Authoritarian by Clara Chai (16, Singapore)

It’s still dark outside when you step out onto the pavement and make your way towards the outskirts of the town. Snow blankets every roof and crackles under your feet with each step you take. The trees lining the road are sparse, black claws rising from the earth towards you, weighed down by clumps of white.  It’s chilly this early in the year, and you’d much rather be nestling up in bed, but duty calls. They have taught you since young that defying the rules brings about major repercussions, and you’d like to keep your head safely upon your shoulders.

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The building looms like a grey shadow before you as you crest a hill. Others, dressed in the same white uniform as you, stand scattered on the front lawn, dithering and chatting amongst themselves. Their reluctance to enter hangs over your head like a shroud, catching you up and sweeping you into its embrace. You want to turn back, but your feet drag you past the wrought-iron gates, up the front steps, and into the foyer.

​The regimentals in their beige jumpsuits prowl up and down the corridors, walkie-talkies dangling from their belts, eyeing everybody with equal distrust. They snap at those who laugh too raucously and chivvy the dawdlers along. A female regimental with bulging froglike eyes stands imposingly, arms akimbo, at the entrance to the hall. She gives you a brief once over, ticks off your name on her clipboard and waves you on. You take your usual place in the front row and set your few belongings down. Your bag goes under your seat to maximise the crowded space and your water bottle is off-limits once you’ve taken your last swig. You’d prefer a seat at the back, away from prying eyes, but here everyone’s ordered numerically. From now on, you’re Six. Names are no longer significant.

Slowly, the rest trickle in until the place’s almost full. You exchange perfunctory smiles and words of falsified interest with those sitting beside you. You’re not really in the mood to talk this early. It’s dangerous too – speaking at the wrong moments could be perceived as rule-breaking disobedience. But many are bold. A low murmur descends upon the crowd, and the regimentals stilt it with periodic reprimanding barks. Still, it continues sporadically. It’s one of the few petty acts of defiance they dare to commit.

The head regimental marches in and takes her place onstage. Everybody in the hall takes the cue, bumping back their seats with a colossal screech and bowing low. The other guards skull around, scrutinising everyone closely. You keep your face a mask of polite interest as the superintendent begins a lengthy speech about the importance of her leadership and your commitment. Empty promises of a better life obtained through hard work and annihilating pointless daydreams. No time for slacking here unless you want to become a Failure.

She ends her speech exactly a minute before flag-raising. Perfect timing, as per how everything’s run in here. The speakers crackle, and a low monotonous voice demands complete attention and from the attendees. Everyone fixes their eyes upon the rectangular cloth hanging above the podium. A slow, stately anthem plays. You move your lips to the anthem and pledge yourself with the quietest of voices. Instead of allegiance to your country, your thoughts are full of going back to your little home at the end of day. But you must live through hours of cruel torture first.

The morning bell chimes.

And your school day begins.

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