I have always instinctively found musical societies to be an enthralling hub where the most profound of identities — usually deep-seated in our subconscious mind — come to unveil themselves. My musical journey has always had me question: do I make music to reveal what I think I am? What people expect me to be? Or is it to pursue something beyond all this, an identity I don’t yet know?

When living in Singapore at age eight, I longed to join the brass band. I can’t remember if it was because media portrayed it as a ‘cool kids cave’, or because the trumpet assumed a brand of masculinity I was then trying to establish (once upon a time I was disgusted by skirts—but my wardrobe now begs to differ!). However, parental pressure got the best of me and I ended up in the school’s oriental orchestra, playing the Chinese zither, otherwise known as the guzheng. Yep, it was pretty much a typical ‘mum’s choice’, and for a kid like me, a good enough reason to give constant sneers and eye-rolls. Initially, at such a young age, those refined, ever-so-classical sounds of a 2500-year-old Asian string instrument were way beyond what I could meaningfully appreciate. I felt that the ancient zither — or any Chinese instrument, really —  surely could not blend into the cosmopolitan hustle and bustle of Singapore. And how could I fit in with my friends if everyone else was playing at the brass band?

“I just loved creating music, and the Chinese zither no longer seemed to belong in another universe.”

“When you grow up you will understand the value of playing Asian music”, my mum calmly responded.

I couldn’t, and just didn’t, want to process those words. Either way, as much as I resisted, I miraculously came to develop an insatiable curiosity for the zither. I so enjoyed the adrenaline rush of getting all my notes right (especially in those ‘quick-paced pieces’!), and shortly after, I was composing at age ten. Maybe it was because I was still too young, but at the time I didn’t see the zither as something that would define me culturally. I just loved creating music, and the Chinese zither no longer seemed to belong in another universe.

During my early teens, I moved from Singapore to my home country; for so long a period, the new school environment made me feel inevitably lonely. I tried turning to music for consolation, this time also honouring part of my family’s Japanese heritage by picking up the Japanese zither (or the koto). As much as I enjoyed my weekly sessions, sadly, the enthusiastic blaze I once had in Singapore was almost completely quenched. After my move, I sensed that most people just did not care about oriental music so much, and many even sneered at my musical interests. In one of my high school applications, I showed the pieces of koto music I had written, along with some teen trophies I had won internationally.

“I’m sorry, but we’re not interested in Asian music. We prefer the piano, cello, violin… you know, things like that”, the administrator replied, obviously disgusted at the sight of my oriental instruments.

I cried really hard that day. It wasn’t even like the school was looking to train western instrument talents — no, it was a standard, non-musical school that clearly would have benefited from students with all kinds of music talents. Why are we negating our very own rich musical background — mercilessly trampling it underfoot — when we are clearly speaking an incredible Asian language, and growing muscle and blood from amazing Asian food?

I do appreciate everything about Beethoven and Vivaldi, but I couldn’t help but think about how oriental classics are slowly dying under western mainstream influence in my very own country. I couldn’t say if I were ashamed, disheartened, or both. But whatever it was, for almost a decade, I kept my guzheng and koto under the covers.

Things took another turn when I started a life in Cambridge. Scrolling down my Facebook feed in March 2019, I taken by surprise to discover the Cambridge University Chinese Orchestra Society (CUCOS), mostly because it was in a seemingly very white, European context where I least expected it. I was a little skeptical about how oriental music was to be received in Cambridge, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to give it another try if others were bravely doing it as well.

And it turned out to be incredibly refreshing and inspiring — one of the best decisions I have made in this country. There is an interest in hearing rhythms that nurtured people from a faraway corner of the world. For me it didn’t matter if people ultimately liked the oriental style of music. I appreciated the fact that they gave it a chance, at a time where Asian identities are largely challenged around the globe. For me, the opportunity to not only present, but to rediscover, rebuild, relive and re-love my Asian-ness means a lot. My mum was right: there is so much cultural value in preserving my own music. And this time, I was old enough to understand just how much music can keep us going amidst the dynamic ebb and flow of identity change.

And I’m sure it’s not just the CUCOS that creates amazing experiences. The plethora of culture and heritage-based societies in Cambridge — musical or non-musical — represent a diligently evolving Cambridge that bravely resists the narrow-minded, xenophobic hate that sometimes lurks among our walls.

Within this fairly white city, it is heart-warming to see these societies being supported, allowing people to proudly display their roots loudly in the face of lingering racism. They are a driving force that little by little, moves our university forward and shapes Cambridge to be the open-minded, liberal world-class institution that it passionately promises to be.