by Jeremy Tiang
“A hospital, then?”
“We couldn’t bring her out—it was too dangerous. She didn’t want to die in prison. Back then, there were amnesties from time to time—the army dropped safe-passage papers from helicopters, and if you held one of those, they wouldn’t shoot you, and the police wouldn’t dare arrest you. Special Branch took you in, even gave you a new identity, kept you safe from reprisals. More and more people did that, just to get out. But Lifeng had actually killed someone, you see, and that was the one thing that couldn’t be forgiven. If you surrendered, everything else would be forgotten,
but not—”
“Not murder.”
“It wasn’t murder. We were at war.”
Henry says nothing. No point arguing. Xiongmin’s old, he thinks, and I’ll be old soon. A few more decades in this world, at most. Just finish this story, and carry on. This place isn’t a museum, it’s a memorial. Poor Siew Li. Did she really think she could change the world? In the end, it comes down to this—a dying village with nothing to offer but the past. Would she have been glad, if she’d lived to see this?
He isn’t even that surprised about the killing—why would he be? He knew what that rifle was for. And the thought of his mother dying alone in the jungle—no, not alone, she had this man, and she had—
The thought fizzes in his chest. “Daughter. You said you had a daughter.”
Xiongmin nods.
“She was born inside? Is she still here?”
For a moment Xiongmin hesitates, almost fearful. But what does it matter now? “You spoke to her earlier. She works here with me. Behind the counter at the entrance.”
Her? Henry stares at the woman, now bent over arranging the little Chairman Maos. Her long hair swings over her face. When he can see her again, Henry thinks: Yes, of course. She is a few years younger than him, nut-brown from the sun, crinkled around the eyes from laughter.
Xiongmin is calling out to her, pointing at Henry. “Your half-brother is here!” he is shouting. His voice is wild. It seems impossible these words could exist.
The woman turns to look at them, gaping, then smiles with painful intensity, the same wide smile as in Siew Li’s photographs, becoming unbearably like her. It’s her face, Lifeng’s, Siew Li’s. She has Janet’s nose, she has Henry’s eyes. Before she opens her mouth, he knows what she will say.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
State of Emergency has been in the works for more years than I care to remember, and I couldn’t have done it without the kind support of many, many people. Apologies to anyone I have inadvertently left out below; my memory, like most memories, is all too fallible.
I owe particular thanks to Yu-Mei Balasingamchow. Not only was her Singapore: A Biography (co-authored with Mark R. Frost) a vital source, her wisdom and knowledge throughout this process have been invaluable.
Too many other books were consulted to name them all, but particularly useful were: Poh Soo Kai’s Living in a Time of Deception, Teo Soh Lung’s Beyond the Blue Gate, Han Suyin’s And the Rain My Drink, Ian Ward and Norma Miraflor’s Slaughter and Deception at Batang Kali, Agnes Khoo’s Life as the River Flows, Chin Peng’s My Side of History, Fong Chong Pik’s The Memoirs of a Malayan Communist Revolutionary, and Tan Jing Quee, Tan Kok Chiang and Hong Lysa’s The May 13 Generation.
I am indebted to the excellent journalism of Kirsten Han, and to the films To Singapore, With Love by Tan Pin Pin, The Last Communist by Amir Muhammad and 1987: Untracing the Conspiracy by Jason Soo.
Gratitude also to those who agreed to be interviewed in the course of my research, including David and Janice Wong; Richard Lee at Seminyih New Village; Ling Yi, Liao Xiongmin and the other inhabitants of Friendship Village 2 at Betong; Father René Nicolas; Chua Shop Fong; and my parents.
Many others provided help and encouragement along the way, including Lydia Shah, Aditi Shivaramakrishnan, Dan Koh, Zhang Ruihe, Teng Qian Xi, Fikri Alkhatib, Christie Chua, Deanne Tan, Sarah Day, Kate McNaughton and Diana Wong. I’m particularly grateful for the inspirational support of Jim Crace and Maggie Gee, who saw an early draft of this novel come to life during an Arvon course they led.
Thanks to publisher Edmund Wee, editor Jason Erik Lundberg, line editor JY Yang, UK rep Kate Manning, marketing manager Winston Tay and all at Epigram Books, and to my agent Karolina Sutton.
And finally to Drayton, for all the rest.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by: Oliver Rockwell
Jeremy Tiang is a writer and translator. His short story collection, It Never Rains on National Day (Epigram Books, 2015) was shortlisted for the 2016 Singapore Literature Prize. He has translated more than ten books from the Chinese, including novels by Chan Ho-Kei, Zhang Yueran, Yeng Pway Ngon and Su Wei-chen. He won the Golden Point Award for Fiction in 2009, and has received an NEA Literary Translation Fellowship, a PEN/Heim Translation Grant, and a People’s Literature Award Mao-Tai Cup. He also writes and translates plays, and currently lives in Brooklyn.
The Epigram Books Fiction Prize promotes contemporary creative writing and rewards excellence in Singaporean literature. The richest literary prize in Singapore is awarded to the Singaporean, permanent resident or Singapore-born author for the best manuscript of a full-length, original and unpublished novel written in the English language.
For more information, please visit ebfp.epigrambooks.sg
