A mirror, though broken, still reflects what it sees. In my photos, I experimented with a broken mirror and reflection. Even though 2020 has been a rough year, with the worldwide pandemic that changed our lifestyles, there are good things and beautiful things that make 2020 unique. The broken mirror creates multiple reflections of the same thing, just like how events that took place this year can be perceived in multiple ways, such as the global reduction in carbon emissions due to the Coronavirus. A broken mirror has multiple reflections, it is up to us to perceive them differently.
My dearest
oon jia en abigail
my dearest
How are you? Have you bought those blue masks you wanted yet? The one with flowers on the right cheek? I have been thinking about them lately.
Besides, my dear, I want to see you- I want to see your face- how your hair curls hyacinthe-like along your rosy cheeks. your face looks lonelier with a mask on- don’t get me wrong, my love, you look quite fashionable with the mask, but I wish I could see you without it more often. And hear you speak, and sing, and laugh, without it- I don’t hear you do most of those things nowadays. I see you fidget with the straps, hook and unhook, hook and unhook, again and again, the curve of your cheekbones peeking into view before the fabric covers it again, the corner of your mouth twitching as you mouth at me, what’s the word we made up for when we get stones stuck in our shoes? As we pack up to leave the library. And I say, shones, and you laugh- I look into your hazel eyes for a moment and see the loneliness die, then you blink and the melancholiness seeps back into them.
But how can I tell that you are truly, disorientingly lonely? So ardently lonely, so arduously empty- every time I glance at you, on the train, in the mirror, or when my hands slightly graze yours, i feel a thrilling chill, like electricity has conducted from your hands to mine- I realise the electricity coursing through your veins was never electricity to begin with. It was all just blood. It was never beautiful, or thrilling, or glorious, to begin with. I had not known you for fourteen years but I loved you in the last- why and how did you transform?
Do you remember before you did? I was with you, we were patting the cats at the void deck, then the sun haloed your hair and I felt that I was missing something. Then you were off, waving at me to hurry up, and I realised what it was as we walked to the train station: my loneliness had all left me. The dark swell had loosened its grip- it had left in the shimmer of the dark’ning sun.
Then we were at the train station, and you were to leave, and I think then I realised that the loneliness had left love behind. Right then, in the sticky coldness, in our creased uniforms, in that little time and space in all eternity, I was rarely, strangely, terribly, consciously, quietly in love. Then the train had rushed past us to a stop, and it was time for you to leave- I took your hand and shook it- and I looked at you for a fractured moment and I realised I had passed my loneliness on to you.
Could you please keep it for me? Just for a while? Perhaps it’d like you better? Perhaps you’d take care of it better, and sit next to it when it cries, and mother it and soothe it, until it is done having feelings, and you’ll do the dishes together. I have not been kind to my loneliness- will you be kind to mine?
yours for ever
mother tongue tied
kow min dana namali
Recently during the 2020 General Election, Reform Party’s Charles Yeo took social media by storm as he stumbled helplessly through an impromptu speech in Chinese on national television(1). He used unusual terms (one of which translates to “tyrannise the people(2)”), with pauses in between almost every sentence. Singapore’s first reaction? Memes and edited video clips(3) flooded our social media feeds, mocking the politician for his poor grasp of his Mother Tongue.
Yeo’s blunder highlights the importance of being able to converse in our Mother Tongue, especially in Singapore.
Firstly, having a strong spoken grasp of our language will inculcate a sense of belonging towards our cultures and traditions. Over the years, Singapore has evolved to become very anglocentric(4), which of course is beneficial as the English language allows for easy communication between communities that use different Mother Tongue languages. Despite this, we must not lose touch with our cultural backgrounds, especially now when our world is constantly evolving. Simple things such as holding conversations with our grandparents can easily be lost should we be incompetent at our Mother Tongue.
Additionally, being bilingual opens up numerous opportunities in the real world. Think business collaborations, or career choices – the possibilities become so much more with the added expertise of a second language. And of course, it certainly would not hurt to have the extra skill of, for example, ordering food in a foreign country, or the ability to actually understand K-dramas without subtitles. Thanks to Singapore’s bilingual policy(5) that mandates learning two languages, we are lucky to have been given this stepping stone towards such opportunities.
With all these benefits in mind, it is evident that Mother Tongue education should remain a cornerstone of our education system. While existing school events that promote a greater sense of identity towards our Mother Tongue (such as Mother Tongue Fortnight(6) and promotional videos by MOE(7)) are commendable, the approach to the Mother Tongue education can definitely be improved. Charles Yeo is just one example suggesting that more should be done. Ironically, Yeo mentioned in a question-and-answer that he had attained an A2(8) in his Chinese exams. This demonstrates how Mother Tongue has become a subject to earn marks for, rather than a language with various practical uses. Evidently, it is unfortunate that Mother Tongue has drifted from the bilingual policy’s intended purpose, which was meant to be for “managing ethnicity” and “nation-building”(9) as discussed above.
Greater focus should be placed on the learning process and understanding of one’s Mother Tongue, rather than scoring well for the subject. An example of this would be incorporating more experience-based learning into the Mother Tongue curriculum, such as hands-on activities and interaction with the respective cultures. Some ways these can be done include exchange programmes and learning journeys. Additionally, students’ participation in Mother Tongue lessons should be further encouraged and emphasised on by teachers. Such measures would go a long way in encouraging students to truly embrace the language as part of their cultural identity.
All in all, being poor at our Mother Tongue may not make us an overnight meme like Yeo, but the importance of learning our Mother Tongue is certainly evident. Thus, Mother Tongue education in Singapore should be further refined to remain relevant. This way, the bilingual policy can achieve its core purpose of allowing Singaporeans to connect with their Mother Tongue.
MASKED regency
Oon Jia En Abigail
When one thinks of the regency era, the mind conjures ball dancing, elegant attire, general felicity... but never masks. Here masks are worn as everyday attire; two centuries before Covid-19. Their lives are not so different as ours. Their lives matter as much as ours.
BARS
DAISY LIOW HAN YI
I wanted to convey through my photographs that because of the Covid-19 pandemic, many of us can only stay at home in order to protect ourselves. At times, we will feel lonely and bored at home as we are discouraged to go out to hang out with our friends and have fun. The pandemic has restricted all of us and it greatly impacted our lives. My photographs are to describe a world beyond “bars”, the lost freedom we once had before.
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poreskoro
monika thadisetty
Insidious and stealthy, it crept into our lives
In minuscule droplets this lethal pestilence thrives
It claws onto innocents in the most unsuspecting ways
Never did one expect that it would stump the human race
But on went mankind, despite the early signs
Ignoring the hunches and feelings of malaise
Living our ignorant lives, expelling ungrateful whines
Ere long this mindset proved a big disgrace...
East and West, nations torn asunder
Leaders and commoners alike, jolted awake by the thunder
Overflowing hospitals, profiting pharmacies
Calamitous chaos erupting on streets
Suspicion and paranoia wafted in the air
Darting glares at mortified coughers and sneezers
To quit our comforts and lifestyle equalled much despair
Hurling criticisms at fagged out world leaders
Abruptly paused global chaos when the clock struck ‘DEATH’
Like a ruthless claw it swooped away with the lives of millions
Streets ensnared by the effluvia of mortality and sickness
The world deluged in seemingly perennial darkness
We escaped grave reality in a loved one’s warm embrace
The pandemic cast a spell that brought families close together
For some home wasn’t solace, but a dark and gloomy place
A reminder of a lost loved one, yearning for times better
Of this historic event, everyone’s experience different
But around the stagnated world, people’s worries recurrent
Reposing in anxious reflection
Pondering, “What has the world become”- an inexplicable question
East and West, obscurity besieged
But one thing remained for certain
The conclusion we unanimously reached
Is that life is truly uncertain
Note: The name of the poem, ‘Poreskoro’, was inspired by European mythology.
expectationsvsreality
hannah lee en xi
ever since the virus outbreak
we've been working around the clock, and hustling, bustling day and night: marching to the battlefield with our heads up high, while holding an indomitable spirit that dons us in blue gowns and puts us in a fierce combat against this malicious monster going above and beyond sacrificing our lives ensuring everyone's safety thunderous ovation deserved- for now that the patients are in the pink we hope that this support would be going a long way in |
i've been in so much anxiety
i want to cease the time an erratic, overwhelming toll it has been yearning to drag my feet home to escape it all i want to give up- traps me in the Sun only for me to cower in terror into the unknown to a risky adventure while i myself unknowingly carry Danger back home these bits of encouragement they do keep me going lightening my load and brightening my road |
balance
Sarah Aw Yong
Balance. Something intangible but yet poignant. In these unprecedented times, many of us have lost the balance in our lives. Just like the precariously balanced pebbles in the photo, that’s how many of us feel now. That our lives have been turned upside down, our emotional stability hovering near the breaking point. But yet, these times has taught us to lean on each other for support. In those HDB blocks, people live in such close proximity. Alas, emotionally, they are miles apart. Yet these times has managed to pull them closer together, giving everyone the balance they need. Balance? Maybe we do have it.
the migrant worker's letter
deborah chai
April 13, 2020
My hands shook as I picked up the pen and placed the tip onto the paper.
Dear Mā(1), Pitā(2), I miss you so much. My beloved Aanya, even after so many years of not seeing you, you’re still dear to my heart.
A snore from my right interrupted my flow of thought. I glanced towards Pitam, who lay on the bunk next to mine. His left arm dangled off the planks, the other thrown over his eyes. Sleeping. It was mid-afternoon, yes, but sleeping seemed to be all we could do.
Other than stare at our phones.
How’s little Chandran? Not so little anymore, I think, since I’ve seen him last.
Three years since I’ve seen my family. Three years since I left them back home in Bangladesh, thinking that everything we did to get me here was worth it. Three years since I started my job in Singapore as a construction worker.
This job was hard, not just the physical labour, but the emotional ache of not seeing my family. Now, with the virus, it was even harder.
Remember my first letter? How I told you about the dormitory I was put in? We’re all stuck in the same room now, all fourteen of us. And the fear, Aanya, it’s real. Just yesterday, Adrisar from the room next door fell ill.
“Harteij, what are you doing?”
I looked up, my still trembling hands setting down the pen beside me.
“I’m writing a letter, Borenya. What else?” My voice remained steady even as the emotions within me roiled.
My roommate, perhaps sensing the twin snakes of fear and longing in me, gently picked up the pen and sat down where it was. I swallowed past the lump in my throat as I watched him idly spin the pen over his fingers.
Over and under it went, in an intricate yet simple dance.
Finally, he passed it back to me, his dark chocolate eyes contemplative.
“I know it’s difficult,” he began. “Hell, difficult doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
I let out a choked laugh. Difficult. Damn straight it wasn’t the right word. Coming to a foreign land, leaving all that I knew behind, and working my ass off in a country whose main language, English, I was not familiar with. That was difficult.
This?
Not having enough soap to wash our hands with was not difficult. Being stuck in a tiny little room that felt like a sauna with thirteen other men was not difficult. Watching the fear on your friends’ faces while others around you caught the virus was not difficult. Lying on the bed and listening to the constant droning of the ambulance sirens coming and going was not difficult.
Being stuck in a foreign country, not knowing whether you’ll be the next one to catch the virus and die, away from your family in a different land, was not difficult.
It was downright torturous.
Even without the Covid-19, it was already like a form of isolation for us. People walked past us as if we were invisible, remarking rude things behind our back. Many employers refuse to pay our hospital fees when we get into a workplace accident. The only thing that kept us from being mistreated too badly were the laws of the government.
Now, with the virus spreading like fleas in our dormitories, it was worse. They called us dirty. They blamed our eating habits. They said we should go home, because we were driving their number of cases up, and it made them look bad on the world stage.
When our employers told us we weren’t allowed out of our rooms, at first we didn’t understand. It wasn’t just the language barrier, but the idea of not having that fellowship with our countrymen.
I met Borenya’s eyes again. One glance at the silver lining his eyes, and I knew. The same turmoil existed within him, and it was very likely worse for him than it was for me. I had only been away from my family for three years. He came to Singapore five years ago, his brother with him. Now, it was just him, since his brother had been extensively injured by a falling steel bar.
He dipped his head, his eyes conveying understanding of my pain. His pain. The pain of the hundreds of people living on our floor. The thousands in the building. The multitude of foreign workers tested positive.
It was an unleashing on some unnameable emotion inside me, that empathy. The dam cracked, and droplets slipped out from it, landing on the writing paper. I scrubbed my eyes on my sleeve before anyone else could notice.
“I know you miss them,” Borenya said. “I do too. It isn’t easy being isolated here, day in and day out, apart from them.”
I bit my lip, tears threatening to overwhelm my control again.
We were silent for a while. Then, his hand, a heavy weight, settled on my shoulder as he stood up.
“Write to them, brother,” his voice was quiet. “Tell them exactly what you feel. If not for their peace of mind, then for yours.”
I rubbed the pen grip with my thumb as he stalked back to his bunk. Bowing my head, I returned to the letter, noting the wet splotches marring the paper.
I am afraid, Mā, Pitā. I feel like a child again just craving the comfort of your hugs. The Covid-19 situation here is serious. I know not whether I’ll get it, but know that either way, I’ll love you. All of you.
Don’t step foot outside the farm unless you have to. Promise me. Be safe, and keep me in your prayers even as I keep you in mine.
Love, Harteij
Lovingly, I folded up the letter and tucked it under my pillow. It would remain there until I could find some way to get it to the post office.
Outside, the wail of an ambulance siren rang out once more.
(1) Mā: Mother
(2) Pitā: Father
no man is an island
er kay lynn
No Man is an Island, said John Donne.
But could John Donne have anticipated 2020?
Could he have heard
The cries of a woman
As her husband stormed into the house
A cloud of black fury
Raining blows down on her.
And could he have heard
The whimper she let escape
As she stared up at the man
And heard him say,
“No one can help you now,
You’re all alone
On an island out at sea.”
The quiet hum of a ventilator,
The gasp of a patient,
The final words floating…
floating…
floating…
Down the bustling hospital corridors,
Not heard by anyone else but
The dying man’s ears
The ding of a Nintendo Switch,
As the millennial levels up,
Inviting friends to her island,
But no one comes.
And could he have heard,
The quiet sob,
As she realised,
That she was all alone,
On her island out at sea.
Because in 2020,
Every man is an island
Drifting…
Drifting…
With no anchors to hold us down.
SOLIDARITY
GLADYS ONG, WEN BAIHE
It seems like Earth is revolving slower, in this pandemic-struck world of ours. Our fast-paced lives are decelerating, second by second, minute by minute. In the strange, unfamiliar quietness of the interlude between the last moment and the next, we have a chance to think: to stop, to reflect, to hope for the future. It seems like we’re all alone, but we never are. As we wonder and wander in this peculiar world, we find new friends and rediscover old ones. The closest ties are the ones you never see. The most precious moments are the ones you never feel.
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Made Up
mirella ang
One drop of tainted cream splattered across my skin, running over my blemishes, chasing after my scars. It’s funny how the tiniest bit of wrapping could alter my everything.
One stroke downwards left a smear of colour on my face. A tinge of red, not entirely ostentatious, but the perfect addition of rouge to an otherwise malevolent visage.
One careful line drawn, curving around my eye. Mimicking the sultriness Egyptians must have seen in cats - a subtle, modern form of the evolutionary method of survival. One copies, one learns; one learns, one grows; one grows, one survives. The others simply die out.
One brown smudge scurried over my eyebrow, rendering a miraculous transformation I surprise myself with everyday. That a plain, lumpy, waste-coloured caterpillar could, with a single meticulous swipe, metamorphose into a stylish, well-endowed butterfly- with a brush wielded by a master painter, anything ugly could be made up to be pretty.
One delicate sweep over my lips makes me bleed. My lips match the blood that drips from my wounds when I fall. Perhaps a reminder that everything has its price, and everyone has their debts.
One flick of a feathery duster against my lashes makes them come alive. They appear, when for some reason they never appeared before, and they curl. My eye feels naked - it’s lost its shy protector, putting up its dot and blips on display for anyone to see.
I stop.
Lift up the brush, sharpen its end.
Touch it to the whites of the palette, watch it twirl.
I peel my eyelid back, expose the capillaries dancing through my skin, observe the tiny lines of red that run aimlessly about.
To achieve perfection, one has to make some sacrifices sometimes. So be it-
My eye leaps up, locking on its reflection in the mirror. My hand freezes, as if caught in the vortex of a time traveller’s misdeeds.
The perfect girl stares back at me and for some inconceivable reason, I hate her.
I hear the crash of my brush slamming to the ground, splattering colour recklessly about. I watch my fingers creep up my cheek, rubbing desperately against my skin, chafing with friction and heat. I feel my fingertips nudge the little brown nubbin standing strong in a sea of powder.
The imperfect girl stares back at me, her face a wreck of whites and reds and blacks, with that tiny speck of brown. She smiles in the polished glass.
Am I smiling, too?
One stroke downwards left a smear of colour on my face. A tinge of red, not entirely ostentatious, but the perfect addition of rouge to an otherwise malevolent visage.
One careful line drawn, curving around my eye. Mimicking the sultriness Egyptians must have seen in cats - a subtle, modern form of the evolutionary method of survival. One copies, one learns; one learns, one grows; one grows, one survives. The others simply die out.
One brown smudge scurried over my eyebrow, rendering a miraculous transformation I surprise myself with everyday. That a plain, lumpy, waste-coloured caterpillar could, with a single meticulous swipe, metamorphose into a stylish, well-endowed butterfly- with a brush wielded by a master painter, anything ugly could be made up to be pretty.
One delicate sweep over my lips makes me bleed. My lips match the blood that drips from my wounds when I fall. Perhaps a reminder that everything has its price, and everyone has their debts.
One flick of a feathery duster against my lashes makes them come alive. They appear, when for some reason they never appeared before, and they curl. My eye feels naked - it’s lost its shy protector, putting up its dot and blips on display for anyone to see.
I stop.
Lift up the brush, sharpen its end.
Touch it to the whites of the palette, watch it twirl.
I peel my eyelid back, expose the capillaries dancing through my skin, observe the tiny lines of red that run aimlessly about.
To achieve perfection, one has to make some sacrifices sometimes. So be it-
My eye leaps up, locking on its reflection in the mirror. My hand freezes, as if caught in the vortex of a time traveller’s misdeeds.
The perfect girl stares back at me and for some inconceivable reason, I hate her.
I hear the crash of my brush slamming to the ground, splattering colour recklessly about. I watch my fingers creep up my cheek, rubbing desperately against my skin, chafing with friction and heat. I feel my fingertips nudge the little brown nubbin standing strong in a sea of powder.
The imperfect girl stares back at me, her face a wreck of whites and reds and blacks, with that tiny speck of brown. She smiles in the polished glass.
Am I smiling, too?
Source B
Katriel Ng
1.
2. 3. 4. 5. |
draw a tangent line at x = 2020 and
calculate the gradient at which my life has gone downhill then, following closely to lines 5-6, “the silent expectations from muted mics slowly erodes away at my thoughts and sanity”, state and explain the literary devices the poet uses to convey their acute awareness and fear of losing all grip on reality in a google meet class they say emotional stress can lead to higher risks of atherosclerosis, a buildup of plaque in the fatty substances on inner surfaces of coronary arteries; well, there is no work done on google classroom and the force/area = pressure is building up is the chest pain from a panic or heart attack? P1: either i am having a panic attack or a heart attack P2: if i had a heart attack, i would probably be dead P3: i am unfortunately, not dead C: i am having a panic attack (P1, P2, P3) when we start to see mentions of ourselves in history textbooks, all our tragedies, our yearning, our grief, our hopes and dreams, the detailed stories we plan on telling our children and our children’s children quite inadequately summed up in a terrifyingly pristine page or two, nonchalantly dismissing our humanity, the years so far apart, perhaps 20 or 30, every minute detail of the experience so entrenched in us, will be nearly negligible, reduced to nothing but an inference from Source B. |
From this poem, what can you infer about students’ attitudes towards Home Based Learning during Circuit Breaker in 2020? [4m]