I attended a panel at the Singapore Writers Festival 2024, a session that bore the evocative title Taman Tuarang, or “Grounds in Drought.” The metaphor is dramatic, perhaps deliberately so, conjuring an image of cracked soil, thirsty roots, and writers struggling to push out new shoots in a barren landscape. The discussion centred on the supposed decline of writing in the Malay language — the slow, almost worrying reduction of published works, and the cultural consequences of this drought.
It was a good session, stimulating and passionate. But I must admit: I am not entirely sure I share the same sentiments of doom and scarcity. Drought, after all, suggests not just decline, but an absence of life. And from where I’m sitting, I am not convinced the garden is as barren as the panel seemed to suggest.
A Question of Numbers: Decline or Normalisation?
Let’s start with the numbers. I tried to find clear statistics on Malay literary publications in Singapore from 2022 to 2024, but exact tallies are hard to come by. That in itself might be telling — our works are scattered, sometimes self-published, sometimes released in Malaysia or Indonesia, sometimes tucked away in anthologies that don’t make it to mainstream shelves. But if we sketch the trend roughly, here’s what seems to have happened:
- 2022: There was a burst of literary activity, much of it born from the pandemic years. Writers, confined in isolation and shaped by new anxieties, found themselves compelled to write. Quarantine orders, the constant hum of fear, the sudden silence of our usually busy lives — all this fuelled a fertile period of reflection and creation. It was a strange irony: isolation created community on the page.
- 2023–2024: The output seemed to dip, but perhaps this was not a decline so much as a return to baseline. The flood of pandemic writing could not be sustained indefinitely; eventually, people returned to their routines, jobs, and distractions. What looked like a drop might simply be the end of an unusual surge.
If that is the case, then calling the present moment a “drought” feels a little unfair. We are comparing today’s ordinary rains with yesterday’s flood.
Support, or the Lack of It?
Another point raised at the panel was support — or the perceived lack of it. And here, I find myself split. On one hand, it is true that during the pandemic, there was a very public debate about the value of the arts. Who can forget that infamous Straits Times piece in 2020 which suggested that “the arts are not essential”? It cut deeply, because to many of us, the arts were precisely what kept us sane during those long months of uncertainty.
At the same time, we cannot ignore that the state did channel support. NAC rolled out funding schemes, there were grants available for creation and transition, and some Malay writers did benefit. But let’s be honest: the visibility gap remains. English-language works often get the lion’s share of attention, reviews, and shelf space. Malay works, while supported, still feel peripheral.
Yet I hesitate to paint a purely bleak picture. In recent years, I have noticed more platforms opening up — not fewer. The Singapore Writers Festival itself has consistently featured Malay panels. The Malay Heritage Centre has hosted readings and showcases. And thanks to the interconnectedness of the region, Malay writers in Singapore also collaborate with Malaysia and Indonesia, transcending the artificial borders that often cage our imagination.
So yes, there are structural gaps. But there are also opportunities — sometimes more than we are willing to admit.
Platforms: New, Old, and Somewhere in Between
One of the more heartening points at the panel was Khairool Haque’s encouragement to writers: take advantage of the new spaces that exist. We no longer need to wait for gatekeepers to give us permission. Self-publishing is viable, online magazines welcome submissions, and social media allows for audiences to form around a writer’s work without the old structures.
And then there is Fazleena Hishamuddin. She is, quite simply, prolific. Not only as a writer, but also as a singer-songwriter whose work has resonated across borders. Her song Pelukkan Angkasa won the prestigious Anugerah Juara Lagu, a reminder that Malay literary and artistic expression is not confined to books or poetry but flows into music, performance, and popular culture. Fazleena said something important during the panel: new writers should not be paralysed by the false dichotomy of “high art” versus “underground art.” Just write what you need to write. I think that is liberating advice — and one we should all take seriously.
My Gripe: The Missing Middle
But let me confess a personal gripe, one that nags at me whenever we talk about platforms and opportunities. It seems to me that in Singapore’s Malay arts scene, there are two very visible groups: the veterans, those whose names are etched in our literary history, and the youth, nurtured through competitions, mentorships, and student platforms.
But what about those who discover their voice late? What about the older emerging writers — the ones who only realise in their 40s or 50s that they love writing, and want to share their stories?
I worry that this group is overlooked. They are not young enough to be considered “promising,” nor are they old enough to be considered “legendary.” They fall into a gap, one that is rarely acknowledged.
And yet, in Malay culture, it is often the elders who carry the richest stories, the deepest lived experiences. Why should the literary scene not make space for them too?
If we truly want a flourishing garden, we must water every corner, not just the seedlings and the ancient trees.
Beyond Fonts: Innovating the Reading Experience
Finally, I want to end on a hopeful note. Because while I am sceptical about the rhetoric of drought, I am optimistic about the possibilities that lie ahead.
We live in a technological age. Reading no longer has to mean words printed in font on a page. Why should Malay literature not explore interactive formats? Imagine a gamebook in Malay, where readers choose their own adventure. Imagine a podcast that blends poetry with music and oral storytelling.
Imagine digital platforms where narratives unfold with visuals, sound, and interactivity.
We have inherited a rich tradition of storytelling. Oral literature, pantun, syair — these were once the multimedia of their time, meant to be heard, sung, and shared. In that sense, experimenting with new formats is not a betrayal of tradition but a continuation of it.
Closing Thoughts
Taman Tuarang may have painted a picture of scarcity, but I suspect the truth is more nuanced. The soil is not barren. It is uneven, perhaps — fertile in some parts, neglected in others, overwatered in one season and dry in another. But there are shoots pushing through, and there will always be shoots pushing through, as long as there are people who care to tell stories.
What we need, perhaps, is not to lament the drought, but to learn how to tend the garden differently. To make space for new forms, new voices, and yes — even the late bloomers.
And to remind ourselves that in literature, as in life, seasons come and go. What looks like scarcity today may simply be the quiet before another season of flowering.
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