留下 Staying

热带的忧郁，是你以为所有发光的物体都是有温度的。月亮，以及稀疏的星子，恣意狂欢的夜。你不曾告诉我，热带的孤枕，也有取暖的渴望。

二十年前，初来新加坡的一个不眠之夜，我写下了这些句子。

我的渴望，在三个月后必修课“元明清文学”的最后片刻，在那首“真心英雄”唱的“把握生命里的每一分钟，全力以赴我们心中的梦。不经历风雨，怎么见彩虹，没有人能随随便便成功…。”七十双热切的眼睛里闪着泪光，有纸条传来，写着：“希望老师陪着我们毕业。”得到了彷徨的回应。

我申请延长海外研修，直到期满，下定決心离开台湾。我给原来的工作单位和南洋理工大学中文系的同事们都发了电邮。邮件的题目就是：“留下”。我說：

“凡走过的，必留下痕迹。有的人留下的是珠玑；有的人留下的是垃圾。

而我，能留下什么呢？

这是我来到新加坡以后，才意识到，并且开始认真思考的问题。

决定留在南大，我以为一个学术单位不缺专业的研究人员，而师资尚未完备的南大中文系需要我的一点力量。尤其体会到，自己正在为南洋一带的华人文化与文学培养传承者，这是我在台湾教书时从未经验过的责任感。

人生无法重来，我希望我的人生抉择不是一厢情愿。”

那天是 2008 年 5 月 9 日，中文系准备从澳洲聘任新的系主任，我提出了自己的看法。5月11日，我特地去“参拜”了南洋大学的“真迹”牌坊，默默许愿。。

我留下，是因为相信。

相信一个刚刚成立不久的中文系，有望一起建设；相信华文教育在这个岛国，昂首迎向未来；也相信，一位教师除了研究与写作，还可以为一个文化共同体做一点事情。

如今二十年过去，我常常想，如果当年知道后来会经历的一切，我还会不会作出同样的决定？

后来，我经历过办公室政治，经历过误解与伤害；曾经为了维护自己的尊严与公义，不得不寻求法律的协助和保护。那些日子非常不好过，深深在我心底烙下阴影。

今天回头望去，我发现：当年真正留下来的理由，并不是预想一切顺心称意，而是因为所有的经历，都成为生命未知的一部分。

如果没有留下，我不会在2014年创发文图学；不会在2017年与志同道合的朋友们成立文图学会，也不会一路走到今天，让文图学从一个研究构想，逐渐成为许多学者共同参与、不断发展的学术视野。如果没有留下，我不会担任中文系主任，与同事一起规划中文系的发展。

这些年来，我最难忘的，并不是出版了多少本书，也不是获得了什么奖项，而是文物艺术导览或公众演讲结束以后，总有人走过来，对我说：“原来博物馆可以这样看。”“我竟然听得懂大学教授讲的话！”

还有学生告诉我：“我没想到会期待上您的古典文学课。”

每一次听见这些话，我都庆幸，当初留下来的决定，是值得的。

我渐渐明白，一个学者真正留下来的，不一定是自己的名字，而是别人度过人生的方式。或许，这正是我二十年来最大的收获。

新加坡给予我的，不只是一个谋生的职场，而是一种观看世界的立场。

它让我站在不同文化交会之处，重新理解中国，也重新理解东亚，更重新理解自己。

人年轻的时候，总想着到哪里去。

后来才知道，更重要的是，在哪里留下什么。

二十年前，我留下，是因为有人希望我留下。

二十年后，我还在这里，还有许多值得继续努力的工作；还有许多文化值得继续传承创新；还有许多人愿意和我一起相信，人文学并没有淘汰，阅读、审美与思考，依然能够温暖这个时代。

于是，我终于明白——“留下”，是在一片土地上，把自己慢慢活成一道风景；把一点点微弱的光，继续照亮前方的道路。

当年那个住进校园宿舍、望着热带夜空的异乡人，不会知道二十年后的今天，会写下这篇文章。而今天的我，只想轻轻对二十年前的自己说一句：“刚刚好，你选择了留下。”

 

——纪念2026年7月16日，移居新加坡20年。

 

2026年7月18日，新加坡《联合早报》上善若水专栏。

 

Staying

I Lo-fen

The melancholy of the tropics lies in believing that everything that shines gives off warmth. The moon, a scattering of stars, a night reveling without restraint. You never told me that even a solitary pillow in the tropics longs for warmth.

Twenty years ago, during a sleepless night shortly after arriving in Singapore, I wrote these lines.

Three months later, in the final moments of the compulsory course “Literature of the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties,” my longing received a hesitant response. As the song “True Heroes” played—

“Seize every minute of life,
Give everything for the dream in our hearts.
Without weathering storms, how can we see the rainbow?
No one can succeed without effort…”

tears glistened in seventy pairs of eager eyes. A note was passed to me. It read: “We hope you will stay with us until we graduate.”

I applied to extend my overseas research leave to its full term and resolved to leave Taiwan. I sent emails to my former institution and to my colleagues in the Chinese Division at Nanyang Technological University. The subject line was simply: “Staying.”

I wrote:

“Wherever we have passed, we inevitably leave traces behind. Some leave pearls and gems; others leave rubbish.

What, then, can I leave behind?

It was only after coming to Singapore that I became aware of this question and began to contemplate it seriously.

In deciding to stay at NTU, I believed that an academic institution would never lack professional researchers, but the still-developing Chinese Division needed whatever strength I could offer. Above all, I came to realise that I was helping to nurture those who would carry forward Chinese culture and literature in Nanyang. This was a sense of responsibility I had never experienced while teaching in Taiwan.

Life cannot be lived again. I hope that the choice I have made is not merely wishful thinking.”

That day was 9 May 2008. The Chinese Division was preparing to appoint a new head from Australia, and I offered my views. On 11 May, I made a special visit to “pay homage” to the “authentic” archway of Nanyang University and silently made a wish.

I stayed because I believed.

I believed that a recently established Chinese Division could be built together; I believed that Chinese-language education on this island could hold its head high and embrace the future; and I believed that, beyond research and writing, a teacher could still do something for a cultural community.

Now that twenty years have passed, I often wonder: had I known then everything I would later experience, would I still have made the same decision?

In the years that followed, I experienced office politics, misunderstandings, and hurt. To defend my dignity and uphold justice, I once had no choice but to seek legal assistance and protection. Those were extremely difficult days, leaving deep shadows imprinted upon my heart.

Looking back today, I realise that the true reason I stayed was not because I expected everything to proceed smoothly and according to my wishes, but because every experience would become part of life’s unknowable unfolding.

Had I not stayed, I would not have founded Text and Image Studies in 2014. I would not have established the Text and Image Studies Society with like-minded friends in 2017, nor would I have travelled this far, allowing Text and Image Studies to grow from a research concept into an academic perspective in which many scholars now participate and which continues to develop. Had I not stayed, I would not have served as Head of the Chinese Division and worked with my colleagues to plan its future development.

What I remember most vividly from these years is not how many books I have published or what awards I have received. It is that, after a guided tour of cultural relics and art or a public lecture, someone will invariably come up to me and say, “I never knew a museum could be viewed this way,” or, “I can actually understand what a university professor is saying!”

Students have also told me, “I never imagined that I would look forward to your classical literature class.”

Every time I hear these words, I feel grateful that my decision to stay was worthwhile.

Gradually, I came to understand that what a scholar truly leaves behind is not necessarily her own name, but the way other people live their lives. Perhaps this has been my greatest gain over the past twenty years.

What Singapore has given me is not merely a workplace in which to earn a living, but a standpoint from which to view the world.

Standing at the confluence of different cultures, I have been able to understand China anew, to understand East Asia anew, and, even more importantly, to understand myself anew.

When we are young, we are always thinking about where we should go.

Only later do we realise that what matters more is what we leave behind, wherever we may be.

Twenty years ago, I stayed because someone hoped that I would stay.

Twenty years later, I am still here. There is still much worthwhile work to pursue; there are still many cultures whose traditions deserve to be carried forward and renewed; and there are still many people willing to believe with me that the humanities have not become obsolete—that reading, aesthetic appreciation, and thought can still bring warmth to this age.

And so, I finally understand: “staying” means slowly living oneself into a landscape upon a piece of land, and allowing one’s faint glimmer of light to continue illuminating the road ahead.

The stranger who moved into a campus apartment and gazed at the tropical night sky could never have known that, twenty years later, she would write this essay. Today, I only wish to say softly to the person I was twenty years ago:

“It was just right—you chose to stay.”

—In commemoration of 16 July 2026, marking twenty years since I moved to Singapore.

 

18 July 2026, “The Shang Shan Ruo Shui Column,” Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.

 

多了两首诗

 

学期过半，我请助教从本学期教过的诗作中选出十二首，作为其中测验的出题范围。对我来说，这是一个再平常不过的教学安排。十二首诗，不算多，也不算少，既足以让学生回顾课堂重点，又不至于造成太大的准备负担。

没想到，事情却从这里开始变得复杂起来。

有学生来反映，说我在课堂上讲过，这次测验只需要准备十首诗，而不是十二首。也有人表示，我曾经提到篇幅较长的作品不会纳入考题范围。这些话，我非常确定自己没有说过。

刚好这学期我上课有录音。于是，为了确认，也为了给助教一个明确的答复，我开始翻找课堂录音。整整找了很长一段时间，反复拖动音轨，试图在一节又一节课的内容中，找到那句可能被误听、误解，甚至根本不存在的话。

结果当然没有找到。

我没有说过十首，也没有说过长篇不会考。但这件事让我感到非常懊恼。不是因为学生记错，而是因为我发现自己竟然愿意为此投入那么多时间，只为了证明我没有说过。

那一刻，我意识到，这件事情其实早已不只是“多背两首诗”的问题。

从学生的角度来看，这是一项“风险管理”任务。十首与十二首之间的差别，不在于文学价值，而在于准备“成本”。多两首诗，意味着多一些不确定性，多一点可能在考场上出现却未能充分掌握的风险。所谓测验范围，不再是课程内容的整理，而是考试边界的划定。

他们关心的，不是这首诗讲了什么，而是它会不会出现在试卷上。

于是，任何关于范围的提示——即便只是语气中的模糊表达，甚至是他们自己的理解，都可能被记住、放大，并在需要时成为一种可以据以协商的依据。

而我呢？

我本可以直接统一说明：“本次测验范围为十二首诗，以课程网站最新公告为准。”事情也许就此结束。但我却选择回到录音中去寻找证据，试图厘清到底是谁记错了。

为什么？

因为在那一瞬间，我把学生的疑问理解成了一种对我教学一致性的质疑。我担心他们会觉得我前后说法不一，担心这会影响他们对课程公平性的感受，甚至担心这会成为对我教学表现的负面评价。

于是，一项只占总成绩15%的测验安排，开始牵动更大的情绪反应。我不再是在处理一个教学细节，而是在为自己的专业性辩护。

当我终于意识到这一点时，也意识到自己其实承担了本不必承担的解释成本。

在一个高度评量导向的学习环境中，学生自然会把课程内容转化为可控的考试范围，而教师也容易将任何关于范围的争议，视为对自身教学规范性的挑战。双方都在努力降低不确定性，却也因此不断加深对规则的依赖。

文学课程于是变成了一种边界管理任务：什么会考，什么不会考；哪些需要背诵，哪些可以略过。诗不再只是诗，而是一个可能出现在考卷上的项目。

而我花时间找录音的行为，本身也成为这种环境的体现——我们越来越需要可以追溯的说明、明确的承诺，以及可供核对的记录，来维持一种被认为是公平的教学秩序。

多出来的两首诗，也许本身并不重要。重要的是，它们如何在师生之间，引发了对规则、记忆与责任的重新界定。

教学现场的日常，有时就是这样：看似微小的调整，却能让我们看见，在分数与准备之间，理解与完成之间，究竟有哪些不易察觉的张力正在发生。

 

2026年5月9日，新加坡《联合早报》，“上善若水”专栏

 

Two Additional Poems

I Lo-fen

Halfway through the semester, I asked my teaching assistant to select twelve poems from those taught in class this term as the scope for the midterm quiz. To me, this was a perfectly ordinary teaching arrangement. Twelve poems were neither too many nor too few: enough for students to review the key points covered in class, but not so many as to create an excessive burden of preparation.

Unexpectedly, things began to grow complicated from there.

Some students came to say that I had mentioned in class that only ten poems needed to be prepared for the quiz, not twelve. Others said that I had once stated that longer works would not be included in the examination scope. I was absolutely certain that I had never said any such thing.

As it happened, I had recorded my lectures this semester. So, in order to confirm the matter and to give my teaching assistant a clear answer, I began searching through the lecture recordings. I spent a long time doing so, repeatedly dragging the audio track back and forth, trying to locate, in one class session after another, the sentence that might have been misheard, misunderstood, or perhaps had never existed at all.

Of course, I found nothing.

I had never said ten poems, nor had I said that longer works would not be tested. Yet this incident left me deeply frustrated. Not because the students had remembered incorrectly, but because I realized that I had actually been willing to spend so much time on it, merely to prove that I had not said something.

At that moment, I became aware that this matter had long ceased to be simply a question of “memorizing two additional poems.”

From the students’ perspective, this was a task of “risk management.” The difference between ten and twelve poems did not lie in literary value, but in the “cost” of preparation. Two additional poems meant a little more uncertainty, a slightly greater risk that something might appear on the test that they had not fully mastered. The so-called scope of the quiz was no longer an organization of course content, but a demarcation of examination boundaries.

What they cared about was not what a poem was about, but whether it would appear on the test paper.

Thus, any hint regarding the scope—even if it was only an ambiguous expression in tone, or even their own understanding—could be remembered, magnified, and, when necessary, turned into a basis for negotiation.

And what about me?

I could have simply made a unified clarification: “The scope of this quiz consists of twelve poems, as stated in the latest announcement on the course website.” The matter might then have ended there. Yet I chose instead to return to the recordings to look for evidence, trying to determine who had remembered incorrectly.

Why?

Because in that instant, I understood the students’ question as a challenge to the consistency of my teaching. I worried that they might think I had contradicted myself. I worried that this would affect their perception of fairness in the course. I even worried that it might become a negative evaluation of my teaching performance.

As a result, the arrangement for a quiz that counted for only 15 percent of the final grade began to trigger a much larger emotional response. I was no longer handling a minor teaching detail; I was defending my professionalism.

When I finally realized this, I also realized that I had taken on an explanatory burden that I did not in fact need to bear.

In a highly assessment-oriented learning environment, students naturally transform course content into a controllable examination scope, while teachers also easily come to regard any dispute over that scope as a challenge to the normativity of their teaching. Both sides are trying to reduce uncertainty, yet in doing so they deepen their reliance on rules.

A literature course thus becomes a task of boundary management: what will be tested and what will not; what must be memorized and what can be skipped. A poem is no longer merely a poem, but an item that might appear on an examination paper.

And my act of spending time searching through the recordings itself became a manifestation of this environment—we increasingly need traceable explanations, explicit commitments, and verifiable records in order to maintain a teaching order that is regarded as fair.

Perhaps the two additional poems themselves were not important. What matters is how they prompted a redefinition, between teacher and students, of rules, memory, and responsibility.

The everyday scene of teaching is sometimes just like this: a seemingly minor adjustment can allow us to see what subtle tensions are taking place between grades and preparation, between understanding and completion.

May 9, 2026, “Shang Shan Ruo Shui” column, Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.

 

下南洋的“五四” The May Fourth Movement That Went “Down to Nanyang”

 2019年5月4日，五四运动一百周年那天，我创立的文图学会在新加坡主办了一场座谈会，题目叫"百年五四新加坡So What"。那个"So What"，说的正是身在南洋的华人长久以来的困惑：发生在遥远北京的那场运动，和我们究竟有什么关系？

同一天，当时担任新加坡总理的李显龙先生在社交媒体发了一段话，提到”今天是五四百年纪念日，这天也因星际大战日（Star Wars Day）而闻名。“

如此有趣的并置，被学者罗乐然写进了新著《五四在南洋——新马华人的文化记忆与中华想象》的开篇。我读到这里，忍不住会心一笑：这不正是南洋华人处境的缩影吗？一脚踩在中华文化的百年传统里，另一脚站在全球流行文化的当下。

罗博士这本书，是我近年读到的关于五四运动研究最令人耳目一新的著作之一。它不是传统意义上"五四对南洋的影响与回应"的路数，而是追问一个更根本的问题：五四在新加坡与马来西亚是如何被接收、被改造、被遗忘，又被不断重新发明？

这个问题，我自己也思考过。2019年，我写了《百年五四.南洋余波》，后来收录在拙著《星洲创意：文本·传媒·图像新加坡》中，试图梳理这段脉络。但罗博士的研究更为全面，视野也更为开阔。他引入"新南洋研究"的视角，主张摆脱传统的"中国中心论"，认为南洋华人不只是中国文化的被动接受者，而是有自己的主体性，有自己在地的选择与创造。

学术方法上，罗博士借鉴了傅柯"权力的毛细管作用"的概念，让研究从精英叙事走向日常生活：不只看学者、知识分子如何讨论五四，还要看报纸副刊、学校课堂、街头漫画里藏着什么。这种"社会史化"的转向，使读者得以看见五四在新马展现出的多样性与矛盾性，五四运动从来不是整齐单一的"影响"，在无数普通人的日常里，悄悄渗透、悄悄变形。

书中最打动我的，是关于语言的章节。五四白话文运动如何在新马推展，从方言私塾转向国语学校，这不只是教育工具的更替，更是对整整几代人"舌头"与"脑袋"的重塑。这种语言的统一，为后来新马华人身份认同的形成奠定了基石。

关于高等教育的章节同样精彩。南洋大学的创立，带着浓烈的民间热情与民国学术气息；马来亚大学中文系则在殖民政府的框架下，在"汉学传统"与"在地需求"之间艰难平衡。两所大学对五四精神的继承方式各异，却都以不同方式成为五四记忆的载体。这种分析将教育史、政治史与思想史编织在一起，令人信服。

还有一章让我格外欣慰,就是漫画与绘本中的历史记忆。这也是我与罗博士长期共同关注的领域，我们曾经合作编写《四方云集：台·港·中·新的绘本漫画文图学》。透过刘敬贤《陈福财的艺术》等作品，可以看到历史记忆如何在大众文化中被"玩味"与重新诠释。

五四运动百年纪念，新加坡官方将五四与文化传承、建国史相挂钩；马来西亚华社则更多将其与华文教育的焦虑联系在一起。同一场运动，在不同的土地上长出了不同的面貌。这提醒我们：每一次纪念，都是一次重写；每一次重写，都折射着当下的诠释与期望。

李显龙总理说：“不了解过去历史、起源和文化的人民，就像无根之树。”放在《五四在南洋》的语境里，又多了一层意思：根，不一定只有一条；树，也可以在异乡的土壤里，长出属于自己的形状。

 

2026年4月25日，新加坡《联合早报》“上善若水”专栏

 

The May Fourth Movement That Went “Down to Nanyang”

 

 

I Lo-fen

 

On May 4, 2019, the centenary of the May Fourth Movement, the Text and Image Studies Society, which I founded, organized a forum in Singapore titled “A Century of May Fourth in Singapore: So What?” The phrase “So What” spoke precisely to a long-standing question among Chinese communities in Nanyang: What, after all, does a movement that took place in distant Beijing have to do with us?

 

On the same day, Mr. Lee Hsien Loong, then Prime Minister of Singapore, posted a message on social media, noting that “today marks the centenary of May Fourth, a day also known as Star Wars Day.”

 

This intriguing juxtaposition appears at the beginning of Dr. Law Lok-yin’s new book, *May Fourth in Nanyang: The Cultural Memory and Chinese Imagination of the Chinese Communities in Singapore and Malaysia*. When I read this passage, I could not help but smile knowingly. Is this not a perfect snapshot of the situation of Nanyang Chinese? One foot stands in the century-old tradition of Chinese culture, while the other stands in the present moment of global popular culture.

 

Dr. Law’s book is one of the most refreshing studies of the May Fourth Movement that I have read in recent years. It does not follow the conventional approach of examining “the influence of May Fourth on Nanyang and its responses.” Instead, it asks a more fundamental question: how was May Fourth received, transformed, forgotten, and continuously reinvented in Singapore and Malaysia?

 

This is a question I have also reflected on. In 2019, I wrote “A Century of May Fourth: Ripples in Nanyang,” later included in my book *Creativity in Singapore: Texts, Media, and Images*, in an attempt to trace this historical thread. Yet Dr. Law’s research is more comprehensive and broader in vision. He introduces the perspective of “New Nanyang Studies,” advocating a departure from the traditional “China-centered” framework. In his view, Nanyang Chinese were not merely passive recipients of Chinese culture; they possessed their own agency, as well as their own local choices and forms of creativity.

 

In terms of academic method, Dr. Law draws on Foucault’s concept of the “capillary action of power,” shifting the study from elite narratives to everyday life. He does not only examine how scholars and intellectuals discussed May Fourth; he also looks at what was hidden in newspaper supplements, school classrooms, and street cartoons. This turn toward social history allows readers to see the diversity and contradictions of May Fourth as it unfolded in Singapore and Malaysia. The May Fourth Movement was never a neat and singular “influence”; rather, it quietly permeated and transformed itself in the daily lives of countless ordinary people.

 

What moved me most in the book is the chapter on language. The promotion of the May Fourth vernacular language movement in Singapore and Malaysia, and the transition from dialect-based private schools to Mandarin-medium schools, was not merely a replacement of educational tools. It was also a reshaping of the “tongues” and “minds” of several generations. This linguistic unification laid the foundation for the later formation of Chinese identity in Singapore and Malaysia.

 

The chapter on higher education is equally compelling. The founding of Nanyang University was marked by strong popular enthusiasm and the academic atmosphere of Republican China. By contrast, the Department of Chinese Studies at the University of Malaya had to operate within the framework of the colonial government, struggling to balance the “Sinological tradition” with “local needs.” The two universities inherited the spirit of May Fourth in different ways, yet each became, in its own manner, a carrier of May Fourth memory. This analysis weaves together educational history, political history, and intellectual history in a convincing way.

 

Another chapter that gave me particular pleasure is the one on historical memory in comics and picture books. This is also a field that Dr. Law and I have long been concerned with. We once co-edited *Converging from All Directions: Text and Image Studies of Picture Books and Comics in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Mainland China, and Singapore*. Through works such as Liu Jingxian’s *The Art of Chen Fu Cai*, one can see how historical memory is “played with” and reinterpreted in popular culture.

 

During the centenary commemorations of the May Fourth Movement, Singapore’s official discourse linked May Fourth with cultural heritage and the history of nation-building, while the Chinese community in Malaysia more often associated it with anxieties over Chinese-language education. The same movement grew into different forms on different lands. This reminds us that every act of commemoration is an act of rewriting, and every act of rewriting reflects the interpretations and expectations of the present.

 

Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong once said, “A people who do not understand their past history, origins, and culture are like trees without roots.” Placed in the context of *May Fourth in Nanyang*, this statement gains another layer of meaning: roots do not necessarily have to be singular; a tree can also grow its own shape in the soil of a foreign land.

 

April 25, 2026, “Shang Shan Ruo Shui” column, Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.