to see the sacrifices that both they and the people no longer there have made. Needs to realise how important remembering is, if only to tell us how we came here. Because that’s what history’s about, isn’t it; it’s our story, the chronicle of humanity, and respecting those who guided us.

It’s impossible to truly imagine what those wee hours of the morning were like. The silence of the shots of the paratroopers pre-take off, the pushing and pulling into the planes, the droning of the engines. They must have known that they were going to their doom, or at least that they’d never see some of their friends again. The steady rocking of the boats, the tension gnawing at their hearts. The waiting, more than anything, is the most horrifying thing about D-Day. The repeated stops and starts, never knowing when you’re going to go into battle, never quite knowing when that red light is going to flick on or when you’re going to land. Just sitting in that boat or in that plane and having to go towards death bravely, having to – one might say – soldier on.

What Band of Brothers did so well was juxtapose the silent nighttime, with sudden flashes of terror and bursts of machine gun fire cutting deep into what could have been any peaceful French countryside. And doing all of this fighting without knowing where any of your friends are (90% of the unit still not found, paratroopers scattered all across Normandy) – just you and your gun and that ridiculous cricket. Creeping around in the darkness stiffening every time you hear boots crunching on ground. Whispering ‘flash’ and dreading no reply. Sitting here in a comfortable chair with nothing but the hum of the electronic fan and the ticking of the clock I couldn’t imagine how it really was, but those men who fought I have nothing but respect and love for them.

As I mentioned before, this post is just one big emotional wreck while I try to find a proper way to express my gratitude and my emotions for D-Day, and everything that came after. I talked a lot about the paratroopers because they were the point from which I was thrown fully into my love for the arts. But the same is true of the men down on the beaches running directly into the line of fire, not only because they had nowhere else to go, but in a sense because they were brave enough to. I know that these men would never think of themselves as heroes, only boys sent to fight and die whether it was a cause they believed in or not. But I count each and every single one of them as my inspirations and as my heroes.

I watch Day of Days every year because it was the first thing I ever saw that fully rammed home the weight and the importance of 6 June 1944. It’s a little tribute, paltry as compared to what they gave, and it doesn’t really do anything, but it’s my tribute nevertheless. My way of remembering things as best as I can. On June 6, 2044, I hope to be one of the people able to stand at the graves of the soldiers, thanking them for all they have done. But for now, I will be content watching that last shot of Currahee: the hundreds of planes in the sky, the dozens of boats in the waters, the new world stepping forth to the rescue and liberation of the old.

Adulation

Come June 12, millions of people around the world will be tuning in to their TV screens – and if they’re lucky, heading towards the stadiums – to catch their national teams play live. Even people with no vested interest (Singaporeans come to mind) are going to pay exorbitant amounts to watch thirty-two nations battle it out for honour, glory, and a trophy no taller than 36cm.

Meanwhile, around the world, screaming fans of a markedly different sort gather at various concert venues to sing their hearts out along with their musical idols, whether it be a boyband, a girlband, or a mega-Korean-group with more people than the fans they are going to play for. And still more people will be on the prowl in London, stalking Benedict Cumberbatch’s every move as the BBC rushes to get Sherlock Season 4 out by Christmas.

Sports fans, TV show fans and musical fans have an understandable dislike for each other. The first group consists mainly of drunken angry men with four-letter dictionaries, frowned upon for their tendencies to Hulk-smash when penalties are awarded. The second are classified under ‘nerds’ for their relentless literary analysis of the Doctor’s bowtie colour and their ability to recap any given Friends episode from the title alone. And the last are stereotyped as a bunch of tweenage girls who really need to grow up and stop caring about what Harry ate for breakfast today.

As a fan of all three (I have my fingers in an unfortunate number of pies) I can tell you that deep down they’re all the same. All of them have an inexplicable, unfathomably deep attachment to people that they have never met and will probably never meet. They would all sacrifice a great deal of things, queue up for an insane number of hours, and enter a boatload of competitions just to get something that their idols perhaps once touched. People spend millions of dollars on something sweaty and stale and old just because the person who wore it was famous.

To me this is one of the greatest mysteries of life, right up there with whether there are aliens on Mars and exactly what happened to Amanda Bynes. Why do we get so attached to people we don’t know – why do we care so much about things that have nothing to do with us – and why is it even upon this realisation we persist in our adulation?

I’ve a friend who seriously questions the need for such passions and involvement in other peoples’ lives and on a certain level I would have to agree with her. It seems ridiculous to start crying over the retirement of a man you have never seen play and is thousands of miles away, as I myself have recently. The fact that I considered going to the University of Manchester just because it offers discounted match tickets speaks volumes for the irrationality that comes with being passionate about something. I know people who’ve flown to London from Singapore just to attend a Gary Barlow concert. (I would have too, but that’s besides the point.)

Having idols, and being a fan of something, I think is an integral part of life, because it is through these idols and these people that we come to believe both in them and in ourselves. The fundamental thing about humanity is that we always need something greater than ourselves to depend on. This is often found in religion, the belief that there is an omnipresent God, or Buddha, or what your religion dictates, and to me an idol is no different. You’ll often hear football being labelled a religion, and it is. We watch matches hoping and believing in our teams; the weekly contests, the rollercoaster of emotions, and the sheer euphoria of winning is something that gives us hope, something to look forward to. Fans worship the ground the football players walk on; we literally sing their praises; we follow their rules and hate other clubs just as some religions hate others. Week after week we keep the faith (fair-weathered fans aside) and never fear.

It’s the same with having musical idols, or television ones, or any sort of people you look up to at all. You want to believe in them, and you love them because you see something in them that you see in yourself. They are the people who are living your dream, the people who you could be and want to be. My musical hero is Gary Barlow, and not just because he writes great songs and looks fantastic in a suit. (Although he does.) It’s because of how he fell spectacularly from grace in 1997 but never gave up. It’s how he endured weekly Gary-bashings, not least from his erstwhile best friend turned enemy Robbie Williams, how he shut himself up in his house but still couldn’t quite leave the industry he loved even though it had turned on him. It was his conscious decision to start anew, to improve himself tremendously and – with the three other boys – stage one of the greatest comebacks in pop history. Gary never gave up on his dream, no matter what it did to him, and whenever I feel like giving up history (because it’s too hard, because I’m no good at it, because what does it matter anyway) I always remind myself of his unquenchable spirit. Through idols, we dare to dream again. We become better people, we really do. You’ll see how some people say that ‘this person saved my life’, even though they’ve never met them – and they wouldn’t be lying. I know. I’ve been there.

And the other great thing about being a fan is that it gives you a place to belong. I’ve always felt a little bit excluded – partly because of my awful social skills, partly because of myself in general – but when it came to things that I loved, I was accepted immediately. I would never have dreamed of something I made garnering more than 10000 notes on tumblr. I’d never have imagined having so many friends in the football fandom, who stay up with me at weird hours of the night exchanging ridiculous lack-of-sleep match commentary. One of the best feelings in the world is when you’re at (or listening to, in the case of sad people like me) a concert and the band asks you to sing the lyrics, and thousands of voices just swell up as one. It doesn’t matter whether you can’t sing, because at that moment you’re part of something bigger and better than yourself. When you raise your scarves high and belt out your club anthem. When you read meta and analysis and you nod enthusiastically and engage in literary and philosophical discussions because you can and you want to and other people want to as well. Knowing that there are other people out there like you, and being able to extend a hand to them – I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend my life.

When it comes down to it, I wouldn’t give any of my passions up for the world. To me, being passionate about something is what makes life worth living – and that’s saying something, because ordinarily I don’t think life is worth living in the first place. How can you say that you’re truly alive without ever having felt the surge of emotions watching your favourite band walk onto the stage, or the welling up of your throat as you sing to your favourite football club from the stands? How can you feel complete without ever crying at the loss of a fictional character, or burst with Feelings at climatic points of your show (as I will always during Théoden’s Pelennor Field speech)? I am well aware that to logical people, rational people, all of this might seem silly. I did a personality test yesterday for a scholarship, and there were multiple questions asking whether ‘I have ever jumped for joy literally’ or ‘I often feel a lot of emotion’. I don’t know whether the scholarship providers look for that sort of people, but I answered strongly agree to all of them, because if they reject me based on this, then I wouldn’t have wanted to work for them anyway.

On the 13th of June at 4am I’ll be one of the millions tuning in to the greatest sporting spectacle on earth. I’ll wake up not because I feel the need to fit in with other people, not because I’m doing it for the sake of doing it. I’ll wake up because I want to. Because this love, this passion I have for something I will never truly know, completes me. Because, in the immortal words of one of those millions,

it makes me feel alive.