When Maya was younger, her father used to tell her stories about a little poor boy called ‘Belalang’, which means grasshopper in Malay. With bright imagery, he described how this little boy found a secret cave and learned of evil pirates who had stolen and hidden the King’s treasure in this cave. He knew that the King wouldn’t believe him, so he told his uncle, “Quick! Tell the King you are a prophet and you have had a vision of where his treasure is!” His uncle went to tell the King, and the King's guards found the treasure and captured the pirates! His uncle, now fully trusted by the King, received the title of the royal seer and he and Belalang enjoyed many riches. There is more to this story, but back to that later.

Maya viewed her memories as portals, snapshots of times before. She could remember many things from long ago, many stories from her culture. She grew up learning about the legend behind Chinese New Year; about the dragon Nian that terrorised the town until they fought back with all their might, and painted their doors red,  to scare him away for good. She grew up learning to sing ‘gong xi fa cai’ like any other Singaporean. Of course, she learned about Christmas and other Western stories from her mother. However, they were different memories. Sure, Cinderella had a similar message to Belalang, both fighting for freedom out of poverty. But only one story out of the two really meant anything to her.

Then everything changed. She moved far away from her old home, and to a new unfamiliar place. It was cold and gloomy to her. She didn’t understand the strange culture. Children here grew up learning about Hansel and Gretel, Snow White. Everyone here had different portals, different places to which they escaped. The windows of time and memory they peered in were smaller to her, bigger to them.

She was scared and upset. She had left everything behind, for what? She missed the Filipino auntie who had been by her side ever since she was a baby. She missed the smells of all sorts of food coming from the kitchen. She missed the bright lights and the city, the sounds of the early morning market (if she could be bothered to get up that early). She missed the streets filled with aunties and uncles selling wares. The kind aunties calling her ‘pretty girl’, the taste of puto, rainbow agar agar. Most of all, she missed the ones before, who had shared her stories and experiences. It wasn't perfect. She could still see the crooked windows of bitterness and despair. But it was home.

She tried sharing her windows, portals, and brightly coloured stories. All she received were confused stares. Not out of spite or meanness, the window just wasn’t there for them, not like it was for her. Some could understand, and for those people she was glad. But like a square peg in a circle, it was difficult, strange, and lonely in this new culture.

Her dark hair and eyes didn’t fit amongst the blondes and blue-eyed, the freckled redheads. She could see that, all too plainly. There were others like her but from different places. Some saw the unfamiliar land she had been thrust into as their home.

Eventually, she could understand the opportunity here, ones that she was never given before. She assimilated to this new land and eventually opened up new windows in her mind. She could see the beauty in these Western stories, and eventually, they wormed their way into her heart. New experiences, people, and stories made new windows for her.

However, when she returned home, it became strange to her. Maya realised that as she grew older, she no longer had the same view she had as a child. It was like someone had taken the puzzle that was her home and rearranged it in their own fashion. Pieces missing, and out of order, Maya looked in shock. What had become of her home to her? Or had she changed too much? Being of mixed ethnicity, she stood out against the sea of raven hair and eyes, and dark skin. She was too light-skinned, too light-eyed. Back in Australia, she stood out, and here she realised, where she had hoped to fit in, she stood out, maybe even more.

“Too light for home, too dark for an Aussie. Where do I go?”, Maya thought.

Her collection of memories, the portals she had collected over time, were aged. The memories and experiences she had saved did not match what she was looking at now. It was hotter, there were more people, trains, and buildings. It was like someone had stuffed it to the brim and shoved all the windows she had made out of reality. Singapore was nearly unrecognisable.

She cried, knowing that all that was left of her connection to culture was her portals, her snapshots, her family. Her father was getting older by the year, and being very aged already she was so afraid like all else, he too might fade away.

To be both is to see both and never truly fit in with either.

She returned to Australia and thought about it long and hard. She realised that what had dragged her down, to despair, was also her power. To be both is to see both, and while Maya might have never truly fitted in either, and probably never would, she could understand both and empathise with people. Her windows could be shared with countless others, with whom she could create even more.

“The beauty of me is that I am me. I don’t have to go anywhere, I am here. I am the shepherd to my stories, the creator of my portals”, Maya said and laughed to herself.

As she stared into the sunset, mulling over the epiphany, she realised one more important thing. She would never truly be at peace, the division of societies would never allow that, but what she realised was that she could be at rest knowing that she didn’t need to be.

But what happened to Belalang, you ask? Well, he and his uncle enjoyed their newfound fame. However, soon another King came, from another land, with his advisor. The two Kings argued over which of their subjects were smarter, Belalang’s uncle or this foreign King's advisor.

This King struck up a bet with Belalang’s King, saying “If your prophet can beat my advisor, I will give you all the gold in my ship. However, if my advisor can beat your prophet you must give me an equal amount of gold”.

The King agreed to that, and Belalang’s uncle panicked. He quickly found his nephew and asked, “Belalang! Belalang! The foreign king’s advisor has given me a problem and I must solve it by tomorrow! He gave me a stick, which was perfectly made,  and asked ‘which end of the stick is the top and which end is the bottom’”.

Belalang calmed his uncle and said, “Do not worry, their ship is docked below the cave, where there is a small hole I can listen through”.

So Belalang went back to the cave and listened to the advisor's answer to the problem. The advisor said, “The stick must be put into a bowl of water and the end that sinks to the bottom is the end of the stick and the one that floats is the top of the stick”. Belalang then went to tell his uncle and his uncle told the advisor the solution. Shocked, the advisor gave several more problems to Belalang’s uncle, and Belalang used the same method to solve them. Suddenly the advisor struck them with a surprise question.

He said, “Here, here! I have something in my hands. If you can figure out what it is in my hands, you win”.

Of course, neither Belalang nor his uncle knew the answer. His uncle wailed, “Belalang, Belalang”, lamenting his nephew.

The advisor stepped back in shock and said “How did you know?!”

For what was in his hand was a belalang, a grasshopper.

Eventually, the foreign King had to pay up the gold. As his ship left the harbour, Belalang and his uncle finally felt at peace, knowing that they would never have to return to their old lives again.

As Maya remembered the tale, she smiled, knowing that every one of her stories, whether from East or West, was a reflection of her, a version of her she was proud of, and always would be.

And, in true Western fashion, she lived happily ever after.

Inspired by the entire exhibition: ‘Mirrors of the East and West’ by May Moe. View the full collection and artist's statement here.