The Sunday Times Mar 21, 2010
By Lee Wei Ling
Over the last 50 years, the names people choose for their children, and the names some people give themselves, have changed dramatically.
When my father was born in 1923, his family consulted a friend knowledgeable in choosing names. He suggested 'Kuan Yew', which means 'brightness' in Hokkien.
My great-grandfather was awed by the British and added 'Harry' to my father's name. Because his name appeared as 'Harry Lee Kuan Yew' on his birth certificate, when he graduated from Cambridge University and later from Middle Temple, he could not persuade either institution to drop 'Harry' from his university degree or his certificate as Barrister-at-law.
In 1950, he managed to arrange for himself to be called to the Singapore Bar as just 'Lee Kuan Yew', sans 'Harry'. 'Lee Kuan Yew' thus became his public persona. To this day, only family members and a few very close friends call him 'Harry'.
My brothers and I have no ang moh name. My parents were not literate in Chinese when we were born, so my father approached a court interpreter he knew to give him some names to choose from.
My name, 'Wei Ling', means 'the sound of tinkling jade'. My parents did not foresee that I would grow up to be a tomboy who would join the army cadets in secondary school, where my loud and resonant voice was deemed appropriate for a parade commander.
'Wei Ling' is a very common name for Chinese girls. When I try to sign up for electronic journals on the Internet, and the system prompts me for a user name, I try all possible permutations of my name, including 'Li', 'Weiling' or 'Wei-Ling'. Alas, I invariably find they have all been taken by others. Exasperated, I would sometimes try 'Lee Hsien Yang', and the system would immediately accept it.
Throughout my years in school, from kindergarten to pre-university, all my friends had only Chinese, Malay or Indian names. When I was in medical school and during my early years of postgraduate training, the only Westernised names were the Christian names of those who were actually Christian.
By the late 1980s, however, non-Christian Chinese began to have Westernised names and often did not use their Chinese names at all. The trend was initially subtle and I had assumed that those with Westernised names were all Christians. It was only when I needed to write a cheque to a friend and I was told, 'don't include my Western name, just write 'Tan Chee Beng'' or whatever, did it dawn on me that the Western names were not official.
My brothers chose not to give their children any Western names. One nephew, when he was in school, asked his parents' permission to adopt a Western name. His mother Ho Ching told him: 'In China, only waiters and waitresses use Western names.' My father also explained how 'Harry' became part of his name and how he tried to remove it.
To date, none of my nephews or niece has a Western name.
I trained in Boston from 1981 to 1984, and in Toronto in 1992. I kept my Chinese name throughout and told those who had difficulty remembering my name just to call me 'Lee'.
To my close childhood friends and my family, I am just 'Ling'. I still think 'tinkling jade' hardly reflects my nature. To those who know me, 'Wei Ling' perhaps conjures up a very different image from that of tinkling jade.
I am glad that Malays and Indians rarely give or adopt Western names - unless they are Christians, in the case of the Indians. I guess there is still a strong anti-colonial instinct in me that leads me to abhor any attempt by people in former colonies to adopt the names of their past colonial masters.
In the book The Narcissism Epidemic by Jean M. Twenge and W. Keith Campbell, there is a chapter on 'Uniqueness'. They write: 'The biggest trend in baby names recently isn't a particular name; it's that fewer children receive common names.
'The Social Security Administration has compiled a database of the names given to every American child born since 1879. Half the boys born in 1946 received one of the top 23 names. Back then, naming a child was about belonging and fitting in instead of uniqueness and standing out...
'But over the last few decades, parents, tired of common names, wanted something unique for their children. At first it was a slow progression: As late as 1987, 3 per cent of boys were named Michael and 3 per cent of girls were named Jessica, with one out of five boys and one out of six girls receiving one of the 10 most popular names.
'Then, during the 1990s, unique names caught fire and fewer and fewer children received the most popular name for their sex, and only one out of 11 boys and one out of 12 girls went by a name in the top 10...
'Now it is considered better to stand out as an individual and be 'unique'. In fact, 223 babies born in the 1990s in California were named Unique, with some parents putting teeth into it with names like Uneek, Uneque or Uneqqee...
'Unique spellings are also trendy: Why name a child Michael or Kevin when they can be Mychal or Kevyn?'
The same trend can be observed in Singapore, especially among the Chinese. An example I came across recently here of a thoroughly made-up, 'uneqqee' name was 'Evetor'.
I asked a Malay friend whether there has been a similar trend among Malay names. She replied: 'Most Malay names have either Arabic or Sanskrit roots and some are drawn from Malay literature. When I was younger, many more Malays had simpler names. Now you find a whole generation growing up with multiple names, not just a simple Fatimah or plain Aminah. Instead, it will be Fatimah Nadia Trina, or Natasha Atiqa, et cetera.
'What you will notice about these new fashionable names is that they are a blend of Western and Islamic names,' my friend told me.
I view this new trend of choosing Westernised unique names as another example of the narcissistic epidemic. I feel that if you need a name to distinguish yourself, you or your parents probably have a chip on your or their shoulder, combined with a cultural inferiority complex.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
A different kind of sarong party girl
The Sunday Times Mar 07, 2010
A different kind of sarong party girl
By Lee Wei Ling
Recently, there was an exchange in Parliament between NTUC secretary- general Lim Swee Say and Member of Parliament Irene Ng - on undergarments of all things.
I found the entire episode rather comical, especially Ms Ng's comment that 'women choose their clothes, including their undergarments, to look good for themselves, not only for the men'.
I choose clothes for their comfort and relatively low price. I do care a little how I look, but only insofar as my patients do not find my attire offensive.
Recently, I have resumed accompanying my father, Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew, on his travels abroad, after a gap of 15 years. On these occasions, I try to meet conventional codes of dress, what foreign dignitaries would expect of a member of the Minister Mentor's delegation.
My sister-in-law Ho Ching and some of my friends, believing I need help, decided to assume the duties that once belonged to my mother: Dress the reluctant dresser.
So reluctantly, I have been fitted out with blouses, skirts or long pants, sandals and handbags for overseas trips, so as to satisfy what foreign dignitaries might expect of a member of the Minister Mentor's delegation. Some among my friends, knowing my propensity to give away fancy things, have given me gifts of clothing with the firm instruction that they are for my personal use and not to be given away as presents.
I have not wholly solved the problem of formal shoes - also known as court shoes or pumps. As anyone who runs or does step aerobics for durations exceeding an hour a day will know, toe nails can turn blue and drop off as a result of such exercise, so wearing any footwear covering the toes is rather painful. My solution is to wear a pair of somewhat dressy sandals, leaving my toes exposed.
My philosophy of clothing is that there is a necessity to cover up certain areas of the body, which social conventions have decreed would be indecent to expose. Beyond that, I choose colours that are easy to mix and match like black, white and brown - as well as my favourite colour, blue.
Until my father pointed out to me recently that cotton batik skirts are not considered formal, I was unaware of that fact. My preference for cotton batik skirts is based on their comfort (cotton is cool) and convenience (batik prints hide creases).
I particularly like the wraparound batik skirts because I usually wear exercise shorts. A sarong skirt can be wrapped around relatively thin running shorts quickly and I don't even need a private area to do so. On the occasions when I need to 'change' from gym wear into work wear, all I need to do is tie the skirt over my shorts, and I am 'decent'. As one friend noted wryly, 'even Superman needs a telephone booth to change'.
As for a blouse, a black or blue short-sleeved T-shirt is, I think, acceptable for seeing patients. None of my patients or their parents has ever complained about or commented on my attire. They don't appear surprised that a senior consultant with the title of professor dresses as informally as I do. What matters to them is whether I am sincerely concerned about their welfare and try my best to solve their problems - not just medical but also social, work-related or educational.
Once upon a time, I was a little girl who dressed only in shorts and T-shirts except for Chinese New Year. Perhaps because dressing up appeared a special privilege, I looked forward to it.
I still have a portrait of myself wearing a dress, with a ribbon - of the same colour as my dress - in my hair, and earrings. The photograph has special sentimental value for it was taken by my maternal grandfather, a multi-talented man who was a very good amateur photographer, with his own dark room at his home to process his films and photographs.
Somewhere between Primary 1 and Primary 6, I decided that party dresses were uncomfortable and unnecessary. Aside from my school uniform, I would dress most of the time in shorts and T-shirts.
I have maintained that attitude towards clothing into my adulthood. Comfort and cost are my main consideration - not looking good, whether to myself or for others.
I am with Mahatma Gandhi on this score. When asked once if he felt under-dressed when he met the King of England and Emperor of India, he replied: 'The King was wearing enough clothes for both of us.'
Part of the reason I share this sentiment is that I detest the consumerism so rife in our society. I see many of my patients, especially the older adolescent and young women, dressed in clothes that must cost them at least half their monthly salaries. I also see wealthy women dressed in fabulous concoctions that must cost the equivalent of many months of a bus driver's salary.
I try to remind myself that it is their right to spend their money as they wish. My personal values are mine, and I have no right to impose them on others or judge others by my own yardstick.
Still, I would discourage my readers and friends from placing too high an emphasis on their attire, whether it be undergarments or over-garments. Like other material possessions, expensive clothes are 'red dust', giving their wearers only a transient illusion of physical beauty.
Physical beauty will eventually fade. To place too great an emphasis on it will one day cause psychological distress.
By renouncing as many items of 'red dust' as possible, we would be less tied down emotionally by material luxuries and we would become better and more charitable people.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
A different kind of sarong party girl
By Lee Wei Ling
Recently, there was an exchange in Parliament between NTUC secretary- general Lim Swee Say and Member of Parliament Irene Ng - on undergarments of all things.
I found the entire episode rather comical, especially Ms Ng's comment that 'women choose their clothes, including their undergarments, to look good for themselves, not only for the men'.
I choose clothes for their comfort and relatively low price. I do care a little how I look, but only insofar as my patients do not find my attire offensive.
Recently, I have resumed accompanying my father, Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew, on his travels abroad, after a gap of 15 years. On these occasions, I try to meet conventional codes of dress, what foreign dignitaries would expect of a member of the Minister Mentor's delegation.
My sister-in-law Ho Ching and some of my friends, believing I need help, decided to assume the duties that once belonged to my mother: Dress the reluctant dresser.
So reluctantly, I have been fitted out with blouses, skirts or long pants, sandals and handbags for overseas trips, so as to satisfy what foreign dignitaries might expect of a member of the Minister Mentor's delegation. Some among my friends, knowing my propensity to give away fancy things, have given me gifts of clothing with the firm instruction that they are for my personal use and not to be given away as presents.
I have not wholly solved the problem of formal shoes - also known as court shoes or pumps. As anyone who runs or does step aerobics for durations exceeding an hour a day will know, toe nails can turn blue and drop off as a result of such exercise, so wearing any footwear covering the toes is rather painful. My solution is to wear a pair of somewhat dressy sandals, leaving my toes exposed.
My philosophy of clothing is that there is a necessity to cover up certain areas of the body, which social conventions have decreed would be indecent to expose. Beyond that, I choose colours that are easy to mix and match like black, white and brown - as well as my favourite colour, blue.
Until my father pointed out to me recently that cotton batik skirts are not considered formal, I was unaware of that fact. My preference for cotton batik skirts is based on their comfort (cotton is cool) and convenience (batik prints hide creases).
I particularly like the wraparound batik skirts because I usually wear exercise shorts. A sarong skirt can be wrapped around relatively thin running shorts quickly and I don't even need a private area to do so. On the occasions when I need to 'change' from gym wear into work wear, all I need to do is tie the skirt over my shorts, and I am 'decent'. As one friend noted wryly, 'even Superman needs a telephone booth to change'.
As for a blouse, a black or blue short-sleeved T-shirt is, I think, acceptable for seeing patients. None of my patients or their parents has ever complained about or commented on my attire. They don't appear surprised that a senior consultant with the title of professor dresses as informally as I do. What matters to them is whether I am sincerely concerned about their welfare and try my best to solve their problems - not just medical but also social, work-related or educational.
Once upon a time, I was a little girl who dressed only in shorts and T-shirts except for Chinese New Year. Perhaps because dressing up appeared a special privilege, I looked forward to it.
I still have a portrait of myself wearing a dress, with a ribbon - of the same colour as my dress - in my hair, and earrings. The photograph has special sentimental value for it was taken by my maternal grandfather, a multi-talented man who was a very good amateur photographer, with his own dark room at his home to process his films and photographs.
Somewhere between Primary 1 and Primary 6, I decided that party dresses were uncomfortable and unnecessary. Aside from my school uniform, I would dress most of the time in shorts and T-shirts.
I have maintained that attitude towards clothing into my adulthood. Comfort and cost are my main consideration - not looking good, whether to myself or for others.
I am with Mahatma Gandhi on this score. When asked once if he felt under-dressed when he met the King of England and Emperor of India, he replied: 'The King was wearing enough clothes for both of us.'
Part of the reason I share this sentiment is that I detest the consumerism so rife in our society. I see many of my patients, especially the older adolescent and young women, dressed in clothes that must cost them at least half their monthly salaries. I also see wealthy women dressed in fabulous concoctions that must cost the equivalent of many months of a bus driver's salary.
I try to remind myself that it is their right to spend their money as they wish. My personal values are mine, and I have no right to impose them on others or judge others by my own yardstick.
Still, I would discourage my readers and friends from placing too high an emphasis on their attire, whether it be undergarments or over-garments. Like other material possessions, expensive clothes are 'red dust', giving their wearers only a transient illusion of physical beauty.
Physical beauty will eventually fade. To place too great an emphasis on it will one day cause psychological distress.
By renouncing as many items of 'red dust' as possible, we would be less tied down emotionally by material luxuries and we would become better and more charitable people.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Being the Panda's daughter
The Sunday Times Feb 28, 2010
Regardless of how I'm perceived by people, I will continue to do what is right and just
By Lee Wei Ling
Recently, I have been asked to give talks, or just to meet and greet certain 'VIPs', more often than before. This is probably due to the fact that I began writing regularly for this newspaper in 2008.
I have no doubt that when my name is heard, it is almost immediately followed by the thought, 'she is LKY's daughter'. I suspect many readers first read me because they were curious about LKY's daughter, how she thought and felt, especially since some perceived me as anti-establishment.
I am Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew's daughter and I am proud of him. That does not mean I need to agree with every decision the Cabinet makes.
But I am not anti-establishment either. On the contrary, I would like the establishment to make decisions that are correct for Singapore. When it makes a decision that I think is unwise, I try to give feedback and hopefully persuade the authorities to reconsider their position. Why else would I, a neurologist, agree to be part of the roster for the Think-Tank column in The Straits Times or write in this space roughly every fortnight? I hope that by now people read me because they find what I write interesting and educational. (kojakbt: as you can see, it's the ST fellas who want to "sarkar" her...)
As for my family, I am aware that I am perceived by outsiders - including some members of my extended family - to be at the bottom of the totem pole among my nuclear family, including both my sisters-in-law. This does not upset me.
We all have our own roles in society. I chose a role that is relatively low-profile, but which gives me satisfaction since I am able to help and comfort my patients. The psychological rewards of being a doctor are almost immediate versus the longer timeframes for a public policy or business decision to bear fruit.
But perceptions, whether accurate or not, do affect how people react to me. Many people think I have a 'godfather'. But as my staff at the National Neuroscience Institute know, events last year proved that my family connections do not give me special protection.
Others may believe that I am powerful and have special privileges. But I am influential only if I, like any other writer, can persuade Singaporeans to a particular point of view.
As for special privileges, what are they? Well, I can use the Istana grounds, as I have since my childhood. But it has been a while since I used the Istana grounds to jog or exercise, though I do take friends there for a walk once or twice a year.
But perceptions, as I said, do matter. I know many people do not treat me the way they would treat others. I try to put them at ease by treating them as equals. In discussions, some who do not know me well may defer to me though I actually prefer robust debate. I cannot know everything, and most certainly cannot be right on every occasion.
'Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story,' the Desiderata urges us. I have a strong egalitarian streak, so I naturally would listen to the 'dull and ignorant'.
Just this past week, a friend of mine sent me a report from The Economist of a study of OECD countries: 'One of the reasons people try to get ahead is to boost their children's chances in life. And indeed the children of the well-off and well-educated earn more and learn more than their less fortunate peers....'
My friend commented: 'Whether you believe in nature or nurture, most apples do not fall too far from the tree. We (in Singapore) provide everyone with equal opportunities - in fact, more help is given to those from the lower end - but we cannot expect equal outcomes.'
I replied: 'Yes, we all have different weaknesses and strengths. We are all also fellow travellers in transit in this present time and country. Here and now is the only certainty you and I know. That applies as much to Singapore's billionaires as it does to the cleaning lady in my office.
'The ideal that Singaporeans should strive for is a society where all are treated equally. Being treated equally does not mean being paid the same. But in our personal interactions with one another, unless we know or strongly suspect the other person is a bad person, we should try to treat everyone with the same degree of consideration. I use the word 'consideration' rather than 'courtesy' because I find 'courtesy' a somewhat phoney thing. I may or may not do you good or harm, but I can still treat you courteously.'
In the fourth century, a great Chinese writer Tao Yuan Ming - who unlike most Chinese scholars, wanted no official position and preferred the seclusion of a farming life - was forced to take up a minor official position because he could not feed his family by farming. Less than 80 days after he took up his position, a higher ranking official visited him. Warned to be courteous to the higher official or he would get into trouble, Tao declared: 'I will not bow for five bushels of padi.'
Perhaps five bushels of padi was his annual remuneration. My close circle of friends understands when I say: 'I won't bow for five kilograms of gold.' It means I will not waver from my principles no matter what the cost.
A humorous aspect of being 'LKY's daughter' is that not infrequently, various people ask to meet me though they have nothing specific to discuss with me. My mother used to say wryly of such people: 'If they cannot see the Panda, the Panda's daughter may be an acceptable substitute.'
Perhaps wanting to meet the Panda's daughter is a reflection of the awe with which many view my father. That is a compliment to him, not a merit I won myself.
Regardless of how people perceive the 'Panda's daughter', I will continue to do what is right and just, until I'm physically unable to do so anymore.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Regardless of how I'm perceived by people, I will continue to do what is right and just
By Lee Wei Ling
Recently, I have been asked to give talks, or just to meet and greet certain 'VIPs', more often than before. This is probably due to the fact that I began writing regularly for this newspaper in 2008.
I have no doubt that when my name is heard, it is almost immediately followed by the thought, 'she is LKY's daughter'. I suspect many readers first read me because they were curious about LKY's daughter, how she thought and felt, especially since some perceived me as anti-establishment.
I am Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew's daughter and I am proud of him. That does not mean I need to agree with every decision the Cabinet makes.
But I am not anti-establishment either. On the contrary, I would like the establishment to make decisions that are correct for Singapore. When it makes a decision that I think is unwise, I try to give feedback and hopefully persuade the authorities to reconsider their position. Why else would I, a neurologist, agree to be part of the roster for the Think-Tank column in The Straits Times or write in this space roughly every fortnight? I hope that by now people read me because they find what I write interesting and educational. (kojakbt: as you can see, it's the ST fellas who want to "sarkar" her...)
As for my family, I am aware that I am perceived by outsiders - including some members of my extended family - to be at the bottom of the totem pole among my nuclear family, including both my sisters-in-law. This does not upset me.
We all have our own roles in society. I chose a role that is relatively low-profile, but which gives me satisfaction since I am able to help and comfort my patients. The psychological rewards of being a doctor are almost immediate versus the longer timeframes for a public policy or business decision to bear fruit.
But perceptions, whether accurate or not, do affect how people react to me. Many people think I have a 'godfather'. But as my staff at the National Neuroscience Institute know, events last year proved that my family connections do not give me special protection.
Others may believe that I am powerful and have special privileges. But I am influential only if I, like any other writer, can persuade Singaporeans to a particular point of view.
As for special privileges, what are they? Well, I can use the Istana grounds, as I have since my childhood. But it has been a while since I used the Istana grounds to jog or exercise, though I do take friends there for a walk once or twice a year.
But perceptions, as I said, do matter. I know many people do not treat me the way they would treat others. I try to put them at ease by treating them as equals. In discussions, some who do not know me well may defer to me though I actually prefer robust debate. I cannot know everything, and most certainly cannot be right on every occasion.
'Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story,' the Desiderata urges us. I have a strong egalitarian streak, so I naturally would listen to the 'dull and ignorant'.
Just this past week, a friend of mine sent me a report from The Economist of a study of OECD countries: 'One of the reasons people try to get ahead is to boost their children's chances in life. And indeed the children of the well-off and well-educated earn more and learn more than their less fortunate peers....'
My friend commented: 'Whether you believe in nature or nurture, most apples do not fall too far from the tree. We (in Singapore) provide everyone with equal opportunities - in fact, more help is given to those from the lower end - but we cannot expect equal outcomes.'
I replied: 'Yes, we all have different weaknesses and strengths. We are all also fellow travellers in transit in this present time and country. Here and now is the only certainty you and I know. That applies as much to Singapore's billionaires as it does to the cleaning lady in my office.
'The ideal that Singaporeans should strive for is a society where all are treated equally. Being treated equally does not mean being paid the same. But in our personal interactions with one another, unless we know or strongly suspect the other person is a bad person, we should try to treat everyone with the same degree of consideration. I use the word 'consideration' rather than 'courtesy' because I find 'courtesy' a somewhat phoney thing. I may or may not do you good or harm, but I can still treat you courteously.'
In the fourth century, a great Chinese writer Tao Yuan Ming - who unlike most Chinese scholars, wanted no official position and preferred the seclusion of a farming life - was forced to take up a minor official position because he could not feed his family by farming. Less than 80 days after he took up his position, a higher ranking official visited him. Warned to be courteous to the higher official or he would get into trouble, Tao declared: 'I will not bow for five bushels of padi.'
Perhaps five bushels of padi was his annual remuneration. My close circle of friends understands when I say: 'I won't bow for five kilograms of gold.' It means I will not waver from my principles no matter what the cost.
A humorous aspect of being 'LKY's daughter' is that not infrequently, various people ask to meet me though they have nothing specific to discuss with me. My mother used to say wryly of such people: 'If they cannot see the Panda, the Panda's daughter may be an acceptable substitute.'
Perhaps wanting to meet the Panda's daughter is a reflection of the awe with which many view my father. That is a compliment to him, not a merit I won myself.
Regardless of how people perceive the 'Panda's daughter', I will continue to do what is right and just, until I'm physically unable to do so anymore.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Culture: Marching to our own drumbeat
The Sunday Times Feb 14, 2010
It will take time but Singaporeans have the ability to forge an identity unique to us
By Lee Wei Ling
I circulated the draft of my article Handling The Influence Of The West, which was published in The Straits Times last Wednesday, to some friends for comments. One friend directed me to a Lianhe Zaobao Sunday article written by senior executive editor Lee Huay Leng, Why I Miss Beijing And London.
I was amused by the article. While I was struggling with my cultural identity, Ms Lee was bemoaning Singapore's cultural poverty, evidently overwhelmed by the cultural 'depth' of London and Beijing.
We are obviously on different wavelengths. I am 55, a balanced bilingual - Chinese-educated in terms of culture and English-educated in terms of my professional training. I have travelled extensively, and never felt a sense of cultural inferiority anywhere, including Britain and China, whose leaders and intellectuals I have met.
I am puzzled why an educated Singaporean woman should prefer Beijing and London to Singapore. Would she still prefer living in Beijing if she had to work there as a journalist earning PRC wages? To work for Zaobao in Beijing, as Ms Lee has, and be paid Singaporean wages, is not a true test, as she can then enjoy a standard of living much higher than that of her Chinese counterparts.
The foreign countries I know best are Canada and the United States, since I did my postgraduate training in these places. With some exceptions, their newspapers are parochial. The Straits Times is better than most American papers in terms of its sheer coverage.
The same is true of China, as a few nurses from China who are now Singapore citizens have told me. Our Chinese newspapers, they said, are comparable to those in China and their reports are more credible, which explains why Zaobao Online is read widely in China.
As for books and magazines, again Singapore is not inferior to China. Indeed, the nurses told me they can read Taiwanese publications here that are unavailable in China.
In the past decade, the Singapore Government has devoted more resources to the arts. But the fact is the majority of Singaporeans do not consider the arts to be their top priority. What bothers Ms Lee does not bother them much.
We are a pragmatic people. Most Singaporeans would place more emphasis on a good job, a comfortable home, good-quality health care and education, and a clean and safe environment. These are also the considerations that attract immigrants from China, India and other parts of Asia to Singapore.
When it comes to 'elite culture', I agree that cultural standards in Beijing and London are superior to Singapore's. But how can it be otherwise? These two countries have larger populations and richer histories than we do. Singapore is a young immigrant society.
In 1965, we had only two million people, mostly the descendants of illiterate peasants from China and labourers from India and the Indonesian archipelago. How many artistically talented people can we nurture in less than 50 years of independence?
As a multi-racial society, we never spoke or wrote in one common language. Even now, many Singaporeans write in one language but speak in two. In Britain and China, they have worked on only one language over hundreds and thousands of years, respectively.
China has had dynasties that lasted centuries, during which it became the most prosperous, productive and refined society in the world. Britain is less ancient, but over 200 years it conquered a large empire. That huge economic base provided it with considerable resources. Its elite enjoyed security and comfort and could devote themselves to the arts.
Singapore struggled to make a living from the 1960s until the early 1990s, when we became more secure and had sufficient resources to devote to the arts. We now have museums and art galleries as well as Western and Chinese orchestras, among other things. Even so, our social infrastructure is still not equal to that of the principal cities of China or Britain. It took many thousands of years in China and hundreds in Britain to develop the cultural resources they now possess.
Still, despite all those resources, it is American culture that is dominant worldwide today, including in China and Britain - a dominance that is likely to continue for a few decades. It is mostly popular American culture that is so influential, but do Americans feel culturally inferior to the Chinese and British for that reason - because they, like us, are a young people?
I was in Delhi last December. I saw scrawny, dirty children perform acrobatics in the narrow space between the cars at red lights, then gesture with their hands to indicate they were hungry.
Originally from Rajasthan, they belong to a caste that once travelled from village to village depicting in dances stories from the Indian epics the Mahabharat and the Ramayana. Now, as a result of television, they are jobless. So they have migrated to Delhi to work in construction and beg for food at traffic junctions.
Indians today prefer Bollywood to ancient, sacred dances. Does that make India less cultured? Can we not consider Bollywood India's new culture, just as rock 'n' roll and soap operas constitute America's new culture?
Ms Lee concluded her essay thus: 'Being able to go online wirelessly, and being able to watch cable television - these have nothing to do with our level of thinking. The strength of this island-state lies in its ability to connect to the world and circumvent its own weaknesses. This in fact deepened my sense of loneliness at the thought of going home (from Beijing).'
I cannot understand her logic. In Singapore, she can access culture from the entire world, including Beijing and London. Why claim a 'sense of loneliness' on coming home?
I have travelled often. Each time the plane lands at Changi airport, no matter what a wonderful time I have had overseas, I eagerly look forward to returning home.
More important than whether Beijing or London has a superior culture to ours is what keeps us rooted to Singapore. For me, home is where my emotional bonds are, where my close friends and nuclear family live. I choose Singapore as home, though there are many issues which I feel the Government has handled less than wisely. I am less enamoured of other societies, whether or not my ancestors came from them, because Singapore is the country to which I owe my loyalty.
I am confident that if we continue to thrive, we will eventually develop a uniquely Singaporean culture. That that culture will not have 5,000 years of history behind it is irrelevant. We must dare to go our own way, different from those set by our colonial master or our ancestral lands.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
It will take time but Singaporeans have the ability to forge an identity unique to us
By Lee Wei Ling
I circulated the draft of my article Handling The Influence Of The West, which was published in The Straits Times last Wednesday, to some friends for comments. One friend directed me to a Lianhe Zaobao Sunday article written by senior executive editor Lee Huay Leng, Why I Miss Beijing And London.
I was amused by the article. While I was struggling with my cultural identity, Ms Lee was bemoaning Singapore's cultural poverty, evidently overwhelmed by the cultural 'depth' of London and Beijing.
We are obviously on different wavelengths. I am 55, a balanced bilingual - Chinese-educated in terms of culture and English-educated in terms of my professional training. I have travelled extensively, and never felt a sense of cultural inferiority anywhere, including Britain and China, whose leaders and intellectuals I have met.
I am puzzled why an educated Singaporean woman should prefer Beijing and London to Singapore. Would she still prefer living in Beijing if she had to work there as a journalist earning PRC wages? To work for Zaobao in Beijing, as Ms Lee has, and be paid Singaporean wages, is not a true test, as she can then enjoy a standard of living much higher than that of her Chinese counterparts.
The foreign countries I know best are Canada and the United States, since I did my postgraduate training in these places. With some exceptions, their newspapers are parochial. The Straits Times is better than most American papers in terms of its sheer coverage.
The same is true of China, as a few nurses from China who are now Singapore citizens have told me. Our Chinese newspapers, they said, are comparable to those in China and their reports are more credible, which explains why Zaobao Online is read widely in China.
As for books and magazines, again Singapore is not inferior to China. Indeed, the nurses told me they can read Taiwanese publications here that are unavailable in China.
In the past decade, the Singapore Government has devoted more resources to the arts. But the fact is the majority of Singaporeans do not consider the arts to be their top priority. What bothers Ms Lee does not bother them much.
We are a pragmatic people. Most Singaporeans would place more emphasis on a good job, a comfortable home, good-quality health care and education, and a clean and safe environment. These are also the considerations that attract immigrants from China, India and other parts of Asia to Singapore.
When it comes to 'elite culture', I agree that cultural standards in Beijing and London are superior to Singapore's. But how can it be otherwise? These two countries have larger populations and richer histories than we do. Singapore is a young immigrant society.
In 1965, we had only two million people, mostly the descendants of illiterate peasants from China and labourers from India and the Indonesian archipelago. How many artistically talented people can we nurture in less than 50 years of independence?
As a multi-racial society, we never spoke or wrote in one common language. Even now, many Singaporeans write in one language but speak in two. In Britain and China, they have worked on only one language over hundreds and thousands of years, respectively.
China has had dynasties that lasted centuries, during which it became the most prosperous, productive and refined society in the world. Britain is less ancient, but over 200 years it conquered a large empire. That huge economic base provided it with considerable resources. Its elite enjoyed security and comfort and could devote themselves to the arts.
Singapore struggled to make a living from the 1960s until the early 1990s, when we became more secure and had sufficient resources to devote to the arts. We now have museums and art galleries as well as Western and Chinese orchestras, among other things. Even so, our social infrastructure is still not equal to that of the principal cities of China or Britain. It took many thousands of years in China and hundreds in Britain to develop the cultural resources they now possess.
Still, despite all those resources, it is American culture that is dominant worldwide today, including in China and Britain - a dominance that is likely to continue for a few decades. It is mostly popular American culture that is so influential, but do Americans feel culturally inferior to the Chinese and British for that reason - because they, like us, are a young people?
I was in Delhi last December. I saw scrawny, dirty children perform acrobatics in the narrow space between the cars at red lights, then gesture with their hands to indicate they were hungry.
Originally from Rajasthan, they belong to a caste that once travelled from village to village depicting in dances stories from the Indian epics the Mahabharat and the Ramayana. Now, as a result of television, they are jobless. So they have migrated to Delhi to work in construction and beg for food at traffic junctions.
Indians today prefer Bollywood to ancient, sacred dances. Does that make India less cultured? Can we not consider Bollywood India's new culture, just as rock 'n' roll and soap operas constitute America's new culture?
Ms Lee concluded her essay thus: 'Being able to go online wirelessly, and being able to watch cable television - these have nothing to do with our level of thinking. The strength of this island-state lies in its ability to connect to the world and circumvent its own weaknesses. This in fact deepened my sense of loneliness at the thought of going home (from Beijing).'
I cannot understand her logic. In Singapore, she can access culture from the entire world, including Beijing and London. Why claim a 'sense of loneliness' on coming home?
I have travelled often. Each time the plane lands at Changi airport, no matter what a wonderful time I have had overseas, I eagerly look forward to returning home.
More important than whether Beijing or London has a superior culture to ours is what keeps us rooted to Singapore. For me, home is where my emotional bonds are, where my close friends and nuclear family live. I choose Singapore as home, though there are many issues which I feel the Government has handled less than wisely. I am less enamoured of other societies, whether or not my ancestors came from them, because Singapore is the country to which I owe my loyalty.
I am confident that if we continue to thrive, we will eventually develop a uniquely Singaporean culture. That that culture will not have 5,000 years of history behind it is irrelevant. We must dare to go our own way, different from those set by our colonial master or our ancestral lands.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Time to reverse 'narcissism epidemic'
The Sunday Times Jan 17, 2010
The young today are more self-centred and less driven,
possibly due to their upbringing
By Lee Wei Ling
The principal of a mission school invited me to give a talk to his teachers recently.
'The purpose of inviting guest speakers to the school is to open up my teachers' minds about new possibilities and the demands of the real world,' he told me.
I was unable to give the talk but volunteered one of my doctors, an old boy of the school and a superb and compassionate doctor. I told the principal: 'My perspective on the education of these relatively elite boys is to teach them that they owe society a duty.'
The principal agreed, but observed: 'Unfortunately, given the changes in Singapore... my teachers are increasingly pushed by larger societal forces that worship the relentless pursuit of academic excellence as a means of material gain... While there is nothing wrong with pursuing academic excellence, it cannot be an end in itself.'
I and many other senior doctors have noticed that a significant percentage of newly graduated doctors are more self-centred and less hard-working than we were.
For example, there are more house officers with each passing year, and in some departments, there seem to be too many of them. The total work has not increased much, but this is divided among more house officers. Yet house officers complain that they are stressed out and they cannot cope with the work.
When I was a house officer, there was no payment for being on call. As a medical officer, I was paid $40 for the first four calls in the month, and $100 for each subsequent call. There were no mandatory maximum or minimum number of calls for house officers or medical officers.
But some time after 1990, house officers were not allowed to do more than six calls a month and medical officers were not allowed to do more than four calls. House officers are now paid $110 a call on weekdays and $150 on weekends. Medical officers are paid $210 a call on weekdays and $300 on weekends.
We used to have to do eight to 10 calls a month, and the number of patients I saw each time I was on call was considerably more than the numbers seen by house officers and medical officers today.
But despite having to do less work, junior doctors apparently have less time for self-study today. Consequently, many training programmes now set aside 'protected time' during working days for them to study. In addition, most departments have structured teaching programmes for young doctors - a far cry from the bad (or good) old days when there was no time during working hours for structured teaching and most of us learnt from patients or senior doctors. And to reinforce our knowledge and ensure we missed no crucial information, we would read a standard textbook from cover to cover.
All of the above would appear to be exceedingly difficult for the present generation of junior doctors. For some years, I wondered whether this was the fault of our medical school or indulgent parents.
The parents often come from humble families themselves, but have made good because of our meritocratic system. Having experienced hardship, they feel that their children should have whatever they desire. Consequently, young Singaporeans are more self-centred and less driven than their parents, and have little sense of duty to society.
Perhaps this is not a problem unique to Singapore. As Jean M. Twenge and W. Keith Campbell note in The Narcissism Epidemic: Living In The Age Of Entitlement, it is a problem endemic to developed countries. They define narcissism as 'a very positive and inflated view of self'.
Narcissism is the reason five times as many Americans undergo plastic surgery and cosmetic procedures today compared to just 10 years ago. It is the inevitable result of parents teaching their children song lyrics like 'I am special. Look at me' - precisely the skill teenagers and young adults obsessively hone on Facebook and MySpace.
What is the solution to the epidemic of narcissism? We cannot artificially create hardship so that our children become resilient. In the past, it was family upbringing that determined how the child turned out. Now, the children spend most of their waking hours in school or with their peers. My view is that the school should at least share the responsibility once shouldered solely by parents.
As I was writing this article, I received an e-mail message from the principal of Methodist Girls' School (MGS), Mrs Shirleen Ong, to tell me that Ms Jacqueline Woo, a patient of mine, 'has done well for the GCE O levels with five distinctions'.
Anyone who has witnessed Jac's physical disability will know how remarkable it is for her to achieve what she has achieved. She has a rare condition called 'primary generalised dystonia', which has left her body twisted like a pretzel. Her family has been very supportive of her and both her parents give her a great deal of attention, but they have not spoilt her. And her school, MGS, has played a crucial role in nurturing her.
It has accommodated her special needs. For example, because of her dystonia, she cannot write. Even typing on a word processor is tedious. She was given double the normal time for each exam paper, which meant typing for four to five hours at a stretch.
Her mother stood outside the examination hall in case Jac needed to go to the toilet, but Jac was so determined to use every minute that she did not take a break. Her mother said to me in amusement that the invigilators had to change shifts waiting for Jac to finish.
Her determination in the face of her physical handicap has touched many hearts. Even the school cleaner asked how she did and was happy that she had done well.
Some readers may criticise me for basing my conclusion on just one instance. But I firmly believe that a nurturing school that not only teaches a child academic subjects but also builds her character, together with caring but firm parents, is the most practical way of reversing the narcissism epidemic.
We should try to cure this epidemic as soon as possible.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
The young today are more self-centred and less driven,
possibly due to their upbringing
By Lee Wei Ling
The principal of a mission school invited me to give a talk to his teachers recently.
'The purpose of inviting guest speakers to the school is to open up my teachers' minds about new possibilities and the demands of the real world,' he told me.
I was unable to give the talk but volunteered one of my doctors, an old boy of the school and a superb and compassionate doctor. I told the principal: 'My perspective on the education of these relatively elite boys is to teach them that they owe society a duty.'
The principal agreed, but observed: 'Unfortunately, given the changes in Singapore... my teachers are increasingly pushed by larger societal forces that worship the relentless pursuit of academic excellence as a means of material gain... While there is nothing wrong with pursuing academic excellence, it cannot be an end in itself.'
I and many other senior doctors have noticed that a significant percentage of newly graduated doctors are more self-centred and less hard-working than we were.
For example, there are more house officers with each passing year, and in some departments, there seem to be too many of them. The total work has not increased much, but this is divided among more house officers. Yet house officers complain that they are stressed out and they cannot cope with the work.
When I was a house officer, there was no payment for being on call. As a medical officer, I was paid $40 for the first four calls in the month, and $100 for each subsequent call. There were no mandatory maximum or minimum number of calls for house officers or medical officers.
But some time after 1990, house officers were not allowed to do more than six calls a month and medical officers were not allowed to do more than four calls. House officers are now paid $110 a call on weekdays and $150 on weekends. Medical officers are paid $210 a call on weekdays and $300 on weekends.
We used to have to do eight to 10 calls a month, and the number of patients I saw each time I was on call was considerably more than the numbers seen by house officers and medical officers today.
But despite having to do less work, junior doctors apparently have less time for self-study today. Consequently, many training programmes now set aside 'protected time' during working days for them to study. In addition, most departments have structured teaching programmes for young doctors - a far cry from the bad (or good) old days when there was no time during working hours for structured teaching and most of us learnt from patients or senior doctors. And to reinforce our knowledge and ensure we missed no crucial information, we would read a standard textbook from cover to cover.
All of the above would appear to be exceedingly difficult for the present generation of junior doctors. For some years, I wondered whether this was the fault of our medical school or indulgent parents.
The parents often come from humble families themselves, but have made good because of our meritocratic system. Having experienced hardship, they feel that their children should have whatever they desire. Consequently, young Singaporeans are more self-centred and less driven than their parents, and have little sense of duty to society.
Perhaps this is not a problem unique to Singapore. As Jean M. Twenge and W. Keith Campbell note in The Narcissism Epidemic: Living In The Age Of Entitlement, it is a problem endemic to developed countries. They define narcissism as 'a very positive and inflated view of self'.
Narcissism is the reason five times as many Americans undergo plastic surgery and cosmetic procedures today compared to just 10 years ago. It is the inevitable result of parents teaching their children song lyrics like 'I am special. Look at me' - precisely the skill teenagers and young adults obsessively hone on Facebook and MySpace.
What is the solution to the epidemic of narcissism? We cannot artificially create hardship so that our children become resilient. In the past, it was family upbringing that determined how the child turned out. Now, the children spend most of their waking hours in school or with their peers. My view is that the school should at least share the responsibility once shouldered solely by parents.
As I was writing this article, I received an e-mail message from the principal of Methodist Girls' School (MGS), Mrs Shirleen Ong, to tell me that Ms Jacqueline Woo, a patient of mine, 'has done well for the GCE O levels with five distinctions'.
Anyone who has witnessed Jac's physical disability will know how remarkable it is for her to achieve what she has achieved. She has a rare condition called 'primary generalised dystonia', which has left her body twisted like a pretzel. Her family has been very supportive of her and both her parents give her a great deal of attention, but they have not spoilt her. And her school, MGS, has played a crucial role in nurturing her.
It has accommodated her special needs. For example, because of her dystonia, she cannot write. Even typing on a word processor is tedious. She was given double the normal time for each exam paper, which meant typing for four to five hours at a stretch.
Her mother stood outside the examination hall in case Jac needed to go to the toilet, but Jac was so determined to use every minute that she did not take a break. Her mother said to me in amusement that the invigilators had to change shifts waiting for Jac to finish.
Her determination in the face of her physical handicap has touched many hearts. Even the school cleaner asked how she did and was happy that she had done well.
Some readers may criticise me for basing my conclusion on just one instance. But I firmly believe that a nurturing school that not only teaches a child academic subjects but also builds her character, together with caring but firm parents, is the most practical way of reversing the narcissism epidemic.
We should try to cure this epidemic as soon as possible.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Heavy cost of pursuing beauty
The Straits Times Jan 9, 2010
By Lee Wei Ling
HUMANS have always sought to enhance their appearance. Excavations have uncovered prehistoric skeletons buried with ornaments. Wearing gems in pierced ears and noses is still common practice in many cultures.
With improvements in medical science, more invasive methods of enhancing physical appearance have been developed. The number of such procedures has increased exponentially over the past two decades. Some pose risks to patients.
Many Singaporeans appear to be trying these methods without, sometimes, full knowledge of the risks involved. I was shocked to read in The Straits Times on Wednesday of a 44-year-old man, the chief executive of a property firm, who died after a general practitioner allegedly performed iposuction on him.
Liposuction is a surgical procedure to remove fat from different parts of the human body - ranging from the abdomen, thighs and buttocks, to the neck and arms. The more fat is removed, the higher the risk.
The procedure may be performed under either general or local anaesthesia. In a clinic setting - versus an operating theatre - the anaesthesia used is usually the local tumescent method.
It is ideal that the patient is as fit as possible before the procedure and has not smoked for several months. While almost all doctors know that general anaesthesia carries some risk, some may be unaware that local anaesthesia is also not without danger. If the injection of local anaesthesia into the fatty area gets into a blood vessel, there can be deleterious effects on both the heart and the brain.
Last year, the Ministry of Health issued guidelines for various aesthetic procedures. General practitioners are allowed to do liposuction if they have adequate training, and do not suction more than one litre of fat at any one sitting. I have often wondered how the ministry can check to ensure that only one litre is suctioned each time.
Even if liposuction is limited to one litre of fat per procedure, there is still the risk of being under anaesthesia - albeit low if the patient is in competent hands. Also, there can be other complications, such as perforation of the abdominal wall, which can be life-threatening.
Not everyone is a good candidate for liposuction. To be a good candidate, one should be over 18 years of age and in good health, have tried a diet and exercise regime, and have found that the last 10 or 15 pounds (4.5kg to 6.8kg) of excess fat persist in certain pockets on the body.
Diabetes, any infection, heart or circulation problems are contraindications for the procedure. In older people, the skin is usually less elastic, limiting its ability to readily tighten around a new shape. In this case, other procedures can be added to the liposuction, such as an abdominoplasty - or 'tummy tuck' as it is popularly known.
The irony of liposuction is that while the procedure has clear risks, it has no compensatory health benefits. The fat that is detrimental to health is the intra-abdominal fat, which can lead to Type 2 diabetes. This is the common type of diabetes associated with being overweight and not exercising. It used to affect adults mostly, but as the epidemic of obesity has extended to children, there are now children with Type 2 diabetes.
Diabetes can affect many organs. It may lead to an abnormal lipid profile, hypertension and vascular inflammation, all of which promote the development of atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease.
Liposuction can remove abdominal fat only from under the skin (subcutaneous fat). This does not reduce the risk of Type 2 diabetes or coronary heart disease. Those adverse health effects are mediated via intra-abdominal fat, which liposuction cannot reach.
Dieting and exercise are safer methods to reduce obesity. In addition, they have beneficial effects on health.
Exercise may be beneficial beyond its effect on weight loss by more selectively removing abdominal fat, at least in women. The standard exercise recommendation is a daily minimum of 30 minutes of moderate-intensity physical activity, such as a brisk walk.
The Government seems convinced, and the public has been repeatedly told, of the inadequate numbers of doctors in Singapore, given our population size. In fact, we have more than enough doctors. The problem is that not all our doctors are doing what we need them to be doing. And the way doctors are currently distributed, there are not enough doctors in certain specialities that are not lucrative.
However, there is an excess number of GPs. Often, people become GPs because they were not counselled properly on possible career paths after they had finished their one year as a house officer.
GPs who limit themselves to coughs and colds and writing medical certificates may not earn much, after having accounted for rental and the salaries of clinic assistants. Thus they dabble in aesthetic medicine, for that is more profitable than being a good family physician.
For example, a 20-minute session of intense pulsed light therapy, allegedly to beautify the skin, can bring in $400 in cash up front - and not many patients ask for a receipt. On the other hand, looking after a patient above the age of 65 with hypertension and/or diabetes and/or high cholesterol or a stroke patient for one year can earn a GP $300 - after he has submitted the necessary information via Internet to Medisave. This is a situation that can tempt many GPs to practise aesthetic medicine rather than look after the health of their patients.
Ideally, we should train our GPs to become competent family physicians, and allow them to charge a consultation fee that reflects their skill and effort. In that way, they can be good gatekeepers for the acute hospitals, and emergency departments need not be swamped with patients who don't need to be seen there. Indeed, the Ministry of Health found itself apologising just a few days ago because Tan Tock Seng Hospital could not accept more patients, and ambulances and patients had to be diverted to other hospitals.
While the financial benefits of practising aesthetic medicine are clear, I wonder how many of these doctors can live with their conscience. It seems to me that many have become inured to guilt.
The message I wish to convey is simple: Never do any unnecessary medical procedure. Any attempt to alter the body's function carries risk. Beauty - and health - is not a matter simply of surfaces.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
By Lee Wei Ling
HUMANS have always sought to enhance their appearance. Excavations have uncovered prehistoric skeletons buried with ornaments. Wearing gems in pierced ears and noses is still common practice in many cultures.
With improvements in medical science, more invasive methods of enhancing physical appearance have been developed. The number of such procedures has increased exponentially over the past two decades. Some pose risks to patients.
Many Singaporeans appear to be trying these methods without, sometimes, full knowledge of the risks involved. I was shocked to read in The Straits Times on Wednesday of a 44-year-old man, the chief executive of a property firm, who died after a general practitioner allegedly performed iposuction on him.
Liposuction is a surgical procedure to remove fat from different parts of the human body - ranging from the abdomen, thighs and buttocks, to the neck and arms. The more fat is removed, the higher the risk.
The procedure may be performed under either general or local anaesthesia. In a clinic setting - versus an operating theatre - the anaesthesia used is usually the local tumescent method.
It is ideal that the patient is as fit as possible before the procedure and has not smoked for several months. While almost all doctors know that general anaesthesia carries some risk, some may be unaware that local anaesthesia is also not without danger. If the injection of local anaesthesia into the fatty area gets into a blood vessel, there can be deleterious effects on both the heart and the brain.
Last year, the Ministry of Health issued guidelines for various aesthetic procedures. General practitioners are allowed to do liposuction if they have adequate training, and do not suction more than one litre of fat at any one sitting. I have often wondered how the ministry can check to ensure that only one litre is suctioned each time.
Even if liposuction is limited to one litre of fat per procedure, there is still the risk of being under anaesthesia - albeit low if the patient is in competent hands. Also, there can be other complications, such as perforation of the abdominal wall, which can be life-threatening.
Not everyone is a good candidate for liposuction. To be a good candidate, one should be over 18 years of age and in good health, have tried a diet and exercise regime, and have found that the last 10 or 15 pounds (4.5kg to 6.8kg) of excess fat persist in certain pockets on the body.
Diabetes, any infection, heart or circulation problems are contraindications for the procedure. In older people, the skin is usually less elastic, limiting its ability to readily tighten around a new shape. In this case, other procedures can be added to the liposuction, such as an abdominoplasty - or 'tummy tuck' as it is popularly known.
The irony of liposuction is that while the procedure has clear risks, it has no compensatory health benefits. The fat that is detrimental to health is the intra-abdominal fat, which can lead to Type 2 diabetes. This is the common type of diabetes associated with being overweight and not exercising. It used to affect adults mostly, but as the epidemic of obesity has extended to children, there are now children with Type 2 diabetes.
Diabetes can affect many organs. It may lead to an abnormal lipid profile, hypertension and vascular inflammation, all of which promote the development of atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease.
Liposuction can remove abdominal fat only from under the skin (subcutaneous fat). This does not reduce the risk of Type 2 diabetes or coronary heart disease. Those adverse health effects are mediated via intra-abdominal fat, which liposuction cannot reach.
Dieting and exercise are safer methods to reduce obesity. In addition, they have beneficial effects on health.
Exercise may be beneficial beyond its effect on weight loss by more selectively removing abdominal fat, at least in women. The standard exercise recommendation is a daily minimum of 30 minutes of moderate-intensity physical activity, such as a brisk walk.
The Government seems convinced, and the public has been repeatedly told, of the inadequate numbers of doctors in Singapore, given our population size. In fact, we have more than enough doctors. The problem is that not all our doctors are doing what we need them to be doing. And the way doctors are currently distributed, there are not enough doctors in certain specialities that are not lucrative.
However, there is an excess number of GPs. Often, people become GPs because they were not counselled properly on possible career paths after they had finished their one year as a house officer.
GPs who limit themselves to coughs and colds and writing medical certificates may not earn much, after having accounted for rental and the salaries of clinic assistants. Thus they dabble in aesthetic medicine, for that is more profitable than being a good family physician.
For example, a 20-minute session of intense pulsed light therapy, allegedly to beautify the skin, can bring in $400 in cash up front - and not many patients ask for a receipt. On the other hand, looking after a patient above the age of 65 with hypertension and/or diabetes and/or high cholesterol or a stroke patient for one year can earn a GP $300 - after he has submitted the necessary information via Internet to Medisave. This is a situation that can tempt many GPs to practise aesthetic medicine rather than look after the health of their patients.
Ideally, we should train our GPs to become competent family physicians, and allow them to charge a consultation fee that reflects their skill and effort. In that way, they can be good gatekeepers for the acute hospitals, and emergency departments need not be swamped with patients who don't need to be seen there. Indeed, the Ministry of Health found itself apologising just a few days ago because Tan Tock Seng Hospital could not accept more patients, and ambulances and patients had to be diverted to other hospitals.
While the financial benefits of practising aesthetic medicine are clear, I wonder how many of these doctors can live with their conscience. It seems to me that many have become inured to guilt.
The message I wish to convey is simple: Never do any unnecessary medical procedure. Any attempt to alter the body's function carries risk. Beauty - and health - is not a matter simply of surfaces.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
The true nature of friendship
The Sunday Times Jan 3, 2010
Genuine relationships are built on more than mutual goodwill and exchanging of favours
By Lee Wei Ling
I had gone to bed at 7pm on Dec 30 from sheer exhaustion. I woke up at 2am and responded to e-mail on my Blackberry.
I noticed that I had missed two phone calls from two very close friends. It was obviously inappropriate to return the calls at 2am, so I e-mailed to say I'd return the calls during lunch time.
I then went back to sleep and have just woken up at 6am, trying to recall what day of the week it was because that would determine my schedule for the day.
For a moment, I thought it was Friday, New Year's Day. It was only when I went outside to pick up the newspapers that I realised it was only New Year's Eve.
I do not usually place any emphasis on 'special days' - whether it be Christmas, New Year's Day, Chinese New Year or birthdays.
These days are determined by the calendar, but to me they are no different from regular days.
In fact, they often are less pleasant than regular days as I dislike the noise and crowds of special days. I solve that problem by simply staying in my room at home on such days, clearing e-mail and paperwork. This applies even to the reunion dinner on Chinese New Year's Eve.
I am by nature not a sociable person. Indeed, I had become asocial by the time I reached pre-university in school. I do have friends and I have never neglected to help any of them when they needed help.
But for most of my adult life, I have not been willing to spend more time than necessary on conversations and social interactions with my friends. I felt that would be a waste of time - time that could have been better spent reading medical journals, analysing research data, exercising and other 'more important activities'.
It was only since 2001, after repeated bouts of illness, that I learnt that friendship does not just mean mutual goodwill, but also spending time with friends talking about things other than medical research.
Staying for months in hospital makes any friend dropping in to see one a welcome relief, though I was not bored as such as I could work on my laptop. As prisoners know, solitary confinement (even in a hospital) can be terribly punishing on the spirit.
Human beings are social creatures. We are social not just in the trivial sense that we like company, and not just in the obvious sense that we depend on others. We are social in a more elemental way: Simply to exist as normal human beings requires us to interact with other people.
There is a Chinese saying, jun zi zhi jiao dan ru shui, xiao ren zhi jiao tian ru mi (君子之交淡如水, 小人之交甜如蜜). The literal translation is: 'The friendship between two honourable people is as understated as water.'
Many of my English-educated friends have difficulty grasping this concept. They would often exclaim in surprise: 'Surely you have changed the saying. The relationship between two honourable people must surely be as sweet as honey.'
No, I have not reversed the idiom. The friendship between two good honourable people is understated. Each will help the other when help is needed even before a request for help is issued. And when one offers to help, the other would accept without feeling any obligation to return the favour.
The 'friendship' between two petty people, on the other hand, is as cloying as honey. When one offers to help, the other would feel that at some point the favour would have to be returned.
The simplest analogy for this saying is as follows: Between honourable friends, there is no account of how many favours I owe that friend and vice versa. The relationship between petty people, on the other hand, requires an accurate account, since for every favour accepted, a return favour would be expected. As far as I can help it, I avoid such friendships.
I am not in the habit of making New Year resolutions. We should change our undesirable behaviour and mend our ways as soon as we discover that our behaviour is less than honourable; there is no need to wait for the New Year to resolve to do so.
2009 has given me both suffering and happiness. I expect the same of 2010. But to all readers who feel a New Year represents a new chapter in life, I wish you a Happy New Year, filled with true friendship and good deeds. And may 2010 be a better year than 2009.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Genuine relationships are built on more than mutual goodwill and exchanging of favours
By Lee Wei Ling
I had gone to bed at 7pm on Dec 30 from sheer exhaustion. I woke up at 2am and responded to e-mail on my Blackberry.
I noticed that I had missed two phone calls from two very close friends. It was obviously inappropriate to return the calls at 2am, so I e-mailed to say I'd return the calls during lunch time.
I then went back to sleep and have just woken up at 6am, trying to recall what day of the week it was because that would determine my schedule for the day.
For a moment, I thought it was Friday, New Year's Day. It was only when I went outside to pick up the newspapers that I realised it was only New Year's Eve.
I do not usually place any emphasis on 'special days' - whether it be Christmas, New Year's Day, Chinese New Year or birthdays.
These days are determined by the calendar, but to me they are no different from regular days.
In fact, they often are less pleasant than regular days as I dislike the noise and crowds of special days. I solve that problem by simply staying in my room at home on such days, clearing e-mail and paperwork. This applies even to the reunion dinner on Chinese New Year's Eve.
I am by nature not a sociable person. Indeed, I had become asocial by the time I reached pre-university in school. I do have friends and I have never neglected to help any of them when they needed help.
But for most of my adult life, I have not been willing to spend more time than necessary on conversations and social interactions with my friends. I felt that would be a waste of time - time that could have been better spent reading medical journals, analysing research data, exercising and other 'more important activities'.
It was only since 2001, after repeated bouts of illness, that I learnt that friendship does not just mean mutual goodwill, but also spending time with friends talking about things other than medical research.
Staying for months in hospital makes any friend dropping in to see one a welcome relief, though I was not bored as such as I could work on my laptop. As prisoners know, solitary confinement (even in a hospital) can be terribly punishing on the spirit.
Human beings are social creatures. We are social not just in the trivial sense that we like company, and not just in the obvious sense that we depend on others. We are social in a more elemental way: Simply to exist as normal human beings requires us to interact with other people.
There is a Chinese saying, jun zi zhi jiao dan ru shui, xiao ren zhi jiao tian ru mi (君子之交淡如水, 小人之交甜如蜜). The literal translation is: 'The friendship between two honourable people is as understated as water.'
Many of my English-educated friends have difficulty grasping this concept. They would often exclaim in surprise: 'Surely you have changed the saying. The relationship between two honourable people must surely be as sweet as honey.'
No, I have not reversed the idiom. The friendship between two good honourable people is understated. Each will help the other when help is needed even before a request for help is issued. And when one offers to help, the other would accept without feeling any obligation to return the favour.
The 'friendship' between two petty people, on the other hand, is as cloying as honey. When one offers to help, the other would feel that at some point the favour would have to be returned.
The simplest analogy for this saying is as follows: Between honourable friends, there is no account of how many favours I owe that friend and vice versa. The relationship between petty people, on the other hand, requires an accurate account, since for every favour accepted, a return favour would be expected. As far as I can help it, I avoid such friendships.
I am not in the habit of making New Year resolutions. We should change our undesirable behaviour and mend our ways as soon as we discover that our behaviour is less than honourable; there is no need to wait for the New Year to resolve to do so.
2009 has given me both suffering and happiness. I expect the same of 2010. But to all readers who feel a New Year represents a new chapter in life, I wish you a Happy New Year, filled with true friendship and good deeds. And may 2010 be a better year than 2009.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Uneventful day is not a bad thing
The Sunday Times Dec 20, 2009
By Lee Wei Ling
A Peanuts cartoon caught my attention the other day as I was scanning the newspaper.
As he brings Snoopy a bowl of dog food, Charlie Brown wonders: 'Can you believe it? Another day gone by, and it's supper time again! I don't know where the time goes. You get up in the morning, and you go to bed at night, and another day is gone...'
The next picture shows Snoopy eating his food and thinking: 'Someday I'm going to buy my own can opener.'
For a doctor, an uneventful day is often not a bad thing. It would mean the day had passed without major disasters, but contained sufficient intellectual challenge to make it interesting.
Memorable days on the other hand can mean one among several different happy or tragic scenarios. Of the happy scenarios, there can be no greater joy for a doctor than to know she had helped a patient and brought comfort to his family. Sometimes that knowledge can keep one going even in the face of one's own miserable personal circumstances.
My list for memorable unhappy events that can ruin the day for me as a doctor include the following:
•Being confronted with a patient with a puzzling and serious problem; or a patient whose disease progresses at such a rate that he deteriorates before we can do anything. I am sure many among my peers have had the experience of driving home from work at the end of the day with a sense of unease, still mentally going over our patients' problems.
•Making a mistake in our diagnosis or treatment of a patient, perhaps making a wrong call when we have to make a decision urgently before adequate information is available.
An example was related in an article published in The Straits Times recently. A pathologist, based on the evidence of a frozen section of a specimen taken from the lung, reported cancer; and based on that information, the surgeon removed part of the affected lung. The paraffin section came back a few days later showing that there was no cancer.
Such 'errors' can occur in medical practice when decisions have to be made based on the information available at that moment. Indeed such 'errors' are not really errors but the result of calculated risk.
If there had been indeed cancer, to have closed up the incision and waited for the paraffin section, which would have taken several days to be ready, would have reduced the chances of a good outcome for the patient. Frozen sections can be made ready quickly for the pathologist to review but the details it reveals cannot match that of the paraffin section.
Performing an operation based on the information provided by the frozen section is a calculated risk. The doctor has to balance the possibility that early treatment might be life-saving against the small but real risk of resecting more tissue than necessary.
•Having a patient, especially a young patient, with a fatal disease associated with much pain and suffering, but for whom one can do little more than keep him as comfortable as possible - that is a particularly heart-breaking situation, especially when one has to break the news to the family and sometimes also to the patient.
When breaking such news, I often also warn the family of the futility of consulting Chinese sinseh or spiritual healers, and explain how we - medical professionals as well as the family - can together make the last days of the patient's life as comfortable as possible.
If some of my readers are wondering how doctors can stay sane in a profession that demands compassion and empathy and yet at the same time exposes us to such heart-rending circumstances, I do so as follows: I make myself feel detached from the patient when I am physically separated from the patient and treat the medical issue before me as an intellectual problem requiring a solution.
Over the years, I have found that adopting a similar strategy when I am the patient helps me cope with my own illnesses. I cannot be physically separated from myself, of course, but I have learnt to treat my medical predicaments as problems to be solved. That is certainly preferable to feeling sorry for myself or thinking of myself as a victim of fate.
I have been able to discipline my mind in this fashion at most times, and when I do so, I remain calm in the face of disaster, and not infrequently, I eventually do manage to find a solution to my own medical problems.
There are other events that may make a day memorable in an unpleasant way: For example, a loved one suddenly becoming seriously ill, unlikely to recover. It is difficult to achieve mental detachment under these circumstances. But calm acceptance and the passage of time can take the edge off the sharpness of emotional distress.
Time is indeed a great healer. For example, my mother's stroke on May 12 last year made me feel like my world had been turned upside down. But over the months, I have been able to accept her disabilities and carry on with life as normally as possible, although when I am with her, I still feel a sense of sadness.
A day passed without something memorable is a day passed without a major disaster or triumph. It is not a bad thing not to have too many memorable days.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
By Lee Wei Ling
A Peanuts cartoon caught my attention the other day as I was scanning the newspaper.
As he brings Snoopy a bowl of dog food, Charlie Brown wonders: 'Can you believe it? Another day gone by, and it's supper time again! I don't know where the time goes. You get up in the morning, and you go to bed at night, and another day is gone...'
The next picture shows Snoopy eating his food and thinking: 'Someday I'm going to buy my own can opener.'
For a doctor, an uneventful day is often not a bad thing. It would mean the day had passed without major disasters, but contained sufficient intellectual challenge to make it interesting.
Memorable days on the other hand can mean one among several different happy or tragic scenarios. Of the happy scenarios, there can be no greater joy for a doctor than to know she had helped a patient and brought comfort to his family. Sometimes that knowledge can keep one going even in the face of one's own miserable personal circumstances.
My list for memorable unhappy events that can ruin the day for me as a doctor include the following:
•Being confronted with a patient with a puzzling and serious problem; or a patient whose disease progresses at such a rate that he deteriorates before we can do anything. I am sure many among my peers have had the experience of driving home from work at the end of the day with a sense of unease, still mentally going over our patients' problems.
•Making a mistake in our diagnosis or treatment of a patient, perhaps making a wrong call when we have to make a decision urgently before adequate information is available.
An example was related in an article published in The Straits Times recently. A pathologist, based on the evidence of a frozen section of a specimen taken from the lung, reported cancer; and based on that information, the surgeon removed part of the affected lung. The paraffin section came back a few days later showing that there was no cancer.
Such 'errors' can occur in medical practice when decisions have to be made based on the information available at that moment. Indeed such 'errors' are not really errors but the result of calculated risk.
If there had been indeed cancer, to have closed up the incision and waited for the paraffin section, which would have taken several days to be ready, would have reduced the chances of a good outcome for the patient. Frozen sections can be made ready quickly for the pathologist to review but the details it reveals cannot match that of the paraffin section.
Performing an operation based on the information provided by the frozen section is a calculated risk. The doctor has to balance the possibility that early treatment might be life-saving against the small but real risk of resecting more tissue than necessary.
•Having a patient, especially a young patient, with a fatal disease associated with much pain and suffering, but for whom one can do little more than keep him as comfortable as possible - that is a particularly heart-breaking situation, especially when one has to break the news to the family and sometimes also to the patient.
When breaking such news, I often also warn the family of the futility of consulting Chinese sinseh or spiritual healers, and explain how we - medical professionals as well as the family - can together make the last days of the patient's life as comfortable as possible.
If some of my readers are wondering how doctors can stay sane in a profession that demands compassion and empathy and yet at the same time exposes us to such heart-rending circumstances, I do so as follows: I make myself feel detached from the patient when I am physically separated from the patient and treat the medical issue before me as an intellectual problem requiring a solution.
Over the years, I have found that adopting a similar strategy when I am the patient helps me cope with my own illnesses. I cannot be physically separated from myself, of course, but I have learnt to treat my medical predicaments as problems to be solved. That is certainly preferable to feeling sorry for myself or thinking of myself as a victim of fate.
I have been able to discipline my mind in this fashion at most times, and when I do so, I remain calm in the face of disaster, and not infrequently, I eventually do manage to find a solution to my own medical problems.
There are other events that may make a day memorable in an unpleasant way: For example, a loved one suddenly becoming seriously ill, unlikely to recover. It is difficult to achieve mental detachment under these circumstances. But calm acceptance and the passage of time can take the edge off the sharpness of emotional distress.
Time is indeed a great healer. For example, my mother's stroke on May 12 last year made me feel like my world had been turned upside down. But over the months, I have been able to accept her disabilities and carry on with life as normally as possible, although when I am with her, I still feel a sense of sadness.
A day passed without something memorable is a day passed without a major disaster or triumph. It is not a bad thing not to have too many memorable days.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Subsidised or not, treat all patients equally
The Straits Times Dec 16, 2009
By Lee Wei Ling
Those who have been reading my columns regularly will know that my health has been uncertain. Perhaps for that very reason, I feel keenly the ill fortunes as well as triumphs of my patients.
Today, as I write this, I feel like a “104-year-old”, a term that my friends would understand. It means I feel 50 years older than I really am.
But I have patients to see. Many among them would have taken leave or made special arrangements to be accompanied by a parent or caregiver in order to see me.
I could, of course, get another doctor in my department to see them, for most of my patients are subsidised and thus not allowed to choose their own doctors. But I treat my subsidised (B2 and C class) patients no differently from my full-paying (A and B1 class) patients, and provide all with the same quality of care. I also insist that all the doctors at the Singapore National Neuroscience Institute (NNI) do the same.
This ethos of caring for patients regardless of whether they are subsidised or not is sometimes absent in our hospitals, even in cases of subsidised patients with complex problems. Sometimes such patients are assigned to junior doctors.
Recently, a friend telephoned me one evening, very distressed. Her husband had had a severe head injury. I asked her who was the doctor in charge. She said she did not know. I told her to write down my name and mobile number on a piece of paper and pass it to the most senior doctor there and ask him to call me.
The moment the doctor saw the note, he telephoned his head of department. My friend had never seen or heard of the head of department before that. Other doctors in the hospital asked my friend: “Who are you and how are you related to Professor Lee Wei Ling?”
An hour later, the head of department called me to give me the medical details, sounding as though he had been in charge all along. The next day, a bouquet of flowers from the hospital appeared in the room of my friend's husband. A senior doctor took care of my friend's husband and performed every operation on him personally. My friend's husband had been admitted as a subsidised patient because all emergency admissions are categorised as “subsidised”.
Our system must find an effective way of ensuring that senior doctors also treat subsidised patients. At present, it is in the economic interests of senior doctors to focus on paying patients rather than subsidised patients — and it is not always the case that doctors look beyond their economic interests. Thus we get incidents like the one I have just described. My friend's husband should have been treated by a senior doctor as a matter of course, without my intervention.
At NNI, a subsidised patient with a complex medical problem would be seen by a senior doctor, or at least a junior doctor under a senior doctor's supervision. My doctors know that I would come down on them like a tonne of bricks if I found they were not providing the same quality of care to subsidised patients as they were to paying ones.
Back to today: I had four glasses of ice-cold kopi-o and made it to the clinic to see my patients. I have just finished seeing all my patients and decided that doing so was the best medicine I could possibly have.
Two of my patients were young men who had been under my care for about 20 years each. One was an engineering graduate of the National University of Singapore, and the other, a polytechnic graduate; both are now gainfully employed. Two other patients were severely handicapped, and seeing them reminded me that I had no right to whine about my fate.
Another patient came with her mother. She continues to have seizures but less frequently now compared with her previous visit.
Three patients did not come. Instead, their elderly parents came and I asked the parents how the patients were doing. I knew all three well and their parents knew me well. I understood the difficulty of elderly parents having to take their handicapped adult children to the hospital by public transport.
My best reward of the day was a lady with epilepsy who has been under my care for 12 years. I casually asked her whether she was still employed.
“Yes,” she replied, “I am in the same company I was working for when I first saw you. Don't you remember, when the person in charge of me asked for a medical report from you, you said that she could contact you personally? She never did, perhaps because she was frightened of you, so I am still working in the same company. During the recent retrenchment exercise, she lost her job and I have been promoted to take over her duties.”
If that superior had contacted me and the patient had granted me permission to release her medical information, I would have done so. Since her seizures had been brought under control within six months of her coming under my care, and since there is still much social stigma attached to epilepsy, I would have told the superior that the seizures were well controlled and would not affect my patient's ability to carry out her duties.
When I walked out of my clinic after attending to all my patients, I felt psychologically like a 44-year-old, 10 years younger than my actual age. Which medicine can make you feel 60 years younger? More importantly, I felt I had contributed, in a small way, to human welfare.
Today was worth living though it had started badly and I am still stiff and tired. I will do my best, though at times my best is not good enough, for my patients' medical conditions are too severe for current medical science to cure.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
By Lee Wei Ling
Those who have been reading my columns regularly will know that my health has been uncertain. Perhaps for that very reason, I feel keenly the ill fortunes as well as triumphs of my patients.
Today, as I write this, I feel like a “104-year-old”, a term that my friends would understand. It means I feel 50 years older than I really am.
But I have patients to see. Many among them would have taken leave or made special arrangements to be accompanied by a parent or caregiver in order to see me.
I could, of course, get another doctor in my department to see them, for most of my patients are subsidised and thus not allowed to choose their own doctors. But I treat my subsidised (B2 and C class) patients no differently from my full-paying (A and B1 class) patients, and provide all with the same quality of care. I also insist that all the doctors at the Singapore National Neuroscience Institute (NNI) do the same.
This ethos of caring for patients regardless of whether they are subsidised or not is sometimes absent in our hospitals, even in cases of subsidised patients with complex problems. Sometimes such patients are assigned to junior doctors.
Recently, a friend telephoned me one evening, very distressed. Her husband had had a severe head injury. I asked her who was the doctor in charge. She said she did not know. I told her to write down my name and mobile number on a piece of paper and pass it to the most senior doctor there and ask him to call me.
The moment the doctor saw the note, he telephoned his head of department. My friend had never seen or heard of the head of department before that. Other doctors in the hospital asked my friend: “Who are you and how are you related to Professor Lee Wei Ling?”
An hour later, the head of department called me to give me the medical details, sounding as though he had been in charge all along. The next day, a bouquet of flowers from the hospital appeared in the room of my friend's husband. A senior doctor took care of my friend's husband and performed every operation on him personally. My friend's husband had been admitted as a subsidised patient because all emergency admissions are categorised as “subsidised”.
Our system must find an effective way of ensuring that senior doctors also treat subsidised patients. At present, it is in the economic interests of senior doctors to focus on paying patients rather than subsidised patients — and it is not always the case that doctors look beyond their economic interests. Thus we get incidents like the one I have just described. My friend's husband should have been treated by a senior doctor as a matter of course, without my intervention.
At NNI, a subsidised patient with a complex medical problem would be seen by a senior doctor, or at least a junior doctor under a senior doctor's supervision. My doctors know that I would come down on them like a tonne of bricks if I found they were not providing the same quality of care to subsidised patients as they were to paying ones.
Back to today: I had four glasses of ice-cold kopi-o and made it to the clinic to see my patients. I have just finished seeing all my patients and decided that doing so was the best medicine I could possibly have.
Two of my patients were young men who had been under my care for about 20 years each. One was an engineering graduate of the National University of Singapore, and the other, a polytechnic graduate; both are now gainfully employed. Two other patients were severely handicapped, and seeing them reminded me that I had no right to whine about my fate.
Another patient came with her mother. She continues to have seizures but less frequently now compared with her previous visit.
Three patients did not come. Instead, their elderly parents came and I asked the parents how the patients were doing. I knew all three well and their parents knew me well. I understood the difficulty of elderly parents having to take their handicapped adult children to the hospital by public transport.
My best reward of the day was a lady with epilepsy who has been under my care for 12 years. I casually asked her whether she was still employed.
“Yes,” she replied, “I am in the same company I was working for when I first saw you. Don't you remember, when the person in charge of me asked for a medical report from you, you said that she could contact you personally? She never did, perhaps because she was frightened of you, so I am still working in the same company. During the recent retrenchment exercise, she lost her job and I have been promoted to take over her duties.”
If that superior had contacted me and the patient had granted me permission to release her medical information, I would have done so. Since her seizures had been brought under control within six months of her coming under my care, and since there is still much social stigma attached to epilepsy, I would have told the superior that the seizures were well controlled and would not affect my patient's ability to carry out her duties.
When I walked out of my clinic after attending to all my patients, I felt psychologically like a 44-year-old, 10 years younger than my actual age. Which medicine can make you feel 60 years younger? More importantly, I felt I had contributed, in a small way, to human welfare.
Today was worth living though it had started badly and I am still stiff and tired. I will do my best, though at times my best is not good enough, for my patients' medical conditions are too severe for current medical science to cure.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Simple holidays, rich memories
The Sunday Times Dec 13, 2009
Sun, sand and sea in Changi made for great school breaks during childhood
By Lee Wei Ling
It is December now, and the rain is pouring like water gushing from a fire hydrant as I write this. For some strange reason, I like this kind of weather - perhaps because the time of the north-east monsoon coincided with the long holiday when I was in school.
Today, I tried to fix an appointment for a patient to see another specialist. Two out of the three specialists I tried to contact were holidaying overseas. This brought back memories of my own school holidays more than 40 years ago.
My childhood holidays were much humbler than what the children of my colleagues enjoy today. Most of my holidays were spent with my paternal grandmother. Before August 1965, my family would also spend a portion of the holidays on Fraser's Hill or Cameron Highlands in Peninsula Malaysia.
Indeed, we were on Cameron Highlands in the days before Separation. I remember my mother, my brothers and I driving back to Singapore in a hurry on Aug 8, 1965. My siblings and I discovered the reason only the next day.
After 1965, we would spend part of our school holidays at Changi Cottage or the chalets next door, bungalows by the sea that government officials - civil servants as well as elected officials - could use.
We did the usual things that children did on seaside holidays. I would rise early to watch the sun rise and meander along the beach. After breakfast, my brothers and I would build sandcastles, dig for clams and search for starfish and hermit crabs. When the tide was in, we tried our luck at fishing with hook and bait or swam in the sea. If it was raining, as it often did in December, we would read or play games indoors.
I remember playing a memory game using cards with the young Lee Chuen Neng, who was staying then with his father K.C. Lee and his family in a neighbouring chalet. More than 40 years later, we are still good friends; he is a cardiothoracic surgeon and head of the department of surgery at the National University Hospital, and I'm a neurologist and director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
These holidays were the rare occasions when my brothers and I had our father's company for the entire day. He would sometimes join us on the beach and swim with us. My mother would watch over us children whenever we went swimming. Without saying so, she was our lifeguard.
Every evening, my father would play golf at the nearby Changi golf course. We would walk with him, sometimes pulling his golf trolley. Sometimes, I would walk ahead to the next hole and roam in the thick vegetation nearby. Those trees and undergrowth were probably left there to increase the chances of a golfer losing his golf ball.
Among the bushes and trees, I would pretend that I was a soldier on a topographic march. I had a good sense of direction and never got lost, although I was often scratched or poked by sharp twigs and thorns. But that merely made the game more realistic, so I didn't mind.
Often, at least once a year while we were in Changi, my father would take us to Pulau Ubin. We would visit the Outward Bound School there. It was then rather under-developed by today's standards, but knowing no better, we enjoyed it, as we tried out the obstacle course.
I still have black-and-white photographs of my elder brother Hsien Loong climbing a net-like structure with parallel rows of horizontal ropes attached to parallel rows of vertical ropes. In the photograph, Loong had made it to the top, while I was trying very hard to catch up with him, as indicated by the determined expression on my face. My younger brother Hsien Yang was then too young to try the obstacle.
All three of us enjoyed our holidays in Changi and the quality time we had with our parents. I doubt we would have enjoyed ourselves more if our parents had flown us off to more exotic and expensive destinations overseas.
In the late 1970s, I remember one doctor friend deflating the ego of another doctor when the latter was boasting about his skiing holiday. My friend feigned ignorance and asked: 'Where did you go skiing? Off Coney Island (also known now as Pulau Serangoon)?' I chortled, for I shared my friend's attitude towards downhill skiing.
It is a chance for the rich to show off their ski costumes and stylish sunglasses. Equipment and ski lift passes are expensive, and skiing accidents are common. In the late 1970s, if you could afford to travel overseas to ski, you had to be very wealthy.
Now my younger doctors, with children in primary school, routinely fly their entire families to Australia, New Zealand, Britain, Europe, the United States or China during the year-end school holidays. A few with larger families may opt to drive up to Malaysia. But on the whole, the children of the upper- middle-class are growing up with expectations that expensive holidays overseas are the norm.
My readers can probably guess what I think of this trend. It is a waste of money to travel vast distances for a holiday when there are many interesting places near Singapore one could visit for both fun and education. It doesn't make sense for well-off Singaporean children to be more familiar with Vail or Aspen than with Borobudur or Angkor Wat.
But the festive season will be soon upon us and I don't want to sound like Scrooge. So I will end this trip down memory lane by wishing all my readers a happy year ahead - and by reminding them that misfortune can occur at any time and it is best not to get used to luxuries.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Sun, sand and sea in Changi made for great school breaks during childhood
By Lee Wei Ling
It is December now, and the rain is pouring like water gushing from a fire hydrant as I write this. For some strange reason, I like this kind of weather - perhaps because the time of the north-east monsoon coincided with the long holiday when I was in school.
Today, I tried to fix an appointment for a patient to see another specialist. Two out of the three specialists I tried to contact were holidaying overseas. This brought back memories of my own school holidays more than 40 years ago.
My childhood holidays were much humbler than what the children of my colleagues enjoy today. Most of my holidays were spent with my paternal grandmother. Before August 1965, my family would also spend a portion of the holidays on Fraser's Hill or Cameron Highlands in Peninsula Malaysia.
Indeed, we were on Cameron Highlands in the days before Separation. I remember my mother, my brothers and I driving back to Singapore in a hurry on Aug 8, 1965. My siblings and I discovered the reason only the next day.
After 1965, we would spend part of our school holidays at Changi Cottage or the chalets next door, bungalows by the sea that government officials - civil servants as well as elected officials - could use.
We did the usual things that children did on seaside holidays. I would rise early to watch the sun rise and meander along the beach. After breakfast, my brothers and I would build sandcastles, dig for clams and search for starfish and hermit crabs. When the tide was in, we tried our luck at fishing with hook and bait or swam in the sea. If it was raining, as it often did in December, we would read or play games indoors.
I remember playing a memory game using cards with the young Lee Chuen Neng, who was staying then with his father K.C. Lee and his family in a neighbouring chalet. More than 40 years later, we are still good friends; he is a cardiothoracic surgeon and head of the department of surgery at the National University Hospital, and I'm a neurologist and director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
These holidays were the rare occasions when my brothers and I had our father's company for the entire day. He would sometimes join us on the beach and swim with us. My mother would watch over us children whenever we went swimming. Without saying so, she was our lifeguard.
Every evening, my father would play golf at the nearby Changi golf course. We would walk with him, sometimes pulling his golf trolley. Sometimes, I would walk ahead to the next hole and roam in the thick vegetation nearby. Those trees and undergrowth were probably left there to increase the chances of a golfer losing his golf ball.
Among the bushes and trees, I would pretend that I was a soldier on a topographic march. I had a good sense of direction and never got lost, although I was often scratched or poked by sharp twigs and thorns. But that merely made the game more realistic, so I didn't mind.
Often, at least once a year while we were in Changi, my father would take us to Pulau Ubin. We would visit the Outward Bound School there. It was then rather under-developed by today's standards, but knowing no better, we enjoyed it, as we tried out the obstacle course.
I still have black-and-white photographs of my elder brother Hsien Loong climbing a net-like structure with parallel rows of horizontal ropes attached to parallel rows of vertical ropes. In the photograph, Loong had made it to the top, while I was trying very hard to catch up with him, as indicated by the determined expression on my face. My younger brother Hsien Yang was then too young to try the obstacle.
All three of us enjoyed our holidays in Changi and the quality time we had with our parents. I doubt we would have enjoyed ourselves more if our parents had flown us off to more exotic and expensive destinations overseas.
In the late 1970s, I remember one doctor friend deflating the ego of another doctor when the latter was boasting about his skiing holiday. My friend feigned ignorance and asked: 'Where did you go skiing? Off Coney Island (also known now as Pulau Serangoon)?' I chortled, for I shared my friend's attitude towards downhill skiing.
It is a chance for the rich to show off their ski costumes and stylish sunglasses. Equipment and ski lift passes are expensive, and skiing accidents are common. In the late 1970s, if you could afford to travel overseas to ski, you had to be very wealthy.
Now my younger doctors, with children in primary school, routinely fly their entire families to Australia, New Zealand, Britain, Europe, the United States or China during the year-end school holidays. A few with larger families may opt to drive up to Malaysia. But on the whole, the children of the upper- middle-class are growing up with expectations that expensive holidays overseas are the norm.
My readers can probably guess what I think of this trend. It is a waste of money to travel vast distances for a holiday when there are many interesting places near Singapore one could visit for both fun and education. It doesn't make sense for well-off Singaporean children to be more familiar with Vail or Aspen than with Borobudur or Angkor Wat.
But the festive season will be soon upon us and I don't want to sound like Scrooge. So I will end this trip down memory lane by wishing all my readers a happy year ahead - and by reminding them that misfortune can occur at any time and it is best not to get used to luxuries.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Morals and morale
The Sunday Times Nov 29, 2009
Chinese class taught me values that I still live by today;
English spelling gave me grief
By Lee Wei Ling
Recently, my father acknowledged that he made a mistake in deciding how Chinese should be taught in our schools.
I remember many years ago Mr Lim Kim San telling my father that if my brothers and I had not been able to cope with both Chinese and English, he would not have insisted that all ethnic Chinese students acquire an equal facility in both languages.
My first nine years of formal schooling were spent in Nanyang Girls' - five in its primary school (I had a double promotion) and four in its secondary. I had no difficulty learning Chinese and I did not object to tingxie (听写) or moxie （默写）.
In tingxie (听写), the teacher would pronounce the words and the student would try to write them down. As far as I know, tingxie (听写) is still practised in our schools. Moxie （默写）requires one to write down an entire essay or poem from memory.
For every wrong character, one mark would be deducted; and for every wrong punctuation mark, half a mark. As many of the classical poems and essays exceeded 100 characters, one could end up with a negative score.
Those who know about moxie might be surprised to hear that I enjoyed memorising the classics, and I never got less than 90 marks for moxie （默写）. It was English spelling that I had problems with.
Since I had no difficulty with written Chinese, I blamed my problems with English spelling on the strange spelling rules of the language. It was only many years later that I discovered I was dyslexic in English. To this day, I sometimes cannot decide whether to use a 'd' or a 't', a 'v' or a 'z'. I have even more difficulty with vowels. Fortunately, my e-mail and word-processing programs have spell checkers.
I had two favourite places where I would memorise my Chinese text. One was a particular tree on the Istana grounds with branches suitable to sit and lean back on; the other was a ledge outside the Istana building where I could sit and lean against the wall.
Both locations gave me a good view of the Istana grounds - the trees, shrubs, grass and ponds. And when twilight blurred the view, I imagined I was looking down on a vast lake or gloomy landscape, as they were described in the poems I was memorising.
Of course, there was always the danger I might fall off the tree or ledge - a danger that served to keep me alert as I studied, and was more effective in doing so than caffeine.
I rather enjoyed memorising the Chinese classics. The exercise trained my mind, and in later years, when I had to remember many medical facts, I could do so without much difficulty. And over and above the mental training, I absorbed many moral values from the Chinese classics I memorised. Some of these values are so much a part of me now that I find it difficult not to live by them.
When Chinese-medium schools were phased out, the Chinese language curriculum changed. Chinese culture and moral values were no longer always reflected in the Chinese textbooks. I remember one of my nephews, now 21, protesting: 'What Chinese culture are we being taught when we read Hans Christian Andersen in Chinese?'
I agreed with him wholeheartedly. I am told that the textbooks have been changed since then. I can only hope they have been changed for the better.
I took two major Chinese examinations: Chinese as a first language in my Secondary 4 school-leaving examination in Nanyang Girls' High School; and then later, the GCE O-level Chinese as a second language paper when I was in pre-university at Raffles Institution (RI). I took the latter because all the others in my RI cohort had taken it in their O levels. I received distinctions in both instances.
Recently, while searching for my old certificates, I found an exercise book in which copies of my essays published in Chinese newspapers were neatly pasted.
I remember being paid for those essays. In those days, $10 was big money to me. It was my mother who had cut out the newspaper articles and neatly pasted them in an exercise book.
I reread these essays. Years of disuse of the Chinese language - except to speak to some of my patients - have greatly lowered my ability to write in Chinese. The change from the old Chinese script to the modern simplified one adds to my problem. I know I cannot write Chinese essays now of the same quality as the ones I wrote as a teenager.
I do not regret that my parents sent me to a Chinese-medium school up to Sec 4, nor do I consider all the time I spent memorising those classical essays and poems as wasted.
I learnt how to behave honourably like a junzi - a cultured, honourable person. Among all the subjects I studied in school, I slogged the hardest for Chinese, but that was time well spent.
However, I recognise that not everyone can cope with learning two languages at a high level - especially English and Chinese, which are such different languages. For many pupils from English-speaking homes, Chinese is more a foreign language than a mother tongue. Such pupils form a growing proportion of our Primary 1 cohort.
The everyday use of Chinese will also be transformed by the development of IT, which will make certain skills like writing less important.
Schools have to keep up with these trends and customise the teaching of the language to meet the needs of different groups of students.
Chinese should be taught in a way that students can understand, and for a purpose that they will find useful. They should also be tested in ways that are relevant to how they would use the language in real life.
In that way, we can ensure that as many Chinese Singaporeans as possible retain their interest in the language throughout their lives.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Chinese class taught me values that I still live by today;
English spelling gave me grief
By Lee Wei Ling
Recently, my father acknowledged that he made a mistake in deciding how Chinese should be taught in our schools.
I remember many years ago Mr Lim Kim San telling my father that if my brothers and I had not been able to cope with both Chinese and English, he would not have insisted that all ethnic Chinese students acquire an equal facility in both languages.
My first nine years of formal schooling were spent in Nanyang Girls' - five in its primary school (I had a double promotion) and four in its secondary. I had no difficulty learning Chinese and I did not object to tingxie (听写) or moxie （默写）.
In tingxie (听写), the teacher would pronounce the words and the student would try to write them down. As far as I know, tingxie (听写) is still practised in our schools. Moxie （默写）requires one to write down an entire essay or poem from memory.
For every wrong character, one mark would be deducted; and for every wrong punctuation mark, half a mark. As many of the classical poems and essays exceeded 100 characters, one could end up with a negative score.
Those who know about moxie might be surprised to hear that I enjoyed memorising the classics, and I never got less than 90 marks for moxie （默写）. It was English spelling that I had problems with.
Since I had no difficulty with written Chinese, I blamed my problems with English spelling on the strange spelling rules of the language. It was only many years later that I discovered I was dyslexic in English. To this day, I sometimes cannot decide whether to use a 'd' or a 't', a 'v' or a 'z'. I have even more difficulty with vowels. Fortunately, my e-mail and word-processing programs have spell checkers.
I had two favourite places where I would memorise my Chinese text. One was a particular tree on the Istana grounds with branches suitable to sit and lean back on; the other was a ledge outside the Istana building where I could sit and lean against the wall.
Both locations gave me a good view of the Istana grounds - the trees, shrubs, grass and ponds. And when twilight blurred the view, I imagined I was looking down on a vast lake or gloomy landscape, as they were described in the poems I was memorising.
Of course, there was always the danger I might fall off the tree or ledge - a danger that served to keep me alert as I studied, and was more effective in doing so than caffeine.
I rather enjoyed memorising the Chinese classics. The exercise trained my mind, and in later years, when I had to remember many medical facts, I could do so without much difficulty. And over and above the mental training, I absorbed many moral values from the Chinese classics I memorised. Some of these values are so much a part of me now that I find it difficult not to live by them.
When Chinese-medium schools were phased out, the Chinese language curriculum changed. Chinese culture and moral values were no longer always reflected in the Chinese textbooks. I remember one of my nephews, now 21, protesting: 'What Chinese culture are we being taught when we read Hans Christian Andersen in Chinese?'
I agreed with him wholeheartedly. I am told that the textbooks have been changed since then. I can only hope they have been changed for the better.
I took two major Chinese examinations: Chinese as a first language in my Secondary 4 school-leaving examination in Nanyang Girls' High School; and then later, the GCE O-level Chinese as a second language paper when I was in pre-university at Raffles Institution (RI). I took the latter because all the others in my RI cohort had taken it in their O levels. I received distinctions in both instances.
Recently, while searching for my old certificates, I found an exercise book in which copies of my essays published in Chinese newspapers were neatly pasted.
I remember being paid for those essays. In those days, $10 was big money to me. It was my mother who had cut out the newspaper articles and neatly pasted them in an exercise book.
I reread these essays. Years of disuse of the Chinese language - except to speak to some of my patients - have greatly lowered my ability to write in Chinese. The change from the old Chinese script to the modern simplified one adds to my problem. I know I cannot write Chinese essays now of the same quality as the ones I wrote as a teenager.
I do not regret that my parents sent me to a Chinese-medium school up to Sec 4, nor do I consider all the time I spent memorising those classical essays and poems as wasted.
I learnt how to behave honourably like a junzi - a cultured, honourable person. Among all the subjects I studied in school, I slogged the hardest for Chinese, but that was time well spent.
However, I recognise that not everyone can cope with learning two languages at a high level - especially English and Chinese, which are such different languages. For many pupils from English-speaking homes, Chinese is more a foreign language than a mother tongue. Such pupils form a growing proportion of our Primary 1 cohort.
The everyday use of Chinese will also be transformed by the development of IT, which will make certain skills like writing less important.
Schools have to keep up with these trends and customise the teaching of the language to meet the needs of different groups of students.
Chinese should be taught in a way that students can understand, and for a purpose that they will find useful. They should also be tested in ways that are relevant to how they would use the language in real life.
In that way, we can ensure that as many Chinese Singaporeans as possible retain their interest in the language throughout their lives.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Mak was great at cooking...and caring
The Straits Times Nov 3, 2009
My paternal grandma had little formal schooling but taught me lessons in life
By Lee Wei Ling
Of my four grandparents, I was closest to my paternal grandmother, Mak.
'Mak' is short for 'emak', or 'mother' in Malay. The same term is used also to address grandmothers. Rarely do Peranakans use the Malay word 'nenek' for grandmothers. So I addressed both my paternal and maternal grandmothers as 'Mak'.
When my parents were away, or during the school holidays, Mak would either come to our home in Oxley Road to supervise me and my brothers, or I would go to the house of my uncle No. 3 (Mak's third son) where she lived.
Once, before I started attending primary school, my parents left my brothers and me in Mak's care while they visited Malaya. It was around Chinese New Year, and I was playing with a Roman candle. Somehow, the flame flashed backwards and burned my right hand. I felt some pain, but what alarmed me more was the distress I caused Mak.
She had little formal schooling, but she had the presence of mind to drive me to Gleneagles Hospital, where my wound was cleaned and dressed. The doctor lectured her about how an important nerve in my hand could have been destroyed. That would have impaired the movement of my thumb, resulting in the reduced dexterity of my right hand.
I recall being at the railway station a few days later, awaiting my parents' return. Mak was nervous about facing my parents, but they were not critical of her. I think my parents already knew that their daughter was a daredevil and was too much of a handful for Mak to control.
I was dispatched almost every school holiday to uncle No. 3's house to learn cooking from Mak. I learnt very little cooking because I was not interested enough to learn.
My grandmother was more than a competent cook. She was a superb cook. The most tedious of recipes appeared simple in her hands. And she was so efficient that by the time she finished cooking, she would be finished with the washing up as well!
After a delicious lunch, we would retire to Mak's room, which had a verandah. There, I would read comics - something that was forbidden in my own home - or chat with Mak.
When I was older, I often recorded our chit-chat. I do not know if any of the oral history I recorded has been used. But I do know that my mother also spent some time recording Mak's recollections.
I graduated as a doctor in May 1978. Mak was delighted that, at last, she had a grandchild who was a doctor. She was especially pleased because she wished to travel and wanted a doctor to accompany her. So she took me on a guided tour of the United States that included the east coast, which she had never visited before.
Being responsible for Mak on that trip was quite a worrying experience. One morning in Honolulu, I woke up and found her gone, with no note indicating her whereabouts or plans. Many anxious hours later, she re-appeared - smiling sheepishly - with a middle-aged lady who she said was her close friend. Perhaps that was tit for tat for my burning my hand when I was a child and frightening her.
I never regretted going on that trip with Mak. Perhaps she had a premonition. She never travelled overseas again after that trip.
From the time I began working as a doctor till Mak's death in August 1980, I would drop in on her very often. After being on call the preceding night, I often got the next afternoon off. I would leave once all the patients under my watch were stable and had been handed over to the next doctor. Then I would go for a run and a swim, and drop in for 'high tea' with Mak.
Mak always had a wide combination of spices prepared and frozen. She needed less than an hour's notice to produce a Peranakan feast, complete with desserts.
She claimed that her birthday was on Chinese New Year's Eve. We had no way of verifying this, but it meant her birthday was always celebrated by her extended family at the reunion dinner.
In 1980, I had a choice of being on call either on Chinese New Year's Eve or the first day of the New Year. I asked Mak which day she would prefer my presence. She said that she wanted me to be present at her birthday celebration. I arranged my roster to satisfy her. But I also dropped in on her early on the first day of the New Year before going to work. She appreciated my effort and sent me off laden with goodies to be shared with my colleagues on call.
Later that year, she developed cancer of the colon. Dr Yeoh Ghim Seng, one of the top surgeons then, suggested masterly inaction. She died of a heart attack a few days before National Day.
I spent hardly any time at her wake as my department was short of staff. I had to arrange to be on call every day so as to get a day off for Mak's funeral.
My mother told me that a karung guni man had attended the wake and had knelt in front of Mak's coffin and wept. Mak had always been kind-hearted and would help anyone who needed help.
She would pick up unwanted babies from kampungs and find families to adopt them. She would collect old clothes to send to poor relatives in Indonesia. I have no doubt she must have helped the karung guni man. He had nothing to gain by putting up an act in front of her coffin.
I use the work area in the neurodiagnostic laboratory as my office. All the staff know I am Mr Lee Kuan Yew's daughter. I have a few photographs on the wall but none indicating my family connections - except for a photo of Mak, displayed prominently on the upper left corner of the board on the wall before my desk.
I sometimes see patients in my office, but they would not be able to guess my family connections from Mak's photo. She had always stayed below the public's radar while quietly lending a helping hand to all who asked her for help.
I hope I am worthy of being her granddaughter.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
My paternal grandma had little formal schooling but taught me lessons in life
By Lee Wei Ling
Of my four grandparents, I was closest to my paternal grandmother, Mak.
'Mak' is short for 'emak', or 'mother' in Malay. The same term is used also to address grandmothers. Rarely do Peranakans use the Malay word 'nenek' for grandmothers. So I addressed both my paternal and maternal grandmothers as 'Mak'.
When my parents were away, or during the school holidays, Mak would either come to our home in Oxley Road to supervise me and my brothers, or I would go to the house of my uncle No. 3 (Mak's third son) where she lived.
Once, before I started attending primary school, my parents left my brothers and me in Mak's care while they visited Malaya. It was around Chinese New Year, and I was playing with a Roman candle. Somehow, the flame flashed backwards and burned my right hand. I felt some pain, but what alarmed me more was the distress I caused Mak.
She had little formal schooling, but she had the presence of mind to drive me to Gleneagles Hospital, where my wound was cleaned and dressed. The doctor lectured her about how an important nerve in my hand could have been destroyed. That would have impaired the movement of my thumb, resulting in the reduced dexterity of my right hand.
I recall being at the railway station a few days later, awaiting my parents' return. Mak was nervous about facing my parents, but they were not critical of her. I think my parents already knew that their daughter was a daredevil and was too much of a handful for Mak to control.
I was dispatched almost every school holiday to uncle No. 3's house to learn cooking from Mak. I learnt very little cooking because I was not interested enough to learn.
My grandmother was more than a competent cook. She was a superb cook. The most tedious of recipes appeared simple in her hands. And she was so efficient that by the time she finished cooking, she would be finished with the washing up as well!
After a delicious lunch, we would retire to Mak's room, which had a verandah. There, I would read comics - something that was forbidden in my own home - or chat with Mak.
When I was older, I often recorded our chit-chat. I do not know if any of the oral history I recorded has been used. But I do know that my mother also spent some time recording Mak's recollections.
I graduated as a doctor in May 1978. Mak was delighted that, at last, she had a grandchild who was a doctor. She was especially pleased because she wished to travel and wanted a doctor to accompany her. So she took me on a guided tour of the United States that included the east coast, which she had never visited before.
Being responsible for Mak on that trip was quite a worrying experience. One morning in Honolulu, I woke up and found her gone, with no note indicating her whereabouts or plans. Many anxious hours later, she re-appeared - smiling sheepishly - with a middle-aged lady who she said was her close friend. Perhaps that was tit for tat for my burning my hand when I was a child and frightening her.
I never regretted going on that trip with Mak. Perhaps she had a premonition. She never travelled overseas again after that trip.
From the time I began working as a doctor till Mak's death in August 1980, I would drop in on her very often. After being on call the preceding night, I often got the next afternoon off. I would leave once all the patients under my watch were stable and had been handed over to the next doctor. Then I would go for a run and a swim, and drop in for 'high tea' with Mak.
Mak always had a wide combination of spices prepared and frozen. She needed less than an hour's notice to produce a Peranakan feast, complete with desserts.
She claimed that her birthday was on Chinese New Year's Eve. We had no way of verifying this, but it meant her birthday was always celebrated by her extended family at the reunion dinner.
In 1980, I had a choice of being on call either on Chinese New Year's Eve or the first day of the New Year. I asked Mak which day she would prefer my presence. She said that she wanted me to be present at her birthday celebration. I arranged my roster to satisfy her. But I also dropped in on her early on the first day of the New Year before going to work. She appreciated my effort and sent me off laden with goodies to be shared with my colleagues on call.
Later that year, she developed cancer of the colon. Dr Yeoh Ghim Seng, one of the top surgeons then, suggested masterly inaction. She died of a heart attack a few days before National Day.
I spent hardly any time at her wake as my department was short of staff. I had to arrange to be on call every day so as to get a day off for Mak's funeral.
My mother told me that a karung guni man had attended the wake and had knelt in front of Mak's coffin and wept. Mak had always been kind-hearted and would help anyone who needed help.
She would pick up unwanted babies from kampungs and find families to adopt them. She would collect old clothes to send to poor relatives in Indonesia. I have no doubt she must have helped the karung guni man. He had nothing to gain by putting up an act in front of her coffin.
I use the work area in the neurodiagnostic laboratory as my office. All the staff know I am Mr Lee Kuan Yew's daughter. I have a few photographs on the wall but none indicating my family connections - except for a photo of Mak, displayed prominently on the upper left corner of the board on the wall before my desk.
I sometimes see patients in my office, but they would not be able to guess my family connections from Mak's photo. She had always stayed below the public's radar while quietly lending a helping hand to all who asked her for help.
I hope I am worthy of being her granddaughter.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
The glass is really half full
The Straits Times Oct 30, 2009
By Lee Wei Ling
This is the last week of October, well into autumn. As I do my step-aerobic exercises, looking out of my hotel window in Washington DC, I see a lone maple tree.
Half of its leaves have fallen. Of the remaining leaves, only a few are red; the rest are partially brown and partially green. They are wilting before they get a chance to display the splendid red that makes autumn my favourite season in the United States. The sad-looking tree reminds me that the year is drawing to a close.
It has been a dreary year, both for myself and the world-at-large. Yet, in spite of my misfortunes, there are many things that I am grateful for. The five months I spent in hospital earlier in the year gave me a chance to reconnect with old friends, some of whom I had lost touch with for three decades. I made new friends among the nurses and doctors who looked after me. I enjoyed writing my columns for The Straits Times and The Sunday Times, and still do.
After being discharged from the hospital, I was happy to see my patients again, and they were happy to see me. I have resumed travelling with my father Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew, something that I used to do in my late teens and in my 20s, until work and my conference schedule put a stop to it.
This time, when my father asked me to accompany him on his trips, I dropped everything and joined him. I am travelling not for fun but to keep him company. As a result, I have had quality time with him.
While I have always known that my father was wise, I was surprised to see the movers and shakers of this world seek his opinion and advice on a multitude of international problems.
Over the past weekend, my father stayed in the home of Henry and Nancy Kissinger in Connecticut. For dinner on Saturday and again for lunch on Sunday, the Kissingers invited people from politics, academia, the media and business to meet my father. On Monday evening, Fed Malek of Thayer Capital organised a gathering at his home in Washington DC for my father to meet more movers and shakers. My father learnt about US perceptions of the world and the views of the Obama administration and Congress.
On Tuesday evening, at a black-tie dinner, my father was presented the Lifetime Achievement Award by the US-Asean Business Council. Former US Presidents George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton sent taped tributes. President Barack Obama sent a statement that was read out on his behalf by Assistant Secretary of State Kurt Campbell.
Kissinger and George Shultz — both former US secretaries of state and old friends of my father — attended the event. Both paid glowing tributes to my father. I am proud of my father, not for the award per se, but for making Singapore and Asean better places.
And for this event, even I, usually heedless of convention, was appropriately attired. I wore a Chinese jacket that my sister-in-law Ho Ching had bought for me, carried a bag that my friend and colleague, Professor Helen Tjia, had given me, and wore shoes bought by another friend. Together, they had conspired to ensure that I was dressed appropriately for the occasion.
I did not know how similar my thinking process was to my father's until after a private lunch with the Kissingers last weekend. Kissinger and my father were lamenting the state of the world, when my father said: “Henry, we must do what's right.”
My father has always tried to do what is right for Singapore, and for humanity. He will stand by friends who fall out of public favour to show the world: “To hell with you, he is still my friend.” These are the same rules by which I have tried to lead my much humbler life.
According to the psychologist Hans Jurgen Eysenck, sons think more like their mothers and daughters more like their fathers. My father believes in Eysenck's theories and blames himself for his non-conformist daughter.
He is a world-famous statesman, one whom world leaders consult. As Kissinger noted on Tuesday evening: “Over 40 years, when Mr Lee comes to Washington, he gets to see an array of people that almost no foreign leader gets to see... because he does not come as a supplicant.” Today, my father is to meet Obama.
But, after all is said and done, my father will leave it to history to have the final say on his life. In the meantime, he will simply continue to do what is right for Singapore and for the world. I believe that if there were more politicians like him, the world would be a better place.
This article began on a sombre note. I admire the Stoic philosophy, and had decided to take a stoic view of this year. But I have since come to the conclusion that the glass is half full, and that really, I and most Singaporeans are not in such a bad situation.
It is more likely to stay that way if we continued to do what's right — in season as well as out.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
By Lee Wei Ling
This is the last week of October, well into autumn. As I do my step-aerobic exercises, looking out of my hotel window in Washington DC, I see a lone maple tree.
Half of its leaves have fallen. Of the remaining leaves, only a few are red; the rest are partially brown and partially green. They are wilting before they get a chance to display the splendid red that makes autumn my favourite season in the United States. The sad-looking tree reminds me that the year is drawing to a close.
It has been a dreary year, both for myself and the world-at-large. Yet, in spite of my misfortunes, there are many things that I am grateful for. The five months I spent in hospital earlier in the year gave me a chance to reconnect with old friends, some of whom I had lost touch with for three decades. I made new friends among the nurses and doctors who looked after me. I enjoyed writing my columns for The Straits Times and The Sunday Times, and still do.
After being discharged from the hospital, I was happy to see my patients again, and they were happy to see me. I have resumed travelling with my father Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew, something that I used to do in my late teens and in my 20s, until work and my conference schedule put a stop to it.
This time, when my father asked me to accompany him on his trips, I dropped everything and joined him. I am travelling not for fun but to keep him company. As a result, I have had quality time with him.
While I have always known that my father was wise, I was surprised to see the movers and shakers of this world seek his opinion and advice on a multitude of international problems.
Over the past weekend, my father stayed in the home of Henry and Nancy Kissinger in Connecticut. For dinner on Saturday and again for lunch on Sunday, the Kissingers invited people from politics, academia, the media and business to meet my father. On Monday evening, Fed Malek of Thayer Capital organised a gathering at his home in Washington DC for my father to meet more movers and shakers. My father learnt about US perceptions of the world and the views of the Obama administration and Congress.
On Tuesday evening, at a black-tie dinner, my father was presented the Lifetime Achievement Award by the US-Asean Business Council. Former US Presidents George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton sent taped tributes. President Barack Obama sent a statement that was read out on his behalf by Assistant Secretary of State Kurt Campbell.
Kissinger and George Shultz — both former US secretaries of state and old friends of my father — attended the event. Both paid glowing tributes to my father. I am proud of my father, not for the award per se, but for making Singapore and Asean better places.
And for this event, even I, usually heedless of convention, was appropriately attired. I wore a Chinese jacket that my sister-in-law Ho Ching had bought for me, carried a bag that my friend and colleague, Professor Helen Tjia, had given me, and wore shoes bought by another friend. Together, they had conspired to ensure that I was dressed appropriately for the occasion.
I did not know how similar my thinking process was to my father's until after a private lunch with the Kissingers last weekend. Kissinger and my father were lamenting the state of the world, when my father said: “Henry, we must do what's right.”
My father has always tried to do what is right for Singapore, and for humanity. He will stand by friends who fall out of public favour to show the world: “To hell with you, he is still my friend.” These are the same rules by which I have tried to lead my much humbler life.
According to the psychologist Hans Jurgen Eysenck, sons think more like their mothers and daughters more like their fathers. My father believes in Eysenck's theories and blames himself for his non-conformist daughter.
He is a world-famous statesman, one whom world leaders consult. As Kissinger noted on Tuesday evening: “Over 40 years, when Mr Lee comes to Washington, he gets to see an array of people that almost no foreign leader gets to see... because he does not come as a supplicant.” Today, my father is to meet Obama.
But, after all is said and done, my father will leave it to history to have the final say on his life. In the meantime, he will simply continue to do what is right for Singapore and for the world. I believe that if there were more politicians like him, the world would be a better place.
This article began on a sombre note. I admire the Stoic philosophy, and had decided to take a stoic view of this year. But I have since come to the conclusion that the glass is half full, and that really, I and most Singaporeans are not in such a bad situation.
It is more likely to stay that way if we continued to do what's right — in season as well as out.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
No bed of roses for me, thank you
The Sunday Times Oct 18, 2009
By Lee Wei Ling
In late May, I finally returned home after a prolonged stay in hospital, followed immediately by a trip overseas accompanying my father.
Both the hospital and the various hotels I stayed in had comfortable beds. My first night home after sleeping on proper beds for almost half a year was rather uncomfortable. I immediately noticed the minimal cushioning effect of my exercise mat on the hard wooden floor in my bedroom, and the next day I woke up with my right arm and right leg aching.
I had discarded my bed in 2002 when I moved a large desktop computer, a large laser-jet colour printer, a rowing machine and a cross- trainer into my bedroom, which now functions also as my study and gym. I would have had no space to move around if the bed had remained in the room. So it was removed and I slept on the floor on an exercise mat that was rolled up during the day.
I quickly got used to sleeping on the floor - till this May, that is. I had no difficulty previously re-adjusting to the floor after a trip overseas or a brief stay in hospital. But I had not been away from home for such a long period before and it was obvious that my body had got used to the luxury of a proper bed. It revolted when it was subjected again to the hard floor.
I have always chosen a spartan lifestyle both because it was in accordance with my philosophy in life and also because I felt that it would be difficult to do without luxuries once one had got used to them. Fine clothes and jewellery, gourmet food, luxurious furniture, expensive cars - these are things I could deny myself without feeling any sense of deprivation. But I had not expected to miss having a bed just because I had slept on one for six months. This experience further strengthened my conviction that once one got used to luxuries, it was difficult to do without them.
Whether or not you believe it, my lifestyle is considerably less lavish than that of most middle- and upper-middle-class people in Singapore. But if you can afford it, what is wrong with enjoying your wealth, you may well ask? Nothing - except that one's wealth may diminish unexpectedly, as many of us discovered during the recession of the past year.
Furthermore, what was considered a luxury when one first began enjoying it, may very soon be considered a necessity. My experience of sleeping on a bed rather than the floor confirms this psychological truth. I had not expected to become used to sleeping on a bed - but I did.
While I am not proposing that we adopt the lifestyle of a Hindu or Buddhist ascetic, I think frugality and a simple lifestyle are effective ways to cope, morally and psychologically, with the temptations of the modern consumerist world.
Ostentatious mansions disgust me. I watch with disdain sports cars that can accelerate from zero to 100kmh within five seconds. What use is such power and speed on Singapore roads? Similarly, extravagant banquets, expensive wines, designer clothes, shoes and handbags - all these things are wasteful. How many young children might we have helped if we were to use the money we spend on such luxuries to upgrade our kindergartens?
Perhaps I am idiosyncratic. My furniture is simple and functional. Indeed, my chairs are old chairs that my mother's former law firm Lee and Lee discarded. I don't even have a television set or radio in my room.
I was brought up to be frugal. As children, my brothers and I were chastised if we did not turn off taps completely, or left lights or air-conditioners on when there was no need for them to be. My parents decided not to live at Sri Temasek, the prime minister's official residence, because they didn't want their children to be waited on hand and foot by butlers and servants. At Nanyang Primary and later Nanyang Girls' High School, one of the virtues the school motto emphasised was frugality.
There is a Chinese proverb - wo xin chang dan - which literally means 'sleeping on firewood and tasting gall so as to undergo self-imposed hardship'. The story behind this proverb is as follows:
During the Spring and Autumn Period in Chinese history (approximately 722-481BC) the State of Wu defeated the State of Yue, and took the King of Yue and his wife prisoner. For many years, King Gou Jian worked as a slave in Wu. When he was finally released, he returned home determined to take revenge.
For 10 years, so that he would never forget his humiliation, he slept on a pile of firewood and tasted gall before every meal. After careful preparation, he attacked and conquered the State of Wu.
The Bible too commends suffering. Romans 5:3-4, for instance, states: 'We glory in tribulations also; knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.'
There is benefit to be derived from a certain degree of deprivation and even suffering. Many of the things we like in excess are bad for us - for example, fatty meat, chocolates and alcohol. Over and above denying ourselves such pleasures, outright suffering is not always bad, and in moderation, is good character training.
I have been through a fair amount of suffering in my life, mainly because of my health. If I had been given a choice to be spared the experience, I would actually have chosen to go through it because suffering taught me lessons no teacher or book can ever teach me.
As the ancients of various traditions knew, tribulation worketh character.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
By Lee Wei Ling
In late May, I finally returned home after a prolonged stay in hospital, followed immediately by a trip overseas accompanying my father.
Both the hospital and the various hotels I stayed in had comfortable beds. My first night home after sleeping on proper beds for almost half a year was rather uncomfortable. I immediately noticed the minimal cushioning effect of my exercise mat on the hard wooden floor in my bedroom, and the next day I woke up with my right arm and right leg aching.
I had discarded my bed in 2002 when I moved a large desktop computer, a large laser-jet colour printer, a rowing machine and a cross- trainer into my bedroom, which now functions also as my study and gym. I would have had no space to move around if the bed had remained in the room. So it was removed and I slept on the floor on an exercise mat that was rolled up during the day.
I quickly got used to sleeping on the floor - till this May, that is. I had no difficulty previously re-adjusting to the floor after a trip overseas or a brief stay in hospital. But I had not been away from home for such a long period before and it was obvious that my body had got used to the luxury of a proper bed. It revolted when it was subjected again to the hard floor.
I have always chosen a spartan lifestyle both because it was in accordance with my philosophy in life and also because I felt that it would be difficult to do without luxuries once one had got used to them. Fine clothes and jewellery, gourmet food, luxurious furniture, expensive cars - these are things I could deny myself without feeling any sense of deprivation. But I had not expected to miss having a bed just because I had slept on one for six months. This experience further strengthened my conviction that once one got used to luxuries, it was difficult to do without them.
Whether or not you believe it, my lifestyle is considerably less lavish than that of most middle- and upper-middle-class people in Singapore. But if you can afford it, what is wrong with enjoying your wealth, you may well ask? Nothing - except that one's wealth may diminish unexpectedly, as many of us discovered during the recession of the past year.
Furthermore, what was considered a luxury when one first began enjoying it, may very soon be considered a necessity. My experience of sleeping on a bed rather than the floor confirms this psychological truth. I had not expected to become used to sleeping on a bed - but I did.
While I am not proposing that we adopt the lifestyle of a Hindu or Buddhist ascetic, I think frugality and a simple lifestyle are effective ways to cope, morally and psychologically, with the temptations of the modern consumerist world.
Ostentatious mansions disgust me. I watch with disdain sports cars that can accelerate from zero to 100kmh within five seconds. What use is such power and speed on Singapore roads? Similarly, extravagant banquets, expensive wines, designer clothes, shoes and handbags - all these things are wasteful. How many young children might we have helped if we were to use the money we spend on such luxuries to upgrade our kindergartens?
Perhaps I am idiosyncratic. My furniture is simple and functional. Indeed, my chairs are old chairs that my mother's former law firm Lee and Lee discarded. I don't even have a television set or radio in my room.
I was brought up to be frugal. As children, my brothers and I were chastised if we did not turn off taps completely, or left lights or air-conditioners on when there was no need for them to be. My parents decided not to live at Sri Temasek, the prime minister's official residence, because they didn't want their children to be waited on hand and foot by butlers and servants. At Nanyang Primary and later Nanyang Girls' High School, one of the virtues the school motto emphasised was frugality.
There is a Chinese proverb - wo xin chang dan - which literally means 'sleeping on firewood and tasting gall so as to undergo self-imposed hardship'. The story behind this proverb is as follows:
During the Spring and Autumn Period in Chinese history (approximately 722-481BC) the State of Wu defeated the State of Yue, and took the King of Yue and his wife prisoner. For many years, King Gou Jian worked as a slave in Wu. When he was finally released, he returned home determined to take revenge.
For 10 years, so that he would never forget his humiliation, he slept on a pile of firewood and tasted gall before every meal. After careful preparation, he attacked and conquered the State of Wu.
The Bible too commends suffering. Romans 5:3-4, for instance, states: 'We glory in tribulations also; knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.'
There is benefit to be derived from a certain degree of deprivation and even suffering. Many of the things we like in excess are bad for us - for example, fatty meat, chocolates and alcohol. Over and above denying ourselves such pleasures, outright suffering is not always bad, and in moderation, is good character training.
I have been through a fair amount of suffering in my life, mainly because of my health. If I had been given a choice to be spared the experience, I would actually have chosen to go through it because suffering taught me lessons no teacher or book can ever teach me.
As the ancients of various traditions knew, tribulation worketh character.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
Judging others: Honesty comes first
The Straits Times Aug 26, 2009
By Lee Wei Ling
We are taught knowledge in school and university. How much knowledge we have acquired and how well we use it are fairly accurately reflected in examination results. But in life, judging another person's character can often be more important than judging his IQ, which correlates fairly closely with academic results.
In judging a person, I have always placed more weight on character than intelligence. Of the various attributes of character - such as honesty, courage, kindness and righteousness - honesty is the most important.
An honest person can be trusted. In dealing with someone I trust, I need not waste energy wondering if I am being deceived. I can also be totally frank with that person and this will facilitate whatever both of us are trying to achieve. This kind of working relationship is similar to that among old Chinese businessmen: Their word is their bond and ther is no need for a written contract.
This is the way I deal with my friends and comrades. If I do not trust them, they would not be part of my circle of friends and comrades in the first place.
The senior staff at the National Neuroscience Institute (NNI), which I head, are encouraged to go home and spend time with their families when all their patients are stable and their work has been completed, though it may not be 5.30pm yet. But if there is an emergency at 1am and they are needed, I expect them to be there as soon as possible. To date, my senior doctors have not betrayed my trust and I am very proud of them.
As a leader, if I cannot trust my staff, then I cannot run the organisation on the basis that my staff consist of responsible and honourable people, and I would have to be constantly looking over their shoulders.
In NNI, over the last six years, I have tried to make honesty and responsibility part of our ethos. It was easier to get my peers to agree with this ethos. Now, I am trying to achieve the same acceptance among lower-ranking staff and I can already see the improvement.
As a subordinate, if I cannot trust my superior, then I would rather not be part of that company or organisation.
On first contact, it is not easy to decide whether a person can be trusted. If the person tries too hard to impress - for example, with his or her appearance, eloquence or overly friendly demeanour - red flags go up for me. I have found this useful first cut in judging character.
A more accurate judgment will have to depend on repeated interactions with the person and observations of his behaviour. Whether the person is consistent in his expressed motives, whether he tries to carry out what he says, whether he is sincere - these will become clearer and help one judge if he is trustworthy.
With regard to myself, what you see is what you get, I have only one face; I wear no mask or make-up - literally. What I say is what I will try to do. Hence, most people find it easy to trust me, regardless of whether or not they like me.
Some people have more than one face. Depending on whom they are dealing with, they choose which of their several faces to show. That is why people high up in our society may find it difficult to judge a person.
I have the advantage of having friends from different walks of life. On several occasions, I get feedback from them that particular individuals show them different faces from the ones they show higher-ups. That immediately tells me that such individuals cannot be trusted.
Finally, and I purposely leave it to the last, there is what has been called "sixth sense". Mine has been accuragte more often than can be accounted for by chance alone. A sixth sense helps me judge individuals with whom I have not yet had repeated interactions.
I suspected there is a scientifc basis to sixth sense. It is based on fuzzy logic. One assesses the person as a whole package, giving different weightage to his knowledge, honesty and friendliness - and whether the last is genuine or otherwise. His appearance, especially if he smiles with his mouth and not his eyes; his attire and speech; whether he looks one in the eye when speaking; how he carries himeself - all these, in combination, can give us an insight into a person.
In everyday life, we have to deal with a wide variety of people whether or not we trust them. If we want to avoid committing a mistake, we need to know whom we can trust and whom we need to handle with caution. This s a necessary skill for survival and success.
Some people have a special talent for this. Others learn slowly through many new contacts, but they never become as good as those with a natural talent for judging people, like the late Lim Kim San.
Character and intelligence do not always correlate. A leader needs to have both character and intelligence - more so than a person in a position of lesser importance. Self-awareness is important too, because a good leader will ensure his team includes people with talents he lacks. This does not demean him. Indeed, self-knowledge is a very important trait among leaders.
I run a small but efficient organisation. I trust my staff and my staff trust me. We work as a team for a common purpose - the welfare of our patients.
The patients, too, need to trust my doctors. But to discuss bedside manners would take another articles. Suffice to say that patients can sense sincerity. I do not look pretty, I do not dress well and my approach to my patients can be frank and blunt - perhaps blunt to a fault. But I have patients who have been with me for 20-30 years. If I were to advise a newly minted doctor on how to deal with patients, the one quality I would emphasise is sincerity.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
By Lee Wei Ling
We are taught knowledge in school and university. How much knowledge we have acquired and how well we use it are fairly accurately reflected in examination results. But in life, judging another person's character can often be more important than judging his IQ, which correlates fairly closely with academic results.
In judging a person, I have always placed more weight on character than intelligence. Of the various attributes of character - such as honesty, courage, kindness and righteousness - honesty is the most important.
An honest person can be trusted. In dealing with someone I trust, I need not waste energy wondering if I am being deceived. I can also be totally frank with that person and this will facilitate whatever both of us are trying to achieve. This kind of working relationship is similar to that among old Chinese businessmen: Their word is their bond and ther is no need for a written contract.
This is the way I deal with my friends and comrades. If I do not trust them, they would not be part of my circle of friends and comrades in the first place.
The senior staff at the National Neuroscience Institute (NNI), which I head, are encouraged to go home and spend time with their families when all their patients are stable and their work has been completed, though it may not be 5.30pm yet. But if there is an emergency at 1am and they are needed, I expect them to be there as soon as possible. To date, my senior doctors have not betrayed my trust and I am very proud of them.
As a leader, if I cannot trust my staff, then I cannot run the organisation on the basis that my staff consist of responsible and honourable people, and I would have to be constantly looking over their shoulders.
In NNI, over the last six years, I have tried to make honesty and responsibility part of our ethos. It was easier to get my peers to agree with this ethos. Now, I am trying to achieve the same acceptance among lower-ranking staff and I can already see the improvement.
As a subordinate, if I cannot trust my superior, then I would rather not be part of that company or organisation.
On first contact, it is not easy to decide whether a person can be trusted. If the person tries too hard to impress - for example, with his or her appearance, eloquence or overly friendly demeanour - red flags go up for me. I have found this useful first cut in judging character.
A more accurate judgment will have to depend on repeated interactions with the person and observations of his behaviour. Whether the person is consistent in his expressed motives, whether he tries to carry out what he says, whether he is sincere - these will become clearer and help one judge if he is trustworthy.
With regard to myself, what you see is what you get, I have only one face; I wear no mask or make-up - literally. What I say is what I will try to do. Hence, most people find it easy to trust me, regardless of whether or not they like me.
Some people have more than one face. Depending on whom they are dealing with, they choose which of their several faces to show. That is why people high up in our society may find it difficult to judge a person.
I have the advantage of having friends from different walks of life. On several occasions, I get feedback from them that particular individuals show them different faces from the ones they show higher-ups. That immediately tells me that such individuals cannot be trusted.
Finally, and I purposely leave it to the last, there is what has been called "sixth sense". Mine has been accuragte more often than can be accounted for by chance alone. A sixth sense helps me judge individuals with whom I have not yet had repeated interactions.
I suspected there is a scientifc basis to sixth sense. It is based on fuzzy logic. One assesses the person as a whole package, giving different weightage to his knowledge, honesty and friendliness - and whether the last is genuine or otherwise. His appearance, especially if he smiles with his mouth and not his eyes; his attire and speech; whether he looks one in the eye when speaking; how he carries himeself - all these, in combination, can give us an insight into a person.
In everyday life, we have to deal with a wide variety of people whether or not we trust them. If we want to avoid committing a mistake, we need to know whom we can trust and whom we need to handle with caution. This s a necessary skill for survival and success.
Some people have a special talent for this. Others learn slowly through many new contacts, but they never become as good as those with a natural talent for judging people, like the late Lim Kim San.
Character and intelligence do not always correlate. A leader needs to have both character and intelligence - more so than a person in a position of lesser importance. Self-awareness is important too, because a good leader will ensure his team includes people with talents he lacks. This does not demean him. Indeed, self-knowledge is a very important trait among leaders.
I run a small but efficient organisation. I trust my staff and my staff trust me. We work as a team for a common purpose - the welfare of our patients.
The patients, too, need to trust my doctors. But to discuss bedside manners would take another articles. Suffice to say that patients can sense sincerity. I do not look pretty, I do not dress well and my approach to my patients can be frank and blunt - perhaps blunt to a fault. But I have patients who have been with me for 20-30 years. If I were to advise a newly minted doctor on how to deal with patients, the one quality I would emphasise is sincerity.
Dr Lee is the director of the National Neuroscience Institute.
The March of a confident nation
The Sunday Times Aug 2, 2009
By Lee Wei Ling
The first National Day Parade (NDP) I attended was in 1966 at the age of 11. It was also Singapore's first NDP, for National Day in 1965 had come either as a disappointment or a shock, depending on whether you thought a Malay Malaysia or a Malaysian Malaysia was the ideal.
From then on, through my years in school, NDP was an occasion of great significance to me and my family. In those early years of independence, Aug 9 marked the birthday of a nation that was still fragile, born as it was precipitously and prematurely. Our neighbours were all bigger and more powerful than we were, and viewed us with suspicion. Internally, racial and religious tensions were still palpable.
My parents took us to all the NDP rehearsals. My father would personally scrutinise the march-past, the mass displays and the floats to ensure that the parade was as near perfect as possible. The parades then were less extravagant than they are now, but my father took them seriously nevertheless because they were part of a conscious attempt to build a national identity. I implicitly knew that all along, which was why I never refused when I was instructed or asked to participate in the parades.
As I was writing this article, I asked my father if the NDPs were meant to build a national identity. His reply: “Yes — but national identity takes a long time to set in. The immediate effect was to give confidence to our people — that we can and are making it on our own.”
The NDPs of my youth consisted mainly of contingents marching past the President, tanks and even vehicles used by the riot police driving past, mass displays by schoolchildren and, finally, floats.
In the 1968 NDP, my brother Hsien Loong played the clarinet marching with the Catholic High School band. There was a downpour that Aug 9. My father had to decide whether to proceed with the parade or to postpone it. He decided to proceed, for to do otherwise would have implied that Singaporeans were not resilient. My mother, my brother Hsien Yang and I watched with pride from the windows of my father's office in City Hall as Hsien Loong marched past.
The 1969 NDP coincided with the 150th anniversary of Singapore's founding by Stamford Raffles in 1819. My father took especial pains with that year's parade, for it was attended by then Malaysian Deputy Prime Minister Tun Abdul Razak, Princess Alexandra of Kent representing the Queen of England, then Australian Defence Minister Malcolm Fraser, and other dignitaries.
I was part of a mass display put on by Nanyang Girls' High School that special NDP. The girls carried hoops of white or bright red plastic flowers, which made for changing patterns as they danced around the Padang. A small wooden stage was set up in the centre of the field. I marched up it carrying the Singapore flag and stood at attention as my friends moved around me.
The school had a backup for me in case I fell ill that day. She was 3cm taller than I was and I felt it was only fair that she should have the honour of carrying the flag. But my suggestion was rejected and I obediently accepted the role. I knew Nanyang Girls' wanted Singaporeans to know that the Prime Minister sent his daughter to a Chinese school. I also suspect that by being dressed up in a military costume while my friends wore samfoos, I was meant to symbolise the “rugged society” that my father was trying to inculcate.
We put in many hot and sweaty hours over eight months practising. My friends and I didn't complain. Rather, we felt it was an honour for our school to be selected to put on the display. On the actual day, our performance went well and I did not make any mistakes.
Did I have any special feelings? No more than slight nervousness and being conscious that there would be many photographers looking out for me. I did not like being recognised by the public even then, but I knew that was unavoidable.
I subsequently participated in three other NDPs: twice as part of the National Cadet Corps and once as part of the University of Singapore contingent.
All this was more than a generation ago. The young today have probably never heard of “rugged society”. They might be bored if they had to watch endless lines of contingents marching past, tanks rumbling by and police vans driving past. The only part of the parades then that might interest the young today were the mass displays.
NDPs now have singers and dancers as well as DJs. The mass displays today — high-tech affairs that make use of artificial lighting for maximum visual impact — are more impressive than the displays of the early years.
Sometimes, I feel nostalgic for the “good old days”, when there was less of the light-hearted singing and dancing that we have today. But I realise that the NDP has moved with the times, and the current generation of young people have different tastes from mine. I also take comfort that the fly-past of fighter jets and parachutists landing on the parade ground are better symbolic deterrents than the old tanks and riot police vans.
The organisers of today's NDP know what engages the hearts and minds of Gen X and Gen Y. But I hope when everyone sings “Stand Up For Singapore”, it will be more than just a song and the words will come sincerely from the heart.
I ponder my father's words: “National identity takes a long time to set in. The immediate effect was to give confidence to our people — that we can and are making it on our own.”
That we can make it on our own is no longer in doubt. A national identity is indeed emerging. But no NDP will persuade a talented Singaporean to stay on when he/she has better opportunities elsewhere. Singapore's own success has presented us with a new problem — brain drain. But the clean, safe and culturally vibrant city that we have built also attracts immigrants whose talent we need.
Life moves on — and so do the National Day Parades. It is one event in the calendar that engages all Singaporeans, “regardless of race, language or religion”.
The writer is Mentor Minister Lee Kuan Yew's daughter.
By Lee Wei Ling
The first National Day Parade (NDP) I attended was in 1966 at the age of 11. It was also Singapore's first NDP, for National Day in 1965 had come either as a disappointment or a shock, depending on whether you thought a Malay Malaysia or a Malaysian Malaysia was the ideal.
From then on, through my years in school, NDP was an occasion of great significance to me and my family. In those early years of independence, Aug 9 marked the birthday of a nation that was still fragile, born as it was precipitously and prematurely. Our neighbours were all bigger and more powerful than we were, and viewed us with suspicion. Internally, racial and religious tensions were still palpable.
My parents took us to all the NDP rehearsals. My father would personally scrutinise the march-past, the mass displays and the floats to ensure that the parade was as near perfect as possible. The parades then were less extravagant than they are now, but my father took them seriously nevertheless because they were part of a conscious attempt to build a national identity. I implicitly knew that all along, which was why I never refused when I was instructed or asked to participate in the parades.
As I was writing this article, I asked my father if the NDPs were meant to build a national identity. His reply: “Yes — but national identity takes a long time to set in. The immediate effect was to give confidence to our people — that we can and are making it on our own.”
The NDPs of my youth consisted mainly of contingents marching past the President, tanks and even vehicles used by the riot police driving past, mass displays by schoolchildren and, finally, floats.
In the 1968 NDP, my brother Hsien Loong played the clarinet marching with the Catholic High School band. There was a downpour that Aug 9. My father had to decide whether to proceed with the parade or to postpone it. He decided to proceed, for to do otherwise would have implied that Singaporeans were not resilient. My mother, my brother Hsien Yang and I watched with pride from the windows of my father's office in City Hall as Hsien Loong marched past.
The 1969 NDP coincided with the 150th anniversary of Singapore's founding by Stamford Raffles in 1819. My father took especial pains with that year's parade, for it was attended by then Malaysian Deputy Prime Minister Tun Abdul Razak, Princess Alexandra of Kent representing the Queen of England, then Australian Defence Minister Malcolm Fraser, and other dignitaries.
I was part of a mass display put on by Nanyang Girls' High School that special NDP. The girls carried hoops of white or bright red plastic flowers, which made for changing patterns as they danced around the Padang. A small wooden stage was set up in the centre of the field. I marched up it carrying the Singapore flag and stood at attention as my friends moved around me.
The school had a backup for me in case I fell ill that day. She was 3cm taller than I was and I felt it was only fair that she should have the honour of carrying the flag. But my suggestion was rejected and I obediently accepted the role. I knew Nanyang Girls' wanted Singaporeans to know that the Prime Minister sent his daughter to a Chinese school. I also suspect that by being dressed up in a military costume while my friends wore samfoos, I was meant to symbolise the “rugged society” that my father was trying to inculcate.
We put in many hot and sweaty hours over eight months practising. My friends and I didn't complain. Rather, we felt it was an honour for our school to be selected to put on the display. On the actual day, our performance went well and I did not make any mistakes.
Did I have any special feelings? No more than slight nervousness and being conscious that there would be many photographers looking out for me. I did not like being recognised by the public even then, but I knew that was unavoidable.
I subsequently participated in three other NDPs: twice as part of the National Cadet Corps and once as part of the University of Singapore contingent.
All this was more than a generation ago. The young today have probably never heard of “rugged society”. They might be bored if they had to watch endless lines of contingents marching past, tanks rumbling by and police vans driving past. The only part of the parades then that might interest the young today were the mass displays.
NDPs now have singers and dancers as well as DJs. The mass displays today — high-tech affairs that make use of artificial lighting for maximum visual impact — are more impressive than the displays of the early years.
Sometimes, I feel nostalgic for the “good old days”, when there was less of the light-hearted singing and dancing that we have today. But I realise that the NDP has moved with the times, and the current generation of young people have different tastes from mine. I also take comfort that the fly-past of fighter jets and parachutists landing on the parade ground are better symbolic deterrents than the old tanks and riot police vans.
The organisers of today's NDP know what engages the hearts and minds of Gen X and Gen Y. But I hope when everyone sings “Stand Up For Singapore”, it will be more than just a song and the words will come sincerely from the heart.
I ponder my father's words: “National identity takes a long time to set in. The immediate effect was to give confidence to our people — that we can and are making it on our own.”
That we can make it on our own is no longer in doubt. A national identity is indeed emerging. But no NDP will persuade a talented Singaporean to stay on when he/she has better opportunities elsewhere. Singapore's own success has presented us with a new problem — brain drain. But the clean, safe and culturally vibrant city that we have built also attracts immigrants whose talent we need.
Life moves on — and so do the National Day Parades. It is one event in the calendar that engages all Singaporeans, “regardless of race, language or religion”.
The writer is Mentor Minister Lee Kuan Yew's daughter.
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