The journalistic conundrum

Being a probable future journalist, I have reached a nadir, a point in my course where I have to choose a poison, a bureaucratic organisation to which to render my services, in the name of journalistic objectivity and fact-based reporting.

I have been enjoined to offer myself up for employment for the whole of the next semester, in the hope that a professional experience will lend credence to my ability to compose and edit prose under conditions that would otherwise unnerve.

The one big bugbear I have is, one organisation has chosen a method of selection which ensures they get the best and brightest, while denying them the liberty of choice in making an informed decision about the kind of media organisation best suited to their strengths. I feel that such a practice is anathema to the spirit of fair competition among news organisations locally, a case of a monopolistic bureaucracy flexing its influence with the media scene here.

I will not name the organisation I am directing this attack at, because it is pretty obvious, and I do not want to find myself named as a defendant in a sedition suit. I find it ridiculous though that to secure a possible internship at this company, I have to apply for it way ahead of the selection phase for all other companies. This scenario is made even more ridiculous when you realise that this company gets to conclude a written test and an interview and offer applicants a job even before the official selection phase for internships begin.

So, what is the catch? Well, you actually have to reject their offer before you can enter the official selection phase. This effectively means that while other candidates from other tracks get to be shortlisted for two interviews, giving them a chance to learn about and compare the work environments two companies simultaneously, candidates in my track get the choice of either said company, or everything else.

This means I cannot apply for a wire agency and put this company as an alternative choice, because to work with a wire agency, I have to give up any chance I have to work with this company.

This company controls just about all the print media in Singapore. If I were to reject their offer with them having a complete set of my records, would I not be effectively shooting myself in the foot? You could say that if one was truly outstanding they would headhunt you anyway, so even a rejection would drive them to table a better offer.

However, said organisation is well known for treating talented journalists like dirt, as their turnover rates would attest, simply because they are a monopoly. They get all the talent anyway, so it is hardly in short supply for them. This creates a situation in which only this company benefits by leveraging its control of the print media scene, at a huge disadvantage to people entering it, like me.

Tell me, why the hell would I want to work for this organisation, if it won't even treat potential interns right? But sometimes, I wonder if I even have a choice.

02940. Just another runner under the blue sky

Three years ago, I was a lazy army boy, forced to participate in a gruelling 21km half-marathon. I ran up the Sheares Bridge, and I cut the barriers into the fun run for members of the public, making a 21km run become a 6km one. I remember my jubilant run with raised arms down the side of the Esplanade as I realised I had 1km left while my pals were still barely one third of the way through. From the expression on my face, you would have thought I'd won the race.

This time, without being under duress of any sort, I signed myself back up for the same run.

I had to admit that my first thoughts upon reaching the grounds of the Padang at 4am was "What have I got myself into?" I had not trained for this run, and the last time I ran, I barely managed 4km. This time though, it was 21km. The only way I could psych myself up for the run was to avoid thinking about it as much as possible. Not that it was very difficult. The whole area was a hive of activity, with people from all walks of life milling about waiting for the race to start. There were the army boys, the endurance runners, the veterans, and to my pleasant surprise, plenty of attractive young girls with toned calves. There was also the odd human bowling ball, which intrigued me because I was wondering if they were going to roll themselves along for 21km.

The start itself was a bit of a fluke. I was walking towards the start point, and when I reached there I realised that the race for the "competitive" section had started at least 30 minutes ago. I squeezed out of the huge block of people from the "non competitive" section waiting for their own flagoff, and took off. And that was it. The beginning of my 21km journey.

My run took me onto the Sheares bridge, where I ran till the Fort Road exit and cut into East Coast Park. While running on the bridge at the area overlooking Suntec City, I felt a flicking of water into my face. Thinking it was drizzling, I looked up and opened my palms facing the sky, like what people do when they want to check if its raining. There wasn't any rain. I looked in front, and I saw a ponytail swishing left and right. Suddenly I realised where the water was coming from. I think I died. I was like ARGHHHH its human sweat! I will never forget that for the rest of my life.

Along the section of the expressway leading into Fort Road, I noticed many runners, and only male ones, running into the bushes at the side to relieve themselves. I have to admit it was quite shocking to see full grown men relieve themselves in public view. I mean, the last time I did that was when I was 5 years old, and these men are doing it 10 in a row along the forest. There was even a lane at the side of the road for these guys. It was like if you wanted to pee, you cut into the "pit stop" lane and proceeded into the pit stop, only that this pit stop has no mechanics to service you. Okay, that is a good thing.

Running in East Coast Park was difficult, because the crowd effectively packed the running road, making anything more than a slow jog impossible. I stopped at every water point to drink 100 Plus, and when it was done I tossed my paper cup with wild abandon as far as I could. They provided bananas as well, and when I was done with those, I similarly tossed the skin at the roadside. It was probably the only time that littering was legal in Singapore, and expected. You don't get this chance everyday, so litter for all your life is worth. I actually went back at one water station to take a second cup so I could toss it again. Cheap thrill but oh so liberating.

There were also all manners of mascots along ECP. There was a transformer, which was pretty cute, although it wasn't very interactive. There was another very interactive mascot with a huge outstretched palm, but when I ran forward to smack it, I realised to my horror that the palm was super sweaty. I spent the next 3 minutes trying to find a water point to wash my hands. I guess I could have rubbed my hand on someone else's shirt, but they were all equally sweaty.

Coming out from East Coast Park, I ran along the road leading to the National Stadium. There was an angmoh standing by the side of the road clapping his hands and shouting "Come on guys! Don't stop running! You are the future of our nation!" Several people ignored him and walked past, before running into the petrol kiosks nearby to get refreshments, which was pretty hilarious. They won't run for the country, but they will run for cold H2O.

The rest of the run was just forcing myself towards completion, kilometre by kilometre. I couldn't feel my ankles, my calves were sore, and the soles of my feet hurt like mad. I saw a Salonpas station along the way, which had 2 girls spraying Salonpas onto the calves of tired runners. It was amazing. People who were limping or almost lame would suddenly begin running again after a touch of that miracle spray. If you watched that enough you'd believe that Salonpas could make the wheelchair bound stand up and walk.

Struggling across Nicoll Highway, and through the Formula 1 racetrack, I ran into an area full of army guys wearing tiger masks and carrying placards with cheesy slogans like "Pain is temporary, pride is forever" or "Pain and suffering is what separates men from boys". I got a stitch from laughing at the corniness of it all. The next stretch took me past the Esplande and Fullerton, and I cut into the road between City Hall and the Padang. When the army dude there went "Come on, last 400 metres!", I just bolted. I think the whole world must have noticed because my arms were flailing as I sprinted because I wanted to finish the run as soon as possible.

There is nothing like the feeling of seeing the endpoint after running over 20km on end, and when I saw it, somehow the pain just disappeared and I found some reserve of energy somewhere to sprint past it. And when I did, I raised my arms again, but because I felt an immense sense of achievement at having completed what was definitely my longest run ever. Then I realised I was super thirsty and started looking for a water point. The only one was swamped with millions of sweaty army boys, and the only way you could get any water was to squeeze in there with them. I swear that's what they do to torture people in hell, because it was smelly, disgusting, cold and slimy. Yes, slimy. I am not kidding.

I will always treasure this medal, because I endured slimy army guys, really bad BO, had sweat flicked in my face, and ran till my calves were on fire to earn it.

It's the little things.

It's the little things, that we share
The love and joy that's in the air
The children's laughter everywhere
And all our favourite things

Hearing this song on NDP brought me back to a place I was at many years ago, when I was still a child, listening to this song on the radio. I was a kid, and I was happy. I didn't know the ways of the world then. All I knew was, a stick of otah cost 30 cents, a plate of fried rice was a dollar, a pack of Twisties at the mama shop around the back cost 50 cents, and I had lots of homework. Everyday at 1pm, the school bell would ring, and the school buses downstairs would start rumbling as the drivers switched on their engines in anticipation. The smell of exhaust smoke would fill the air, mixed in with the excited chatter of schoolkids glad to be free from the confines of the classroom, yet again.

Now, I look back at my old self in both amusement, and a familiar tingle of warmth. And it dawns on me that one thing still hasn't changed. Every year, on the 9th of August, people all over Singapore come together, and they celebrate being Singaporean. It is a euphoria that is shortlived though, as life in Singapore quickly settles back into a daily humdrum as soon as the public holiday ends.

I don't think any of us can truly understand what being Singaporean means, until you have been away. No matter where you go, a part of you will always yearn to return, and when you do, the happiness you feel is unadulterated. Singapore will always be home because it was the scene of many of my dearest memories. When I think of Singapore, I hear the laughter of my friends, I see the smiles, hugs and handshakes exchanged whenever our paths cross again, and sometimes, I imagine myself at the beach, where the smell of barbecues fills the crisp evening air, and the bicycles of eager young kids whizz pass. In the distance, the sound of the surf breaks upon sandy shores, and the orange glow of sunset gives way to the soft velvet hues of dusk.

I feel happy to be Singaporean, because I have come to recognise how rare the cohesive community we have here is. It is uncommon in developed cities, where alienation and a general sense of disconnect abound. Singapore is probably the only place where you will run into people you know all the time, because it is just so densely populated. Of course, this also means you run into people you can't stand all the time, but that is why there are pillars, trees and other obstacles around so you can avoid them.

I like coming back to Singapore because it is where I know I belong. I know this statement will set off bells of corniness as it is phrased exactly like National Education propaganda, but I do not say it lightly because I have considered seriously the possibility of living overseas for an extended period, and I know I will probably do so in the future.

This is the only place I will be treated like an equal, without having to endure the suspicion and general discomfort of people overseas who do not appreciate my presence in their midst. It is the only place where my manner of speech or my facial features will not elicit strange looks or the odd racist comment. It is where my personality matters first, before my race, and not vice versa. You might say that this is the result of an educational and social system where we are conditioned to neutralise negative associations to race, but I think it's enlightened because race blinds the eyes and minds of too many overseas, so much that they would associate members of other races as being less human than their own.

When I was overseas, it always brought me great happiness to meet fellow Singaporeans, because nobody else will know Singapore like another Singaporean can, be it the quirks of our people, the eccentricities of our political system, or the ridiculously sumptous variety of food adapted to our palates. We would share countless inside jokes, all in Singlish, and amidst our rapidfire chatter passerbys would look on quizzically, not understanding a single word, but completely transfixed by the joy that lights up our faces.

Sometimes, I do question certain aspects of Singapore. Then I step back, and walk around in our hawker centres. I look at the daily lives of our heartlanders. They are fiercely patriotic, and proud of being Singaporean. I ask myself why this is so, then I realise that there is nothing to be ashamed about in loving the country you were born in, because it's the little things that matter. The heartlanders harbour no illusions about Western ideals, because all the freedom of speech in the world would not give you stability if there wasn't a solid core of good governance behind it.

There is no need to pretend that Singapore isn't great, because it is. For all the Americans that would trumpet the lack of human rights and true democratic governance in Singapore, I would highlight that we do not have the same problems with gun violence and rampant poverty that characterises the United States. When you read the papers, you see bomb attacks and natural disasters, yet in Singapore, we do not even pay attention to such news because for most of us, it is that far removed from our reality.

When you look inside yourself, and see what really matters, you will find that you're really proud to be Singaporean. Because if there were a country that approached utopia on this Earth, Singapore would come pretty close. It's not perfect, because no country ever is. But it is perfect in the ways that matter. It is perfect because we have access to education, and our streets are safe. We have a standard of healthcare that rivals the best anywhere else in the world, and we have access to an education that ensures our young will be among the best and brightest. For a small nation, we have defied the odds.

It is where our children will grow up without ever knowing what hunger brought on by days of starvation on end truly means. It is where we can afford to complain about trivial things, and laugh it off at the end of the day, because the things that matter are well taken care of. It is where we can aspire to be the best we can ever be, because we are given free reign to be the masters of our own destinies.

But above it all, this is where I know I will always love, and be loved by the people who matter.