When a Flower Dies

mats for our kenduri, a Malay feast. Food was served in a traditional style on giant aluminium platters, so that each platter had enough servings for four people. This was the old-fashioned way of partaking food at weddings and ceremonial occasions so that four people could eat together in convivial company, talking face to face with one another. This was the kind of camaraderie that would disappear with the eradication of our villages. Your grandpa was heartened to see the turnout of several journalists and photographers from the various major language newspapers. We invited them to eat with us. We thanked them for their courage to report our plight. We didn’t expect the situation to be reversed, but we did expect to be treated with better understanding and with humanity; and we wanted the world to appreciate our grief. The reporters scribbled furiously on their writing pads. All of us, except the visitors who asked for forks and spoons, ate with our fingers. The food was delicious as usual, but our tongues tasted the acrid bitterness of our plight.

“As the sun was setting, Pak Abdul announced with gravity, It is time.

“The fishermen had lined up their sampans on the shore, boats which had provided them with their livelihood; tinder and straw were already heaped into them. All the women and children stood at the water’s edge, my mother and me included, standing in preparation with our floral garlands and baskets of bunga rampay. The fishermen bravely doused the straw with kerosene. As they set light to their boats, silent tears ran runnels down their brown cheeks. The sight of grown men weeping caused others to weep too. Quickly, the men pushed the lighted sampans out to sea. The blazes lit up the darkening evening. Many hearts cracked. Flashbulbs from the photographers’ cameras flashed repeatedly. We flung the floral garlands and tossed handfuls of bunga rampay after the boats. The waves took the scattered petals and garlands, tossing them hither and thither; some came back to us on the shore, as if they were unwilling to depart. We watched till we could not see anything but the red and orange flames engulfing the wooden crafts out at sea.

“Would you believe that not one single photo or article appeared in any newspaper the next day? Or the day after. Not one. Your grandfather was livid. He ranted and raved. His colleagues at the hospital told him to calm down, but he wouldn’t. He made more phone calls and wrote to the English newspaper, but his letter was not printed. It had been a life-changing event for us but was a non-event to non-kampong society. That was the final insult.

“But worse was to come.

“The final day of reckoning arrived, and lorries came to move us and our belongings to our new homes. The exodus was on a massive scale. The village transformed from a thriving coastal village to a ghost village with immediate effect—intact, wholesome attap houses on stilts suddenly standing empty as if their souls had been sucked out by some wandering jinn or demon. Many fishing nets and tackle still hung over verandahs and fences, the wooden racks for drying fish already looking forlorn and neglected. We knew that elsewhere in Kampong Mata Ikan, Kampong Ayer Gemuruh, Kampong Padang Terbakar and other coastal kampongs, the same sad drama was unfolding. We moved with leaden feet, our hearts too full with emotion to speak. My only consolation was that we were not moving into an HDB flat. I was grateful to George.

“But at the last minute, Pak Abdul refused to budge.

This is the land of my people, he said with great dignity. This was where they have lived for centuries. I want to die here amongst their ashes.

Pak Abdul, you have to leave! Maniam told him. We have no choice!

I do have a choice, Pak Abdul said. I won’t let others decide my fate for me. My choice is to remain here till I die.

Oh dear, oh dear, everyone muttered. What are we to do with him?

“Maniam reasoned, You cannot stay, the inspectors have given clearance. They think the houses are empty!

I will stay with him, my mother said. Until we can get him to move.

Yes, we will stay too, said several of the men, persuading their wives and children to go first, promising to follow.

“Your grandfather and I had no alternative but to leave them temporarily, so that we could take Anthony with us and go with the movers to settle our belongings in our new accommodation. If I had known what was going to happen, I wouldn’t have left my mother to spend her last night on her own. We spent a restless few hours, unable to sleep because we were worried and there was no sound of the waves to lull us into the land of dreams. As soon as it was dawn, we hastily returned to our village.

“The bulldozers and excavators were already there. The giant group of mechanical monsters rumbled and moved menacingly towards the houses on stilts. The men who had stayed behind flung stones at them. But the stones merely clunked on the body of the machines and slid off ineffectively.

Pergi! Pergi! Go! Go! Get lost! You no-good thieves! Stealing our lives and our livelihoods! The men spouted in fury though they knew that the drivers of the machines were only pawns and had little choice, just like them.

“Ignoring them, the monsters surged forward and rammed into the spindly legs of the wooden houses, which buckled and knelt for a few minutes on the sandy beach, as if in disbelief at the assault, before toppling over in defeat.

Wait! Wait! your grandpa George shouted. There are people still in there!

Mak! Pak Abdul, I shouted. Where are you?

“But we were obviously not heard. Then we saw them, two figures looking small against the bulk of the machines. The roar of the machines must have awakened them, and they were coming down the stairs, Pak Abdul from his