ONE OF THE most memorable delights of kampong life was its sense of community and friendliness. Neighbours talked to each other, and confided and communicated. And when the need arose, people pulled their weight together, shared and did things together. Like the time when the python reared its ugly head and the villagers got together to capture and kill it. The Malays have a wonderful expression for this heart-warming togetherness – gotong royong; normally translated as mutual assistance. It was a means of helping each other without any ulterior personal motive, but for the good of the community.

This spirit of togetherness and community was encouraged by the fact that doors in the village were often kept open and people tended to live outdoors, which meant that they knew each other and thus made this attitude possible. There was a kind of mutual trust. Perhaps also, people seemed more laid back in the kampong, not harassed by deadlines and the acquisition of material things. They did not possess the attitude that others should be blamed for their misfortune. Sure, the kampong folks could always do with more money and better living conditions, but they dealt with their deprivations with a kind of nobility and lived each day for the joys that the new day brought.

“Money is a currency that allows you to buy things,” Mak said. “Having it does not always make you happy. True wealth is when you have equanimity and joy of spirit.”

I think my mother was a living Buddha, if to be a buddha meant someone who was enlightened and acted with non-attachment. She had gone from the material comfort of her parents’ home in Malacca to the dire circumstances of Kampong Potong Pasir. Yet she performed her every task with quiet dignity, despite its abhorrent nature – emptying out the smelly chamber-pots every morning; clearing the cess-pool of slimy washing-up water; picking up the rats’ droppings from our cement floor or yanking out wriggly worms from her screaming children’s bottoms. Poor diet with little nutritional value and eating almost decomposed food caused intestinal worms to grow in bellies, and kampong children had to cope with the terror and torture of the live worms forcing their way out. This was what we had to live with. It was a fate worse than death to us. I cannot begin to tell you what my own experience was like – its memory is enough to give me the shudders. But we survived.

Mak never let on to the neighbours that she used to have servants to do everything for her, though her natural grace and refinement must have intimated to everybody that she was not of peasant stock. But she chose me to share her stories with, and somehow I must have stored them in the pages of my memory. (Perhaps it was my destiny to be a writer so that I could put her stories in print for her.) The only time one became aware of the possibility of her having had a better life was when the villagers got together to sing and play music. Her musical education and talents surfaced in those moments, because she had the knack of picking up almost any musical instrument to play with ease and virtuosity. In her father’s grand wood-crafted house in the coastal town of Malacca, she had once played the violin and the piano. I imagined her as she was then, young and beautiful, the violin resting on her slim shoulders, her face tilted in keen concentration as she coaxed the haunting melody from the instrument. But the violin, like the piano, was eventually sold for food.

“Nonya,” Karim said. “Do you want to try the ukulele today?”

People addressed Peranakan women as nonya. It had been suggested that the term developed from an old Portuguese word, nhonha which may have been a corruption of the word, senhora, to mean a lady. After all, Malacca was the birthplace of many Peranakans, therefore its culture was inevitably influenced by the Portuguese. They had occupied the city for one hundred and thirty years in the 16^th century, and they had left their traces. The Dutch wrested control from them in January 1641 and ruled for the next one hundred and eighty four years. Our popular Peranakan crispy rolled crepe, kuih belanda, translated as Dutch cake, was attributed to the latter’s influence.

At the day’s end, when house-work and labouring were done, our village folk gathered in the sandy yard to share their day, to talk, tell stories, or sing songs. People had to entertain themselves, as technological advances had yet to reach us. The evening’s activity was a rustic kind of soiree. People sat on straw mats, empty wooden crates, stools, or the horizontal lay of coconut palms. The naked dancing flames from hurricane and carbide lamps lit up the darkened evening, sending all sorts of moving shapes around. Cicadas sang their own song quite audibly and merrily. If rain was in the air, even the deep-throated frogs from the nearby river banks and ponds would contribute to the concert, singing in their baritone. Nature had its own magical symphony. But it was a dry March so no rain was imminent, therefore the frogs were sulky and silent. In the hot months, it was not unusual to come upon someone sleeping outdoors all night on their roped charpoy or straw mat. In the yard, banana and papaya trees stood by like straight-backed sentinels, casting tall shadows.

Karim was a cheerful and able-bodied young man, who usually initiated the temasya or cultural event. He loved music and used it to escape the dreariness of his occupation, that of clearing the filled-buckets from the jambans, or outhouses. The black oval buckets were positioned under the opening of the wooden platform of the outhouses. Rats, cockroaches, centipedes, worms, flies and mosquitoes swarmed around the open buckets. Karim’s job was to drive the Municipal truck from the sewage centre at Kolam Ayer near Kallang to the villages, to pick up the buckets and swap them with clean and empty ones. People tended to joke about the long vehicle he drove, calling it a limousine due to its many compartments for the buckets.

“Oi, limousine datang! The limousine is here!” Children called out when he turned up in it.

There were no such things as rubber gloves in those days, and Karim had to handle the buckets with his bare hands. It was particularly unpleasant for him when the buckets were overflowing and their handles smeared with faeces. After all, Malays like Peranakans eat food with their fingers! What did Karim use at the end of the day to rid himself of the smell and aura of his job? To keep his spirits up, Karim whistled as he worked, as if what he was doing was an agreeable task. Sometimes the stench was so foul, he would tie a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Kampong folks considered men like him our unsung heroes because without them doing such menial and thankless jobs, our lives in the village would be hell. The simple, normal process of moving one’s bowel would have been torment. People who lived in houses that had flush toilets could simply not comprehend our daily tribulation.

For someone whose hands handle such despicable matter, Karim’s hands were unusually delicate and graceful, his fingers long and tapered. He could have been destined for better things, but life deprived him of the right opportunities, for he had no schooling. Education was not the privilege of many kampong folks. I was already eight years old and I had only just started school the previous year, after my mother persuaded my father that she would put me through school selling nonya kuih, Peranakan cakes, and nasi lemak.

In the kampongs, survival was more important than education. There was hardly enough money to eat, let alone to be schooled. So there were many like Karim, relegated to jobs beneath their true talent or stature. Yet he had such a delightful personality. He may have been poor but he was certainly wealthy according to my mother’s definition, for he had equanimity and joy of spirit. Cheerfully, he handed my mother a ukulele whilst he himself opted for the guitar.

“Shall we play one of P. Ramlee’s songs? How about Getaran Jiwa?” P. Ramlee, actor, director and singer was 1950s Singapore’s local heart-throb.

“Oh yes,” my mother said. “I love the lyrics and you’ve got the voice for it.”

Karim sang the song from P. Ramlee’s film Anatara dua Darjat, or Between two Classes. It was a story about a man who fell in love with a girl from the Malay royal household. The usual star-crossed lovers type of movie which brought tears to people’s eyes. In the song, the couple were likened to rhythm and song. Karim brought out everyone’s feelings with his emotive rendering of the words:

Tak mungkin hilang, irama dan lagu

Bagaikan kembang, sentiasa bermadu

Andai dipisah,lagu dan irama

Lemah tiada berjiwa, hampa

Never will (they) vanish, rhythm and song.

Like blossoms, (they) will linger forever.

If you separate, the song and the rhythm,

(They’ll) be weak and soulless, and empty.

The lyrics carried a deeper meaning for the way we live – if we do not live in a creative way, our lives will be empty and soulless. Karim sang with feeling because music made his life meaningful. He certainly had an innate talent for music and performance. With a musical instrument in her hand, my mother too was transformed. She went from wife, mother and ordinary housewife to a talented musician in her own right. She often told me how she used to play the piano in grandfather’s big bungalow by the sea in Malacca. So, seeing her with her eyes lowered as she plucked at the strings, her face in rapture, I could imagine what she must have looked like in her previous life, young and beautiful, without a care in the world. It must have been wonderful to live life with the thought that one had the luxury of playing music without worrying about how to find money or food.

Some of the kids, including Abu, provided the percussion, using upside down baldi, metal pails or empty kerosene tins as their drums. It was not just community time, it was also family time, parents and siblings sitting outdoors in the soft evening light to do something enjoyable together. Karim sang with a sonorous voice and he made tears fall with his rendition of another of P. Ramlee’s song from the film, Ibu Mertua-ku, My Mother-in-Law.

Everyone applauded when he finished. His singing was followed by two neighbours who recited a pantun, a folk poem, which took the form of a question-and-response style. Everyone was amused by their repartee. Then someone sang a keronchong, a plaintive Malay folk song, singing of heartbreak, loss and pain. Perankans also love the keronchong and would sing it at events. It was a wonderful evening of sharing and laughter. Music seemed to have the capacity to unite people, forging togetherness in a way that surmounted race, colour, creed or social status.

“There is no magic like music for making an effect upon the human soul,” said the Sufi Master, Hazrat Inayat Khan.

“Shall we end the evening with something funny?” Karim asked. “I’m going to sing something written by my idol, Encik Zubir Said. He’s from Minangkabau and is the music composer for Cathay-Keris Films. The two songs he did for the film Sumpah Pontianak, or Curse of the Pontianak, were sung by the satay-man. These acted as comic relief from the horror.”

So Karim sang the song about satay, what it tasted like, how to make it, how to eat it. Silly but jolly stuff that made everyone laugh. He could have been an actor. When he said the word, pontianak, I became scared. She was the legendary female vampire. People who lived in kampongs heard about her all the time. Perhaps the stories were told so that parents could ensure that children did not wander around the village at nights in case she appeared! Yet the Pontianak was a recurring subject for local films. It seemed perverse that people were afraid to encounter a pontianak in real life, but loved the horror of seeing her on celluloid.

“You should give up your filthy job and play music at Happy World,” Pak Osman said to Karin.

“Yes, yes,” everyone agreed in unison.

“It’s my life-long dream,” Karim sighed. “But it’s so hard to get the chance to get into a band.”

Nearby Happy World, set up in 1936, was located between Mountbatten and Geylang Roads. It was the nearest of the ‘three worlds’ to our village. The other worlds were New World on Kitchener Road and Great World on River Valley Road. These were places which offered affordable entertainment to ordinary families with children. In each world, there was a cabaret for adults, who could buy tickets to dance ronggeng with girls, circus and game-arcades for children, shopping for the ladies, and food stalls. Sometimes when my father received his annual bonus from the English firm he worked in, he would take us to Happy World or New World for a treat.

“Well you’re certainly not going to be recognised for your talent shovelling shit all day. You must go there and make contacts. Show people how good your playing is. You might be lucky and run into the Soliano brothers or Alex Abisheganaden or someone else just as famous. They could take you under their wing and be your mentor,” Pak Osman said. “Think positive. Dance-halls need musicians. If someone falls sick, you could be there to take over.”

“That’s a good idea,” Karim said, his eyes brightening.

“Why don’t we all go and support Karim?” my eldest brother said. “We can all have a fun night out.”

Eldest Brother was addressed by us, his siblings, as Eldest Brother and not by name. In Teochew, he was addressed as Ah Hiah. That was our custom. He was twenty-one, and was thirteen years older than me. Eldest Brother was dark brown like me. He had just started work as a teacher at St. Andrew’s School across the Kallang River from our kampong. Just as it was entertaining to watch my mother dressing to go out, it was amusing to watch my brother, as he spruced himself up for his trip to the cabaret. He slicked the thick Brylcreem pomade onto his hair and twisted his forelock into a Tony Curtis quiff. Tony Curtis, the handsome American actor, had a smile that would melt most women’s hearts – and some men’s too. My brother tried to emulate the smile in the mirror, making me burst into hysterics.

“Why? You think I’m not as handsome as Tony Curtis or what?”

He put on his Chinese New Year clothes, a newly starched shirt and his drain-pipe trousers. With his good looks, he was sure to catch any girl’s eye. Then he doused himself with 4711 Cologne. He obviously bought it at the Thieves Market, Robinson’s Petang, in Sungei Road – the real thing would be beyond his wages. 4711 Original Eau de Cologne was one of Cologne’s oldest internationally famous brands. Called Das Wunderwasser or Wonder Water in German, its unique fragrance was said to refresh the mind, body and soul. The cologne was packaged in a distinctive bottle with a blue and gold label. Eldest Brother perfumed the air and me with its light fragrance. Feeling generous, he took the bottle of cologne with him and stepped outside.

“Hey, Karim! Come! I’ll let you have some of my cologne so you won’t smell of shit!” Eldest Brother called out.

The other young lads were all dressed like him and wore their hair like him. “So long as he does not end up like a pondan or mafadek!” One of them said.

Pondan was Malay for an effeminate man and mafadek meant gay.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Karim responded good humouredly in a falsetto voice, gesturing with his hand affectedly. It made everyone laugh.

“Now don’t touch any alcohol!” Pak Osman warned as the young men departed. Here Pak Osman was using a colloquial expression – to touch alcohol means to drink it.

Of course,by the time they got home, I was fast asleep.

So it became routine for Karim to try his luck at Happy World, hoping that his talent would be noticed. He spoke to members of different bands and stayed back late to help them pack their instruments. This meant that he was getting less sleep, as he had to wake up early to do his rounds of swapping the buckets of waste matter. He whistled less and less as he worked. He was transforming into a disgruntled person. It was also rumoured that he had taken to drinking toddy, the local palm brew, as well as hard liquor at the club.

But the transformation of the country was a positive one, fuelled by the previous year’s announcement that Singapore was now a city state. Excitement rose to fever pitch when it was announced that there was to be an election in May. Posters of candidates were nailed to posts and walls. Electoral lorries with huge banners and people shouting slogans from megaphones trundled down the dusty, pot-holed roads of villages like Kampong Potong Pasir. A platform stage, similar to the ones put up for China Wayang, the Chinese Operas, held in the lunar calendar’s seventh month to appease the Hungry Ghosts, was erected for the political rallies. The different parties presented their case. The most memorable speech was by the young lawyer, Lee Kuan Yew, from the People’s Action Party (PAP). Nearly everyone in the village turned up in the vicinity of the badminton court, which served as our community centre.

My father carried me on his shoulders and was accompanied by his friend, Ah Gu, as people jostled for a view of the young man on the stage. He was dressed in a newly starched white cotton shirt and trousers. He was tall and slim, and possessed a very distinctive forehead. We had heard that he was educated at Cambridge University in England so we expected him to act very atas, or high-brow, and speak to us in the Queen’s English. Instead he spoke to us in Malay and Hokkien, the lingua franca of ordinary kampong folk, making us warm to him instantly. He had an arresting charisma and demeanour that made us feel that he was one of us. He shook hands with farmers, labourers and ordinary kampong-folk – and even with the likes of Karim, who handled buckets smeared with faeces. No one was too low for Lee Kuan Yew to shake hands with.

“If you vote us in, we will improve your lives,” he said. “We will focus on making you comfortable; give you electricity and water in your homes; better schools, better job opportunities, better hygiene and better nutrition.”

Similar words had been uttered by other politicians before and so were not radical or new. But this young man injected warmth and sincerity into his voice, making his promises, as if personally, to each one of us. His eye contact with everyone was steady, suggesting confidence, but it did not feel aggressive. His energy on stage was electrifying. No one could see him that day and not be affected. People were ready for change and we saw in him that instrument of change. The kampong folks hooted their approval, and when he raised his fist and cried out Merdeka!, everyone shot a thicket of fists into the air, shouting the word for independence over and over. We in turn were infused with tremendous energy and a sense of elation.

We heard that Lee Kuan Yew did not relax in his arduous campaign. He went round the whole mainland and outlying islands in this same charismatic manner, visiting kampongs and charming the ordinary folk, making people believe that our dreams for a better life were possible. He was our saviour for he promised liberation from our poverty, from our disgusting outhouses, from our lack of everyday comforts. He held high hopes for us. Hope was a jewel for the spirit. Without hope, people living in difficult circumstances would give up. He showed us an avenue of escape. So it came as no surprise that on May 31, 1959, his party, the PAP, won 43 out of 51 seats, to form a new government.

“The people’s verdict is clear and decisive,” the new Prime Minister, Lee Kuan Yew said. “Nothing more can be added to it.”

He was only thirty-six-years-old and already held the weight of our country’s development on his shoulders. Cries of merdeka exploded around the country, together with fire-crackers which strewed the streets, walk-ways and open grounds with their red splintered paper. According to Chinese folk-lore, the sound of exploding fire-crackers would scare the devils away; perhaps in this case, we hoped it would scare away the Red Devils, Angmoh Kwee, our rulers for so many years. The carpets of red were an auspicious symbol of prosperity and good luck. This was a country on the brink of nationhood. It was not yet completely independent but it was slowly yet surely making its way there.

In June, people were given the opportunity to apply for Singapore citizenship. For those who were born in the country, it was automatic but those who had resided for more than two years were also eligible. Six stamps were issued to commemorate this momentous event. Although the stamp still bore the Queen’s head, it was designed with a Lion’s Head as well.

“Isn’t this marvellous?” Ah Gu said, showing off the stamp to everyone in the village. He had queued for hours to get it. “Our Lion City.”

“Yes, we should be proud. We can finally call ourselves citizens of Singapore,” my father said.

Even Karim lost his defeatist outlook. He had become dejected at not being employed as a musician but now the aura of hope in the country helped to blossom the hope he once held in his heart. In this new milieu, everything was possible. Education was possible for the masses, talent could be rewarded.

“It’s good that you’ve given up drink,” Pak Osman said. “You might think that alcohol helps you to be creative but in actuality, it’s destroying its very essence. Don’t squander your talent!”

“Thank you for your confidence in me, Pak Osman,” Karim said. “Your belief in me is a treasure. I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

“Believe in your music,” my mother told him. “Let your joy flow into it and you will bring joy to others. That is how success comes, not through your grasping but through your sharing.”

Once again Karim whistled whilst he worked.

One day, he returned from the sewage works at Kolam Ayer with great joy.

“My idol, Encik Zubir Said’s song has been selected as our new national anthem!” He announced. “It was a song that was composed for the Victoria Hall Chamber Ensemble for its reopening. It’s called Majulah Singapura, or Onward Singapore!”

“Do you know the tune and lyrics,” the kids asked Karim. “Can you teach us?”

“Yes, it was on Radio Singapore.”

The radio station had only been renamed that January, claiming its independence from Radio Malaya.

So the children, including myself, gathered round him as he strummed his guitar and sang out the Malay words, “Mari kita rakyat Singapura ... Come, people of Singapore...”

People of Singapore. It was a new, intoxicating concept. Somehow, under the colonial rulers, Singapore did not seem to belong to us. Now it felt different. The words of the song aroused in us a patriotism we had never felt before. It was our song, for our own country. For the first time, we saw the possibility that Singapore could be truly ruled by our own people. Indeed the lyrics fostered a feeling of togetherness, important for a country divided by different races clinging to their different cultural origins.

“Interesting that they did not choose a song in English,” Ah Gu said.

My father’s friend had a propensity to appear whenever there was political talk. He spent evenings with my father discussing politics.

“Aiiyah, Ah Gu!” My father said with some exasperation. “With all your lust for independence, I would have thought you’d understand straightaway. Using English, we would still be yoked to colonial power. Malay is the indigenous and national language of the region, so it is right that we should express our national dream in a local language.”

“Of course, of course!” Ah Gu slapped his forehead. “I suppose the new National Anthem will replace God Save the Queen...?”

“Sometimes I am astounded by your stupidity,” Ah Tetia said haughtily.

In July, Karim came home with news that his dream to play in a band had been realised.

“I shall play the guitar in a real band,” he enthused. “There is going to be a huge celebration to commemorate the inauguration of our new government. It will take the form of an event called Aneka Ragam Rakyat, or People’s Cultural Event, in August, to be held at the Botanic Gardens. There will be music all day so they need extra musicians.”

“What did I tell you?” My mother said, her happiness for another’s good fortune lighting up her face and making her look exceptionally beautiful. “When you infuse joy into your music, others can hear it and feel the joy too.”

“My prayers for you have been answered,” Pak Osman said with a smile. “I have made offerings to Allah, for you. I don’t know how many chickens I have slaughtered for you! Hopefully, your exposure at this event will lead you to a more permanent contract. Then you don’t have to shovel shit anymore.”

There were many firsts in 1959. It was the first time the words Radio Singapore were spoken. It was the first time Prince Philip visited Singapore. It was the first time the PAP formed a government. English, Malay, Chinese and Tamil were made the four official languages and used in the Legislative Assembly. It was also the first time a local-born Yang Di Pertuan Negara, Yusof bin Ishak was installed, displacing the last British Governor of Singapore, Sir William Goode. Encik Ishak, a former journalist, was descended from a Minangkabau nobleman and was born in Perak. He began his education in a Malay school in Taiping and subsequently in Singapore, and was a student at Victoria Bridge School and the Raffles Institution. His intelligence and integrity made him the appropriate choice as the new head of state.

Most important of all, 1959 was the year when the Singapore flag was first unfurled. A committee headed by Dr Toh Chin Chye, Deputy Prime Minister and one of the founding fathers of Singapore, designed the flag. Its red colour represented universal brotherhood and equality for all men; its white part was a symbol of purity. Against the vibrant red of the upper sector of the flag lay a crescent which signified a young, fledgeling nation. Cradled within this crescent were five stars which represented democracy, peace, progress, justice and equality. People viewed the flag with awe and pride – it was our first and all our own. It was not just a piece of insignificant fabric; it was an enormously powerful symbol, invested with our hopes and dreams for independence. The new flag was hoisted up the flag pole at City Hall amidst much boisterous cheering – and down came the British Union Jack that had flown over Singapore for one hundred and forty years.

 

It was a great moment, the beginning of a new era and the first sprouting of our country’s new identity.