By Yeow Kai Chai

A decade ago, our paths crossed. Yeo Whee Jim was a Senior Director in the Arts and Heritage Division at the Ministry of Culture, Community and Youth (MCCY), and I the Festival Director of Singapore Writers Festival.

Suffice to say Whee Jim and I did not always see eye to eye, but one thing is undisputed – he was clear, fair, and gentlemanly, and that was tremendously helpful. He did not dabble in double speak. I appreciated that.

Fast forward to June 2024: Whee Jim made an unexpected debut as a poet with his first book Itinerary (Word Image). Since then, he has been in the public eye – via his books, op-eds in the papers, a photo exhibition, and an appearance on a podcast – for his advocacy for more awareness of ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis), an aggressive neuromuscular disease which affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord.

A former civil servant with more than two decades in public service, he was diagnosed with the illness in February 2023, and has lost his fine motor skills and the ability to control his limbs. Paul Tan, the poet and a former colleague, encouraged him to write a think piece on creating lasting legacy for The Straits Times, and later, to process his emotions and thoughts through verse.

With the use of a voice-to-text software, he completed Itinerary, a contemplative folio on mortality, penned mostly in English, and peppered with choice lines in Mandarin, Malay, Japanese, Cantonese and, yes, Singlish. A single parent after his wife died of breast cancer in 2013, he regards the book as a way to let their teenage daughter understand how he has been feeling. The title made it to the bestsellers list and raised funds for the Motor Neurone Disease Association Singapore (MNDa).

In January this year, he achieved another feat – Moving: Yeo Whee Jim's Photographs and Reflections (Dakota Books), an elegant hardcover title which contains awe-inspiring images he took in Singapore and on his travels in places as far-flung as South Africa, the Galapagos Islands and the Arctic.

Net proceeds for the book directly support the Children's Aid Society (CAS) to raise funds for Melrose Home, a residential home offering round-the-clock care and support to children and youths aged six to 21 years old who are facing challenging family circumstances or child protection issues. Both Itinerary and Moving were made possible with the benefaction of veteran publisher Fong Hoe Fang who published them under his imprints, and Chan Wai Han who designed Moving. 

Despite daunting physical constraints, Whee Jim kindly agreed to this interview.

YKC: Thank you, Whee Jim, for taking the trouble to answer questions about your second book, Moving. I appreciate the wordplay in the title. Can you tell us how you came to name it? Were there other potential titles you considered?

YWJ: Thanks to my brilliant editor Yap Su-Yin, ​Moving was one of the first titles that came to our minds. It's a simple, everyday word, yet holds many meanings.

It's about movement, like the shifting of my body, the way I move through the world. It's also about emotion, how a photograph or a memory can move me. And it's about the passage of time, from one place or stage of life to the next. This felt like just the right title.

YKC: Moving is a tribute to your late father, a former camera repairman, and a love letter to your daughter who will outlive you. Sieving through the photographs that you had taken over the years, how did you decide on the musical movement as a guiding principle on sequencing?

​YWJ: My father was a quiet man, and our conversations were seldom about repairing cameras. Yet, he managed to teach me to see the world differently, through a lens. "See, this is how you hold the camera tightly before you press the shutter," he would guide me. I wanted this book to reflect that.

Music has always been a big part of my life, so it felt natural to use musical movements as a way to group the photos. It's like a symphony, with different parts coming together to form a whole. The fast movements are full of action and energy, while the slow ones are more meditative. It's a way to tell a story without words, and it felt right for a book that is so personal.

YKC: What are some of the surprising insights did you discover about yourself, your life and your relationships, as you sieved through the photos?

​YWJ: I'm a hoarder of memories, so I have a lot of pictures. Going through them was like going through my life. I realised how much my family and friends mean to me. Seeing all these pictures of my wife and daughter, it reminded me of the love and joy we've shared.

I also saw how much I've changed, how my perspective has shifted over the years. It was a good reminder of what truly matters.

YWJ: Itinerary was a very different book. It was my way of making sense of things with my world spinning out of control, of finding a voice when my body was failing. It was a very difficult process. Physically taxing, emotionally draining.

I still feel like I'm not a natural poet, but the book means a lot to me. It's a testament to the fact that you can find a way to express yourself, no matter the circumstances. It's a record of my life, my struggles, and my hope.

YKC: As for Moving, this feels more at ease, like you are settling into your groove. As a photographer, what do you look out for in your visual compositions? And what have you learnt from your father?

YWJ: Moving is a different kind of book. It feels more at ease because it's less about the struggle and more about the beauty of the world. As a photographer, I'm drawn to simplicity. I don't like cluttered images. I look for clean lines, good light, and a sense of space.

My father taught me to pay attention to details, to see the beauty in everyday things, like the way the light hits a wall or the texture of a flower. He also taught me patience. Sometimes the best pictures are the ones you wait for.

YKC:  There is a stillness in many of the nature photographs that I enjoy. These include the cerulean waters of MacRitchie Reservoir and the breathtaking landscape of the Arctic wilderness. What does nature mean to you, and how has it inspired you?

YWJ: Nature is a refuge for me. When I'm out in nature, I feel a sense of peace. I forget about my illness and the challenges of my body. It's a reminder that I'm just a small part of a much bigger world.

The stillness I try to capture is a reflection of my own desire for inner peace. It's a way of slowing down and appreciating the beauty that is all around us, even in a busy city like Singapore. The Arctic was a special place. It made me feel so small and insignificant, but also part of something grand and beautiful.

YKC: These photos are interspersed with intimate and casual snapshots of family and friends. One particular double-page spread is especially striking –  a picture of the silhouettes of three pigeons on a cable-wire side by side with a wefie of you, your wife and your daughter in a car. Can you talk about the juxtaposition of these two visuals, and your decision to share more about your family?

YWJ: I chose to put those two photos together because they tell a story.

The pigeons on the cable wire are like a little family, just sitting there, together. The wefie in the car is also a family moment. It's a way of saying that family is everywhere, in the most ordinary of moments. My illness has made me realise that these moments are precious, and they should be celebrated. I wanted my daughter to have this record of our life together.

YKC: As a prominent civil servant for most of your career and now a poet and photographer, do you see a conflict or a harmony between the public and private roles?

YWJ: I don't see a conflict. My work as a civil servant was about serving the public, and my work as a poet and photographer is also about sharing something with others. I'm still the same person. The public role was more about policies and big ideas, while the private one is about feelings and personal experiences. But they both come from a place of wanting to make sense of the world and to connect with others.

YKC: People often take their sensory gifts for granted.  As your illness leaves you increasingly immobile, what would you tell readers about the strengths and limits of the human body, and what should we value about it?

YWJ: My body is a constant reminder of the fragility of life. We take so many things for granted, like the ability to walk, to speak, to hold a pen. My illness has taken those things away, but it has also taught me to value what I have.

My senses are still sharp, I can still see, hear, and feel. I would tell readers to appreciate the simple things. The feeling of the sun on your skin, the sound of a bird singing, the taste of a good meal. Don't take them for granted. Our bodies are remarkable, but they have limits. We should be grateful for them while we can.

YKC: What is a perfect day?

YWJ: A perfect day, for me, is a simple one. I open my eyes and thank God. Not with grand words, but a quiet gratitude that I'm not in much pain today, even though my body won't move where I want it to go. I'm aware of the steady hum of the ventilator, keeping rhythm for my breath, helping me stay alive.

My caregiver enters the room, gentle and practised. She lifts my arm, and there's a familiar pop as the bone settles back into the joint. She holds it still, lets me find a deep stretch. The pain is sharp and real. But it is the kind I welcome – more like the ache after a good massage than something to fear. The pain announces that I am still alive.

Breakfast follows. I taste runny kopitiam eggs, slick with soy sauce and dusted with white pepper. That hit is unmistakable, a small pleasure that never gets old. I am alive, though still not kicking.

I wait for the day's visitors: friends and family. Those who show up, sometimes quietly and sometimes with laughter. Before anything else, I say another prayer, quietly. Gratitude again. I just know it's going to be a perfect day. It's never about chasing anything extraordinary. Not about doing but just about being. Alive. 

That is enough.

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