# On a Slow Train Out of Pasir Ris

I’m an actor.

This subway car I’m standing in is my stage. My costume is the finest livery the Singapore Armed Forces can provide– jockey cap, a set of clean, well folded No. 4 and a pair of polished steel capped leather boots. My script is written into the rulebooks of the SAF soldier’s manual. We’re not allowed to sit on public transport when there others standing. We’re not to be seen lining up for taxis. The black duffel bag whose straps are digging into my shoulders can’t be placed on the floor, even if it means I run the risk of knocking over half a dozen fellow passengers whenever I shift my weight on this bumpy train ride. We’re the front line actors hired by the SAF in its war, not on terrorism or any hypothetical future battle, but against public perception and opinion. For an army that doesn’t fight, and maintains its purpose as one of deterrence, image is everything.

I look at my reflection in the train’s windows. We look the part and even play the part there and then in the public’s mind, but we’re not soldiers. Were a knife welding assailant to materialize there and then, my first instinct would be to turn and run, for we are neither fit nor trained for this. Being PES ‘C’ recruits, we are the drivers, clerks, storemen and technician of the army, but fighters we are not. The laws of probability dictate that in all likelihood half the men in the same carriage are better soldiers than we are, and yet we are the ones giving out our seats to them, all because of the uniform we’re wearing. I feel like a fraud, a liar, a puppet. The uniform and bag on my shoulders are merely costumes; my actions and gestures are not my own, but merely that dictated by the script I’m following.

The train rolls slowly into my stop. As I leave the train I feel an uncontrollable urge to turn, take a deep bow and curtsey to the passengers. Are they aware of the performance they’ve just witnessed?