Melissa Lin Straits Times 29 Apr 12;
I used to ask my father if there were lions living in the forest opposite our Housing Board flat in Yishun.
He was a rubber inspector, working hard to support his family of four and I was his younger daughter. He would chuckle at my question and say: 'Of course not!'
But I was just a child then, and that was before I learnt that lions were found in the wild only in sub-Saharan Africa and the Indian sub-continent.
My parents, elder sister and grandparents moved into a new multi-generational flat near Yishun Park in 1987, two years before I was born. It was much bigger than the family's previous flat in Marine Parade and more conducive for child-rearing, my mother thought.
Always the practical one, she also liked that the bus stop was right next to the block and that the 11th-floor flat escaped the direct glare of the morning and evening sun. My father, a nature lover, was happy to live at a walking distance from the park and its untamed forest which included durian trees.
They swopped the sea view for this sea of greenery, which became the landscape of my childhood.
In my young mind, I would wonder about what was concealed beneath the towering trees and thick foliage.
My imagination would run wild, in a good way. Maybe if I ventured in deep enough, I would find the Faraway Tree that my favourite childhood author Enid Blyton described - a magical tree in the heart of an enchanted forest that was the doorway to places with names like The Land Of Toys and The Land Of Goodies. I desperately wished it existed.
My best friend from primary school and I would walk home in the afternoons along a road that cut through the park. At times, when there were no cars or other people present, we would shush each other, letting minutes pass in a silence broken only by the rustling of leaves. It was a lovely sort of quiet.
Over the years, our paths diverged and we have grown apart, but those moments still stay with me.
When I grew older, I would stand along the corridor of our flat in the evenings, gaze out at my forest and watch it darken as the sky became awash in breathtaking shades of orange, pink and purple. I no longer looked out for lions, but took in the tranquility, familiarity and a sense of home.
Unlike when I was a child and the tall trees seemed to stretch on forever, I could now see beyond its boundaries. The route around it was popular with joggers, including my mother who would go there for her daily evening exercise.
Earlier this year, my mother returned from a jog and announced that there was an excavator perched atop a small hill, and an army of workers looked like they were levelling the trees.
I cried out: 'No!' I was upset before I understood why.
Like my parents growing older or the waning of childhood friendships, this was another change I would have no control over and would have to learn to accept, grudgingly.
It is harder to articulate why I feel a tinge of sadness seeing heavy construction vehicles rumble down the road I used to walk to my primary school or watching the evening sun set against tree stumps and bare land.
To most people, trees are just trees. Nobody mourns their loss for long, not when they are removed for much-needed flats in land-scarce Singapore. No doubt the new development, when complete, will come with new landscaping, including new trees, which is the Singapore way.
But also being removed is the backdrop to my childhood memories, the setting of my imaginary adventures and a pocket of greenery that all my life provided respite after a long day, even when I merely stood and gazed at it.
From the corridor outside my flat, I can now spy other new developments in the distance. There are newly built HDB blocks and condominium showrooms peeking out from behind what remains of my beloved forest.
Perhaps I am just being sentimental, but surely, there is room for that in Singapore?
I will miss having this reminder of my childhood at my doorstep. Now, I will just have to dig deeper into my memories to remember what used to be.
Melissa Lin is a final-year student at the Wee Kim Wee School of Communication and Information at Nanyang Technological University and a former intern at The Straits Times.
