The Weight of the Singapore Assault Rifle - 21st Century

I haven't thought much or wrote much since I last enlisted into National Service. The military has dulled my mind severely. This is an attempt to capture some thoughts, old and new. My next few writings may overlap with this in and out of sequence.

The rifle felt heavy in my arms.

Each odd worn out mechanism and hard plastic bump pressed into my body.The discomfort told me it did not belong in my hands.This rifle was around the same age as me, 20 years give or take.

It had a name too: SAR-21 (Singapore Assault Rifle - 21st Century).

I returned the rifle at the armskote. It was really just a ceremony for the sake of passage, I wouldn't actually be using the same rifle throughout my army life. I went to bed shortly after. My bunk was on the third floor - the same as my flat back home.

The burden had set in by now. I had a few friends who were activists. My interests in art lead naturally into societal change, and it lead me to them. I remember our many talks. It would be an article here or a broadcast there; CNA, Straits Times, The New Yorker, Twitter and they'd tell me the next day,

"World War III is coming, I'm telling you for real. Look at the state of things..."

The thought of war turns me blank. I fall asleep behind my open eyes. I knew there was truth to their words.

Hope and idealism only gets you so far.

Death scares me. With all my egoistic thoughts of legacy and change, I look at Van Gogh and Jung Gi. Artists who passed before their expiry date. I can only keep trying if I truly wish for a better community, or a better world even,before I run out of time.

Effort can only get you so far.

Time. Time in Tekong passes differently.We rush to wait and wait to rush, all the while accumulating sweat and soreness. Scrambling to meet timings, packing lists, studying drills and combat methods.

And SAR-21, we had to learn a lot about it too: assembly and disassembly, each piece and mechanism, cleaning procedure, proper firing technique, etcetera.I will learn how to kill with my SAR-21. When I see the enemy, in front of me, I must shoot.

Maybe he liked Van Gogh and Jung Gi too.

Maybe he wants a better world.

Maybe he likes eating Shin ramen and painting late at night and playing Minecraft and going out with his mother to get groceries.

Whatever memories, love and loss accumulated by him will die with their maker.

I will put dreams to rest and change to a halt.

And then in my prone position, face covered in green and black, body unwashed from three days and two nights of training in the jungle, I fired the blank.

Bang.

Smoke.

Recoil.

By then SAR-21 had lost its weight. I carried it like I would with a pen or cup or badminton racket.

The weight had moved around this time. This time, I carried SAR-21 in my head.

Field camp had ended two days ago, leading nicely into a short 1½ day book-out. Our live firing was to commence tomorrow. I was nearby home getting breakfast alone, a little quiet before I became a soldier again. I walked home to get my things ready for book-in and I saw my mother cry.

I don't see her cry often. I remember crying a few times in Tekong: in the bunk, in the jungle.

The doctors had called and told her about my grandfather's condition. Couldn't remember if it was a few days or weeks but whatever time we had was certainly not in excess.

Treatment can only get you so far.

I hate when my life overlaps like this. But I suppose that is life after all. Overlaps of events, discomforting mixes of happenings here and there: the unnatural coincidence.

One day you're playing a role in a film and the next day you're living it.

I have lost all focus and SAR-21 grew heavier in my mind. We got letters during field camp.

In her letter, my mother ended off with:

"Please take care of yourself and your body"

Yourself and your body.

I read it again and again.

Your self and your body

Maybe tomorrow I will shoot the live round and feel nothing, maybe I will miss because I have simply grown too weary. Maybe I will fall out of the conduct completely, and sit aside, waiting for counsel.

On another note, my bunkmate is quite the lunatic. Once, in the dead of night he told me of his belief in the body and the self as seperate entities.

His spiritual ramblings found a place in my overthinking mind.

SAR-21 feels like air in my palms, in my mind it washes ashore like a beached whale.

Many thoughts race through now but I know I am worried.

And death felt heavy in my arms, in my arms, my self.