my fossil-fuelled dreams

originally published on We Are the Fossil-Free Future Zine: https://ko-fi.com/s/96ef24bf6f

Author's note:

After a long period of self-reflection, an epiphany strikes you. You think you finally got this figured out. Then 'he' comes, and you're confused all over again. Who is telling the truth? What if the people we love are the ones who internalised these mindsets and try to impart them to us?

This piece of writing represents the difficulty of reconciling one's internal conflict with the normalised perception of "good" in our society. Indeed, often complicating this inner tussle is the difficulty of dialogue with the people closest to us. But difficult conversations still must take place, and so here we start.

To further illustrate the diversity of backgrounds/stories, I intentionally used an ambiguous "he" in this piece to allow for the multiplicity of roles that this character can play: a husband, a brother, a father, a boyfriend.

“It can’t be that bad. It’s not true.”

He tears the newspaper in half, flings it at my feet then storms off, his face dark like crude oil. I stare blankly at the shredded newspaper on the ground. My senses are numb from the combined attacks of quiet loneliness and roaring rage. But the words remain nonchalant and honest. Letters chipped and disjointed, they continue to write themselves boldly on the floor.

FOSSIL-FUELLED UNIVERSITIES… Singaporean universities have spent at least the past 34 years building close relationships with fossil fuel companies…

I rip off the medal around my neck that he had put on and hurl it at the ground. It bounces with a sharp clink, and as the metal glints in the sunlight I see my face embedded within, amongst the engraving BP GOLD MEDAL. My face, hollow and angry that I have assimilated into this system unknowingly. And now my face is imprinted there in that medal and I can’t take it out, can I change my face—

I force my gaze to shift away and suddenly I notice my name in the newspaper under RECIPIENTS OF THE EXXONMOBIL-NUS RESEARCH FELLOWSHIP. My name, innocent and guilty; honoured and disgraced; at the same time. Why did I not pay attention before, why did I blindly listen to him, why do I always do what he tells me to do? And now my name is imprinted there in the newspaper and I can’t take it out, can I change my name—

“It can’t be that bad. It’s not true.”

So he’s back. He tugs my arm and tries to pull me away, but I continue stoning at the floor and refuse to budge. He is angry and I am angry. Finally I let myself be pulled away by him again, whether because it’s always been that way or whether because I still love him, I don’t really know.

He brings me to his room, where his desk is flooded with other pages of the newspaper. He jabs a finger towards the headline. SHELL SINGAPORE YOUTH SCIENCE FESTIVAL. See, he says triumphantly. It’s not so bad. They are doing all they can to transition away from Big Oil; they are doing all they can to instil environmental consciousness in young minds. Then he points to another headline that he’s framed on the wall. THE KEPPEL-NUS CORPORATE LABORATORY… set up to meet the future challenges of the offshore industry. See, he continues, they are saving the planet; they are investing in research and development to make the world a better place. Now he puts a reassuring palm on my shoulder. I try not to flinch.

I am confused. Who do we claim to protect, who are the ones that benefit a disproportionate sum? This system is rigged. Why is someone’s suffering requisite for another’s happiness?

My love, but broken? My dreams, pure projection? My university, major manifestation?

The writing is no longer on the floor. I lift my head. The writing is on the wall.