The new wave of local literature is bold, experimental, and resoundingly female-oriented. These stories have moved away from the heartlands and into alternative universes where they have creative licence to imagine Singapore exactly the way they want it.
The new wave of local literature is bold, experimental, and resoundingly female-oriented. These stories have moved away from the heartlands and into alternative universes where they have creative licence to imagine Singapore exactly the way they want it.
The Magician: NURALIAH NORASID
You could say Nuraliah Norasid chooses to write about unconventional heroines. At six years old, she wrote her first story – about an earthworm princess who wanted a prince to kiss her, so she could become human again. The heroine in her latest effort – The Gatekeeper – is a woman with Medusa-like powers who lives in an alternative Singapore, and comes from a marginalised community of mythical creatures. The debut novel clinched the prestigious Epigram Books Fiction Prize – Singapore’s richest literary award – last year. “I’m always concerned about the little people who have fallen through the cracks,” says the 31-year-old.
Nuraliah’s troubled childhood might have something to do with that. Her family was poor, and it was a troubled home. Things were no better at school. She took her rage out on her classmates and got into fights and scuffles, even pulling someone’s ear until it bled. That only led to her being bullied. At the worst point, some kids urinated in her water bottle.
She carried that anger with her till she was 27 and in university. She found solace in words – which helped her make sense of her past, and started writing the story that would eventually become her award-winning debut.
Now a research associate with the Centre for Research on Islamic and Malay Affairs, Nuraliah likens herself to The Gatekeeper’s child protagonist, Ria, who turns an entire village into stone in a fit of rage, and has to deal with the fallout. “Ria and I were both angry children who didn’t think of consequences,” she says. “But things changed as I got older. I reminded myself that I have to be an adult now, not that child who bludgeons her way through life.”
Nuraliah’s novel has been feted by critics, like local playwright Haresh Sharma, for its “well-integrated” use of European and Malay mythology. It was a deliberate move, says Nuraliah.
“We need more magic here,” she says. “We see a city like Hong Kong, and we can imagine an action-packed car chase [happening]. But we reject that possibility in Singapore, as if action and fantasy can’t take place here.”
The Observer: AMANDA CHONG
"She’s past her days of being called xiao mei (Mandarin for young girl) … Spent her twenties leaning in the boardroom,/when women are like biscuits, will lao hong (a dialect term that means soften).”
This incisive observation of a regular woman losing her youth and beauty is heartbreaking. But Amanda Chong’s first collection of poetry, Professions, is rife with heartbreak.
“In order for your writing to resound with other people, you have to speak an emotional truth,” says the 28-year-old. “The only way you can get there is if you are vulnerable.” Her work is testament to that philosophy – one of her more deeply personal poems, Monsoon Girls, was written for a friend who died two years ago. After it was published, people wrote to her saying that her work spoke to them. “I love the human connections that poetry creates, because when you put yourself out there, it opens the door to meet others who are vulnerable too,” she says. “And I love that interaction that comes out of it.”
By day, Amanda is a lawyer. That means time to write is carved out wherever she can – at her desk between meetings, or during lunch at the hawker centre. Poetry suits her hectic lifestyle, but beyond its economy, she feels a strong affinity for the medium.
Amanda is somewhat of a prodigy who wrote her first poem in kindergarten. By 16, she had a poem – Lion Heart – engraved on the steps of the entrance to the Helix Bridge. She was also conferred a Foyle Young Poets of the Year award – an international accolade that recognises promising young writers aged between 11 and 17.
Her love for words stems from the steady diet of books her parents fed her, mostly devoured in the quiet haven of her bathtub. It’s something she wants other children to have too. In 2014, Amanda and her colleagues founded Readable, a community that runs reading and literacy programmes for underprivileged children.
“It’s so important to read – I never carry a handbag that’s not big enough to fit a book,” she says. “Reading helps us understand so much about life and our place in the world.”
The Dreamer: CLARA CHOW
Not many people remember the Van Kleef Aquarium, which shuttered in 1991. But for former journalist Clara Chow, who is in her 40s, it figured prominently in her childhood. For more than four decades, families – including hers – flocked to the building at Fort Canning Park on weekends. It might not exist any longer, but it remains her favourite building in Singapore.
That sense of loss relating to the aquarium was compounded by what she saw around her, as Singapore continued its relentless march towards becoming bigger and better. It gave her a deep sense of impotence.
“I felt like I had no control over my surroundings, and that it was a very Singaporean condition – because buildings change, or just disappear,” Clara explains. Fiction was her way of dealing with this sense of powerlessness. “Even if my home was taken away from me, at least my book is something that is mine, and that will always be out there.”
Her debut work, Dream Storeys – a reimagining of iconic Singapore spaces – is like stepping into a world that’s at once strange and familiar. In one tale, the usual Build-to-Order (BTO) system is replaced by a Print- to-Order (PTO), where couples specify what they want in a flat and get it 3-D printed. In another, the Singapore Flyer becomes a political prison.
Writing speculative fiction about Singapore is more important than ever, says Clara. “Now that we are more secure in our identity, it’s no longer enough to portray reality as we know it. We’re too used to taking Singapore’s safety and prosperity for granted.” She hopes to question what progress actually means, and through the dystopian tales in Dream Storeys, allow room for speculation about what life in a less-comfortable Singapore would be like.
Clara, who now writes full-time, says fiction is her calling. “When I put a realistic situation in a different realm – sometimes, the truth is easier to see.”
