I was in the army before I came to Stanford

There’s one question that I simply can’t escape from here, no matter where I go and who I see. It’s a simple one that I’m asked, because I’m a 21-year-old freshman surrounded by “them” – 19, 18, or even 17-year-olds. No, I wasn’t mentally-challenged back in high school in Singapore, and neither did I get held back three years. (I did make it to Stanford after all).

“Do you ever feel like an adult surrounded by a bunch of immature children?” is what I’m asked. They ask this because I was a part of the dreaded military service, for which I now strangely yearn with the most twisted nostalgia. A Stockholm Syndrome checkup could possibly be in order. But here begins my response.

This is how it works: 22 months if you’re physically fit, 24 if you’re slightly overweight, and 26 if you’re obese (which doesn’t happen too often in Singapore, thankfully). The first few are spent in rather hellish Basic Training, followed by a fresh posting to a unit for specialised instruction, and the rest as an actual skilled soldier. Then you’re out.

Freshman Niall in the Singaporean Army

A little disclaimer before I begin: I know people who were declared medically and physically less capable in one way or another, and who then went abroad for university and fabricated Herculean tales of their soldiering conquests. I don’t ever partake of such prevarication and I shan’t now. Instead, I’m going to proudly declare that I was posted to what is probably the cushiest and classiest vocation you could ever dream up. Period.

I’ll admit that I really wasn’t too thrilled when my time to enlist came, and so I unceremoniously shunned the offer of going to either officer or sergeant training school. An additional six to nine months of training for slightly more pay and many more responsibilities? No thanks. I crossed my fingers, signed myself up for the Military Police (MP) interview instead, and was handsomely rewarded.

But before all of that came the horror of Basic Training: replete with repulsive bugs, a week spent in a tropical jungle without a shower in sight, digging your own coffin-sized hole to sleep in while using your rifle as a pillow, days-old camouflage cream caking your pores, and worse still, no phone connection and no phone at all, really. You get the idea. But all that was over after nine short weeks.

Every booking out of Basic Training camp felt like the greatest liberation. Camp made us appreciate and love civilian life with our dulled emotions. Being free of a rank made us feel human again. It made us realise that we were indeed unique individuals and not just a horde of recruits. Forgive the cliché I’m about to drop, but it often takes a dose of deprivation and pain to be woken up to the faded blessings that indeed surround us. Our eyes were opened.

Then came nine actually enjoyable weeks of MP training which flew by: nothing properly outfield, just a host of military law lessons, gorgeously sharp drill classes, and boot polishing. Looking good and being smart (in both ways)? Sure, sign me up. Nine weeks of training later we had the power to punish offenders of military law while conducting raids on army camps, navy ships, and airbases to seize contraband while donning the fanciest uniforms. And don’t forget that we were all not-too-high-ranking corporals who wielded the power to get even a three-star general charged. All that, coupled with occasional trips to the presidential palace to mount parades for visiting heads of state. This was all in a day’s work, with the sweetness of civilian life awaiting us at 5.30pm daily. It couldn’t have been better.

But the military exists within a rigid structure of a command chain which must never be broken. It dehumanises us at times because it needs to. There is no other way in which it can otherwise function efficiently. And the more shit you go through with friends, the better you work together. Who would ever have expected that the seeds of an insidious democracy would sprout in the MP?

It began with complaints, overly-kind superiors, and a little too much freedom. The era of Basic Training was over, after all. Civilian life had become routine, common, even…boring. Why did we have to mount a parade for Erdogan and his mafia-like entourage? Why not for Prince William and Kate Middleton, or even Obama? Our seniors got to march for them, after all. Or better still, why did we have to even do a parade at all? Why not just get the new bunch of conscripts to do it instead?

We were spoiled soldiers who blindly (and stupidly) believed that we were all components of an ideal Marxist society. Rule by the people, for the people. Nature didn’t have a vacuum to abhor, or so we thought. We simply didn’t comprehend the power or the existence of the autocratic system that towered above us. We were an utter disgrace, and this had to change.

Change came from above, slowly but surely. Platoon culture changed. Life gradually turned into a living hell once again, except that we were allowed to taste freedom every night before being plunged back into it the next morning, 0700 hrs sharp. We learnt and understood: don’t demand a foot when you’ve been given a whole two inches, perhaps even three.

Now in college

The military wasn’t so much about the physical training or the mindless suffering for me (not that I’m saying that that didn’t happen). Above all, it was a two-year long process that taught me about political structure, social change, and PR skills. I grew mentally, wading through all the garbage that was thrown at us. I dealt with overly-kind and overly-sadistic superiors, treading that fine line between confidence and self-deprecation. I handled offenders of military law with a certain degree of professional heartlessness, while convincing my closest friends to give up on their reckless dreams of a democratic military.

That was what the army was for me. Forget the guns and brawn and bullets. It was an internal experience of deep growth, Version 1.0. Stanford is simply Version 2.0. So to finally respond to the query posed at the very start of this piece, which would be to answer the eternal question of my Stanford life: no, I do not feel like I deal with immature children on a daily basis. Perhaps I’m more aware of what I want, what I hate, and what I love.

Perhaps I’m more blasé, indifferent, and apathetic. But given all of that, I’m up for a challenge.

The time for v2.0 has arrived. It’s time for me learn to deal with people, not soldiers.