We learn from the past

Reminiscing over fond Chinese New Year memories of a childhood in small-town Johor.

I WON’T be going back to the tworow shophouses that made up my village, Sungai Balang Besar, Muar, Johor, this Chinese New Year.

Very few of my Chinese friends are around anymore. I am still in contact with a few and some have passed away.

But nothing much has changed in the pekan (small town) over the years.

Back in the 60s, I always followed Ayah (father) to his shop in the afternoon – he was the only barber in the village. In the morning he tapped rubber.

I befriended many of the Chinese boys and girls my age. All of them went to a Chinese school nearby.

I was the only one who went to an English school in Semerah, the border town of Muar and Batu Pahat districts. The rest went to a Malay school.

Many of the Chinese boys joined me and my friends for a swim at the river near my house.

In a village largely inhabited by villagers of Javanese descent, every one learned the language, even the Chinese boys.

In return we learned swear words in Hokkien from them. Life was fun and simple. We knew our differences. But we were bound by friendship and little else. Religiosity had yet to rear its ugly head.

When I was offered a place at Universiti Malaya, my father had a suggestion, “Tumpang lori Lai” (Get a lift on Lai’s lorry).

To rent a car was too expensive back then. Lai sold fish and vegetables. Once or twice a week he sent vegetables to the Chow Kit market.

So, one morning in June 1974, I was awakened from my sleep at 2am. I could hardly bid farewell to my sister Kahtijah who was still asleep. I kissed my mother’s hands and was on my father’s bicycle to Lai’s shop. He was waiting with the lorry engine running. There was no goodbye for Ayah had disappeared in the dark.

It was a turning point of my life. That morning I never looked back. I was a student for three years and later worked in Kuala Lumpur, got married and raised a family.

In the lorry I was sandwiched between Lai and his friend, shivering from cold and thinking about my new adventure as a student. The village, 27km from Muar, where I have lived all my life at that point, was to be left behind forever.

It was a long journey to Universiti Malaya in Petaling Jaya, stopping for breakfast in Alor Gajah and dropping the vegetables at Chow Kit market before proceeding to the university. We were stopped at the gate because the lorry was not allowed in.

I seldom talked to him before that, but the five-hour journey was an eye-opener for me. I learned a lot from Lai. He wished he had a child who could go to the university. He told me to work hard. That morning he spoke to me like a father and I was humbled by the experience. I was on the verge of tears when I alighted from his lorry.

My father had many such friends. He stood by them through thick and thin. Race was never an issue with him. A simple man who believed that good neighbourhood begins at home. When I was caught stealing rambutan from the orchard farm of one of his Chinese friends, he made sure I apologised to the owner.

I was popular among the Chinese boys and girls for they came to me when they had problems with English.

And more importantly my classmate’s mother was a caretaker at a Buddhist temple. When the Chinese opera troupe came to the temple, I was there running errands for the actors and stagehands, just as I did when the famous Bangsawan troupe, Bintang Timur Opera, came to my village later.

I always ensured some of the Chinese village elders got the best seats during the performance of Wayang Cina (also known as pekji or potehi in Johor).

A substantial number of the audi- ence at the time were Malays. TV was many years away. The best Malay films were at least a year late in coming to the panggung wayang (cinema) near us.

The Chinese community in my kampung was small, but they were an integral part of local society. I always look back at my formative years in the village proud for the fact that I grew up in an environment of tolerance and understanding.

Lai was bedridden for many years before his passing. There were times when I had the opportunity to visit him.

For many years he was telling the story about the first boy who went to the university in my kampung taking a ride in his lorry.

He was proud of me and I am forever grateful to him.

To all my Chinese readers, Gong Xi Fa Cai!

The Chinese community in my kampung was small, but they were an integral part of local society.