Remembering August 31, 1957

 Remembering August 31, 1957

M. Bakri Musa

 

I was in Form Two (School Year 8) at Tuanku Muhammad School (TMS), Kuala Pilah, when Persekutuan Tanah Melayu declared her independence (Merdeka) from Britain. At one second past midnight on Saturday August 31, 1957, the Union Jack was lowered and the new Malaysian flag raised for the first time. The historic event took place at the Selangor Club Padang, Kuala Lumpur, the venerable watering hole of the colonials.

 

            Hours later was the official declaration with pomp and ceremony at the newly-constructed Merdeka Stadium. The brief morning downpour delayed but did not dampen the occasion.

 

            Back to me, besides attending an English school, my parents had also subscribed for us The Straits Times. They were Malay school teachers but knew the importance of the English language, its association with colonialism notwithstanding.

 

            My favorite columnist at the time was Vernon Bartlett. Here was a colonialist unafraid to criticize (often severely) his own government. In my culture that would be considered treasonous and treated accordingly. I need not remind Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim of that harsh reality.

 

            I was introduced to Bartlett’s writings through my father who was an avid Utusan Melayu (Malay Courier–now defunct) reader. Its editors saw the wisdom of translating Bartlett’s insightful commentaries into Malay. That reflected their professionalism as well as far-from-insular outlook, a far cry from their current counterparts who are unable to get rid of their nationalist blinders.

 

            Through Bartlett I was aware of the raw brutal realities of many newly-independent countries. Nearby President Sukarno was exhorting Indonesians to eat rats, thus solving two perennial problems:  rodent infestations and protein deficiency among citizens. Then there was the Indian subcontinent’s post-independent partition horror.

 

            My father used to mock by uttering “Mencakar” instead of “Merdeka,” being careful of course not to be clearly heard. “Mencakar” means scrapping for a living, the fate that awaited citizens of many newly independent nations. 

 

            My auntie Kamariah, a local operative in the United Malay Nationalist Organization, the party that spearheaded Merdeka, had thoughtfully arranged for a bus charter to take a group of villagers to Kuala Lumpur to witness the historic event. As expected, interest was high and as such she had thoughtfully reserved two seats for my parents.

 

            Imagine her horror when my parents declined the invitation. That bordered on being unpatriotic. They however managed to wiggle a last minute excuse:  no babysitter. In truth they had no wish to be part of the all-too-common horrific violence often associated with such events.

 

            That evening on the eve of Merdeka, my parents warned us in no uncertain terms not to venture outside. They had also stockpiled food and other essentials, just in case.

 

            We had a radio. So that night my brother and I were glued to our set with the volume turned down. All we could hear were the endless roars of “Merdeka!”

 

            The next day my parents were relieved that nothing untoward had happened. They were not being paranoid, for earlier in the week my father had overheard a conversation among the villagers about how they would storm those hillside palatial bungalows occupied by the colonials. To the villagers that was what Merdeka meant, returning things back to their rightful owners–the natives.

 

            My father disabused them of their delusion. Even if that were to happen, rest assured that there were others ahead of them, like the royalty clan and those later termed UMNOPutras, who would get the goodies first.

 

            One day a few years after Merdeka, my grand auntie visited us and asked for the Utusan Melayu. She did that often just to see the pictures as she was illiterate, as so many in the villages were, especially women. Imagine my shock when she beamed, “I can now read!”

 

            My auntie was a beneficiary of the new government’s mushrooming adult education classes. There was more. In the seven miles between my village and TMS, no fewer than six new primary schools were being built. My parents too saw changes. Though they both had been to Teachers Training Colleges during the prewar, they were now exposed to modern teaching techniques and learning philosophy through their mandated refresher courses.

 

            How did the government find the money to fund those initiatives? Then it dawned upon my parents that as we were now independent, those precious funds previously repatriated to Britain were now kept locally. This together with the new government’s earlier wise decision to have a joint Defense Treaty with Britain ensured that we would be spared the cost of fighting the still-active communist insurgency. Perversely many had viewed that treaty to be but a front to maintain British control and that the ensuing independence was but a sham.

 

            From then on my parents were enthusiastic about Merdeka. To them, this was what independence should mean, an opportunity to invest in your people, a nation’s most precious asset.

 

            That is also my wish and prayer for the Madani Government on this 67^th Anniversary of Merdeka–invest in your citizens.

 

Adapted from the author’s memoir, Cast From The Herd:  Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia (2016).