Contributors

Brian Scott Bohme

Daniel Dangaran,
Vanessa Kim
Michelle Lee, Al Lim
Ai Huy Luu, Ng Weng Lin
Neo Xiao Yun, Rachel Ooi,
Serena Quay, Swarnima Sircar
Jasmine Tan, Tan Yanru,
Taha Tehseen Su-Min Yeo,
Belinda Yuan

Advisors
Daniel Dangaran
Catherine Sanger
Derek Heng
Sponsors
Cendana College, Yale-NUS
Publisher
Goh Books

Editorial
Thaddeus Cochrane, Al Lim
Poh Jia Hui, Annie Wang
Su-Min Yeo
Design
Michelle Lee

Table of Contents
List of Contributors
Foreword// Catherine Sanger, Vice-Rector
Introduction//Al Lim

i
ii-iii
iv

Interview with an Artifact // Brian Scott Bohme

Magic// Tan Jia Hui
Lotus// Michelle Lee
Photos by Al Lim and Jasmine Tan

1
2

4
5
6
7

Kuthodaw Pagoda // Neo Xiaoyun

As I Sat on the Bridge// Belinda Yuan
U Bein Bridge// Tan Yanru
U Bein Bridge// Swarnima Sircar
Ame// Daniel Dangaran

Photos by Taha Tehseen and Vanessa Kim

Freewriting Excerpts// Serena Quay
Poems 24-502// Ng Weng Lin, Ai Huy Luu, Rachel Ooi

8
9
10

Foreword // Catherine Sanger

Here is a reasonable question Ive been asked by faculty, staff, parents, and friends: Why
on earth did we take the entirety of the Cendana Class of 2019 to Myanmar as part of an
orientation to a college that is located in Singapore?
The title of this volume gets the answer absolutely right: to build bridges.
As students: We went to build bridges between lived experience and intellectual inquiry.
The readings and research you did in advance of the trip, complemented by Rector Hengs
engaging lecture on South East Asian heritage preservation, illuminated Myanmars history,
its architectural significance, and the cultural context surrounding its UNESCO ambitions.
Many of us interested in international politics prepared for the trip by reading about Myanmars prospects for a successful and sustained democratic transition after decades of military
rule. In this era we can learn a lot about another country even from a very far distance.
But traveling to another country and hearing the personal experiences of its citizens offers
another vantage point, in some ways both more and less incisive, into its internal dynamics
and complexities.
As Cendanans: We went to build bridges student-to-student, student-to-Deans Fellow,
student-to-Vice Rector-and-Rector. We built bridges Singaporean-to-Thai-to-Indian-toChinese-to-Pakistani-to-Vietnamese-to-Bangladeshi-to-Burmese-to-American-to-Germanto-Malaysian-to-Korean-to-Italian-to-Indonesian-to-Singaporean-to-Burmese-and-on-andon. By taking the whole class out of the local v. international context here in Singapore,
nearly everyone had the experience of being international, unfamiliar, and therefore had
equal opportunity to be attentive to the novelty of their surroundings.
As global citizens: We went to build bridges between our notions of self and of other. Travel
pushes us outside our comfort zones... and lets be honest, for many the trip involved physical discomfort far greater than we ever anticipated! But also hopefully an awareness of how
lucky we are to be where we are and to be going through the transition to college together.
Yes, our elevators have been less than fully functional but that is nothing compared to the
flood damage we saw in Bagan and in news reports from the further North where homes,
businesses, schools, whole sections of the town had been submerged.
As evolving individuals: We went to build (the first steps in) bridges between the people you
are at the start of college and the people you have grown to be at graduation. The first step
to that growth is identifying your goals for college, for yourself, for your friends, for your
community. Stepping outside of your expected patterns and places lets you see yourself in a
new and often more rigorous light. This self-reflection, in turn, sets the stage for meaningful
growth and personal development.

ii

One innovation between last and this years RCX was the integration of writing exercises
throughout the trip.
The writing exercises we conducted in Myanmar gave students an opportunity to derive
meaning from these many forms of bridge-building. Developed by Lisa Wells, Cendanas
Writing Fellow in Residence, in conjunction with the Yale-NUS Writers Center staff, these
writing exercises focused our attention on themes of home, of sacred spaces, of preservation
and heritage.
Travel involves sensory stimulation, even overload. Writing is a way to pause, dissect, and
process your experience. Writing can also be synthetic, bridging what you are seeing and
hearing and tasting and touching and feeling. The writing exercises we did in Myanmar
invited students to explore their discomfort and pleasure. For the duration of your time as a
college student you will be reading and absorbing the thoughts of others, but also working
to identify and articulate your own questions, thoughts, curiosities. College is a time to
discover and cultivate your voice, so it was important to integrate writing into our travels.
This magazine, brought to fruition thanks to Al Lims (Cendana, 19) initiative, creativity,
and effort, builds on and does great credit to the work of the Dean of Students Office,
the Residential Colleges, the Writers Center, and many other departments and individuals across the College who contribute to our RCX trips. Those responsible for developing
these RCX trips, and in particular Chris OConnell in the Dean of Students Office, very
intentionally sought to blend academic inquiry with experiential learning when crafting
the RCX programmed. These trips are designed to create meaningful learning and community-building experiences for our firstyear students. The X is intentionally left open to
interpretation for the very reason that these trips are multidimensional. They are Residential
College eXplorations, eXperiences, and eXperiments. Ultimately, though, it is the students
who determine how far that learning and how deep that community will go and what shape
it will take. This magazine is an inspiring and affirming manifestation of the interaction
between faculty, staff, students and what can happen when we all commit ourselves to an
exceptional educational mission.
Enjoy!
Catherine (VR Kate) Sanger
Vice-Rector, Cendana College

iii

Introduction // Al Lim
A Bridge Between is a time capsule, to encapsulate the starting point of our college
journeys.
These pages sing of our treks through Mandalay to Bagan to Yangon: our orientation trip as Cendana College, Yale-NUS Class of 2019. Not only did we experience the
beauty of Myanmar through its sights, smells, sounds, and tastes, we did it together.
We visited temples, stupas, and pagodas via plane, bus and e-bike. Our experience was far from flat, but instead flat-out great. The theme of exploration and
bridging the known and unknown, the ancient and the modern, flowed throughout our five days there. On the first day, we walked on the U Bein Bridge in
Amarapura (the longest teak bridge in the world), to think and to meditate on our writing
prompts. The blend of tourist attractions and local flavour was distinctly unfamiliar, and
that was the beauty of it.
The vision and hope of our editorial team and as a representative of Cendana College is to
let the pages speak to you. Let them bring back the memories that we wrote together and
invoke a sense of reality that will transport any reader to the Land of Pagodas.
To experience it together, all over again.

Photo by Al Lim

iv

A BRIDGE
BETWEEN
A PUBLICaTION OF CENDANA COLLEGE
YALE-NUS CLASS OF 19

Interview// Brian
with
an Artifact
Scott Bohme
The stones speak to me.

an enigmatic Artist
decides to write as
words fall and stack with
timbre in shades of
patina and mirror clauses
Reflecting a place
building and built
crumbled and crumbling
lived and living

A canvas in pieces
Whitewashed, bold
Grey upon grey upon
grey in devoted repetition
The ebb of spinal elocution
like the pronounced pitter-patter
of childrens feet robed in pink
Begging of you to cease and

The name falters

and sovereignty seizes
yet the people do not

come closer.
Suspiciously yet honestly
the impressions twine geometry
cheek by jowl or maybe
cheek to cheek in song
Only the preserved one knows.

They are the true stones.

Cynosure by default
The artifact is commanding
Yet is the book fearful of
its shadower in luster?

isnt it?

An opus held abreast in silent conversation

Forever poised and forever considered
History truly is an interesting thing

The answer lies in bygones.

And the story goes as so:
Framed in fragrance
an enigmatic Artist
decides to write as
words fall and stack with
timbre in shades of
patina and mirror clauses
And the story goes as so:
Framed in fragrance

Photos by Brian Scott Bohme

Magic // Tan Jia Hui

There is magic in Myanmar
As ineffable and indubitable as can be
We stroll through the green pastures,
We sprint through the muddy plains
We cross gingerly on rickety-looking bridges
And laugh at misplaced stains.
A temple balances on the stepped verdant
hill
Utterly serene as far as the eye can see
Stupas cloaked in glittering gold
Voila! The nonpareil of beauty.
We dont speak their language there
But smiling is a universal code
A woman offers to paint thanaka on me
And I shake my head politely to say no
A girl offers me starflowers
And I watch as the pile of symbolic wishes
grow

Romanticisation is unnecessary;
Masking reality? A shame.
Yangon is charming
Bagan beguiling
Why the need for such word games?
We turn to leave
When the days are up:

and there are paintings there

that I might never see

and there are people there

that we might never meet

and there are stories there

that the world might never
know.

Lotus // Michelle Lee

A buddhas head haloed in neon lights.
A boy made from white marble,
carved up into blocks.
Each word he speaks weighs tonnes before it
disappears.
With circuit boards and palm leaves
you can knock a temple down.
You can find an empty page and etch a heart
for a love that wont last.
We take our shoes off to wash our feet
in mud.

Babies play among the trees, and I

cradle
this star-shaped prayer in my palm.

Photo by Al Lim

Photo by Jasmine Tan

MORNING AT KUTHODAW
PAGODA
// Neo Xiaoyun

Mandalay
is
merely
a
hidden
gem
for
mass
tourism.
Frequented by locals, the children wearing thanaka and donning traditional garb
are skilled touters, selling starflower chains and posing for photographs with tourists
for a small fee. A thought struck me that I should gift them a photograph of their own,
something
that
they can keep
for
themselves,
rather
than
only having their
faces immortalised in the digital memories
of computer chips.
I thought this
was something unprecedented.
I thought that the
children
would
approach the
polaroid with curiosity
and
sincerity,
not
upfront requests.
I
thought
wrong.
Unconsciously, I had
romanticised the
image
of
children
living
in
poverty.
I soon found
myself drawn to
her smile, her
friendly gestures
and
fluent
questions of What
is your name?
and Where are
you
from?
She asked for more
polaroids
and
asked for my
earrings,
pointing that I
had a pair and
could
spare
one. This was nobodys fault
but mine. By going into a conversation with an idealised image of the person, I subject
myself to the dangers of delusion. Maybe children reveal this faster than manipulative adults. This is not corruption nor is it vice, it is about survival. This is not choice,
it is circumstance. Id like to think that maybe, in a split fraction of a moment, the
little girls cared more about smiling than what they would receive from smiling.

as i sat on the bridge

// Belinda Yuan
As I sat on the bridge, I watched as a multitude of people passed by. Lovely couples, happy
families, and pious proselytes. The background made it all too easy to romanticize the
experience- I enjoyed a serene moment of tranquility.
I thought about how fortunate I was, and wondered at the plenitude of opportunities I had
been so lucky to receive. I pondered on what these people would do with the very same
fortuitous circumstances, if they would use them to their fullest potential. And I question if
Im doing justice to the chances of which Ive been given.
Pulled back from my thoughts, I note the rich historical memories imbued into the bridge.
My concentration wavers, as I lapse into yet another indulgent fantasy.
Being a witness to the greatness of history, a tourist among the throngs of crowds led me to
realize the mere oneness of an individual.

Photo by Al Lim

U BEIN BRIDGE // Tan Yanru

The wooden boat sailing on the river. In another time and another age, these boats would
have had a whole new purpose. They would have been used as transport to another place,
or to ferry food and other basic needs. Now, these boats, slim wooden-built structures with
colourful painted ends, are steered by their sole boatman according to the whim and fancies of his customers. For a probably (nominal) fee, these boatmen exchange their physical
exertion and sweat for tourists who take pictures and squeal in exclamation, exposing their
wanderlust and sheer excitement of being in a place thats foreign and different. They are
going nowhere.

U BEIN BRIDGE // Swarnima Sircar

Listen to and/or record the world around you (at the U-Bein Bridge, Mandalay, Myanmar)
A mother dragged her reluctant child to the seats on the rickety hut of the bridge. The child
was screaming, the mothers face was grim. She kept her hold on the childs twisting hand,
impatiently brushing away the stray hairs that stubbornly pushed their way forward.
She was waiting for someone.
A foot tapped regularly, in time with the weakening struggles of the unhappy girl. An old
hag appeared, nearly bent in double by the woes of the world. She knelt before the child,
who stiffened immediately.
The witch lifted a decrepit figure to touch the inside of the childs elbow. Straightening up as
far she was able, the woman touched her mouth, and then her own feet.
In barely a blink, the crumbling woman gathered her umbrella and left. The child now took
advantage of her mothers slackened grip and broke free, hurtling into the crush of people
on the bridge.
In the distance, the burned, blackened, leafless tree swayed once, and then stood still.
A lanky man in navy loafers took a picture of the scene.

aME // Daniel Dangaran

I. Freewrite at the U-Bein Bridge
Calls for prayer echo across the Irrawaddy as I sit in the bridge our group designated for
free writing. I am one of about thirty people sitting on the bridge huts benches, and many
more (up to ten) are on its central path at any given time. Two dogs lie asleep, and should
not be forgotten in this snapshot. All men wear longyi but one, whos clad in blue jeans.
Six pairs of eyes surround me as I write, probably more. Staring freely, because I am
an exotic addition to this space. This seems to be a place of respite: people wait for
their friends or families and eagerly observe the strange figures like me who have decided to enter their space. A meeting of minds, cultures, faces, features, feet. A
safe meeting point for my DF style giving my students freedom but also knowing they really cant get too far. A dog disturbed just made quite an interesting sound.

Ame means mother, and the Burmese have bestowed Aung San Suu Kyi with the word as her
epithet. A little girl calling after her Mom next to me reminds me of this fact from our tour
guide. How many times do we call for Mom in a day when were four years old? Fourteen
years old? Moms have such a hard emotional task: for a being to attach so strongly and rely
on their outpour of selfless love, only to become independent in my case, fighting for
freedom out of their loving, overprotective clutch is a rollercoaster ride I cannot fathom.
Men sleep on this bench, but Im not sure if women ever would. Men make
longyi for men, and women handcraft wedding dress and jeweled sarong.
II. Pondering Love at the Worlds Biggest Book
The question [what piece of writing would you transcribe in this style?] is so difficult because
whatever is chosen cannot be edited. I would tell stories; individual life narratives of people of
all cultures in all tongues documenting their day and their hardship: an anthology of the worlds
passions, from all class backgrounds. The topic? Musings on love for what is it all for, otherwise?
Heres what my addition would be, thinking about my musings from the U Bein Bridge.
A Mothers love is a gift and a burden. Treasure it. Fear it. Work up to it. It is bestowed upon
those who arent ready for it abandoned by those who could not handle it. A neglectful
child would make it too easy to feel as if it werent worthwhile. Cherish the moment, for it
is fleeting. Honor the past, but do not let it predict or taint future iterations of love. Heal
slowly, carefully. Do not pick at the scabs that are bound to develop. Think of Ame Aung
San Suu Kyis love and status of Mother to a country. Think of Rosa Parks; Eleanor Roosevelt; Athena; Kate Bornstein. Motherly love has no gender boundaries. Motherly love is
work; emotional labor is not easy, and is too easily oppressive.

Photo by Taha Tehseen

Photo by Vanessa Kim

fREEWRITING eXCERPTS
// Serena Quay
Grounded

Treasure

City girls love bright lights

skinny bodies,
we cry for summer skies and rimmed
sunnies.

Theyve got gold hearts and gold souls,

gold pagodas and in their eyes folds
Theyve got bare feet yet nothings missing
Got no fortune, but theyve got gold.

But me,

The River

I found recluse in wood, stone and sand.

My bare feet make memories
from the loving touch of rough land.

Dangling legs off the side

Smiles of spirits brighter than light.
Things on heads and flies in faces,
but nothing quite like their smiles

Poems 24-502
// Ng Weng Lin, Ai Huy Luu, Rachel Ooi
Ill be back (by Weng Lin)
Pagodas are red
Stupas are gold
This place is so beautiful
Ill be back when Im old.

Scars (by Ai Huy)

Myanmar, you left your mark on me.
Wind in hair, dust on tongue.
An indelible mark on me,
scabbing raw red flesh, e-bike.

Photo by Jasmine Tan

Intestinal Parting Gift (by Rachel)

New sights, sounds, smells, tastes
Thrills, frills, for mind and body
Mostly body though.

cOLOR OF mYANMAR

// Al Lim

Ink, ink, ink, the thirsty page demands. Demands a flow and a river to witness.
The harsh interjection of bird screeches overhead. My train of thought screeches to
a halt. My task is cut out. To navigate my thoughts tracks between the distraction of flies
and the stifling heat, with all but a compass my heart.
The sky is pastel, serene and its blue sweeping brushline meets the hills in an unspoiled
landscape. Shades of blue line the horizon animated in their own sphere. The little toy
boats traverse the Irrawaddy in the distance as the ants march across the grass in front of me.
The bark rough against my hand as the blades sway in the wind. The stalks lean and glide
with the winds whispers, unlike the dark, stoic mess of trees.
From the bank, I make my way plank by plank across the U Bein Bridge to find solitude
within the crowd, to capture my hearts surge, and the sight my eyes beheld. In
the middle of the lake lies a submerged house. Its thatched roof is half bare; it cannot keep
the rain out.
Lay the ruins of Myanmar in the murky lake of forgottenness, in the murky lake
of swallowed history. The world bumps and sways with the bridge with the kids stomping
and others strolling. Lonely wooden stilts lay unlabelled a familys history lapped
away with the waters of the lake.
I walk on. Was it a day past, or two? Time flows effortlessly like the currents of
Irrawaddy and I sit perched on a pagodas ledge. The dog melts into the landscape,
swallowed by the sand. In rows plowed and patches stained, all converge to stupas
and pagodas that litter the landscape and canopy. Glints shimmer in the distance,
shimmering towards the jagged edge of mountains, etching their places in the sky. The
sun descends.
Years have weathered the tiles, but the core is solid. The pilgrim lives on. Dead yet alive, yet
dead, yet alive. Brick by brick, held together with faiths mortar, the stupas stand in majesty
like bells with a broken tongue. The sandy dog turns to chase its tail.
Did it really happen?
Brown is the sheen that covers the lakes; a blanket that smothers the ways of life. Brown is
the road to Yangon, which rests upon the rusted gates, old cars, and cracked roofs of the
populace.

10

Brown is the dust kicked up by cars in Mandalay, as brown is the coat of Mo Mo,
the horse which carted me in Bagan. Brown color of life, ruddy color, smeared by
yellow thanaka1. Canvas I carry in me.

Thanaka is a Burmese cosmetic face paint made by grinding bark on a stone slab mixed
with water.
1

Photo by Al Lim

11

What does it mean to build

a bridge?
Within the pages of this book, the members of cendana
college, class of 19 use writing to dissect what it
means to build bridges as students, as cendanans, as
global citizens, and as individuals.
Join us in a journey of self-discovery as we attempt
to connect old and new, familiar and unfamiliar, and
to travel from one world to a place weve never been
before.