When a Flower Dies

by Josephine Chia

  “Villagers like Pak Abdul and other descendants of the orang laut reacted to the news more badly than we did because their people had lived on the coast for generations. They were the indigenous people of Temasek, long before it became Singapura, and the sea had always been a major part of their lives. Their babies grew up with sea-legs, and to force them to become landlubbers was akin to clipping the wings of birds of flight. But now we had all been informed that our seaside homes were to be destroyed, the kampongs to be totally wiped out so that the valuable land our villages sat on would be put to more lucrative use, like creating the new Changi Airport, whilst new land was to be dredged from the sea. The die had been cast. Change was inevitable. Irrevocable.

  Do we really have to leave our homes? some of the villagers had asked Pak Abdul, who had once been our village headman or penghulu.

  “The naivety of some of the villagers was heart-rending. These were the unworldly-wise country folks who were going to be flung out into the big world outside the kampongs. How were they going to survive? The mood was sombre.

  Apa nak buat? What can we do? We have no choice, said Pak Abdul, opening his palms in a gesture of hopelessness. See, I told you change was coming.

  “In 1953, during our outing for the British Queen’s coronation celebrations, Pak Abdul had said to your grandfather, George, he had a prescient feeling that change was in the air. When we merged with Malaysia in 1963, Pak Abdul thought that his premonition had come true, and was rudely shocked when a couple of years later we broke off from Malaysia to become independent. And now this. He was not sure if his old bones and constitution could withstand further trauma. It was rumoured that he must have been about a hundred years old by then, though nothing could be proven. People didn’t have birth certificates in the old days.

  We have no choice, Pak Abdul reiterated, keeping his voice cool so that it wouldn’t fuel more dissension. The government we elected to replace the British needs to expand our small island. They have a vision to take our country out of poverty and third world status, create more jobs through manufacturing plants… Remember what Tuan Lee Kuan Yew said when he came here in 1959? He said he needed to provide us with better housing, jobs and food. How can he achieve all these if he does not expand our economy? Building a world-class airport where our homes lie is necessary to bring in foreign investors and tourists. Tuan Lee is caring for the environment by locating the airport by the sea to reduce noise pollution in the city.

  “Pak Abdul was right. The intention was admirable and made absolute sense. No one could fault the government’s reasoning. But what was right for the greater good was not painless for the individual and his family. Hence, Pak Abdul’s voice lacked conviction. The trouble was that the government’s edict was not just about the demolition of some tourist-attracting type of ethnic housing. It was going to spell the destruction of a total way of life and manner of community living that was absent in the city. Something precious was about to disintegrate.

  If only the government can preserve this way of living, this sense of community, Pak Abdul said sadly. Once this is gone, it can never be recreated artificially.

  “But still the death knell rang.

  “Every household in the eastern and south-western coastal villages, including Changi, Bedok, Siglap, Tanjong Katong, Tanjong Rhu, Kallang, Telok Blangah and Pasir Panjang had been given notice. Some of the outlying islands were also affected, the ones immediately by the coast south of the harbour and near Jurong. Do you know that Singapore had over seventy islands? Yes we did. Many people are not aware of this. Some of the islands were not habitable but many had small kampongs on them, and a coterie of villagers. Some of these were requisitioned and fused with larger islands, either through land reclamation or via bridges built from the mainland, to create a bigger port and storage facilities for petroleum and oil refineries, as well as modern fisheries. The Port of Singapore Authority was expanding and improving the harbour, to turn Singapore into a world-class shipping port. Who could oppose a move that would bring in more jobs and thereby more food and wealth for everyone?

  What will we do lah? the fishermen lamented, their livelihood, their whole world on the verge of disappearing. How can we live after this? We have no education and no other skills. Are we to become wastrels or toilet cleaners and rubbish collectors?

  Join the big corporations lor! They have fleets of sturdier boats, advised one government officer. Work for them and you can continue to fish…

  Bloody pen-pusher! Obviously he doesn’t understand… someone muttered.

  Kepala kelapa! Coconut head! another said. It’s like telling a cook who runs his own food stall to go work for at someone else’s restaurant! The motivation will not be the same.

  “For the fisherfolk, the future was very bleak indeed. If my father, your Kong Cho, had been alive, he too would have had to face this dilemma. In some ways, I was glad that he was no longer around and had been spared this. He would have been humiliated to have to give up his independence and work for some big organisation.

  “Officers with unctuous smiles and self-deprecating bows had handed out the leaflets and explained their contents to the uneducated and illiterate. HDB flats were allocated several miles inland, in Bedok South, Ang Mo Kio and Toa Payoh, estates that were built in preparation for the relocation. We, the villagers, were invited to visit and check out our new, smart housing. The motley villagers, including Pak Abdul and his close friends, my mother, George, your father, then eleven, and I, and other neighbours went to Ang Mo Kio in a lorry. The vehicle was decked out with planks across its open back to make seats for us. We screeched and hung on for dear life when the driver went over potholes or took corners at high speed, forgetting that he had passengers on board instead of goods.

  “We stood in a mixture of awe and disbelief at the bottom of the residential blocks, looking up. To our eyes, the tower blocks seemed to sway against the blue-grey sky, frightful in their manifestation. The squarish flats were arranged side by side, in layered tiers, with common corridors in solid concrete blocks, ten stories high, obviously built to withstand tropical storms and raging monsoons, not like our spindly matchstick houses on stilts, thatched with attap sheaves that took the brunt of strong winds, scuttling rodents and ravaging birds. The space taken up by one attap house and one family would possibly house ten families, if not more as they were going to be piled on top of one another.

  It’s so dangerous for the children, I said to George. Especially curious ones like Anthony. What if Anthony climbed on a chair to look out the window or over the corridor?

  “Accompanied by several officers, electric lifts conveyed us skywards to the high-rise flats. For many it was our ever first experience to get into one and to be taken such a distance away from the ground, causing our knees to go weak and our hearts to thunder in their rib cages. Some of the older villagers clung to each other in terror that the lifts might malfunction and that we would be entombed in the claustrophobic boxes, clawing for fresh air, or that we might plunge headlong to earth, squashed against each other like dead lizards.

  “Only the previous year, in late November 1972, the four-storey Robinsons Department Store at Raffles Place had caught fire. It was crowded with shoppers doing their early shopping for Christmas when an electrical short circuit caused the wires and store to burst into flames. The conflagration was so enormous that we could see it from the East Coast and many parts of Singapore, clouds of black smoke billowing into the air, the stench overpowering and horrible. Subsequent reports said that someone trapped in one of the toilets was burnt to death. Eight people tried to escape by using the lift but it became their crematorium instead; their bodies, when found, were charred beyond recognition. Black-and-white photographs of the burnt-out box and building were plastered across the newspapers. The memory of the incident was still raw in the villagers’ minds. Some of them were so terrified that they could not be persuaded to enter the death boxes and preferred to take the stairs, laboriously pantin
g their way up step by step to the tenth floor. The officers-in-charge chose the tenth floor so that they can show us what they thought was an impressive, breathtaking view, of the estate of tall HDB towers!

  This is your front door, the officers indicated.

  “The entrance to the flat looked formidable, a solid wooden door with padlocks and grilles that resembled a gateway to a prison. The metal grilles on the windows on the corridor side and across the front door made each flat look like a bird cage. Apparently, it was designed to keep intruders out but looked as if it was keeping its owners in.

  The grilles are for safety, the officers said as if they had heard what I said earlier. This way, the children will be safe indoors. No chance of them falling out of windows.

  “We were not impressed, so used were we to our kampong houses—where the windows and doors were always thrown open in the day—that we couldn’t envisage living in such restricting circumstances. Something akin to horror clutched at our hearts. We whispered our misgivings amongst ourselves. The officers wiped their brows in nervous agitation at the grunts of disapproval. They had the unenviable task of making us fall in love with the flats and this new way of living. After all, nobody really set out to make anyone unhappy. The officers, like those in command, wanted us to be happy, housed in better living conditions. They counted on our good sense—and our votes. This was a necessary move. Relocation was the order of the day. No arguments. No disputes. Progress for the country must take precedence over the discomfort of a few.

  Come in, come in, the bright young female officer, Miss Hong, said with feigned good cheer. You will love the modern amenities…

  “We were ushered into the spanking new flats. The pristine cleanliness was beyond anything we had ever seen, so we did oooh-and-ahh. We had taken off our footwear and had left them by the front door as was our habit so our feet felt cool yet strange on the expensive mosaic tiles, as we had been accustomed to walking barefoot on our wooden floorboards. Our fingers traced the smooth, plastered walls and formica surfaces of the worktop, the custom-made kitchen units, and shiny, stainless steel sinks and taps. These were a far cry from the wooden walls of our kampong houses, brushed with kapor, a whitewash of slaked lime, an enamel bowl for washing up and an earthen jar, called a tempayan, to fill with water drawn from the village’s communal well. For some moments, we were lost in an aura of magic, as if we had time-travelled and arrived in the twentieth century in modern Singapore. You have to remember that many of us had never set foot in a concrete modern house before. Singapore was still largely rural, with many vegetable farms and forests; concrete houses were mostly in the heart of town and in posh areas like Tanglin and Bukit Timah.

  “Outside the kitchen windows was a short length of metal tubing where our bamboo galah or tekkor had to be inserted to hang out our washed clothes to dry in the sunshine.

  The galah will be heavy with wet clothes, someone grumbled. How are we going to have the strength to heave the pole out of the window and into the tubing without us falling out of the window?

  Tak boleh! Tak boleh! Cannot! Cannot! I won’t be able to manage that lah, moaned old Cik Aminah. I think hanging clothes on my clothesline is much easier and safer.

  It’s a case of getting the right knack to do it, said Miss Hong, though she wasn’t convincing. Here, I will show you…

  It looks easy now, Cik Aminah said. But you don’t have any clothes on the pole yet. Especially wet clothes which are heavier!

  “But of course, despite our grievances, we were also seduced by the fact that when we flicked a switch, light shone. We turned on a tap, and as if we had waved a wand, fresh drinking water flowed. If we moved here, our access to water would no longer be subjected to the whims of the torrid sun, or dry spells. The thought was beguiling. The gas cylinders lighted up the stoves with their ringed blue and orange flames. To think that we would not have to chop any more wood, scour for coals, or tolerate smelly kerosene to cook our meals was a welcome prospect.

  “Miss Hong was quick to take advantage of our fascination with the electrical gadgets. She set up an ironing board and demonstrated how the electric iron worked.

  Where do you put the hot coals? Cik Aminah asked.

  No need for coals anymore lah, Miss Hong said. See, this is electric. Turn on the switch and the iron gets hot and just press it down on your clothes…

  What? You don’t have to scorch a banana leaf anymore to make the iron glide properly? my mother, your great-grandmother, asked.

  No need. No need, Miss Hong beamed. See! The bottom of the iron is so smooth already. No need to use banana leaf.

  “More ‘wahs’. We nodded our heads in approval.

  And best of all, Miss Hong convinced us, each household would have its own private bathroom and water closet, instead of having to share the common bathrooms and toilets with the neighbours.

  “Imagine it! A private toilet to ourselves, not having to smell other people’s big jobs! The ceramic squat toilet was hygienic and clean, no sight of any soiled waste, cockroaches or rats. This was a luxury beyond our wildest dreams. If we were to own this private bathroom and toilet, it would be as if we had risen to the level of the wealthy. The flush system received the most attention and solicited the most glee. Cik Aminah, bent with age and arthritis, kept on flushing the loo, just to see the water flow like magic into the clean bowl and swirl down the drainpipe. She fingered the soft, luxurious toilet roll instead of the sheets which we used, cut out squares from discarded newspapers. When we had stood in the drizzle or rain in the village, our toilet squares used to get damp and when we wiped our bottoms with them, we ended up with newsprint all over our backsides! If we moved into these flats and use proper toilet roll, that would be a thing of the past!

  Look at this! How marvellous! How clean compared to our jamban, Cik Aminah enthused. And when we’ve done our business, the water flows to take it all away! It’s a miracle. This is pure bliss.

  “It was this more than anything that persuaded us we could live in this concrete block and forgo our seaside houses. I was thinking that I would not have to deal with little Anthony’s terror each time I had to take him to the jamban. He always feared that the rats scuttling below might climb up into the cubicle. He used to scream when the cockroaches ran blithely over his feet as he squatted.

  Indeed, the officers said, glad there was some positive response. When you live in these flats, you won’t have to worry about rats, centipedes, cockroaches, grass snakes or pythons. Everything will be clean, dirt free and germ free. You won’t have to worry about ringworms permeating through your naked soles. You won’t have to be victims to cholera, malaria, typhoid, or other diseases caused by stagnant ponds, dried-up wells or unhygienic sanitation…

  “It was an offer of paradise.

  But we are jammed in on both sides! Pak Abdul groaned, thinking of his present home, with windows all around to let in the natural light, the verandahs wrapped around his house, to allow the sea breeze in, to circulate freely. The windows here are only at the front and back. The middle of the flat is shrouded in gloom!

  “Miss Hong responded, Ah! That’s what the electric lights are for. Anytime when you need them. Twenty-four hours, seven days a week. You don’t need to wait for the generator to start. If you need some breeze, just switch on the electric fans. See…

  “She demonstrated by switching on the light, and the naked overhead bulb glowed. She switched on the ceiling fan and the imitation breeze blew into our faces. But for us who had lived all our lives by the sea, something significant was missing. The smell of freshness and salt was absent from the air.

  Because you have electricity, you can even buy yourself an ice-box so that you can keep your food safe. No more food rotting from the heat. No more ants crawling up the legs of the meat-safe…

  Wah! A fridge! Incredible. Light, whenever we want it, young Rokiah beamed at the prospect. Plus, our hands won’t be calloused from the rope when drawing water from the well anymore! We w
on’t have to live with smelly jambans.

  Yes, teenage Sulaiman agreed. We can watch football on television. Imagine having rich entertainment in our living rooms from the First World countries—Robin Hood and Z Cars from UK, Sea Hunt and Peyton Place from the USA! We won’t have to create our own evening entertainment anymore.

  Aiyah! You young people! Pak Abdul said with some exasperation. Are these modern trappings enough for you to forgo the bright sunshine that streams in through your open verandahs? Can you live without the wind and the sound of the sea? Where in this place are you going to get the smell of salt in the air?

  Ma’af Datok, Sulaiman said, with deference to Pak Abdul’s age. Apologies, grandfather. But it looks like this new way of living is foisted on us. Since we have no other choice, we just have to make the most of it and I’m just trying to be positive…

  “Your Cho Cho, my mother was unusually quiet. Too quiet.

  I can’t walk barefoot, sinking my feet into fine beach sand here, I whispered to your grandpa George, suddenly realising the enormity of the change. Imagine living here and looking out to these other blocks and blocks of flats and more flats, instead of looking out to the sea and sky! What a horrible prospect! I will feel trapped…

  What about our jobs and livelihoods? What will happen to our sampans? Where are we going to store them? How are we going to fish from these tower blocks?”

  “I’m not sure if I can leave this village and go to live in a tower block of flats, my mother, your Cho Cho, finally confessed her feelings to us that very evening. I need to smell the sea and feel the wind. I will die without this…

  Mak, we have no choice… I said to her.