Kampong Spirit

by Josephine Chia

  “It would be easier if I just die in a bomb explosion,” Karim moaned.

  “Karim!” Pak Osman admonished him. “Don’t say that. People care for you. You’ve always had a wonderful spirit. You used to whistle while you worked, even when the job was abhorrent, clearing all those smelly buckets from the outhouses. Everyone admired you.”

  “But I could walk then. And sing...”

  “You can’t walk because you’re not trying. One’s character is not tested in happy times, it is tested in adversity. I’m confident that you still have that amazing spirit in you. Come on, lean on me and you can start with a few steps...”

  The older man reached out to help the younger man.

  “Lean on me,” Pak Osman said. “You can lean on me.”

  Politically, the new countries that together formed Malaysia were not leaning well on each other. Singapore’s merger with Malaya, Sabah and Sarawak seemed like a marriage of ill-matched partners, though the poor match did not manifest itself until the partners started living together. Like all new marriages, initially there was the excitement of a fresh, untested relationship where there was scope for sharing and discovering. For a while, these triumphed over the other’s new ways and irritating habits. Malaya, Sabah and Sarawak had a large proportion of ethnic Malays, whilst Singapore had a larger percentage of ethnic Chinese. It was this imbalance that was a source of contention. Something our Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew said at a speech to workers about a Malaysian Malaysia did not sit well with the Malays. His words were interpreted as trying to question the validity of the status of Malays and of eroding their position in the nation.

  “Aiiyah!” Encik Salim said impatiently. “The governments are behaving like quibbling children! I want more this and more that. You must do this and I will do that. Nobody wants to give in.”

  “Indeed,” Pak Osman said. “Each is clinging to what he wants. Why don’t they focus on the bigger picture? No matter what race we are, we are all in the same nation!”

  “Correct! Correct!” Ah Gu said. “If we only focus on external characteristics, we will always be different, Malays, Chinese, Indians and Eurasians. But inside we are all the same – we are all brothers-what!”

  “Wow, Gu!” My father said. “So how come you’re so cheem today?”

  Cheem is the Teochew and Hokkien word for deep, which suggests a profound outlook. My father was having a humorous dig at his close friend. They always spent their evenings together with a pint of Guinness, discussing politics.

  “That’s the trouble with you,” Ah Gu said to my father. “Just because I’m Chinese-educated and you are English-educated, you overlook my intelligence! Just because I can’t express myself well in English does not mean I don’t have deep thoughts, you know.”

  “Okay why don’t we see if another pint of Guinness will bring up more of your deep thoughts then,” my father laughed.

  It was not an easy year for the PAP. Besides our troubles with the Konfrontasi terrorists, we continued to have trouble from the communist agitators. The communists had always appealed to susceptible minds, like school children and college students. The previous year, they had infiltrated Nanyang University, and the police had raided its premises and arrested those involved. Now the communists instigated demonstrations in various parts of the country and organised a large scale one for May Day on May 1 – a day set aside all over the world to celebrate the contribution of workers. Five thousand students gathered at Farrer Park. When the police told them to disperse, they started to pelt the police with stones, so the riot squad was called in to fire tear gas at them.

  “The world has gone mad,” Pak Osman, our village elder, said.

  When a marriage breaks down, it is equally traumatic for both partners. No one goes into a marriage without dreams, hopes and the belief that it will last forever. People on the outside sometimes tend to over-simplify the couple’s actions and say that the partner who initiated the divorce is intolerant or selfish. But this is only an outside view – and an external perception can be wrong because it does not have all the facts. There are so many factors that may have been considered, factors that will impact others disastrously if the turbulent marriage proceeds. Sometimes, it requires wisdom to know when a relationship is truly over, and sometimes it requires courage to say so. Limping along in a marriage that is painful or empty can have terrible repercussions for those forced to stay in it; the joylessness of such a marriage will drain the vitality of the spirit.

  Malaysian Prime Minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman reluctantly admitted that he believed that the marriage between Malaysia and Singapore was over.

  He said, “This is the most painful and heartbreaking news I have to break.”

  For a few months, there had been rumours circulating of this impending stalemate, but we were still shocked. Tunku Abdul Rahman had a genial face and he was very well respected in Singapore even before we joined Malaysia. He went on to say that the relationship between Malaysia and Singapore was no longer tenable.

  “We have reached the stage where it is difficult to agree on anything at all, however trivial...”

  He also said that he was concerned that if there was no break, there would be serious communal conflict.

  The separation was final. It was August 9.

  Although our Prime Minister, Mr Lee Kuan Yew, had held a press conference at 4.30PM, we didn’t see the telecast till the evening, when TV Singapura commenced. A big crowd of villagers gathered around the television set in our village coffee-shop. Our prime minister came on air, his face looking wretched. He was sitting on a long bench with his other ministers, their white shirts stark on the black-and-white TV set. The young producer of the show, Chandra Mohan, had been instructed not to depict the Prime Minister in any state of heightened emotion. However, he was so stunned at the emotional distress exhibited by the Prime Minister that he defied production rules-he gestured to the cameraman to carry on filming. And that was how the iconic moment was captured with a close-up shot.

  When Mr Lee came on, his face was already crumpled from the day’s proceedings. His eyes were lacklustre, his mouth working wordlessly in inner agony. He started by saying, “For me, it is a moment of anguish. You see the whole of my adult life, I...” He could not go on. He bit his lower lip and sat back in his seat, his whole body language conveying utter distress. The other ministers bowed their heads. Still Mr Lee tried to continue, “I ... I have believed in the merger and unity of the two territories. You know, they are people connected by geography, economics and ties of kinship...” His voice stumbled over the word ties but he managed to finish the sentence. He stopped and bit his lip again. Then as if unsure of his own resolve, he said in a voice that was shaking with emotion, “Would you mind if we stopped for a while?”

  When he took out his big white handkerchief to wipe his eyes, all of us watching cried with him, some softly, some bawling loudly. We were weeping for him, for our country, which had been rudely ousted from a nation we had believed in, and for our own precarious future.

  “Ya Allah!” Pak Osman cried, “What will become of us now?”

  “Mr Lee Kuan Yew said many times that Singapore cannot survive on its own,” Ah Gu said. “But now it looks like we have to.”

  The death of one’s dream is a painful thing. Perhaps Parvathi gave up because her dream had also died. Someone once said, “When dreams die, life is like a winged bird that cannot fly.” So long as one can dream, one can live in hope.

  Lee Kuan Yew had been sworn in as Prime Minster at the young age of thirty-six in 1959. Now he had to bear the responsibility of being the father of Singapore at age forty-two. We had gone from being British to Singapore citizens, to Malaysian citizens, and now we were birthed again as Singaporeans. It was a forced birth, like a Caesarean, more traumatic than if it had been natural. The Malaysian flag was hastily taken down from all government buildings and the Singapore flag was raised in its place. Britain was one of the first countries to accept Singapore as a
n independent, sovereign nation. Other countries followed suit, expressing their regret but offering support, as Singapore requested to remain in the Commonwealth.

  “I’m not here to play somebody’s games,” Mr Lee Kuan Yew, now much more composed, said in his next telecast, “I have a few million lives to account for. Singapore will survive!”

  His vigour and determination filled us with renewed hope. We were so proud of him. In fact, seeing his vulnerability had made us realize that he was a human being who was trying to work for the greater good. And you have to respect a man for that, no matter what your political leanings might be.

  “Karim,” my mother said, taking his guitar to him. “I am still having trouble with the chords of Bengawan Solo. Can you help me?”

  Anneke Grönloh, a female Dutch singer, had sung the Indonesian song about the Solo River in Central Java. It was written by Gesang Martohartono in 1940 and was such a popular song during the second world war that even the Japanese loved it, taking it back to Japan and translating it into their language. It was sung in Keronchong style, which Peranakans absolutely adored, so we made it one of our traditional songs. The previous year, Anneke had won the Eurovision contest with a Dutch song, so some of the songs she had sung in Bahasa Indonesia had also been revived locally and were played on the radio. Her other popular song, especially loved by children, was Burong Kakak Tua.

  Karim and my mother had sung and played music together at many of our evening soirees which Karim had initiated. But since the riot of July last year, when he had sustained his injuries, he had withdrawn into himself. Fortunately Pak Osman had encouraged the young man to try to walk again, and Karim could now hobble about on a tongkat, the Malay word for a walking stick. But he had not played a guitar for months, as the injury to his throat had affected his vocal chords and prevented him from singing, which he so loved. In his frustration, he had given the guitar to my mother.

  “No, I can’t, Nonya,” he demurred.

  “Bengawan Solo, riwayat mu ini,/ Begawan Solo, your legend is this...” My mother sang the song anyway, twanging the strings in odd places as if she was all thumbs.

  “Eh Nonya!” Karim said. “Spare my ears! You must be out of practice!”

  “I am out of inspiration,” Mak said, smiling. “I need your help.”

  She handed his guitar back to him. He caressed the guitar fondly.

  “All right, all right!” Karim said, not at all deceived either by my mother’s or Pak Osman’s wiles. “You all win. I will try. The lion must learn to roar again.”

  In December, television sets were assembled locally and marketed under the brand name Setron. This made a TV set more affordable for ordinary folks and for people like us in the villages. My father, Ah Tetia, always received a bonus close to Christmas, as he worked for an English company. We loved that time of year! He was like the English Santa Claus, bringing home presents and food we normally could not afford to buy. The previous year, he had brought home a packet of English fish-and-chips, wrapped in newsprint, bought from the best chippy in Serangoon Gardens, one of the strongholds of the British army. This time, to our family’s surprise, he came home with a TV set! He was assisted by his weight-lifting mates, Rajah and Salleh.

  “Gila or what? Have you gone mad? Have you spent our month’s money for food on this thing?” My mother said, pretending to be cross.

  But we could tell from her tone that she was as excited as we were. Our own television set! How far we had come! First electricity and now this. Maybe one day we might even be able to install a tap in our house and we could have running water.

  There was only one small table in our house, pressed against the wall opposite our beds. So my father set the TV onto the table. We buzzed about the men as they set the TV up.

  “We want to watch the SEAP Games telecast,” my father said, justifying his purchase. “Tan Howe Liang is still participating and pushing for gold again.”

  There wasn’t going to be an actual telecast of the games but just highlights, but my father twisted the truth to suit himself. SEAP stood for Southeast Asian Peninsular Games, which were to be held in Malaysia later in the month. Tan Howe Liang was still Singapore’s contender for the Lightweight division in weight-lifting. My father, Rajah and Salleh spent weekends lifting weights in our sandy backyard, so they had been following Tan Howe Liang’s career closely.

  That evening, all our immediate neighbours came to sit on the floor of our house to watch TV with us. People brought apokapok – Malay curry puffs and other snacks – to share, turning the space between our beds and the wall into a cinema auditorium. My siblings and I sat on the beds. I wished Parvathi was with us to share this special moment. But she was not. I wondered when I would stop thinking about her or stop wishing I could feel her presence.

  The telecast began at 6PM and the news carried the headlines about our Yang di Pertuan Negara, Encik Yusof Ishak’s inauguration, as our country’s first president. This was followed by Sea Hunt, an American scuba-diving, underwater drama series which starred Lloyd Bridges.

  Later in the month, my father and his mates, Rajah and Salleh, did watch the highlights of the SEAP Games. They leapt from the floor when they heard that Tan Howe Liang had won his gold medal. This was the man who would go down in Singapore sports history later as winning the first medal in the Olympics, even if it was silver. Though a bad year in Singapore politics, it was a good year in sporting achievements. In all, Singapore won 26 gold, 23 silver and 27 bronze medals. It was such a boost for the ailing spirit of our country. The icing on the cake was the amazing win by an eleven-year-old girl, Patricia Chan, in her swimming events. She won eight gold medals!

  “See! See!” My father said triumphantly. “Nobody can keep Singapore down forever.”

  “Ya, ya!” Everyone watching the telecast agreed.

  Our gallant sportsmen showed that Singapore could succeed. They had the tenacity of young lions and reflected the new spirit that was beginning to take a foothold in our new nation. As Premier Lee Kuan Yew had said, Singapore will survive. Of course, it would require a strong government and astute handling of the situation to propel Singapore out of Third World Status. The people had to give the government a free hand to make changes and everyone had to work extremely hard.

  Most certainly with our lack of natural resources, it would be an uphill task. Nonetheless, we felt confident that we would find our own identity, discover our own strengths.

  Indeed, the lion must learn to roar.

  JOSEPHINE CHIA, is a Peranakan who is proud of her heritage. She was born and raised in Kampong Potong Pasir in the 1950s.

  Since then, she has picked up BA Honours from the University of Singapore and an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University College, United Kingdom.

  Her short stories were first published in SINGA, the literary Journal of Singapore and also in The Straits Times. After moving to England in 1985, Josephine won the Ian. St. James Award and other prizes for both her short stories and articles; some of were published in various anthologies. She also received a highly commended prize from the Society of Women Writers & Journalists for her travel article.

  An eclectic writer. Her fiction oeuvre includes two novels and a collection of short stories, while her non-fiction collection consists of a cook book and two others on yoga.

  Josephine was a council member of UK’s Society of Women Writers & Journalists until she returned back to Singapore in May 2012. She taught creative writing, yoga and cookery in the UK.

  Josephine currently runs creative writing workshops for the National Book Development Council Singapore, the National Library Board and is facilitator for Ministry of Education’s Creative Arts Program (CAP). She was also featured in NBDCS’s Youth’s Literary Festival and National Arts Council’s Words Go Round program for schools and in the Singapore Writers Festival.

  For more information on Josephine, visit her website:

  www.josephinechia.com

  Also by Josephine Ch
ia

  Frog Under A Coconut Shell

  ISBN: 978-981-4276-84-9

  Frog Under A Coconut Shell translates in Malay as ‘kakak bawah tempurong’, an idiom which likens someone to a frog that lives under a coconut shell, believing the shell to be its entire world.

  It is a reference to both the author’s mother and the author herself. The author’s mother, although herself uneducated and living a parochial existence in a small village, believed and and fought hard to realise a greater vision – the right to educate her daughter. And the author had ot deal with the challenges of crossing boundaries both geographical and emotional. This moving tale weaves the lives of both women together, beautifully evoking the experience of living in 1960s Singapore, and painting in heartwarming detail, a Peranakan’s woman’s journey from the bloom of her youth to her later affliction with Alzheimer’s.