“Assalamualaikum, Tok Penghulu!”
Ibrahim pressed the brakes of his bicycle and came to a halt next to the Bentley.
“Waalaikumussalam!” he returned Zam’s greeting of peace. “Waiting for your Towkay?”
“Ya, Tok. He’s visiting the new Chinese temple.”
“Looks like you’re going to miss prayers at the mosque.”
“That’s so, Tok. I pray Allah in His mercy forgives me.”
“Allah is infinite in His mercy.”
Ibrahim cycled away, pedalling furiously past the red and green monstrosity. Its foreign architecture, hideous dragons and sword-wielding gods offended his aesthetic sensibility. Nothing could be uglier. Except their spirit huts by the roadside and dilapidated shrines housing their foreign gods. He pedalled faster. The sky was a dark angry orange. Rain clouds were rapidly covering the horizon. Large cool drops started to fall. On his face. His back. Come, rain, come! Fall. Fall upon the rice plants. God willing, let this year’s harvest be bountiful.
His publication, Tanah Melayu, “Malay Land,” was in dire need of contributions and subscribers. If the harvest was good, people would have money to buy his magazine. The bimonthly was his life’s work. Even though few read it. People were too busy trying to make ends meet. Better to focus on making money like the Chinese. That was how he thought sometimes in his despair, but, God willing, he would make Tanah Melayu into the kind of periodical the educated Malays were already publishing in Singapore and the Javanese and Sumatrans, in the Dutch East Indies. Bandong was a lifetime behind those places.
Things had not turned out quite the way he had envisioned for his people ten years ago. The terrible riot in Ipoh had nearly killed his son. And Nawawi, that scoundrel, had slipped away from Ipoh. Not a word of thanks or an apology for all the trouble he’d caused!
After the riot, Mr Douglas had rejected his proposal to build an English school for Malay boys in Bandong Valley. But he’d refused to let the white man’s rejection douse his hope of awakening his people. So he took to writing and publishing. It had not been easy to sustain the initial excitement of those early years when his journal was launched. It had caused quite a stir. He was forthright in his editorials and allowed his writers to say what they wanted. But he was careful too. He made sure that he was not contravening any state laws in his writings. Some white men like Mr Hennings had studied the Malay language and kept an eye on Malay publications. They had also banned many Chinese societies by simply labelling them secret societies. Chinese leaders thought to be troublesome were jailed or banished. Few Malay writers would wish for such a fate. Who could forget the sad case of Sultan Abdullah and his chiefs in the Perak uprising? The English had banished them to some faraway island in the South Seas; they were as good as dead to their families.
He stopped outside the community hall next to the mosque and leaned his bicycle against the wall. He mopped his balding pate. His face was lined, but his eyes had retained their lively intelligence. Several men were inside the hall. He did a quick count. Twenty-five. The audience was larger than he had expected and he recognised some graduates from the Malay College in Kuala Kangsar.
“Good evening, Tok! Assalamualaikum!” they greeted him.
“Waalaikumussalam!”
He took his place at the table. The chairman introduced him to the members of the Bandong Society for Malay Advancement, mostly young clerks and clerical assistants in their twenties. Most had passed the Junior Cambridge Examination and were employed in government departments like public works, agriculture, mines and survey. The storm broke overhead just as he started to speak. The rain drummed upon the zinc roof above him like loud background music.
“My young friends! I thank you for inviting me! When your chairman told me that many of you are proud holders of the Junior Cambridge Examination Certificate, I realised that I’d be addressing the members of an elite Malay club! There’re not many of you in this country! But, Insya Allah, you’ll be like the chilli padi that will make the whole curry hot and spicy.”
His audience laughed and applauded, pleased with his flattering description of them.
“We Malays in Bandong have come a long way. From being ruled by a menteri to being ruled by a district officer! That’s the price we’ve paid for our progress!
“Bandong is a modern town connected by rail to Ipoh and the royal town of Kuala Kangsar. A town that boasts of two rice mills, a bank and shops. But they’re owned by the Chinese! Bandong has a bus service. Again owned by the Chinese! A rickshaw depot. Again owned by the Chinese! A railway station. Owned by the white rulers but controlled by an Indian station master! A post office. Again owned by the white man and controlled by an Indian! A police station. In the charge of a Sikh police inspector! O honourable sons of Bandong, our small town has many government departments! But all in the charge of Englishmen assisted by Chinese and Indian chief clerks! But that’s progress—or is it?”
They sat stiffly in their rattan chairs and gazed at him with impassive faces. The rain drummed on and on. Part of the zinc roof sprung a leak and someone got up and placed a pail to catch the drip. The chairman shifted uneasily in his seat. Then a young man stood up, bowed stiffly to the chair and Ibrahim.
“Honoured Tok, I seek your forgiveness first before I speak.”
“Please go on.”
“Like you, Tok, we’ve found jobs in the government. Before the white rulers came, we were padi farmers. Today we’re respected government servants.”
“That’s true,” he answered in a kindly voice, addressing the young clerk as an equal. “Many of us have found jobs in the government. But, honourable Tuan, I think there’re too many of us in the government.”
“Too many of us?” They looked at him.
“Look around you. Bandong has too many Malay punkah pullers, Malay gardeners, Malay constables, Malay postmen and Malay junior clerks! In the whole country, there’re too many Malays in jobs like peons and road sweepers. Inside our hearts, we want to have a fair share of higher appointments in the government service. You who’ve passed the English examination, don’t you want to be trained for a higher post?”
But the holders of the Junior Cambridge Examination Certificate were wary. Yes, they agreed with Tok Penghulu. But that depended on what their superiors thought. Better to be humble. Besides, life was safe and peaceful under the white man. Without them, the Malays would be like fatherless chickens hunted by hawks and eagles. Other powers would take over their land if the British moved out. He could almost hear the thoughts racing through their heads as they waited for him to finish his speech.
“We want, Insya Allah, to take charge of our own country! We Malays are now poor people living in a great country!”
“Begging Tok’s pardon.” The chairman was very apologetic. “We can’t talk about politics here. We don’t want the government to think that we’re a political or secret society.”
Cowards! Their English education had changed them into mincing little courtiers dancing to the tune of their masters, lowing like cows led by the nose ring! Please, Allah in your mercy, don’t let Omar become one of them.
He stood up and, raising his voice to make himself heard above the persistent drumming on the tin roof, declared, “Tonight I’m here not to talk about politics but to talk about my acre of earth and my place in it!” He picked off the clump of mud that had stuck to his trousers and held it up for all to see. “Look, this bit of earth belongs to you and me.”