#save bukit brown

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Secret Societies, Spies & Rebels tour (Sunday 22 Mar'15 @9am)

Every city has its underbelly. Bright lights have dark corners. Join Fabian as he shines a light into the dark side of SG's past. Meeting Point: Bukit Brown entrance gates at Lorong HalwaTour start...

If you have the time and the interest, please do come down for this tour to get a better understanding of Bukit Brown and the stories of the people buried there that were almost lost to history

[bukitbrowntimes-blog]

Bad Luck

“Don’t go to Bukit Brown: I forbid you! It’s bad luck,”

These were the words my mother said when I informed her of my second trip to Bukit Brown.

Originally, she was almost appalled and against me going to Bukit Brown.  As associated with many taboos in the Chinese culture, a cemetery should only be visited when one is there to pay respects to the deceased.  It is not a walk in a park; it is not an excursion.  It does no good for one’s luck to be in a cemetery as it is filled with yin energy, which is not beneficial for one’s soul.  

It is also believed that when one’s luck is down, they tend to meet with more misfortunes and nothing will go smoothly for them.

However, such beliefs are by no means exclusive to the older generation.  In this day and age, youngsters are generally more open-minded, but tend to isolate the thought of visiting the cemetery.  Most of them are afraid of offending the “spirits”, and the repercussions they might face should they do so.  Furthermore, such beliefs are propagated by the media portrayal of graves and spirits: the spirits tend to NEVER be happy with any humans around.  As such, this leaves for no room at all to think about the true intent and purpose of the cemetery.

Other than to appreciate the aesthetic of the place itself, a pedant like me would prefer to look at the intricate carvings on graves which requires a skill that is extinct in modern day society.  Here is one reason why Bukit Brown is vastly different from other cemeteries: they don’t just have a slab of marble as the tombstone, rather, the design of the tomb stone is almost all man made.  It is also not extremely cluttered with graves like other cemeteries; they are evenly spaced out with a nice touch of nature.  There are also appropriate pavements and space to walk on.

The common stigma that is most associated with the people of Singapore is to not visit cemeteries especially during occasions like weddings, etc.  It is true that it is not good to associate death with events celebrating the birth of life like pregnancy, opening a new shop or marriage.  This belief is not restricted to only Chinese traditions.   The true purpose of visiting a cemetery, other than paying respects, is to celebrate the memory and life of our ancestors and to say our final farewells.  If we focus on this thought and not the other negative ideas that we have allowed to seep through our mind, there should be no fear that would bound us from visiting cemeteries.

In light of Singapore turning 50 years old, there have been countless advertisements and promotion of Singapore’s history.  Songs of patriotism and appreciation for country are almost blaring everywhere in shopping malls.  To just eradicate this piece of history would be a shame as it holds together a lot more stories that we can tell of to our future generation.

A grave is believed to be our final resting place.  Let’s not destroy their homes, but rather, preserve them in memory of our founding fathers.

[bukitbrowntimes-blog]

A Guardsman's Tale

Oh, how terribly I miss the days of my childhood, frolicking without a care with my siblings and our neighbours’ children in our small Punjabi village. Life was simpler when we swam in the streams which were rushing towards the sea like a child runs towards a mother’s awaiting embrace at the end of a long day of fun and games. Maa (mother) would always fill our ravenous little stomachs with some roti and keema (flatbread with minced meat gravy). While it didn’t sound like much, it never failed to warm our hearts for it was food cooked with love.

Although we lived under the rule of the white men who, from what I heard the old men in the village square whisper under deathly silent whispers, brutally tortured those of us who refused to be subjugated by them under any circumstance, life was still happy. Some of the white men who occasionally visited the village to interact with the village elders even joined us children for games of hopscotch and the like, while we giggled at them for tripping on their large boots like intoxicated bulls.

I also noticed that each time the white men came, some of the older boys left with them. While some of the boys’ families wept with gritted teeth, all of them nonetheless stood at their thresholds, chests swelled in pride and joy on their faces as they bid their sons goodbye. I always wondered what happened to them.

Finally, on my 16th birthday, my father sat me down on one of the stools in our courtyard. His eyes were visibly bloodshot and moist, but I was unable to tell if he was angry or just unhappy. One of my sisters must have lied to Father that I bullied them again, I thought to myself, preparing myself for a tirade. However, he squatted in front of me with his strong hands firmly gripping my shoulders and muttered. “Sameer mera behta (my son), the white men will be coming tomorrow to train you to serve them as a police officer. Remember that our ancestors chose the same path before us to keep intact the pride of the Land of the Five Rivers (Punjab’s literal translation), for we people of Punjab are nothing without our dignity.”

With that said, the family got to packing my bag, not without the tears flowing like the five rivers our fair land was named for. However, my father declared that none shall cry any further because I was doing the family, clan and village a great honour. My mother thought I didn’t notice her deft hand moving through my possessions, leaving letters and one of the few family portraits that we could afford to have taken.

Training to be a police officer was long and hard, but finally, the white men brought forward the 200 men out of the 1000 men trained who were selected to join the Sikh contingent in one of their eastern gems called Singapore. The Lion’s City. What a peculiar name for a small island that was nowhere near where lions roamed? How will this Lion’s City react to the 200 Punjabi tigers who have been brought down from the valleys in northwestern Hindustan (another name for India) to eradicate crime?

Being a police officer in Singapore was rather boring, to be honest. We were merely doing the white man’s chores like lapdogs but there were some times when we had to hunt down secret societies run by the Chinese men who seemed to think it acceptable to cut one another down in the middle of the road. Good for us, our beards and large frames were usually sufficient to scare the mousy gangsters away. That served as some form of entertainment, at least. Otherwise, it was just regular petty thieves looking to make a fast buck out of some towkay’s fat purse or someone making too much of a ruckus after getting drunk. It was also interesting to pick up the local languages, but I’d be lying if I said I never quietly swore at my superiors in my mother tongue!

However, just before I turned 30, a fresh batch of young Punjabi men was brought in, rendering me and my comrades pretty much invalid. Thus, some of us joined dairy farms or small businesses while others like myself, chose to continue along with the profession we were trained for from a young age and joined some of the Chinese towkays as jagas, or guardsmen.

I joined the service of this old portly man called Ong Sam Leong. Well, I knew he was rich enough to afford one of the British colonialists’ finest soldiers but I didn’t know how filthy rich he was until he brought me along with his wife and sons, who were both rich in their own accord, to visit his tomb that was under construction. 

My oh my, i thought to myself, a man must truly be swimming in money to be able to afford a final resting place for himself and his wife larger than my village square back in Punjab! He nonchalantly flung his arm to one of two statues that were being carved at the side of the tomb, droning, “Look, bhaiya (brother), your image will keep me safe even after I’m gone!”

As if that was supposed to give me some form of gratification or joy. In the 20 years that I protected him, his family and his wealth, the honourable Mr Ong was never bothered to know my name. Although he could identify the cooks and maids and butlers each by name, he stubbornly chose to continue calling me bhaiya like that was supposed to be an honour. I’d have been more honoured if he called me by my name - Sameer! Now he wishes to further degrade me by making me a decoration on his tomb. 

Never had I been more furious than at that moment. If I could have, I’d have torn the unfinished statues apart with my bare hands. However, I stilled my nerves and thanked him with a courteous smile, for dignity’s sake. Life went on at a mundane pace in the Lion’s City.

February 15, 1918. The old man Ong’s heart gave way and he had fallen dead. The family spent a week with the body lying in state while the whole clan, other relatives and business partners came clad in black and white to bawl their hearts out. Still, I stood guard at a corner, holding a vigil of my own for the dead man. 

It’s not that I hated the man - he did after all ensure my survival in this foreign land for the past 20 years after I left the police force - but I couldn’t bring myself to feel anything for the man except for a little respect and some level of gratitude.

They finally lowered his hearse into the womb-shaped tomb, with all the family and friends still crying out salty rivers. While their eyes were either turned down in solemnity or up to the heavens to seek safe passage for his soul, my eyes were attracted to the two imposing statues at the sides. Both bearded figures, in red turbans, thick beards, rifle in hand and fire in their eyes. The intricacy of the carvings just struck me then - it must have taken a skilled artisan to be able to almost breathe life into a rock. 

They stared into the distance, as if to ward off any threat to the sanctity of the dead man’s home. However, in those stone eyes, I also saw a longing, a deep yearning, for that distant homeland of five rivers and bittersweet memories and a yearning for a life never fully lived since it was used to serve.