The first mosque, built by Sultan Hussein between 1824 and 1828, was bankrolled by the East India Company who wanted to keep their ruler sweet. Faded photos show a brick Indonesian-looking building with a tiered pyramidal roof like a squashed pagoda. It served the community for a century before being replaced by the current two-storey Saracen-style mosque – designed, incidentally, by the British firm of Swan and McLaren. It is being administered by a board of trustees that represents the meshed Muslim make-up of Singapore: Arab, Malay, Bugis, Javanese, North Indian and South Indian. The Saudis have paid for several major repairs and renovations for the last forty years and their most visible contribution is the vast carpet that covers the prayer hall. It is on this carpet that I must not walk, I’m told, as I leave my shoes at the steps of the mosque entrance.
The time is outside prayers so the mosque is not busy, but there are still a good fifty people inside meditating (or sleeping, it is difficult to tell). There is no furniture except for some glorious chandeliers, a dozen pedestal fans facing the congregation and several sets of wooden bookshelves set against the pillars, containing what I presume to be copies of the Qur’an. I take great interest in the chandeliers because they are of similar design to those hanging in the Grand Mosque in Mecca itself and, since my chances of visiting the latter are nil, this is as close as I can get to the holy of holies of a great religion. That Saudi carpet with its pattern of white convex arches set against a wine-red background is, indeed, a marvel. It covers like wallpaper the whole 3,000-squaremetre floor, snugly girdling every pillar base. How did they lay it? I try to distinguish the seams, but in vain.
The street that leads to the Mosque entrance, Bussorah (Basra) Street, is exceedingly picturesque but pedestrianisation has rendered it lifeless. The shophouses are freshly painted, the pavement is tastefully patterned and tall palms have been planted at regular intervals, but it’s the state that owns the shophouses flanking the street: no one lives here. Handicrafts are geared for the tourist: rattan, bamboo and willow baskets, scarves, shawls and brooches, prayer mats, carpets and sarongs plus batiks, batiks, batiks. So much on sale, so photogenic, and yet so soulless. Maybe that’s why it is here I see my first and only example of graffiti in Singapore. Someone has defiantly changed a ‘No Dumping’ sign to ‘No Humping’.
This never fails to raise a chuckle but it is no laughing matter: vandalism is one of the forty-plus offences for which caning is a mandatory punishment in Singapore. Some are serious like rape, others less so, like overstaying your visa. The beatings are administered by specially trained prison guards using a wet rattan whip – as long as a broom handle and as thick as a finger – on the naked buttocks of the prisoner who is strapped face down on a wooden trestle. Being under 16 or over 50 might exempt you from the cane, but being a foreigner doesn’t, as the widely publicised case of Michael Fay demonstrates.
During the latter part of 1993, cars in the Tanglin area of Singapore were being spray-painted at night. The police laid an ambush and arrested a 16-year-old student from Hong Kong, Shiu Chi Ho, and the son of a Thai diplomat who was released having diplomatic immunity. After a seven-hour interrogation, Shiu named several students attending the American School for expat kids. One of them was Fay, a photogenic, 18-year-old American. His parents had been divorced and he lived in upmarket Regency Park with his mother and stepfather. In his room the police found stolen Singapore flags, ‘Not for hire’ taxi signs and ‘No Smoking’ notices. He was arrested, spent nine days in custody and finally pleaded guilty to two charges of mischief, two of vandalism and one of possessing stolen property. On 3 March 1994 he was sentenced to four months in jail, a $3,500 fine and six strokes of the cane. Apart from Shiu who was arrested red-handed, he was the only one to be sentenced to a beating: other boys were too young (under 16), jumped bail and fled Singapore, or pleaded not guilty and were acquitted.
The case put the spotlight on Singapore’s caning laws and caused an international debate on the difference between those famous ‘Asian’ and ‘Western’ values. ‘Unlike some other societies which may tolerate acts of vandalism, Singapore has its own standards of social order as reflected in our laws. It is because of our tough laws against anti-social crimes that we are able to keep Singapore orderly and relatively crime-free,’ said the Singapore government. The US administration disagreed: there was a large discrepancy between the offence and the punishment. As the buttocks bleed and are permanently scarred, isn’t caning torture? Were such ‘Asian’ values exclusive to Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei that still administered what was in reality an old colonial punishment? Why did Hong Kong abolish it in 1990?
Fay’s mother tried to mobilise US and world opinion but was surprised at the strength of the ‘flog ’em and hang ’em’ lobby, as the Singapore Embassy in Washington was deluged with messages of support. Even in Fay’s hometown of Dayton, Ohio, a radio call-in proved strongly pro-caning. Bill Clinton asked Singapore’s President to waive the punishment. As a gesture of goodwill the strokes were reduced to four, but the caning went ahead having united the country’s citizens against the interference of the world’s only superpower. It was also a reminder of the vast grassroots support for PAP’s disciplinarian legislators.
Some Malays have been openly complaining about the ‘Hollywoodisation’ of their culture in letters to The Straits Times and I can see why when I reach Istana Kampong Glam.This was the residence of Sultan Hussein himself, who originally lived in a timber-and-atap bungalow surrounded by high walls ‘exhibiting effects of age and climate’, as one contemporary traveller observed. He goes on to give us a rare description of the Sultan himself: well in his forties when he made the deal with Raffles, his teeth were blackened from chewing the betel nut, and his neck, suspected rather than conspicuous, supported a large shaven head with a handkerchief tied around it that left the top exposed in the old Malay fashion. He was no more than five foot tall, pot-bellied and with small, deformed legs that made him look like a waddling duck as he moved about. Since he had the attention span of a five-year-old and fell asleep whenever he sat down, it comes as no surprise that, when his brother usurped the throne, there were few mutterings.
It was Hussein’s son, Ali Iskander Shah, who commissioned a new, two-storey building designed by Singapore’s top architect, George Coleman. It stands in front of me, at Sultan Gate: semi-Palladian in style with tiled roofing, it features a protruding middle section with three round archways that lead into a long veranda. Unfortunately the construction took a hit on Ali’s finances and, as his debts increased, his star waned until he was forced to pledge his British annuity to an Indian moneylender.
In 1855 the British came to his aid and brokered a deal with his supposed vassal, the Temenggong’s son Ibrahim. The Temenggong’s family had been much luckier. The British had granted them land in Telok Blangah which shot up in value as plans for the new deep port, Keppel Harbour, started being drawn. The deal offered Sultan Ali a large cash payment in return for his birthright and his land – only his title would remain. (Ali’s descendants still receive a stipend by the Singapore government of $250,000 a year, although this is being spread thinner and thinner as the recipients multiply.) Despite all this the indomitable Ali managed to die heavily in debt and in 1886 his son Allum Shah finally ceded the title of Sultan of Johore to the Temenggong’s grandson, Abu Bakr, whose lineage continues to this day.
When Allum Shah died without direct heirs, the British authorities claimed ownership of the Istana. His half-brother, Mahmud, who claimed the inheritance for himself by right, obeyed the colonial rulers but lived in protest in the Gedong Kuning, the Yellow Mansion, to the left of the Istana itself. It is now a top-class restaurant – closed for a wedding when I try to have a peek. The only sign of its past is the canary yellow it is painted in, the colour of Malay royalty.
I turn into the Istana compound, advertised as a Malay Heritage Centre, but there is no one at the gate when I slip into the garden. I seem to be the only living thing around,
bar the starlings and the mynahs. Maybe they are all taking a siesta; maybe it is prayer time; or maybe they don’t care anymore. Restored and beautified Kampong Glam looks better than ever, but it stands inanimate, like a fragment of Bollywood scenery expecting a crowd of extras. The anonymous planners have forgotten that you don’t admire a graceful old lady when she is all tarted up like a teenager with lipstick and hair extensions. It is the dignified way she carries those wrinkles and double-chins she has collected over the years that you notice and respect – and more importantly, you want to keep her alive rather than embalm and perfume her corpse.
I look at my watch. I had better be going back. I have a date with Richard in a few hours.
- 20 -
Numbers, numbers: in order to solve the thorny problem and keep the Malays in the majority in the new Malay-Si-a, three British Borneo territories comprising Sabah, Sarawak and Brunei were added to the Federation along with Singapore. (Brunei pulled out early on providing us with a blueprint of how some Malay sultanates might have looked, had there been no union: a peppering of absolute rulers like the Sultan of Brunei collecting Rolls Royces, breeding prize-winning racehorses and buying hotels in Mayfair). The final population totals added up as follows: 3.7 million Chinese versus 4 million ‘sons of the soil’. Never mind that the Indonesians who ruled South Borneo and were claiming the rest of the island, started a slow-burning conflict, the Konfrontasi, that exploded in Singapore itself with terrorist bombings; never mind that the Malays were not strictly speaking the absolute majority in the new Malaysia since the indigenous people from Borneo like the Iban were, well, indigenous; the Chinese were in the minority and that was that.
It is hard to think of a people that comprise a quarter of the planet’s inhabitants as discriminated against, but it is even harder to settle upon a better word to describe the Malay attitude towards their Chinese neighbours. The sentiments were not a million miles away from the feelings that eastern and central European peasants harboured against the industrious Jewish and Armenian communities in their own midst. So, it was yes to Singapore, to its wealth and its location, but no to the Singaporeans who bent over backwards to accommodate the Malays. The seats they accepted in the new, combined assembly were way below what their population warranted, whereas those of the counter-balancing Borneo territories were bumped up artificially. Separate citizenship continued to exist; Singapore nationals could only vote and stand for election in the city itself but not in Malaya. When the chips were down, outnumbering of the Chinese was what mattered, and this is what the border-shifting was all about. The political dominance of the Malays would not be challenged.
It was at that point that the PAP leadership showed the political nous that has characterised it for half a century. It called a snap election in September 1963 just around the time when the euphoria regarding the union was at its highest. The result was a glimpse of the future déjà vu: the electorate gave the PAP a resounding 37 out of 51 seats and confirmed the PAP’s crossover appeal; the Singapore Alliance, the coalition supported by the governing parties in peninsular Malaya, won no representation. This was truly not just another Chinese community party: the Malays in Singapore – and other minorities – voted for the PAP in droves; it even came first in the overwhelmingly Malay ward of Geylang Serai. So, not only was the PAP going into the new Malaysia stronger than ever, but could also claim to represent every community on the island. This was a real threat to the parties in Malaya with their sectarian politics. When the PAP decided to sit in the cross-benches rather than blindly support the Alliance government, relations between Malaysian Prime Minister Tunku Abdul Rahman and Lee Kuan Yew became frosty. When, in April 1964, the PAP decided to contest the federal elections in the peninsula, the kris were out.
The spectre of a Chinese prime minister loomed large: here was a social-democratic Chinese-dominated party whose leadership was British-educated, competent and with a reputation of efficiency, challenging a right-wing Malay government on its own soil. It was also a party that claimed to represent all communities: ‘It took us some time to convince the 200,000 Malays in Singapore of the PAP’s sincerity,’ Lee Kuan Yew commented during the election campaign. ‘I do not think it will be all that difficult to convince the three million Malays in Malaya.’ The Alliance challenged the PAP’s decision to field candidates in the courts, but lost; although Singaporeans couldn’t vote in Malaya, there was nothing in the new constitution to stop the party expanding its local rankand-file. Had the Malayan parties not contested elections in Singapore via their own offshoots? And, ominously, had they not lost to the PAP?
The Alliance need not have worried. It was impossible to set up an effective party organisation so quickly. The PAP fielded only 17 candidates for the 104 Parliament and 282 State assembly seats contested and most of them lost their deposits. Only one candidate won, and he was Malay. When threatened by an external menace – in this case, Indonesia’s Konfrontasi – voters rush to the government of the day. As for the Chinese: why vote for the opposition outsider and reduce the strength and subsequent division of spoils of their own Chinese party in Malaysia? The PAP had grossly misread the mood of the electorate and had rushed head-on to an electoral disaster.
It was to prove a bigger catastrophe than anyone could have suspected.
It’s past ten o’clock at night when I step into Outram Park station. This time I’m not going to be snookered in front of vending machines with single tickets that have to be returned at once at the end of every trip: I have bought myself an ez-link card that can be topped up electronically and offers discounted travel, not unlike Ken Livingston’s Oystercard. Who copied whom, I wonder.
The MRT has not changed – well, a new line is being built – but a slight climate of alarm permeates Singapore’s underground system, most conspicuously at Clarke Quay where a sign proudly proclaims: ‘For your safety 40 CCTV cameras are monitoring this station’. The Madrid, London and Bombay bombings have been gravely noted, and a film keeps looping in the flat screens in every carriage. A vigilant lady challenges a youth with a baseball cap who leaves his luggage behind: ‘You left your bag!’ she says; he claims it isn’t his and runs away; she pulls the emergency cord and stops an impatient guy who is about to touch it. The fears are not misplaced. In Malaysia, an Islamist party is contesting the elections. In Singapore itself, three dozen local members of the Jemaah Islamiyah terrorist group that carried out the Bali bombings have been arrested, after video material was found in Afghanistan.
I stop. Everyone is looking at me. I just had a gulp from a water bottle. Shit! I forgot. ‘No Eating and Drinking: Fine $500’. Thank my lucky stars that we’re arriving at Farrer Park, my stop.
Ah, it’s different. The unsightly high rises have been demolished and cranes – mechanical ones – occupy the spaces where swallows used to nest. A government official must have visited the place, glimpsed the dirt and disapproved.
The Mustafa Centre still dominates the Serangoon Plaza, and they still let me walk in with my backpack. Inside, the place is as chaotic as I remember it. Imagine a shop where wares of every colour and size are right in front of you, rather than in the storeroom, out of sight. I slip quickly through the watch stalls where the whole stock is mangled like snakes in a pit. Special offers abound: Buy Two Citizen For $90 – hey, what are they, melons? It’s at the luggage section that I begin to warm up to this leviathan of department stores. Wow, I can replace my ageing bags for a tenner! As for the digital camera section – it’s enormous, and I spend a good half hour browsing the brands. They are cheap, oh so cheap, and suddenly I realise that I’ve become a dedicated Mustafa shopper – especially since it’s just before midnight; the place is open 24-hours.
Guidebooks revel in remarking that Singapore ain’t no Bangkok. It’s an unfair comparison, like saying, ‘Goa is not quite Gomorrah’. But where else can I go shopping for camera equipment or change pounds at the foreign exchange centre – maybe deal in gold – after midnight? If I’m peckish
, I can have a curry, a Hainanese chicken rice or sit out and enjoy a coffee at any hour of the day. And when I do, and I sit at one of these plastic chairs, I am not alone for long. Soon a young Indian ensconces himself next to me although there are empty seats as far as the eye can see. I check him out with the corner of my eye. He’s well-groomed, unmistakably excited and steals glances at me.
Whatever I said about Gomorrah, I take it back.
- 21 -
Attack is the best form of defence and if you want to bully someone, follow them home and make sure they notice you. After the poor showing by the PAP in the peninsular elections, the Malay right-wing press took advantage of the party’s post-election blues and started a hysterical denunciation of the Singapore government with imagined wrongs where none were intended or, indeed, had transpired. Editorials wondered why there were more unemployed Malays than Chinese in the city, although the Chinese formed the majority of the population. Columnists raged that the PAP had forcibly moved the Malays out of their kampongs to house them into flats. Accusations of gerrymandering by splitting the Malay vote through displacement were being bandied around. A phrase started appearing menacingly in the commentaries: ‘Do not treat the sons of the soil as stepchildren!’
Singapore Swing Page 15