Yes and No.

Yes, if you go by the official face of Singapore, of the men—and women—in white, especially on formal occasions when they maintain a stern forbidding appearance, modeled on the austere, no-nonsense mien of Mr Lee Kuan Yew, the founder of modern Singapore, who has no time for light-hearted wit and banter. Even at social functions and private parties where ministers have been invited in their private capacities, I have noticed that they don’t seem able to completely cast off their serious, earnest demeanour, as if afraid of letting down their guard and revealing official information that might later give rise to rumours that Singaporeans seem so fond of.

No, if you go by the unofficial, informal face of Singapore society which, like every society in the world, loves laughter, especially of the satirical kind that takes a dig at officialdom. Countless are the jokes circulating in the coffee-shops, cafes and clubs, at cocktail and dinner parties, indeed wherever Singaporeans meet to chat and relax.

There are the jokes that are not at all original, being localized versions of well-known ones, for instance those about the late American President Lyndon Johnson who was well known for his Messianic image of himself. So the president is one day driving his car in the capacity of a private citizen, when he ignores the traffic lights, and is stopped by a very conscientious traffic cop. When the man comes near enough to recognise the president, he steps back in horror and gasps, ‘Oh my God!’ and Johnson says sternly, ‘That’s right, my boy, and don’t you forget it!’ On another occasion the president is shopping for a suitable burial plot for himself. He finds one that he likes and asks for the price. ‘Five thousand dollars,’ he is told. ‘What!’ is his response. ‘When I’m going to use it for only three days?’

Because of Lee Kuan Yew’s immense stature and near-god status in Singapore, inspiring great awe and fear (especially the fear of being sued and reduced to bankruptcy) these jokes, needing only a change of name, are cheerfully circulated about him.

I had the temerity to end a political speech I gave some years ago, with a humorous poem on precisely this aspect of Mr Lee’s status. It was based on a well-known pronouncement made by Mr Lee to emphasize his total commitment to the well-being of Singapore: he said that even if dead and inside his coffin, should he hear of any threat to Singapore’s security, he would get up at once and solve it. My speech was published in a local newspaper which however left out the poem. With a delicious sense of mischief, I present it here:

*The coffin was enormous
To match the god-like status,
For both in life and death,
He was a true colossus.

Someone who, with the opposition,
Was clearly in cahoots,
Whispered, ‘Ah, a new dawn!
No more defamation suits.’

At which the corpse sprang right up,
‘Who said that?’ it roared,
‘He’s defaming my good name,
So get our lawyers on board!’*

Singaporeans take special delight in showing that the brilliant economic achievements of the leaders are not exactly matched by social finesse. There is this well-known joke about Minister Wong Kan Seng: he attends a formal dinner somewhere in Europe where his host says to him ‘Bon appetit!’ and he replies, ‘Wong Kan Seng.’ An aide whispers to him that he should have responded with the same expression of table etiquette. So he takes the first opportunity to say to his host, ‘Bon appetit!’ and the host responds by saying, ‘Wong Kan Seng.’ It is a joke that unfailingly provokes laughter, probably in the good-natured Mr Wong himself.

The Singaporean sense of humour gets a boost from the special form of Chinese names which are, with very few exceptions, monosyllabic—Tan, Lee, Goh, Chin, Pang, Wu, Wong—thus lending themselves easily to the pun. This may be the lowest form of humour, but Singaporeans have a field day punning on the names of the Chinese ministers and members of parliament. Mr Wong Kan Seng’s name seems to be an easy target for any joke or riddle related to any subject connected to singing or talentime contests, for it allows for the punchline: ‘Wong can’t sing!’

Singaporeans were rather astonished when Mr Lee Kuan Yew publicly made known that his first choice of successor was not Goh Chok Tong who was then Prime Minister, but Dr Tony Tan, a cabinet minister. Beyond the discomfiture felt on behalf of the popular Mr Goh, the revelation has provided the opportunity for an ingenious use of the pun for hilarious effect. So, goes the joke, there was a period when Mr Lee was unsure about whom to choose. A group of anxious PAP officials approached him to find out his decision. He waved them away impatiently and said, ‘Go, go!’ Now if he had been less impatient and had moreover spoken in Hokkien, saying, ‘Tan, Tan’, which means ‘Wait, wait,’ the succession line would have been completely different.

Unrepeatable and unprintable, of course, are the Singaporean jokes that pun on hapless names like ‘Kok’,'Tuck’, ‘Fatt’.

It is said that the exuberant street humour of Singaporeans is a kind of compensation for the dourness at the top. Whatever the reason, it is something they are unlikely to—indeed, must never—lose.

Alright. I admit I was getting a little bored. Always the same prayers. Always the same words. I must have heard them zillions of times. You may be exasperating, but at least you provoke reactions other than a yawning expectation.

Wow, I still can’t believe it. Tell you what, God, now that I’m here, could I—

I can see you are getting one of your bright ideas. Alright, what is it.

God, I was thinking of how I was getting nowhere with appealing to all those omni powers of yours, so here’s something else that may strike the right note with you.

What.

God, I know you don’t particularly care for the scientists, especially the physicists who’re trying to find out what happened at the Big Bang, that first moment of creation that’s already been accounted for in the Book of Genesis. But there’s one theory of theirs that I’m particularly excited about, that may at last solve all the problems in the world.

What.

It’s the quantum physicist’s Theory of Parallel Universes, God.

What has that to do with anything, for God’s sake.

Hey, God, are you allowed to take your own name in vain? Ha! Ha! Just a little humorous aside. Now, according to the Theory of Parallel Universes which is very weird indeed, but then, everybody listens when these physicists speak because of the marvelous things they’ve given the world through their discoveries, such as the laser, TV, X-ray, electron microscope, nuclear power, etc etc. Well, according to this bizarre theory, every time a person does something, based on a decision that is just one of many possible decisions, say, my deciding to go to the supermarket instead of to the library or the park or my friend’s house, etc all these alternatives actually take place too, but in different universes which are completely sealed off from each other, completely impenetrable, so that all I am aware of, in my universe, is that I am in the supermarket. And the same goes for all the other me’s in their respective universes, one in the library, another in the park, etc, all cut off from each other. These are parallel universes because they contain parallel, or alternative happenings, people, objects, etc., and also because, like parallel lines, they will never meet. Now isn’t it amazing, God, that right now, while I’m talking to you, I could be talking to an extra-terrestrial, a Neanderthal, the Devil himself in a parallel universe!

Leave that arch enemy out. What are you trying to say.

The theory, if it is right—and it must be right, coming from those brilliant minds—means that there is a parallel universe where the angels never rebelled so that there was no heavenly battle resulting in these rebels being cast into hell and losing their angelic appearance for those dreadful horns and cloven feet, where Adam and Eve never committed that awful sin of eating the forbidden apple because there was no devil to tempt them disguised as a snake, where there was no Original Sin to be passed down the generations, causing human beings to be wicked and make each other miserable, where—

There is no such parallel universe. Your physicists are talking nonsense.

That’s right, God! Suppose for once you show that you can beat them at their own game. So, according to them, there is such a sinless, happy universe somewhere out there, that knows no evil and misery, only that it can never be reached or contacted. Here’s how you outdo those damn scientists, God. You show that this parallel universe can be reached, you grab it and make it replace the wretched one we have! You can do it in seven days, or less. It would be Creation 2, or Genesis Redivivus. Wiping the cosmic slate clean and starting all over again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? After all, you are God, you can do anything—

Alright, we don’t want to go through all that again. That too can be boring, you know.

Alright, God. That’s the last thing I want to do—bore you. Because I simply have to keep open whatever line of communication I have with you. You won’t hear about parallel universes anymore from me. Promise. But wait, God, there is this strange theory called Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle that just might—

Alright, enough. You know, I’m beginning to be sorry I sent for you. But it was the fault of that angel who has taken it upon himself to relay to Me every ‘Our Father’ that is said in every church every day in every continent in the world. I have been bored for the last one hundred years. I will have to put an end to that self-appointed job.

Hey, God, I’ve got an idea. Why waste all that angelic energy and enthusiasm? Why not re-channel it so that he relays to you instead every cry for help after a natural disaster, every cry for food from hungry children, every plea from Filipinos for Imelda Marcos to release the stolen millions to help those living on the garbage dumps… God, are you still there?

At the individual level, the impact may be most strongly felt in relation to the moral implications of such changes, especially in scientific technology. For one has now to make decisions with little guidance from old value systems that have become obsolete and irrelevant. For instance, the majority of us, if we have to take a stand on the issue of abortion or cloning or euthanasia, are not likely to be guided purely by the Ten Commandments but will be influenced by new knowledge about ourselves regarding our biology and our human nature, and about how these are inextricably tied up with our cultural and social environment.

But so emotionally charged are these issues, so filled with ambiguities, both ethical and legal, so replete with grey areas that form an impossibly long continuum between the white and the black, that making a decision which will stand up to stringent moral scrutiny is almost impossible. For instance, regarding the abortion debate: at what stage in its development is the foetus considered a human being so that aborting it is tantamount to murder? In the event of a stark choice, whom should you save, the mother or the child? Regarding cloning of human stem cells, at what point does the therapeutic purpose which is acceptable, morph into other purposes which are questionable, such as prolonging life, or even outright reprehensible, such as promoting personal vanities?

I confess to a great deal of bewilderment, and am not sure how I would act if presented with these quandaries. But one thing I am sure of: it has to be a two-part decision. The first is based on the unavoidable reality that we all act from self-interest, so that any other starting point for a decision is a false one and doomed to lead nowhere. The second, quickly coming in to moderate the first, is that the self-interest has to take into account other people’s interests, since we all live in a community, so that the final decision is a meshing of both. Thus, for instance, while I support euthanasia and the right to die, I have to be mindful that my decision does not compromise my survivors, leave them with feelings of guilt, or get them into trouble with the law.

I have found that this pursuit of one’s own interests combined with an awareness of others’ rights and needs is my best guiding principle in life, because being very practical and pragmatic, it makes the goal achievable. It constitutes virtually my whole moral advisory. I think I was inspired by a special piece of wisdom from the Bible itself: be both the serpent and the dove, it says, that is, have both cunning, in the pursuit of one’s interests, as well as gentleness, in one’s attitude to others. Rabbi Hillel who lived more than two thousand years ago, expressed it best when he said rhetorically: ‘Who will be for me if I am not myself? But if I am only for myself, what am I?’

But even the rabbi’s strong guiding principle cannot deal with the doubts and uncertainties that sometimes arise to make decision-making difficult. So I’ve added one more guiding rule to my moral advisory: If in doubt, make your decision on the side of generosity, kindness and compassion, rather on the side of correctness, propriety, even justice. In other words, give the other party the benefit of the doubt and move on. I have had to put this principle into practice a few times in my life, where money was involved. My comforting thought then was: so what if I had the misfortune of meeting a dishonest person? The money can be earned back!

Actually, even this seeming act of mercy is still a self-serving act, for it gives me the peace of mind that would otherwise be lost.

I have since observed, and written about this sense of exhilaration that both men and women experience when a marriage or a relationship comes to an end, even if they had not wanted the dissolution in the first place. I am thinking of a university mate whose on-off relationship with a boyfriend went on for months, with her trying every ruse to keep him. But when it ended, she came into my room, flopped on the bed and exclaimed, ‘You know, I feel so free!’

I suppose the explanation lies in that most powerful of F words in our emotional lexicon—freedom. The taste of freedom( even if it lasts only for a short while, and loneliness sets in with its fearsome toll) is often expressed through imagery, as if straightforward language is not adequate to express it.

I remember, as I was taking that long walk that night, two compelling images kept coming into my mind, one from a popular ballad, the other from the Bible, both having to do with a huge weight around one’s neck, but used with different cautionary messages. In Coleridge’s poem ‘The Ancient Mariner’, the mariner wantonly and gratuitously kills a huge but friendly albatross and as a result has to wear its dead body around his neck as a form of penance. Only when he achieves full penitence, does it drop into the sea. In one of his sermons, Christ denounces anyone who would scandalize little children, saying that it would be better for him to have a millstone tied round his neck and then to be cast into the sea. But the only symbolic meaning that these two dreaded weights had for me was release and a relaunching into a new phase of life.

The enduring symbol of freedom in the popular imagination continues to be the opening of the cage door and the flight skywards of its once despairing inhabitant, now singing with joy. It is a symbol that resonates with women, probably because of the fragility of the bird on the one hand, and the power of its soaring flight on the other. I once gave a workshop on creative writing to inmates in a women’s prison. Among the titles I gave them to try their hand at short story writing was ‘The Caged Bird Sings/Never Sings’. It proved to be almost the unanimous choice; of the two options in the title, the majority chose the second.

But when I read Sylvia Plath’s novel ‘The Bell Jar’, I realized that there was an even more powerful symbol to capture the sense of helplessness and despair of women permanently trapped in relationships. I wrote a story, using the same title, about a well-educated, career woman who felt guilty about her unhappiness in a marriage that should have been a happy one because it had all the conventional requisites of stability and respectability. But she felt suffocated within her bell jar, and was secretly delighted to go on a career-related seminar in a foreign country. There she met someone she was instantly attracted to. Their brief affair brought her a joy she had never imagined possible. Her lover wanted her to continue to meet him, to make use of every opportunity for them to meet. She thought, quivering with excitement, ‘ At last I can escape my bell jar.’ But almost as quickly as she had agreed to the affair, she ended it, and returned to her family, willingly re-entering the bell jar, a butterfly with wings sadly folded, never to get out again.

The story was the kind of maudlin indulgence that the romantic writer sometimes allows herself. I had no idea that it touched so many raw nerves among my female readers. One of them told me she read the story five times. ‘Why? I asked. She said, ‘The woman in your story reminds me of myself—hating my bell jar, but used to the safety and security it gives me. One day, I just might…’

My favourite person is the ancient Greek philosopher Socrates. I like everything I read about him (he wrote nothing ; much of what is known about his life and philosophy comes from Plato, his most famous pupil). He exemplifies what I admire most in others and wish to see in myself: authenticity, a passionate intellectuality, a radiant honesty, an openness that allows for no gap whatsoever between the public persona and the private person: you simply get what you see.

His wisdom was of the rare kind that was recognized by all. But when an oracle declared him to be the wisest among men, he received the tribute with his usual skepticism, born of his unswerving commitment to truth; he wanted to check its veracity. And he did it in the only way he knew how—by a rigorously self-critical, reasoning process (known as the Socratic Dialogue, a de rigueur with philosophy students). So he went to the other wise men of Athens, spoke at length with them, and came to the conclusion that, yes, the oracle was right, but only in the sense that he was aware of his ignorance whereas others were not. Hence wisdom for Socrates meant* self-knowledge*, and he would only agree with the oracle if this ironic meaning of wisdom was used.

It was a staggering honesty that must be rare among philosophers and thinkers, perhaps even among saints and visionaries, arrived at by reason and logic alone, with not a trace of moral posturing, or pious intent. It formed the basis of an unshakeable personal integrity in his role of mentor to those in Athens who hungered for knowledge and truth, shaping his every decision right to the very end, when he was arrested and condemned to death on a charge of corrupting the youth of Athens with his allegedly subversive ideas. In his cell Socrates could have taken advantage of the many opportunities presented to him to escape death, but he calmly drank the hemlock.

What I find most attractive about Socrates is the combination of his extraordinary powers of intellect and moral strength, on the one hand, and a connectedness with earthy, everyday life, on the other. For one thing, he didn’t have the austere, patrician good looks represented in Greek statues. Instead of the handsome Grecian torso, he was short and squat; instead of the impressive Grecian profile, he had a clown’s snub nose. Moreover, he had the ordinary man’s faults of impatience and temper. When, in his death cell, he saw a number of anxious women arriving, he asked for them to be dismissed, saying he couldn’t bear to hear their noisy weeping. Just before the hemlock took effect, he suddenly remembered he owed a neighbour a cock, and gave instructions for this last debt to be settled.

But the most endearing thing about Socrates must be his sense of humour, even if of the wry kind that poked fun at women. When asked about marriage, he was supposed to have said, ‘By all means marry. If you marry a good woman, you will be happy; if you don’t, you will be a philosopher.’ Socrates had a wife named Xantippe who was known as a sharp-tongued, nagging shrew; indeed, her name has become a common noun for this category of women. (I find it hard to blame her, for her husband, despite being a family man with two or three children, was never home, being always out philosophising) One day, goes a well-known story, she was in a worse mood than usual. When Socrates at last returned home, she began raging and ranting at him, but he remained calm in the midst of the storm. Furious, she picked up a large bucket of cold water and emptied it over his head. Completely unperturbed he said, ‘Woman, after all that thunder and lightning, I expected a shower.’

I once wrote that if I could have a wish, it would be to go back in time and spend some time with people I admired or was intrigued by or was curious to know more about. Socrates was my first choice. No time machine being available, I would like to do the next best thing: make a pilgrimage to Athens one of these days, and see with my own eyes, touch with my own hands, with deep reverence, the very stones that this most marvelous of human beings had trod.