Every year, after the first day of Hari Raya, somewhere in Singapore, a folding table is being opened, a bunch of fairy lights are being tested, and a group of performers are trying to remember where they placed the ketupat props and the Baju Melayu used as costume.
This is the season of Hari Raya assembly touring programmes.
For those unfamiliar, these are performances that travel from school to school during assembly hours. They are fast, efficient, educational, and powered almost entirely by adrenaline. One moment you are performing in a primary school hall in Jurong. Two hours later, you are in a secondary school in Pasir Ris pretending not to be sweating through your baju melayu.
I have spent many years in the educational and entertainment scene, and I have a soft spot for these programmes. They serve a real purpose. Students get exposed to culture, performance, and ideas beyond textbooks. They learn why Hari Raya Aidilfitri matters, what fasting teaches, why forgiveness is central to the celebration, and why every Malay household seems to own at least one suspiciously breakable glass jar of kuih.
These shows matter.
But this week, during one rehearsal, I heard something that made me pause.
The director said, “Don’t use Singlish.”
Now, before I continue, let me be fair. Directors often say things quickly during rehearsals. Sometimes they mean rhythm. Sometimes clarity. Sometimes diction. Sometimes they are simply one technical problem away from emotional collapse. So I do not think the statement came from malice.
Still, it opened an interesting question.
Can you write Singaporean characters in recognisably Singaporean ways, but then ask actors not to sound Singaporean?
Because the script, to my ear, already sounded like Singlish.
And if the writing sounds local, but the actor is told to sound not-local, then everyone enters a mysterious theatrical limbo.
It becomes neither fish nor fowl.
Or in local terms, neither nasi lemak nor chicken rice.
Singaporeans often misunderstand what Singlish is. Many think it is just “bad English.” That is the lazy version of the conversation. Linguists have argued for years that Singlish is not random brokenness, but a rule-governed contact variety shaped by English, Malay, Hokkien, Cantonese, Tamil, and other languages.
Researchers like Dr Anthea Fraser Gupta and Professor Lionel Wee have written extensively about how Singlish carries grammar, identity, and social meaning. It is not simply mistakes in a trench coat pretending to be language.
When someone says, “Why you never tell me?” many hear an error. But others hear efficiency, familiarity, tone, relationship, context.
Language is not only about correctness. It is also about belonging.
Now let me be clear before someone sharpens a red pen.
I am not saying every school performance should be in full Singlish mode.
I am not suggesting an actor should walk on stage and say, “Eh cher, relax lah, today assembly only what.”
There is room for Standard English. In fact, schools need it. Students should be exposed to clear, competent Standard English, especially in formal educational settings. This is practical reality.
But art requires nuance.
If a script is written around local rhythms, local humour, local family dynamics, and recognisable Singaporean speech patterns, then forbidding all traces of Singlish may create something stranger than Singlish itself.
It creates artificial speech.
You know artificial speech. We have all heard it.
“Mother, I am feeling emotionally conflicted about whether to attend the open house.”
No Secondary Two boy in Bedok has said this voluntarily.
Or:
“Greetings, Grandmother. Shall we proceed to consume festive snacks?”
If your grandmother hears this, she may check for fever.
Theatre, especially for young audiences, depends on recognisability. Children and teenagers know immediately when adults are pretending. They may not articulate it, but they can smell falsehood faster than critics.
If dialogue sounds fake, they disconnect.
If dialogue sounds true, they lean in.
That does not mean realism is the only style. Exaggeration, comedy, stylisation, poetry — all these have their place. But even stylisation needs internal truth.
And Singapore truth often includes code-switching.
We are a country of linguistic multitasking. We switch registers constantly. Many students can speak differently to teachers, parents, grandparents, classmates, and customer service staff within the same afternoon.
“Good afternoon, Mr Tan.”
“Eh bro where you.”
“Nenek makan already?”
“Hello yes I’d like to check my parcel.”
This is not confusion. This is sophistication.
Sociolinguists call this style-shifting. We call it daily life.
So when performers are told “no Singlish,” I sometimes wonder: do we mean no lazy diction? No unclear pronunciation? No slang overload? No culturally specific syntax? No particles like lah, lor, meh?
These are very different instructions.
A better direction might be:
“Keep it clear.”
“Keep it natural.”
“Use local flavour sparingly.”
“Make sure students from all backgrounds understand.”
“Don’t flatten the rhythm.”
That is usable direction.
Because “no Singlish” can become a blunt instrument. And blunt instruments are better for opening durian than directing actors.
There is also a class issue hidden in these conversations.
Sometimes people reject Singlish not because of intelligibility, but because they associate it with being less educated, less polished, less prestigious. That discomfort says more about social hierarchy than language quality.
Meanwhile, some of the smartest people in Singapore can shift effortlessly between Standard English and Singlish depending on context. That ability is linguistic range, not deficiency.
The late Lee Kuan Yew strongly supported the Speak Good English Movement, launched in 2000, emphasising global competitiveness and clarity. That concern was understandable. English connects Singapore to the world.
But even as policy pushed Standard English, Singlish never disappeared.
Why?
Because people do not only speak to impress markets.
They speak to connect.
A grandmother saying “Eat already?” carries warmth that no grammar guide can fully measure.
A friend saying “Steady lah” can do more emotional work than a three-paragraph email.
A teacher joking lightly in local cadence can win attention faster than twenty slides.
Language has emotional architecture.
And theatre should know this better than most industries.
Performance lives in rhythm, breath, timing, tension, pause. Local speech patterns are rich with comic timing. Anyone who has heard an auntie say “Never mind, I say nothing” knows terror has entered the room.
That line, delivered correctly, deserves awards.
In children’s theatre and school assembly shows, humour is not decoration. It is pedagogy. Students remember what makes them laugh. If a joke lands because it sounds like someone they know, then learning enters through the side door.
You remember the character.
You remember the message.
You remember the scene where the uncle overate rendang and blamed destiny.
That said, there are dangers too.
Writers sometimes use Singlish lazily. They sprinkle lah, leh, lor onto weak dialogue like coriander on a bad dish. Suddenly every character sounds the same. Suddenly every local person is reduced to stereotype.
That is not authentic writing either.
Good local dialogue is not about particles alone. It is about social rhythm, subtext, economy, status, relationship, and timing.
For example:
“You coming?”
“See first.”
This is two words and one emotional thesis.
Or:
“Up to you lah.”
Translation: It is not up to you.
Writers must understand these textures.
Actors too must know when less is more. Too much exaggerated Singlish can become parody. Then audiences laugh at people rather than with recognition.
So yes, balance matters.
Maybe that is my real point.
Not “use Singlish” or “ban Singlish.”
But understand what kind of speech the piece needs.
If the script is about a Malay Singaporean family preparing for Hari Raya, some degree of local cadence may be natural. If it is a narrator delivering factual educational content about zakat or fasting practices, clearer Standard English may help. If it is a comedic sibling scene, let them sound alive. If it is a principal character summarising key takeaways, tighten the register.
Registers can coexist in one show.
Just like in Singapore.
And perhaps especially for Hari Raya programmes, authenticity matters. Hari Raya is not only dates and definitions. It is lived culture. It is food, prayer, travel, forgiveness, family politics, WhatsApp logistics, children asking for duit raya with suspicious confidence, and one relative asking when you are getting married.
If the performance strips away all living speech, then culture becomes museum display.
Neat. Polished. Dead.
Students deserve better than that.
They deserve culture that breathes.
I also think we need to respect actors more in these moments. Actors are not malfunctioning speakers who accidentally produce local rhythm. Many are responding instinctively to awkward writing. If a line refuses to sit naturally in the mouth, actors will adjust tone, pace, stress, syntax.
Sometimes what looks like rebellion is actually rescue.
Writers should listen when every actor trips over the same sentence. That sentence may be guilty.
Directors should listen too. If performers keep leaning local, maybe the truth of the scene is asking for it.
And if everyone is confused, ask the oldest Singaporean question of all:
“So… what exactly you want?”
Clear communication solves many rehearsal-room wars.
As someone who has worked across education, theatre, and training spaces, I have seen that young audiences do not need sterile perfection. They need clarity, sincerity, and engagement.
They know when something is real.
They know when adults are talking at them.
And they know when a joke sounds like it was approved by six committees.
So to all of us making assembly shows, cultural programmes, and educational theatre: let us worry less about policing labels and more about serving truth.
Use Standard English when it serves clarity.
Use local speech when it serves character.
Use humour when it serves memory.
Use heart always.
And if you truly do not want Singlish in the script, then perhaps do not write dialogue that sounds like it came from three cousins in Tampines arguing over whose turn it is to wash plates.
Because if you write:
“Eh faster lah, late already.”
Then ask the actor to make it sound British, even Shakespeare may resign.
In the end, language is a tool. Theatre is a mirror. Education is a bridge.
The best Hari Raya shows can do all three beautifully.
Also, actors, please return the ketupat props after the final school. Every touring season, one goes missing.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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