People fear what they do not know.
Krishnan, our Indian neighbour who worked with the ‘Municipal’, usually kept himself apart from the other villagers, as he was educated and was a Brahmin. But on this day, he dashed out to the sandy yard where my father was lifting weights with Rajah and Salleh. It was late afternoon, so the long shadows provided a cool shade. Even the chickens, ducks and dogs were enjoying the coolness.
“I have good news, I have good news,” Krishnan announced.
At that moment, Ah Tetia was lifting some heavy bar-bells. He put them down cautiously with the help of Rajah before he sat up. He used a hand towel to wipe the sweat off his bare chest. The towel was thin, with some swallows and Chinese characters printed on it. It was an iconic piece of towelling, as it was used widely by coffee-shop owners and hawkers, who slung it over their shoulders.
“Mr Krishnan,” Rajah addressed him respectfully just as he did with my father. “What’s all the excitement about?”
“The government is going to provide us with a generator so we can have current!” He patiently explained the function of a generator and kept using the word ‘current’ for electricity. “We will have to fix wires and fluorescent tubes in our houses, so that when the generator is turned on we will have light! In the beginning, we will only have light from 7PM to 9PM. But it’s a good start-yes?”
“Yes, yes!” Everyone agreed.
The news spread round the kampong quickly. People rejoiced.
But my father’s friend Ah Gu practised restraint. “People don’t give anything for nothing. I wonder what the PAP wants from us.”
“Gu-ah!!” My father retorted vehemently. “For once – can you be positive? The PAP has done nothing but keep their promise to make our lives better. Don’t you remember that last year they gave us all that material to repair our village road? They also sent the water-truck promptly during the drought...”
“I still think it has to do with all this talk about merger with Malaya. Lee Kuan Yew wants us to agree to his plans. You must be aware that the Barisan Sosialis Party is opposed to the idea...?”
“Gu-ah.” My father said. “You know the Barisan Sosialis has communist tendencies. Just because you are Chinese-educated doesn’t mean that you have to adopt their view. Don’t you think the PM is right? Merger with Malaya, Brunei, Sabah and Sarawak will make us into a bigger, stronger nation. We’re only a little island. Last year we had to buy more water from the Malayan Federation to survive. If we belonged to the same nation, we wouldn’t have to worry so much when we needed water!”
“It’s true,” said Pak Osman, who appeared and joined in the conversation, nodding his head. “All of us used to be part of the Malayan Federation. It’s more natural for us to be part of the same nation than apart. Come, come. We have work to do if we want to get the current into our houses.”
Once again the villagers joined in with the gotong royong spirit, working together as one community. Wooden posts sprouted from our kampong soil like magic trees, their lines of electrical wires like the vines of the banyan tree. A naked bulb stood atop each of the four posts. The technician came to install the apparatus in our house. Thick, black cables snaked their way at the top of our wooden walls to the fluorescent tube. The long strip of bulb looked strange against the naked attap rafters. It seemed like an invasion of a foreign being who had come to stay.
The villagers congregated for the first lighting of the street lights.
“You see,” Ah Tetia said. “The new government is fulfilling its promise to make life better for those of us in villages.”
“Huhh,” Ah Gu grunted.
He sounded more like a pig than the cow he was nicknamed after.
The generator roared into life. The electric bulbs pulsed. Then the light came on. For us who had existed for years on kerosene and hissing carbide lamps, it was a tremendous moment. Mak and I used to embroider and sew manet or plastic beads onto Peranakan slippers in the shifting flames of the oil lamps. Our eyes used to get so tired from the strain. Now we would be able to see our handiwork more clearly. So it was not a moment that we would forget easily.
“Wahh!!” Everyone exclaimed as the first electric light came on to dispel the darkness. But it was short-lived.
The generator grumbled and then went off. We were plunged into inky blackness. People groaned. Someone lit a candle. Then the generator was restarted with belching rumbles, and the light came back on. That was a pattern we became used to. We were lucky if we got a whole hour of electricity per evening. Most of the time our candles, hurricanes, carbides and oil lamps were on standby. But still we were grateful – something was better than nothing. Finally our kampong had a taste of modernity.
On August 2, there was an announcement on the radio; “Britain has agreed in principle to the formation of Malaysia and would hand over the sovereignty of Singapore, Sarawak, Brunei and North Borneo to the Malaysian Government on August 31, 1963.”
September 1 was proclaimed as the day when the citizens of Singapore were to vote on the terms of the merger, in the Singapore National Referendum or Merger Referendum of Singapore. Many of the uneducated villagers were perplexed, so they came to my father to ask for clarification. Everyone sat outdoors in the sandy yard including Karim, our resident musician and singer, and Pak Osman, our village leader.
“Basically, you have to put a tick on one of the three options. One is Option A. Here you choose that all Singapore citizens would automatically become citizens of the new nation, Malaysia. But Singapore will still retain some say in matters such as labour policies and education. And we’ll also keep our four major languages, English, Mandarin, Malay and Tamil as our official languages. Because in Malaya, Malay is the official National Language. Two is Option B. Singapore will become a federal state of Malaysia. So Singapore will be no different from the other eleven states. That means we will have to give up control over issues such as labour and education policies to the federal government in Kuala Lumpur. Also, no multilingualism – only English and Malay will be used for official purposes and in schools. Three is Option C. Singapore will enter on the same terms as the Borneo territories, Brunei, Sabah and Sarawak.”
When my father finished explaining, the group talked amongst themselves, discussing the various options.
“Option A makes sense-lah! We can be part of a big nation but we will have our own say and won’t lose our identity,” said Krishnan. “Tamil will still remain an official language.”
“Ya-lah,” Everyone agreed.
“How come there is no option not to join the merger?” Ah Gu had to put the spanner in the works. “Maybe, just turn in a blank vote or what?”
“It’s a vote, so it’s your choice. But think carefully before you put your dhoby-mark. It’s for the future of the country,” my father cautioned him.
My father was using an analogy for the tick that would go on the voting form. He was referring to the spot of black dye that launderers or dhoby workers put on the underside of clothes to identify their laundry, when they used communal drying areas like at Dhoby Ghaut near Selegie Road, where the washing was strung out on lines that stretched across the small wood of trees. In time, the term dhoby-mark also came to mean the signature impression that one made, as in, “he put his dhoby-mark on the way the factory was run”.
In November, the Commonwealth Games were held in Perth, Australia. Formerly known as the British Empire Games, the new name was a reflection of the changing times. My father read the news to his weight-lifting mates, Rajah and Salleh, with great joy.
“Tan Howe Liang has won a gold in the middle-weight division. He lifted 860 pounds! And Chua Phung Kim grabbed a gold in the bantam-weight division.”
“Wah! Two gold medals in one championship!” Rajah exclaimed. “Times are changing for us.”
In December, a different kind of gold was won. The elation over the acceptance of merger with Malaysia by the majority of the people put the authorities in a congenial mood. So wh
en the new dance craze, The Twist, hit Singapore cabarets and clubs, they did not ban it, although there were murmurs that they might. Chubby Checker of USA, whose real name was Ernest Evans, sang the song, accompanied by a twisting of his pelvis, more seductive than Elvis’. The dance demanded great flexibility, as one had to twist right to the floor and rise up again whilst twisting. It was certainly very energetic and it made people perspire profusely in our heat and humidity. Some people deemed the movement too risqué and seductive. Eventually, the government made an announcement over the radio: “So long as it remains a dance and is not sexually or morally depraved, we will not ban the records or films.”
“Hurray!” Everyone cheered.
Karim, who worked at the Great World Cabaret, came home and taught us the dance. He strummed his guitar and sang the hit song, “Let’s do the twist...”
The villagers turned out to watch. Children and youngsters like Parvathi, Fatima and myself rushed to the sandy yard to emulate him. Our elders stood outside the ring, watching us.
“Macham orang gila! Like mad people,” they said with half-smiles.
But we did not care. We shook our heads and hips and thrashed our arms about to the rhythm of the music. Our frenzied dancing frightened the chickens and ducks. Even the dogs whined and crept under shelter. Our stomping feet in the sand raised clouds of dust that flew onto everybody’s clothes. But no one minded, because in some ways, we were acting out the euphoric mood of the nation.
MALAYA’S PRIME MINISTER Tunku Abdul Rahman and our own Lee Kuan Yew had a shared vision of a united Malaya and Singapore. Before Malaya became independent in 1957, the Federated States of Malaya and Singapore were considered Malayan. These two visionaries saw that it would be advantageous to be one again. They were men who dared to dream. But sadly, there were many others who tried to thwart their dreams.
It should have been a year of joyous anticipation and rejoicing.
After all, since 1959, when we attained self-government, we had looked forward to the time when we would have full independence. This was finally going to happen on August 31, 1963. Britain had agreed to hand over the sovereignty of Singapore and North Borneo to the new Malaysian government. But there were blots on the political landscape. The Barisan Sosialis Party of Singapore had already made apparent its disapproval of the merger. Now our neighbouring countries of Indonesia and Philippines also spoke out against it. The Philippines had revived an old claim to British North Borneo, whilst President Sukarno of Indonesia desired Malaya and Borneo as part of his own territory. As early as January, after one of his aides returned from a meeting in Beijing with Chairman Mao, President Sukarno said that the formation of Malaysia was not acceptable and he would react with konfrontasi, the Indonesian word for confrontation. He sent troops to North Borneo and even into Malaya. Disturbances erupted here and there.
British troops had to step in to provide assistance.
Those who dared to dream pushed on – their dreams were a bright beacon of light in the darkness that enveloped us.
I too harboured a dream. It was a preposterous dream.
I dreamt of being a writer – in English.
Ever since I had encountered the English language, I was filled with a kind of joy that was indescribable. I loved its cadence, its music, its depth and subtlety of meaning. I loved the Janet and John books, Enid Blyton’s famous books, and every storybook I could get hold of. I even enjoyed the romantic novels that Parvathi made me read to her. I loved the pleasure of forming English words to create stories. I was fluent and literate in Malay and could write essays and compositions, but it did not spark me to want to write books, as the English language did. So I started by writing a comic.
Parvathi brought me scraps of paper from the factory she worked in. I cut them into three-inch rectangles. I wrote a story in simple English for the village children and illustrated it myself with pencil drawings. I stapled the pages together and sold each for five cents. These were my first earnings as a writer!! Actually the five cents included my reading it out as well – if the child could not read!
“Hey, Phine! Your stories are good,” the kids said. “Maybe you should be a real writer.”
But I did not dare to share my dream with anyone. It would sound ridiculous. I was going on twelve. How could I know what I wanted to be? But I did know. Perhaps I had a prescience about my future.
1963 was a special year for me in the Chinese lunar calendar because on January 25 of the Gregorian calendar, the Lunar New Year that began would be a Rabbit Year. I was born in a Rabbit Year in 1951. Each new Chinese year coincides with the advent of spring in China so it is also called the Spring Festival. The night of the first day of the New Year has the new moon, though invisible, and the celebrations end on the night of the full moon, on the fifteenth day. The lunar calendar years are named after the twelve animals of the Chinese Zodiac. Folklore said that The Creator called the animals to him, and he named each year in the order they arrived: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Rooster, Dog and Pig. This meant that one’s animal birth year would only come round every twelfth year. If you reached the age of sixty, you would be in your Golden Year, which would be your fifth twelve-year cycle.
Each animal sign has its own characteristics, which are governed by its element which, in turn, has its own propensities. The Chinese birth signs relate to five elements: earth, metal, water, wood and fire. This meant that when you reached your Golden Year, you would enter the same element which you were born under. The year 1963 had the element of water. Mine was metal. Experts in the Chinese art of geomancy, feng shui, made their predictions based on one’s animal sign, element, hour of birth and the Kua or Auspicious Direction.
We Peranakans celebrated Chinese New Year. Our culture was a mix of the Chinese and Malay. Most Peranakans started off as Buddhists or Taoists. I loved Chinese New Year, as it meant we got delicious food to eat, as well as new clothes. Peranakans, like many Chinese, were very pantang or superstitious. So they bent over backwards to fulfil every Chinese New Year obligation. Preparations for the New Year started weeks before the event. There were kuih-kuih or Nonya cakes to be made, new clothes to be sewn, furnishings to be changed, the house to be whitewashed with kapor or lime-stone, and the cement floor to be scrubbed. It was a labour-intensive period, and everything had to be done manually.
My mother peddled furiously on her Singer sewing machine to make new clothes for my siblings and myself. As usual, she managed to find a bolt of fabric from Robinson’s Petang, or the Thieves’ Market. From experience, my brothers and sisters knew we would end up with matching dresses and shirts! My brothers were none too pleased when the fabric was floral. In bad years, when she could not buy enough fabric to sew curtains for the house as well as our clothes, she would hang up new curtains but use the previous year’s curtains to make into clothes – so the clothes could still be regarded as new. It was imperative for each person to wear a new article of clothing on the first day of the Chinese New Year, to bring in good luck. Of course, black was a taboo colour as it was used for mourning. Although Mak made Western-style clothes for us, she herself wore only the sarong-kebaya.
“You father has given me some money to make a new kebaya for New Year,” my mother told me happily. “Come on. You can come with me to Joo Chiat to choose the material.”
Joo Chiat was in the Eastern sector of our island and was considered a part of the seaside village of Katong, the rich Peranakan enclave. Many Eurasians also lived in the vicinity because of its close proximity to the sea and its luxury houses. The road and area of Joo Chiat was named after Chew Joo Chiat, a nineteenth Century Chinese trader who had married a Peranakan girl. With great foresight, he had bought huge tracts of land to grow gambier and coconut trees, which were highly valuable. These made him into a multi-millionaire. To cope with any possible threat of war, the British wanted to build a road that would run from the city to Changi, where they planned to build their sea defences. The road
that ran through Chew’s plantations was a dirt road. As military vehicles needed to travel on firm roads, the British offered to pave his road and to make it their main access road. Chew generously permitted this, and in recognition of his donation, the British named the road after him.
Our trolley buses had now been replaced by wireless buses run by the Singapore Traction Company (STC) and a local businessman, Tay Koh Yat. As red was an auspicious colour in the Chinese ethos, the Tay Koh Yat buses were all red. Without the massive network of overhead cables that had been used for the trolley buses, our skies looked a lot tidier. But there was an increase in the number of posts for street lights and electrical wires, which were creeping out from the city towards rural areas. Those of us living in the kampongs watched this slow advance with excitement, because it would mean the end of having to use our temperamental generator, and we would have consistent electricity. When electricity finally arrived in our village, we really celebrated. The PAP had certainly fulfilled its rally promises, which made us so joyful. We felt eternally indebted.
My mother and I had to change buses to get to Katong. Once we got there, I immediately felt the change in the air and could smell the salt. I gulped the fresh air repeatedly like a fish out of water.
“What are you doing?” Mak asked.
I answered, “Makan angin.”
To makan is to eat. And angin means wind. It was a metaphor for going for a stroll outdoors or having leisure time. But I was purposely interpreting it literally in an attempt at humour.
Mak laughed. It was so lovely when she laughed. Her life was so hard that she did not have many such occasions.
“Di Tanjong Katong, airnya biru /At Tanjong Katong, where the water is blue...” she sang softly.
The song was one of our traditional songs, and she brought the words to life with her melodious voice. Like Karim, our village musician, my mother had an innate sense of rhythm and style. I felt happy and sang along with her as I skipped down the palm-tree lined coastal path. The wind blew my hair about and I tasted the salt in the air. I fell in love with the sea yet again. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that my solar astrological sign was Pisces. I loved the way the sea whispered as its waves rolled in and out. I imagined they were trying to tell me of places they had been to around the world, so I listened hard. The sea gave me a yen for travel, another of my dreams.
Kampong Spirit Page 14