Puer Aeternus

A method of throwing society into sharp relief is by looking at its heroes – the fictional protagonists they conjure for progression, reflection and introspection in their many legends and folktales. The kind of heroes a work of art or literature creates is telling of its artist’s perception of his surroundings which, in turn, is telling of the society or setting the artist finds himself in.

Take the Scot James Barrie for example. A Calvinist upbringing sets him up for restless days in the Edwardian era, a time when the poor began consolidating their power, and the rich fought to maintain the social divide. Early 20^th century Britain found their adults in an adulterated fight for – depending on which end of the financial spectrum they were in – social stagnation or upheaval. It was at this time that Barrie wrote the story of a boy who would never grow up, and his fight against the asinine adult pirates led by one Captain James Hook. A crocodile was thrown in for good measure to sway the winds of this war, a reptilian deus ex machina watching, waiting, commiserating (Hook’s unfortunate state of not living up to his surname when he had two complete hands).

Against the backdrop of a mature, pragmatic Singaporean society – one that has put aside its ethnic and ideological differences for the greater (usually economic) good – we have the stragglers. These are the ones stuck in an immature reverie of idealism, the puer aeternus, the eternal boys. You’ve seen them around – dreamers, who are never able to stick to one job, assured that there’s something better out there for them. Some have a moral courage that holds steadfast against the dog-eat-dog paper chase of today’s economy, some have a deep-seated fear of the world outside their comfort zone, most have both.

The ideal progression for these people is, of course, Peter Pan. Without giving in to the give-and-take, the compromises, and the responsibilities of adulthood, they live off their wits, with a following of other boys who refuse to grow up – heroic and brave with a tremendous unbridled joy, but ultimately defined by how Lost they are.

But how many of Singapore’s eternal boys actually live up to the lofty heights of Peter Pan? How many give up their ideals to break away from boyhood, and become a fully-fledged adult? How many of them are members of the Malay community?

As a member of both the puer aeternus and Malay communities, I write here my lament for my people, holding our heads up high against a society that says we’re making our excuses for our failures to launch, while we retort, pointing out that we never had to make excuses for larger evils.

A method of throwing society into sharp relief is by looking at its heroes – the fictional protagonists they conjure for progression, reflection and introspection in their many legends and folktales. In the Malay community, you have a slew of male folk characters, all adult with their own brand of mature wisdom. Hang Jebat and his James Potter-like loyalty to his friends, Hang Tuah and his servitude to the Sultan. Pak Pandir and his bottomless well of wit (or stupidity).

The only boy-hero in Malay mythology is the protagonist from the Legend of Bukit Merah. The story goes that sometime centuries ago, in an act that would get marine biologists rofl-ing, swordfish attacked Singapore; the Pinocchio-nosed bastards killed fishermen and just about anyone who goes too close to shore. A boy tells the Sultan to build a palisade or fence made of banana tree trunks along the shore to protect the village, and when the swordfishes attacked after, they got their sharp ends stuck, embedded in the fence. The Sultan’s soldiers proceeded to kill them like stuck...swordfish and the attacks stopped thereafter.  The boy became an overnight celebrity in the village.

In a fit of jealousy at the boy’s intelligence and newfound popularity, the Sultan had the boy killed in his sleep, in his own bed, in his own house atop what is now known as Red Hill, red as though bloodied by a dying boy stabbed in his slumber.