State of Emergency

by Jeremy Tiang

  “Smaller than Singapore?” interrupted Siew Li, whose grasp of geography was shaky, though even she could tell this was unlikely. Still, the idea of Britain being a small country was irresistibly odd.

  “Than China, of course. Maybe even Malaya.” She sounded less certain about this last point, but pushed ahead. “They have power because they’ve taken so much from us. Look what’s happening around you. White men saying this is their land and making us work on it for almost no money. It’s time for us to fight back. And that’s just the beginning—if the Chinese tycoons take over from them, that’s no better. So they do a bit of charity work and put their name on a school, that’s supposed to be enough? You know what a better world could look like. You know in your heart. Why not work to make it happen?”

  Siew Li had heard some of this before, but it sounded different in Lina’s voice, measured and reasonable even when shouted over the grating mechanical music of the ride. It all made a lot of sense. Of course the British should get out of Malaya—it wasn’t their country, and they’d given up what moral claim they had by getting defeated in the war. Of course a system where people shared and everyone had enough was the right one. Why should some be rich while others didn’t have enough to eat?

  Above all, she wanted to be like Lina. Turning her head, she surreptitiously glanced at the older girl’s profile. Such strength and determination. She thought of the British people she’d seen, their weak chins and watery eyes. Why had her country ever thought these should be the people in charge?

  They rounded a corner and suddenly were in hell. Paper flames licked at the sides of their carriage, and demons prodded sharp pitchforks at them. Siew Li smiled dreamily. None of this was remotely frightening, and seemed frivolous now. There was work to be done.

  “What will I have to do?” she asked.

  “Come to the study sessions, then we’ll see. You have to learn proper thinking. When your mind is right, maybe you can be useful. Helping to organise. Passing messages, maybe even to the unions. You look about twelve, the police won’t suspect you.”

  “The police?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Before she could ask any more, there was a last burst of spooky music and they were back in the open, rolling gently to a halt. In the bright glare of the carnival lights, it was momentarily hard to be sure what was real, whether that conversation had really taken place. Lina straightened her dress and strode to the nearest stall, where she bought two extravagant ice-cream cones with wafers and toppings. She handed one to Siew Li.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, just say you’ll do it.”

  “You know I will.”

  “And read Mao Dun,” added Lina. “Not the books they tell you to. Here. You can borrow one of mine.” She pulled a tattered paperback from her satchel and handed it to Siew Li. “I wouldn’t give it to you if I didn’t think you were ready for these ideas. It’s not safe.”

  This was the first time Siew Li had heard of a book being dangerous. “Why did you ask me?”

  “To the ghost train? You were there. I didn’t feel like

  going alone.”

  “No, to join you.”

  “We need people with brains. I was like you once, looking from the outside, too scared to take one more step. So here you are. I’m pulling in.”

  “Oh.” Was it permission she’d been waiting for? Perhaps.

  “I’ve seen you in the tuck shop, always sitting by yourself. You don’t have any friends because you’re too serious. Always thinking. Worrying. That’s okay, we need serious people.”

  “I thought maybe you took me on the ghost train to tell me all this without being overheard.”

  “Who’s listening? I just like rides.” Lina tossed her hair and started walking towards the exit. Siew Li scurried to keep up. “Tell you what, though. It’s good to know you’re not easily scared.”

  •

  It went very smoothly after that, as if the movement was where she’d been meant to be all along, and she’d just needed a switch to flick in her head. To start with, she was happy with the occasional approving nod from Lina, then that became less important. Being on the inside felt not just good, but right—the only place she could possibly be. Impossible to imagine the person she had been, drifting through the world with no thought for anything but her schoolwork and her mum, gliding through each day without looking beyond her immediate surroundings. How could she have been

  so unaware?

  She still wasn’t sure what made Lina single her out, but to be honest she’d previously attended events because all her classmates were going, or it looked like there might be some excitement to be had. The idea of actually making a difference hadn’t occurred to her. Now she was becoming enlightened, there was real fervour behind her chants. There was history behind what they were doing—they were part of a chain of progress, every link of which was vital.

  Already, amongst her comrades, there was a sense of having missed out on the headiest times. If they’d been a decade older, they would have joined Force 136 or the MPAJA, the guerrilla resistance against the Japanese; they would have gone to China to be part of the struggle, and shared in the glory of 1949. Things seemed grubbier now, less clear. It was easy to sit in a stadium as some firebrand flung strong words about, and to feel righteous and cleansed. But what good did that actually do? She listened to Lim Chin Siong, so stirring and strong. He’d been expelled for the exam boycott he organised; sitting there in her school uniform, Siew Li felt indicted, as if she’d never taken a real risk. They were under a state of emergency, and the National Service Act had been put in place just a couple of years ago, to co-opt their young men into fighting their brothers and sisters. With all this happening, how had she ever thought it was all right to be passive?

  Now she was listening for it, she could hear there was also something in the air, the possibility that this was a crucible, and everything the nation could become was here in this moment. Lina was right. War had levelled everything, and here was a chance to blaze through the world and make it fair again. So much of this was obvious—of course workers ought to own the means of production, of course it was wrong that the people who did the actual labour were least likely to enjoy the fruits. She understood now, that her life had been an exercise in false consciousness. When her mum told her to be grateful for what they had, she now knew this to be propaganda spread by the ruling classes to keep the masses down. What was gratitude but complacency and quiescence? It was imperative to demand more.

  She started writing pamphlets. So much of what she read was from China, and society here was different. Using local examples would surely do more to convince the Malayan people of these ideas. The things she said seemed obvious to her, and it was always startling how strongly her comrades responded. She could never put her name to these essays, which had to be copied and distributed in secret, but it was still amazing to think of her words spreading like that.

  During their June holidays that year, she convinced the rest of the leadership to try the life of a worker. Didn’t they want to experience the dignity of labour for themselves? How else could they truly understand the conditions they were striving to improve? Besides, they needed to be humble, otherwise there would be nothing setting them apart from the English school elites. She’d read Animal Farm, and knew the main thing in any movement was not to turn into the pigs.

  She and a few others got jobs at a construction site by the simple expedient of lying about their ages. The supervisor didn’t care, as long as they got the job done. It was shockingly simple—no thought at all required, just do as you’re told, move the bricks from this pile over there, mix this batch of mortar quickly and get it to the bricklayers before it starts to set. The girls were expected to work as hard as the boys, which Siew Li approved of, even if by the end of the first day she felt like her arms would never stop hurting. And what glory there was in good, honest work. She came home each day exhausted and sunbur
nt, her mother hovering anxiously and offering to just give her the money. But of course the wages were hardly the point—in fact, they came to almost nothing, just a few coins at the end of each shift. The iced drink vendors at the end of the lane were irresistible after so much thirsty work, and Siew Li ended up handing over her hard-earned cash for a clear plastic bag of Pepsi-Cola, invigorated and refreshed by the cool, dark fluid. Instant relief. You’re spoilt, she told herself sternly—if the real workers could see how frivolously she threw around her day’s earnings, what would they think? Yet by the time school started again, she had to guiltily admit that she’d spent every cent she’d earned, and there was nothing left at all.

  •

  Her first meeting with Jason was like something from a play—though not one of their educational plays, which would have had her falling for him only to be thoroughly betrayed. Real life was more complex, and she trusted her own senses that the boy she was spending time with was funny and clever, and she felt good when she was with him. Not false-consciousness good, actually comfortable and happy. He just clicked into place next to her, and even when they argued—which was often, seeing as each hated the other’s friends—it still felt like they were on the same side.

  Even after she’d been forced to abandon him, she clung tight to the memory of that first instant. The scene was dramatic enough, scores of students in uniform alongside the workers, at the gates of the Hock Lee Company—which had refused to allow its employees to join the Bus Drivers Union. When they barricaded the bus routes in protest, the company had called in the police to disperse them. She’d been one of the main student organisers, working fast to pull together support and reinforcements. It was crucial to let the bosses know they wouldn’t get away with this, and to force the government to come down on one side or the other, so people could see exactly what they stood for.

  It had been a good day. They’d linked arms and sung defiant songs, and never before had that line in the “Internationale” about hot blood surging through their chests felt so strong, so true. More than one worker had gruffly thumped Siew Li on the back and said it was youngsters like her who would make the difference, that their future was in her hands. She felt the responsibility of it, and replied gravely that she was honoured to play her part. Who could stand by at such a time?

  She’d broken away for a moment, and was fishing in her bag for her water bottle when she spotted him wandering by, in school uniform but nonetheless a different species from the rest of them. It was hard to explain how exactly she could tell—the strut of his walk, maybe, or the irony in his smile. “What’s going on?” he called.

  “You know what’s going on,” she said. No time for this.

  “Yup, saw it in the papers, came to see what’s happening.”

  “Join us?”

  “I don’t think I will, thanks.” His Chinese was stiff, as if he’d never actually had a conversation in the language. Typical Raffles boy. She switched to English for his benefit, never mind how awkward she found it. Let him see how hard it was for her, having to live in the world of white men’s words.

  He was curious, so he’d come to have a look. She was torn between admiration and disgust. To be so detached, like this was nothing more than spectacle. And yet, to step inside, rather than pretending they didn’t exist like most of his fellows—that was something. He was called Jason, he told her, like the leader of the Argonauts. She didn’t pretend to know what that was, and he said he’d tell her another time. His hair was long, almost foppish, and kept falling into his eyes. She resisted the urge to brush it back. He offered his hand, and when she took it, held on a second too long.

  “Be careful.” She nodded at the police, massing a short way off. “They might not be able to tell the difference between you and us. You don’t want to get arrested, do you?”

  “It might be fun,” he said, grinning. But she noticed he took a careful couple of steps back. Then someone flung a bottle and there was a lot of shouting. She quickly pulled her scarf across her face, before they could start with the tear gas. He disappeared, like evaporating steam, while her attention was elsewhere. Good self-preservation, she thought. And yet, the spot where he’d touched her felt warm, and there was a softness in her stomach that didn’t bode well.

  The unrest went on for three days, with quite a few injuries. Some of the leaders were arrested and charged with rioting. It was increasingly easy for people to get scooped up by the authorities, so this was nothing new. If they couldn’t find anything to charge you with, they could simply hold you as long as they liked. Just detention, no trial.

  And that might have been it, except he came looking for her. She came out of class to a flood of murmuring and giggling, the cause of which was apparent when she got to the gates—in defiance of the caretaker, who kept trying to shoo him away, Jason was on the pavement outside with an enormous bunch of flowers. Chrysanthemums, as if this were a funeral, but he wasn’t to know. She smiled at him, but kept on walking. He showed up again the next day, and on the third day she agreed to go out with him. She could feel the warmth radiating off his body, the animal energy that called to something in her blood. As soon as the cinema lights dimmed, their lips were pressed together, and afterwards neither of them could have told you the plot of the picture.

  She kept seeing him, lying to her mum and calling from phone boxes, but was too smart to let a boy distract her—either from her studies or the movement. They had more than ever to do, as the British prepared to leave. There were more than two hundred protests in 1955. They were doing important work, keeping the pressure up on the people in charge.

  The previous Chief Minister stepped down and was replaced by a man who took a hard line on the movement. “A running dog,” sneered Lina. “He just wants to keep the white men happy. What’s the point of independence, if we’re just going to be under people like him?” Siew Li tried to understand what was happening at the higher levels, but it felt like too many conversations were happening behind closed doors, the British speaking to the elite they’d educated, who were always flying off to London for talks there. Even without seeing through the currents of power, it was clear that the situation was about to get a lot harder for them.

  Sure enough, the following September, the Chinese Middle School Students Union was disbanded by the authorities, and a short while after that, Siew Li and some others were detained.

  •

  She saw them from her window, swarming out of two cars parked just downstairs. All those men coming to get a schoolgirl, she thought, unless there’s someone else in this block. But no, they were all hers. They seemed in no hurry, going through all her possessions, writing down the titles of books. “Read so much for what? Will Marx help you find a husband?” jeered one of them, even as he tilted the shelves to look behind them, as if there might be hidden messages there.

  She stood by, calm, the light from her desk lamp striking her jaw at what she hoped was a dashing angle, her heroism spoiled by her mother, who would not stop sobbing. “Go next door to Auntie Wang, Ma,” she called out more than once, but her mother refused to leave, pleading with the officers to let her off, her only daughter was all the family she had in the world, just a foolish girl who’d been led astray by her friends. She tried to shove things into Siew Li’s hands, clothes or food. “They won’t let me bring anything with me,” she said impatiently, tears prickling annoyingly at her eyes.

  Should she sing something? She wondered, as she was led from the flat. Something stirring, the “Internationale” perhaps, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her voice steady, and opted instead for dignified silence. There was no one around, but she knew the neighbours were watching from dark windows. She was in a simple flowered dress, her hair just down over her shoulders. In hindsight, she wished she’d changed into something a little more formal.

  The atmosphere in the car was almost jovial. The policemen laughed about what strange things people had in their flats, how scared this or th
at person had looked. “You not bad, right?” said one of them. “Still okay.” She didn’t deign to answer, just nodded a little and looked straight ahead, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Another late night,” he said, jabbing her arm to make her meet his eyes. “Lucky you’re the last one, otherwise I’d never see my kids.”

  At Central Police Station, she was brought into a small room and told to change into a uniform. Her things were put into a plain box and taken away from her. Something about the grubbiness of the room, its scuffed yellow walls and cheap wooden furniture, cut right through the shell of bravado. It started as softness beneath her feet, then a cold prickling from nowhere, and just like that she was terrified. She tried to pull herself together, to control her breath, but they were barking questions at her, and there was no chance to calm down. Whenever she paused to gather her wits, they shouted, “Answer! Are you thinking of a lie? We’ll find out, you know.”

  This wasn’t Hong Liniang going to the scaffold or the girl from Malacca facing the tiger, she realised. This wasn’t going to play out like any of the stories in her books, the ones they told each other or acted out on stage. There was nothing to fight here, no brave stand to be taken. They would simply hold her here, and so many other comrades, until they’d all been forgotten. She thought of her neighbours. People didn’t want heroes. They wanted a quiet life. What had she even been fighting for? She thought of all the causes, but none seemed so important that they should have landed her here.

  It was one thing to be a martyr, to end up dead and glorious. How long would anyone remember her? She could be down here a very long time. For all she knew, that was the government’s plan, to simply lock them all up out of sight until they slipped from people’s minds.