Destination 4: Imprisonment

TWO          

Thud. Thud. Thud. In an instant, he is pulled from the depths of sleep back into the real world. The soft, solid sound of flesh and bone knocking against wood, vibrating through the walls and bedframe, is vaguely comforting to him. He knows someone is calling him to the door, but as he sits up, he pauses and turns to gaze out the window. It is a pleasantly cool, starry night. Outside the window, rows of clothes hanging outside shophouses on long bamboo poles sway as gusts of wind come by. Far away are the riots, the protests, the political speeches which fill these streets with the scent of battle by day. Far away is his job as a trade unionist, where he organises strikes to fight for the rights of the common worker. Amidst the hot headiness of a nation waiting to be born, who can refuse to savour this moment?

The knocking grows impatient, harsh, rattling the door in its frame. As it rises into a command, he knows he must go, though as he steps into the living room he still imagines himself staring out the window. He feels a tinge of annoyance. Who would want to see him at - he checks his watch - 2.30 in the morning anyway? He reminds himself to stay calm - no use getting into a quarrel so early in the day. With mock anger in his voice, he opens the door wide and says playfully: “At this hour, really?”

Thud. The blow sweeps him off his feet, and he lands on his back, gasping in pain. He is not sure if his nose is bleeding, because his face has already gone numb. Waves of panic and confusion overwhelm him. Through the darkness and his blurred vision, he makes out three silhouettes. Boots scuffle across the floor towards him. Limbs flailing, he scrambles to his feet and dashes for the door.     
    
Thud. This time to the chest, and it knocks all the air out of his lungs. He staggers into a table and knocks over a vase, which shatters on the floor with a shrill shriek that pierces the night. Back against the wall, for a brief moment all he can hear is his own racing heartbeat.

“Mr Goh,” mumbles one of the figures. He flinches at the sound of his name. Who are they? How do they know him? “What do you want?” he cries. The three begin advancing on him like a pack of wolves. “You are being detained under the Prevention of Public Service Security Ordinance. You have been found guilty of instigating violent unrest through the Communist United Front. Your Party has infiltrated -"            

“Officers, you must have gotten the wrong person,” he gasps. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not a criminal.”          

“Don’t think you can talk your way out of this.” This one has the snarl of a predator. “You think the Government doesn’t know what you’re doing. The trade unions. The schools. We see it all.” Now he hears a clinking sound, and moonlight glints off a pair of steel handcuffs. A pair of hands reach out to grab his wrists.

“Officers, please - “ he bats the hands away.

Thud. This time to the stomach. He falls to the floor again. A shard from the broken vase pierces his back. His energy spent, he is too exhausted to feel anything. Eyes closed, his mind begins to fade, and he loses track of time, space, reality. 


THREE     

A sea of cold engulfs him. He is alone, seated on a metal chair in front of a rickety wooden table, staring at the off-white walls of a small room. Above him, two yellowish fluorescent lights blaze like suns. 

He hears the sound of boots on concrete from behind. Two officers enter, one a woman, the other a man carrying a clipboard. As they sit across him, he sees that neither betrays any emotion; their faces are set in stone.

“Do you know why you are here?” the man whispers.

He knows he should feel fear, but is strangely calm. Surely he can reason with these people, and they will realise they have made a mistake.

“Officers, I really have no clue -"

“Don’t try to be a hero,” the man snaps. “We are not going to kill you, you know. You don’t get to be a martyr.” 

“I know my rights,” he says as loudly as he dares. His voice quivers, and he can no longer tell if it is from the cold or fear or rage. “As a citizen, I am entitled to a lawyer and a trial - “

“Stop with your nonsense,” the woman sneers. “If we were like China and Russia, do you think there would be a lawyer and a trial?”

She seems to relish the momentum she has gained. “You communists are all such hypocrites. You think you’re the heroes of the people. But what do you do for them? You destabilise the country. You start strikes, riots and rebellions. How can the our nation develop, with all of you causing trouble? How can our people have prosperous lives?”

Now hot blood is coursing through his veins, and memory of the previous night is all that restrains him from lashing out at them. Communist? Hypocritical? Violent? Yes, his movement could be unruly at times, but was this not justified by the suffering of his people? Under their colonial masters, the people of Singapore laboured in harsh conditions for almost no pay at all. There was no crevice of their society in which they could hide: from education to the civil service to the military, the British held them in a vice grip, depriving deserving natives of any opportunity whatsoever. Surely these officers saw all this. How could they, his fellow prisoners in the prison that was their home, hold him in shackles? 

The man slides the clipboard across the table. Attached to it is a dark blue pen and a single sheet of blank paper. “We’re giving you a chance, Mr Goh,” he whispers. “You can take it. Or you can stay here for the rest of your life.”

Then, a bit more measuredly: “For the good of our nation. For our children.”


FOUR 

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Back then, this city was dirty and dishevelled, with its run-down buildings and the occasional nauseating smell from the refuse-littered streets. But it was like a young child playing in the mud: still lovable in an inexplicable way. And he knew, deeply, innately, that he belonged here.

Today, as he walks along the banks of the Singapore River, this city he once knew is gone to him. That sense of belonging has been supplanted by a hollow emptiness. In that National Day song from the year he was released, they called it the river that brought life. All he saw was a snake with a hide of metal. It is night - the most picturesque time of the day to come here, his remaining friends say - but when he cranes his neck to stare at those bastions of concrete and steel that line the riverside, all he feels is the coldness of the interrogation room. And the stars - where are the stars? Why can’t he see any?

He had refused to write that confession, of course. He was not one so easily shaken. Even as days became weeks and weeks became years, and years decades, even as colleagues and friends were released and died, he had been immovable. Apparently, a few years ago they decided he was no longer useful. It took them long enough.

Suddenly he feels a sharp pain in his back, and winces as he curses the fact that it never recovered. A nearby bench beckons. Staggering towards it, he takes a seat and surveys his surroundings.

He wonders if the office workers, who walk by him in immaculate suits and ties, are truly happy. 

He wonders if they believe in treading this never-ending road of progress. Do they know that they will never be able to look over the hill and, with a shout of joy, call out the name of that shining city of gold which is supposed to be their destination?

He wonders if they remember the people who were trampled like dirt on the way. Do they remember those who fought in those young, dizzy days of this nation, only to be crushed in the name of development and progress? Or is that tiny park he passed by on the way here, where they can protest under the watchful eye of the state, all they know of what it means to struggle?

Now the lights in the skyscrapers begin to flicker out, and they remind him of the innumerable stars he saw on that night, the night he was taken away. In an instant he realises where the stars have gone - these lights, these false stars, have outshone them.

Gazing up into pitch black, he wonders if the stars will rule their night sky again.
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Here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Hong Lim Park. Yes, I know you’ve probably heard that Singapore is an authoritarian society, Disneyland with the death penalty, no chewing gum - but that’s just not true! We live in a vibrant society where everyone can express their views, and Hong Lim Park is just the place to do that. All you have to do is get a permit from - wait, sorry, let me check again. [Paper ruffles]. Heh, sorry, they change the rules so often, I’ve gotten confused. Ah, there it is. You need a permit only if you have a foreigner, donotspeakaboutmattersconcerninreligionormattersthatmaycauseenemity - enmity - betweendifferentracialandreligiousgroups - [gasp] - donotdisplayanyviolentlewd - um, et cetera. What? Why don’t we let people speak and protest wherever they want? Well, believe me, in our history we had a lot of that. But it destabilised our country so greatly. If we didn’t put a stop to it, we wouldn’t have been able to go from third world to first in just fifty years!

[silence]