A Malaysian shares his journey of becoming a Singaporean

By Tan Ming Tuan

I was born a Malaysian in Singapore. My parents never really got around to explaining this nuance of my identity when I was young. Growing up here, I felt like any other kid.

But some little details stood out.

My earliest memory of being Malaysian was in primary school, when my teacher informed me I was actually a PR, not a Singaporean, and thus I have no Edusave account.

Chinese New Year meant going back to Kota Tinggi to see my relatives, or “Kay-Tee” as my mum liked to call it. Some from my generation will vaguely recognise the name of the town because its local waterfall was featured in a primary school textbook. It was always more fun there because we got to play with fireworks.

I only realised after many years of crossing the border with my family that I had a Malaysian passport (my mum always kept my passport with her). Of course, that explained why I couldn’t enter the Singaporean queue at immigration counters.

In junior college, I once made the mistake of going to the polyclinic for an MC to skip class, thinking it would be dirt cheap like my friends said. I only realised when the bill came, that it was because they were subsidised. I was not. Thirty six dollars was a lot of pocket money.

I was doing everything the same, and yet the colour of the card issued to me was different. It always surprised people that I had a blue, not pink, IC.  Such things gnawed at me harmlessly, but gnawed all the same.

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At some point I started making up jokes about being a second-class citizen, even though I probably had no idea what that meant. These jokes would be spun into sarcastic and imagined tales about the rough life of being a PR: I explained to people with a straight face that I had spent my early childhood in a small fishing village along the south-eastern coast of the peninsular that no one had ever heard of. It was always amusing to see how far I could push these stories before people realised I was utterly and completely bullshitting. My fantasised origin stories and pseudo-noble struggles made me feel unique, like the joke about getting into a fight when someone asks about that scar on your forehead when  you actually bumped your head because you were too engrossed in your phone. It gave me an excuse to be different from the rest.

Deep down, a part of me yearned for a connection with the country I was practically a citizen to. I wished I had a better story to explain why I was Malaysian, other than it being a default option for me because my parents were still Malaysian. I could never be a true Malaysian, and yet I was not legally Singaporean.

But the opportunity for change soon came. Because I had benefited from the fruits of this country my entire life, I was called up for National Service like everyone else. On my first day in camp, they handed me a letter telling me how to apply for my citizenship, and so my journey began.

Turning myself Singaporean was relatively easy. The tricky part was renouncing my Malaysian citizenship. Turning to Google, I discovered entire blog posts dedicated to walking one through this administrative obstacle course efficiently. Many months and forms later, I found myself standing in front of the Commissioner of Oaths in Johor Bahru. The final process was surprisingly casual. He took my forms and jotted something down in a thick, dog-eared logbook. Done. I had walked into the building as a citizen and walked out a foreigner.

Back in my now-official home country, I took a queue number in a waiting room. My number flashed and I entered the room of our very own Commissioner of Oaths. The lady behind the desk confirmed my name and smiled. The Singapore flag was displayed proudly behind her. She slid a form across the table. Read this. Name here. Sign here. I skimmed through the words on the form : swear, allegiance, loyal, faithful, true. A part of me wanted to turn back. The implications and accompanying responsibilities sounded daunting. It’s just administrative, an irrational fear, I told myself. In my imagination I considered the option of walking out. Would that make me stateless? How long could one survive without the privileges of a citizenship?

It may all seem like a trivial matter of legalities but existing in-between was simply more interesting. I had lived my entire life like any other person in this country – with a few minor inconveniences.  On the other hand, these trifling inconveniences allowed me to still feel Malaysian simply because I did not get to enjoy the full privileges of being a Singaporean, even though I considered it my real home. In that short period of time, I imagined myself putting up a kind of pathetic defence to the state, because I could conveniently belong to two countries at the same time. I was free to exploit stereotypes from either side as I wished. When someone remarked how laidback I was, I could attribute it to my “Malaysian upbringing”. If I was being kiasu, I could just as easily blame it on growing up in Singapore.

Back in the room, it was too late to resist. What had I given up to be here? I had always thought I was merely carrying out an insignificant formality, an obligation I had to go through. I had not understood the gravity of my actions.

I stood up to take the oath. Raise your right hand, face the flag, said the woman politely. Read the oath out loud. I did so awkwardly, trying not to stumble on the strange syllables of arbitrarily chosen vocabulary used to signify idealistic notions. It was some kind of promise I was required to make to earn my rights. But a promise to whom? The words were carved into my mind, leaving a mark that immediately started to fade. For years I had anticipated this moment of acceptance and now it is finished. The words still echoed in my head. Swear. Allegiance. Loyal. Faithful. True.

They let me keep my old blue IC, with a hole punched through it. It is perhaps the only material possession I own that proves there was a time in my life I was not a Singaporean.

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