Exchange: From Tromsø to Week 12

Part 1: Tromsø

Today I leave London for the first time.

One recurrent theme has featured in my posts since the day I began writing: The journey to this moment was as arduous as it was surreal. Does anyone remember the girl who sang in front of her friends for the first time? Do we remember her voice back then, soft and unsure, riddled with insecurities and vocal strain? Do we remember her acting, a mishmash technique born from misconceptions and contradictory but well-meaning advice? She walked into Theatre Studies because of nothing but a feeling - she just knew she was meant for this.

Knowing myself, if the 17-year-old me had heard of anyone else doing this, she would say, "Are you crazy? That's the most illogical and impractical thing one could possibly think of doing?" And yet, 2020 was the year that derailed everything. Long ago, there was a girl who wanted to study Literature in NTU and become a journalist. That dream now lives in my mind as a mere distant memory, a future that never was. Because one fine day, this girl found a clip of Defying Gravity on YouTube and listened to it. Have you ever experienced art so beautiful it makes the back of your head tighten and tears form in your eyes? Because that was the first time I experienced Wicked, through a slime tutorial, in my room, as a child who has just experienced one of the biggest collective global traumas in the world. Imprisoned in my room with no knowledge of when I can leave my house ever again, finding my voice was freedom. So that girl decided that she wanted to be an actress, to sing that song one day, no matter how long it might take.

The audacity of that girl to even imagine herself in that role. What does she have that was different in any way from every other actress in the world? I still struggle to answer that question today. Who exactly gave me the right to embark on the professional equivalent of scaling Mount Everest without a harness? I would be honest now. I was insane. I was crazy. I had absolutely no right. My parents do not come from this industry, and I knew practically no one who wanted to pursue theatre. I was from the literal cultural desert, one of the few countries in the world that had to shape its own identity and narrative from scratch. Although I had some foundations in ballet and Chinese dance, those were childhood experiences that my muscles have long forgotten. But that did not stop me from waking up every morning, telling myself, "I want to do Theatre Studies. I want to study theatre. I want to learn how to act." I walked into every A-Level examination hall with this mantra in my heart. I walked into the National University of Singapore with nothing but an unproven passion and raw determination.

The journey of a thousand miles began with a single step, and now, I am here. In a plane en route to Tromsø, I look back at the magical adventure that I have just had in London, and the many miracles which has made this dream come true. As I trekked across London, finding the places that my mentor Peter Sau had insisted I visit, I smiled. I wept. I was fascinated, mesmerized, and I was changed for good. What an honor it has been to sit in the Shakespeare Globe Theatre and hear Shakespeare's finest ode to the dramatic arts in As You Like It. What a gift it was to witness the birth of a South Asian Muslim playwright presenting the story of his community om stage at the Royal Court Theatre. And most importantly to me, what a sacred pilgrimage it has been to travel to the Apollo Victoria Theatre, 10,000 kilometres from home, and be there in the performance space with the theatre show that started it all.

Getting into NUS Theatre Studies was a miracle. Receiving my first choice for Semester Exchange was a miracle. How did that 17 year old girl know that she would one day be named the top student in Theatre Studies and awarded the Hochstadt Scholarship in the same year? How would she know that in this blessed year, she would begin formal training as an actor with some of the most celebrated veterans in this industry? How could she, even in her wildest dreaming, foresee that she would take on the mammoth task of documenting Singapore's largest disability-led music theatre production, and star in a lead role for a feature film at the same time? And now I am here, travelling to one of the most northward cities in the world from London, and watching the plane windows for a chance to get an early glimpse at the Northern Lights. It is the privilege of a lifetime to be out at the age of 21, chasing lights and dreaming of theatre, and I am truly so grateful to be here.

And you know what? I have goosebumps as I type this. In 2020, my friends and I asked if we would ever get a chance to be represented in musical theatre, which has historically been so overwhelmingly white-dominated. We wondered exactly how much we would have to outshine everyone else just to get one shot at being seen. I am Asian, I was told. The theatre industry would never take you as a lead. Maybe ensemble at best. Maybe you would have a career in fringe theatre. So when I saw Elphaba, Fiyero and Glinda all played by Black actors and actressses, when I saw Muslim actors in the Royal Court perform with easy camaraderie, and when I witnessed actors of every shape, color and gender orientation in the Globe Theatre, I simply could not contain my tears. There it was. There we are. The people of the global majority. We did stand a chance after all, and as an actress advocating for my communities I will only keep fighting to be represented on stage, for the Deaf and hard-of-hearing community, the disabled community, and the BAME/BIPOC communities.

On my way to board the plane, I saw someone with a red passport. Gold lettering. My eyes were immediately transfixed on it. I held my breath, and there it was. Majulah Singapura. From London Luton Airport to Tromsø in Norway, a Singaporean family is on board with me right now as I speak. I look for bits and pieces of home everywhere I go, it truly is a strange feeling, but at the same time I no longer know what exactly home is. Strange, isn't it?

But this whole journey is strange and exciting, and that is what makes it such a wonderful experience.

Part 2: Dublin

Outside the plane window, the concrete greys of the airport runways and vast expanses of white snow fields stretch for miles. The engine is throttling, and the plane begins to make its final contact with Norwegian ground before I return to my home base in Dublin.

My 11-day expedition has finally come to a close, and watching the rain streak across the glass and the snow fields gradually become miniscule white towns far below me, I wonder if I would someday think of this time in my life, with the sun shining through heavy curtains, and wonder if it was all just one very long dream. Even Dublin is a semi-reality, two weeks on, where for the first time in my life I do not feel physically sick to my stomach with stress from schoolwork and all of my commitments. The Irish pace of life felt slow at first, but now it feels free, and I am realizing that I have never really experienced this standard of living until now. I am still very much a Singaporean, but I have to wonder if we were somewhat misguided in our ways as we push for academic excellence. Why do we live in a world where overtime, 10 hours of uninterrupted studying in the library, all-nighters, the rat race and examination stress is a fact of life? What exactly is so wrong with Singapore culture that we tell ourselves "that's just how it is", when it literally shouldn't be that way? I cannot change the entire country overnight, but I will definitely be a lot more aware of my psychological needs and mental health when I return.

I have seen the aurora borealis. I know just how lucky I am to have a chance to be here and witness it. It danced in greens and hues of blue across the sky. We witnessed an incredible burst that night. And all I could really think was - I have done it. I may still have plenty to do, but at long last I am living with no regrets, like I always wanted.

It does feel like I am not achieving "as much", but each day feels like I achieved something new and exciting. This week I had my first film festival screening as a lead in a short film, I had a ballet recital and I went for Wushu Nan Quan classes. I feel like I'm at my academic peak every day, and it's an exhilarating feeling here. I procrastinated on the posting of this entry because each day brings a new surprise, and occasionally I witness history in the making.

Part 3: The Riots

What exactly does it mean, to see a city on fire?

The afternoon began to go south when we received the warning notification telling us that there was a stabbing at Parnell Square. We knew that this could happen, and the headlines were distressing enough - Dublin rocked by the stabbing of three young children. The horror was palpable, and there was a thick cloud that weighed down on practically everyone in the city. I was heading towards the city center, and I quickly turned around, not wishing to get caught in a crime scene that could well still be active.

Little did we know that the evening was just beginning.

Darkness crept upon Dublin, and unbeknownst to me, O'Connell Street was being swarmed by angry protesters in the wake of the afternoon tragedy.

I was shopping, picking between cheeses and yogurts down in Stillorgan Village.

Buses stopped moving. The Luas was motionless, empty, unaware that it has completed its last trip.

I was queuing at the cashier till, waiting for my turn to pay. There was laundry to be done, Thanksgiving dinners to attend, monologues to practice.

The Gardaí had arrived. The first flames licked the tar roads.

I was waiting for my Thanksgiving dinner to be served at UCD Village, and that was when it began.

7.21pm. I first heard of the riots. By then it was in full swing. Buses on fire.

7.45pm. Videos. Photos. Does anyone understand what it feels like to sit there, helpless, and watch a city you know like the back of your hand become bathed by the menacing glow of orange and the jarring black of debris? 7.49pm. They set a bus on fire. 7.51pm. A Luas was set on fire, the very same Luas that my friend had seen earlier that evening.

7.55pm. Looting in the city center. By this time, I had images of 1964 and 1969 in my mind. I was reminded of Lee Kuan Yew's candid retelling of how Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong, then a schoolboy, walked home and everyone was searching for him across the streets. How many young students and vulnerable people were caught in the riots right this second? How many of them shall live with that lifelong trauma from this day onwards?

8.07pm. News that was later debunked by the Irish military that army vehicles were entering the streets. The prospect of an all-out war when all the information we received was scattered and so disorganized scared me. 8.10pm. Alleged explosions and helicopters over the city. By this time I was mentally past the point of alertness, and later, trudging back to my room in Ashfield, I felt a kind of genuine helplessness for the first time in my life.

There was a death threat. The death threat was for any foreigner. Read: As long as you look like it, you're a foreigner. In my haze earlier, I did the one thing I could do: I asked a stranger to take shelter in my apartment. Because how do you make sense of something like that? Later on, when a friend reflected on my actions, he ruminated - what might a Singaporean do in such a critical and dangerous situation, if we never had to face anything like that in our lives? See, I did not know what I was doing. All I remembered was the story I had read a long, long time ago, of a Malay lady who rolled her Chinese friend into a mattress and hid her under the bed, to save her from the Japanese invaders in wartime Singapore. I remembered stories of people helping, being kind, trying their best. By instinct, I said, come stay with me until it's safe.

And in that hazy stupor, I walked home, only to bump into my roommate. A sweet and incredibly empathetic angel as always, she must have seen the look on my face.

"Are you okay?"

... no.

The riots.

"Oh, that's terrible. I tell you, that is terrible."

They said it was normal.

"It's not normal, it's never normal."

There were death threats.

They wanted a foreigner dead.

"No, that's awful. I'm so sorry."

I could not speak.

"Aw, come here."

She engulfed me in a tight hug, and suddenly I felt the tears flowing. The dam was broken, and everything that I had held in while trying to be a heroine and a survivor just melted away.

"Everything's going to be okay, you're safe here."

The sun will come out tomorrow.

We will rise like the break of dawn.

Oh my god. It's real. Caught in the middle of violence, surrounded by guardian angels.

The next morning was like a strange dream.

Did that really happen?

I dared not venture out.

I spent the day texting my parents, my grandmother, my sister, my friends.

I scrolled through the news all day.

I wanted to go out for martial arts classes, but a fresh riot was reported, and there were fireworks that night in the vicinity. I was afraid. Would Dublin ever be the same again?

Part 4: Healing

On Saturday I stepped out of my room for the first time since I went home on Thursday night. I was to meet my Irish friend at the Newman building to rehearse for my monologue presentation on Monday.

I saw her, and we soon lapsed into talking about the riots.

And my friend - a mature student at UCD, almost 60 years of age, who had been nothing but sweet and kind to me - boy, was she angry. Disappointed, angry, embarrassed, sorry.

It was the common theme for so many of my Irish friends. They were as shocked as all of us were, but more than that, this was their home that had been tarnished not just by the eejits who had completely ruined their city, but the media was now pelting them relentlessly. Those are people I love, people who had crept into my hearts and carved out their own spots, and now I had to watch all of them hurting with the pain of watching their beloved city go down.

"It's not your fault. You never have to be sorry, and I know this is not who you are. I believe in you."

Empty words have never rang more hollow. It may not be who my friends are, but can I really say that the far-right people do not represent Dublin at all, as they wave the tricolor on the streets, backlit by neon orange flames?

And yet, that is what I choose to believe.

"Every society has their worst lot. They won that night, but we have to make sure that they never win again."

Can we really? Is the government response enough? Is the societal response enough?

I have no answers.

Fast forward another few days. I passed the monologue reading with flying colors. I attended my first public lecture by Renmin University Theatre Studies professor Xie Jiangnan. I am packing for my trip to the Netherlands and Belgium, where I will meet my two friends at long last. I will leave Dublin behind for a few days, and I wonder if it would feel like forever.

Would my second home miss me?

Soon, I would return to Singapore.

Would this place be okay?

Dear Dublin, thank you for your beautiful streets, your magnificent buildings, your shining lights, your lush trees, your grand rivers, your energetic wind. But soon I must leave you. I saw you at your best. I saw you at your worst. And I know that sometimes you may not be as okay as I thought you were. But I know you would always pick yourself back up again and keep going, because that's what the Irish do. We always live to see another day.

Am I half-Irish now? Probably not by blood, but strangely enough, it feels like it.

This bond was, after all, quite literally forged through fire.