Self-criticism, Self-loathing, and its Manifestations in Singaporean Literature
Critique about Singaporean culture, attitudes, and ideals in Singaporean literature usually manifest in the form of self-criticism or self-loathing. This works firstly on the narrative level, where Singaporean characters are self-criticising or self-loathing about Singaporeanisms[1]. The next is at the paratextual level, where the works themselves exist as self-criticising or self-loathing about Singaporeanisms in the Singaporean literary canon. While both the self-criticising and self-loathing works can be thought of as disruptions in the hegemonic discourse, they operate and materialise differently as discursive tools used by authors of Singaporean literature. In this essay, I will argue that the works of Sonny Liew, Elangovan, and Wena Poon illuminate the line between self-criticism and self-loathing. I track how these works demonstrate self-criticism and self-loathing in their characters and how this manifests differently, from self-criticism and self-loathing to “self”-criticism and “self”-loathing. Then, I examine the works as pieces of national self-criticism and/or self-loathing and their place in the larger Singaporean literary canon as either, or as both.
On the personal level, self-criticism is a mode of reflection and a presentation of acute self-awareness. For a citizen to criticise his nation is to acknowledge its flaws, which may (but not necessarily) prompt action to correct said imperfection. A good example of a self-criticising character is the titular character in Sonny Liew’s The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye. As Singapore’s self-proclaimed “greatest comic artist,” I posit that Charlie sees himself also as a critic of the state. His first notable works, “Ah Huat’s Giant Robot” and “Force 136” are based on the real-life horrors of the Hock Lee Bus Riots and Japanese Occupation. The themes of colonial oppression run as a common thread within these two series, with the message in “Force 136” being more explicitly about questioning the oppressive structures that be and the narratives that they propagate. One clear instance of this is the seventh issue of “Force 136” titled “TRUST!” (Charlie Chan 89–93), where Charlie draws a three-panel comic strip in the middle of the page, with each one showing the British, Japanese, and Malayans encouraging their subjects to trust them beside captions spell out their heinous behaviour. Here, his oeuvre can be said to encourage a healthy dose of scepticism in his readers about the state of affairs and authorities in their country. His collaborative works with his partner Bertrand, especially “Invasion,” were based on “the actual political landscape of the time” (Charlie Chan 117). “Invasion” itself makes clear its message of subversion, by making “Hegemons” and “Hegemonese” explicit allegories for the British colony and the English language, with “Hegemon” referring to the “hegemony” where the British has long been predominant over Singapore. Tommy’s claim that Lim Chin Siong never was a Martian/Communist sympathiser, and their delayed emancipation from Hegemon/British rule completes Charlie’s subversion of the state narrative. Charlie’s subversive criticism of the state comes with an awareness of his role as an artist and a critic. He thinks of himself as having had a “part to play” as the “tides of history were turning” (118), and even becomes the titular critic in his work “A Critic’s Dream” (109). Self-criticism, in Charlie’s early art, thus manifests as an unabashed, alternative voice to disrupt hegemonic narratives.
Self-loathing, on the other hand, is a demonstration of self-perceived inferiority. For a citizen to loathe his nation is to see its flaws as detrimental, and to necessarily dislike or think negatively of said imperfection. Such self-loathing necessarily achieves nothing as one neither seeks to improve nor worsen his conditions, and thus materialises often more as resignation within the hegemony, which is evident in the Singaporeans of Elangovan’s Alamak!. Apuneneh and Pochong both stand in opposition to Charlie, and Sang Nila Utama, as parrots of the Royal Clown’s “repressive policies” (Elangovan 68) rather than critics. Evident already from their names, both are minority characters who are aware of their status as subalterns– Apuneneh adopts the derogatory slur the Chinese call Indians for himself, while Pochong (or ‘shroud ghost’) becomes a metaphor for the Malays who are oppressed (‘trapped in their shroud’) and demonised. Apuneneh loathes the Ethnic Integration Policy due to his inability to sell his house at as high a price as his Chinese neighbours could and complains of a Singapore where no policy needs to garner support because it “automatically” is supported by its citizens (Elangovan 48). Apuneneh speaks of a people that have become “desensitised” to such politics and are so resigned to the unchanging state of affairs that they end up voting the same people into office at every election (Elangovan 48). The desensitisation can also be said to be internalised oppression, as when Apuneneh decides to “live like other Apunenehs without pride and self-respect” he immediately receives a job offer to “neutralize [his] minority to make them law-abiding eunuchs” (Elangovan 49). He beams with “delight” at the prospect of being the one enacting the government’s oppression of his minority and perpetuating the subjugation of the Indian race under the hegemonic structures. Similarly, Pochong closes his eyes and falls asleep as Sang Nila Utama questions him about the inequality faced by Malay people like him in Singapore (Elangovan 59–60), an act of ignorance towards the struggles of people from his own race. Like Apuneneh, he appears to think his job of “licking arseholes to live comfortably” as adequate and even dignified, despite the extremely demeaning nature of having to “pluck balls” and “lick arseholes” as a job. This is made worse when it is revealed that these jobs were literal when Apuneneh attempts to “bite his balls” (Elangovan 49) Pochong also becomes a “guardian of his heritage” (Elangovan 60) despite knowing that his heritage has been modified and reconstructed to suit the narratives of the government, such as when the Emperor Clown/government refuses to acknowledge Sang Nila Utama’s crown as a heritage item (Elangovan 57). In acknowledging their minority status as inferior and oppressed yet choosing still to be complicit with their government to perpetuate such oppression, Pochong and Apuneneh become self-hating characters that loathe their own in-group and do not wish to help themselves out of their situations because they feel there is no use in doing so.
Another way self-loathing can be understood is through a rejection of qualities inherent to the culture or nation they belong to. In Wena Poon’s “The Man Who Was Afraid of ATMs,” Sylvie’s sense of identity is conflated by her Singaporean family and Canadian upbringing. Her reverence for Western literature such as Anne of Green Gables and Harry Potter stands in opposition with her ignorance and rejection of Chinese literature. Her self-loathing is also mirrored by her friends and displayed as a frivolous loathing for their own nation. Her entrance into the “misty havens of the West,” leaving the “sweltering tropical heat” behind is envied by her Singaporean friends, as she gets to wear long skirts, attend balls, and attend school with the likes of “sandy-haired boys with freckles and straw boaters” (Poon 29). The inconsequential things that they laud as privileges of the West, such as cool weather and better-quality uniforms, become ammunition for them to vilify their nation.
Self-criticism and self-loathing about Singaporeanisms can also manifest as tensions between Singaporean themselves. For instance, criticising or loathing another Singaporean for the way they act and they beliefs they hold. Here, the line between “self”-criticising and “self”-loathing lies obviously in malice, where criticism is necessarily more constructive than the intolerance and contempt characteristic of loathing. We can see the differences as they manifest in the Self-Other binary that is constructed in the process of criticism/loathing. Charlie’s struggles with being practical causes his rift with Bertrand, who sees economic stability as more important than telling local stories through their comics (Charlie Chan 170). Bertrand justifies their separation by criticising Charlie years later, climbing that he was “never too good at” seeing things in a more practical light (Charlie Chan 217). Charlie here is made the Other because he does not submit himself to the ways of the typical, practical Singaporean. In this network of self-criticism, the Other is made different from other Singaporeans (the “Self”), but this difference is not in that they are “less Singaporean” than other Singaporeans.
On the other hand, characters that despise other Singaporeans have their hatred explicated in a distinct Self-Other binary. In this case, the Self is familiar and recognisably Singaporean while the Other is attributed qualities of foreignness, and a deviation from what is recognisably Singaporean. “The Man” also depicts Chang as displeased with his granddaughter’s rejection of Chinese literature, and “chides” her for not reading Chinese books (Poon 31). His loathing of her stems from his view that she is rejecting her Chinese qualities and reflects his own fears that she is going to grow up too fast in a “mechanised, modernised, Americanised,” and anglicised future that has no place for him (Poon 33). Just as how Sylvie detests her Singaporean identity, Chang dislikes Sylvie’s indiscriminate adoration for anything Western. This Self-Other binary is drawn out more explicitly in “The Shooting Ranch,” where Sarah claims that she finally understood why “no one can hate a Singaporean so much as another Singaporean” (Poon 126). Sarah recognises the “unadulterated contempt” Henry has for how she “put on airs” (Poon 126) and lacked recognisably Singaporean qualities. Henry constructs Sarah as the Other, sneering at her American-sounding English, assuming that she did not take Chinese food, and taunting her daughter with slurs like “guai mui” (foreign/devil woman) and “pak-zheng-lah” (mixed breed) (Poon 127). His fear of white people, later revealed by his daughters, thus manifests as a “self”-loathing where anything that is reminiscent of the Other is rejected and avoided. He subjugates his wife and daughters through threats of physicality, preventing them from accessing the Western/Other lifestyle, technologies, and even food (Poon 131–2). “Self”-loathing between Singaporeans is thus depicted through the fear of the foreign Other.
From our examination of characters in these works, while self-criticism at a personal level helps to acknowledge imperfection in the Singaporean ideal to possibly arrive at a better end-point, self-loathing appears only to lament such imperfections and the maintaining of the status quo seems to be a foregone conclusion. “Self”-criticism and “self”-loathing also materialise as tensions between Singaporean themselves. This is usually done through the creation of an “us versus them” divide, and the construction of the Self-Other binary. While “self-criticism” sees the Other as no less Singaporean, “self”-loathing constructs the Other as foreign and therefore something to be feared and loathed. However, beyond the diegetic of the text, these works operate paratextually as pieces of self-criticism and self-loathing as well. According to Gerard Genette, the paratext to us is “the means by which a text makes a book of itself an proposes itself as such to its readers, and more generally to the public” (Charlie Chan261). The context through which the work is made available to its audience is even more crucial in Singaporean literature, as the presence of out-of-bounds (OB) markers in Singaporean political discourse complicate the relationship between writer and state. Liew, in Red Lines: Political Cartoons and the Struggle Against Censorship, claims that it is the conflation of the interests of the ruling party with the nation’s that has led to funding issues and “aspersions being cast on those who express criticisms of the ruling party” (Red Lines). According to Liew, these people could be branded “traitor” or “anti-Singaporean,” while the “less contrary” could be named “loving critics” instead (Red Lines). The dependence on state funding for the creation of art and literary works thus enables a system where only pieces that will not “rock the boat” get the spotlight. The result then is the self-censorship of artists and writers whose artistic merit can be negated at the whim of the state.
In the presence of OB markers and a state narrative that is constantly reaffirmed, works of self-criticism in Singaporean literature hence seek to be productive and often controversial engines in national discourse, while works of self-loathing exist simply as lamentations or observations about the status quo. In Charlie Chan, this negotiation of OB markers is explored in the “Sinkapor Inks” series, when Tan Tan Tan decides to provide constructive criticism about his company, Sinkapor Inks. The company name itself is a play on “Singapore Inc.” and a commentary on how Singapore is being run like a profit-making corporation. Tan’s provision of the alternative journalistic voice in the Sinkapor Herald, a play on the real-life Singapore Herald newspaper, is suppressed by Lee Kuan Yew. To ensure that Tan reaffirms the state narrative and does not “rock the boat,” Lee establishes a system where Tan’s salary is “pegged solely to how [Lee] feels about his newsletter articles” (Liew 240). Liew’s self-insertion into Charlie Chan as a commenter of Charlie’s works, where he runs a comic strip to underlie the context and in-world implications of “Sinkapor Inks,” reveals Charlie’s works themselves to be a metaphor of Charlie Chan being a re-presentation and re-telling of state narratives. Charlie Chan’s demonstration of the suppression of journalistic freedom, in paralleling how the state suppresses artistic freedom as well, thus reveals itself to be a work of self-criticism. At a paratextual level, Charlie Chan has become something of a poster child of such self-criticism, having had its grant from the National Arts Council withdrawn due to content that “potentially undermined the authority or legitimacy of the government” (Red Lines). Here, Charlie Chan stands as a unique work of art that gained commercial success despite attempted state suppression. Liew himself asserts in Red Lines that the commercial success of Charlie Chan was dependent on luck (Red Lines), and that dealing with sensitive topics is almost always the less financially viable option.
Poon’s similarly acclaimed collection of short stories, Lions in Winter, contrarily faced limited state suppression due to the interiority of the topics she dealt with. Her short stories, focused on the Singaporean diasporic community, discuss the implications of the identities and allegiances of the increasingly internationalised world for Singaporeans. While the lack of state suppression could be equally attributed to her careful navigation of OB markers and the less sensitive subject matter, it could also be said that her work is recognised as a piece of self-loathing rather than self-criticism and thus poses less of a threat in national discourse. A closer look at the ending of “The Shooting Ranch” affirms my reading of Poon as a self-loathing, rather than self-criticising, author. Faced with the moral dilemma between doing the right thing and doing the practical thing, Sarah chooses not to save the women from Henry to “avoid mess” (Poon 136) and maintain the status quo. In doing so, her life goes on peacefully and prosperously. The individual, rather than the state like in Charlie Chan, is interrogated and exposed. In “The Man,” her works as self-loathing are again reaffirmed in the moment of irony where Chang laments the indiscriminate label of “these people” as used in the Western world to refer to migrants but himself uses the indiscriminate label on migrant workers in Singaporeans. The reflexive way in which the text acts as a mirror for the individual, and for her readers to reassess their own behaviour and biases. Poon’s concern is therefore not with the state, or with intervening in national discourse, but Singaporean individuals and the problematic way in which they justify their habits of pragmatism, selfishness, and elitism.
Poon’s elegant negotiation with the sensitivities of our time is nowhere observed in Elangovan’s collection of plays and the eponymous Alamak! even though they similarly exist as works of self-loathing. Here, the label of self-criticism appears ill-fitting, but it is hardly because Alamak! shies away from criticising our state of affairs. On the contrary– the Royal Clown, a thinly-veiled allegory for the government, states that no one can manipulate peace and harmony in the society apart from himself (Elangovan 30). He further explains to Sang Nila Utama that people could “stay outside the OB marker as a poet, philosopher or intellectual masturbator with [his] own blog or an academic who is afraid of losing his tenure” (Elangovan 30), but any form of opposition through art, academia, or otherwise will be squashed. Instead, it is the inflammatory and blunt manner in which Elangovan executes his criticism that separates him from nuance in the likes of Charlie Chan. Gwee Li Sui observes that “the good gained from letting [Singaporeans’] inquisitive minds be herded away has been a broad sense of comfort and stability” (8). Elangovan’s abstract, offensive, and iconoclastic humour is thus a display of his commitment towards “rethinking” and “self-destruction” (8) within the Singaporean consciousness. Like Poon, Elangovan’s concern is less with enabling social change and discursive interventions, but with the individual and his relationship to the state. How one negotiates his in-group identity, subaltern status, and national identity with “modern myths of identity” (Gwee 10) is forefronted in Alamak!’s dealings with self-loathing as both the theme and vehicle of the work.
In this essay, I have presented multiple definitions of self-criticism and self-loathing, and their many manifestations in the works of Sonny Liew, Elangovan, and Wena Poon. I have also posited that these works also exist as works of self-criticism and self-loathing within the Singaporean literary canon. While this essay dealt with the issues of state censorship and self-censorship in and how they have impeded artistic merit and freedom, there is still a lack of scholarship on the difficulties of self-publishing sensitive and controversial works in Singapore. More information on this topic would have added another dimension in our discussions of self-criticism and self-loathing in the Singaporean literary landscape.
Works Cited
Elangovan. Alamak! Zero Degree Publishing, 2018.
George, Cherian, and Sonny Liew. Screenshots from Red Lines: Political Cartoons and the Struggle against Censorship. MIT Press, 2021, https://www.ricemedia.co/culture-people-sonny-liew/. Accessed 11 Apr. 2022.
Gwee, Li Sui. “The Fires of Elangovan,” Alamak! Zero Degree Publishing, 2018.
Liew, Sonny. The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye. Pantheon, 2016.
Poon, Wena. Lions in Winter. Salt Publishing, 2009.
[1]By “Singaporeanisms,” I refer to the beliefs, attitudes, and lexicon unique to or characteristic of the people of Singapore.
