Medusa in Singapore: Review of “The Gatekeeper”

The award-winning The Gatekeeper by Nuraliah Norasid is set in Manticura, a fictional country embroiled in volatile political relations with its neighbours. It is dominated by a human majority which merely tolerated the minority species (often scaly and large humanoids of different shapes, hues and sizes). Many who could not survive on the surface turn to a secret ancient refuge underground, Nelroote. When the protagonist Ria, Medusa’s distant descendant, turned an entire village of people into stone, it is here where she and her sister Barani escape to.

After fifty years in hiding, she remains a wanted criminal on the surface and one whom the underground community fears. One fateful afternoon, she meets a privileged half-human boy Eedric and a relationship between them develops as rapidly as it is crushed. At this point, the author seems to have resolutely severed the possibility for a reader to interpret the novel as a coming-of-age story. As the narrative descends into chaos, what readers are left with are Ria’s madness and rage: raw emotions of stunted growth.

‘Stunted’ is the word that may come to mind as readers grapple with the novel’s setting in a far future and an apparent lack of social and human progress. Discrimination of those who are perceived to be different or weaker, marginalisation by the majority, elitism, and sexism are key features of the Manticuran society. Interestingly, more than 3,000 years into the future, there is also little progress in technology and beliefs. Instead, the underground community in the novel reverts to ancient burial rituals which Ria is tasked with as she retreats from a community of outcasts that regard her in both fear and awe.

Inheriting the solitude of the mythic Medusa, she spends time alone in a catacomb filled with stone statues of unsuspecting invaders. She is portrayed effectively as an outcast of a community which has itself fallen through the cracks of society. Indeed, one of the novel’s strengths comes from the creative effort which the author has poured into world-making. The intricacy of Nuraliah’s world creation is already hinted at by the illustrated maps included in the novel, but this becomes more apparent when we are introduced to the complex interweaving of fictional and non-fictional languages in Manticura, then arrive at a seedy underbelly beneath the underground community – an underworld within an under-world.

SEEING SINGAPORE WITH NEW EYES
It is worth pointing out that despite being a fantasy world set 3,000 years in the future, readers would quickly realise that Manticura, named after “a poisonous human-headed lion,” is a thinly-veiled Singapore. Many provocative similarities between Manticura and Singapore abound in the novel, but in the interest of word length, let us look at just one example in this review.

The novel has a sharp focus on the marginalised, and Nuraliah captures one problematic view of certain members of the privileged majority well: when an elite human woman Adrianne sees a pregnant Feleenese teenager sitting on the step of a mall, she remarks, “‘You know, I believe everyone has a right to live their lives however they choose […] But sometimes they just need to work harder. I mean, there are many programmes out there to help but –.’ Eedric’s response was a sharp cut: ‘They?’” (63-4). Adrianne responds by gesturing towards the non-humans. This social critique of the assumption that the ‘non-elites’ are simply not working hard enough puts a spotlight on generalisations that overlook the diversity within groups and the complexity of individual circumstances.

The Gatekeeper is not subtle in its criticism of the fact that the root of stigmatisation and discrimination is the refusal to regard people as individuals. The marginalised are not even portrayed as humans in the novel; instead, Manticuran ‘humans’ perceive them as inferior humanoids. Indeed Nelroote, the secret world beneath Manticura, means ‘to see,’ “It was a new way of spelling an old name. It used to be Ne’rut: ne’, to, and rut, see.” (46), and it is clear in the novel that Nuraliah wants to lead her readers to see and confront issues of social, sexual, and racial discrimination anew; that is, through the eyes of the marginalised Medusa. Intriguingly, what makes this an ultimately dystopian novel is the author’s refusal to portray Ria and the underground community as innocent victims. One of the novel’s epigraph already warns the reader of this, “What is life’s greatest illusion? Innocence, my brother.”

NUANCED & COMPLEX CHARACTERS
Ria lost her innocence the moment she turned an entire village of people into stone, and any hope for redemption through romantic love was destroyed when she pushed Eedric out of her life by committing an unforgivable crime. Even Eedric, who seems to possess genuine affection for Ria is a highly flawed character. His immature attitude towards Adrianne, who was his girlfriend before he met Ria, his manhandling of his maid Suri, and his lack of a concrete plan after he had brought Ria into his home, all point to his characterisation as a mere boy who is incapable of helping Ria through the imminent storm she was about to face. Stuck in his bedroom, it seems the only way for the two characters to move the narrative forward is for Ria to bust out of there and sever ties with the boy.

Notably, this is the point in the novel where Ria spirals out of control. For readers with a stomach for violence, the abrupt madness which Ria unleashes upon the world, will shock and delight. But within this spectacle of destruction, a number of crucial questions arise: What has happened to the patience advocated by an earlier generation made up of dead loved ones, namely, Ria’s Nenek and Eedric’s mother? Does Ria’s decision to no longer run away and hide from the authorities reveal this ‘patience’ as an irretrievably lost virtue? Further, given the unique characteristics and abilities of the humanoids, they could have stood up to the humans, but why did they choose to live underground or even volunteer to defend Manticura when it was facing the threat of invasion by the Esomiri forces? These are provocative questions which the novel tosses to the readers.

To conclude, The Gatekeeper is a rare gem amongst Singaporean novels that broach the subjects of nationhood and belonging. It takes readers outside of their comfort zones and provokes critical thought without being dogmatic. In addition, there is a vibrancy and fluidity in the author’s prose that makes the novel a page turner. A final note: The ending of the novel (I will not spoil it for you) and its appendices are highly intriguing. They reveal the massive creative effort that has gone into the creation of this fictional world and the fierce imagination of the author. One of the novel’s most memorable reinvention is Medusa’s ancient name: Ria is both a ‘me-tura’ (Snake Woman) as well as ‘me tu’ra’ (storyteller or inscriber) in the fictional Tuyunri language. And much like the way her protagonist paints on, carves and reinvents the stone statues of the petrified men in her catacombs, Nuraliah Norasid has crafted a world that would both intrigue and fascinate. The Gatekeeper is a welcome addition to Singapore literature, and I would highly recommend that you pick up your copy today. ⬛

 


Michelle Chiang is a postdoctoral fellow at the School of English, University of Pennsylvania, and a research fellow at Nanyang Technological University. She is particularly interested in modern literature, the horror genre, and literature’s intersection with the philosophy of Time and Mind.

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