The Ninth New Year Post (Or, In Memoriam)

Dear Kok Yong,

It was a January day, in 1999, over six years ago. A whole bunch of stupid kids, new enlistees in the army, sat in that training shed. Everything felt weird and different and new – the uniforms, the boots, the gear, the people around. The only familiar thing was the sweltering heat.

It probably wasn’t even your fault. I mean, we were all new and didn’t know what the hell was going on. I don’t even remember what happened. Some silly mistake, I guess, which led to you being singled out by the sergeants.

“What’s your name?”

“Tan Kok Yong,” you said timidly.

In a way, that fear was probably in most of us – unsure of what the future 2½ years held, not even knowing what lay ahead for the day. But laughing at your mistake made it somehow a little easier to bear.

What can I say now? I’m sorry we laughed? That’s the way of the world. Survival of the fittest. Picking on the weak, or the perceived weak. That’s how it works in schoolyards. The army. Probably almost everywhere you can think of.

Still, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry none of us ever seemed to get what you felt. I guess we were all just too wrapped up in ourselves. BMT is enough of a burden without taking on other people’s cares and worries as well. Still, I suppose we could have tried harder.

I don’t think you were picked on more than other people, although you might have perceived it as such. It certainly seemed like you took it the hardest. We kind of shrugged it off our shoulders, but you really seemed to dwell on all the negativity.

You didn’t have to feel responsible for anything. I know, sometimes shit happens and everyone suffers for a single person’s little mistake. But that’s the way it goes, and there’s no point beating yourself up for anything. After all, we’ve all done it at one point or other. And let’s face it, we were all stupid kids at the time.

Of course I can say, “You gotta look past that” now, but would that be of any use?

We all knew how hard you worked, how much effort you put in. You woke up earlier than any of us, and went to bed late. Doing what? The stupid shit they make us do, like polish boots and clean rifles. You really wanted to do your best. You took your shit seriously. And we respected you for that.

Even so, you were always somewhat of a mystery. So quiet, so… timid, even. We’d sit around the bunk laughing and joking, or swearing at the instructors, and at the most you’d just chuckle a little. Still, I’d like to think that you were happy sometimes. I’d like to think that you found yourself welcome in the Section. At least, we always thought you did.

You could’ve said something. If not to us, then at least to Ben. After all, he was your Buddy. And we were a Section. We were a team. We had to stick together. If only you’d said something. Anything. We would’ve tried our best to help. At least I’d like to think we would’ve.

But all this is just empty speculation at this point, isn’t it? Because, face it, we’ll never know – they’re all “what-if’s” that don’t really serve any real purpose at all.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was Saturday night, the weekend after Chinese New Year. Almost midnight. I was drifting off to sleep when the phone rang.

It was from our camp, asking me to report at the jetty as soon as I could.

“Why?”

“Your section-mate Tan Kok Yong attempted suicide.”

“Fuck.”

That “fuck” was, quite simply, the purest distillation of fear and despair I ever felt.

In my dad’s car riding to the jetty, I stared out the window, seeing everything, yet nothing. I was riding on some wild, improbable hope that you were somehow all right. That life would go on the same as always. We’d go back on Sunday evening, book in, spend the week training in the shitty wilderness of Tekong, and book out on Saturday afternoon again. A few more rounds of that and we’d pass out of BMT with pride. I wanted that to happen so bad.

Me, Yujin, Ben, Gavin, Eng Siong, Frank, Tim, York King, Chuck. We drifted in one after another at the jetty, dazed and disbelieving. Sergeant Jimmy was there. So was Lieutenant Tan.

We took the fastcraft to Tekong. It was the first time we’d been on one, and it was a helluva lot faster than the old bumboats. Even so, we weren’t really in a mood to appreciate it.

We found out on the fastcraft that the guy who called us was wrong. It wasn’t “attempted” after all, but “committed”. Motherfucker. It’s a world of difference.

It was a night of endless interviews and questions: Who did he talk to? What did he say? Did he leave any clues? We were so unbelievably frustrated; here we were, knowing nothing, wanting information, answers, anything, and they were asking us question after question after fucking question.

There’s the fucking army for you. Always trying to pin the blame onto someone, to find a scapegoat, to absolve themselves of any responsibility. Shit happens and fingers start pointing in all directions.

Here are the fragmented pieces of the story we managed to gather that night from everyone.

Saturday afternoon.
A note at your desk.
Your sister read it.
You visited the ATM and got cash.
She saw you.
You ran and disappeared.
There was a crash.
You lay on concrete, at the foot of a block of flats.
Over ten stories up.
The end.

What we learnt only raised more questions. Questions for which we had no answers. No one had any answers.

Questions like:
Why visit the ATM?
Why right after Chinese New Year?
Why was everything so messy and hasty?
Why didn’t you wait for your A Level results?
Why not a word to anyone?
Why?

The most basic question. The root of the problem. The unknown. Why?

Endless speculation, endless guesses. All utterly useless. Pointless. Ridiculous.

* * * * * * * * * *

Your funeral was pretty painful to sit through. I don’t think anyone in that room wanted to be there, it was a horrible situation. Us in our uniforms, with Sergeant Jimmy and Lieutenant Tan. Your family, relatives and friends. To use the old cliché, you could slice the tension and awkwardness with a knife. Lots of people cried. We saw LTA Tan’s tears for the first time.

If you were there, how did you feel? Ashamed? Or glad that you meant something to so many people?

I’m sorry; it’s not my place to ask.

We went back to Tekong and jumped straight into a field camp. The rest of the platoon had already been there for a while. Questions were asked in hushed tones over the fading light. We talked quietly, sadly in our tents. It all seemed like a surreal adventure. Training went on as usual, although it did seem like the sergeants did hold back some.

But your bed remained empty, day after day. It got to a point where poor Ben couldn’t sleep beside that bed anymore; he was reminded of you every time he turned over. He finally had to switch to a spare bed across the room. My bed was opposite yours, and every time I looked across… It seemed like you were still there somehow.

You might have been gone, but you were still part of the section. We seemed to get along a lot better after that, and were a pretty tightly-knit group. Perhaps shared pain does bring people closer together.

* * * * * * * * * *

When I returned to my JC to collect my A Level results, I was reminded of you. I didn’t want to be, but I couldn’t help it. Somewhere your remains lay in a little urn, and here I was, in school, with everyone in a celebratory mood. I couldn’t bring myself to feel much joy at getting my good grades.

In my mind’s eye, I could see your parents receive the letter containing your results from the school. Leaving it unopened on your desk day after day, in the vain, futile hope that someday you’d be back to open it yourself.

Dammit, you were only nineteen. There were still so many things for you to do. So much life for you to live. Bad shit happens to everyone, but we have to get over it. We have to take things in our stride. Whatever happens, it’s not the end of the world. There’s always hope. That much I believe.

But then again, I’m not you. I won’t presume to know what went through your mind. I’m sorry; I was being judgmental and presumptuous.

* * * * * * * * * *

In 2002, my freshman year of college, I spend my Spring Break in New York City with my Buddy Yujin.

We lie in our beds the first night, and he says, “Remember how it was before? We were so silly… saying ‘goodnight buddy’ to each other like a couple of kids.”

I chuckle in the dark.

“Remember Kok Yong?” he asks, “I can’t believe it’s been over 3 years.”

I can’t think of anything to say, so I say yes.

“Sometimes I’ll see something, or someone, or whatever, and I’ll think of him.” He says wistfully.

“Same here. I don’t know why… But it happens sometimes.”

“I can still remember his face…”

“Yeah, his black plastic-rimmed glasses, that ‘blur’ look… He always reminded me of a teddy bear…”

“Yep… Goodnight, Buddy.”

“Goodnight, Buddy.”

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s 2005 now. Over six years on. I’d like to think we’ve all moved on. And yet, every time Chinese New Year rolls around, somehow or other, I’ll be reminded of you.

Here and there too, you’ve popped up in my thoughts and shown yourself in my work. My first short film project mentioned your story, and was dedicated to your memory. I hope you liked it. And this is actually the second draft of a letter to you that I first wrote in January 2003. Hopefully it’s a little better than that last one was.

At this time, our questions have pretty much stopped. Let’s face it, they’re not very useful, are they? We got tired of asking. No one had any answers anyhow. Who ever knows why?

You know what, though? You may not have wanted to make a huge impression upon the world, Kok Yong, but ironically, you left an indelible mark on us. Even if the details become hazy over the years, you’ll never really be forgotten.

You might not have considered us as friends, but we’ll remember you as one.

I hope that somewhere, somehow, you’ll be able to read this.

Rest easy, my friend.