State of Emergency

by Jeremy Tiang

  The night of the next meeting, Mrs Chiam begged him not to leave the house. “The bandits are out again, everyone’s saying. They stopped a bus in Jinjang yesterday, tried to take everyone’s identity cards. Mrs Wong at the market told me. It’s like the old days.”

  “I’ll be all right,” he said, “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Is it a girl? There’ll be time for girls later, if you don’t lose your life. I dreamt there was a fire, I dreamt the house burnt down and all our children died. Stay at home tonight.”

  He was touched, never having realised he was more to her than a valued employee. But this was important. She was right, there was danger out there. And he knew which side of it he wanted to be on. He could be a victim forever. His father had been shot in the back, and his killer never punished. The powerless would never be safe. The system itself had to be overthrown.

  A light drizzle fell as he ran through the streets, probably faster than was safe on the slippery pavement. The future was ahead of him. He could taste it. When he thought of how open and optimistic the comrades had been, he felt ashamed. Why had he thought the natural state of man was to be cynical and suspicious, like himself? That’s how far he’d been deformed by the system. If everyone was selfish and mistrusting, they would all die alone. He was going to join the struggle to smash the barriers keeping everyone down, and without the oppressors forcing them to compete against each other, they’d be free to unite. It was so simple. Why had he ever been unsure?

  He gave the password and slipped into the hall. Siew Li saw him and came over right away, radiant. She’d looked at him and known. “I’m joining you,” he said, and she pressed her lips to his, just for a moment, so quickly it might almost not have happened. She took his hand. “Come, they’ll tell you what you need to do next. I’m so happy.” He followed behind her, unable to name the feelings bubbling inside him, knowing only they felt barely contained, as if he might explode at any moment.

  •

  Only a few of them were to enter the jungle at the same time—this was usual, going in small groups to avoid detection. A little before midnight, they arrived one by one at the meeting place, a disused petrol station some distance from the main road, knowing each other from the identifying marks: a red cloth tied around one wrist, a cigarette behind the left ear. There were four others besides him, all young men. They nodded, but no one wanted to be the first to speak. He wondered if Siew Li was elsewhere at that moment, meeting her own group, all of them droplets of water trickling towards the vast ocean.

  He smelled frangipani in the air. The Malays said this meant a pontianak was in the vicinity, waiting to tear your soft belly open with her claws and devour your insides with her comely mouth. A dog howled, far away. The air was thick and heavy, heat rising like a plague from the dark tar of the road. He thought of his mother, wished he could have left her a note. He thought about the many branches of Sungai Sendat, the streams across Batang Kali he would never see again. All these years, and he’d never looked for his father’s grave. That was behind him now, the river moving inexorably onwards, new lands ahead.

  The pick-up truck arrived dead on time. The driver jumped from the cabin and said the password, and they each responded correctly. Piled into the back as it sped off, they could have been itinerant workers being ferried to a construction site. Hunched against the sides, knees drawn up to their chins, they knew they ought to sleep, but their eyes remained bright and open. Small bundles of possessions rattled by their feet, now and then jolted into the air by the bumpy road.

  After five hours along dirt tracks, the driver pulled up. “Rest,” he said. They were to start thinking of what their new names would be. This was why they hadn’t shared their old names—as long as they told no one here, there’d be nothing to betray, and their families would be safe. As brothers of the same batch, they would share the same first character.

  Without much thought, going by instinct, they settled on Xiong, and Nam Teck became Xiongmin, a hero of the people. They spoke Mandarin, not their hometown dialects, and managed to make themselves understood to each other. In the jungle they would speak only Putonghua, the common tongue, just as in China. Each camp would have former teachers to drill them in the language, and anyone too old or stupid to learn would have to be a cook or builder, not a fighter.

  They slept fitfully as the full moon spilled pallid light over the uncovered truck, until the grunt of the engine starting woke them. Treetops flew by overhead, glints of sun beginning to peek through. When they stopped again, the driver grinned, “Welcome to Perak.” They’d crossed the state line, using small roads to avoid police checkpoints. He tossed them a bag with their breakfast in it: rice and a small piece of fish, individual portions wrapped in leaves.

  Not twelve hours after leaving Kuala Lumpur, there they were in the jungle. The next part of their journey would be on foot. A faint dawn haze rose from the ground, clammy and unwelcome. Nam Teck, now Xiongmin, felt an apprehensive sweat form down his back, and soon was uncomfortably damp. He worried about wild animals, but for all the crackling noises in the distant undergrowth, saw no other living creatures. They left the road behind, and the canopy overhead grew thicker, shading the air dark green.

  They were far enough in to be uncertain of the way out, when they came to a wooden structure, an open-sided hut. Two men and a woman were waiting, all of them no older than 20. The woman welcomed them formally, saying they must now renounce their old way of living. Here they would be awake, and see the world as it was. The driver melted away—he wasn’t one of them, but a sympathiser from the outside. He shouldn’t see what came next. The new comrades swore an oath before a picture of Lenin, torn from a book and pinned to one of the wooden posts.

  Xiongmin said his new name out loud, and already it belonged to him. One of the men made a speech full of revolutionary slogans and allusions to the glorious motherland, China. To finish the ceremony, they sang “March of the Righteous Forces,” their voices surprisingly resonant in the empty jungle. Then a sack of uniforms was produced, and they swapped around until they all had a set that fit. No insignia, no ranks. They were all Ma Gong now, all equal, all comrades. In uniform, they looked older, wearier. Xiongmin wondered if his expression was the same as the others: excitement subsiding, jaw set, as if against the hard whisper of fear.

  They had a long walk ahead. The woman showed them how to tuck their trousers into their boots to guard against leeches—the big ones here could suck a man dry. They were given things to carry—supplies, groundsheets, other necessities. Weapons would come later. “We’ll protect you for now,” said one of the men, and with that they were led into the dark heart of the jungle.

  •

  He adjusted to his new life in a very short time. Everyone here was young, no one over 30 and most quite some years under. He wondered if this is what university would have been like, if he’d been the sort of person who’d gone—the camaraderie, the joy and energy of youth. The strict routine made it easy to forget there’d ever been any other way of living. He’d expected tents, but this was a sizeable compound, wood and rattan buildings housing two hundred. Dormitories, huts for storage, large lecture classrooms. Even a swimming pool, improvised by damming a section of river.

  The day began before dawn with calisthenics, their vigorous voices counting out tens in unison, like youth camp. He worried that they’d be heard, but the others assured him the nearest village was dozens of miles away, and the treetop sentries would spot intruders long before they came within earshot. Siew Li was here too, to his relief—if she’d been sent to a different camp, he might not have seen her for a long time. She was now calling herself Lifeng, sharp phoenix. No one was ever alone in this place, so private conversation was impossible, but he was certain the glances they exchanged were meaningful.

  They seemed to sing all the time. Even by the stream, cleaning themselves, the air was jolly with song. Mostly revolutionary anthems, but also folk tunes, to remind themselves of th
eir connection to the people. Drying himself with a Good Morning towel, the same as he’d had in town, Xiongmin thought what a beautiful world he’d landed in. His comrades trooped along the forest floor chirping like birds, strong music buoying them. After parade each morning, they sang “The Red Flag.”

  Learning to use a gun was easier than he expected. His hands were steady, and he was soon able to hit a target from a couple of hundred paces. The rifles needed to be cleaned and oiled every day so the humidity of the jungle didn’t rust them. They practiced marching with weapons by their sides, until he forgot he was carrying one. Compared to their heavy rucksacks, the gun weighed nothing at all.

  With such an early start, by breakfast time he felt like he’d done a full day’s work. The food was indifferent, boiled tapioca with some vegetables if they were lucky. Hot water to drink. He missed coffee, but was careful not to complain. Fresh food was hard to come by, of course, though there was talk in the camp of starting a vegetable garden. They’d been there long enough that it looked like they might be able to stay.

  The bulk of the day was taken up by xuexi—learning. Apart from Mandarin lessons (they called it “national language”), there were lectures on all sorts of subjects. They pooled their knowledge. He learnt about the geography of Russia and China, the countries they sought to emulate. There were propaganda talks to make sure they understood the ideology correctly. Weak points in their thinking were ferreted out and eliminated. Had he been damaged by his years in the city? They praised his early beginnings, marked out as a revolutionary by his treatment at the hands of British oppressors. He learnt to think of Batang Kali as a battle, his mother’s village a concentration camp, his dead father a martyr in the struggle. He’d been angry before, but now his rage had a focus. Language and theory showed him how to understand what had happened. Mr Chiam was now an object of pity, so trapped in his cowardice and bourgeois preoccupations that he could think only of petty wealth, rather than using his abilities to further the cause of his race.

  This was heady talk. They egged each other on, growing loud and agitated. Their patrol leader was a man known as Chengyi, perhaps 22, with a gift for whipping up patriotic sentiment and fanning discontent. It was right for them to be angry, he said. The Ma Gong had defeated the Japanese and forced the white devils from Malaya, yet this country was still not theirs. Not till they’d cleared the dead wood from the top would they be able to hold their heads up. How could they claim independence, when the government remained a lackey of foreign powers, in thrall to the parasite sultans? All around him, heads nodded. He was so wise, able to put into words the thoughts they’d had all along.

  Chengyi was tall and square-jawed, exactly like the strapping heroes on the covers of their revolutionary books. He could have had any woman he wanted, but as far as anyone knew he was celibate. The camp on the whole was not expected to indulge in personal relationships, for fear it would complicate matters. This made sense to Xiongmin. Isolated in the jungle with five males to each female, the potential for jealousy was too great. Maybe after the revolution, he thought, looking at Lifeng. Anyway Chengyi didn’t have the time, working so tirelessly for the good of the community, chopping wood, building huts, full of revolutionary fervour—anyone who felt themselves wavering only had to talk to him for half an hour to find their spirits renewed.

  After dinner (rice, salt fish, sweet potato), they sang or read. Sometimes, there’d be a discussion before bedtime. Topics were proposed, then debated if there was sufficient interest. Was smoking tobacco ideologically sound? Would the non-Chinese have a place in Soviet Malaya? What were the lessons of the Emergency? The atmosphere was feverish. Anything could be said at these times. Rumours and complaints were damaging when covert, and murmuring was severely dealt with—but here, in the open, even the leaders could be criticised in the harshest terms. Why, Lenin himself could be questioned. The leadership was only temporary, after all, and would be dismissed after the revolution. Openness and transparency was all.

  Some nights, there would be the special treat of a concert. Any excuse, any Soviet or Chinese festival, would see them rigging up a stage from tables and blankets. Food was a little more plentiful on these occasions, and the day would be given over to rehearsing. More girls in pigtails harmonising prettily, more revolutionary heroes thwarting the plans of vicious imperialists. They always finished with sponge cake, steamed over the camp fire, and the rousing “Internationale”.

  A whistle blew at nine, and the lamps were put out, though a fire burnt through the night to keep wild animals away. Xiongmin found himself exhausted at the end of each day, his hands callused from the unaccustomed work. He missed the moments of forgetfulness at the workshop, for it seemed that in the jungle all should be focused on revolution, every action examined for its correctness. But that was as it should be, the only way to change the world. He was committed to this new, aware way of living. Lying on his canvas bed, listening to the mysterious noises of the jungle, hooting, clicking, the warm breath of wind through the vast overhead canopy, he tried not to think of his old life. Look forward, he chided himself, think of the world to come.

  •

  The first killing was unexpected. The scouts had found no enemy activity, and there’d been no surveillance planes—not that they’d have been able to see through the thick treetops to the camp anyway. They were safe, in their closed world. Xiongmin took pleasure in the simple rhythms of their routines, sometimes even forgetting that this struggle meant something in the world outside.

  They were marching through the jungle, a small detachment of eight. Two went ahead, clearing a path, the four in the middle had their rifles ready, and the two behind concealed their tracks. He looked back once or twice, fascinated by their thoroughness—sweeping a broad coconut frond across to eliminate footprints, then scattering dried leaves and dirt. No one could have guessed a patrol had passed through here, or that there’d ever been a path between these trees. They were forest spirits, magic, leaving nothing behind, unlike the clumsy government men whose rubbish they came across from time to time. Empty tins. Bits of torn uniform. Snapped branches.

  They were hunting for supplies. On the way back they would gather firewood, but their main target was game. They hadn’t had meat for a while, and one of the look-outs had reported seeing a young elephant not far from the camp. If it was separated from its herd, they’d be able to kill it without much danger. Those who’d eaten elephant said it tasted like pork. The trunk was the best bit.

  This wasn’t Xiongmin’s first time in the jungle, but he was excited nonetheless. They were going a good ten miles from camp. It had been months, and still he felt a twinge of unreality, unable to believe he’d found his way to this extraordinary place. The petty quarrels and compromises of Kuala Lumpur seemed distant and grubby now, and he couldn’t imagine why he’d allowed them to rule his life for such a long time. The only person he missed in the world outside was his mother, and he’d see her again soon enough, when the struggle was over—what pride he would bring to their reunion, having brought her peace at long last, justice for her and his father.

  They tramped on through the permanent dusk of the jungle. The scouts did a fine job clearing creepers and undergrowth so they could march unimpeded. From time to time they swapped positions. No one had any experience tracking wildlife, but they’d planned to wander in a wide circle around the camp. If they got anywhere near the elephant, they’d hear it. If not, something else would present itself—a wild boar, a deer. They were definitely not returning empty-handed.

  Lifeng walked in front of Xiongmin in confident strides. He was fascinated by her blunt-cut hair, swishing like a curtain over her pale neck, just touching her collar. Her backpack was as large as his, stuffed with first-aid equipment and water, plus a radio in case of emergency. He’d been surprised at first to see the women shouldering such burdens, but when he gallantly offered to help, they just laughed. We’re all equal here, they said, don’t think you can do anything we
can’t.

  He was still dreamily considering this, and other girls he’d known, when the front scout shouted a warning. Lifeng immediately flung herself against a tree, fading into its outline, only her rifle sticking out. Xiongmin was slower, uncertain which direction the danger was coming from. Everyone else seemed instinctively to know where to go, and someone pulled him urgently into a crouch. A half second of absolute stillness, and then he could see it: a Thai soldier in the uniform of the Royal Army, straightening up, eyes thin and alert, arm halfway to his holster.

  At a shouted command, they fired. Xiongmin was closest, and managed to graze his arm, leaving a trail of blood through his shredded sleeve. The other shots went wide, thudding against the trees. He tried again, but nothing happened. His rifle was jammed. Screaming in frustration, he pumped the chamber frantically as the Thai man cocked his pistol, which was pointed right at him. Was this death? He felt very calm, dropping the rifle and reaching for his knife, but before he could even get it out a bullet had torn through the soldier’s neck. He gasped, eyes bulging, like someone choking in a cartoon. Blood rushed from the torn artery, much more than you’d have thought possible.

  Lifeng took a step forward, looking stunned. She’d fired the fatal shot. The entire episode had taken no time at all, and she probably hadn’t even consciously decided what to do—their training was good enough for instinct to take over at moments like this. All she’d seen was a comrade in danger. Just like that, she was a killer.

  Xiongmin thanked her brusquely—no time for more. One soldier meant the possibility of a battalion nearby. They’d have to abandon the hunt. Quickly, they searched the dead soldier. Food, water, a map and the pistol. Not a bad haul.