have Chinese names too?’
‘No.’
‘That’s unusual.’
‘Yes.’
I lifted the cup to my lips and found it dry. Everything about Evangeline, from her reticence to her barricaded arms, made me feel unwelcome. It occurred to me that she hadn’t even bothered to thank me for the night I’d rushed to the police hut to help her. The rain had slowed to a feeble pit-a-pat-pat and children ran out of a neighbouring hut, screaming after the morning cooped up indoors. I told Evangeline that I had to leave for tiffin. I told her that I was too busy to help in the medical hut that week, and would she pass on my regards to the Aussie nurses? Evangeline nodded, relieved, and I gathered up my tools and left.
As the sun made its debut in the sky I was glad to be outside, away from strange Evangeline and the smoke-hued fascination of her eyes. I splashed in puddles and hoped that Winston Lau wasn’t dishing up fish-head curry for tiffin again.
* * *
Due to the coercive nature of the Briggs Plan, the Chinese community were very hostile to it. The belief that New Villages existed under police dictatorship was widespread, as was the misconception that the Chinese community were being persecuted by the British, as they had been persecuted by the Japanese during the Occupation. Such attitudes were unhelpful in the war against Communism.
The government wanted the Chinese to play a more active role in their liberation. They wanted to show that the so-called dictatorship of the proletariat, as advocated by the Reds, was nothing more than the dictatorship of the Malayan Communist Party central committee. The government wanted to give the Chinese what the Communists were out to deny them: democracy.
Resettlement Officer Dulwich and I received a government directive stating that, as part of a pilot scheme to give the ex-squatters the power to manage their own affairs, The Village of Everlasting Peace was to elect a village council. The trouble was that, with the exception of the few ex-urban Chinese (such as my beloved Evangeline), most of the squatters had lived their whole lives in jungle settlements and were uneducated and ignorant of such political ideals. Therefore, before the village elections could be held, the Chinese had to be taught about democracy, so the need for a village council would be fully appreciated. With this objective in mind, thousands of dollars were spent on a brief documentary explaining the democratic process, which was to be shown in tandem with the Hollywood film
Tarzan
– the glamorous bait with which we were to draw a large audience to our village meeting.
On the day the documentary was to be shown, an Indian projectionist drove his van of equipment up to the officers’ bungalow. The projectionist, whose name was Vorpal, had been hired by the government to tour the New Villages of Selangor with a Cantonese-dubbed version of
Tarzan
. Charles invited him to join us on the veranda for a
stengah
or two.
Vorpal sipped his lemonade and joked about the behaviour of the elders in The Village of Eternal Prosperity, which he’d visited the night before. When a celluloid tiger had sauntered across the screen, some of the elders had wailed and run away, afraid the tiger would leap into the audience. We had a good laugh at this and I asked Vorpal if the village meeting had been a success. The projectionist shrugged and said he didn’t know. He couldn’t understand Cantonese and politics bored him. For a man at the forefront of such a pioneering democratic scheme Vorpal was very apathetic. It was a pity the 10th Independent Regiment of the Malayan Communist Party didn’t take his apathy into account when they ambushed his van outside Kajang three weeks later and slit his throat. Vorpal’s corpse was bound in ribbons of celluloid and dumped at the gates of the resettlement camp where a film screening was scheduled for that evening.
By late afternoon preparations were under way in the village square. A crowd of
‘No.’
‘That’s unusual.’
‘Yes.’
I lifted the cup to my lips and found it dry. Everything about Evangeline, from her reticence to her barricaded arms, made me feel unwelcome. It occurred to me that she hadn’t even bothered to thank me for the night I’d rushed to the police hut to help her. The rain had slowed to a feeble pit-a-pat-pat and children ran out of a neighbouring hut, screaming after the morning cooped up indoors. I told Evangeline that I had to leave for tiffin. I told her that I was too busy to help in the medical hut that week, and would she pass on my regards to the Aussie nurses? Evangeline nodded, relieved, and I gathered up my tools and left.
As the sun made its debut in the sky I was glad to be outside, away from strange Evangeline and the smoke-hued fascination of her eyes. I splashed in puddles and hoped that Winston Lau wasn’t dishing up fish-head curry for tiffin again.
* * *
Due to the coercive nature of the Briggs Plan, the Chinese community were very hostile to it. The belief that New Villages existed under police dictatorship was widespread, as was the misconception that the Chinese community were being persecuted by the British, as they had been persecuted by the Japanese during the Occupation. Such attitudes were unhelpful in the war against Communism.
The government wanted the Chinese to play a more active role in their liberation. They wanted to show that the so-called dictatorship of the proletariat, as advocated by the Reds, was nothing more than the dictatorship of the Malayan Communist Party central committee. The government wanted to give the Chinese what the Communists were out to deny them: democracy.
Resettlement Officer Dulwich and I received a government directive stating that, as part of a pilot scheme to give the ex-squatters the power to manage their own affairs, The Village of Everlasting Peace was to elect a village council. The trouble was that, with the exception of the few ex-urban Chinese (such as my beloved Evangeline), most of the squatters had lived their whole lives in jungle settlements and were uneducated and ignorant of such political ideals. Therefore, before the village elections could be held, the Chinese had to be taught about democracy, so the need for a village council would be fully appreciated. With this objective in mind, thousands of dollars were spent on a brief documentary explaining the democratic process, which was to be shown in tandem with the Hollywood film
Tarzan
– the glamorous bait with which we were to draw a large audience to our village meeting.
On the day the documentary was to be shown, an Indian projectionist drove his van of equipment up to the officers’ bungalow. The projectionist, whose name was Vorpal, had been hired by the government to tour the New Villages of Selangor with a Cantonese-dubbed version of
Tarzan
. Charles invited him to join us on the veranda for a
stengah
or two.
Vorpal sipped his lemonade and joked about the behaviour of the elders in The Village of Eternal Prosperity, which he’d visited the night before. When a celluloid tiger had sauntered across the screen, some of the elders had wailed and run away, afraid the tiger would leap into the audience. We had a good laugh at this and I asked Vorpal if the village meeting had been a success. The projectionist shrugged and said he didn’t know. He couldn’t understand Cantonese and politics bored him. For a man at the forefront of such a pioneering democratic scheme Vorpal was very apathetic. It was a pity the 10th Independent Regiment of the Malayan Communist Party didn’t take his apathy into account when they ambushed his van outside Kajang three weeks later and slit his throat. Vorpal’s corpse was bound in ribbons of celluloid and dumped at the gates of the resettlement camp where a film screening was scheduled for that evening.
By late afternoon preparations were under way in the village square. A crowd of
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