And The Walls Come Crumbling Down, Tania De Rozario


[an edited version of this review was published in the latest issue of Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. The original intended title was “Written on The Body: The centrality of the material in Tania De Rozario’s latest title.]

Written on The Body:
The centrality of the material in Tania De Rozario’s latest title.

by Diana Rahim

Tania De Rozario’s “And The Walls Come Crumbling Down,” is an exploration on home, love, family and loss. These concepts are familiar to us, but often in parochial terms shaped by dominant narratives or conditioned by arbiters of power like the state or religious authorities. We are told what home is supposed to look like (a happy state-approved, heteronormative nuclear family) and what love and family is supposed to be like (heteronormative too, amongst other things), and many a wordsmith have given words that help tide us through our experiences of loss and grief.

But what if the dominant understanding and narratives around family, love, and home are ones that exclude you? What if the world has failed to write you into its history and stories? At the heart of “And The Walls Come Crumbling Down”, I believe, is the act of writing one’s self into a world that has failed to include you in its writing.

While all the aforementioned terms are conceptually and personally explored, we can look into detail perhaps into how De Rozario deals with the notion of history. De Rozario encapsulates the experience of exclusion when she says:

“You never realise how personal notions of history are until yours has been erased.” (p 57)

If the conceptual understanding of history, home, family and love are those that one can never identify with, then you have to create your own and insist against its disappearance. When the girl De Rozario loved banished their romantic history to non-existence when she re-wrote her first love to be her husband, De Rozario is the one left to remember and sustain the truth:

“I still keep her letters in a box, in the bottom drawer, much like the way I kept that tabloid article about convent school lesbians. I keep them to remind myself how important it is that I write my own history.” (p. 57-58)

As constructed narratives, notions like history are shaped by the institutions and people that hold the power to speak it on their terms. If they are ideologically motivated, then history is bent to the shape of their ideology, though it purports to be an objective re-telling. To tell her own history then is to insist against its exclusion in the dominant shaping of history. It is to insist that one’s personal history is as much a part of the larger history that is shaped to be told to all. The personal is political.

At this point allow me a moment of important digression. In the chapter “Blueprints”, we are introduced to the inner world of a South Asian migrant worker, Bhavan, and this section reads as somewhat out of place in a book that has largely focused on De Rozario’s personal history. One can’t help but feel this section introduces a break from the narrative up till then. But if this section seems out of place, it is not thematically so. In the chapter’s attempt to understand the effects of the state’s organisation of space, homes, and therefore its citizens, one cannot exclude the migrants who have directly built the very spaces we inhabit when we work, play and rest.

In including the personal history and experience of Bhavan, De Rozario is implicitly insisting that the personal histories of all are intertwined, even those that are relegated to the margins. Bhavan’s experience and history are as important to her history, even if indirectly, and as part of it as all that has directly happened to her. Bhavan, like so many migrant workers in Singapore, are excluded in the dominant narratives of the state, their history and experience sanitised while their material conditions speak a dismal reality.

Bhavan was someone who had believed in the state’s story of itself:

“When he first landed, Bhavan had been full of hope. He had heard many things about Singapore — clean streets, fair government, lots of opportunity.”

But this is quickly dispelled by the material reality that he is confronted with when he arrives, the small dorms that allows little to no private space and the reality of having to work in the conditions that have been given to him in order to be clear of debt being amongst them. The truth of the concept then cannot be divorced from the material reality.

Going back to the discussion of history, it is thus more than just a mere narrative or concept to De Rozario. To her, history is also physically and materially experienced and expressed:

“I don’t want the kind of history taught for the purpose of propaganda and patriotism; the kind of past created to secure a safe future.

I want history. The moss that grows on walls, words that scar the skin, wrong turns, cracks in the stone, archaeologies of desire dug up like dirty laundry and flapping like wings in every back yard.” (p.110)

There is a shift here from the conventional ‘great-men’ or essentially a ‘top-down’ understanding of history to one that moves the reader’s gaze to the banality and minutiae of everyday life. History is thus not just a detached, intellectual concept to be conceived of in the mind, but something that is materially created and sustained and personal. She keeps the letters. She wants the moss that grows on walls. Even words, immaterial as they seem, are things that scar the skin. Elsewhere, she writes:

“Who knew the act of speaking could hurt so much? Could hold in its mouth that one concrete thing which gives weight to questions you never thought to ask ..” (p. 58)

This attention to the material is something that is present not just throughout this book, but also throughout her writing. I had noted even from her first book “Tender Delirium,” that De Rozario’s words are raw, visceral, vulnerable and achingly rooted in lived, material reality.

Even in describing her lover’s lie, she gives it a material presence:

“The lie got bigger as the day passed, expanding like some strange balloon animal out of control. It mutated, grew limbs, sprouted strange appendages, got so large that it blocked your eyes out.” p (33)

In making her case for her mother to choose her, the living, breathing person that is her daughter, over immaterial religious dogma, she says:

“Choose me. I belong to you. I am more than the myth of some made-up story. I am flesh. I am blood. I am yours. Choose me” p. 87

“And The Walls Come Crumbling Down,” then, is a book of the flesh and blood. The body. The material. It is no surprise that in exploring the concept of home, we are brought to focus on the material aspects (the door, drawers, bed, etc). The body of her lover is often the site of rumination. The body — whether the physical human body or the body of the home — is where rumination begins.

De Rozario’s attention to the material is thus an understandable extension of writing that focuses on the body. Exclusion is something material. We have seen this through how she understands history, but we also see it through the way she understands the concept of home. De Rozario’s understanding of home cannot be divorced from her personal experience of having had to leave her family home and moving from place to place while struggling to make ends meet. The physical experience of home informs the conceptual, personal understanding of home for her. In the end, home is located in her lover.

Yes, there can be something political about loving another person. There is politics behind leaving home. Making love. Losing your family. And the body is often lies at the focus of these contestations. The body is often the site of visible difference, it experiences direct violence and trauma. For many, the first line of exclusion and oppression is premised on presentation of their body, or their refusal to regulate their body according to accepted (and often repressive) sexual and social norms, and the pain that they will feel for their disobedience is often felt with their bodies as they are felt by the mind.

During the panel ‘Politics of The Body’ in the recent Singapore Writers Festival with panellists Tania de Rozario, Cyril Wong and A Mangai and chaired by Ng Yi-Sheng the centrality of the physical body was discussed in relation to the writing produced by the artists. The body is not just an apolitical space, but one where meanings are ascribed with or without the consent of the bearer. This is especially true when we talk about gender and sexuality. De Rozario had brought up early during the session that if her work was read as political, it is not because she intended to be political, but because society has rendered her existence and therefore her work, as political. Hearing her say that circled back to a moment years back when in a heated moment I had said something similar. A professor had found a certain Malay writer to be ‘too political’ for his taste, and I had retorted that said Malay writer was often times only writing about his reality and the realities of others as he observed. If this was found political it is not his fault, nor the fault of those who hold identities that render them political just by virtue of their existence in society and/or the world. Such a castigation reveals more about the speaker’s naivety or ignorance of the way the individual is politicised by forces outside of themselves, by power dynamics they are born into, than it does about the subject.


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