The we of anyone

"Is this where I belong? I asked with each move. Is this my true home? [...] I have always found it a very English concept, home. Hearth and home, say the English. To them, home is the place where the fire burns in the hearth, where you come to warm yourself. The one place where you will not be left out in the cold. No, I am not warm here [...] I seem to be cold wherever I go [...] Among the French, as you know, there is no home. Among the French to be at home is to be among ourselves, among our kind. I am not at home in France [...] I am not the we of anyone [...] I am not the we of anyone."

~ J.M. Coetzee, Slow Man

Home - each and every one of us seeks that place of security, some place we know we can be accepted, loved, cared for, feel the warmth and belong to a 'we'. That yearning tugs at the soul most prominently when we are away from that place we call 'home'.

But what is this place? And how many of us truly belong to a 'we' of someone?

The question has since found a comfortable nestling spot in my sub-conscious many years ago, and it makes its presence felt every time I travel. And when I travel, I consciously stay clear from the 'we' called Singaporeans, the 'we' that I supposedly belong to.

I seem to abhor them; yet ironically, I make comparisons - willingly or unwillingly, consciously or sub-consciously. I loathe the Americans for their brashness, egotism, self-assumed sense of importance, and their stupidity. I detest the Thais and Vietnamese for their false hospitality that masks a devious scheme to take advantage of that open purse. I dislike the French for their unfounded arrogance and belittling. I am cautious of the English for their residual sense of colonialism and imperialism.

Who am I the 'we' of?

Singaporeans make their presence felt albeit in such ugly ways and when two or three are gathered in that name there the ugliness will be. Having stayed away from 'home' for the last few days and having virtually no contact with my kind, I assumed a false identity and lied about my origin when queried. Ironically, there was no real need to lie much since most people never anticipate me to be Chinese and much less a Chinese from Singapore. I've been a Tibetan, a Thai, a Japanese, a Cambodian, a 'chup cheng', a hybrid but never a Chinese Singaporean. And in some ways I smile quietly in delight. At the airport, the epitome of the ugly Singaporean shows itself. A late middle-aged father patronises a store and offers the smallest denominations for a bottle of water he just purchased, in the hopes of emptying his pockets of the worthless change. Children, uncontrolled, wild, and unsupervised, storm the boarding area screaming their lungs out in the delusion of fun; parents watch on uninterestingly and unperturbed. Middle-aged women rush to the duty free stores to get the cheapest bargains, while the word 'cheap' appends itself to every utterance. A group of young men, who behave like children thinking their grown men who exude the epitome of 'coolness', walk around in singlets and flip-flops, speak loudly, and blast their latest mobile-phone that transforms into a music player. When it is time to board, the rush to be first does not surprise.

What is the 'we' of Singapore? Do I wish to be a part of it? I never did, yet I never could find myself being a part of anything completely. I never was a 'we' of someone; I never felt truly at 'home' in any place. Like Paul Rayment in Coetzee's Slow Man, I was always, what Kafka would call, the "outsider."

It is easier to belong to something and some-one, anyone. But perhaps I'm not awarded that luxury. Perhaps I am called to stand on my own always watchful of becoming a collective in thought and action.

But it is difficult, and every once in a while, I wish I could be home. Every once in a while I wish I needn't be cold.