Singapore Story

THIS IS THE REWRITTEN VERSION OF "WHO AM I?" BECAUSE IT WAS SERIOUSLY RUBBISH

People say that the past makes up your present and future. That statement is very true. The history of Singapore, as short as it is, has many ups and downs, and one important event was the merger and separation with Malaysia. I was just a kid then, with my mother and father, living a decent life in Singapore. 21st July 1964, a day that is burned into the back of my head.

On that day, my life changed. We as a family went over to the Padang to see the Malays celebrate Prophet Mohammed’s birthday. It was quite a spectacle. There were warnings telling us not to come here with all the racial tension stirred up by the government and people, and this gathering would be the perfect breeding ground for a riot. But, who on earth would think that something like this could ever happen to them? Well, it could, and did. The celebrations went on and on, and my parents and me watched on and on. Then, some Chinese guy threw a beer bottle into the crowd of Malays. That was how the brawl began. All hell broke loose. My parents joined in the chaos. I grabbed on to them as hard as they could, but they tossed my hand away, looked into my eyes and said, “everything would be okay, just run back home as fast as you could, and we would be back soon after”. And they took off into the mass of already bloody mess. That look, never thought that it would be the last one.

Someone pounced on me and my heart raced and broke into tears. Then, the next moment he lifted me with his arm with a firm grip, and ran, ran as though he was running for his life. He ran away from the crowd. I looked through my tear filled eyes, into the rioting Chinese and Malays, looking for signs of my parents. The results sent more tears flowing down my cheeks. Then, I finally realized that someone was carrying me and running away from the riot. I looked at his face, and he was a strong young man. Another look confirmed my worst fears. He was a Malay man.

I thrashed in his arms, but I could not get out of his arm. He brought me to a street near my house, and then put me down. He held my arms and said to me in his strong Malay accent, “Run, as far as you could, you should not be here, you still have a long way to go, and you do not understand this at all, not worth dying for.”

In sobs, I replied, “But my parents…”

“I would go back for them”, he said, and gave me a smile. I gave his face a scrutiny, a handsome young Malay man, with a serene face was all I could make out of his face in the dark. I ran…

I ran, as fast as I could, back home, and shut the door. I felt alone. I was alone, and I would be alone for a long long time to come. My endless tears flowed non stop. I prayed that that my family would get them back. I wanted them, I needed them…

Curfews were imposed on the next few days. No sign of that man, no sign of my parents, and almost no signs of life in me. These few days went by very slowly. The curfew was finally lifted. We were told to look for our loved ones. There were 23 deaths, and 3 of them made all the difference in my life from then on…