Understanding The Singapore Story 1

Highlighting insightful articles I've come across during the national mourning week of LKY's passing: 

The Legacy of Lee Kuan Yew and the Myth of Trade-Offs
- Calvin Cheng rebuts critics on Singapore trading freedom for economic success 

THE Western press has been relentless in trotting out the opinion that Mr Lee Kuan Yew had built Singapore's undeniable economic success while trading off fundamental civil liberties.

Much as I understand that it is in the West's fundamental DNA to assert certain inalienable freedoms, as a Singaporean, I strenuously object that there has been any such trade-off.

Some of my Western friends who have never lived here for any period of time have sometimes self-righteously proclaimed, no doubt after reading the cliches in the media, that they could never live under the "stifling and draconian" laws that we have.

My answer to them is simple: Are you the sort to urinate in public when a toilet isn't available, the sort to vandalise public property, the sort that would leave a mess in a public toilet that you share with others? Are you the sort who would throw rubbish on the streets for others to pick up, the sort that would stick gum on train doors or leave them on the floor to dry up into one ugly black scar on the pavement? Are you perhaps a drug smuggler? Because we execute those. Or maybe you molest women? Because we would whip you. Are you the sort that would get drunk and then get into fights and maybe beat up a stranger in the bar? Back home you may get away with it but if you are that sort, then maybe this place isn't for you.

In short, are you a civilised person who wants to live in a civilised society? Because the things you cannot do in Singapore are precisely the sort that civilised people should not do anyway. If you are, you have nothing to fear.

Or maybe like the Western press has kept saying these few days in their commentaries on Mr Lee, you fear that you could be locked up because we do not have freedom of speech?

Do you want to come here and insult other people's race and religion? Maybe these are fundamental freedoms in your country, but in ours, because we have experienced deadly racial riots at the birth of our country, these are a no-no. But then again, why would you want to purposely offend others?

Or maybe you want to tell lies about our public figures, accuse them of corruption when you have no evidence to back them up, or accuse them of stealing, cheating, or all manner of untruths? If so, then be prepared to be sued for libel. Even if Western societies think that you can say these things about your political figures, we don't and we are better for it.

And those political opponents of Mr Lee who have been bankrupted, allegedly because they were such formidable foes? No such thing. Mr J.B. Jeyeratnam and Dr Chee Soon Juan may be the martyrs much adored by the Western press, but have you heard of Mr Chiam See Tong, the longest-serving opposition Member of Parliament who won five consecutive elections against Mr Lee's People's Action Party? Or Mr Low Thia Khiang, who not only won five consecutive general elections, but in the last one in 2011, also led a team that unseated the incumbent Minister for Foreign Affairs and our first female Cabinet minister?

Both these opposition MPs have never been sued, much less bankrupted. In fact, Mr Chiam won several libel lawsuits against Mr Lee's ministers. You would never have heard of them, or have chosen not to, because it doesn't fit the Western narrative that legitimate opposition was stifled by Mr Lee through lawsuits. It doesn't suit your narrative of trade-offs. The fact is that every single opposition politician successfully sued for libel engaged in the type of politics that we do not want, the kind founded on vicious lies being told in the name of political campaigning.

What about detention without trial? Again and again ad nauseam, the Western press has used the example of Operation Cold Store to bolster its narrative of Mr Lee as an autocrat, where 111 left-wing politicians were arrested on suspicion of being communist in 1964.

But what about Operation Demetrius, where in 1971, 342 persons suspected of being involved with the IRA were detained without trial by the British Army? Or closer to the present where thousands have been interred without trial by the United States in Guantanamo Bay on suspicion of being terrorists? Firstly, detention without trial is not something used only by the Singapore Government, but countries need to make their own judgment about applying such laws when they feel their security is threatened and the normal judicial process is inadequate; in the 1960s and 70s, communists inciting armed revolution were Singapore's greatest threat.

Whether those people were indeed communists will be a question no doubt debated endlessly by historians, in the same way as whether the 342 in Northern Ireland were indeed IRA members, or the thousands in Guantanamo Bay were indeed terrorists.

So where is the trade-off? How are we unfree?

I tell you what freedom is.

Freedom is being able to walk on the streets unmolested in the wee hours in the morning, to be able to leave one's door open and not fear that one would be burgled. Freedom is the woman who can ride buses and trains alone; freedom is not having to avoid certain subway stations after night falls. Freedom is knowing our children can go to school without fear of drugs, or being mowed down by some insane person with a gun. Freedom is knowing that we are not bound by our class, our race, our religion, and we can excel for the individuals that we are - the freedom to accomplish. Freedom is living in one of the least corrupt societies in the world, knowing that our ability to get things done is not going to be limited by our ability to pay someone. Freedom is fresh air and clean streets, because nothing is more inimical to our liberty of movement than being trapped at home because of suffocating smog.

These are the freedoms that Singaporeans have, freedoms that were built on the vision and hard work of Mr Lee, our first Prime Minister. And we have all of these, these liberties, while also being one of the richest countries in the world.

There was no trade-off.

Not for us.

Dated Saturday, 28 March 2015 (as published in The Independent in the UK)
- source http://ifonlysingaporeans.blogspot.sg/)
- first published The Straits Times, 27 Mar 2015)

My comment: Singaporeans have been living a free life since 1959. LKY has never told its people how to lead their lives the way perhaps Mao Zedong did with his Little Red Book and exhortations. There was no "do this do that" because LKY said so. Heck, it was up to us to pay attention to his speeches during election. If we cared about LKY, it was because he had a vision of Singapore and had a habit since early days to accomplish what he set out to do. Sure, we had to live with policies set by his govt, but those were largely to do with govt policies. If we didn't like it, we could vote him out of office. If LKY set out to be a dictator, he would have been overthrown a long time ago. Or Sg who have remained something of a backward Cuba ruled by communists. 

Breakfast Kuti Kuti

Next time, I'll bring my vadai kuti king! ;-)

The Good, the Bad, the Ugly

Make kueh, not war. An Asian approach? ;-) 

Kuehlos = gwailos (Cantonese for foreigners)

A Sausage Bolster

Another food blog inspired fotoon, ;-) (Someone commented that the sausage was so comforting it reminded me of a childhood bolster.)

A Mount of Doom

Gems on a slippery slope (a food blog inspired fotoon). ;-)

Of D&G, PG and Koteka

(A chap goh meh eve short story) ;-) Meanwhile, in a village in Papua New Guinea.... "Come here, son," motions a father sitting on his mound of dirt. The son rises and approaches, leaving his own small mound of earth as befits his lower status in society. "Yes, Papa," says the boy, barely thirteen but with eyes already roving. A girl nods shyly at his attention and giggles and then runs to hide behind a tree. "It's about time, son," says the elder man, not missing the hot flush scene that's just happened. "Time for what, Papa?" inquires the son, his voice barely breaking. "Time to have your own koteka," says the man, as he taps his smoke pipe against his own penis gourd eliciting a tok-tok sound. In other cultures, that tok-tok sound would have summoned a bowl of hot piping noodles. But not here. Here, a woodpecker might respond. The son eyes his dad's koteka and beams. He has always hoped to own a symbol of manhood like that. But times have changed. It's the era of handphones and tighty-whities, not jungle drums and heaven accusing kotekas. "Dad, cousin Mosbig's papa got him not a PG but a D&G for his coming-of-age birthday!" "What D&G?" asks the man, vaguely remembering a bus-stop ad in town of a male model in strange mid-rift attire. "Didgeridoo & Gourd, dad," the boy says. "It's the fashion these days!" "Son, what D&G?" decries the father. "Your grandfather before me and his father before him all wore their PGs with pride. It's the way of our peoples," he says, eyes burning with a rage that can only be fuelled by heritage. "What will we all look like if we all wore da white D&Gs? It's another white-man evil intention to make us more white!" laments the father, who has last year lost a daughter to Wacoal's wonder creation. "Look at those women over there, harnessed like working horses! I say no. We are a free people. We must swing like the old times!" With that, the elder man swung his koteka left and right, turning it somewhat into a fungshui dial. Of what that portends, the sky now intends to announce. It turns a shade purple and pelts the village with raindrops the size of, well, raindrops. "Look at your cousin Mosbig's tighty-whities. They are now all brown with mud and rain. And he is chafing between the thighs. What does that tell you, son?" The son looks at his cousin Mosbig with both admiration and discomfort. Cousin Mosbig was called his name for a reason and it was not for his nose, feet size nor monstrous tongue. If he had worn a PG, he would appear to be a saxophonist in a Western symphonic band caressing his instrument like a farmer his winning squash. Yes siree, Mosbig is the pride of the tribe but even he has betrayed tradition opting for D&G instead of a PG. Mosbig is also hopping around like a cuscus on heat his inner thighs rashing worse with every clap of thunder. Hmm, it seems dad is right, muses the son. And so, with the rains over, father and son travel to the fabled gourd patch of Amungme Mountain just like his father had done so with him and his father before him, to find the right koteka for his son to begin his manhood with. After that, his spear, quiver and so on. Like some back-to-school Bata advertisement in some other culture. At the Amungme gourd patch, an ancient lady welcomes both father and son. She signals to her helpers who are semi-naked ladies skilled in the art of gourd fitting. An agreeable one is summoned and she leads the young man into a hut. "As with tradition, that lady will pick him a gourd. And together, they will empty the gourd of flesh and celebrate with gourd pie and drink. She will teach him all there is to know of gourd care, sheathing and unsheathing. By the time she is finished, your son will soon be a man, ready to face the world with his gourdliness. And he will know how to treat his women right." Saying that, the ancient woman turns to sacred Amungme and bows. The father nods in agreement, as he himself has gone through the same ritual many moons before, although the memory of it now is infused with red light, strange incense and no small amount of crotch slapping. Crotch slapping? Oh my! At that thought, the father blushes and feels a burning sensation down south. Wearing a PG does require rigid training - as rigid as regimented military training. And these gourd ladies are so professional about it. After all, if a man cannot wear his gourd upright, he will only trip and fall. Literally and metaphorically. It is not something to sniff at. It is said a woman holds the sky up with her back. A man in Papua New Guinea holds it up with his gourd. The end - TC Lai

Looking for Sesame Street

Seen at Tesco, Malaysia.

Germans known for their long sausages.

Looking for Sesame Street

"My eye! My eye!" said the fraulein in some distress, still kneeling.

Bernhard, half undressed, recoiled. "Mein fraulein! You ok?"

"Next time, warn me can?" said the fraulein, rubbing gently her sore eye, not aware that fake eyelashes had gone missing. When her vision returned, a one-eyed monster stared back at her.

It didn't look the same as before.

It was wearing her missing eyelashes reminding her of a sock puppet from Sesame Street.
The image cracked her up.

"Haha!" the fraulein laughed, if not a bit too hard.

Bernhard, already insecure, recoiled some more, making the sock puppet droop in low self-esteem.

"Nein, nein," said the fraulein. "T'is not your fault!It's just too funny!"

Now, Bernhard had been called many a funny name before: Chinese sausage, bratwurst, pickles, Taiwan xiang chang...even goreng pisang; but none laughed at him the way this fraulein did.

"You think it funny, Freda?" said Bernhard, almost in a hurt whisper.

"Ha...Oh, no, I... don't..." said Freda, as she tried to reengage B. She had known B for a while and knew him as a not-so-quick puppet master. And it's been a while since she had enjoyed 'Sesame Street'.

But B had fallen back into his funk and decided to keep his puppet for another day. When F saw this she became somewhat desperate. Suddenly she heard the Count laughing at her: "Five! Five dates with no success. Bwahahaha!" Thunder and organ music blared out from nowhere.

"Give me another chance, B'hard," pleaded Freda. "You are B'hard, my Big B. So don't just go away ok?"

Bernhard was pleased to hear Freda call him B'hard. Somehow it boosted his confidence and the socket puppet slowly came back to life.

"Er, let's just remove the eye lashes," said Freda, as she plucked the sock puppet naked. The one-eyed monster now looked as dashing as Kojak, that bald detective who could be father to Vin Diesel but is not. Freda was not one to make love with dolled-up pretty boys; she liked them unsocked and fabulous like Chinese sausage on white rice.

As Bernhard and Freda explored the intimate machinations of alternate Sesame Street puppetry, the Count could be heard counting in the background. "One, two, three...." And for the first time in a long while, Freda heard organ music and angels sing in her head. When B'hard is good, he is really very good.

The end.