I still remember holding the pink I/C in my hands, unwilling to let it go. My family and friends accompanied me to the main auditorium of the huge building, a tall flight of steps directly in front of us leading all the way up to the top.

A huge banner read: Welcome to BMTC.

We reached the bottom of the flight of steps, where I would be led into the auditorium to rehearse the reciting of the SAF pledge. But before that I was about to do something that would signify the end of life as I knew it and the start of another. I handed over my pink I/C. It was a symbolic exchange—putting the responsibility of this child from the arms of his parents to the nation. From then on, I became a son of the Army.

I had never seen so many three stripes in my life. There we sat in the auditorium, wide-eyed and innocent, chastened for the slightest disquiet, barked at by the sergeants to “Sit straight!” or “Don’t talk!” We went about rehearsing for the entire ceremony, and I remembered how one poor chap was made to recite the pledge on stage. For laughing. I wondered what he found so funny about the whole thing.

My heart pounded hard. Minutes later parents and friends swarmed into the auditorium, seated behind us, treated to a show of military precision; how we sat up ramrod straight, hands clutched and on our thighs, eyes unmoving, how we stood up in unison, reciting the SAF pledge with a show of pride, especially that last line:

“…I, will defend Singapore, WITH MY LIFE!!!”

I’m sure emotions ran high at that moment, a fleeting sensation of throbbing patriotism coursing through the veins of all true-blue Singaporeans in that huge, air-conditioned hall. Oh the treatment we went through to achieve that effect…

Fast forward.

The rain pelted heavily as I reached the camp. I had excused myself from my temp job for the morning for this. The RP greeted me as I showed him my 11-B, who opened the gate to let me pass through. This would be the last time I would step into this place.

I ventured into the medical centre, but the MO was not around.

“Off to the DB to do some inspection,” the duty medic said.

I asked if I could have a new FFI certificate, as previously my company medic had lost it. Minutes later, he passed to me the piece of paper.

I then proceeded to my OC’s office, braving the rain, running like there’s no tomorrow, legs pushing me onward and onward…

Three knocks and I entered, glee on my face, a smile from one ear to the next. I flashed the certificate in front of him, and he responded by giving me the things that I’ve been coveting for all this while: my pink I/C, clearance form, and a blue piece of paper that said: completed full-time national service.

I smiled even wider. I jumped on the inside, displaying a cool but happy exterior. We shook hands, a firm handshake injected with much appreciation.

“Thank you for your services,” he said to me, a brief sentence that almost failed to register in my mind. I was thinking about something else. My mind was outside, out of the camp, in the city where I belong.

The rain did not stop. I gave the camp one last look as I stepped outside the gates. The guard commander was scolding one of the men. Motorcycles and cars lined the car park. Curious glances here and there. I displayed my certificate of service unintentionally to one poor guy who walked past me, who muttered something I couldn’t catch, thinking I was making fun of him.

The rain never felt so good.

It is hard to believe that finally, two years of full-time NS had come to an end. It came to me not as a train that came head-on, but a soft thud; a gradual realization, a gentle slope, a smooth ascending curve, like mom’s home-cooked meal, slow to prepare, but tasting extremely good.

It had been a journey I would never forget. Through the trials and difficulties, heart breaks and struggles, I have learnt more about human relationships in two years of National Service than in twenty years of my life. I have had my fair share of triumphs and tragedies, but in the midst of it all I came out a better person.

It is amazing how shortcomings actually draw people together. In my time there, conflicts were rife, rumours and gossips spread like wildfire. I was wary of all this, and I tried hard to cover up my glaring flaws. But the more I try to hide them, the more obvious they became. I was an imperfect person in an imperfect organization run by imperfect people, who in their limited ways, tried to make their surroundings a better place to live in (though they often fail, sometimes spectacularly). But that’s the beauty of it, no?

I know it is a bit late to say this now, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m proud to be an NSF! Yes, I know, I have three more months before I ORD, before I revert back to the daily mundanes of civilian life. Unthinkable, some may think, for me to talk like that. "Blasphemy!" goes the priests of the anti-NS, army-life-is-dreadful religion.

Who can endure the endless saikang (shit work in hokkien) and the endless outfields where we’d often end up with smelly feet that’ll stink up our bunks? Some may think themselves as fish out of water, where military life is as far away as they can get from the life they want to live. I find myself agreeing with the things my CO said during his motivational speeches (where he’s famous for his "are you a ‘hero’ or a ‘loser’" rhetoric). He said: "who you are in the army is who you gonna be outside." So make no mistake about it, this is life.

How refreshing it is, to think that the tiniest thing you do here is going to have an impact in your civilian life? Everything is a test of character; every painful experience in uniform stretching your capacity for hardship in the outside world. I hear you saying now: Oh he’s becoming an agent of propaganda for the Singapore government. I see you writhing now, covering you ears, shouting: Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Whatever your reaction may be, my conviction remains the same. This is the way I think.

I read in The Straits Times about our counterparts in Israel. Lt Cohen, 21, shouted in the morning, waking his parents up. He’s happy that, finally, he’s about to go into combat. And like us, he’s a conscript. The difference, however, is their attitude. For them, enlistment is a matter of survival as a nation and as a people. For us, however, it’s a distraction. I certainly don’t see myself shouting for joy when I’m being called up for war. I complained when I was called up for mock activation one fine Saturday morning. But hey, when the situation calls for it, I will stay and fight for my country.

Lest we forget, let us remember that serving NS is a duty, not a choice. One day our skills may come to usage, one day our country may really enter into conflict. Yes, maybe for some of us, our NS obligation is coming to an end, but our responsibility for the nation’s defense goes way beyond the day we ORD. Let us never forget that. 

Ever felt like the window closing in on you, your only way of escape cut off? Ever felt like the noose tightening around your neck, choking you and draining your life away? Ever felt that dreaded feeling deep down in your guts, that feeling of inescapable inevitability, of hopelessness and despair? Yes, I may be exaggerating a little, but this "feeling of inescapable inevitability" perfectly describes what I’m going through right now.

And what is causing this sensation? Well, my time is almost up. As I write, I have at most a couple of hours left. My door to freedom is closing in on me. It’s like changing out of your clothes and putting on a set of prison garments. I’m feeling like a bird about to be caged. I’ve had that feeling before. A few years ago, on the plane. I was about to fly back to Singapore. The holidays were over, and it was almost time to start school. Yes, going back to school gave me that sensation. But what I’m enduring now, is much worse.

I can feel the shadows closing in on me. Knocking at the door of my heart, begging to enter and steal all the excitement and passion for life that I had gained over the weekend. The jaws of death are creeping at the outskirts, threatening to invade my mind and snatch away my soul. I, am fighting against it, even as I write.

Tonight I will book-in, back to camp, the regimented lifestyle, the outfield training, and the irritating men. Back to the swearing and hokkien peng. Back to the smell of cigarettes and the dirty bunks, the less than satisfactory cookhouse food and hypocritical superiors. The Army was, and never will be my kind of thing.

A battle goes on in my mind. Which thought will dominate? I, am fighting against that dreaded feeling, the feeling of death that makes living a hell-on-earth. Yes, that dreaded feeling. It is flooding inside me, a violent wave washing over my heart, swelling up inside me. I am fighting it. Fighting the flood, the torrent of negativity and regret, of envy and bitterness. And I do want to win.

I can decide the outcome. How do I want to feel? I can choose to book-in with an air of confidence, an attitute of positivity, and a posture of possibility. I can decide my feelings. Emotion is a choice of the heart, I am told. And so I believe. Maybe tonight I should decide to book-in with a different attitude. A positive attitude. Yes, maybe I should.

But of course there’s such a thing as the Monday blues. My positivity could disappear with a snap of the fingers. I could be robbed in my sleep. Robbed of happiness. Or I could decide my emotions. I could choose to love the life I’m leading right now. I could choose to love the men under me who don’t give a damn about you. I could choose to love the food served up by the cookhouse. Yes, I believe that I am in control, as I write this. I have a choice, and I choose life.

I felt like a fool. Felt that I shouldn’t have believed in him or sympathized with him. Felt that I should look out for my own interests more, and that I shouldn’t be so agreeable. You’ve been taken advantaged of, my friends said to me, all of them in fact.

I slept through the night feeling rather upset. News spread fast about what happened, and soon everyone knew. I felt like a deflated balloon which has no more air. Felt like a losing basketball team trying to salvage some pride.

And then he called me, and pleaded with me. Begged me. What was I to do?

Sympathize?

 

He approached me on Friday, which was book-out day.

He told me he had problems, but then so does everybody. This time it’s different, he said. Things are a circus at home, and he needed time to go sort it out. He was supposed to do ammo VC that week, which pragmatically speaking meant spending the whole weekend in camp doing nothing. But, having trouble at home, he needed to swap duties with somebody else, and having approached everybody, finally approached me. Me, the perennial nice guy. The guy that’s most agreeable.

And I didn’t want to be known as THE nice guy in camp. And so I said something which I recently learnt whenever I’m forced to make quick decisions: Let me think about it. An hour or so passed. I was busy doing preparations for outfield training.

"Well?"

"I’m still thinking about it."

I tried to look busy, zooming about from place to place. Actually I was busy, but I just want to make it obvious. Several times I walked past him, looking at him but not saying anything, attention focused elsewhere. I did think about whether to help him, but my mind was kind of preoccupied. I was faced with a dilemma. On paper, decision-making may seem to be a black-and-white thing, but when faced with the laborious task itself, complications set in and soon what is obvious becomes shades of grey; it is no longer clear what is right and wrong anymore.

Another hour passed. The weather was hot. It didn’t help that I was doing stuff under the hot sun. I was microwaved and baked to a crisp golden brown. My sweat glands were busy, I was panting like a dog (well I imagined myself to be). I was thirsty, and the vending machine was a welcome sight. Unable to take the heat that was piercing through my skin, I labored up the short flight of stairs, and bought myself a can of orange soda. I saw him again. Feeling embarrassed, I told him that I will give him an answer very soon.

It didn’t take long for me to concede. Soon I felt justified to help him out. After all, we are just swapping duties. Even though I was missing a very important church event, I felt that he deserved my trust and goodwill. After all, no one else could, or was willing to help him. Well, at least I made it hard for him and made sure he was genuine, I comforted myself.

I had that feeling for only a few hours. Soon everyone got wind of my “good deed”. And they really grilled me. Made me feel like a sausage on a barbeque pit. Why? They said. He doesn’t deserve to be helped. He’s too lazy and should wake up his idea. You’re too naïve to think that he really needs so much time to sort out his issues. Of course they had good intentions. Who would want to see a friend being taken advantaged of? But I really felt stupid. Felt like I was walking with a huge "stupid" sign hung on me, with neon lights and all.

So, feeling like a fool, I did guard duty on his behalf from Saturday morning onwards. I asked him to come back on Saturday night, hoping that at least I can go home and sleep.

Anyway, as I was saying, he called me.

"Hey, could you cover duty for me until tomorrow morning?"

I expressed my greatest displeasure, offering my list of reasons. I sighed, and with a deep breath, shared with him how I really felt.

"I felt like a fool for helping you, you know that?"

Silence.

"Look, people have been saying things about you. That you’re not worth helping, that you’ve been lazy, that you’re just finding an excuse to slack.”

“I know… Encik told me that people have been saying things behind my back.”

"You’ve gotta listen… when people doubt you like that, there’s always a reason why. Look, people are saying things about you is because they see that you’ve not been helping out at the armskote enough. Small things like this can manifest and grow out of proportion."

"Yes… I understand."

“People are doubting you’re credibility. I, myself, am struggling to decide if helping you was the right thing to do…"

"Do you doubt my credibility then?" he retorted.

"Well… yes… no not really… well for a moment I did…"

I didn’t know what to say.

"Look, I’ve been your bunkmate for a few months now. Would I do this kind of thing to you? After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are…”

 “I really have a problem at home… things are a mess and yesterday my father just spoke to me. I’ve been crying last night and have yet to speak to my girlfriend. Things aren’t going to be alright just because you say they are."

I gave a loud sigh, and hesitated for a moment before saying this:

“Alright… I guess I’ll cover duty for you.”

“Thank you.”

"Shaun, you’ve gotta get your act together."

"Yes, I will, don’t worry about it."

That was about the end of the conversation. After this I must admit that I felt better, and resolutely decided that helping him was the right thing to do. I’ve decided stand by my decision and defend it if necessary. Time will tell, whether helping him was worth it, I told myself.

If only people would be more compassionate.

How I wish that decision would have been made easier, where I don’t have to doubt one’s intentions and motives, where I don’t have to put my guard up all the time. In a world where children are told to shun strangers, it comes as no surprise that when somebody you don’t know well asks for help, one would be inclined to doubt him. Trust has become a rare commodity in a world where trust is often abused. To me, if a person needs help, he needs help. It doesn’t matter whether he’s friend or foe.

I’ve always been abhorred by the things that people can say behind one another’s backs. This incident is an example of how gossip can really build mistrust, which I absolutely hate. I dislike thinking about what others will say about me whenever I’m not around. It makes me wary of the things I do and the words I say. To me, talking behind other’s backs is cowardly and unproductive. It doesn’t solve any problems, but only accentuates them. Often, what is said is built on speculation, making it extremely unfair to whoever is being talked about.

I wish people could just stop talking bad things about one another and start focusing on the good side of people. We should be courageous enough to confront and rebuke (gently) one another if need be. That’s why I like people who are straightforward and frank. People who will tell you your faults without broadcasting it to the world. Such people are worth making friends with.

What is a home? Is it simply a place where one lives, a place where one feels a sense of belonging or attachment to? Or is it a place where one’s family resides, a place where a person spent his formative years in? Recently I toyed with the idea that my bunk can actually be my home (I could hear the gasps and cries of protests from fellow soldiers already).

But technically speaking, camp is home. It is where I spent most of my time in (five days a week to be exact); where I sleep, bathe, eat, breathe in. It is not so different from my family residence after all. Actually, when I think about it, camp can sometimes be more of a home than what many of us can care to admit. Where else can you walk around in your underwear without people staring at you? It is a place were guys can be guys and where all nose-digging, burping and other bad habits are practiced with impunity.

But with underwear and dirty laundry all over the place and the toilet reeking of urinal fragrance, I’ve started to think that my bunk is becoming a pig sty. That is why I’ve embarked on a project to make my bunk more homely and worthy of human occupance. I’m convinced that the enviromment you’re in has an effect on your mood and behavior.

A famous experiment was conducted in the US where volunteers were thrown into a prison-like environment complete with unbreakable iron bars and dirty prison cells. Volunteers were split into two groups: prisoners and wardens. The results were not what one would expect. The wardens began subjecting them to harsh treatment, which grew more sadistic day by day. The prisoners retaliated by starting mutinies and fighting against the prison wardens, who would then subdue them to even worse maltreatment. Fearing that the experiment would get even more chaotic, it was ended prematurely. When the volunteers were asked what caused them to act so abnormally throughout the duration of the experiment, they could not provide a reason. The conclusion of the experiment was this: it was in fact the environment, the circumstance under which they were kept that influenced their behaviors subconsciously, causing them to become increasingly agitated and violent.

After reading about this experiment, I’ve decided that I’ve got to change my environment. The first thing I want to change (and have already done so) are the bedsheets. The ones supplied by the CQ have already turned from white to yellow. Who knows what kind of creatures and bedbugs lurk under those sheets? But all that is changed now, with a bargain buy from a neighbourhood shop. The design is a bit "gayish" for my tastes, but I guess one could use a bit of feminine touch in a male-dominated environment. The next thing I want to do is to decorate my grey cabinet. I want to make it splashy, colourful and cool. Something that reflects my identity, something to call my own. At these moment I’m still searching for ideas. So stay tuned.

And of course there are many other things which I would like to do: like putting in effort to keep my cabinet neat and tidy, pulling the bedsheets after I wake up and many other nitty-gritty things. Small things do make a big difference.

Time will tell whether these changes have any effect on my morale and outlook while I’m in camp. And if these changes do make a difference, I hope that it will be big. But when I think about it, it doesn’t really matter actually. Afterall, I will be living in the same place for the next seven months so I might as well just do something about it. Mo harm making my bunk a nicer place to live in.