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.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)