留下 Staying

 

 

热带的忧郁，是你以为所有发光的物体都是有温度的。月亮，以及稀疏的星子，恣意狂欢的夜。你不曾告诉我，热带的孤枕，也有取暖的渴望。

二十年前，初来新加坡的一个不眠之夜，我写下了这些句子。

我的渴望，在三个月后必修课“元明清文学”的最后片刻，在那首“真心英雄”唱的“把握生命里的每一分钟，全力以赴我们心中的梦。不经历风雨，怎么见彩虹，没有人能随随便便成功…。”七十双热切的眼睛里闪着泪光，有纸条传来，写着：“希望老师陪着我们毕业。”得到了彷徨的回应。

我申请延长海外研修，直到期满，下定決心离开台湾。我给原来的工作单位和南洋理工大学中文系的同事们都发了电邮。邮件的题目就是：“留下”。我說：

“凡走过的，必留下痕迹。有的人留下的是珠玑；有的人留下的是垃圾。

而我，能留下什么呢？

这是我来到新加坡以后，才意识到，并且开始认真思考的问题。

决定留在南大，我以为一个学术单位不缺专业的研究人员，而师资尚未完备的南大中文系需要我的一点力量。尤其体会到，自己正在为南洋一带的华人文化与文学培养传承者，这是我在台湾教书时从未经验过的责任感。

人生无法重来，我希望我的人生抉择不是一厢情愿。”

那天是 2008 年 5 月 9 日，中文系准备从澳洲聘任新的系主任，我提出了自己的看法。5月11日，我特地去“参拜”了南洋大学的“真迹”牌坊，默默许愿。。

我留下，是因为相信。

相信一个刚刚成立不久的中文系，有望一起建设；相信华文教育在这个岛国，昂首迎向未来；也相信，一位教师除了研究与写作，还可以为一个文化共同体做一点事情。

如今二十年过去，我常常想，如果当年知道后来会经历的一切，我还会不会作出同样的决定？

后来，我经历过办公室政治，经历过误解与伤害；曾经为了维护自己的尊严与公义，不得不寻求法律的协助和保护。那些日子非常不好过，深深在我心底烙下阴影。

今天回头望去，我发现：当年真正留下来的理由，并不是预想一切顺心称意，而是因为所有的经历，都成为生命未知的一部分。

如果没有留下，我不会在2014年创发文图学；不会在2017年与志同道合的朋友们成立文图学会，也不会一路走到今天，让文图学从一个研究构想，逐渐成为许多学者共同参与、不断发展的学术视野。如果没有留下，我不会担任中文系主任，与同事一起规划中文系的发展。

这些年来，我最难忘的，并不是出版了多少本书，也不是获得了什么奖项，而是文物艺术导览或公众演讲结束以后，总有人走过来，对我说：“原来博物馆可以这样看。”“我竟然听得懂大学教授讲的话！”

还有学生告诉我：“我没想到会期待上您的古典文学课。”

每一次听见这些话，我都庆幸，当初留下来的决定，是值得的。

我渐渐明白，一个学者真正留下来的，不一定是自己的名字，而是别人度过人生的方式。或许，这正是我二十年来最大的收获。

新加坡给予我的，不只是一个谋生的职场，而是一种观看世界的立场。

它让我站在不同文化交会之处，重新理解中国，也重新理解东亚，更重新理解自己。

人年轻的时候，总想着到哪里去。

后来才知道，更重要的是，在哪里留下什么。

二十年前，我留下，是因为有人希望我留下。

二十年后，我还在这里，还有许多值得继续努力的工作；还有许多文化值得继续传承创新；还有许多人愿意和我一起相信，人文学并没有淘汰，阅读、审美与思考，依然能够温暖这个时代。

于是，我终于明白——“留下”，是在一片土地上，把自己慢慢活成一道风景；把一点点微弱的光，继续照亮前方的道路。

当年那个住进校园宿舍、望着热带夜空的异乡人，不会知道二十年后的今天，会写下这篇文章。而今天的我，只想轻轻对二十年前的自己说一句：“刚刚好，你选择了留下。”

 

——纪念2026年7月16日，移居新加坡20年。

 

2026年7月18日，新加坡《联合早报》上善若水专栏。

 

Staying

I Lo-fen

The melancholy of the tropics lies in believing that everything that shines gives off warmth. The moon, a scattering of stars, a night reveling without restraint. You never told me that even a solitary pillow in the tropics longs for warmth.

Twenty years ago, during a sleepless night shortly after arriving in Singapore, I wrote these lines.

Three months later, in the final moments of the compulsory course “Literature of the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties,” my longing received a hesitant response. As the song “True Heroes” played—

“Seize every minute of life,
Give everything for the dream in our hearts.
Without weathering storms, how can we see the rainbow?
No one can succeed without effort…”

tears glistened in seventy pairs of eager eyes. A note was passed to me. It read: “We hope you will stay with us until we graduate.”

I applied to extend my overseas research leave to its full term and resolved to leave Taiwan. I sent emails to my former institution and to my colleagues in the Chinese Division at Nanyang Technological University. The subject line was simply: “Staying.”

I wrote:

“Wherever we have passed, we inevitably leave traces behind. Some leave pearls and gems; others leave rubbish.

What, then, can I leave behind?

It was only after coming to Singapore that I became aware of this question and began to contemplate it seriously.

In deciding to stay at NTU, I believed that an academic institution would never lack professional researchers, but the still-developing Chinese Division needed whatever strength I could offer. Above all, I came to realise that I was helping to nurture those who would carry forward Chinese culture and literature in Nanyang. This was a sense of responsibility I had never experienced while teaching in Taiwan.

Life cannot be lived again. I hope that the choice I have made is not merely wishful thinking.”

That day was 9 May 2008. The Chinese Division was preparing to appoint a new head from Australia, and I offered my views. On 11 May, I made a special visit to “pay homage” to the “authentic” archway of Nanyang University and silently made a wish.

I stayed because I believed.

I believed that a recently established Chinese Division could be built together; I believed that Chinese-language education on this island could hold its head high and embrace the future; and I believed that, beyond research and writing, a teacher could still do something for a cultural community.

Now that twenty years have passed, I often wonder: had I known then everything I would later experience, would I still have made the same decision?

In the years that followed, I experienced office politics, misunderstandings, and hurt. To defend my dignity and uphold justice, I once had no choice but to seek legal assistance and protection. Those were extremely difficult days, leaving deep shadows imprinted upon my heart.

Looking back today, I realise that the true reason I stayed was not because I expected everything to proceed smoothly and according to my wishes, but because every experience would become part of life’s unknowable unfolding.

Had I not stayed, I would not have founded Text and Image Studies in 2014. I would not have established the Text and Image Studies Society with like-minded friends in 2017, nor would I have travelled this far, allowing Text and Image Studies to grow from a research concept into an academic perspective in which many scholars now participate and which continues to develop. Had I not stayed, I would not have served as Head of the Chinese Division and worked with my colleagues to plan its future development.

What I remember most vividly from these years is not how many books I have published or what awards I have received. It is that, after a guided tour of cultural relics and art or a public lecture, someone will invariably come up to me and say, “I never knew a museum could be viewed this way,” or, “I can actually understand what a university professor is saying!”

Students have also told me, “I never imagined that I would look forward to your classical literature class.”

Every time I hear these words, I feel grateful that my decision to stay was worthwhile.

Gradually, I came to understand that what a scholar truly leaves behind is not necessarily her own name, but the way other people live their lives. Perhaps this has been my greatest gain over the past twenty years.

What Singapore has given me is not merely a workplace in which to earn a living, but a standpoint from which to view the world.

Standing at the confluence of different cultures, I have been able to understand China anew, to understand East Asia anew, and, even more importantly, to understand myself anew.

When we are young, we are always thinking about where we should go.

Only later do we realise that what matters more is what we leave behind, wherever we may be.

Twenty years ago, I stayed because someone hoped that I would stay.

Twenty years later, I am still here. There is still much worthwhile work to pursue; there are still many cultures whose traditions deserve to be carried forward and renewed; and there are still many people willing to believe with me that the humanities have not become obsolete—that reading, aesthetic appreciation, and thought can still bring warmth to this age.

And so, I finally understand: “staying” means slowly living oneself into a landscape upon a piece of land, and allowing one’s faint glimmer of light to continue illuminating the road ahead.

The stranger who moved into a campus apartment and gazed at the tropical night sky could never have known that, twenty years later, she would write this essay. Today, I only wish to say softly to the person I was twenty years ago:

“It was just right—you chose to stay.”

—In commemoration of 16 July 2026, marking twenty years since I moved to Singapore.

 

18 July 2026, “The Shang Shan Ruo Shui Column,” Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.