Across the Causeway III

Jan 30th UPDATE:

The date and venue for the book launch is postponed to a later date. Will keep you all posted. Thank you.

NBB

Rabiah's Hijrah evolved into Across the Causeway

Dear loyal blog readers,

I apologise for the sporadic postings. I really should make up for the long absence.

Since last Hari Raya Puasa, I've been busy rewriting and meeting illustrators, designers and printers to turn the scattered entries into a published memoir.

There were several revisions. Many characters were eliminated. Some scenes were sacrificed. The focus is on how the child makes sense of her reality and identity ... her father's absence, her mother's resilience, their disparate origins, their stark differences, the rapid social, economic and political changes that shaped her environment.

This is an independent publishing project. 

It's the first part of a two part series on a child/girlhood in Singapore and Malaysia in the '60s and '70s.   

Pre-orders are welcomed. Only when there are sufficient orders to make 'printing-on-demand' economically viable, will you be requested to make payments.

Or if there are Angel Investors, Compassionate Crowdfunders or Nostalgia Junkies looking to support a creative work on the theme of a truly United Nusantara Nations, please do contact me.    

    

At any rate, a launch is scheduled for February 14, 2015.

Venue: Malaysian National Library, Jalan Tun Razak.

Time: 3-5PM

Programme:

* Very brief speeches 

* '60s tunes by Young and Senior Artists

* Readings of passages 

* Selfies/Wefies at Photo Booth

Dress Code: '60s Retro

See you all there!

  

BLURB

Bet’s wonder years were less than ordinary. Growing up in the turbulent ‘60s was like living on a proverbial minefield. Even before Bet was born, Bapak had been jailed for being a Radical. Mak was a Realist who found no job too small, and did whatever it took to put a roof over their heads and food on the table. 

Mak and Bapak and all the other adults in her neighbourhood were too preoccupied with the big Merger, the Confrontation, the Riots, the Curfews and the Separation. All Bet could think of was the terrible haircut she was stuck with after her trip to the Barber’s, which made her face look rounder; and those hideous marks on her legs from climbing all those trees around her compound; and that horrible school uniform which made her self-conscious.

Bet had to learn early that the world did not owe her a living. She had to be beyond just resourceful to survive. She had to be tough and grow up quicker than the other girls and boys. 

One day, Mak dropped the Bomb on the Big Move. They had to leave their homeland for good.

Genre: Coming-of-age in the Mid '60s

The Sounds of the Battle Drums, mid '64

Courtesy of www.theartwolf.com

Though our wooden house was the one that was drab

On a row of charming stage houses built on posts

But my seven year old heart leapt

When I sighted its facade

From the window of the dusty bus

As it descended down the hill

And when it stopped in front of the house

Where they shot box-office Malay films

I alighted and crossed the busy main road

And turned into the dirt lane on the right

No 38 Peace Street was the third

Its ground was just as bald

Save for the hibiscus hedge

And the tall guava tree on its left

Yet the red concrete steps

Led to the wooden bench

Perched on the narrow veranda

A favourite hang-out to sight passing vendors

As I took off my shoes and socks and washed my feet

With water ladled from the ceramic vessel

The familiar scent of the calamansi wafted

And the sight of the lush, green hill

And its cool, natural spring

Soothed my smarting eyes

And cleared them of prickly sand

I sat at the top of the stairs

And watched the neighbourhood boys

Pushing and shoving and scooping

The spouting water to quench their thirst

A just reward for a friendly football match

After they left

It was so quiet

No one was about

That I just gawked

At the passing bullock cart

No sibling to hitch a ride with on its back

And prompted the cow herder to halt

And chase us with a crooked stick

Just yesterday

We were shaken by a tussle

Between Yat and Mal

Over a taste of her popsicle

Bought from the Sun Sun Ice Cream vendor

With coins retrieved between the floors

A sudden jerk caught her off balanced

She had to be taken to the hospital by ambulance

A hairline crack on her shoulder bone

And a fracture on the elbow joint

Hence Mal was missing in action

Though he had been a rescuer once

On that fateful evening last rainy season

When I slipped and fell into the swollen drain

Its swift currents had me almost drowned

But after I showered and changed

Into a Sam Foo top and pants

I caught a glimpse of the lead actor on his scooter

That cured me of my trauma and set my heart aflutter

On that hushed afternoon

I looked out for Alias and his Ma’s epok-epok

Fried dumplings filled with spicy bean sprouts

Or Mamak the travelling porridge vendor

Balancing two rows of rattan baskets

Filled with tiffins of beans, barley and tuber gruels

On the wooden staff resting on his shoulders

My tummy growled

When I heard the ‘toot, toot’ sound

Of the Bhai Roti’s horn

An invitation to check out his treasure chest

Crammed with all sorts of sweet and savoury breads

The best was the steamed white loaf with thick blobs of kaya spread

But that was nothing like Aunt Mahani’s flying saucer hot baps

Which I helped to sell around the village to earn coins in my pockets

My eyes trailed as his bicycle turned the bend towards the barren knoll

That served as the boundary between the Foot Hills and the Pig Farm

A favourite location for fighting scenes in Malay epic films

Also the setting of the battle drums during the recent turmoil

And the site of the Ruling Party Amity Corps’ camps

To ensure the rival groups laid down their arms

It was like a blood stain on the island’s bleached history

But the turning point for the Malay community’s destiny

From the Silat aficionados’ surge against the agent provocateurs’ taunts

To the raging torrent among the ranks of the Maulid procession

To the state of emergency declared after the fatal clashes, deaths and detentions

To the extended periods of curfew filled with conflicts and doubts

And the final fall-out which led to the departure of intellectuals and patriots  

Courtesy of www.galleryhip.com

Anak Merdeka, ‘57

Outram Jail, circa 1950s

Kandang Kerbau Hospital, circa 1950s

I was the baby of the family

There were Pa, Ma, Mal, Yat and me

I was born on the eve of Independence

At this maternity hospital called the Oxen Pen

Along with the birth of a new nation

Made up of the FMS and the Straits Settlements

After four and a half centuries of foreign domination

When Ma was heavy with me

Pa was incarcerated into the Penitentiary

Framed for supplying fire arms to the Radical Lefties

That shook the sensibilities of my grandfather, the Selangor Mufti

Who arrived in Singapore in his maroon Mercedes

Driven by his private chauffeur, my third Ami 

Siddi’s presence lent credence to his eldest son’s defence

And swayed the court verdict to a prison sentence    

Ma worked her bones to feed and shelter her family

And buy Pa his pack of Players when she visited him monthly

Her loyalty to her husband was admirable

In spite of her brothers and sisters’ disapproval

They were all the support system that she had

Her mother had died of miscarriage when she was eight

And her father expired when she was a young bride

When I turned six

Pa was released

He moved us from the one-bedroom barrack next to the cinema Central

To his godfather’s two-bedroom house in the village at the Foot Hills

But there was no decent job for a sworn enemy

And he can’t feed his family with fervent pleas

So across the border, and into the interior, he set off with his buddies

To clear acres of land and grow some paddy

When the field of grains turned golden

It was the start of the harvesting season

Pa took us to visit

And witness what all the months of toil had yielded   

Alas, he ran out of funds to pay the villagers

Whom he hired as daily harvesters

When they refused to show up for work

Pa and his buddies could only watch

As tracts and tracts of paddy stalks began to rot

Anak Merdeka - Independence Child

FMS - Federated Malay States

Mufti - Grand Cleric

Ami - Paternal Uncle 

Siddi - Paternal Grandfather

Paddy - Rice Grains

Hidayah Amin's The Mango Tree

The State vs Hidayah Amin and the casualty is the Mango Tree

While I've been dawdling back and forth through my drafts, Hidayah Amin has published her second childhood memoir, The Mango Tree.  Its launch is scheduled for March 16, 2013 (a Saturday) at the Pod@National Library, Singapore.  Since it's a children's book, there'll be a Nature Talk, Music Performance, Book Sale & Book Signing, Free Air-Brush Face-Painting (upon purchase of book), Special Gifts for those wearing or bringing something green or yellow.  Since space is limited, do RSVP to helang.books@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/events/469410049788294/

Well, if that doesn't spur me on to publish my own childhood memoir, then nothing will.  For a start, I've engaged an editor who has made recommendations for the overall structure and sections for the proposed title and should be editing each line of the second draft by now.  

So as to allay my doubts about who'd be interested to buy and read a memoir of someone who hasn't really made her mark in this world, I was also asked to answer the following question:

Why Bury My Heart in Kaki Bukit?

'To bury my heart' in a place where I had spent my childhood, a Malay kampong and a symbol of the Malays’ entitlement as the native settlers, means a sense of belonging and attachment to a place firmly lodged in the Singapore Malays’ collective memory and psyche.

 Draft Foreword (what to “expect” as in “why” the segments are as such)

 There’s something about the end of an era which set a train of thoughts in motion.  When the impending closure of the Tanjong Pagar Railway Station in July 2011 was announced, it opened a floodgate of memories of railway journeys with my mother across the Causeway - to visit my paternal grandparents in Klang, to view my father’s ‘paddy’ project in Kahang and, of course, to uproot ourselves and resettle in KL.

  However, my intention was not simply to reminisce about the past, nor present a personal tale of unresolved issues with my father’s rage or a tender eulogy about my mother’s strength.  I believe that my personal plight and my family’s misfortune are merely threads which weave into the larger tapestry of the collective experiences of the Singapore Malays of that era. 

  The turbulent years which followed the atrocities of the Japanese Occupation, the intense struggle for Independence and the UMNO-PAP contest over the political control of Singapore had left a deep scar in their psyche.  My story represents the narratives of those families who sought refuge in Malaysia.  For those who stayed or migrated elsewhere, their voices should be heard too.  

  Plus, I'm also experimenting with this opening - not sure if it will attract or repulse readers of my daughters' generation - the Gen Y.

1            The Turning Point

          You think that Singapore is all about Marina Bay Sands and The Eye.  Do you know that before there were urban renewal, skyscrapers and infinity pools, there were fishing villages, kampong houses and miles and miles of sandy beaches.  As a tourist, you think it’s cool to celebrate multiculturalism by traipsing around Little India, Chinatown and the Arab Quarter, but you don’t even mark the Malay Village in Geylang Serai on your map.  Please don't tell me that you're secretly ashamed to be a part of a race that’s been labelled backward and a culture that’s deemed deficient.  
          You might think history is not important.  The past has no place in the present. That it’s best to move on and let go.  But you don't know what it's like to be born and bred in a kampong created out of indigenous claim.  You don’t know what it’s like to belong to a land where your forefathers had traversed millions of years before you took your first step on that same soil.  You don’t know what it means to shed blood and liberate your motherland from the clutches of the colonisers.  You can’t imagine how humiliating it is to be downgraded from the status of natives with special rights to that of a mere minority.  It never crossed your mind that this people who’s accused of surviving on crutches and government hand-outs was once a proud race of seafarers, warriors and craftsmen.    

If you would only look at the course of history, you could see that the ’64 Riots was the turning point when an intelligent, articulate and fearless race morphed into an insipid, bumbling and spineless bunch of people.  In just a space of 13 months, they were to lose their grip on indigenous rights to their homeland, and, along with that, their constitutional rights to defend their language, culture and religion.    

Jalan Perwira, Kaki Bukit, Singapore

Well, folks, this is the YouTube video on life in Kaki Bukit in the seventies and eighties, posted by Muzaffar703.  I wish I could thank him personally or he would by chance stumble upon my blog, as I had stumbled upon his video.  Note the 'little hut' that housed the 'bucket-type latrine' of the 'good old days of poor sanitation and plumbing' (Snicker and Sneer).
I would also like to thank T Azra who conveyed his salam through Remgold's blog.  I hope there are many silent readers like him who enjoyed reading my postings but are too shy to comment. 
I would also like to share another title of the same genre, A Kite in the Evening Sky by Shaik Kadir, as mentioned by T Azra.  It is a lower secondary text published by Marshall Cavendish Education.  It recounted a childhood in Geylang Serai in the late fifties and sixties.  I will try to get my hands on the book and do an off-the-cuff review.  Til then, God speed!   

               

Bury my heart in Kaki Bukit*

Kampong houses reminiscent of those in Kaki Bukit in 1960s

The years in Kampung Melayu Kaki Bukit (Malay Kampong at the Foothills) must have been the most cherished in Mak’s life, apart from the stints at Bukit Tinggi and Ipoh.  I must have been about five years old when we moved from Lorong K to No 38, Jalan Damai, Singapura 14.  Abang Hatta was in his final year at Victoria School, Kak Eka was enrolled in evening classes (in shorthand and typing) and working at the same tailoring shop as Mak, Jamal was in primary four at the Malay School in Still Road and Yat in primary one at the school in Jalan Eunos.            

(Bapak had enrolled Jamal in a Malay school, in spite of Mak’s objection.  Malay schools like Sang Nila Utama flourished and Malay language teachers were in high demand in the ‘50s and ‘60s.  It was compulsory then for all police and army officers to take National Language lessons.  Malay was rightly implemented as the National Language, according to the Constitution of Singapore, until the 1970s when its usage in official matters declined and Malay parents were dissuaded from sending their children to Malay schools)   

Compared to the debilitating communal houses and depressing atmosphere in Kebun Ubi, the environment in Kaki Bukit was scenic and refreshing.  And it was a huge relief from the crammed rented units near the Central area.  The simple, wooden house that we occupied was the fourth or fifth on the row of charming rumah panggongs (traditional Malay kampong houses built on posts) off the main road which slid down from the steep hill and ended at the bus terminal far into the horizon.  Ustaz Jalal had built or bought that house and agreed to rent it out to Bapak (at a very low rate, I presumed).     

That part of Jalan Damai, where our house was situated, faced the back of the hill which was overgrown with lush, green grass.  There was an air pancor (water spout) halfway up the hill, where the neighbourhood children and passing labourers scooped its gushing water to wash their sweaty faces on hot afternoons.  A shallow, dusty ditch separated our house from the orange dirt road which ran parallel to the padang.  Once in a while, we would catch a glimpse of Yusoff Latiff (a young, handsome movie star) who whizzed by on his scooter to or from movie locations, either at one of the big houses along the road or the stretch of barren, rocky terrain that served as a buffer between Kaki Bukit and Chai Chee.  On most days, we would hail the boy who sells epok-epok (vegetarian curry puffs), the mamak who sells different types of bubur (sweet porridge made from beans, barley or tubers) placed in a pile of baskets balanced by a plank which rested on his shoulders, the stout Benggali bread vendor or the grumpy Sun Sun ice cream seller, who shouted their wares, sounded their horns or bells in the afternoons and evenings.  On rare afternoons when we ran out of ideas for games, we would hitch a ride on the bullock cart of the Sikh cow herder, who would then stop and chase us with a stick.  One evening during the monsoon season, I slipped and fell into the dirt ditch.  Its water had overflowed and its currents swept and almost drowned me had Jamal not dived in and rescued me.  Not long after that, it was reinforced with a row of uniform V-shaped, concrete ducts.

Rough hedges of tea bushes hugged the edge of the wide dirt drain in front and the narrow one on the left, which marked the boundary between our plot and that of our affable neighbour.  Wak Seman Benjol (a permanent bump on his right forehead earned him that nick name) lived with his wife, Wak Limah, who used to sell cakar ayam (small, rounded, caramelised sweet potato hash browns) from home.  After Jamal was circumcised, Mak heeded Wak Seman’s advice to feed him two boiled eggs in the mornings but that proved disastrous, when the pus on his wound worsened. 

When Mak told him, “Wak, nananya makin teruk bila saya kasi makan telor.”

(Uncle, the pus got worse when I fed him eggs.)

“Siapa suruh kau kasi dia makan telor?”

(Who asked you to feed him eggs? he retorted.)   

There was no drain separating our piece of land with that of our neighbours’ on the right.  There were only scattered, waist-high hedges of hibiscus plants.  Mak Cik Mani and her family were originally from Melaka.  Her stern looks concealed a very kind heart.  She had to be the main breadwinner when her husband left the police force after he had a stroke.  Pak Cik Yasin was detached, spending most of his time praying or looking out the front window with a rosary in his right hand after the stroke had left his left side impaired.  Mak Cik Mani’s crinkled-faced, octogenarian mother, who we all called Nek, could not see eye to eye with her son-in-law, so she chose to spend most of her time chewing pounded betel leaves and telling ghost stories on the amben (wide, wooden bench) under their house.  They had six children - Kak Hasnah and Patong (or Doll) were already married and lived elsewhere, Pipit (a 17 year old, nicknamed ‘sparrow’ for her love of ‘chirping’), Mamat (Mohamed, a 16 year old, who filled his every waking moment with youthful pursuits such as gasing spinning and kite slicing with fierce intensity), Enchah (Habsah, their studious, sensible daughter who was my best pal) and Yon (Haron, their youngest son, whom Jamal loved to tease as my suitor).   

Enchah and I spent many hours climbing trees for their shade, their red round ‘cherries’ or their small, hard red saga seeds to be sewn into tiny pouches of batu selembat (which can be substituted with sand).  When our siblings and other neighbours’ children were around, we would break into groups and played teng-teng (hopscotch), Nenek-nenek (Old Grandmother), masak-masak (mock cooking) and kahwin-kahwin (mock wedding).  On quiet afternoons, we would lay on the amben under the tall jambu batu (guava) tree, listening to Pipit’s tales of romantic escapades.  The guava tree also provided shade for my mother’s makeshift warong (foodstall), where Mak occasionally sold her nasi sambal goreng (rice served with spicy mixed beans and offals), nasi rawon (rice with beef in black sauce made from buah keluak) and lontong (rice cubes with creamy mixed vegetables soup and topped with sambal, serunding and bergedil).  Mak Cik Mani was more steadfast in purveying her white and yellow steamed putu piring with gula melaka fillings, stacked on top of grated coconut and round pieces of banana leaf.  Whenever I needed to earn my own pocket money, I would take a basketful of those hot piping flour cakes wrapped in banana leaves and old newspapers and walked around the village with Enchah, shouting “Putu piring”.  With the 15 sen duit dalal (sales commission), I splurged on tikam-tikam (a mini wheel of fortune) which got me a pink cincin buah kana (a metal ring with a fake stone in the shape of an olive), pink cotton candies, gula tarik (hard, white candy sprinkled with sesame seeds) and ais krim potong (blocks of ice cream wafers).

Enchah and I were very close although we later attended different schools – I was at Telok Kurau West (Integrated) Primary School, an English medium school, while Enchah was a student at Sekolah Menengah Still Road, a Malay medium school.  I remembered we were not on talking terms only once, when Mak Cik Mani had accidentally given a toxic solution instead of vanilla essence, which caused Mak to be so upset that she hurled her red and green coconut candies to the ground just outside our kitchen for Mak Cik Mani to see.

Our kitchen, like most Malay kampong ones, was a half-concrete half-wooden part of the house built on the ground at the back of the plain wooden house on posts.  Welcoming the guests in front was the red-painted, concrete stairway and a small veranda with its smoothly finished wooden bench.  The kitchen was rather large, with ample space for a small cemented area to wash fish, meat and vegetables, a small aluminium-plated tungku (charcoal stove made from clay), steel and formica dining table and chairs, a beige pandan mat and kapok mattress to lie on for short naps or afternoon siestas on the far right next to the window.  At the end of the kitchen, a door led to a bathroom with a kolah (a concrete, waist-high pool to retain water for showering and ablution) and a tempayan (a medium size porcelain water vessel).  And I should not forget to mention the creepy bawah kolong (the cellar under the stairs).  One night when I was thirsty, Mak went down to get me a glass of water while I waited at the top of the stairs on the main house with its larger and smaller bedrooms on the right and left.  I thought I saw my second brother dashed out from the dark cellar, so I called, “Mal!” but the figure just vanished into thin air.  Since that incident, I dared not go down to the kitchen at night. 

The kitchen held both pleasant and unpleasant memories.  Jamal, Yat and I would wait with bated breath for Mak’s telor masak kicap (eggs in soya sauce), ikan masak tauco (fish in fermented soya), ikan masak singgang (fish soup), sambal goreng, daging masak rawon or lontong on better days or lempeng kelapa (coconut pancakes), sayur masak bening (watery vegetable soup), or bubur nasi (rice porridge) with anchovies on lean days.  There was a period of exceptionally lean days, when we just had bubur ragi (gruel with margarine and sugar) and water biscuits or unsalted cream crackers with chunks of Cheddar cheese donated by the USAID or the American Peace Corps.  Once in a blue moon, when Mak was invited to weddings, we would get to taste nasi minyak (ghee rice), chicken bamia (middle-eastern dish) and hard-boiled eggs which the hosts had packed for us.  Special treats such as murtabak (Middle-Eastern bread with mince meat fillings) or briyani from Islamic Restaurant in Arab Street were few and far between, such as during Siddi’s rare visits. 

Wak Enah, Mak’s eldest sister, was like a fairy godmother to us whenever she appeared at the kitchen door (womenfolk and children entered through the kitchen door then) bearing pricy imported fruits and delicious desserts – red and green globes of juicy grapes, shiny crunchy apples and tangy oranges, moist marble cakes and wobbly green and red jellies – which Mak could not afford to buy or prepare.  Whenever Mak craved for the Mi Rebus Jawa (noodles in thick mutton gravy) and Satay (skewered meat drowned in peanut sauce) at Joo Chiat Road, she would take one of us and an expensive piece of jewellery or batik sarong to hock at the pawn shop in front before tucking in at the back lane.  When Abang Hatta started work as a police constable, he would buy cake remnants from the bakery on his way home which we devoured in a jiffy. 

Bapak spent very little time with us at Kaki Bukit.  He was always away for some business ventures and, when they folded, he would return in a foul mood.  We had grown accustomed to his absence and felt awkward whenever he was around.  Mak had assumed the role of breadwinner and decision maker, laying down the house rules for us, which she forgot to relinquish whenever Bapak was home.  We dreaded mealtimes, whenever Bapak took his place at the head of the table.  Not only we were not supposed to help ourselves before him, but we had to be extremely careful not to ruffle his feathers.  One evening, when we were all seated and waiting at the dining table to tuck into Mak’s steaming fish ball soup, Mak said,

“Please use the ladle, not your own spoon, to scoop the soup to your plate.” 

That had Bapak all riled up.  He flew into a rage, got up and thumped the table: 

“I’m the head of the family! Why do you have to tell me what to do? Why can’t I use my own spoon if I want to?  Am I a leper that you’re all afraid that I’ll spread my germs?” 

We hung our heads, frozen in our seats and prayed silently for the storm to subside.  Bapak’s fury had become unpredictable.  It can be triggered by any slight from any one of us.  One day, when a hot water flask that he flung at Kak Eka’s direction missed her, some of the scalding water spilled on my thighs.  And I winced when he bent three copper coins with a pair of pliers and twisted Jamal’s arms behind his back for failing to buy him cigarettes with those three cents.  Whenever I heard Bapak’s footsteps on the wooden planks of the main house, my heart sank and I escaped to play outside.  

*  This is a revised version of the entry on 'Tanjong Pagar'.