Independence

The year is 1957.

The crowd shivers in anticipation. Murmurs. Whispers. They’re impatient. They’ve been waiting for this for over four hundred years. And they can wait a little longer. But just a little.

They’ve waited for this. Suffered for this. Fought for this. Died for this. Blood, sweat, tears and it wasn’t – isn’t, never will be – all in vain. Now, at last they have done it. Now it is here. Right here. Right now. At long last.

Silence flows into the packed stadium, fills the spaces between the people, squeezes into all the empty spaces. Stifles all noise. And then–

“Merdeka!”

“Merdeka!”

“Merdeka!”

***

The little boy is two. His papa and mama are taking him to town. Now they’re joining a huge crowd, one that’s noisy and hot and pressing against him from all directions.

He’s scared. Terrified that he might get lost. Or that horrible bad people might steal him away from his mama and papa. That he’ll never see them again. Everyone is so tall, so huge, so loud. He clutches his mama’s hand tighter and she looks down and smiles reassuringly at him.

Then the crowd starts cheering, screaming, shouting.

“Merdeka! Merdeka! Merdeka!”

He doesn’t understand. He’s scared. He starts to cry and hugs mama’s legs but then papa bends down and picks him up and places him on his shoulders. Now he is tall and now he can see over everyone’s heads and he wonders why everyone is so happy. He’s two and he doesn’t understand. Not yet.

***
The two little girls shriek with laughter as they chase each other around on the tiny patch of Padang Merdeka that isn’t crowded with people. Hair and flags flap in the breeze as they wind their way around the adults and their long legs, looking for their parents.

“Ma!”, “Amma!” they yell and hurl themselves into their mothers' arms. The women laugh, hug their daughters.

“Aiyoh, Mei, what you do to your hair, so messy.”

“Shalini, ma. She pulled it.” She sticks her tongue out at the other girl who returns the gesture. Then she darts out and tugs on her friends braids and they run of shrieking, laughing, being children. Their mothers smile and watch them go.

***
“I hate sejarah. It’s sooooo boringgg… soooo boriiinnggg…”

“Aiyah, it’s just memorize, lah. Just hafal everything.”

“Not everyone has your brain, okay. I’m not a super-genius like you.”

“You’re just lazy. Are you going for the Merdeka celebrations?”

“No. I have to study. The trials start the next day, remember?”

“So? I’m sure you can spend an hour or two to watch the parade.”

“Bo-ring. No thanks.”

“I’m marching. Come, lah. Support our school marching band, lah, you unpatriotic procrastinator.”

“Okay-lah, okay-lah. Maybe I’ll come.”

***

The suitcases are still unpacked. He’s alone in the room, starring at the bed across him that has yet to be filled. He hopes that his roommate won’t arrive anytime soon. He feels like he’d like to be alone these next few days.

Everything is so different. The icy cold air that greeted him as he walked out of the airport. The people with their strange, unpronounceable accents, who never seemed to understand anything he said. The whole freaky strangeness of it. The place is beautiful but it’s not home.

For one thing, his mum isn’t here to scold him for lying down on his bed with his shoes on. And can he cook here? Where’s the laundrette? He knows nothing of this place. He wants to go home.

Independence can be so… painful.

***

“And I really miss the food. Especially nasi lemak and roti canai. And ABC. And the food here is so… un-spicy. I just miss you guys. And your cooking, mum.”

“When you were here you complained about my cooking all the time.”

“Well, I was younger then. Immature.”

“That was two months ago. And the food in London cannot be so bad, right?” Worry colours her voice. “You got eat enough, or not?”

“Yes, mum. So how’s dad? And Mei?”

“You father is fine. He misses you, though he tries not to show it. And Mei misses you too, though she says she enjoys not having you around. She was at the Merdeka parade this morning. Her school’s marching band participated.”

“Cool. We had a small party here, just us Malaysians. There’s this girl, Normah, who cooks great laksa. Gosh, I really, really miss Malaysia. Especially you guys. And the food.”

***

“Eh, cepat! Hurry up. Everyone’s waiting for you. We’ll miss the parade. And I want to show Susan the parade. She’s never seen them before.”

“Ya, ya, I’m coming.”

“You lived in England for five years and you still can’t be punctual? What did they think of you?”

The young man hurries through the front door, almost slipping on the tiled floor with his socked feet. He grabs the doorframe and gives his mother and fiancée an embarrassed smile. “Nothing,” he says, answering his mother’s question. “I was always punctual there.”

The older lady turns to her future daughter-in-law. “Really? Is that true Susan?”

The girl smiles and tucks a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. “Most of the time, Mrs. Fatimah.”


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

(Something like an epilogue)
Where I live, it’s cold. And lonely, with only the birds for company, but they’re not exactly talkative, up at this height and I can’t understand half of what they’re saying anyway.

I kill time by enjoying the view, which is some best in the area. From my home, you can see all around Kuala Lumpur, all the buildings, the trees that surround them, the roads, matchbox cars and the little ant-size people.

They don’t ever talk to me, though I’d like to. But I’m too far up, and most of them just ignore me. They just wander around in Padang Merdeka, snap photos, eat and litter and then wander off again. You’d think that Malaysia’s Jalur Gemilang would have a more interesting life. After all, I attend all their important official junctions, hang from their balconies and flap from their cars, and they even sing abound me! How does that song go again? “Merahmu bara semangat wajar, Putihmu bersih budi pekerti, Kuning berdaulat paying Negara, Biru perpaduan kami semua.”

I’m only remembered once a year, when everyone gathers down on the field below and a listens to speeches. There’s cheering as they celebrate and then my fifteen minutes of annual fame and then all the attention goes to the parades. I have to hang around here doing nothing until next year. Jalur Gemilang? Yeah, riiight.

By Simone Koo