“Behind these fantastic stories however, was the faint hope that somehow, I had found someone who shared something in common with me.” (Duel in Corridor)
The elusive human pursuit – or rather, yearning – for happiness has long occupied the literary imagination. From Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina to Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye to Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, existential anxieties plague individuals across the societal spectrum. The search for meaning in an indifferent world can manifest across human life idiosyncratically, but the overall feeling of being lost, wanting more, and dreaming for a just world carries an unshakable universality spanning continents. It is in these stories that we often realise literature is a mirror; a conduit that reassures us we are not alone in our desires, or conversely, our struggles.
Western classic texts like those mentioned above are often discussed at great length for their astute observations about the human condition; however, the global literary canon also contains pockets of revolutionary transnational literature. These perspectives are revolutionary because they engender much-needed conversations about multiculturalism as they quietly subvert conventions lining genre, stylistic expression, and even plot structure, and because they delve into the lives of the common man in a way that sheds condescension in exchange for heightened empathy. Alfian Sa’at’s Corridor is a transnational work that embodies the trials and tribulations of ordinary individuals residing in Singapore’s Housing Development Board (HDB) flats. Through the minutiae and ennui of their day-to-day lives, we uncover extraordinary epiphanies about the complexities of feeling lost in a society prioritising success over connection.
This review of Corridor will explore the themes presented by Sa’at’s stories. Born in 1977, Alfian Sa’at is a renowned Singaporean playwright, poet, and author whose incisive, empathetic portrayals have significantly contributed to Singapore’s literary and theatrical landscapes. His works often tackle themes of identity, belonging, and societal norms, providing a voice to marginalised communities. Corridor, published in 1999, is a testament to his ability to capture the nuances of everyday life by showcasing a deep sensitivity to Singaporean vernacular and socio-cultural dynamics. An evocative collection of short stories, Corridor offers a glimpse into subdued yet significant turning points in the lives of ordinary people.
Across twelve short stories, Sa’at’s voyeuristic, intimate vignettes of Singapore’s working class allows the reader to see the world with a new set of eyes – eyes that have experienced tremendous amounts of pain and alienation on the margins of a rapidly modernising society. Moreover, his conscious use of Singlish and cultural references from the 90s compel the reader to understand the world of each protagonist on their own terms, levelling the playing field by acquainting us with the lexicon of the sidelined “other.”
Though largely drawing from the experiences of the working class, Corridor does not confine its characters to a specific demographic; instead, Sa’at presents diverse individuals, each with their unique backgrounds and struggles. Their stories, in distinctive, highly individualised manners, crystallise the resilience and vulnerability of the human spirit: “along the city’s corridors, people are haunted by lost loves, childhood trauma, and a longing to be free” (from Corridor’s book description).
Across the stories, individuals navigate poignant episodes: a man re-learns the difficulties of falling in love again after a divorce; a young boy feels entrapped and seeks to escape a problematic relationship with an older man; a down-on-their-luck married couple wins holiday tickets to Australia, only to discover that the prize was a marketing ploy.
Sa’at’s slices of life are elegiac and sincere, and perhaps, they begin to hold even more potency when readers realise that not all twelve stories necessarily offer definitive endings. In Duel, the story of an insomniac’s fascination with an eternally lit apartment offers no resolution; instead, we engage with the protagonist’s mini-experiments and inane but provocative thought patterns. Life too, much like Sa’at’s book, does not always offer neat resolutions to our pain or joy. It is unpredictable and sometimes even anticlimactic. The endings of each story are abrupt, but readers eventually learn to make peace with the presumed “pointlessness” of each tale. Sa’at encourages us to marinate in the fact that circumstances might remain in stasis, but feelings are in constant flux. He urges us to make peace with uncertainty.
In line with the above, Corridor also explores the notion of happiness and its tenuousness in Singapore, a society arguably obsessed with progress and capitalist notions of success. Some characters even express frustration with the high-strung, fast-paced living:
“At that moment I ask myself why the whole world has to pretend” (Bugis)
“In the midst of a bustling city, it is easy to feel like a solitary figure in a long, empty corridor.” (Orphans)
“Class divides are the invisible corridors we navigate every day, often without realizing it.” (Pillow)
The HDB dwellers in this anthology – students, factory workers, housewives – experience a sense of hopelessness within the densely populated urban landscape of Singapore, described as “breathing with a life of its own, inhaling dreams and exhaling despair” in Disco. The story Orphans captures this sense of despair through the interactions between a married couple (Karen and Teck How) as they navigate through their differing perspectives on happiness and aspirations. As the narrative unfolds, Karen’s inner conflict and yearning for a deeper connection become evident. Her reflective moment, scanning the horizon for an aeroplane in the sky symbolises her search for hope and a sign of change amidst the urban sprawl.
Sa’at brings a unique perspective to the exploration of identity in Singapore. His stories often focus on the intersections of race, gender, and ethnicity, and how individuals navigate social, economic, and religious expectations in this light. In Bugis, the narrator constantly questions her friend’s newfound display of piety with the tudung. In Umbrella, the underachieving narrator Hafiz, with his humble background and predominantly Malay-speaking parents, attempts to use an American accent when speaking to his mathematics tutor. This act of code-switching reflects his internal struggle with identity and acceptance. Similarly, in Winners, Shirley’s inability to continue a telephone conversation highlights the barriers faced by those who do not conform to societal norms by prioritising English fluency. Beneath the glamour of Singapore’s economic prosperity, all characters constantly negotiate recognition in spaces where they are otherwise merely considered numbers and statistics, and where their worth is predicated upon their conception as either success stories or underachievers in terms of socioeconomic status and ethnicity.
The book’s physical spaces also play a crucial role in shaping the characters’ experiences and emotions. Sa’at masterfully uses architecture and space to symbolise the characters’ internal landscapes. The titular story, Corridor, explores the harmony and distrust between neighbours in HDB flats. Corridors, officially lauded as “common spaces” for Singaporeans to share and connect, are painted with a tinge of cynicism. A murder in the corridor becomes a powerful metaphor for the underlying tensions and fractured relationships in the community. These spaces, meticulously planned by the state, become arenas for moments of intimacy, longing, anger, and disenchantment.
The anthology captures the essence of Singapore’s past, including the old Bugis Street which was once a vibrant hub for the transgender community, but has now become a sanitised version of its former self. These references serve as reminders of the drastic evolution of urban life in Singapore, highlighting the transformative shifts that have reshaped its social and cultural landscape. Through these contrasts, Sa’at subtly hints at what has been lost beneath the city’s polished façade.
Sa’at’s work challenges us to look beyond cultural and geographical boundaries and recognise the shared aspirations and discontents that unite us all. One of the most profound realisations could be from Video, where a typical Singaporean character buys chestnuts before visiting her mother’s house. In Malay, chestnuts are also called “buah berangan,” and “berangan” roughly translates to the act of dreaming or daydreaming. Dreaming carries a sense of the unattainable but is also lined with hope and fantasy. So much of human life is defined by a sense of longing and loss for the unattainable but Corridor does not berate us for dreaming, and instead, points out the externalities that perpetuate unattainable thinking and goals.
Azeem Sulehri is a Research Analyst at RIMA. He completed his undergraduate studies in Political Science and has experience working with the government and in tech. He is interested in longevity research, South Asian literature, and behavioural economics.
