Blooming where you’re planted

It is always easier to criticise than to appreciate, to dampen than to encourage.

People often ask me if there is anything I like about National Service (NS). Oftentimes, I will scowl and whine about how much of a waste of my life NS is, and how I would be much better off studying or working. I will not hesitate to launch into a tirade about the Singapore government (according to Zhen, how the sun shines through their arses) and how I wouldn’t mind organising a coup d’état. Carrying it out is another thing of course.

Unfortunately, God has called us to submit to authority and throw aside our innate jouissance. This is hard let me tell you. This morning while singing the National Anthem, I pondered over the mindlessness of this act of enforced patriotism. The moment I was young enough to speak coherently, I was taught the National Anthem. In kindergarten, primary school, secondary school and junior college, the ritualistic “Majulah Singapura” was never very far away. It was sung every morning at 7.30am. We observed solemnly the flag raising ceremony while our teachers observed, hawk-eyed, for any signs of disconsolate fidgeting among the ranks. I had never once thought about the meaning of the anthems’ words, nor did I bother to find out. It was complete gibberish to me as far as I was concerned. I doubt I was the only one. Yet, it remained an unspoken topic, a taboo subject. No one discussed it, questioned the motive or even sought to understand it.

Today, I suddenly felt a deep sympathy for the author of the anthem – Zubir Said. While he must be bursting with pride every morning at 7.30, he would surely be saddened that most people were singing the anthem mechanically, out of resignation than of choice. As I looked around my platoon, I glanced at the other men carelessly and dispassionately blaring out the anthem. Bereft of any tonal or musical ability, theirs’ was a tuneless yet forceful rendition.

. . .

I was in the old National Stadium, in front of 50,000 cheering Singaporeans, kitted out completely (rather distastefully I might add) in red and white. My uniform was heavily starched, boots polished to perfection (super kilat), weapon winking merrily at the sun. Yes, I was part of the marching contingent. Leafy-green apache helicopters flew overhead carrying the Singapore flag, which fluttered boastfully in the wind.

Engulfed with blind, jingoistic emotion, I closed my eyes and sang, albeit hoarsely…

Mari kita rakyat Singapura
Sama-sama menuju bahagia

. . .

“Eh, are you a spy from Malaysia?”

I jerked to attention. It was Sim, standing next to me. I had apparently not sang the National Anthem.

Immediately, I thought about my blind loyalty towards the nation that has taught me so much.
I thought about the 12 years of education in this nation.
I thought about National Service and how it has shaped my life thus far.
I thought about my friends, my family and my loved ones.
I thought about the familiar landscapes, the overcrowded train stations and the towering HDB blocks.
I thought about God, and whether or not He sang the National Anthem with me each morning at 7.30am and understood each word of it. Heck, was God Singaporean?

And I realised that my loyalty was not based on an Anthem, but on love. Not on a nation, but on a caring and generous God. Home is where God’s heart is. And I’m sure God would not have it any other way.