Before the advent of the internet, print advertisements reigned supreme. These primary documents provide important clues to the social history of the period as Chung Sang Hong tells us.

Advertising has existed since ancient times in various different shapes and forms. In the ruins of Pompeii for instance, advertisements hawking the services of prostitutes were carved into the buried stonework of this thriving Roman city before it was destroyed in 79 CE.¹ In medieval Europe, town criers roamed the streets making public announcements accompanied by the ringing of a hand bell. In China, one of the earliest advertising artefacts discovered was a printing block of an advertisement for a needle shop in Jinan, Shandong province, dating from the Northern Song Dynasty (960–1127 CE).²

An advertisement by Warin Publicity Services. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual 1939, back cover.

In various towns and cities across Asia, street vendors calling out to customers have existed since time immemorial. Itinerant hawkers – who moved from place to place peddling food, drinks, vegetables, textiles and various sundries while verbally “advertising” their wares – were once a common sight on the streets of Singapore.³

In the West, Johannes Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press around 1450 gave birth to print advertising as an unintended by-product, with the first printed advertisement in the English language appearing in 1477.⁴ By the 17th century, many European towns and cities were producing publications containing news that resembled modern newspapers.⁵

The revenue earned from advertising has always been a major source of profit for newspapers. Ever since newspapers first made their appearance, and for many centuries thereafter, this format became the main medium for advertisements. Indeed, some newspapers even had the word “Advertiser” boldly proclaimed on their mastheads. In Singapore, we had The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, which was first published in 1835.

From the publication of the island’s first local broadsheet, Singapore Chronicle and Commercial Register, in January 1824 to the outbreak of World War II in 1942, more than 150 newspapers had been published in various languages in Singapore.⁶ Judging from the large volume of advertisements in this medium, one can conclude that before the Japanese Occupation, the newspaper was the most important advertising platform in Singapore.

Of course, other print publications existed too, competing with newspapers for a slice of the advertising pie. Business directories, periodicals and magazines, souvenir publications, travel guides and related ephemera, and even cookbooks, contained advertisements, promoting various products and services that targeted specific audiences.

Apart from print media, other forms of advertising – advertisements screened before the start of movies, painted billboards, street posters, advertisements on buses and railway platforms, neon signs, etc – also existed in pre-war Singapore.

A Rich Advertising Heritage
Singapore has a rich advertising heritage that dates as far back as the early 20th century. This should come as little surprise, given the island’s history as a major entrepot port and commercial hub of the British Empire in Asia since its founding in 1819.

The first advertisements placed by advertising agents in Singapore appeared around the 1910s. In the Who’s Who in Malaya published in 1918, publisher Dossett & Co. promoted itself as the ad agent for the major local Chinese paper, Lat Pau.⁷ In return for a fee, ad agents helped clients create and place advertisements in newspapers – a service likely welcomed by European merchants who were eager to market their products to the large Chinese community in Singapore.

Early advertising agencies in Singapore helped clients to produce and place advertisements in newspapers as well as provide copywriting and design services. In the 1918 Who’s Who in Malaya, Dossett & Co. promoted itself as the ad agent for the local Chinese paper Lat Pau. Similar advertisements were produced by J.R. Flynn Anderson and Siow Choon Leng. Images reproduced from (left to right) Dossett, J.W. (1918). Who’s Who in Malaya 1918 (p. 137). Singapore: Printed for Dossett & Co. by Methodist Pub. House (Accession no.: B02940225B; Microfilm no.: NL5829); The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, 11 December 1918, p. 2; and The Straits Times, 4 March 1919, p. 3.

Similar advertisements were produced by J.R. Flynn Anderson, an “advertiser” who offered “new ideas in advertising” ⁸ and “Advertisement Writer” Siow Choon Leng, who claimed that investing in good advertising would yield significant rewards for businesses.⁹

Singapore’s thriving advertising business before World War II was dominated by a few prominent ad agencies headed by Europeans, some of which were regional firms with headquarters in Hong Kong or Shanghai. There were at least 20 such firms specialising in advertising, publicity and marketing in Singapore and Malaya at the time.¹⁰

Most of these agencies were set up between the late 1920s and 30s. Some of them actively advertised their services in magazines and periodicals targeted at the business community. It was a common practice then for ad agencies to “sign off” advertisements they produced with the company’s name or initials: “signatures” such as “Master’s” (Masters Ltd), “Warins” (Warin Publicity Services Ltd) and “APB” (The Advertising & Publicity Bureau Ltd) would often be inserted unobtrusively into the advertisements. These traces left by pioneering agencies serve as clues that aid historians in their study of Singapore’s early advertising scene and its key players.

Advertisements by pioneer ad agencies in Singapore. Clockwise from top left: Osram lamp (General Electric Co. Ltd) by Warin Publicity Services, Shell Motor Oils (Asiatic Petroleum Co Ltd) by Masters Ltd and Silvester’s (Australian Primary Producers) by The Advertising & Publicity Bureau Ltd (with a pull-out showing a magnified view of APB’s “signature”). Images reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1936, p. 153, and The Straits Times Annual, 1940, pp. 28, 92.

The booming market and demand for advertising in major Asian cities in turn fuelled the business of some of these early agencies. The Advertising & Publicity Bureau (APB) was the first regional agency to set up shop in Singapore in 1931. It was established in Hong Kong in 1922 by Englishwoman Beatrice Thompson to serve the advertising needs of its British and American clients in Asia.¹¹ By 1940, APB was servicing many household brands and prominent firms, claiming to be the “largest advertising agency in the Far East”.¹²

Millington Ltd – one of the “Big Four” advertising agencies in Shanghai and founded by Briton F.C. Millington in 1920s – set up its Singapore branch in 1937 after having established a Hong Kong office earlier.¹³ There were also agencies started in Singapore that later became well known, one of which was Masters Ltd, founded in 1928 by Australian-born Ernst George Mozar, whose works can often be seen in early publications.

William Joseph Warin founded Warin Studios in 1932, which was renamed Warin Publicity Services in 1937. The ad agency was well known for its striking print advertisements. Image reproduced from Malaya: The Journal of the Association of British Malaya, April 1936, p. 294.

Warin Publicity Services: The First Local Agency
Among the first homegrown ad agencies in Singapore, one stood out for its vibrant and attractive print advertisements. The name “Warins” typically appears at the corner of many beautifully illustrated advertisements found in premium publications such as the 1930s issues of The Straits Times Annual, a periodical on Malayan and Singaporean life and culture, published by Straits Times Press between 1905 and 1982.

Warin Publicity Services was founded by Briton William Joseph Warin.¹⁴ W.J. Warin first arrived in Malaya in 1915 as a rubber planter.¹⁵ After his plantation business was hit by the Great Depression, Warin reinvented himself as a commercial artist and set up his advertising firm, Warin Studios, in a room on Orchard Road in 1932.¹⁶ His business flourished and within a span of three years, Warin Studios had moved into an office in the prestigious Union Building with a sizeable number of staff. The company also harboured ambitions of starting a branch in Hong Kong.¹⁷

Warin Studios was renamed Warin Publicity Services in 1937, and counted among its clientele major corporations and import houses in Singapore and Malaya as well as associates in London and New York.¹⁸ The agency’s success was largely due to the consistently high-quality and creative works it produced.¹⁹ Warin recruited professional talents from overseas, among whom was the Russian-born artist Vladimir Tretchikoff, who later found international fame for his painting Chinese Girl.²⁰

Before relocating to Singapore, Tretchikoff had been a successful commercial artist in Shanghai working for Mercury Press, a prominent publisher of an English newspaper.²¹ Many of Warin’s eye-catching advertisements – inspired by the Art Deco movement – were designed by Tretchikoff.

The Chinese Influence
With the pre-war advertising scene dominated by Western expatriates, Chinese ad practitioners carved a name for themselves by serving the advertising needs of Chinese-speaking clients. Some were fine arts painters who practised commercial art on the side by creating artworks for advertisements. One of these was the prominent Chinese artist Zhang Ruqi (张汝器), who trained in Shanghai and France, and moved to Singapore in 1927. Renowned for his comic art and caricatures, Zhang founded a commercial art studio and created illustrations for advertisements such as Tiger Balm.²²

Local Chinese printers also produced advertisements in the distinctive “picture calendar” (yue fen pai; 月份 牌) style which originated in Shanghai. These featured beautiful women dressed in form-fitting cheongsam (or qipao), Western attire and even swimsuits, and were highly popular in China and in overseas Chinese communities, including Singapore.

(1 and 2) Art Deco-style advertisements attributed to Vladimir Tretchikoff, a Russian émigré commercial artist with Warin Publicity Services, who practised in Singapore from 1934 to 1941. Images reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1940, p. 80; and The Straits Times Annual, 1941, p. 16.
(3) Whiteaways department store advertising the Daks brand of flannels that were available in “many patterns many styles”. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1940, p. 88.
(4) A 1930s poster – designed in the style of the Shanghai “picture calendar” (yue fen pai; 月份牌) – advertising the services of the Medical Office (神农大药房) at North Bridge Road that was founded in 1866. In 1916, Chinese pharmacist Foo Khee How acquired the business from its German owners and continued to run it as a Western-style pharmacy. It is still in operation today as the Singapore Medical Office.

Post-war Developments
With the outbreak of World War II, the business of most ad agencies came to a grinding halt. Many advertising practitioners resumed their trade after the Japanese Occupation ended in September 1945. Newcomers entered the scene in search of opportunities as Malaya returned to British rule.

Still, the post-war advertising industry was dominated by firms with links to Britain, Australia, the United States and Hong Kong, with expatriates mostly holding the key positions. In 1948, Singapore’s first advertising association, Association of Accredited Advertising Agents of Malaya (4As), was formed to safeguard stakeholders’ interests and raise the standards of the local advertising industry. Its three founding members – Masters Ltd, Millington Ltd and Messrs C.F. Young – were key players who had been active before the war.²³

The post-war era also saw the penetration of international advertising firms into the Asian market who successfully tied up with local agencies as partners. In the 1950s, Masters Ltd partnered leading London agency, S.H. Benson, to grow its business, eventually becoming S.H. Benson (Singapore) in 1961 with offices in Kuala Lumpur and Hong Kong. The company subsequently merged with Ogilvy & Mather and became Ogilvy, Benson & Mather in 1971, making Masters the first Singapore agency to have evolved into an international agency.²⁴

C.F. Young had been a manager at the aforementioned APB before the war. In 1946, he started his own firm, C.F. Young Publicity, which was later renamed Young Advertising and Marketing Ltd to serve local and overseas clients. It was eventually acquired by a British company, London Press Exchange, in 1966 and was renamed LPE Singapore Ltd.²⁵

Another foreign agency, Cathay Advertising Limited, seemed to have followed a similar trajectory. Its founder, Australian businesswoman Elma Kelly, went to Shanghai in the early 1930s to work for Millington Ltd. She was posted to Hong Kong to manage the agency’s branch office in 1935 but ended up in internment when the city fell to the Japanese in 1941.

(Left) Grundig marketed its radiogram as an essential item in the modern home in the 1960s. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1961, p. xiv.
(Right) This advertisement by The Royal Dutch Mails evoked the modernity and glamour associated with luxury cruise liners. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1937, p. 140.

After the war, Kelly and a few former Millington staff started Cathay Advertising in Hong Kong. Its Singapore office opened in 1946, and branches were subsequently set up in Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok. In 1963, Cathay was reported to be one of the three largest ad agencies in Singapore.²⁶ It later merged with leading Australian agency George Patterson Pte Ltd and was eventually acquired by Ted Bates & Co (now Bates Worldwide)²⁷, a New York-based advertising giant that expanded into Southeast Asia in the late 1960s.

The Stuff of Dreams
The intended audience of early print publications is quite different from the masses that similar media can reach today. Before the 1950s, as a result of low literacy rates and income levels, the ability to read and the means to purchase reading materials was the privilege of the minority.²⁸ In colonial Singapore, these would be the Europeans as well as the wealthy and better-educated members of local communities. Invariably, most of the advertisements featured in early print publications were targeted at the upper crust of society, reflecting their lifestyles, tastes, preferences, values and outlook on life.

Business and residential directories are another rich source of printed advertisements. The Singapore & Malayan Ladies Directory contains advertisements on goods and services that appealed to affluent women in colonial Singapore. Images reproduced from The Singapore & Malayan Ladies Directory with Shopping Guide (1936–37, p. 285 and 1937–38, p. 106–107).

Given Singapore’s rich advertising history, it is surprising that precious little research has been done on the subject, even though a large collection of primary source materials exists. Through a new exhibition, “Selling Dreams: Early Advertising in Singapore”, the National Library aims to uncover the fascinating history of this business and the untold stories behind some of the earliest iconic ads that appeared in print.With the passage of time, the products and services found in these vintage advertisements and also the manner in which they were touted to the general public may have become antiquated or even obsolete. However, early print advertisements still remain valuable as primary historical documents that can provide important clues to the lifestyle, culture, business and social histories of the period. Many of these old advertisements still strike a chord with people today by virtue of the sentiments they reflected – the values, aspirations, desires and hopes – and also perhaps fears – of the readers and producers of advertisements at a particular point in our history.

Apart from marketing products and services, early advertising adopted the strategy of selling a “dream” – a desirable outcome, tangible or intangible, to its intended audience, and closely associated with purchasing the advertised product or service. Such an advertising tactic is only too familiar to modern-day consumers who are often lured into parting with their money – whether on fast cars and jewellery or common everyday items like detergent and toothpaste – by slick advertisements promising them instant gratification.

The product range as well as the scale and size of the advertising industry and its platforms may have changed drastically over the years, but the one constant that has survived to this day is the aspect of selling the stuff that is of dreams.

Notes

Bonny Tan interweaves her own experiences as a modern Singaporean mother travelling and living abroad with those of two Victorian-era Englishwomen.

My son, all of six months old, months old, was on his first flight out of Singapore, ensconced in a bassinet that hung precariously in front of me. With my backpack holding both laptop and milk bottles stashed in the overhead compartment, I wondered how this journey and new living arrangement – of commuting for work between two countries with a child in tow – would pan out. Peering out of the window into the vast blue sea beneath, it struck me that for centuries, mothers and their children have made such journeys for various reasons and under more harrowing circumstances – many of whom never lived long enough to return home.

The writer Bonny and her son Bryan enjoying the day at Mui Ne, a beach resort town along the South China Sea in southeast Vietnam, in 2011. Bryan was about three years old then. Courtesy of Bonny Tan.

A Mother’s Perspective
Many of the early 19th-century travel accounts were written by men – mostly commissioned by their government, a scientific institution or a royal benefactor. Their descriptions were invariably functional, with a bias towards trade, land acquisition or research, rather than personal in nature. While adventurous women such as Isabella Bird would later gain fame for their travel writing, many were usually single and explored the world sans husband and children.

Published accounts of mothers in the 19th century who travelled to new lands with their families are rare. Harriette McDougall and Anna “Annie” Brassey were two such Victorian-era mothers who penned their adventures abroad with their children. Their circumstances, however, could not have been more different. While Harriette set up home with her family – living among the local people – in the disease-ridden jungles of Sarawak in 1847, Annie travelled with her family in relative comfort on board a private schooner, the Sunbeam, calling in at various ports around the world. Annie’s well-documented journey began in 1876, almost three decades after Harriette’s sojourn.

(Left) Women travelling abroad with their husbands and children in 19th-century England were rare, but two Victorian-era women – Harriette McDougall and Annie Brassey – did and wrote books about their adventures overseas. Image reproduced from Crane, T.F., & Houghton, E.E. (1882). Abroad (p. 11). London, Belfast, New York: Marcus Ward & Co. (Right) Harriette McDougall in November 1882 when she was 65. Photograph by Hughes and Mullin, Isle of Wight. Image reproduced from Bunyon, C.J. (1889). Memoirs of Francis Thomas McDougall, D.C.L.F.R.C.S., Sometime Bishop of Labuan and Sarawak, and of Harriette, his Wife (p. 20). London: Longmans, Greens, and Co. (Microfilm no.: NL25423).

Harriette was married to Francis Thomas McDougall, who would later become the first Bishop of Sarawak. They initially served as missionaries among head-hunters, pirates and rioting Chinese between 1847 and 1867. Her life of hardship in the tropics is captured through three books: Letters from Sarawak: Addressed to a Child ¹ (1854), which contains letters to her eldest son; her autobiography, Sketches of Our Life at Sarawak² (1882); and her husband’s biography, Memoirs of Francis Thomas McDougall… Sometime Bishop of Labuan and Sarawak, and of Harriette, his Wife³ (1889).

At aged 29, Harriette left the comforts of England for Sarawak in 1847 with her husband and baby son Harry, leaving behind Charles, her firstborn. She would later lay Harry to rest in Singapore when he was only three, and also lost several other children in infancy. Those who survived were raised together with orphans of various origins – Chinese, Dyaks (or Dayaks) as well as the offspring of mixed parentage – whom she and her husband had adopted.

Harriette lived in Sarawak for almost 20 years, returning to England several times in between and, in particular, between 1860 and 1862 to settle her older children at school, before returning to Sarawak with her youngest child.

Annie Brassey was born into a privileged family. She married Thomas Brassey, the son of a railway industrialist at age 21 in 1860, and when her husband turned to politics, Annie dutifully supported him in his work. He was later knighted and, in 1886, elevated to the peerage as Baron Brassey. The couple maintained a firm friendship with then British Prime Minister William Gladstone. Such connections likely helped smoothen their journeys to places like the Middle East, North America and parts of Europe and subsequently their tour of the world.

Annie’s well-known account – A Voyage in the ‘Sunbeam’: Our Home on the Ocean for Eleven Months⁴ – was published in 1878, barely two years after she departed in July 1876 on a world tour with her husband, four children, pet pugs and a crew of 30 men. Illustrated with drawings based on her photographs and descriptions, the book became so enormously popular that it was republished in various languages and in 19 editions altogether.

Unlike the women of her generation, Annie’s 1876 circumnavigation of the world was not borne out of an obligation to accompany her husband for his work but was something she herself had longed to do. The book was an outcome of “her painstaking desire not only to see everything thoroughly but to record her impressions faithfully and accurately”,⁵ as her husband writes in the preface. This became one of many such family travels she would embark on and write about thereafter, ending only with her death from malaria in 1887 while on her final journey.

(Left) Portrait of Annie Brassey reproduced from Wikimedia Commons. Original image from Brassey, T. (1917). The “Sunbeam”, R.Y.S.: Voyages and Experiences in Many Waters: Naval Reserves and other Matters. London: John Murray.
(Right) Harriette McDougall in November 1882 when she was 65. Photograph by Hughes and Mullin, Isle of Wight. Image reproduced from Bunyon, C.J. (1889). Memoirs of Francis Thomas McDougall, D.C.L.F.R.C.S., Sometime Bishop of Labuan and Sarawak, and of Harriette, his Wife (p. 20). London: Longmans, Greens, and Co. (Microfilm no.: NL25423).

A Mother’s Stoicism
The chance to be exposed to new sights, flavours and experiences is what attracts most people to venture abroad and settle in a new country. Life away from the comforts of home, however, calls for a certain amount of resilience and adaptability as well as a sense of fun, without which the inevitable culture shock can often bring the adventure to an abrupt end.

Harriette describes how a family unprepared for such changes could not last the long haul. She gives an account of a certain doctor, Mr C, who had moved to Sarawak with his family. He had ignored her advice to leave the older children in England but persisted in coming as a “party of nine, having lost one child in Singapore”. They did not last beyond a month because Mrs C was “so disgusted with the place”, complaining there were “no shops, no amusements, always hot weather, and food so dear!”⁶

During our first week in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnamese friends were eager to introduce us to their unique cuisine. Game to try new things, we were brought to a nondescript local eatery. It looked familiar, like a noisy coffeeshop from home. So we felt safe – until a large live lizard was dangled before us and we were told that it would be our lunch! Out of courtesy, the locals often try to cater to the taste buds of visitors, but often, the most prized food item on the table could be culturally discomfiting for a foreigner.

Harriette describes such an occasion when they were treated to a Dyak feast:

“As we English folks could not eat fowls roasted in their feathers, nor cakes fried in cocoa-nut oil, they brought us fine joints of bamboo filled with pulut rice, which turns to a jelly in cooking and is fragrant with the scent of the young cane. I was going to eat this delicacy when my eyes fell upon three human heads standing on a large dish, freshly killed and slightly smoked, with food and sirih leaves in their mouths… But I dared say nothing. These Dyaks had killed our enemies, and were only following their own customs by rejoicing over their dead victims.”⁷

Food supply onboard the Sunbeam had its fair share of problems. Annie describes how their livestock, namely six sheep, 60 chickens, 30 ducks and four dozen pigeons, were depleted by the carelessness of the sailors. Fortunately, some spare tins of food stored under the floor of the nursery helped sustain them until the next port of call.

The incident led Annie to reflect on the difficulties of travel in the days when tinned food and steam power did not exist:

“We often wonder how the earlier navigators got on, when there were no such things as tinned provisions, and when the facilities for carrying water were of the poorest description, while they were often months and months at sea, without an opportunity of replenishing their stores, and with no steam-power to fall back upon in case they were becalmed.”⁸

In much the same way, I’ve wondered how travelling mothers in the Victorian era kept their sanity intact and their children occupied during long stretches of boredom and monotony. Without digital toys, streaming TV and movies, and social media to keep in contact with friends and family across the oceans, how did these mothers cope?

For one, both Harriette’s and Annie’s families owned extensive libraries. Annie had more than 700 books, including several foreign language ones, some of which were gifted to her on her travels. These helped entertain the family through long dull moments. Annie also received various exotic pets from the hosts she called on at various ports, although not all survived the journey.

(Left) In July 1876, Annie Brassey departed on the Sunbeam to travel around the world with her husband, four children and pet dogs. An account of her travels was published as A Voyage in the ‘Sunbeam’: Our Home on the Ocean for Eleven Months. This illustration of the Sunbeam was featured on the frontispiece of the book. Image reproduced from Brassey, A. (1878). A Voyage in the ‘Sunbeam’: Our Home on the Ocean for Eleven Months London: Longmans, Green. (Accession no.: B02897233A; Microfilm no.: NL25750).
(Right) Some children of the school at St Thomas Church in Kuching, Sarawak. Both the church and school were established by Harriette McDougall and her husband Francis McDougall. Image reproduced from McDougall, H. (1882). Sketches of our Life at Sarawak (p. 194). London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. (Microfilm no.: NL26013).

Besides the usual chores on deck, Annie devised games for the children to play on board. One such pastime was a soldier’s drill where the children marched up and down the deck to the music of a fiddle and the “somewhat discordant noise of their own drums”.

Harriet’s orphan boys adopted English games while continuing to make their own local toys such as kites:

“The children amused themselves as English boys do. There was a season for marbles, for hop-scotch, for tops, and for kites… they cut thin paper into the shapes of birds, fish, or butterflies, and stretch it over thin slips of the spine of the cocoa-nut leaf, then they ornament it with bits of red or blue paper, and fasten it together with a pinch of boiled rice.”⁹

A Mother’s Travails
Travelling on local forms of transport may seem dangerous to someone who comes from a more developed part of the world. Even so, we opted to commute as the locals do – by scooter. We experienced the harsh rays of the mid-day sun beating down on our backs, the burns from scooter exhaust pipes brushing past our calves, the desperate rush to seek shelter when the skies suddenly opened, or riding knee-deep through muddy river waters and sludge at high tide.

On the flip side, it allowed us to feel the pulse of the city – inhaling the heady aroma of meat being barbecued by the roadside, and chatting with fellow riders while astride on our scooter as if we were nonchalantly walking down a road. So when we had our son Bryan, we travelled with him perched on a rattan chair affixed at the front of our scooter seat.

In the 19th century, travel by sea was fraught with danger, not only from the mercurial weather and waves, but also from freak accidents. Several days into the start of Annie’s journey, the Sunbeam sailed into a violent storm and her son Allnutt and daughter Mabelle were almost thrown overboard:

“In a second the sea came pouring over the stern, above Allnutt’s head. The boy was nearly washed overboard, but he managed to catch hold of the rail, and with great presence of mind, stuck his knees into the bulwarks.”¹⁰

Meanwhile, the captain, who had instinctively coiled a rope around his own wrist, managed to grab Mabelle even as the waves threatened to sweep both of them overboard. Annie remembers that Mabelle “was perfectly self-possessed, and only said quietly, ‘Hold on, Captain Lecky, hold on!’”¹¹ The evening did not prove restful as they were once more deluged by huge waves. With her bed drenched, Annie spent the night mopping and clearing the mess.

(Left) Annie Brassey devised games to keep her children entertained on board. One such pastime was a soldier’s drill where the children marched up and down the deck to the music of their drums. Image reproduced from Brassey, A. (1878). A Voyage in the ‘Sunbeam’: Our Home on the Ocean for Eleven Months (p. 256). London: Longmans, Green. (Accession no.: BO2897233A; Microfilm no.: NL25750).
(Right) A few days into the start of Annie Brassey’s journey, the Sunbeam sailed into a violent storm, and her son Allnutt and daughter Mabelle were almost thrown overboard. Fortunately, Allnutt managed to catch hold of the rail, while the captain grabbed Mabelle. Image reproduced from Brassey, A. (1878). A Voyage in the ‘Sunbeam’: Our Home on the Ocean for Eleven Months (p. 5). London: Longmans, Green. (Accession no.: B02897233A; Microfilm no.: NL25750).

In February 1877, the Brasseys experienced another close call when a fire engulfed the Sunbeam. Flying embers from a little fire stoked in the nursery to keep the room warm sparked off a mini inferno. Annie was awakened in the middle of the night by cries of “Fire! Fire!” Her first thought was the children, but thankfully they had not been forgotten; the nurse had “seized a child under each arm, wrapped them in blankets, and carried them off to the deck-house… The children… never cried nor made the least fuss, but composed themselves”.¹²

In the meantime, the quick-thinking crew put out the fire before it became uncontrollable with a new-fangled technology of the time – a fire extinguisher. A woman made of less sterner stuff would have buckled and returned home, but Annie was undaunted by these setbacks.

We witnessed the riots of May 2014 that swept through Ho Chi Minh City. The Vietnamese, who had been protesting against Chinese aggression in the Eastern Sea, began attacking businesses in the city that bore Chinese signages. Taiwanese, Singaporean and Malaysian institutions were all at risk. Later, we heard how fellow Singaporeans had escaped from burning factories or saw protestors stake out apartment blocks where they lived. Even so, we chose to stay put as we saw the potential benefits of living in Vietnam.

Well aware of the perils of living in the jungles of Borneo with a young family, Frank McDougall had initially opted for a position at the British Museum. Harriette, however, persuaded the director of the museum to release her husband from his obligation in favour of Sarawak. Frank understood Harriette’s reasons for choosing a location in remote Borneo:

“… she dared not withdraw him from the service to which she thought that God had called him, even though it was to fill a post of danger, which, to many minds might have appeared like that of leading a forlorn hope.”¹³

Unfortunately, in February 1857, their worst fears were realised when Chinese gold miners set fire to their settlement. In the subsequent bloody massacre, several of their English neighbours saw their children beheaded and spouses speared to death. Harriette and her family escaped the insurrection only because the Chinese needed her husband’s medical expertise. Frank attended to the wounded and told Harriette to escape downriver with the children on a small life-boat to a schooner awaiting them at the river’s mouth.

Later, after being reunited with her husband, they travelled to Linga. Despite the harrowing conditions on board, Harriette felt neither hunger nor anguish because her family was safe:

“The night was very dark and wet, and the deck leaked upon us, so that we and our bags and bundles were soon wet through. But we neither heeded the rain nor felt the cold. We had eaten nothing since early morning, but were not hungry; and although for several nights we could scarcely be said to have slept, we were not sleepy. A deep thankfulness took possession of my soul; all our dear ones were spared to us. My children were in my arms, my husband paced the deck over my head. I seemed to have no cares, and to be able to trust to God for the future, who had been so merciful to us hitherto.”¹⁴

 A Mother’s Anguish
Contrary to expectations, the expatriate mother does not always lead a glamorous life, especially when she has children. Her days are less likely spent in spas and nail bars than dodging traffic while ferrying children to school or attempting to juggle work with personal time. What is little known are the challenges of a dislocated life, which could range from homesickness and loneliness to the more mundane sense of boredom as one is plucked from a sense of routine.

Harriette recognised these symptoms in both herself and among her countrymen:

“It is, however, a common mistake to imagine that the life of a missionary is an exciting one. On the contrary, its trial lies in its monotony. The uneventful day, mapped out into hours of teaching and study, sleep, exercise and religious duties; the constant society of natives… who do not sympathize with your English ideas; the sameness of the climate, which even precludes discourse about the weather – all this, added to the distance from relations and friends at home, combined with the enervating effects of a hot climate, causes heaviness of spirits and despondency to single men and women.”¹⁵

A greater discomfort is the pain of physical separation from loved ones. This could mean leaving aged parents behind, a spouse or even children. The separation may be for weeks or months, but often it is years. The convenience of air-travel and instant communication by email, texting and video chat bridge the separation but can never take the place of extended time with a loved one.

For the Victorian woman with a spouse called to travel, the woman’s first place was with the husband, even at the cost of leaving a child behind. When the McDougalls first departed England for Sarawak on 30 December 1847, Harriette left behind her eldest son Charles, just two years old then, while taking her infant child Harry with them.

Harriette McDougall’s kitchen at her home in Kuching, Sarawak. The kitchen was in a separate hut away from the main house due to fire considerations. The family reared cows, pigs and chickens as food supplies were unreliable and expensive. Image reproduced from the website of St Thomas Cathedral Kuching.

It is from Frank’s memoirs rather than Harriette’s that we see the emotional price she paid. “[N]o one can tell the pangs which that parting must have cost her” writes Frank. “Bravely as she had parted from her eldest child, he seems to have been ever in her thoughts, and her heart hungered for news of him.”¹⁶

The pain of separation, however, gave birth to the book, Letters from Sarawak; Addressed to a Child, based on the carefully crafted letters she had written to her son, in the hope that this would help him understand their circumstances. She states in the preface:

“All parents whose fate separates them from their little ones, during their early years, must feel anxious to lessen the distance which parts them, by such familiar accounts of their life and habits as shall give their children a vivid interest in their parents’ home.”¹⁷

For the child from a well-to-do Victorian family, being sent away to boarding school at a young age was a familiar rite of passage. Early in their travels, while at Rio Grande do Sul in Brazil, Annie’s oldest son, then aged 13, took leave for England to continue his studies.

“We knew the parting had to be made, but this did not lessen our grief: for although it is at all times hard to say good-bye for a long period to those nearest and dearest to you, it is especially so in a foreign land, with the prospect of a long voyage on both sides. Moreover, it is extremely uncertain when we shall hear of our boy’s safe arrival.”¹⁸

For Harriette, leaving her older children Mab, Edith and Herbert in England when she returned to Sarawak in 1863 after a two-year absence was a pragmatic decision because she knew that “no English child can thrive in that unchangeable climate after it is six years old”.¹⁹ Yet it was not emotionally easy, as she shared with her sister-in-law:

“Dear little ones, they are seldom out of our thoughts. It was very hard to go away this time. I still feel a tightness about my heart, and I cannot endure that people should say to us, ‘Did you leave any children in England? A great trial, is it not?‘ I cannot bear to talk of it, but everything reminds me of my darlings.’”²⁰

The Victorian mother, despite medical advancements of the time, often suffered the darkest separation – death.

By August 1851, Harriette had lost five infants across a span of five years, besides having lost her second-born Harry early in her service in 1850 and her firstborn Charles in a freak accident in England in 1854. The losses not only devastated her emotionally but also physically. Yet, she was able to place the losses in the context of an eternal hope – “that it was better to have had them and lost them than never to have had them”. She looked on them as a sacred deposit in the hands of God, to be restored to her hereafter.²¹

While in Sarawak, Harriette McDougall penned letters to her eldest child Charles between 1851 and 1853, The compilation was later published as Letters from Sarawak; Addressed to a Child. Through the letters, Harriette hoped to “lessen the distance” between them as well as provide “familiar accounts of [her] life and habits” in a foreign land. The book also contains illustrations by Harriette. Pictured here is a drawing titled “Sarawak from the Court House”. Image reproduced from McDougall, H. (1854). Letters from Sarawak; Addressed to a Child (p. 19). London: Grant & Griffith. (Microfilm no.: NL25436).

Sickness would continue to plague the family in a hostile environment where cholera and various tropical diseases were rife, along with a poor diet and the stress of physical dangers from hostile tribes. In the end it would be poor health that would bring the McDougalls back to England in 1867 to recuperate and retire.

Although Annie continued her journey with her family to other far-flung outposts after her first book, her final story would end tragically. She died on 14 September 1887 from malarial fever as the family sailed from Australia to Mauritius. Her publication, The Last Voyage to India and Australia in the ‘Sunbeam’,²² would be completed posthumously by her widowed husband and published in 1889.

Notes

Crocodiles elicit fear and respect by turns – and occasionally, even indifference. Kate Pocklington and Siddharta Perez document reptilian encounters at specific times in Singapore’s history and their impact on the human psyche.

On 6 November 2017, the National Sailing Centre suspended all water-based activities in the sea off East Coast Park for four days after an estuarine crocodile (Crocodylus porosus) – also known as the saltwater crocodile – was spotted in the waters there.¹ This was one of five reported crocodile sightings in 2017, drawing both media and public attention to this elusive reptile that inhabits the rivers, reservoirs and seas around Singapore.²

(Left) Crocodiles were hunted down during the colonial period in exchange for rewards from the authorities. Villagers posing with a captured crocodile, c.1910. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) A Malay boy sitting on a captured crocodile sometime in the 1920s. Lim Kheng Chye Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore

Crocodiles have always been native to Singapore, but their numbers have dropped drastically due to unbridled hunting as well as destruction of their natural habitats throughout Singapore’s modern history. In their search for new habitats, these reptiles have often strayed into urban areas.

One of the early documented crocodile encounters in a public space took place in 1906 at the Swimming Club at Tanjong Katong. The reptile was seen sunning itself on the club’s diving platform when someone took a shot at the creature, prompting it to flee in haste.³ The most recent recorded sighting to cause a media flurry occurred in January 2018 at Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve, where a crocodile was seen basking under the sun on a path cutting through the forest.⁴

In colonial times, crocodiles were often caught and taken to police stations as bounty.⁵ These days, however, the Public Utilities Board is more likely to receive calls from an anxious member of the public whenever crocodile sightings occur in water bodies or outside the perimeters of public spaces under the purview of the National Parks Board. The Animal Concerns Research and Education Society (ACRES) too receives its share of calls to assist in the rescue and relocation of wildlife that have strayed into public spaces.

Reptilian Encounters
Not surprisingly, sightings of crocodiles in urban Singapore are treated as freak occurrences.

Mistaken identity aside,⁶ media reports of crocodile sightings raise alarm and strike fear in people’s hearts about the invasion of such large reptiles into public recreational spaces.

Such sensational media reporting is based on the premise that people are more comfortable appreciating crocodiles from a safe distance – confined in public spaces such as zoos and farms.⁷ Those who grew up in the 1980s and 90s would remember two such attractions that promised the thrill of being “up close and personal” with crocodiles.

The Singapore Crocodilarium at East Coast Park opened in 1981. The crocodile farm had an
open-air pool and a sand pit for the crocodiles to rest. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 20 January 1980, p. 9.

The Singapore Crocodilarium at East Coast Parkway and Jurong Reptile and Crocodile Paradise, which opened in 1981 and 1988 respectively, bred crocodiles and staged performances that attracted large crowds. Stuntmen would risk life and limb as they wrestled with the reptiles as a form of entertainment.⁸

In 1989, Winoto, the chief trainer at the Jurong Reptile and Crocodile Paradise, had part of his left cheek torn off by a female crocodile named after the American wrestler Hulk Hogan. Winoto survived the attack but ended up with 10 stitches on his face.⁹ The two parks closed in the early 2000s due to dwindling visitor numbers, and as other, more contemporary, attractions in Singapore took their place.¹⁰

A poster from the Crocodile Paradise at Jurong advertising its performances with crocodiles.

Nevertheless, the island continues to host crocodiles in the wild, approximately 20 are known to be residents of the mangrove habitats of Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve. Today, with over 90 percent of Singapore’s mangrove ecosystem destroyed, the reserve encompasses the largest mangrove forest – at 1.17 sq km¹¹ – left on the island.

Although Sungei Buloh’s mangrove forest makes up a mere 1.5 percent of the country’s original mangrove mass, it remains, by default, the preferred habitat of the crocodile. Urban encroachment on mangrove areas has literally squeezed the population of crocodiles into the Johor Straits, and subsequently, into this tiny patch of wetland reserve in the remote northwest of the island.

In 2010, it was reported that “these [mangrove] patches have regenerated well as they are generally isolated from intrusive anthropogenic influences”¹² – in other words, relatively free from human intrusion. Such stable environments provide for a healthy ecosystem where a natural equilibrium is maintained and supports a biodiversity that includes crocodiles in their natural environment. The tussle for space in land-scarce Singapore for urban development and nature represents just the tip of the iceberg in understanding how humans co-exist with crocodiles in Singapore. Sightings of crocodiles may elicit fear, shock, surprise, amusement or even indifference whenever they are reported in the media.

Using specific time periods such as 1960 and 1977 as markers, the empirical collection and study of data for the research project Buaya: The Making of a Non-Myth threw up interesting findings. The project revealed different reactions to the crocodile that are intertwined and layered with the cultures and experiences of different communities throughout time and history in Singapore.

1960: The Year of the Crocodile

In the post-colonial years, with Singapore facing an uncertain future, people living in some parts of the island were faced with the presence of crocodiles. The range of emotions and reactions these crocodile sightings elicited in people is quite fascinating.

In 1960, 31-year-old clerk Chew Kok Lee, along with a group of fishermen from a nearby village, carried out an all-night vigil in Punggol to hunt down a 20- to 25-foot-long crocodile that had been terrorising fishermen in the area for some time.¹³

Fifteen-year-old Goh Koon Seng recounted that he was wading out to sea to help his father haul in the day’s catch when he spotted something sinister in the water:

“A long black thing surfaced. I did not pay much attention at first. I thought it was a log. There are so many floating around here. Then its mouth opened. I screamed and turned back. As I got out of the water I heard a splash, looked back and saw the crocodile’s tail submerging.”¹⁴

Although Chew and his band of hunters managed to fire their shotguns at the reptile, these could have merely “just tickled it” because the same crocodile returned a week later with his mate in tow; the latter “about 25 feet long and weighing about 600 lb” but white in colour, according to one eyewitness.¹⁵

Meanwhile, that same year, in Sungei Kadut in the north of Singapore, a live 20-foot-long crocodile was viewed in a completely different light by residents of the area: here the villagers regarded the crocodile as sacred, revering it as a kramat.¹⁶ This particular reptile was covered in barnacles and regularly basked on a sand bank. Fishermen would say a silent prayer whenever they spotted the creature.

Residents were so protective of the creature that they would not disclose its location to anyone, believing that harm would befall the fishermen if the sacred crocodile moved to another site. Teo Boon Chin, who had lived in the area for over 20 years, indicated the area where the crocodile made its home with “a sweep of his arm” when he was interviewed by a newspaper in March 1960. “We know the home of the kramat, but are not supposed to tell it to anyone,” he cautioned.

Another villager in Sungei Kadut by the name of Ah Lim, who had seen the crocodile “float on the river or laze about in the nearby mangrove swamp”, added, “It is the guardian of our river and the protector of our fishermen.”¹⁷

In the same year, on the southern shore of the island, villagers in Berlayer Creek in Pasir Panjang dealt with the presence of crocodiles “some of which four to five feet long” in the canal in quite the opposite manner: they held a feast in honour of their local kramat and invited a pawang (medicine man) to “scare away” the crocodiles infesting the river.¹⁸ Che Zainai Kubor, one of the villagers said, “It is not possible for human beings to stop crocodile breeding, but probably our kramat can.”

These crocodile encounters evoked reactions in people ranging from bravado to reverence and respect, and fear. But there were also some who regarded the existence of crocodiles with complete indifference.

In August 1960, for instance, a crocodile suspected of escaping from a crocodile farm in Serangoon Garden Estate made itself at home in an unused water hyacinth pond at nearby Vaughan Road. The creature was described as having a tendency to submerge itself whenever people looked at it. When a newspaper headline in The Singapore Free Press pronounced that a “Shy croc in flower pond spreads fear among kampong folk”, a long-time resident in the area, Lim Poon Guan, said, matter-of-factly, that finding “a crocodile in a pond here” came as no surprise to him at all.¹⁹

Early Records of the Crocodile
Crocodile records in Singapore go back to the early days of its colonial history. The earliest documented encounter of a crocodile in Singapore is found in the autobiography of Malacca-born Munshi Abdullah, who was employed by Stamford Raffles as a scribe and interpreter. Hikayat Abdullah, published in 1849, documents an incident about William Farquhar when he was Resident of Singapore between 1819 and 1823.

Farquhar’s dog had playfully waded into the “Rochore River” when it was suddenly seized by a gigantic crocodile measuring at least “3 fathoms” (5.5 metres). In anger, Farquhar ordered for the river to be barricaded and the crocodile speared to death. Its carcass was later hung on a fig tree by the “Beras Basah River” for all to see.²⁰

Although Munshi Abdullah claimed that the attack on Farquhar’s dog was the first time people knew of crocodiles in Singapore, a text predating the Hikayat Abdullah disputes this.

One of the accounts in Hikayat Hang Tuah, a Malay text written between 1641 and 1739, tells the story of the legendary white crocodile and the Raja of Malacca. One day, the raja, or king, was on board his vessel bound for Singapore when his crown fell into the sea. When he asked for the crown to be salvaged from the water, none of his men stepped forward, knowing full well that the Straits of Singapura (the Straits of Johor today) was “infested with man-eating crocodiles”.

A high-ranking Laksamana (or admiral), most likely Hang Tuah himself, courageously stepped forward to carry out the raja’s bidding. Valiantly, he dove into the water to retrieve the crown, but when he resurfaced, a white crocodile appeared and clamped its jaws onto his keris, a traditional bladed weapon that is said to be imbued with spirits and energies.

In the ensuing struggle with the crocodile, the raja’s crown slipped from the Laksamana’s grasp. He managed to grab the tail of the crocodile, but was pulled deeper underwater, forcing him to let go of the reptile. Although the Laksamana’s precious keris was lost, the crown, fortunately, was safely retrieved. Perceiving this entire incident as an ill omen, the raja ordered his fleet of ships to turn back to Malacca at once.²¹

1977: The Year of the White Crocodile
In 1977, a group of plucky Venture Sea Scouts set out to capture a white crocodile²² that was said to inhabit Pulau Sarimbun in the northwest coast of Singapore. Newspaper reports on this expedition were published on 2 May, 30 April, 13 June and 25 June 1977.²³

These scouts were following up on an unrecorded sighting of a white crocodile by another group of Venture Sea Scouts five years earlier.²⁴ Recalling the incident, Cheong Ah Sang said that his group of 12 scouts had “caught a glimpse of the white crocodile in 1972”. Determined to trap it, he decided to lead a team of 32 scouts on a quest to search for the reportedly 13-foot-long reptile.

Venture Sea Scouts getting ready for one of their expeditions in search of the white crocodile at Pulau Sarimbun in April 1977. The expedition was led by Cheong Ah Sang. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 30 April 1977, p. 2.

On 30 April 1977, The New Nation reported that Cheong’s group embarked on a three-day expedition using 11 canoes and were escorted by a nine-metre whaler. He told the reporter:

“We hope to come across the white crocodile hopefully around Sarimbun Island. We may use a net with a stick and a rope to trap it or we may bait it with chicken and fish.”²⁵

In venturing into the waters of the Straits of Johor where Pulau Sarimbun is located, these young adventurers were returning full circle to the historic Hang Tuah’s encounter with the white crocodile. Cheong’s expedition, however, failed in its bid to capture the crocodile.

According to the Hikayat Hang Tuah, “only the pure of heart can see the white crocodile”. Taking this advice to heart, another group of scouts led by Paul Wee prepared for the hunt by vowing to fast and refrain from consuming pork. They had earlier revealed their intention to donate the captured animal to the zoo. However, after two failed attempts, the scouts were ordered to call off the hunt by the Chief Commissioner’s Office.²⁶

Pet Crocs Interestingly, crocodiles were also kept as pets or bred in the backyard of houses in Singapore. In 1948, it was possible to buy a live baby crocodile for as little as 25 to 40 Malayan dollars, and if the customer so desired, have the reptile killed and skinned, and made into a pair of custom-made shoes.27 A baby crocodile was exported from Singapore to the London Zoo in 1936. Here, the crocodile is being fed his first morsel of meat from a pair of forceps at the zoo. Image reproduced from The Malaya Tribune, 29 December 1936, p. 11. Keeping crocodiles as pets could sometimes lead to peculiar and troublesome consequences. In 1899, a 70-yard “menagerie race” took place in which a “young crocodile driven by Captain Lucy” competed against a goose, a goat, a monkey and two donkeys (the crocodile did not win the race). 28 In the late 1800s, the pet crocodile of a Captain Gamble that became too big as an adult was released into the Botanic Gardens Lake only to later bite one of the gardeners. In order to capture the crocodile, the lake had to be drained and poisoned with tuba roots, unfortunately killing every living thing residing in the waters. The crocodile, however, was nowhere to be found, the creature having presumably left the confines of the freshwater lake.29

The Crocodile Lives On
Leaving the sightings of the elusive white crocodile aside, it is worth examining early maps of Singapore and drawing logical connections between the names of the surrounding islands and their geography. ³⁰ Place names can be a useful key in identifying local terrain, and can indicate the presence of certain species of animals.

The names Pulau Buaya (near Jurong Island) and Alligator Island (Pulau Pawai today), which appear off the southwestern coast of Singapore on maps dating back to the early 1800s, suggest the presence of crocodile populations (as well as abundant mangrove habitats) at some point in the islands’ history. These indicators, along with references in the Hikayat Hang Tuah, imply that from north to south, Singapore was once home to a sizeable population of crocodiles.

While the white crocodile remains an elusive mystery, there is a local lore about such a creature appearing in the Kallang River every 20 years. Although no actual encounters of white crocodiles have been recorded at the river, the reptile still looms large in the public imagination.

News reports and public records on crocodile sightings in Singapore over the last 200 years have enabled us to pinpoint the physical locations of these reptiles on the island as well as track encounters that have taken place between crocodiles and humans.

A map showing the historic distribution of the saltwater crocodile population in Singapore between 1819 and 2016. This was specially created for the research project, Buaya: The Making of a Non-Myth, by NUS Museum. Courtesy of NUS Museum.

The idea of “public space” is frequently challenged in the various encounters between humans and crocodiles in this article. The natural human tendency is to react negatively, from shutting down activities in parks and water-based clubs to draining and poisoning lakes. The public spaces developed for encounters with crocodiles question the notion of for whom or for what they were controlled for – zoos and marine parks are regulated spaces that allow encounters (or “non-encounters” in reality) with crocodiles within a safe setting for humans, while reserves are spaces controlled for the mobility of wildlife. Yet, the making of these spaces is constantly reconfigured when crocodile sightings take place. In the myriad encounters with these reptiles, whether from actual documentation or from cultural memory, the crocodile’s existence still escapes being understood in public history.

Notes

This time-honoured festival has left no tangible trace of its observance in Singapore. Tan Chui Hua pieces together oral history interviews to reconstruct its proper place in Chinese culture.

“In those days, what was most distinctive about Chinatown was the seventh day of the seventh month… on the night of the sixth day, they would have started… what was called the seven sisters’ festival, or qi jie jie (七 姐节)… women, single young women, particularly admired the story of the love between the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd. So, on the sixth day of [the] seventh month, it would be a festival for women… they would take the crafts they had made, very exquisite, beautiful handicrafts, and display them… they would put them on very long tables, place all the crafts there, and some offerings for the seven sisters; fruit, rouge, powder, embroidered clothes – very beautiful embroidered clothes for the seven sisters – and hang them up, and the women would come on the sixth to worship the seven sisters.”¹ – Lee Oi Wah

The poignant tale of The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl (牛郎织女) is well loved across East Asian cultures. Its themes of separation, reunion and unwavering devotion in the face of divine wrath inspire memorialisation in the form of religious festivals and rituals, observed on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month.²

A stage performance of the Seven Fairy Sisters (七仙女) by the Sing Yong Wah Heng Teochew Opera Troupe, 1978. Ronni Pinsler Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The festivals go by various names and forms: the Chinese know it as the Seven Sisters Festival (七姐节/七姐诞), Qixi (七夕节) or Qiqiao (乞巧节), while the Japanese and Koreans call it Tanabata and Chilseok respectively.

In Singapore, the annual celebration to commemorate the legend of the Weaver Girl and Cowherd was brought here by immigrant Chinese communities, notably Cantonese female servants sworn to celibacy. Known as zishunu (自梳女) or women who “combed their hair up by themselves”, they are more commonly called amah or majie in Cantonese) (妈姐) here, as many of them took up work as domestic help in Singapore.³

For a period in Singapore history, the observance of the Seven Sisters Festival was a much anticipated annual highlight in Chinatown, where the Cantonese community used to be concentrated.⁴ All across Chinatown, worship altars and displays of crafts and artworks would be set up on the eve of the festival by clan associations and sisterhoods, attracting throngs of visitors late into the night.

By the late 1970s, however, the scale of this observance had greatly diminished. Today, the Seven Sisters Festival exists only in the fading memories of former Chinatown residents.

The Seven Sisters Festival is based on the Chinese legend of the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd. When Weaver Girl fell in love with the mortal Cowherd, their union incurred heavenly wrath. As punishment, the two were banished to either side of the Milky Way and could only meet once a year – on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month. This painting 天河配 (“Rendezvous in the Milky Way”, c. late 19th–c. early 20th century) depicts the reunion of the couple at the heavenly river (天河), which symbolises the Milky Way. Image source: Wikimedia Commons (painting from the collections of the State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg, Russia).

The Task of Reconstruction
When it comes to intangible cultural heritage, documentation and preservation remain perennial challenges. In many ways, the Seven Sisters Festival is a classic illustration.

The festival has left virtually no material trace – the temples where the festivities were once held are no longer around; no archival records such as membership records or official reports are known to exist; its associated paraphernalia such as crafts, embroidery and offerings are ephemeral and not known to have been preserved; and its photographic documentation in public archives is scant. With the decline of its main group of observers, the Seven Sisters Festival has faded into memory and become a footnote in history.

To reconstruct the festival, there are two main bodies of resources: articles and columns in archived newspapers that describe the origins of the festival and its associated festivities – some of which capture the personal experiences of the writers – and a small collection of oral history interviews gathered by the National Archives of Singapore’s Oral History Centre.

However, to get a fuller sense of the festival, such as the multiplicity of experiences and actors in the festival, or to understand the significance of the festival to its actors, and to evoke the texture of memories, one needs to rely on oral history interviews.

Conducted from the 1980s onwards with former residents of Chinatown, these interviews document people’s memories of their neighbourhood, several of which include descriptions of the Seven Sisters Festival. Through these recollections, we may begin to reconstruct and re-imagine the festival at its zenith in Singapore.

Who, When and Where
Using the interviews as the basis for exploratory research, it is possible to piece together a fairly detailed profile of the festival. Firstly, it is clear that the festival involved many groups of people – formal organisers, informal organisers and their patrons, lay worshippers as well as casual visitors.

The driving force behind the festival was the amah community of Chinatown, where several such clan organisations and sisterhoods were established. These amahs would have planned for the event months ahead, and their clan premises served as the primary festival sites in Chinatown.

The driving force behind the Seven Sisters Festival in Chinatown was the amah or majie community. These women, who were sworn to celibacy, worshipped the Seven Sisters for their skills in needlework and crafts. The amahs would work on the craftworks to be displayed during the festival in their leisure time and after hours, 1962. Photograph by Wong Ken Foo. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Besides these formal organisers, there were also clusters of informal organisations referred to as Seven Sisters associations (七姐会) or Milky Way associations (银河会). Such organisations were usually transient, and set up by young unmarried girls and women specifically for the purpose of the festival. The members would often comprise relatives, friends and neighbours, and tithes would be collected to cover the costs of the offerings and festivities. As many of such associations were made up of teenage girls, their patrons – usually their parents – were key figures who provided the necessary funds. The lay worshippers were generally women, both married and unmarried.

These women were usually not involved in the planning and preparation for the festival, but would come together to pray and make offerings. Apart from these women, the sites would also see large crowds of visitors, who showed up just to soak in the atmosphere and enjoy the festivities.

From the oral history interviews, we know that the main group of celebrants was Cantonese. While many of the interviewees emphasised that the festival was celebrated only by the Cantonese, two interviewees took pains to mention that the Hokkien and Teochew communities observed the festival too, albeit on a much smaller scale.⁵

Ostensibly, the festival was held on the 7th day of the 7th month. All the oral history accounts, however, agree that festivities began on the eve. Foong Lai Kam, whose father was a Taoist priest and ran a business at Sago Lane, recalled that he would become exceptionally busy when the clock struck 11pm on the 6th day, as all the festival sites required a priest to conduct the necessary rites and rituals at the same auspicious time.⁶

Chay Sheng Ern Abigail, another interviewee, said that the reason was because according to the Chinese time system, 11pm is the start of the rat hour, the first hour of the day, which marks what is effectively the start of the 7th night proper.⁷

The recollections of the interviewees also give an idea of the scale of the festivities. Lee Oi Wah recalls the many associations organising these festivities:

“In Chinatown, there were numerous such associations. Where I lived [Kreta Ayer Street], there were at least two; one at the entrance of the street above the coffee shop, and another at the other end at another clan association. At the next street, Keong Saik Street, there were a couple. At Bukit Pasoh, there were more, three or four. The whole Chinatown had more than ten, and we would go to one after another… ”⁸

Another interviewee, Chia Yee Kwan describes the membership composition of these associations:

“This was very popular in Chinatown in the past. At Upper Chin Chew Street, and the street next to Upper Chin Chew Street, atUpper Hokkien Street, there were many stalls that could be organised by 10 or 20 over people. Those larger-scale ones like the Saa Kai Clan Association [an association for amahs from Shunde],… larger clan association[s] would have more than a hundred. Tens of people or perhaps more than a hundred people. Those that were of a smaller scale would have 30 or more people…”⁹

Unravelling Beliefs and Practices
Unlike codified religions with bodies of canonical scriptures and defined tenets, Chinese folk religion rarely displays unified beliefs. Rather, rituals and practices serve as unifying activities for believers.¹⁰ This poses another challenge to the documentation of Chinese religious festivals; without canonical texts, religious beliefs and practices reported by informants often concur only to a certain degree, and occasionally contradict one another.

This diversity in interpreting folk beliefs can be seen in the oral history interviews. To a large extent, lay worshippers and visitors to the festival sites, usually Chinatown residents, concur that unmarried female worshippers of the Seven Sisters were women who sought divine blessings in their search for a spouse as devoted as the mortal Cowherd, and – at the same time – expressed a desire to be as beautiful as the seven fairy sisters.

Some interviewees reported that unmarried women would visit the festival sites and doll themselves up in the hope of meeting their future husbands, while other interviewees disagreed – likely because they thought such behaviour was unbecoming of decent women and inappropriate for the festival.

However, granted that the main organisers were amahs who were sworn to a life of celibacy, these worshippers were clearly not in search of suitable spouses at the festival. To this end, oral history accounts with the amahs focused on descriptions of traditional practices relating to the festival rather than their personal beliefs and motivations.

Judging from the actual practices – amahs and other young unmarried women members of Seven Sisters associations would spend a good part of the year creating beautiful handicrafts – it appears that the Seven Sisters were worshipped for their artistry and mastery of needle crafts. This certainly is corroborated by research on the Seven Sisters cult in Guangdong, China, where the adherents in Singapore originated from.¹¹

Known as cat cheh poon in Cantonese (Seven Sisters Basin), this big paper basin is one of the key offerings burnt during the Seven Sisters Festival, 1954. Image source: The Straits Times © Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted with permission.

When it comes to rituals and practices relating to the Seven Sisters Festival, there is a higher degree of concurrence among those interviewed. For example, all the women mentioned that offerings would typically include a giant paper basin, cosmetics, clothing made of paper for the Seven Sisters and the Cowherd, combs, mirrors, handkerchiefs, and fruit and flowers. The priest would turn up at exactly 11pm to conduct the elaborate rituals, and the offerings would be burnt as supplication. Cantonese tongshui (糖水), or desserts, and longan tea would also be served to worshippers and visitors.

The level of descriptive detail in the interviews on ritual offerings and practices allow us to better reconstruct the festival. The following excerpt from an interview given by Abigail Chay illustrates this:

“So during this chaat cheh [Cantonese for Seven Sisters]… night, they actually would make flowers into lanterns… like a conical shape… and then they hang it in the air, and then they would make… a paper thing like a basin, and they would just burn it. And mainly they burn beautiful clothes… made of paper… and they actually put on powder, those white powder with like ‘Twin Girls’, ‘Twin Ladies’ [actually Two Girls brand], that kind of thing, and then the cologne shui [Cantonese for water], their so-called perfume at that time, at the altar… then they would just offer it for blessing… The chaat cheh day is on the seventh day of the seventh month of the Chinese calendar.”

She also recalls an interesting practice of placing items such as a bowl of water outside the window and applying make-up for blessings:

“On the chor lok, the sixth day of the seventh month, any majie [Cantonese for amah] or any lady who wanted to look very beautiful, they would put their makeup… they would also put water right outside their window where they face the sky… 11 o’clock start the new timing of the… rat timing, 11pm to 1am, they would place there… then they would leave it until the next morning, the bowl of water. If they were kiasu [Hokkien for ‘afraid to lose’], they would put one basin of water outside… they would open the cologne, the old-fashioned cologne, then the white powder for their face and whatever during that time they used for makeup… so they would put all these things overnight and hopefully it doesn’t rain. If it doesn’t rain, good weather… it seems that whatever powder you put overnight, the cologne will attract men, you will look more charming, more beautiful, and that basin of water or the bowl of water you put there, even the whole year round, will not have larva… drink already it seems… can be beautiful and can cure sicknesses.”¹²

A Celebration of Artistry
One of the main attractions for the throngs of visitors, sometimes as many as two or three hundred in a single venue, were the exhibits of exquisite craftworks and needlework held in conjunction with Seven Sisters festivities.

Joss paper shops such as these in Chinatown would be the source of many of the paper offerings to the Seven Sisters and Cowherd, 1962. Photograph by Wong Ken Foo. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The displays were usually held on the premises of organising clan associations and Seven Sisters associations. Long tables would be set up to showcase the wide variety of arts and crafts; bigger-scale displays would occupy both levels of a clan’s shophouse building, while smaller ones would just take up a corridor’s space. Visitors would typically go from one venue to another to admire and compare the crafts and skills of the makers. These displays would stay open, free-of-charge, until the next morning, and it was not unusual to see visitors streaming in as late as 3am.¹³

Here, the oral history interviews abound in descriptions of visits to these exhibitions, which in themselves are testament to the significance of the experiences to these women. One interviewee, Cheong Swee Kee, said she found the festival exceptionally exciting as such night events rarely took place in Chinatown at the time.¹⁴

Given the disappearance of the festival today and the absence of photographic documentation and preserved artefacts, the type of crafts and needlework presented at the Seven Sisters Festival can only be imagined via the detailed descriptions recounted by former Chinatown residents. Chia Yee Kwan describes how “… cuttlefish bones [were used] to make figurines, that were very life-like. Those figurines were based on people from the ancient times, such as The Story of the Western Wing [The Romance of the Western Chambers] and the Three Kingdoms characters…”¹⁵

A wide variety of materials were used, as former resident Lee Oi Wah explains: “Some were figurines, or miniature tables and chairs, sewn by hand; some were made with beads, tiny beads; some were made with sequins; some were made of dough… some used matchboxes to create a beautiful display.”¹⁶

Foong Lai Kam remembers:

“Most of the exhibits were made of fruit. They would stack fruit to create sculptures, such as using watermelon skin to carve out diamond or heart shapes, and stick them to create sculptures. They would display these for three days…”¹⁷

For former resident Fong Chiok Kai, what was memorable were works that used sesame and rice grains to depict mountains and rivers.¹⁸

Most of these crafts were made by amahs and served as a showcase for them to show off their skills. According to oral history interviews, the amahs would work on the crafts throughout the year during their leisure time and after hours. Lee Oi Wah recalls:

“In their leisure time, they would think about the crafts they could make, and these were their own creations, which is why the crafts had their creators’ distinctive style. So when we talk about the clothing for the seven sisters and the cowherd, we would know, ‘Oh, only this person is able to create such a beautiful set of clothing.’”

She further elaborates:

“On that night, there would be so many majie… they would take leave from their employers. They must attend this festival. To them, this festival was more important than the Chinese New Year, and they would be delighted when visitors praised the crafts, ‘Oh this is so beautiful’, or ‘Who had embroidered this piece of clothing? It is so well-done.’ They would feel that their hard work had been worthwhile, and delighted that there were so many visitors appreciating their craft.”¹⁹

The Eclipse of a Tradition
For a festival that used to be one of Chinatown’s most colourful and significant events, its eclipse was surprisingly rapid. By the 1970s, the festivities had been scaled down considerably. The few women who were asked about the festival’s decline proffered reasons such as education and changing attitudes in society, resulting in fewer believers in the community.

Other reasons cited included lack of time to commit to the organising associations and the fact that the main organisers, the amahs, were advancing in age and fewer women were moving from China to Singapore to take their place.

A stage performance of the Seven Fairy Sisters (七仙女) by the Sing Yong Wah Heng Teochew Opera Troupe, 1978. Ronni Pinsler Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The oral history interviews in the collections of the National Archives are a critical resource in reconstructing this ephemeral phenomenon. In the case of the Seven Sisters Festival, the existence of a critical mass of interviews allows us to piece together detailed descriptions of the festival from the women who played different roles – as organiser, lay worshipper or visitor – and paint a textured, colourful account of times past.

More critically, it enables the comparison of multiple accounts to arrive at a more accurate, corroborated reconstruction of an intangible, cultural episode that is now relegated to the annals of history.

Notes

Tim Bunnell speaks to former Malay sailors who reside in the English city and learns how they manage to sustain their identity in a city so removed from home.

Liverpool saw extremes of both prosperity and decline in a span of just two centuries.¹ Between the 18th and early 20th centuries, the British city on the northwestern coast of England, where the River Mersey meets the Irish Sea, was a major global trade and migration port. During the Industrial Revolution that took place from around 1760 to 1840, Liverpool’s role as the main gateway in the West for raw materials and finished goods, along with the ships that called there, were instrumental in developing Britain’s trading links with North and South America, West Africa, the Middle and Far East, and Australia.

At the end of the 19th century, Liverpool’s four major import trades – cotton, sugar, timber and grain – flourished and its dock force alone numbered 30,000.² But in the last three decades of the 20th century, the one-time “world city” fell into economic decline, and by the early 1980s, unemployment rates in Liverpool were among the highest in the United Kingdom.³

(Left) An illustration depicting the port of Liverpool during its heyday in the 1950s. Image reproduced from flickr. (Right) An advertisement by the Blue Funnel Line promoting its sailings to Port Said, China, the Straits, South Africa and Australia. Between the 1940s and 60s, many Malay men from Southeast Asia worked as seafarers on board vessels owned by the line. Image reproduced from back cover of The Annual of the East. (1930). London: Alabaster, Passmore & Sons. (Accession no.: B02921323K; Microfilm no.: NL257391).

It is against this historical maritime backdrop that my research on Malay seamen in Liverpool takes place. In the mid-20th century, after World War II, men from the dispersed and ethnically diverse Malay world (or alam Melayu) of Southeast Asia worked as seafarers on British-owned and other merchant ships. At the time, Singapore was the hub for shipping networks in the Malay world and a key node in the global oceanic routes. Singapore was also home to the regional headquarters of the Ocean Steamship Company of Liverpool.

Between the 1940s and 60s, some of these Malay sailors settled in port cities in England and America, including London, Cardiff and New York. In Liverpool, most of the newly arrived seamen lived in the south docks area of the city, some eventually marrying British women and forming families. Several also opened their homes as lodging for visiting Malay seamen.

The Golden Age of Malay Liverpool
Hailing from Tanjung Keling on the outskirts of Malacca, Mohamed Nor Hamid (Mat Nor) first arrived in Liverpool in 1952 as a crew member on the Cingalese Prince. Soon after arrival, he was able to locate his uncle, Youp bin Baba (Ben Youp), and his family with the help of other Malay seamen residing in Liverpool.

Youp had married a local English woman and settled down at 144 Upper Huskisson Street.⁴ As it turned out, Youp was away at sea and the guest rooms in his house were occupied by other visiting Malay seamen. Fortunately, Mat Nor was able to find accommodation just next door at No. 142, in the home of fellow Malaccan, Nemit Bin Ayem from Purukalam Tigi, and his English wife Bridgit.

It is not difficult to understand why Malay seamen decided to use Liverpool as their home port in the two decades after World War II. Malays already working on the docks generally looked out for new arrivals from their homeland. Even those who slipped through this net and ended up at the Seamen’s Mission in Canning Place were often directed to 144 Upper Huskisson Street and other houses like it.

There was also no shortage of seafaring work during this time. Historian Jon Murden describes the period as a postwar economic “golden age” during which worldwide demand for Britain’s manufactured goods soared and Liverpool’s port and merchant marine served the rapidly expanding trade.⁵ This meant that there was a regular in-flow and through-flow of seafarers from British Malaya.

(Left) Mohamed Nor Hamid (Mat Nor), who was born in Tanjung Keling, Malacca, arrived in Liverpool on the Cingalese Prince in 1952. He married an Englishwoman in 1959 and later took on a shore job as a crane driver on the docks. Mat Nor became the president of Liverpool’s Malay Club in the early 1990s, and oversaw its registration as the Merseyside Malaysian and Singapore Community Association. Courtesy of Mohamed Nor Hamid.
(Right) Mohamed Nor Hamid (Mat Nor) on the far left, on board the Cingalese Prince in 1952 with some of his shipmates. Courtesy of Mohamed Nor Hamid.

Mat Nor reminisces of his life in Liverpool:
“We forget about all the life in Singapore, you know. That’s why most of the Malays stay here because it’s a happy life in Liverpool, very happy, very easy to get a job. Any time you want a ship you can get. They send the telegram to the house you see… sometimes three or four telegram come in a day.”⁶

The telegrams invited men to the “pool” where they were able to apply for jobs on board ships, subject to passing a medical examination. Given the high demand for seafaring labour, even Malay men who were not British subjects experienced little difficulty in securing work.⁷

A Malay Club on St James Road
Mat Nor recounted his arrival in Liverpool in 1952: “[F]irst time when I came here, we got no place; Malay people got no place.”⁸ What he meant was that there was no specifically “Malay place” at which he and his friends could comfortably socialise.

All this changed when the former seafarer Johan Awang, who had moved to Liverpool from New York City after World War II, opened a club for Malay seamen on St James Road in the mid-1950s.⁹  The Malay Club, as it came to be known, occupied the first floor of a house facing Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral. By that time, Johan Awang’s own home on 37 Greenland Street – a short walk from St James Road – was already well known to visiting as well as Liverpool-based Malay seamen.

The Malay Club had bunk beds for visiting seamen, a big backyard and a games room with a dartboard. There was also a prayer room on the second floor. Food was central to memories of the club and, more broadly, of Malay Liverpool during that period – the very mention of spicy Malay fare cooked for special occasions and gatherings would transport people whom I interviewed back to St James Road club of the 1950s..

At weekends, seamen took their children and wives to visit what was otherwise largely an adult male space. But the club became more than just a place for the Malay diaspora to meet: it was a place where seafarers, ex-seafarers and, to a lesser extent, their family members could be comfortable within their own skins.

Map showing the location of the two sites – St James Road and Jermyn Street – of the Malay Club, c.1960. Produced by Lee Li Kheng. Courtesy of Tim Bunnell.

Relocation to No. 7 Jermyn Street
In the 1960s, with the streets southwest of the Anglican Cathedral marked out for post-war redevelopment, a group of Liverpool-based Malay seamen pooled their resources to buy a house at No. 7 Jermyn Street, just off bustling Granby Street, in what is today known as the Liverpool 8 area of the city.

Surviving records reveal that an agreement was signed on 4 June 1963 to purchase the building from a Marjorie Josephine Steele for £1,500. A supplementary trust deed signed in 1974 names Abdul Salem and Bahazin Bin-Kassim¹⁰ as the trustees of the property.

Bahazin Bin-Kassim was born in Kuala Kangsar, Perak, in 1924. He became the first president of the Malay Club at its No. 7 Jermyn Street location and also assumed the role of cook. He lived next door at No. 5 with his English wife. Bahazin died in the 1980s but his family home continued to provide lodging for Liverpool-based and visiting Malay men. Photo was taken in the early 1970s. Courtesy of Abdul Rahim Daud.

Bahazin, who was born in Perak, Malaya, in 1924, became the first president of the club at its new location, and also assumed the all-important role of cook. As had been the case at St James Road, the clubhouse on Jermyn Street included a prayer room. However, Bahazin is remembered as having been less strict than Johan Awang with regard to the activities that could take place in the club.

Food was available during the fasting month of Ramadan, for example, and Bahazin would say that it was “between you and God” whether it was eaten or not. Bahazin bought the house next to the club – No. 5 – and lived there with his English wife. With Malay lodgers staying at both numbers 5 and 7, Jermyn Street became a place in Liverpool where it was always possible to find Malay banter and spicy food.

Overall, this was a happy and optimistic time for the Malay community in Liverpool. The city had become the “capital of the Malay Atlantic”¹¹ and, in some ways, for many Liverpudilians, it felt like the centre of the world. In addition to ambitious municipal plans announced in the 1960s for a hypermodern Liverpool of the 21st century, exciting things were happening in its music scene – this was the birthplace of the wildly popular Beatles – and in the city’s football stadiums.¹² The mid-1960s also saw an all-time record tonnage of cargo passing through the port. Jobs were still relatively easy to come by, at sea and onshore, including on the docks where Mat Nor worked.

A Place for Malays
The Malay Club – first at St James Road and then at Jermyn Street – played a significant part in making Liverpool a home away from home for seamen from the alam Melayu who had made the city their seafaring base. Through the Malay Club, visiting seamen were able to plug into the social networks of Liverpool’s small Malay community, which likely never exceeded more than a hundred. The club became the focal point for Malay seafaring visitors, seamen who based themselves in Liverpool, and men who had taken local “shore jobs”.

By the time the club moved to Jermyn Street in 1963, the ex-seamen who met and socialised there also included retired “elder statesmen” such as Ben Youp. Youp later moved into Bahazin’s house next door at 5 Jermyn Street and was a regular at the club in the early 1970s.

The children of Malay ex-seamen – who were born in England and never set foot in Southeast Asia – heard stories about what life was like on the other side of the world from interacting with their fathers’ friends at the club. With these social connections came gifts, gossip and news from home. Interestingly, one of the seamen kept a pet parrot at the club that had been taught to say Malay words such as makan (“eat”) as well as several rude words in English and Malay.

The End of an Era
By the 1960s, the Malay community had established its footing in Liverpool. However, the city’s commercial place in the world economy was undergoing profound change. Although few people realised it then, the Malay Club’s move from St James Road to Jermyn Street in 1963 was made during a time when the postwar golden age of British shipping had already passed.

It is unlikely that the club run by Bahazin on Jermyn Street received as many visiting seamen compared with the earlier location on St James Road – the 1950s, after all, had been a decade of shipping prosperity. Fewer ships arrived in Liverpool in the subsequent decades, bringing fewer new Malay seafarers to sustain the community that had come to call the city home.

Malay seafarers in Liverpool sent postcards “home” to villages, towns and cities in Southeast Asia. This is one such postcard sent by Carrim Haji Quigus Rahim on 28 January 1989. Carrim was the man from whom Abdul Rahim Daud had rented a room in the early 1970s. The latter began his studies at Liverpool University in 1970 and was a frequent visitor to the Malay Club at 7 Jermyn Street as a student. Courtesy of Noegroho Andy Handojo.

In contrast, the number of Malaysian students arriving in Liverpool began to increase. In the 1970s, as part of the aggressive economic development plans pushed by the Malaysian government, hundreds of young Malays were sent to Britain to study. Liverpool was one of the cities that received undergraduate scholarship students, although it never saw the same numbers of Malay (and other Malaysian) students as it had visiting Malay seamen in the previous decades. Even so, the arrival of these students gave the Malay Club a new lease of life.

Abdul Rahim Daud was one of only two Malay students from Malaysia who began studies at Liverpool University in 1970. He recalls that by his final year, the numbers were much greater, but also that he enjoyed visiting ex-seafarers at No. 7 Jermyn Street:

“Last time there’s no internet, phone also, no mobile so say like as if total bye-bye to your parents, to your kampong [home village]. So you feel like homesick so that’s why I used to go very often to the Malay Club so at least see them, meet them, at least I feel a reduced homesick a little bit.”¹³

By this time, Liverpool was no longer the thriving city and maritime port it once had been. Granby Street, near the Malay Club’s second home in the Liverpool 8 district, had been a busy commercial thoroughfare in the 1960s. In the following decade, however, the area became synonymous with “inner-city” social and economic problems arising in part from Liverpool’s diminished position in the national and international arena. Media coverage of the infamous street disturbances in Liverpool in the 1980s marked the city on national mental maps as the “new Harlem of Liverpool”, and it came to be seen as the epitome of British post-imperial and post-industrial urban decline.

The section of Jermyn Street that includes the Malay Club at No. 7. Photo taken in December 2003. Courtesy of Tim Bunnell.

Opportunities for dock work, particularly, were badly affected, with total employment in 1979 being less than half of what it was in 1967. In 1979, it was reported that five or six out of every 10 Malay men in the city were unemployed and receiving social security payments.¹⁴ Retrenched from Gladstone Dock in 1978, Mat Nor used some of the redundancy money to pay for a return trip to Malaysia with his Liverpool-born family.

By the late 1980s, the Malay Club had become known as the Malaysia-Singapore Association. In the early 1990s, the club – with Mat Nor as its president – was officially registered as the Merseyside Malaysian and Singapore Community Association (MSA).

When I first visited in December 2003, the Malay Club was one of only two buildings in the section of Jermyn Street, between Princes Road and Granby Street, that had not been abandoned. By 2008, No. 7 Jermyn Street had ceased to function as a club, and was boarded up following a series of break-ins. The building had deteriorated to a state that fitted in with the more general dereliction affecting Jermyn and its surrounding streets. On the last occasion I visited, in August 2016, even the MSA signboard had been removed. The last piece of visible evidence of the one-time place of Malay Liverpool was erased forever.

Notes

What was the act of shopping like for a generation that was more concerned about putting food on the table? Yu-Mei Balasingamchow ponders over our penchant for shopping.

Ask anyone who lived in 1960s Singapore where they used to shop in town, and they will invariably give one of two answers: Raffles Place, or High Street and North Bridge Road.

The shoppers from this generation, however, were vastly different from the throngs who congregate at Orchard Road or hang out in shopping malls today, many without the slightest intention of buying anything. Until 40 or 50 years ago, most Singaporeans did not have the disposable incomes nor the leisure time to “go shopping” whenever they liked. The oral history collections at the National Archives of Singapore contain numerous accounts of people mentioning Raffles Place or High Street as a shopper’s paradise, only to declare in the same breath that they did not have the money to patronise any of these “high-class” shops.

Shopping in the 1960s Singapore was an entirely different experience. Most of the shops then were standalone outlets compared with the glitzy air-conditioned malls found all over the islands today, 1969. George W. Porter Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Why, then, did people identify these places so readily? One reason was the yearning for a better life at a time when many were struggling to make ends meet, and the political and economic situation was uncertain. Eventually, by and large, the majority of the population did fare better in the subsequent decades as the economy prospered; people found that after paying for necessities, they had money left over to treat themselves to some of the finer things in life. Now they could afford to shop at places they had previously only dreamt about, thus fulfilling their long-cherished desires and aspirations, and advancing a step higher on the social ladder.¹

Over the years, Singapore has become more and more of a consumerist society: the act of consumption – browsing, comparing and buying – as well as the goods and services that one buys, don’t just satisfy basic needs, but also convey style, prestige and social power.² Today, going shopping for “fun”– getting a kick out of buying things, or enjoying the act of “going shopping” without the slightest urge to purchase anything – has become an acceptable pastime.

Looking back at the 1950s and 60s, it is not surprising that people think of Singapore’s shopping areas as culturally important, even though they did not “hang out” there as people do these days in Orchard Road, or they might acknowledge how small and unsophisticated these shops were compared with today’s swanky air-conditioned malls.³

This cultural shift is something to bear in mind as we take a closer look at these old shopping hubs. As focal points of cultural importance, what were they like, how are they remembered and what did they represent to people in the past (and perhaps, in the present as well)?

Raffles Place: For Western-Style Glamour
No one thinks of Raffles Place as a shopping destination these days, but it was once home to the grand dames of Singapore’s department stores: John Little & Co., established in 1845 (originally Little, Cursetjee & Co.) and Robinson & Co., established in 1858.⁴ Both originated as general stores that imported goods catering to European tastes, and chose Raffles Place for good reason – to be close to the prosperous European and Asian businesses and people with purchasing power.

Robinson’s touting itself as the place “for all your shopping needs” and “just what the tourist requires” with its 38 departments, a restaurant, and hairdressing salons for men and women. Image reproduced from Miller, H. (1956). The Traveller’s Guide to Singapore (p. 10). Singapore: D. Moore. (Call no.: RCLOS 915.951 MIL).

By the 1950s, both department stores had become landmark shopping icons facing each other across Raffles Place, while a third establishment, Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co., was just up the road beside Fullerton Square.⁵ Whiteaway’s – as it was commonly referred to – was the branch of a department store chain founded by two Scotsmen in Calcutta in 1882 and had been operating in Singapore since 1900.⁶

These three incumbents were, as Joseph Chopard recalls:

“… the only three European companies selling all the English goods, like everything under the sun: shoes, hats, all imported from England. John Little’s, Robinson’s and Whiteaway’s – all three within that area. There were [sic] no other place selling anything of that sort in Singapore.”⁷

It is worth remembering that department stores were a relatively new genre of merchandising then, not just in Singapore, but around the world. Following the advent of industrialised mass production in the West, department stores appeared in the 19th century in cities such as London, Paris, New York and Chicago, targeting middle- and upper-class female shoppers with a cornucopia of clothing and consumer goods, all attractively displayed in a comfortable and appealing setting to entice shoppers.⁸

In Singapore, these stores were “where all the rich and famous flocked” for the latest imported fashions, furniture, household items, groceries and tailoring services.⁹ The department store model was subsequently adopted by Asian entrepreneurs. Around 1935, Gian Singh & Co. was set up at Battery Road by five immigrant brothers from Punjab, India.¹⁰ The store later moved to a prominent location in Raffles Place opposite Robinson’s, next to which two of the brothers opened Bajaj Textiles.¹¹

Both stores are often mentioned by name by oral history interviewees who used to work or live in the area. Victor Chew, whose office was near Raffles Place in the late 1950s and 60s, remembers that Gian Singh started out with sports goods before including textiles, leather goods and carpets too.¹²

To Richard Tan, who grew up in the 1960s: “Robinson’s has always been the store of all stores. … I still remember my first Monopoly set… it was like gold to get it, to buy it from Robinson’s.”¹³ On the other hand, Hugh Jamieson, who worked near Raffles Place in the late 1940s and 50s, recalls: “Robinson’s was regarded as the most reasonable, the cheapest of the lot. And of course they always had their annual sale.”¹⁴

Indeed, the annual Robinson’s sale is mentioned regularly by oral history interviewees because those were the only times they could afford to shop there. Kathleen Wang and her husband, for example, remember that the Robinson’s sale “is really a sale, cut the price more or less to about fifty percent.”¹⁵

On the morning of the sale, long queues of people would snake outside the store, eagerly waiting for it to open. The Singapore Standard and other newspapers would publish photographs of huge crowds at the annual sales events of Robinson’s, John Little and Gian Singh.

John Little department store at Raffles Place, 1930. Its facade inspired the design of Raffles Place MRT station’s entrances. Lim Kheng Chye Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Ultimately, Robinson’s outlived its competitors at Raffles Place, even acquiring John Little in 1955. In 1960, the latter vacated its premises in the business district to open branches in other parts of Singapore (although the building remained until 1973 and its striking architectural façade inspired the design of the Raffles Place MRT station entrances).¹⁶

Whiteaway’s closed in 1962 due to “the approaching termination of lease and unsatisfactory trading results.” Similarly, Gian Singh folded the following year, not because of competition, but due to a protracted workers’ strike. Robinson’s alone thrived as a bastion of shopping at Raffles Place until 1972, when a massive fire – one of the worst in Singapore’s history – gutted the store.¹⁷ Robinson’s subsequently relocated to Orchard Road, and Raffles Place has been bereft of big-name department stores ever since.

Perhaps one reason why these department stores loom large in memory is that, over many decades, they became a recognisable presence at Raffles Place in terms of their architecture and cultural impact and, eventually, as a symbol of achievement and success – if one acquired the means to purchase the goods and services offered by these stores.

As Singapore’s commercial and financial sectors developed after World War II, more and more Asians worked in Raffles Place, and the area gradually lost some of its European patina. During lunch breaks, office workers would pass their time window shopping in the department stores, which although still expensive, were less forbidding than they had been to ordinary Singaporeans of an earlier generation.¹⁸

Tan Pin Ho recalls that even though the majority of Robinson’s customers in the 1960s were Europeans, its staff did not openly discriminate against Asian customers. Victor Chew, however, felt that the stores were “for the European crowd only” and did not make Asian or local customers feel welcome.¹⁹

Change Alley: An Extraordinary Place
The only shopping icon in Raffles Place that rivals its department stores in terms of cultural memory was Change Alley. It was probably the most affordable (and popular) shopping destination of its time, yet it is remembered by many in less than glowing terms.

Change Alley was a narrow lane then, about 100 metres long and connecting Raffles Place with Collyer Quay, on more or less the same site that the Change Alley shopping arcade occupies today (though the latter is now a covered air-conditioned bridge raised above street level).

The old Change Alley was an important conduit for pedestrian traffic, and hosted a community with its own identity and life. In that respect, it is more vividly remembered than the Arcade (or Alkaff Arcade, as it was also referred to), a few buildings down the road. The latter, an impressive Moorish-style landmark that similarly linked Raffles Place with Collyer Quay, seems to have made less of an impression as a shopping location.

Change Alley was flanked by shophouses where people lived and worked, with “tiny one-room shops” on the ground level that sold all manner of goods, as well as makeshift stalls set up under tarpaulin. All were run by Chinese or South Asian shopkeepers.²⁰ A tourist guidebook described the alley in colourful terms in 1962:

“In these narrow passageways you are increasingly hemmed in by merchandise of all sorts; you duck to avoid handbags swinging over your head, you swerve to avoid the salesman who is about to grasp your arm, you nearly trip over the small boy who is selling handkerchiefs at fantastically low prices or umbrellas[,] the price of which fluctuates with the state of the weather!”²¹

Unlike department stores, at Change Alley there were no fixed prices, inventories or currency exchange rates. Everything was up for bargaining. As Victor Chew puts it: “In Change Alley, if you don’t bargain you’re a fool.” Some remember that prices were typically half or less than half the price of similar items being sold at Robinson’s. According to Chew, depending on one’s bargaining skills, “you could either get a very good bargain or you could be cheated”.²²

Price was not the only differential. As Change Alley stalwart, Albert Lelah of Albert Store, points out candidly:

“You go to departmental stores, what do you get?… The price is marked down there and you pay him and you walk. But here [at Change Alley] we can talk, we can laugh, we joke. They call us by names, we call them by names and they’re happy.”²³

In the 1950s and 60s, Change Alley was a shopping haven for locals and tourists. The narrow street flanked by shops and makeshift kiosks connected Raffles Place with Collyer Quay. Photographed in 1970. Source: The Straits Times © Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted with permission.

Besides office workers looking for watches, fountain pens, handbags or cheap textiles to make into office wear, there were also people who dropped by “practically every Saturday, just to walk up and down, and maybe pick up something”, as Hugh Jamieson remembers. Jon Metes went to the same shop in Change Alley so often to buy shoes for his wife that he “knew exactly the little cubbyhole in the wall ”²⁴ where the shop was located and soon became a familiar face to the proprietor.

Depending on who you ask, Change Alley got its name either from the barter traders who gathered there in the late 19th century, or from the itinerant South Asian moneychangers who did business in the alley from at least the 1920s onwards. According to one source, its name was derived from a trading hub in London known as Exchange Alley (also sometimes referred to as Change Alley).²⁵

Andrew Yuen, who grew up in the area in the 1950s and 60s, remembers moneychangers “wearing the sarong, or each one of them seemed to be wearing a coat with multiple pockets where they keep all the money. And usually they will flash around some foreign notes just to attract likely customers”.²⁶

Change Alley was a prime location for the lively money exchange trade because most travellers then arrived by ship and disembarked at Clifford Pier – just a short hop across Collyer Quay. Whenever a ship was in port, tourists, sailors and military personnel would throng the place to exchange currency or buy souvenirs, knick-knacks and exotic “Oriental” products.

Between these visitors and local customers, the little lane would often be packed to the rafters, and filled with hustle and bustle. James Koh, who used to help out at his father’s shop at Change Alley, recalls: “It’s always congested, it’s always hot. But that added to the fun, I think, the atmosphere that tourists like.”²⁷

It may have been the bargain-friendly tourist trade that made Change Alley less glamorous in the eyes of Singaporeans. Certainly, it was a different world from the air-conditioned, “spick and span and orderly” comfort of Robinson’s.²⁸ As Tan Pin Ho describes it: “When you’re in Robinson’s you’re at home, but when you’re at Change Alley, you’re attending a party. Life is faster, faster, business is more brisk.”²⁹

It was not a place for the faint-hearted. Victor Chew remembers that pickpockets were a perennial problem, while James Koh said that “when you walk along, of course there were all the sellers trying to get your attention, and in some cases they pulled the tourists into the shops”. Andrew Yuen was sympathetic to the tourists: “Usually these shopkeepers are sharks. They will fleece them [the buyers] … unless they also know the art of bargaining, then they get their money’s worth.”³⁰

The sheer diversity of customers at Change Alley and its reputation as a slightly seedy sort of place may have discomfited some locals. Although Singapore was home to a multiracial and multicultural population, it was by no means as broadly cosmopolitan as it is today. Boey Kim Cheng mulls over in his poem “Change Alley”:

“… the stalls

spilling over with imitation wares

for the unwary, watches, bags

gadgets and tapes;

in each recess he heard the

conspiracies

of currencies, the marriage of

foreign tongues

holding a key to worlds opening on

worlds …”³¹

Those “foreign tongues” would have included French and Russian, among others. Mohamed Faruk, the owner of the Dinky-Di shop, recalls: “We deal with Australians, British, Italians and also Russians. All sorts, and we speak a little bit of every language, just to convince them to buy.” To offer a larger diversity of goods in his shop, Faruk would buy items from sailors who passed through Singapore regularly, such as watches, cameras and collectible items, and in turn sell them to his customers. He soon became known as a purveyor of Russian goods.³²

The rough-and-tumble flavour that Change Alley acquired was far removed from the modern and sophisticated air of the department stores at Raffles Place. The alley could be drab and utilitarian at best on a good day, or noisy, stuffy, hot and sodden with rain on a bad one. In an essay on Change Alley, Boey offers readers a specific “scent-memory” of the place: “A musty, fusty, slightly urinous odour, a shade of age and decay fused with a sense of light, sunlight and the salt sea air that permeated the Alley.”³³

After Change Alley was razed for urban renewal in 1989, some lamented that there was no place like it in Singapore any more.³⁴ Yet despite its colour and what urban planners would now call a certain “vibrancy” – or rather, precisely because of it – Change Alley was not the sort of place that an upwardly mobile population would aspire to shop at. Instead, their hopeful gaze would turn to Robinson’s, dreaming of the day they could afford to shop there even if there wasn’t a sale.

Jalan-jalan at High Street and North Bridge Road
Across the Singapore River, a stone’s throw from the stately Supreme Court and the grimy wharves of Boat Quay, was the shopping district of High Street and North Bridge Road. Together with Hill Street, these were the first roads to be built after the British arrived, hosting an array of shops for Singapore’s European and Asian elites during the colonial period.³⁵

Bajaj Textiles – which relocated from Raffles Place to High Street – advertising its latest textiles. Image reproduced from The Singapore Free Press, 28 April 1956, p. 2.

By the 1950s and 60s, these streets had become well known for shops and businesses owned by the South Asian community. Entrepreneurial Sindhis, Sinhalese, Gujaratis, Tamil Muslims and Sikhs established shops such as Wassiamull Assomull & Co. (established 1873; likely the first Sindhi trader in Singapore), Chotirmall, S.A. Majeed & Co., Khemchand and Sons, Pamanand Brothers, Modern Silk Store, Taj Mahal and Bajaj Textiles, which relocated here from Raffles Place.³⁶

Girishchandra Kothari recalls there being “50 to 60 shops all catering to textiles, retail plus wholesale, and about 500 other textile wholesalers at the time in High Street alone, all Indians”.³⁷ While these numbers are likely exaggerated, it nevertheless suggests that the area was already morphing into what we would today call a “shopping destination”.³⁸

This was a time before ready-to-wear, off-the rack fashion became affordable for the masses. Instead, most families bought fabric by the yard to tailor-make their clothes at home, or engage the services of a professional tailor.

Shopfronts of Metro and Wassiamull’s at High Street, another popular shopping hub from yesteryear, 1964. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

This was also the time when Singaporeans were becoming more exposed to Western popular culture, thanks to film and television, rock and roll music on the radio, and local fashion magazines such as Fashion, Fashion Mirror and Her World.³⁹ With the music of Elvis Presley, the Supremes and Cliff Richard and the Shadows came magazines and photographs showcasing their hair and fashion styles.

By the mid-1960s, the world had been introduced to Mary Quant’s miniskirt, among other fashion trends. In Singapore, Chinese-language magazines, Lucky Fashion Magazine and Shee Zee Fashion, carried dress patterns so that budding fashionistas could sew their own miniskirts.⁴⁰

High Street became the first port of call for people looking for all kinds of textiles, from durable cloth for everyday wear to the latest, flashiest fabrics to be sewn into trendy designs. Women were typically saddled with the responsibility of sewing or at least getting clothing tailored for their families. Many Singaporeans who were children in the 1960s – including at least three who became fashion designers – remember accompanying their mothers on these shopping expeditions.⁴¹

Stella Kon describes a typical shopping trip: “If I’m looking to buy some dress material, I start from the lower end of High Street and I walk up High Street and turn along North Bridge Road, shopping all the way.” Even Puan Noor Aishah, wife of Singapore’s first president, Yusof Ishak, frequented shops at High Street for fine silks and satins to make into outfits.⁴²

Aurora department store at the junction of High Street and North Bridge Road, 1965. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

High Street also boasted of department stores to rival those at Raffles Place. Two had been around since the 1930s: Aurora, established by Tan Hoan Kie as the Singapore branch of a chain from Java and a landmark at the corner of High Street and North Bridge Road; and Peking, started by Kuo Fung Ting who was born in the Chinese capital, hence the name of his shop.⁴³ Kuo decided to convert Peking from a curio shop into a department store in the 1950s when he realised that “after the war, the tendency would be for people to be more fashion-conscious. They would want more of the latest fashions in clothes, and other things synonymous with prosperity”.⁴⁴

In 1957, Aurora and Peking were joined by the first Metro department store at High Street, set up by Ong Tjoe Kim, an immigrant from Xiamen, China, who had worked in department store chains in Java. A movie buff, he named his store after the Hollywood studio Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and invited Hong Kong actress Li Mei to officiate at its grand opening.⁴⁵ As one Singapore newspaper recalled in 1984, “the triangle among the three department stores – Aurora, Peking, and Metro – became a big attraction for the shoppers during the late 1950s”.⁴⁶

Unlike the air-conditioned and somewhat sterile modern shopping mall experience that has become the norm in Singapore today, shopping at High Street was quite a different experience: people wandered in and out of individual shophouses, browsing or bargaining, and perhaps eventually buying.

Aurora’s “Seeing is Believing” sale offering textile goods and other “ready made-up goods”. Image reproduced from The Singapore Free Press, 25 August 1958, p. 1.

Reminiscing about the area, Stella Kon says: “The picture that flashes in my mind is hot sunshine and dust and shadowy cool shops.”⁴⁷ Besides the fashion boutiques, textile merchants and department stores, there was Ensign Bookstore, the legendary Polar Café, music stores such as TMA and Swee Lee, camera shops such as Ruby Photo and Amateur Photo Store, and Bata, an international shoe store chain of Czech origin at North Bridge Road. Many people remember Bata for selling affordable footwear – especially its trademark white canvas school shoes – to several generations of Singaporeans.⁴⁸

Although the vibe and buzz of High Street appear to be warmly remembered by many, these shops, like the department stores at Raffles Place, were not within the financial reach of most Singaporeans. It is perhaps their aspirational significance that resonates more deeply among people than any specific purchase, as Lee Geok Boi reflects of her family’s visits to High Street: “Most of the time we couldn’t afford anything. But we went there to look anyway.”⁴⁹

Looking and browsing, fingering and figuring out what one could buy for one’s dollar, or what one could afford (or not) were a visceral part of the Raffles Place or High Street shopping experience.

Although these shopping areas may have only been a shadow of London’s Carnaby Street – which encapsulated everything that was cool about 1960s fashion – they represented a desirable “Western type of shopping”, before the proliferation of shopping complexes in the 1970s and the development of Orchard Road into a shopping street.⁵⁰

Today, in a city where ever more cookie-cutter shopping malls have come to dominate the landscape, with shops that parade a disconcertingly similar array of goods whether in swanky Orchard Road or suburban Yishun, it is not surprising that many first-generation Singaporeans look back to the time when they first encountered the idea of “going shopping” – and their memories of Raffles Place or High Street gleam all the more brightly.

Fancy Food: Cafés & Milk Bars For those who could afford it, shopping trips in the 1960s were often punctuated by pit stops at one of the fashionable Western-style cafés in town. The sentimental favourites that come up time and again in oral history interviews are Polar Café at 51 High Street and Magnolia Milk Bar at Capitol Theatre.Of the two, Polar Café was more established, having opened in 1925. By the 1960s, it was a favourite haunt of not only the lawyers and members of parliament who worked in the area, but also young people studying at nearby schools such as Raffles Institution.51 The café’s signature curry puffs became a much coveted treat for anyone in the area (including at least one member of Singapore’s first Cabinet), while its egg tarts, cakes and ice cream were also hugely popular.52 An advertisement for one of several Magnolia Milk Bar outlets operated by Cold Storage back in 1938. Two of its most popular outlets were found in Orchard Road and at Capitol Theatre, at the junction of Stamford and North Bridge roads. Image reproduced from Come to Malaya and Travel by Train, November 1938 (p.44). (1938). Singapore: East Indies Pub. (Accession no.: B20025405G; Microfilm no.: NL29343). Magnolia Milk Bar, which opened almost immediately after World War II, was owned by local supermarket chain Cold Storage. Magnolia was Cold Storage’s house brand ice cream and manufactured locally from the 1930s. Magnolia Milk Bar served all kinds of ice cream concoctions and milkshakes as well as Western fare such as sandwiches, hot dogs and hamburgers.53 Cold Storage eventually ran several milk bars in Singapore (including one adjoining its supermarket in Orchard Road), but it was the air-conditioned outlet at Capitol that, by virtue of its location, won the hearts of many of Singapore’s baby boomers.54 As one Raffles Institution boy recalls, Magnolia Snack Bar occupied an iconic place in certain rituals of dating: teenagers often went out in groups for picnics or dances, after which a couple who fancied each other would go on one-on-one dates at Capitol and Magnolia. Another former customer aptly sums it up: “If I brought a girl there, it meant she was really special.”55 Magnolia was also where teachers treated their students to ice cream and friends met to celebrate over their Cambridge examination results. It became a place where an entire generation of Singaporeans picked up Western tastes and etiquette, right down to the proper use of cutlery. It wasn’t cheap though: in the 1960s, a full meal at Magnolia cost $5, compared to a bowl of noodles from a street hawker for 50 cents.56 Over at Raffles Place, there was a Honey Land Milk Bar, a casual snack bar at the corner of Raffles Place and Battery Road. Run by a Mr Tan, it sold ice cream, cream puffs, curry puffs and soft drinks. Victor Chew remembers that it was the only “soda fountain shop” or “ice cream parlour” in the area that sold deliciously frothy milkshakes. Although it was only a small place and had high stools for customers, it “did roaring business”.57 The really swanky eatery at Raffles Place was G.H. Café, a pre-war institution on Battery Road that was actually a bona fide restaurant with “white tablecloths and proper cutlery”. The origins of its name are speculative: some accounts say it began as the G.H. (Grand Hotel) Sweet Shop, another claimed it was named after a woman, Gertrude How, who used to run it. Whatever the case, G.H. Café was the lunchtime haunt of lawyers, shippers, traders and civil servants.58 Such was the café’s draw that it was even memorialised in Singaporean author and poet Goh Poh Seng’s first novel, If We Dream Too Long (1972): “The restaurant was air-conditioned, had plush, upholstered chairs, white tablecloths, occasionally stained, and a fat Indian woman at the piano, singing old Broadway hits. Cole Porter, Oscar Hammerstein and Richard Rodgers ghosted the large, comfortably darkened dining room, while young business executives and lawyers and doctors ate from plates with knife and fork and spoon.”59

Notes

Public housing is a Singapore success story, but the early years of high-rise living were sometimes a bittersweet experience. Janice Loo pores through the pages of Our Home magazine during its 17-year run.

One of the manifold challenges that Singapore faced at the time of self-governance in 1959 was a severe shortage of housing. Some 550,000 people, out of a population of nearly 1.6 million, had to make do with squalid living conditions, crammed into decrepit shophouses and squatter huts in the city centre and its outskirts.

To deal with the problem, the Housing and Development Board (HDB) was formed on 1 February 1960 and tasked with building as many flats as possible. Incredibly, by the end of its first decade, the board had completed over 100,000 units, providing affordable homes fitted with modern conveniences such as a ready supply of water and electricity as well as sanitation and waste disposal facilities, for nearly a third of the population.¹

A nation of flat-dwellers was steadily taking shape, and probably unbeknownst to many at the time, Singapore would become a nation of high-rise homes and its public housing programme would one day be lauded by urban planners the world over. Between 1960 and 1970, the percentage of resident population living in HDB flats increased from 9 to 35 percent, rising further to 67 percent by 1980. The figure has remained above 80 percent since 1985.²

Covers of Our Home featuring the iconic dragon playground at Toa Payoh Lorong 6 (April 1980) and the unique clover leaf-shaped circular block along Ang Mo Kio Avenue 2 (June 1982). Residents received their free copy of Our Home when paying their monthly rent or instalments at the area offices while those who paid by GIRO would get a copy in the mail.

To ease Singaporeans into high-rise living, the HDB started its own magazine in July 1972 as a means of building rapport and staying connected with residents – then a community of 700,000 and counting.³

Our Home not only kept residents updated on HDB policies, initiatives, new amenities and happenings in housing estates, but also functioned as a “views-paper”⁴ where readers could express their opinions and ideas on various aspects of HDB living as well as hear from the board. Additionally, Our Home featured a variety of lifestyle topics such as cooking, health, fashion, interior decoration, sports and culture – in short “something for everyone in the family”.⁵

Starting with 147,000 copies, circulation grew in tandem with the number of new flats completed. By the time the last issue was published in August 1989, Our Home had made its way into 440,000 flats island-wide.

Keeping Up with the HDB
The magazine contents kept pace with the objectives of public housing which, over time, had evolved as societal needs changed. While the 1960s was all about quantity, the 70s saw a heavier emphasis on the quality of housing to meet the expectations of a more affluent and better educated populace.⁶

The “neighbourhood principle” continued to guide the planning of new estates and was further refined with the formulation of standards to optimise the size, type and location of ancillary facilities available to residents on their doorstep.⁷This led to a new prototype town model based on a hierarchy of activity nodes, such as a town centre and neighbourhood centres and, later in the 1980s, precinct centres within the estate.⁸

Among the earliest examples highlighted in Our Home was Ang Mo Kio New Town, which comprised six neighbourhoods clustered around a town centre.⁹ Construction commenced in 1973.¹⁰ As the estate’s focal point, the town centre hosted a comprehensive range of amenities, including department stores, supermarkets, eating places, cinemas, a post office and even a public library.¹¹ It became such a shoppers’ paradise that in 1980 one resident likened Ang Mo Kio town centre to a “busy Orchard Road, [albeit] on a smaller scale and without the traffic jams and expensive price tag”.¹²

An elated family viewing their new HDB flat in the 1960s. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Next in the hierarchy were neighbourhood centres with more basic facilities, such markets, hawker centres and shops, all within walking distance of homes.¹³ Apart from being one of the largest new estates of its time, Ang Mo Kio is the first to showcase HDB’s “new generation” flats.¹⁴ Compared to the ones built in the 1960s, these new flats were bigger and had improved features; the 3- and 4-room units, for example, had a storeroom, an ensuite master bathroom with a pedestal toilet, and bigger kitchens.¹⁵

The new town model was adopted in other estates built at the time, for example, Telok Blangah, Bedok and Clementi, which subsequently facilitated the rapid development of several new towns – Yishun, Hougang, Jurong East and West, Tampines and Bukit Batok – in quick succession from the late 1970s onwards.¹⁶ As neighbourhoods inevitably took on a cookie-cutter appearance, the visual identity of new towns became an important consideration at the planning stage.¹⁷

Attempts to inject character into public housing were showcased in Our Home, and its covers – once dominated by images of smiley, happy residents – began to feature design and architecture more prominently from 1979 onwards. The HDB introduced new block designs to create a stronger sense of place; for instance the cover of Our Home June 1982 issue showcased the unique 25-storey clover leaf-shaped circular point block at Ang Mo Kio Avenue 2.¹⁸

Articles also described how colours and architectural features lent identity to public housing estates, for example, how apricot-coloured bricks and pitched metal roofs defined the aesthetics of Tampines New Town, and how the colour scheme of roofs demarcated its nine neighbourhoods.¹⁹

Similarly, in Bukit Batok New Town, the repetition of splayed corners at the water-tank level, the ground levels, and along common corridors of blocks, enhanced the distinctiveness of the estate.²⁰ HDB experimented with wall murals too; for example, one block in MacPherson sported a majestic rising sun whereas another in Hougang featured the grinning face of a wayang kulit (shadow puppet play) puppet.²¹

In addition, older estates were enhanced or redeveloped to ensure living conditions kept up with that of the new ones.²² New or upgraded amenities highlighted over the years included sports and swimming complexes, gardens and parks, commercial and shopping centres, markets and food centres, as well as community centres and facilities for social services.²³

Children enjoying themselves at a playground in Toa Payoh, 1975. When new HDB housing estates were built, children’s playgrounds became essential amenities. Image source: The Straits Times© Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted with permission.

Even playgrounds came under the HDB’s scrutiny as it began to feature more dynamic elements like suspension bridges and climbing ropes to create a miniature adventureland for children.²⁴ Grown-ups were not forgotten either as new fitness corners were rolled out with structures for sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and other exercises.²⁵

Our Home also took pains to explain the behind-the-scenes work of its public officers, such as housing and maintenance inspectors, sales clerical officers, operators from the Essential Maintenance Service Unit and Lift Rescue Unit, cleaners and their supervisors, and even the dreaded parking warden.

From Strangers to Neighbours
However, a house does not make a home, and a pleasant living environment cannot be achieved by design alone. As high-density public housing could potentially lead to tensions between neighbours, Our Home sought to forge a sense of commonality and responsibility among residents as a nation of house-proud flat-dwellers – or “heartlanders”²⁶ as we know them today.²⁷

In this photo taken in 1970, laundry hung out for drying on bamboo poles was a familiar sight along streets with residential units above shophouses. Before the HDB built high-rise flats, the people lived in cramped and unsanitary conditions in these shophouses. George W. Porter Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

More than a roof over their heads, the public housing programme fostered a sense of rootedness among Singaporeans by giving them a tangible stake in the country. The late founding Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew described it thus:

“I wanted a home-owning society. I had seen the contrast between the blocks of low-cost rental flats, badly misused and poorly maintained, and those of house-proud owners, and was convinced that if every family owned its home, the country would be more stable… I believed this sense of ownership was vital for our new society which had no deep roots in a common historical experience.”²⁸

In its inaugural message to readers in July 1972, the magazine echoed Lee’s sentiments:

“‘Our Home is about you and others in HDB housing estates. You will get to know how much other people are like you, how other residents live, their problems and how they overcome them and about their achievements… We all live in the same community. It might be Redhill or Toa Payoh or Queenstown, what matters is that we make that community something to be proud of, a healthy environment for our children.”²⁹

In line with Singapore’s first Concept Plan in 1971, residential estates were developed as part of a ring of self-contained new towns around the central water catchment area.³⁰ High-rise flats began replacing kampongs (villages) and came to characterise the suburban landscape. Our Home charted this period of transition and gave voice to the hopes and frustrations of residents as they adjusted to their new environment.

Balloting ceremony for the sale of HDB flats under the “Home Ownership for the People” scheme in Commonwealth Drive in 1965. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

A perennial complaint was noise. For those used to the relative quiet of rural kampongs, the cacophony of high-density estates could be hard to bear, what with screaming and crying children, blaring radio and television sets, not to mention the infernal clacking of mahjong tiles.³¹

One Our Home article in 1973 portrayed noise in a more positive light: as an expression of the informal communal life in estates. Writer Sylvia Leow traced the lively rhythm of everyday activities along the common corridor from the rush of residents heading to school, work and the market, to the boisterous sounds of playing children, and the chorus of itinerant vendors plying wares and services.³²

The calls of the galah³³ man and the knife-sharpening man might evoke wistfulness for a vanished soundscape, but it was a different situation then as one disgruntled resident of Holland Close wrote:

“After reading the article… I hate to say that I view the hustle and bustle as noise nuisance. I never knew that common corridors can bring about such headaches and frustrations until I recently moved into my flat. I am extremely distressed by the ‘noisy merriment’ of the corridor. Can you study under such [a] noise-polluted environment? I earnestly pray that those pedlars, children on tricycles, etc will disappear into thin air…”³⁴

Such complaints created opportunities for the HDB to clarify its responsibilities HDB and those of the residents. Our Home made it clear that it was the duty of parents to teach children to play quietly and not cause mischief by urinating in the lifts or tampering with mailboxes.³⁵ Problems like noise, vandalism, and littering could only be tackled if residents exercised consideration for the feelings and rights of their neighbours.

A fisherman tending to his nets on his sampan near the mouth of the Kallang River. In the background are new high-rise HDB flats juxtaposed against squatter huts along the riverbank, 1975-1985. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The more practical solution in the long term was to instil civic-consciousness. As a tool for public education, Our Home instructed residents on the dos and don’ts of HDB living. The topics ranged from the proper disposal of waste and bulky refuse, lift usage, and the drying of laundry to playing ball games in common spaces, the keeping of plants and pets, and crime and accident prevention.³⁶

In addition, opinion pieces and letters from readers helped to define and reinforce good neighbourly behaviour. For example, in 1972, Pang Kee Pew of Alexandra estate wrote in to share how he reminded his wife to place a cloth pad under the mortar when pounding chillies – “a daily occurence in almost every home”³⁷ – to reduce noise. For his part, Pang confessed that he was tempted to sweep the dust through the balcony gap whenever he swept the house and let it be blown into neighbouring flats. But Mrs Pang would step in and make sure that he swept the dust onto a piece of newspaper that was then folded up and disposed in the rubbish chute.

Above all, the goal was to make friends out of neighbours. As relocation disrupted existing social ties, it was not uncommon for former kampong dwellers to experience a loss of community.³⁸ There was a tendency towards insularity, partly due to devices that provided endless hours of entertainment and allowed people to plug into the outside world without stepping out of their flats.³⁹ Already in 1973, Leonard Lim of Commonwealth Drive observed:

“… there are others I know who have just shifted in and miss the warmth and friendliness of old neighbours and the rural way of life. These people now isolate themselves in their flats. They don’t make an effort to get to know their neighbours. Instead they rely on radios, stereograms and television to substitute for real-life contacts with neighbours.”⁴⁰

View of HDB flats with laundry hanging out of the balconies in MacPherson housing estate in the 1970s. These are some of the first-generation flats built by the HDB in the 1960s. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

One opinion piece in 1972 defined the ideal type of neighbourly relations in HDB estates as one of warm, amicable and relaxed give-and-take. When neighbours are friends, they willingly “respect each other’s right to enjoyment of peace, privacy and quiet [and] work together to build a clean, friendly and harmonious community”⁴¹, thus reducing estate-management problems in the long-run.⁴²

To encourage residents to know their neighbours better, Our Home highlighted artists, sculptors, writers and other interesting personalities living in their midst.⁴³ In addition, from the June 1981 issue onwards, the magazine featured an “RC Corner” to promote the activities of the Residents’ Committees (RCs) and voluntary organisations run by and for residents to promote community spirit and neighbourliness in HDB housing estates.

High-rise Paradise
Notwithstanding the complaints, many residents were generally quite happy with HDB living. One of those who expressed her appreciation was “Mei-Mei” from Toa Payoh in 1972. Having grown up in “one of those rambling bungalows in the countryside”, she was initially apprehensive of the limited space in a flat. However, after two years she had become accustomed to her “62 sq. m. of living room, bedroom and kitchen [which] are more than ample for [her] needs”. Mei-Mei urged readers to look on the bright side:

“On the other side of the coin, be thankful that you only have a small area to furnish. House-owners in private estates inevitably have too much space… To be downright practical, who really needs acres of floors to scrub and mountains of dust to sweep when you can live comfortably in a flat which needs only a flick of the duster to emerge sparklingly clean… We might complain when shops ply a noisy trade downstairs but let’s look at it this way. Which housewife can boast of having her market, her cobbler, her carpenter, her hair-dresser and even her doctor, dentist and banker all within easy walking distance?”⁴⁴

She went on to list more advantages, such as round-the-clock essential maintenance services, the panoramic view from her home on the 11th floor, and the breeze which “makes for comfortable living all year round”. “Mei-Mei” stressed that her views were not unique but “echo the impressions of a growing community of satisfied flat-dwellers to whom ‘home sweet home’ is a reality”.

But “home sweet home” did not come without effort. Moving into a HDB flat meant increased costs. Besides the mortgage repayments, there were utilities, furnishings, household appliances and other consumer durables to pay for.⁴⁵ Home ownership and the desire for a better quality of life in turn propelled more people into the workforce and the consumer economy, thus creating the start of an industrialised society.⁴⁶

(Left) The Sims welcoming the latest addition to their family – a washing machine from National. The company was well known as a reputable manufacturer of home appliances, particularly rice cookers, which continue to have a place in popular memory for their durability. Image reproduced from Our Home, January-February 1975, p. 2.
(Centre) An advertisement showing a family in the living room of their HDB flat with various SONY home entertainment appliances. Television vieiwing, including video, had become the most popular leisure activity by the 1980s. Image reproduced from Our home, December 1972, back cover.
(Right) Hitachi touting its new washing machine as the “modern HDB’ washerwoman’”. Washing machines became more common in HDB households from the mid-1970s due to their affordability and difficulty of employing reliable washerwoman. Image reproduced from Our Home, October 1975, p. 2.

Significantly, women began entering the workforce in greater numbers to supplement the household income, made easier by the plethora of employment opportunities at their doorstep. Another element in the planning of housing estates was the allocation of land for light industrial use, which “has enabled many a housewife and school-leaver to walk to work and to acquire new skills, bringing home additional income for the family.”⁴⁷

Multinational companies that set up production facilities in HDB neighbourhoods included Hitachi, which manufactured television sets along with washing machines at its Bedok factory, and General Electric in Toa Payoh, which produced digital and clock radios.⁴⁸ In 1972, more than half of the employment within HDB estates was generated by the industrial sector, with women making up 72 percent of its workforce.⁴⁹

A feature on young industrial workers in Our Home demonstrated how employment strengthened the socio-economic position of women and gave them an avenue for advancement beyond their traditional domestic roles. Readers were introduced to 25-year-old Yen Khuan Thai, who started work as a camera assembly line operator at the Rollei factory in Alexandra in 1971, and went on to do data-processing at the company’s new factory in Chai Chee.

Yen found the work “interesting and challenging”, and did not mind the distance between her home in Queenstown to the factory in the east as there was “ample scope for advancement and further training”. She earned a monthly income of $300, not a paltry sum given that the average monthly household income of HDB residents was $469 in those days. Working women thus went a long way in helping families afford the trappings of the HDB lifestyle.⁵⁰

As the magazine with the largest circulation in Singapore, Our Home was an avenue for brands to “penetrate more homes to reach more target consumers”.⁵¹ Advertisements in Our Home reflected and shaped the tastes and aspirations of flat-dwellers – the ownership of consumer durables being an indicator of relative affluence and living standards.

Advertisements held out the dream of a perfect home and a new level of well-being that could be achieved with consumer technology. Washing machines, rice cookers and vacuum cleaners would make domestic work less taxing and free up time for leisure, whereas television and radio sets enhanced the time spent at home, as these advertisements claimed:

“Make life easier with Sanyo home appliances…. Hundreds of home appliances roll off Sanyo assembly lines daily to help cut household drudgery to a bare minimum, [and] lessen the toil and increase the joy of living.”⁵²

“It’s nice to have a home of your own and fill it with lovely things… such as Sony. Sony makes your flat nice to come home to. There’s Sony television for clear reception anywhere; Sony stereo for listening pleasure and party sounds; Sony clock radio for the time and soothing background music, and a powerful world-wide Sony radio to keep you abreast with the world. All designed for superb entertainment and gracious living.”⁵³

Modern conveniences were essential in transforming the flat into an oasis of rest and relaxation, a home to which people could retire to at the end of the day to savour the fruits of their labour.

Inside a new-generation 4-room HDB flat in Hougang in 1989. The flat had more than ample space for a family of five to live comfortably. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Remembering Our Home
Our Home bid farewell to its readers in 1989. That year, town councils were established to take over the management of estates from the HDB, and they started their own newsletters for residents.⁵⁴

The constant remaking of the heartland through redevelopment and upgrading has contributed to the current wave of nostalgia among Singaporeans for old playgrounds, wet markets, provision shops, cinemas and bowling alleys – many of which have been repurposed or no longer exist.

Our Home magazine not only serves as a chronicle of Singapore’s public housing history, but is also a window into the lives of those who grew up in the old estates of the 1970s and 80s – in those pivotal years when a young nation came into its own against all odds.

Notes

Lim Tin Seng charts the history of Singapore’s expressways, from the oldest Pan-Island Expressway, built in the 1960s to the newest Marina Coastal Expressway.

AYE, BKE, CTE and ECP… the list goes on. These are not some random letters haphazardly thrown together but acronyms of Singapore’s expressways. Since making their appearance in the late 1960s, expressways have helped to ease congestion on arterial roads and ensure the smooth flow of traffic around the island.

Completed in December 2013, the Marina Coastal Expressway connects the eastern and western parts of Singapore, and provides a high-speed link to the Marina Bay area. Photo by Richard W.J. Koh.

The Early Roads
Expressways are dedicated roads that enable motorists to travel uninterrupted at high speeds from one place to another. Also referred to as highways, motorways, freeways or interstates – depending on which country you live – these are usually dual carriageways with multiple lanes in each direction. The world’s first expressway, Bronx River Parkway in New York, was built in 1908. By the 1930s, expressways were found in Europe when the initial phases of the Autobahn (Germany) and Autostrade (Italy) were completed.¹

For most part of the 19th century, Singapore was served primarily by roads made of laterite, a reddish soil with a high iron oxide content.² Trams, bullock carts and horse-drawn carriages traversed the streets, kicking up clouds of red dust as they transported goods and people around town and to other parts of the island.

Some of the frequently used roads at the time included Bukit Timah Road and Orchard Road which linked the fledgling town of Singapore to plantations in the north, Serangoon Road and Geylang Road to plantations in the east, and Tanjong Pagar Road and New Bridge Road to the port in the west. Over time, the expansion of the town followed the grid pattern of these main thoroughfares.³

As motor vehicles became prevalent in the early 20th century, laterite roads were replaced with asphalt-surfaced metalled roads. Paved with hand-packed granite, limestone and bituminous materials, these roads bore the weight of motorised vehicles and facilitated a much faster and smoother travel experience.⁴

Although metalled roads did not reach rural areas until the 1960s, the ease of motorised travel encouraged people to move to the suburbs, which in turn spurred the expansion of the island’s road network. By the end of the 1930s, major roads such as Upper Serangoon Road, Punggol Road, Changi Road, Jurong Road, Sembawang Road and Woodlands Road appeared on maps connecting the town centre to all corners of the island.⁵

Unfortunately, motor vehicles soon became a double-edged sword: in a matter of 10 years, from 1915 to 1925, the number of private registered motor vehicles on the island rose from 842 to 4,456. By 1937, the number had ballooned to 9,382, adding to traffic congestion in the town centre along with rickshaws, bicycles, trishaws and bullock carts.⁶

As traffic rules, which were first introduced in 1911, were inadequate, travelling on congested roads in the town centre became increasingly hazardous. It was common to see drivers – liberated by the lack of road signs and markings – weaving dangerously in and out of heavy traffic with nary a thought to the safety of other road users. The most vulnerable were rickshaw pullers and their passengers as well as pedestrians forced to walk on the streets because of the clutter blocking the “five-foot ways” (as pavements were called back then).⁷

The government tried to bring some order by launching the island’s first public road safety programme in 1947, and installing the first automatic traffic signals at the junction of Serangoon and Bukit Timah roads a year later. In 1950, a 30-mile-per-hour speed limit was imposed on all roads, and in 1952, the first zebra crossings were introduced in Collyer Quay.⁸

These improvements, however, were insufficient to improve traffic conditions, especially when the number of motor vehicles continued to grow, reaching nearly 58,000 in 1955.⁹ It was clear that a more concerted approach was needed. The opportunity came in 1951 when the Singapore Improvement Trust was asked to prepare a master plan to guide the physical development of the island.

An 1890s image of Hokkien Street. As roads were made of laterite then, clouds of reddish dust would be kicked up into the air whenever bullock carts, horse-drawn carriages and jinrickshaws passed. Courtesy of the National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

Road Hierarchy
The master plan – completed in 1955 and implemented in 1958 – introduced a five-level road hierarchy to differentiate the island’s roads by function. At the highest level were arterial roads, such as Bukit Timah Road and Woodlands Road, that served the entire island. Major roads or radial routes, such as Geylang Road and Changi Road, linking the city centre to the suburbs came next. Next in the hierarchy were main thoroughfares or local roads, such as Cross Street and Market Street, which “bypassed” built-up areas. Then there were development roads that provided access to shops and buildings and, finally, minor roads.¹⁰

The master plan also introduced measures to improve traffic flow. These included segregating non-motorised vehicles and pedestrians from motorised vehicles, and increasing the width of a traffic lane to the optimum 10 ft. To relieve traffic congestion in the city centre, the master plan recommended the creation of a network of carparks with public transport connections along the fringes of the Central Business District to support a park and ride scheme.¹¹ Under this scheme, motorists were encouraged to switch to public transport before entering the city.

The master plan also called for the establishment of three self-sufficient satellite towns in Woodlands, Yio Chu Kang and Bulim (now part of Jurong West) in an effort to reduce overcrowding in the city centre.

Despite these measures, the 1958 master plan was fundamentally flawed: the changes it proposed were based on the assumption that urban growth would be slow and steady, premised on a projected population growth of 2 million by 1972. Moreover, the plan did not formulate a long-term strategy for road planning other than identifying a few arterial roads to be straightened or widened and a few new ones to link the new housing estates in Queenstown and Toa Payoh to the city centre. The master plan also incorrectly surmised that existing roads would be sufficient to meet future traffic demands.¹²

The pace of urbanisation picked up in the early 1960s, and by the time Singapore achieved independence in 1965, its motor vehicle population had risen to nearly 200,000 and was growing at an alarming rate of about 80 new vehicles per day.¹³ This further worsened traffic congestion on the roads. Recognising the inadequacy of the 1958 master plan, the government commissioned the State and City Planning (SCP) study in 1967 to draft a new land use and transport plan, known later as the Concept Plan.

(Clockwise from top left) The KAK, Macrogrid, EGG, Ring and Finger plans are five of the 13 draft concepts prepared in 1967 to map out Singapore’s transportation network. The Ring Plan – which proposed redistributing people away from densely populated areas to satellite towns encircling the central catchment area – was eventually adopted as the island’s first Concept Plan in 1971. Images reproduced from Planning Development (1969). Annual Report for the Year 1968 & 1969 (pp. 4-18). Singapore: Planning Department. (Call no.: RCLOS 711.4095957 SPDAR).

A Network of Expressways
The Concept Plan was conceived by the SCP team comprising staff from the Planning Department, Urban Renewal Department, Housing and Development Board, and the Public Works Department. Unlike the 1958 master plan, this new plan took into account the fact that Singapore’s population was projected to reach 4 million by 1992.¹⁴

To develop the framework of the Concept Plan, the SCP team conducted a series of extensive surveys on land, building, population and traffic to identify how land could be optimised for growth and industrialisation.¹⁵ At the end of the intensive four-year study, the SCP team presented 13 draft concept plans for consideration.

Each of these plans offered a different interpretation of how the island’s land should be used, and how its transport network should be organised to connect people to housing, employment, services and recreation. For instance, the KAK Plan proposed connecting the different parts of Singapore by a large circular central expressway, while the Macrogrid Plan, as the name suggested, divided the island into a series of rectangular blocks using a web of expressways.¹⁶ The Finger Plan recommended that expressways radiate from the city centre like the five fingers of a hand, while the EGG Plan featured two interlinked egg-shaped expressways.

Eventually, the Ring Plan was adopted as Singapore’s first Concept Plan in 1971. It proposed moving the people away from the built-up and overcrowded city centre to high-density satellite towns encircling the central catchment area. The plan also recommended the establishment of a southern development belt spanning Changi in the east to Jurong in the west. Different pockets of activities would then be linked to one another and to the city centre by a network of interconnected expressways.¹⁷

Benjamin Sheares Bridge, as shown in this 1986 photograph, links East Coast Parkway to the city and offers panoramic views of the skyline. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The First Expressways: PIE and ECP
The location of the first expressways in Singapore was based largely on the proposals laid out in the 1971 Concept Plan. This included the island’s oldest and longest Pan-Island Expressway (PIE), a high-speed carriageway connecting industrial estates and housing estates along the southern development belt, including Jurong, Bukit Timah, Toa Payoh, Kallang, Eunos, Bedok and Tampines as well as Changi Airport.¹⁸

The 42.8-km PIE was initially conceived as a 35-km-long dual three-lane carriageway, with a central divider and hard shoulder. The 35-km stretch was constructed between 1966 and 1981 and involved four phases: Phase I between Jalan Eunos and Thomson Road, Phase II between Thomson Road and Jalan Anak Bukit, Phase III between Jalan Eunos and Changi Airport, and Phase IV between Jalan Anak Bukit and Jalan Boon Lay.¹⁹ In 1992, a new section at the western end was added to link the PIE to Kranji Expressway (KJE).²⁰

During the construction of PIE, roads such as Jalan Toa Payoh, Jalan Kolam Ayer and Paya Lebar Way were widened, while flyovers such as Aljunied Road Flyover and Bedok North Avenue 3 Flyover were built to obviate the need for traffic light junctions.²¹ Grade-separated interchanges, including Thomson Road Interchange, Toa Payoh South Interchange and Bedok Road North Interchange, were also constructed to improve traffic flow into and out of the PIE.²² In 1978, a trumpet-shaped interchange was added at the eastern end of the PIE to connect it to the island’s second expressway – the East Coast Parkway (ECP).²³

The 19-km ECP, built entirely on reclaimed land, links Changi Airport and major housing estates along the south-eastern coastline of Singapore to industrial sites and the CBD. Some of the estates that the ECP serves include Bedok, Siglap and Marine Parade. Construction took place over 10 years, between 1971 and 1981, in four phases. Phases 1 and 2 covered the stretch from Fort Road to Nallur Road, while Phases 3 and 4 comprised the 7-km portion from Nallur Road to Changi Road and the scenic 5.4-km section from Tanjong Rhu to Keppel Road respectively.²⁴

One prominent feature of the ECP is the 185-hectare East Coast Park that runs alongside it. The park stretches over 15 km with access to a beach and amenities such as barbecue pits, cycling and jogging tracks, fishing spots, bicycle and skate rentals, food and beverage outlets, and chalets.²⁵ A second feature of the ECP is the iconic 1.8-km Benjamin Sheares Bridge that links the expressway to the CBD and offers panoramic views of the city skyline. Named in memory of Singapore’s second president, the bridge spans Kallang Basin and Maria Bay and was the longest elevated viaduct on the island at the time.²⁶

Expressway Gardens Unlike the endless grey expanses of asphalt found in most countries, many of Singapore’s expressways are lined with trees providing shade and central dividers blooming with flowering shrubs. This is not an act of Mother Nature: when the PIE and ECP were constructed, specific instructions were given to beautify these expressways. On the drive from Changi Airport towards the city, tourists are usually struck by the image of Singapore as a beautiful garden city in the tropics. A majestic raintree rising out of the central divider along the East Coast Parkway from Changi Airport. Photo by Richard W.J. Koh.

The Era of Expressways: BKE, AYE, CTE, KJE, TPE and SLE
Another six expressways were built between the 1980s and 90s, touted as the “Era of Expressways”. During this period, the Public Works Department also carried out a series of improvements, such as the widening and re-alignment of existing expressways and roads. Underground roads, tunnels, viaducts, semi-expressways, flyovers and interchanges were also constructed to improve connectivity.²⁷

The first expressway built during this period is Bukit Timah Expressway (BKE). Completed in 1986, the BKE begins at the Bukit Timah portion of the PIE and continues north towards Woodlands Checkpoint. It is a six-lane 11-km dual carriageway that serves housing estates in Woodlands, Bukit Panjang and Bukit Timah.

Hot on the heels of the BKE was Ayer Rajah Expressway (AYE), built in 1988. The 26.5-km AYE spans the south-western coast of Singapore, stretching from the western end of the Marina Coastal Expressway (MCE) to Tuas in the west. The expressway also passes Ayer Rajah industrial estate, which it is named after, as well as housing estates in Clementi, West Coast and Bukit Merah. The AYE is connected to Tuas Second Link, which was completed in 1995 and provides an alternative route to Johor in Malaysia.

The Central Expressway (CTE) was constructed one year later in 1989 to serve residents and industrial estates in Toa Payoh, Bishan and Ang Mo Kio. At 15.5 km long, this is currently the only expressway that connects the northern parts of the island directly to the city. Construction of the CTE was conducted in phases, and comprises segments from Seletar to Bukit Timah Road, Chin Swee Road to the AYE in Radin Mas, and the two tunnels (Chin Swee Tunnel and Kampong Java Tunnel) that run along the Singapore River, Fort Canning and Orchard areas.

The 1990s saw three expressways built: Kranji Expressway (KJE) in 1994, Tampines Expressway (TPE) in 1996 and Seletar Expressway (SLE) in 1998. The KJE is located in the northwestern part of the island. At 8.4 km, the expressway passes through Kranji industrial estate as well as housing estates in Bukit Panjang, Choa Chu Kang, Bukit Batok and Jurong. It also connects to the BKE at Gali Batu Flyover, and the PIE at Tengah Flyover.

The TPE in the northeastern part of Singapore serves the housing estates of Tampines, Pasir Ris, Lorong Halus, Punggol, Sengkang and Seletar. The 14.4-km expressway merges with the PIE near Changi Airport in the east. It also connects with the CTE and SLE in the northern part of the island. The stretch of the expressway between SLE and Lorong Halus is a particularly scenic drive with lush greenery and views of mangrove swamps and farmland.²⁸

At almost 11 km long, the SLE, also in the northeastern part of the island, connects with the BKE at Woodlands South Flyover and terminates at the CTE-TPE-SLE interchange near Yio Chu Kang, providing greater connectivity to the residents of Woodlands, Yishun and Yio Chu Kang. The stretch of the SLE near the Upper Seletar Reservoir is a particularly scenic drive with lush greenery on either side.

As these expressways were being constructed, supporting arterial roads were widened to increase their capacity. Roads in the city centre were also improved, albeit on a limited scale, due to the heavily built-up nature of the area. Some of the improvements included converting roads prone to congestion into one-way streets, and removing street-level parking and itinerant hawkers to improve traffic flow.

In the years to come, a variety of other measures – many of them taking advantage of technology – were introduced to reduce traffic congestion. These included computerised traffic light management and measures to reduce the number of cars on the road, such as raising import duties and taxes, the introduction of the Vehicle Quota System to control the car population through Certificates of Entitlement (COE) that could be purchased via an open bidding process, and eventually, the Electronic Road Pricing System which charged motorists for usage of busy roads during peak hours.²⁹

To encourage commuters to switch from cars to public transportation, the network of bus services was extended and improved. The game changer in public transportation, however, was the introduction of the island-wide Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) network in 1988. From the first 6km of the North-South line that opened in November 1987, the network has expanded to include four other lines – East-West, North-East, Circle and Downtown – with a sixth line in the making, the Thomson-East Coast line.

Eco-Link@BKE Eco-Link@BKE is a 62-metre-long wildlife crossing spanning the Bukit Timah Expressway (BKE). Located between the Pan-Island Expressway and Dairy Farm exits, the ecological bridge – the first of its kind in Southeast Asia – reconnects Bukit Timah Nature Reserve and Central Catchment Nature Reserve that were split up when the BKE cut through the forest in 1986.The eco-link, which opened in 2013, was constructed to provide a safe passage for native animal species, such as flying squirrels, monitor lizards, palm civets, pangolins, porcupines, birds, insects and snakes, between one reserve and the other. The ability to travel between the nature reserves is important as it allows the animals to expand their habitat, increase their forage range and enlarge their genetic pool, ultimately increasing their chances of survival.To stimulate a natural environment, native trees and shrubs such as Oil Fruit Tree, Singapore Kopsia and Seashore Mangosteen were planted along the length of the bridge. The vegetation along the edges of the link acts as a buffer against traffic noise and pollution. To keep a record of animals using the bridge, cameras with motion sensors have been installed at strategic points along the link to monitor animal movement between the nature reserves.Public guided walks organised by the National Parks Board between late 2015 and early 2016 have been suspended so as not to disturb the animals using the link. The Eco-Link across Bukit Timah Expressway (BKE) was built to allow safe passage of wildlife between the Central Catchment Reserve and the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. The two reserves were separated when the BKE was constructed. Photo by Richard W.J. Koh.

Next-Generation Expressways: KPE and MCE
Despite the emphasis on public transport, plans were afoot to further improve the existing network of roads and expressways.³⁰

Completed in 2008, the 12-km Kallang-Paya Lebar Expressway (KPE) was aimed at improving connectivity in the north-eastern corridor as well as cut travel time from the city centre to the newer housing estates of Sengkang and Punggol.³¹The expressway also relieves pressure on the CTE, and is connected to the ECP, TPE and PIE.³² With three-quarters of the KPE located underground, it is the longest subterranean road tunnel in Southeast Asia.

The 5-km Marina Coastal Expressway (MCE) was completed at the end of 2013. It has a 3.6-km underground tunnel, with a 420-metre stretch of it located under the seabed, making this expressway the most expensive – and the most challenging to build – to date.³³

The MCE connects the eastern and western parts of Singapore, and provides a high-speed link to the New Downtown area in Marina Bay. With the opening of the MCE, the section of the ECP between Central Boulevard and Benjamin Sheares Bridge was downgraded to an arterial road called Sheares Avenue, while the stretch between Central Boulevard and the AYE was demolished. This freed up prime land for the development of new projects in the Marina Bay area.³⁴

The Future: NSC
In 2008, the government announced plans for the construction of Singapore’s 11th expressway, the 21.5-km North-South Corridor (NSC). When completed in 2026, the NSC will connect the city centre with towns along the north-south corridor. These include Woodlands, Sembawang, Yishun, Ang Mo Kio, Bishan and Toa Payoh. The NSC will also intersect and link up with existing expressways such as the SLE, PIE and ECP as part of the plan to improve the overall connectivity of the existing road network.³⁵

The opening of the NSC in 2026 will usher in a new era of transport in Singapore. Expressways will no longer be seen as high-speed carriageways solely for motor vehicles; instead, they will be designed to complement public transport and even cater to non-motorised users. In anticipation of population growth and demographic changes in the next two decades, the government will have to think of innovative ways to improve road connectivity and deliver a world-class transport system in line with its vision to remake Singapore.

A unique feature of the NSC will be its dedicated bus lanes and cycling trunk routes. The bus lanes will help to reduce bus travelling times between housing estates along the new expressway and the city centre, while the cycling lanes will link up with the Park Connector Networks to provide cyclists with a direct route to the city centre. Both the bus and cycling lanes will support the government’s vision of transforming Singapore into a “car-lite” society where cycling and public transport would be the preferred mode of transport.³⁶

Notes

Advertisements targeting aspiring car owners have come a long way since the first automobile was launched in Singapore in 1896, as Mazelan Anuar tells us.

The word “automobilism”, meaning the use of automobiles,¹ entered the English lexicon in the late 19th century when motor vehicles emerged as a new mode of private transportation. Karl Benz’s “Patent-Motorwagen”, first built in 1885, sparked a vehicular revolution that saw animal power replaced by the internal combustion engine. Thus was born the automobile, which literally means “self-moving” car. Although the term “automobilism” has fallen into disuse, the world’s love affair with automobiles has never waned, with succeeding generations embracing it with as much enthusiasm as the early adopters.

A jinrickshaw puller at the corner of North Bridge and Rochor roads, 1930s. A common mode of transportation in late-19th century Singapore was the jinrickshaw (literally “man-drawncarriage” in Japanese), originally from Japan and introduced to the island in 1880. Allen GohCollection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

 

The Horseless Carriage

The Katz Brothers ushered in the age of automobilism in Singapore when they imported the first automobiles in August 1896. Before this, the horsedrawn carriage, shipped in from Britain since the 1820s, was a popular means of passenger transport. Another common mode of transportation in the late 19th century was the jinrickshaw (literally “man-drawn carriage” in Japanese), originally from Japan and introduced in Singapore in 1880 from Shanghai.²

Charles B. Buckley in his Benz “Motor-Velociped”, which was advertised as a “horseless carriage”. He and B. Frost of the Eastern Extension Telegraph were the first to own and drive the Benz in Singapore. Image reproduced from Makepeace, W., Brooke, G. E., & Braddell, R. St. J. (1921). One Hundred Years of Singapore (Vol. II). London: John Murray. (Call no.: RCLOS 959.51 MAK-[RFL]).

The Katz Brothers were the sole agents for Benz and Co.’s “Motor Velociped”, which was advertised as a “horseless carriage”. A favourable review in The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser described it as a “neat-looking four-wheeled carriage” that did not require an “expert driver”, but commented that its $1,600 price tag was “somewhat high”.³

Automobile ads continued to make reference to “horseless carriages” for decades afterwards, and well into the mid-1950s. This was usually to draw attention to the fact that the product or company had existed since the dawn of the automobile industry and had grown in tandem with it. Examples of such advertisements included those for Dunlop Tyres, Shell (formerly the Asiatic Petroleum Company) and Chloride Batteries Limited.

The introduction of automobiles was enthusiastically embraced by the who’s who of Singapore and Malaya. A certain B. Frost of the Eastern Extension Telegraph Company and subsequently Charles B. Buckley, publisher and famed author of An Anecdotal History of Singapore, were the first to own and drive the Benz in Singapore.⁴ Soon, more automobiles were brought into Singapore. The Benz was followed by the De Dion Bouton and then the Albion.⁵

All three models shared a reputation for being very noisy and hence did not require horns to make themselves heard. Buckley dubbed his car “The Coffee Machine” because of the awful grinding noises it made.⁶

Who Dares Wins

Singapore’s first lady motorist was Mrs G.M. Dare, who drove a Star motorcar before switching to a two-seater Adams-Hewitt in 1906.⁷  That year, car registration came into force and Mrs Dare enjoyed the distinction of driving Singapore’s first registered car, which bore the licence plate number S-1.⁸ She nicknamed her car “Ichiban” (Japanese for “Number One”), but the locals, amazed and possibly fearful in equal measures at seeing her at the wheel, called it the “Devil Wind Carriage”.⁹

Even more amazing was the fact that Mrs Dare clocked more than 69,000 miles (111,000 km) driving the car all over Singapore, Malaya, Java, England and Scotland.¹⁰  She is also credited for teaching driving to the first Malay to obtain a driving licence in Singapore, a chauffeur by the name of Hassan bin Mohamed.¹¹

THE RISE OF THE AUTOMOBILE

In 1907, the Singapore Automobile Club (SAC) was formed, with Governor John Anderson as its president. Notable members included the Sultan of Johor; Walter John Napier, a lawyer-academic who was the first editor of the Straits Settlements Law Reports; and E.G. Broadrick, president of the Singapore Municipality between 1904 and 1910 and later the British Resident of Selangor.¹² Remarkably, by 1908 – when the world automobile industry was still in its infancy¹³ – there were already 214 individuals in Singapore licensed to drive “motor-cars, motor-bicycles and steam-rollers”.¹⁴

Before the advent of the automobile in Singapore in 1896, the common modes of transportation back then were the horse-drawn carriage, bullock cart and jinrickshaw, 1880s. Courtesy of Editions Didier Millet

In June 1907, The Straits Times announced that it was devoting a special column to automobilism.¹⁵ The column started off as “Motors & Motoring” in 1910, was renamed “The Motoring World” in 1911 and ran until 1928.¹⁶ Its longevity was testimony to the fascination with cars among the paper’s readers, if not the general population.

The monthly Motor Car and Athletic Journal was launched in March 1908, but it proved short-lived and ceased publication after 12 issues.¹⁷ It was only in the 1930s that the Automobile Association of Malaya (AAM), which SAC became a branch of in 1932, began to venture into publishing, with Malayan Motorist (first issue 1933), Motoring in Malaya (1935), Handbook of the Automobile Association of Malaya (1939) and, much later, AAM News Bulletin (1949).¹⁸ Car advertisements were regularly featured in AAM’s magazines as well as in the newspapers.

Reliability and Affordability

Up until the 1920s, car advertisements in the United States and Europe tended to highlight the vehicles’ technical features in order to familiarise potential owners with the exciting yet intimidating new world of automobile technology.¹⁹ Manufacturers recognised that scepticism about dependability and reliability were major obstacles to widespread public acceptance of motor vehicles as a means of private transportation.²⁰

(Left)The first automobile in Singapore was advertised as a horseless carriage. Its claim as “being quite silent” was most likely an exaggeration. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 29 August 1896, p. 1. (Right) Instead of purchasing an expensive motorcycle or an even more costly automobile, the motorised bicycle was a viable alternative for those with a smaller budget. This advertisement shows a motorised wheel attached to the rear wheel of a bicycle to make it go faster. As there were no proper traffic rules in the early 20th century, people came up with ingenious ways to travel. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 10 March 1921, p.2.

 

It was a similar scenario in Singapore. Distributors and agents highlighted both the reliability and affordability of their vehicles by touting the technology behind the cars and their attractive prices. There were also attempts at associating prestige with the advertised cars, but this was meant to build brand reputation and reflected the manufacturers’ ambitions rather than consumers’ desire for high-end luxury vehicles.

Ford in Singapore

In 1909, just a year after Henry Ford’s iconic Model T was introduced in America and took the world by storm, Ford cars entered the Singapore market.²¹ Initially imported by Gadelius & Company, Ford’s presence grew in Singapore when the Ford Motor Company of Malaya was established in 1926 to supervise the supply and distribution of its products in Malaya, the Dutch East Indies, Siam and Borneo.²² It initially carried out car assembly work in a garage on Enggor Street before expanding to larger premises on nearby Prince Edward Road in 1930. In 1941, the company moved to a newly built factory in Bukit Timah.²³

Ford’s Consul Cortina was marketed as a woman’s “dream car”. The target customer as depicted in the advertisement here is a young, modern woman, suggesting the rising status of Singapore women in the 1960s. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1964, p. xxvii.

 

Throughout this time, as well as in the decade following the end of World War II, Ford’s advertisements in Singapore rarely departed from its marketing tactic of playing up the efficiency of its cars and competitive pricing.

Japanese Marques

From the late 1950s, Japanese-made cars became available in Singapore. By 1970, one in two cars purchased in Singapore was a Japanese model.²⁴ The main reason for their popularity? Value for money.

(Left) The Ford Factory building along Bukit Timah Road, which was designed in the Art Deco style, opened in 1941. According to this advertisement, the factory was producing an impressive seven models of cars and trucks, and capable of churning out 20 chassis and eight passenger car bodies per day. Image reproduced from AAM News Bulletin, November 1949.
(Right) Japanese marques like Datsun and Nissan scored successes at local and international races and rallies, and these achievements were regularly trumpeted in their advertisements. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 29 March 1967, p. 15.

 

Japanese cars were much cheaper than their American and European counterparts, and were winning races in both local and international motor competitions in the late 1960s. The advertisements cleverly highlighted these achievements and, at the same time, banked on the tried-and-tested formula of good value, efficiency as well as reliability to attract buyers.

 

TAXI! TAXI! First introduced in 1910, the taxi-cab service in Singapore was the brainchild of C.F.F. Wearne and Company. Singapore became the second city in Asia after Calcutta, India, to have such a service and it was lauded as being modern and affordable. Two Rover cars were fitted with “taximeters” and were initially used to provide a reservations-only private taxi service before obtaining the licence to ply the streets for public hire. At a charge of 40 cents per mile and with a seating capacity of five passengers, taxi-cab services worked out to be no more expensive than hiring a first-class rickshaw. A fleet of taxis along North Bridge Road, 1968. Meters were made compulsory for all licensed taxis by 1953. However, many private cars were used by unlicensed taxi drivers to ply the streets for hire. People negotiated fares with the driver and strangers could be picked up along the way to share the fare. George W. Porter Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.   In 1919, the Singapore Motor Taxi Cab and Transport Company Limited was incorporated in the Straits Settlements (comprising Singapore, Penang and Malacca) and published its prospectus in the local newspapers to raise $350,000 as capital. The company proposed starting a taxi service comprising a fleet of 40 Ford Landaulettes as taxi-cabs. The 20-horsepower six-seater Landaulette was distributed by C.F.F. Wearne and Company. The four-seater Trojan was promoted as a “private car, taxi or bus” that could halve the usual running expenses for a car. Image reproduced from The Singapore Free Press, 9 September 1925, p. 5.   By the end of 1920, the Singapore Taxicab Co. was advertising a “Call a Taxi” service in The Straits Times. Its blackand-yellow taxis were stationed at Raffles Place, General Post Office, Grand Hotel de l’Europe, Adelphi Hotel, Raffles Hotel and the company’s garage at 1 Orchard Road, ready to pick up passengers. The fare was 40 cents per mile – the same as when taxi services were introduced a decade earlier. Yellow Top Cabs first appeared in Singapore in 1933 and soon became a familiar sight on the streets. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 6 November 1933, p. 16. Abrams’ Motor Transport Company started a vehicle-for-hire scheme in the mid-1920s. Customers could hire a car or lorry at $3 per hour, which was touted as being cheaper than a taxi. Among the car models available for hire was the five-seater Gardner. In 1930, Borneo Motors Limited imported a new type of taximeter that could calculate fares automatically. Apparently there had been disputes between drivers and passengers over the correct fare to be paid (taximeters became compulsory only in 1953). The new taximeter had been used in other Asian cities such as Rangoon and Calcutta. Yellow Top Cabs – launched by Universal Cars Limited which claimed to have the lowest metered rates for closed cabs – made its debut in Singapore in 1933. Advertisements for Yellow Top Cabs between 1933 and 1934 sang praises of their cleanliness, efficiency and reliability. The cabs were available at taxi stands – at Raffles Place, Collyer Quay, Battery Road, Raffles Hotel, Stamford Road and Orchard Road – and could also be booked by telephone. After World War II, many private cars were used by unlicensed taxi drivers to ply the streets for hire. These illegal “pirate taxis” caused problems for both licensed taxi drivers as well as the authorities, although it was argued that they provided a much-needed public service. In 1970, the National Trades Union Congress started its Comfort taxi service and offered pirate taxi drivers the opportunity to join its operations. A total ban on pirate taxis came into force in July the following year.

 

1830s

Horse- and pony-drawn carriages were a common form of transportation throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries, along with rickshaws, before they were phased out by motor vehicles. Horses and carriages were auctioned in the municipal square and advertised in local newspapers such as the Singapore Chronicle. Images reproduced from Singapore Chronicle and Commercial Register, 30 April 1836, p. 2, and 9 July 1836, p.1.

1900s

Companies that imported automobiles as their core business did not emerge until the mid-20th century. Prior to that, cars were brought into Singapore by general importers such as Guthrie & Co. Ltd. Swift Cars was a manufacturer from Coventry, England. The company began as a sewing machine manufacturer, eventually expanding to bicycle and motorised cycles before finally taking on automobiles. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1907.

1920s

(Left) New Chevrolet car models touted as being “a class apart” from other cars with features such as beautiful colours that were long-wearing and weather resistant, and had “racy low-hung bodies”, “full-crowned mud-guards and a distinctive radiator”.
Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 23 July 1927, p.
(Right) The REO Flying Cloud was advertised as appealing to the sensibilities of both men and women. Image reproduced from British Malayan Annual, 1929, p. 32.

 

 

1930s

Car advertisements appeared regularly in magazines published by the Automobile Association of Malaya. This is an advertisement for Jaguar sports cars, which were available in 1.5-, 2.5- and 3.5-litre models. Image reproduced from Handbook of the Automobile
Association of Malaya, 1939.

 

1940s

An advertisement for the newly launched Morris Six. Image reproduced from AAM News Bulletin, November 1949.

 

1940s

(Left) Affordable Japanese-made cars were imported into Singapore in the late 1950s. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 25 February 1958, p. 4.
(Right) The Renault Dauphine had every detail worked out to “anticipate the desires of lady drivers or their male consorts”. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 15 February 1959, p. 9.

1960s

(Left) An advertisement touting the various features of the Mercedes Benz 250S, such as its powerful 6-cylinder engine, the ergonomically built seats, the reliable breaking system, and the light and quick steering. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1968, p. 136.
(Right) This advertisement portrays car ownership as a happy family ideal, with a picture perfect modern family admiring their brand new Morris motorcar. Image reproduced from Her World, November 1960.

 

Notes

Gretchen Liu casts the spotlight on the Lee Brothers Studio Collection. Comprising some 2,500 images, this is the largest single collection of photographic portraits in the National Archives of Singapore.

Between 1910 and 1940, Lee Brothers Photographers was a well-known landmark along Hill Street. In the years before amateur photography became widespread, hundreds of its clients – the prospering and aspiring, the famous and unknown, Chinese, Indian, Malay and European, resident and visitor – climbed the wooden steps to the top floor of a shophouse at No. 58-4 in search of that small bit of immortality: the studio portrait.

(Left) Lee Brothers Studio at 54-8 Hill Street, 1910s. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) The interior of Lee Brothers Studio at 54-8 Hill Street, 1920s. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The brothers started their business in the three-storey shophouse located prominently at the corner of Hill Street and Loke Yew Street. The corner location was ideal because the additional windows provided the main source of illumination and kept exposure times to a minimum. Typical of Victorian photographers, the studio was equipped with decorative painted backdrops imported from Shanghai and Europe, and various props ranging from imitation masonry, drapery, potted plants and porcelain dogs to toys for children, rustic benches and handsome drawing room chairs.

All of the equipment was of the best quality while the processing chemicals were the purest available. The British-made main studio camera was a large wooden affair with squared bellows connecting the front lens panel with a rear panel carrying the focusing screen and the plate holder. It rested on a heavy wooden stand that could be raised, lowered or tilted so as to frame the sitter appropriately, and was fitted with cast-iron castors for mobility.

Sharing the work behind the camera – adjusting the lens, inserting the treated glass plates, calculating the exposure times, removing the plates and processing them in the darkroom – were the Lee brothers, King Yan (1877–1957) and Poh Yan (1884–1960). For over half a century, from 1940 until 1994, copies of over 2,500 of these original photographs and some glass plate negatives were kept by Poh Yan’s eldest son, Lee Hin Ming. The photographs were mostly excess or uncollected prints while the negatives had been deliberately set aside. In 1994, this collection was entrusted to the National Archives by 80-year-old Hin Ming, thus ensuring the survival of a unique and eloquent record of the people of Singapore in the early years of the 20th century.

A Family of Photographers
Lee King Yan and Lee Poh Yan belonged to a large Cantonese family from the village of Siu Wong Nai Cheun (literally “Small Yellow Earth Village”) in Nam Hoi county, Guangdong province. According to family lineage records, the village was founded by Lee Shun Tsai from Zhejiang province in the 13th century.¹  From this village, members of the family ventured forth to operate more than a dozen photographic studios in Southeast Asia, including eight in Singapore.

The Lee family with Poh Yan and King Yan standing third and fourth from the left respectively. Marjorie Lau Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

King Yan and Poh Yan, who were born in China, belonged to the 21st generation and learned photography from their father, Lee Tit Loon. In its early days, the art of photography was considered a trade secret. In some European cities, photography was a protected profession that no one who had not served as an apprentice could join.² In the Lee family, it was the brothers and sons who handled the camera and processed the plates, while employees were engaged as retouchers, finishers and mounters.

By 1900, Tit Loon was managing the successful Koon Sun Photo Studio at 179 South Bridge Road. He had four surviving sons, three of whom became photographers: King Yan, Poh Yan and Sou Yan. The fourth, Chi Yan, was sent by the Methodist mission to study in the United States and became a minister and teacher until his early death in the mid-1920s. When Tit Loon retired to his home village, Koon Sun Photo Studio was left in the hands of Poh Yan and Sou Yan.

King Yan, however, struck out on his own. By 1911, he had established Lee Brothers Photographers at 58-4 Hill Street, and by 1913, Poh Yan had joined him. Younger brother Sou Yan continued to run Koon Sun for several years, closing it around 1917 before returning to China.

The move out of Chinatown and into the more salubrious Stamford Road area was significant. With a population of over 185,000, Singapore was one of the busiest ports in the world and the most cosmopolitan city in Asia. Nearly three-quarters of the population were Chinese, but there were large groups of peninsular Malays, Sumatrans, Javanese, Bugis, Boyanese, Indians, Ceylonese, Arabs, Jews, Eurasians and Europeans.³ Men still outnumbered women by eight to one but there was a steady increase in the number of Chinese women immigrants and more babies being born in the Straits Settlements,⁴  a fact reflected by the impressive number of baby and family photographs in the Lee Brothers Collection.

It wasn’t long before King Yan and Poh Yan were photographing many of the well-known personalities of the day, including Dr Lim Boon Keng, Mr and Mrs Song Ong Siang, Mr and Mrs Lee Choon Guan, Dr Hu Tsai Kuan, rubber planter Lim Chong Pang, rubber merchant Teo Eng Hock, banker Seet Tiong Wah, the families of Tan Kim Seng and Tan Kah Kee, and Dr Sun Yat Sen during his historic visits to Singapore.

Many of the photographs in Song Ong Siang’s landmark 1923 publication, One Hundred Years’ History of the Chinese in Singapore, were supplied by Lee Brothers Studio.⁵ The Methodist missionaries who patronised the brothers – both active church members – included Sophia Blackmore, the founder of Methodist Girls’ School.

The photographs of these luminaries are found among the many more captivating portraits of the anonymous, but obviously prospering, inhabitants of Singapore: plump satisfied towkays, formidable nonyas of all ages bedecked with exquisite jewellery, European merchants and their well-dressed wives, beguiling wedding couples and, perhaps most endearing of all, enchanting family portraits of all races.

In the early 1920s, the two brothers parted company on amicable terms and King Yan opened Eastern Studio on Stamford Road. The decision may have been dictated by domestic circumstances as both men had large and still growing families. The 1923 edition of Seaports of the Far East contained a highly flattering description of Eastern Studio that highlighted King Yan’s expertise: “One of the best photographers in Singapore is Mr Lee Keng (sic) Yan, proprietor of the Eastern Studio, who has been operating locally for thirty years, and is an expert in every branch of his trade”.⁶

King Yan came to Singapore with his father in 1891 as an apprentice photographer. In 1897, he married Tong Oi Yuet in St Stephen’s Church in Hong Kong. They returned to Singapore and had 12 children. Three of his sons became photographers. A Methodist and an active YMCA member, King Yan was one of the first in Singapore to cut off his queue and was known in photographic circles as mo pin lou or “the man with no pigtail”.

Lee King Yan behind the camera. Marjorie Lau Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

On the eve of World War II, King Yan evacuated Eastern Studio because of vibrations to the shophouse structure caused by the frequent passing of heavy trucks along Stamford Road. He continued to operate Venus Studio in nearby Eu Court, a branch of Eastern Studio that he had opened in the 1930s. Unfortunately, these premises were damaged during a Japanese air raid, and the archive of negatives and prints destroyed. After the war, King Yan continued to work from his home at 26 Dublin Road. When he died in 1957 at age 80, his obituary in The Straits Times described him as “one of the pioneers of photography in the country” and the “grand old man of photography”.⁷

Poh Yan, who maintained an avid interest in new advances in photography throughout his life, married Soh Moo Hin in China in 1902 and they raised 13 children. Two sons became involved in photography. Lee Hin Ming, the eldest, ran the family-owned photographic supply company Wah Heng for many years and was also a founder and director of Rainbow Colour Service. Youngest son Francis Lee Wai Ming developed a keen interest in photography, kindled by watching his father in the darkroom, and bought his first camera with the profits made from taking identity card photos for fellow students at St Andrew’s School. He became a freelance photojournalist in the 1950s.

For many years, the business premises of Lee Brothers at Hill Street doubled as the family home and the older children were called upon to perform simple tasks in the studio. The ground floor was used mainly as storage. The first floor front room was the reception area with the living quarters behind. The top floor contained the studio and darkroom. At night, the reception area became the children’s bedroom as mats were unrolled and spread out on the floor. As the number of children increased, more living space was secured in a block of flats behind on Loke Yew Street.

When the Hill Street studio was acquired for redevelopment in the 1930s, Poh Yan moved to a smaller unit nearby at the corner of Hill Street and St Gregory’s Place. Business had, by this time, steadily declined due to the economic depression and the popularity of amateur photography. At the time of the move, three-quarters of the firm’s glass plate negatives had to be destroyed because of insufficient storage space.

With the imminent outbreak of World War II, Poh Yan permanently closed the studio. Although some family members continued to reside in the Hill Street shophouse, he and his wife moved to a farm at the eighth mile of Thomson Road. He passed away in 1960 at the age of 76.

The last of the family’s photographic enterprises to survive was Wah Heng and Co., importers of photographic materials at 95 North Bridge Road, of which King Yan, Poh Yan and their many cousins were shareholders. The firm stocked a “remarkable range of goods” for both beginners and experts in photography, and did business “throughout the Straits Settlements, Federated Malay States and the Dutch East Indies”.⁸

Studio Portraits
The Lee brothers were practitioners of a tradition that began with the invention of photography by Frenchman Louis Daguerre in 1839. The possibilities of studio portraiture were seized upon as the most exciting benefit of the new invention. The daguerreotype photographic method spread quickly and became available in Singapore by 1843 when G. Dutronquoy, proprietor of the London Hotel, placed an advertisement in The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser on 4 December 1843, promising that a picture can be taken “in the astonishing short space of two minutes”, “free from all blemish” and “in every respect perfect likenesses”.⁹

(Left) Lee King Yan with his wife and children, 1919. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) Lee Poh Yan (holding child on lap) with his wife and children, c.1930. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

In the 1860s, portrait photography was further invigorated by the introduction of the inexpensive carte-de-visite in France. Originally intended as a visiting card with a photographic portrait mounted on it, such cards were later produced in great numbers for friends’ albums.¹⁰ A further revolution took place not long after with the introduction of superior paper photographs made with the wet collodion process, or wet plate process. This new method gave a high-quality negative on glass with excellent resolution of detail from which an unlimited number of prints could be made.¹¹

The commercial possibilities of the wet plate process were staggering. Any quantity of prints could be ordered from the best results of a studio session, and supplied at terms attractive to both photographer and customer. The first to exploit this technical advance in Singapore was Edward A. Edgerton who, in 1858, advertised his “photographic and stereoscopic portrait” services at his Stamford Street residence.¹²

Another early European photographer who established a photo studio in the settlement was John Thomson, who went on to become one of the most celebrated of all 19th-century photographers. He arrived in Singapore in 1862 equipped with the knowledge of the latest advances in commercial photography in Europe, and advertised a range of new services involving “micro-photographs”.¹³

Of all the European studios, however, the most enduring was G.R. Lambert & Co, which operated from the 1880s until around 1917. The official photographers to the King of Siam and Sultan of Johor as well as for major political events in Malaya, G.R. Lambert & Co maintained branch offices in Sumatra, Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok. By the turn of the century, the firm had amassed one of the “finest collections of landscape views in the East, comprising about 3,000 subjects which were mainly purchased by globe-trotters as travel souvenirs and pasted into large leather-bound albums”.¹⁴

Chinese photographers were also active in Singapore in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as evidenced by the many examples of their work that have survived in family albums or turned up in antique shops. Such photographs are usually mounted on cardboard and carry names such as Pun Loon at High Street, Poh Wah at Upper Chin Chew Street, and Kwong Sun, Koon Hin and Guan Seng along South Bridge Road. While important examples of historic photography in their own right, the subjects are often posed stiffly and lack individual character.

In contrast, the Lee brothers achieved both subtlety and naturalness in their work. Their genius lay in their ability to combine the technician’s dispassionate skill with the camera, the scientist’s understanding of the subtleties of the darkroom and the artist’s finely developed sense of human character and human expression.

In many of the portraits found in the collection – all of which were taken circa 1910 to the mid-1920s – a dignity and timeless elegance is apparent, which tempts us to look upon the faces of those who climbed the steps to Lee Brothers Studio as though we might almost know them today.

All photos are from the Lee Brothers Studio Collection. Identities of the subjects are unknown as these photos are unrecorded excess or uncollected prints kept by the Lee Brothers Studio.

Notes

Raphaël Millet sits through a B-grade movie dismissed by critics as belonging to the genre of Eurospy flicks that parody James Bond – and discovers a slice of Singaporean celluloid history.

Few foreign films, especially Western ones, have ever been shot completely on location in Singapore. In the latter half of the 1960s, a handful of low-budget commercial European films – or B-grade movies, to borrow a term from the film industry – were produced with the Lion City as an exotic backdrop. These “Eurospy films”, a variation of the broader “super spy” genre, were obvious rip-offs of the James Bond series by Ian Fleming and were especially popular in Germany, Italy, France and Spain. When the first Bond movie Dr No was released in 1962, it was swiftly followed up by a string of copycat European films based on Secret Agent 007.

The French-Dutch poster for Five Ashore in Singapore, 1967. After its initial premiere in France, the film was released in other parts of Europe and North America, where it was screened in cinemas right into 1968. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

The “super spy” craze peaked between 1966 and 1968 and included a few shot-in-Singapore films like So Darling So Deadly (1966),¹ Suicide Mission to Singapore (1966)² and Five Ashore in Singapore (1967). Apart from rare mentions in articles or books,³ Precious little has been written about these films, even though they all captured Singapore at a time of change in the first few months or years following its independence in 1965. Of these three films, the most outstanding is Five Ashore in Singapore.

OSS 117, the “French Bond”

 Five Ashore in Singapore (see text box) was a French-Italian collaboration between producers Pierre Kalfon and Georges Chappedelaine of Les Films Number One in Paris, and Franco Riganti and Antonio Cervi of Franco Riganti Productions in Rome. The international distribution of the film was handled by Rank Organisation, a British conglomerate created in the late 1930s.

Two versions of the film were produced simultaneously: one in English and the other in French, which is why the producers took pains to cast as many actors as possible who were bilingual so that they could play their parts in both languages. Only the few main actors who were not conversant in French had to be dubbed along with all the Singaporean extras.

Five Ashore in Singapore is the film adaptation of the 1959 French novel, Cinq gars pour Singapour, by the prolific French writer Jean Bruce. Literally translated as “Five Guys for Singapore”, the title is a clever pun on the name of the city because cinq-gars-pour, when said quickly, sounds exactly like “Singapour”. Pictured here is the cover of the first edition of the book published by Presses de la Cité in 1959. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

Based on the 1959 novel Cinq gars pour Singapour by the prolific French writer Jean Bruce (1921–63), the film was initially titled OSS 117 Goes to Singapore after the spy novel series, OSS 117, which Bruce created in 1949. The story centres around the secret agent Hubert Bonnisseur de la Bath, who worked for the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, during World War II. Like his spy novelist counterpart Ian Fleming, Bruce set his adventures in cities such as Tokyo, Bangkok, Caracas and Istanbul for the “exoticism” these places evoked in the minds of Western audiences. Naturally, Singapore was selected as the setting for Five Ashore in Singapore.

In real-life, the code number 117 was assigned to William L. Langer, chief of the OSS Research and Analysis Branch whom Bruce had reportedly met during World War II when the latter was involved with the French Resistance. Interestingly, while OSS 117 has been called the “French Bond” after the famous British Secret Service agent, Bruce’s French agent actually pre-dates James Bond by four years (Ian Fleming’s first Bond novel Casino Royale was published only in 1953). Furthermore, the archetypal three-digit code name 117 existed long before Fleming decided to call his character Agent 007.⁴

Even the silver screen adaptation of OSS 117 precedes James Bond: the French language OSS 117 n’est pas mort (OSS 117 Is Not Dead) was produced in 1956 and commercially released in 1957.

On the other hand, Dr No, the first James Bond film, was produced in 1962. In the 1960s, the OSS 117 character was again featured in a successful Eurospy film series directed by French filmmakers André Hunebelle (in 1963, 1964, 1965 and 1968) and by Michel Boisrond (in 1966). On these occasions, the lead role was played initially by American Kerwin Mathews, and subsequently by Frederick Stafford.⁵

OSS 117 Becomes Art Smith in Singapore

It is within the context of the successful Eurospy craze that French producer Pierre Kalfon offered director Bernard Toublanc-Michel the chance to adapt another OSS 117 story, Cinq gars pour Singapour. Due to copyright issues, unresolvable because Jean Bruce had died a few years earlier, neither the character Hubert Bonnisseur de la Bath nor his codename OSS 117 could be used in the film.

The lead character, Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency, is played by Sean Flynn, son of legendary Hollywood actor Errol Flynn and French actress Lili Damita. The younger Flynn was then taking a break from his photojournalism stint in Vietnam during the war. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

Hence in the movie, the hero is renamed Art Smith. A clear playful allusion is nevertheless made at the beginning of the movie when a car waiting for him at Singapore’s old Paya Lebar Airport is numbered 117.

Five Ashore in Singapore, like so many similar B-flicks, has a very simple plot that closely follows that of the original novel. Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency is sent to Singapore to investigate the whereabouts of several US Marines who mysteriously disappear while on shore leave. Upon his arrival, Smith meets four Marines who volunteer to assist him. Together, the five men pretend to be a group of Marines looking for a good time, but in fact hoping to be caught in the same trap as their missing colleagues.

Their search takes them all around Singapore, and eventually leads them to a mad scientist who has apparently kidnapped the marines for a diabolical experiment. This lame twist in the film’s finale is typical of super spy stories: however credible as a narrative, they generally end on a weak and often implausible note. Nevertheless, what makes Five Ashore in Singapore particularly noteworthy is its value as a documentary that captures realistic scenes of 1960s Singapore.

From R&R to I&I

Following the end of World War II, the US military used Singapore’s facilities for the repair and refuelling of its ships and aircraft, and also as a “shore leave” destination for troops stationed in various conflict zones throughout Asia.

In addition, on the orders of US President Harry Truman, from as early as July 1950, hundreds of American military “advisers” accompanied a flow of American tanks, planes, artillery and other aid supplies to the French forces in Vietnam embroiled in the first Indochina War.⁶ Many of these military personnel, inbound or outbound of Vietnam, transited at one time or another in Singapore.

By the time director Bernard Toublanc-Michel adapted Bruce’s novel into a movie in 1966, American involvement in Vietnam had dramatically escalated, with active combat units joining the fray in 1965 onwards to wage war against the communist forces of the north. This development impacted Singapore directly as demand grew for a Rest & Recuperation (R&R) programme for American troops. All active US military personnel serving in Vietnam were eligible for a five-day R&R during their tour of duty – after 13 months in the case of Marines, and 12 months for soldiers, sailors and airmen – in places such as Singapore, Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, Penang, Manila, Seoul, Taipei and Tokyo.

Soldiers nicknamed these breaks “I&I”, or “Intoxication and Intercourse”, as these outings were invariably fuelled by plenty of alcohol, drugs and sex. Singapore, true to its form then, was depicted as a rather seedy and dangerous city in publicity materials that were issued when Cinq gars pour Singapour was released in France in March 1967. The press release took pains to highlight the fact that American Marines are routinely warned to behave with discretion when they are in Singapore for R&R, including dressing as civilians when travelling in the city, because there has been cases where local boys had tried to pick a fight.⁷

Accident scene in Chinatown. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

In an interview given at his apartment near Paris on 1 June 2018, Toublanc-Michel said that the geopolitical context of Singapore against the backdrop of the Vietnam War was what made the adaptation of Bruce’s OSS 117 novel Cinq gars pour Singapour so interesting to him: it gave him the opportunity to explore and expose what he calls “les à-côtés de la guerre” (“extra income and activities”) that was generated on the sidelines of the war.⁸

In this sense, Bruce’s novel and its film adaptation by Toublanc-Michel also pre-date Paul Theroux’s 1973 novel Saint Jack and its subsequent 1979 film adaptation by Peter Bogdanovich depicting American soldiers in Singapore on R&R during the Vietnam War and the pimps who provide them with the necessary “entertainment”.⁹

Direct mention of the Vietnam War is made in Five Ashore in Singapore when the Marines led by Captain Art Smith take refuge in a movie theatre, where a newsreel in Malay addressing the Vietnam conflict and showing images of North Vietnamese troops is screened. Real American vessels are also seen anchored in the Singapore Strait – Pierre Kalfon had managed to obtain from the US military a permit to film these scenes, much to Toublanc-Michel’s delight¹⁰ – a rare visual testament of US naval power in Singapore waters at the time.

The background setting of the Vietnam War is made even more significant by the fact that the lead character Art Smith is played by Sean Flynn, son of legendary Hollywood actor Errol Flynn (and Hollywood-based French actress Lili Damita). The younger Flynn was taking a break from his photojournalism stint in Vietnam, where he had arrived in January 1966 as a freelance photo-reporter, working occasionally for magazines like Paris Match, Time, Life and the Daily Telegraph. Flynn quickly made a name for himself and earned the reputation of being a high-octane risk-taking photojournalist along the likes of British photographer Tim Page and American photojournalist Dana Stone, both of whom Flynn had befriended in Vietnam.

Sean Flynn (standing), who plays Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency, in action with an unnamed Singaporean actor. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

As freelance photojournalism did not pay well, Flynn went back to acting – something he had done from time to time since his teen years – to earn a fast buck. As Flynn had been in Vietnam and witnessed real action there, his sheer presence lent the film an added layer of authenticity.¹¹ As it turned out, Five Ashore was to be Flynn’s last screen appearance before he returned to Vietnam to cover the war. He mysteriously disappeared in the spring of 1970 near the frontier between Cambodia and Vietnam, never to be found again. Flynn’s mother would reluctantly declare him dead in absentia in 1984.

Singapore in the Summer of 1966

Five Ashore in Singapore was filmed on Eastmancolor, a colour film technology introduced in 1950, and shot entirely on location in Singapore between August and October 1966. When Bernard Toublanc-Michel was first approached by producer Pierre Kalfon to direct the screen adaptation of Bruce’s book, he had insisted that the entire film be shot on location in Singapore.¹²

The rest is history: a total of 52 locations were used in the film,¹³ than this wild bunch of hard-drinking and brawling Marines.

The story begins on 5 August 1966, as indicated in the visa stamped on Art Smith’s passport on his arrival in Singapore. It was just a few days before the fledgling republic celebrated its first National Day on 9 August, a week-long calendar of festivities that included a parade, fireworks displays and cultural shows. In the film, numerous glimpses of the national flag can be seen on the streets and on buildings, as well as billboards and banners with the words “Majulah Singapura”, which had been officially adopted as Singapore’s national anthem in 1965.

Having assisted New Wave film luminaries such as Agnès Varda and Jean-Luc Godard in their work, Toublanc-Michel was very familiar with portable film equipment that required little or no set-up time. Thus, he was ready to shoot nearly anywhere and at any time in Singapore, using two handheld cameras operated by director of photography Jean Charvein and cameraman Jean-Marc Ripert.¹⁴

In this way Toublanc-Michel was able to inject a documentary-like feel to his film, a characteristic captured by the numerous seemingly “stolen shots” of the city – of people and places caught unawares, something he remains particularly proud of¹⁵. With its tight budget, Five Ashore in Singapore could not afford to have entire streets or plazas cordoned off, nor could it hire dozens of extras.

To prepare for the scenes, Toublanc-Michel had his actors rehearse beforehand in the courtyard of the Cathay-Keris Studio on East Coast Road or at the Ocean Park Hotel next door where they were staying. Following the rehearsal, he would take his actors to the film location in a taxi, and have them wait while he discreetly positioned his two cameramen. The actors would emerge from the waiting taxi only when the director beckoned to them, walking into the scene to play their parts extemporaneously amidst whoever was present.¹⁶ In this way, real passers-by were filmed watching the film being shot and unwittingly became part of a scene.

For Western audiences, one of the main draws of the film was to view the “real” Singapore with their own eyes. Instead of the typical backwater Asian city that they had expected to see, the audience was surprised to find a unique place burgeoning with “impressive buildings, luxury shops, grand hotels and traffic jams”,¹⁷ a place where the East and the West meet, to use a cliché.

To add a frisson of tension to the film, press materials highlighted the simmering undercurrents and often prickly relationship between the races, making reference to Chinese, Malays and Indians who “cohabit, but do not sympathise, distrust each other and reciprocally accuse each other”.¹⁸ This specific reference could have been a nod to the bloody racial riots of 1964.

Singapore is also melodramatically described in the press release as an unsafe city to live in: “At night, Singapore is very vibrant and even dangerous. Vibrant because people live on the streets[…]. Dangerous because there are frequent quarrels. Men of all races and all horizons have disappeared in it without leaving a trace, or have been found in back alleys with their throats cut”.¹⁹ The disquieting backdrop serves as the perfect setting for the hammy cloak-and-dagger film plot.

An International Cast (and Some Locals)

The main cast of Five Ashore in Singapore was international, with actors chosen not only for their good looks and talent, but also for their fluency in both English and French. The film was shot in both languages to avoid unnecessary dubbing during post-production work. Pure action scenes mostly required just one take, while heavily dialogued scenes with close-ups required two takes: the first in English, the second in French.²⁰ The two versions of the film are still in circulation today, and each presents a slightly different edit from the other.

Sean Flynn – in what would be his final and, in this writer’s opinion, his best role yet – plays Art Smith with such detached nonchalance that he lends his character a certain mix of sangfroid and casual insouciance that most latter-day OSS 117 and perhaps even some James Bond screen incarnations have never been able to replicate. The other main male roles of the Marines went to American Dennis Berry, who had grown up in the US and France;²¹ British middleweight boxer and former world champion Terry Downes; polyglot Franco-Swiss Marc Michel, who had recently gained fame for his part in Jacques Demy’s 1961 film Lola; and the well-travelled Frenchman Bernard Meusnier. To look like real American Marines, the actors were given a crew cut by the hairdresser of the US Embassy in Paris before they arrived in Singapore.

Sean Flynn (left) as Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency, Swiss actor Marc Michel as one of the Marines, and an unnamed Singaporean extra. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

The main female lead went to Swedish-French model and actress Marika Green, who had recently gained fame for her role in Robert Bresson’s 1959 film, Pickpocket. ²² With her shapely figure and requisite long legs, the actress was the perfect “Bond Girl”. All these performers were bilingual with the exception of Briton Terry Downes, whose lines had to be dubbed in French.

The main female lead was played by Swedish-French model and actress Marika Green. With her blonde hair and shapely long legs, the actress was the perfect “Bond Girl”. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

Several of the film’s key Asian supporting roles unfortunately followed in the tradition of “yellowface”, an early practice in the West (mostly on Broadway and in Hollywood) that saw Asian roles played by white actors. Hence, the mad scientist Ta Chouen was played by the Italian Andrea Aureli (credited by his Americanised stage name Andrew Ray); mama-san Tchin Saw by Trudy Connor; treacherous middleman Ten Sin, an improbable “Chinese” wearing a cap that resembles more a Muslim songkok, and played by Italian actor Jessy Greek (whose real name was Enzo Musumeci Greco); and odd-job man Kafir played by William Brix. All either wore terrible make-up, or appeared sans make-up, which only exaggerates the stereotyping to the point where one wonders if the yellowfacing was deliberate.

However, a couple of Singaporean talents did get a chance to act. For example, Ismail Boss²³ played the role of a mean Malay thug who kidnaps the American Marines. He was described in the press materials as an amateur actor who had been talent spotted by the production team whilst they were recceing a Malay stilt village where he lived.

The female role of Tsi Houa was played by Chan See Foon (credited as “See Foon” without her surname in the film).²⁴ Chan had been one of Singapore’s early supermodels. After having won the title of Varsity Queen in university, she began modelling and played occasional bit parts on TV and in film. In Five Ashore in Singapore, she has a full scene with Sean Flynn on Pulau Brani in which her baby is forcibly taken away from her before she dies in an explosion. A few other minor Asian roles were given to Singaporeans too, such as the part of local boys played by actors Abdullah Ramand and Lim Hong Chin.

Chan See Foon, one of Singapore’s early supermodels, plays Tsi Houa. She has a full scene, first with Sean Flynn who plays Captain Art Smith and then with Swiss actor Marc Michel who plays one of the Marines. In this scene on Pulau Brani, Tsi Houa’s baby is forcibly taken away from her before she dies in an explosion. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

The Singapore production manager G.S. Heng was a producer employed by Cathay-Keris for many years under the command of general manager Tom Hodge. Cathay had excellent shooting facilities at its Katong studio on East Coast Road, which was used by many overseas productions, including Five Ashore in Singapore for its nightclub and opium den scenes. Next to the studio was Ocean Park Hotel (also owned by Cathay Organisation), where the cast and crew were conveniently accommodated during the entire duration of the shoot, and where a party scene was filmed.

Today, Five Ashore in Singapore remains as a little-known but precious piece in the history of film in Singapore. Bringing together an international cast along with a few local actors, it captured the Lion City at a time of historic change. With its editing completed in January 1967, Five Ashore was commercially released in March 1967 in France – where it enjoyed a particularly long run at the Balzac Theatre in Paris – with a PG-13 rating. The film was subsequently released in Europe and North America where it was shown in cinemas right into the beginning of 1968.

Five Ashore in Singapore was retitled and released on 17 February 1968 in Singapore as Our Five Men in Singapore. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 22 February 1968, p. 4.

As for Singapore, the film was retitled as Our Five Men in Singapore and opened on 17 February 1968 at the Odeon cinema on North Bridge Road. Advertisements enticed would-be patrons to catch the “exciting street fight in Katong” and “exotic back alleys of Chinatown”, and touted it as “filmed entirely on location in Singapore”. Perhaps this is the main reason why we should watch the film – regardless of the half-dozen titles it is known by – and recapture a slice of 1960s Singapore.

Action scenes filmed in Chinatown. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

A Movie By Any Other Name Like similar B-movies of the era, the film went by several different titles. The English version in the United Kingdom was called Five Ashore in Singapore, and in the United States as the double-barrelled Singapore, Singapore. 25 Inexplicably, in Singapore it was first announced as Singapore Mission for Five, 26 before being eventually retitled and released as Our Five Men in Singapore in February 1968. Its original title Cinq gars pour Singapour is French, as this is the title of the French novel it is adapted from. Cinq gars pour Singapour, when literally translated, means “Five guys for Singapore” – cinq is “five”, gars is “guys” and pour is “for” – and is a clever phonetic pun on the name of the city, since cinq-gars-pour (when said quickly) sounds exactly like “Singapour”. (Top) A Yugoslavian lobby card with the film title translated into Serbian – Pet Momaka za Singapour. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet. (Left) The French press kit of Five Ashore in Singapore. The film was commercially released in March 1967 in France, where it enjoyed a long run at the Balzac Theatre in Paris. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet. (Right) The Italian film poster for Five Ashore in Singapore, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.   The pun is lost in translation of course, but details such as the number of male protagonists and location were kept intact in most of the titles of the foreign-language versions that were either dubbed or subtitled, for example Cinco Marinos en Singapur in Spanish (also Cinco Muchachos en Singapur in Argentina), Cinque Marines per Singapore in Italian, Vijf Kerels Voor Singapore in Dutch, and Pet Momaka za Singapour in Serbian for the Yugoslavian version of the film.

Spy Music The music for Five Ashore in Singapore was composed by renowned French composer Antoine Duhamel, who had just begun his career by scoring French New Wave films by legendary directors Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut. At the request of Five Ashore’s director Bernard Toublanc-Michel, he composed Somewhere in Singapore (also known as the Marines’ March – “La marche des Marines” in French) with lyrics by Jimmy Parramore. Cover of the French record album of Five Ashore in Singapore, 1967. The music for the film was composed by renowned French composer Antoine Duhamel. © Barclay Editions. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.   Quite brazenly, the song was directly based on the melody of the now iconic Yellow Submarine, the Beatles’ number one hit in 1966. Indeed, Toublanc-Michel had asked his actors who played the five Marines to stride out of Clifford Pier with the Beatles’ song playing in their heads, so as to lend a certain rhythm to their swagger. Other melodies with no lyrics composed by Duhamel include Paradise Limited for the club scene and Thème de la drogue (the drug theme) for the opium den scene.

Gretchen Liu casts the spotlight on the Lee Brothers Studio Collection. Comprising some 2,500 images, this is the largest single collection of photographic portraits in the National Archives of Singapore.

Between 1910 and 1940, Lee Brothers Photographers was a well-known landmark along Hill Street. In the years before amateur photography became widespread, hundreds of its clients – the prospering and aspiring, the famous and unknown, Chinese, Indian, Malay and European, resident and visitor – climbed the wooden steps to the top floor of a shophouse at No. 58-4 in search of that small bit of immortality: the studio portrait.

(Left) Lee Brothers Studio at 54-8 Hill Street, 1910s. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) The interior of Lee Brothers Studio at 54-8 Hill Street, 1920s. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The brothers started their business in the three-storey shophouse located prominently at the corner of Hill Street and Loke Yew Street. The corner location was ideal because the additional windows provided the main source of illumination and kept exposure times to a minimum. Typical of Victorian photographers, the studio was equipped with decorative painted backdrops imported from Shanghai and Europe, and various props ranging from imitation masonry, drapery, potted plants and porcelain dogs to toys for children, rustic benches and handsome drawing room chairs.

All of the equipment was of the best quality while the processing chemicals were the purest available. The British-made main studio camera was a large wooden affair with squared bellows connecting the front lens panel with a rear panel carrying the focusing screen and the plate holder. It rested on a heavy wooden stand that could be raised, lowered or tilted so as to frame the sitter appropriately, and was fitted with cast-iron castors for mobility.

Sharing the work behind the camera – adjusting the lens, inserting the treated glass plates, calculating the exposure times, removing the plates and processing them in the darkroom – were the Lee brothers, King Yan (1877–1957) and Poh Yan (1884–1960). For over half a century, from 1940 until 1994, copies of over 2,500 of these original photographs and some glass plate negatives were kept by Poh Yan’s eldest son, Lee Hin Ming. The photographs were mostly excess or uncollected prints while the negatives had been deliberately set aside. In 1994, this collection was entrusted to the National Archives by 80-year-old Hin Ming, thus ensuring the survival of a unique and eloquent record of the people of Singapore in the early years of the 20th century.

A Family of Photographers
Lee King Yan and Lee Poh Yan belonged to a large Cantonese family from the village of Siu Wong Nai Cheun (literally “Small Yellow Earth Village”) in Nam Hoi county, Guangdong province. According to family lineage records, the village was founded by Lee Shun Tsai from Zhejiang province in the 13th century.¹  From this village, members of the family ventured forth to operate more than a dozen photographic studios in Southeast Asia, including eight in Singapore.

The Lee family with Poh Yan and King Yan standing third and fourth from the left respectively. Marjorie Lau Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

King Yan and Poh Yan, who were born in China, belonged to the 21st generation and learned photography from their father, Lee Tit Loon. In its early days, the art of photography was considered a trade secret. In some European cities, photography was a protected profession that no one who had not served as an apprentice could join.² In the Lee family, it was the brothers and sons who handled the camera and processed the plates, while employees were engaged as retouchers, finishers and mounters.

By 1900, Tit Loon was managing the successful Koon Sun Photo Studio at 179 South Bridge Road. He had four surviving sons, three of whom became photographers: King Yan, Poh Yan and Sou Yan. The fourth, Chi Yan, was sent by the Methodist mission to study in the United States and became a minister and teacher until his early death in the mid-1920s. When Tit Loon retired to his home village, Koon Sun Photo Studio was left in the hands of Poh Yan and Sou Yan.

King Yan, however, struck out on his own. By 1911, he had established Lee Brothers Photographers at 58-4 Hill Street, and by 1913, Poh Yan had joined him. Younger brother Sou Yan continued to run Koon Sun for several years, closing it around 1917 before returning to China.

The move out of Chinatown and into the more salubrious Stamford Road area was significant. With a population of over 185,000, Singapore was one of the busiest ports in the world and the most cosmopolitan city in Asia. Nearly three-quarters of the population were Chinese, but there were large groups of peninsular Malays, Sumatrans, Javanese, Bugis, Boyanese, Indians, Ceylonese, Arabs, Jews, Eurasians and Europeans.³ Men still outnumbered women by eight to one but there was a steady increase in the number of Chinese women immigrants and more babies being born in the Straits Settlements,⁴  a fact reflected by the impressive number of baby and family photographs in the Lee Brothers Collection.

It wasn’t long before King Yan and Poh Yan were photographing many of the well-known personalities of the day, including Dr Lim Boon Keng, Mr and Mrs Song Ong Siang, Mr and Mrs Lee Choon Guan, Dr Hu Tsai Kuan, rubber planter Lim Chong Pang, rubber merchant Teo Eng Hock, banker Seet Tiong Wah, the families of Tan Kim Seng and Tan Kah Kee, and Dr Sun Yat Sen during his historic visits to Singapore.

Many of the photographs in Song Ong Siang’s landmark 1923 publication, One Hundred Years’ History of the Chinese in Singapore, were supplied by Lee Brothers Studio.⁵ The Methodist missionaries who patronised the brothers – both active church members – included Sophia Blackmore, the founder of Methodist Girls’ School.

The photographs of these luminaries are found among the many more captivating portraits of the anonymous, but obviously prospering, inhabitants of Singapore: plump satisfied towkays, formidable nonyas of all ages bedecked with exquisite jewellery, European merchants and their well-dressed wives, beguiling wedding couples and, perhaps most endearing of all, enchanting family portraits of all races.

In the early 1920s, the two brothers parted company on amicable terms and King Yan opened Eastern Studio on Stamford Road. The decision may have been dictated by domestic circumstances as both men had large and still growing families. The 1923 edition of Seaports of the Far East contained a highly flattering description of Eastern Studio that highlighted King Yan’s expertise: “One of the best photographers in Singapore is Mr Lee Keng (sic) Yan, proprietor of the Eastern Studio, who has been operating locally for thirty years, and is an expert in every branch of his trade”.⁶

King Yan came to Singapore with his father in 1891 as an apprentice photographer. In 1897, he married Tong Oi Yuet in St Stephen’s Church in Hong Kong. They returned to Singapore and had 12 children. Three of his sons became photographers. A Methodist and an active YMCA member, King Yan was one of the first in Singapore to cut off his queue and was known in photographic circles as mo pin lou or “the man with no pigtail”.

Lee King Yan behind the camera. Marjorie Lau Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

On the eve of World War II, King Yan evacuated Eastern Studio because of vibrations to the shophouse structure caused by the frequent passing of heavy trucks along Stamford Road. He continued to operate Venus Studio in nearby Eu Court, a branch of Eastern Studio that he had opened in the 1930s. Unfortunately, these premises were damaged during a Japanese air raid, and the archive of negatives and prints destroyed. After the war, King Yan continued to work from his home at 26 Dublin Road. When he died in 1957 at age 80, his obituary in The Straits Times described him as “one of the pioneers of photography in the country” and the “grand old man of photography”.⁷

Poh Yan, who maintained an avid interest in new advances in photography throughout his life, married Soh Moo Hin in China in 1902 and they raised 13 children. Two sons became involved in photography. Lee Hin Ming, the eldest, ran the family-owned photographic supply company Wah Heng for many years and was also a founder and director of Rainbow Colour Service. Youngest son Francis Lee Wai Ming developed a keen interest in photography, kindled by watching his father in the darkroom, and bought his first camera with the profits made from taking identity card photos for fellow students at St Andrew’s School. He became a freelance photojournalist in the 1950s.

For many years, the business premises of Lee Brothers at Hill Street doubled as the family home and the older children were called upon to perform simple tasks in the studio. The ground floor was used mainly as storage. The first floor front room was the reception area with the living quarters behind. The top floor contained the studio and darkroom. At night, the reception area became the children’s bedroom as mats were unrolled and spread out on the floor. As the number of children increased, more living space was secured in a block of flats behind on Loke Yew Street.

When the Hill Street studio was acquired for redevelopment in the 1930s, Poh Yan moved to a smaller unit nearby at the corner of Hill Street and St Gregory’s Place. Business had, by this time, steadily declined due to the economic depression and the popularity of amateur photography. At the time of the move, three-quarters of the firm’s glass plate negatives had to be destroyed because of insufficient storage space.

With the imminent outbreak of World War II, Poh Yan permanently closed the studio. Although some family members continued to reside in the Hill Street shophouse, he and his wife moved to a farm at the eighth mile of Thomson Road. He passed away in 1960 at the age of 76.

The last of the family’s photographic enterprises to survive was Wah Heng and Co., importers of photographic materials at 95 North Bridge Road, of which King Yan, Poh Yan and their many cousins were shareholders. The firm stocked a “remarkable range of goods” for both beginners and experts in photography, and did business “throughout the Straits Settlements, Federated Malay States and the Dutch East Indies”.⁸

Studio Portraits
The Lee brothers were practitioners of a tradition that began with the invention of photography by Frenchman Louis Daguerre in 1839. The possibilities of studio portraiture were seized upon as the most exciting benefit of the new invention. The daguerreotype photographic method spread quickly and became available in Singapore by 1843 when G. Dutronquoy, proprietor of the London Hotel, placed an advertisement in The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser on 4 December 1843, promising that a picture can be taken “in the astonishing short space of two minutes”, “free from all blemish” and “in every respect perfect likenesses”.⁹

(Left) Lee King Yan with his wife and children, 1919. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) Lee Poh Yan (holding child on lap) with his wife and children, c.1930. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

In the 1860s, portrait photography was further invigorated by the introduction of the inexpensive carte-de-visite in France. Originally intended as a visiting card with a photographic portrait mounted on it, such cards were later produced in great numbers for friends’ albums.¹⁰ A further revolution took place not long after with the introduction of superior paper photographs made with the wet collodion process, or wet plate process. This new method gave a high-quality negative on glass with excellent resolution of detail from which an unlimited number of prints could be made.¹¹

The commercial possibilities of the wet plate process were staggering. Any quantity of prints could be ordered from the best results of a studio session, and supplied at terms attractive to both photographer and customer. The first to exploit this technical advance in Singapore was Edward A. Edgerton who, in 1858, advertised his “photographic and stereoscopic portrait” services at his Stamford Street residence.¹²

Another early European photographer who established a photo studio in the settlement was John Thomson, who went on to become one of the most celebrated of all 19th-century photographers. He arrived in Singapore in 1862 equipped with the knowledge of the latest advances in commercial photography in Europe, and advertised a range of new services involving “micro-photographs”.¹³

Of all the European studios, however, the most enduring was G.R. Lambert & Co, which operated from the 1880s until around 1917. The official photographers to the King of Siam and Sultan of Johor as well as for major political events in Malaya, G.R. Lambert & Co maintained branch offices in Sumatra, Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok. By the turn of the century, the firm had amassed one of the “finest collections of landscape views in the East, comprising about 3,000 subjects which were mainly purchased by globe-trotters as travel souvenirs and pasted into large leather-bound albums”.¹⁴

Chinese photographers were also active in Singapore in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as evidenced by the many examples of their work that have survived in family albums or turned up in antique shops. Such photographs are usually mounted on cardboard and carry names such as Pun Loon at High Street, Poh Wah at Upper Chin Chew Street, and Kwong Sun, Koon Hin and Guan Seng along South Bridge Road. While important examples of historic photography in their own right, the subjects are often posed stiffly and lack individual character.

In contrast, the Lee brothers achieved both subtlety and naturalness in their work. Their genius lay in their ability to combine the technician’s dispassionate skill with the camera, the scientist’s understanding of the subtleties of the darkroom and the artist’s finely developed sense of human character and human expression.

In many of the portraits found in the collection – all of which were taken circa 1910 to the mid-1920s – a dignity and timeless elegance is apparent, which tempts us to look upon the faces of those who climbed the steps to Lee Brothers Studio as though we might almost know them today.

All photos are from the Lee Brothers Studio Collection. Identities of the subjects are unknown as these photos are unrecorded excess or uncollected prints kept by the Lee Brothers Studio.

Notes

Raphaël Millet sits through a B-grade movie dismissed by critics as belonging to the genre of Eurospy flicks that parody James Bond – and discovers a slice of Singaporean celluloid history.

Few foreign films, especially Western ones, have ever been shot completely on location in Singapore. In the latter half of the 1960s, a handful of low-budget commercial European films – or B-grade movies, to borrow a term from the film industry – were produced with the Lion City as an exotic backdrop. These “Eurospy films”, a variation of the broader “super spy” genre, were obvious rip-offs of the James Bond series by Ian Fleming and were especially popular in Germany, Italy, France and Spain. When the first Bond movie Dr No was released in 1962, it was swiftly followed up by a string of copycat European films based on Secret Agent 007.

The French-Dutch poster for Five Ashore in Singapore, 1967. After its initial premiere in France, the film was released in other parts of Europe and North America, where it was screened in cinemas right into 1968. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

The “super spy” craze peaked between 1966 and 1968 and included a few shot-in-Singapore films like So Darling So Deadly (1966),¹ Suicide Mission to Singapore (1966)² and Five Ashore in Singapore (1967). Apart from rare mentions in articles or books,³ Precious little has been written about these films, even though they all captured Singapore at a time of change in the first few months or years following its independence in 1965. Of these three films, the most outstanding is Five Ashore in Singapore.

OSS 117, the “French Bond”

 Five Ashore in Singapore (see text box) was a French-Italian collaboration between producers Pierre Kalfon and Georges Chappedelaine of Les Films Number One in Paris, and Franco Riganti and Antonio Cervi of Franco Riganti Productions in Rome. The international distribution of the film was handled by Rank Organisation, a British conglomerate created in the late 1930s.

Two versions of the film were produced simultaneously: one in English and the other in French, which is why the producers took pains to cast as many actors as possible who were bilingual so that they could play their parts in both languages. Only the few main actors who were not conversant in French had to be dubbed along with all the Singaporean extras.

Five Ashore in Singapore is the film adaptation of the 1959 French novel, Cinq gars pour Singapour, by the prolific French writer Jean Bruce. Literally translated as “Five Guys for Singapore”, the title is a clever pun on the name of the city because cinq-gars-pour, when said quickly, sounds exactly like “Singapour”. Pictured here is the cover of the first edition of the book published by Presses de la Cité in 1959. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

Based on the 1959 novel Cinq gars pour Singapour by the prolific French writer Jean Bruce (1921–63), the film was initially titled OSS 117 Goes to Singapore after the spy novel series, OSS 117, which Bruce created in 1949. The story centres around the secret agent Hubert Bonnisseur de la Bath, who worked for the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, during World War II. Like his spy novelist counterpart Ian Fleming, Bruce set his adventures in cities such as Tokyo, Bangkok, Caracas and Istanbul for the “exoticism” these places evoked in the minds of Western audiences. Naturally, Singapore was selected as the setting for Five Ashore in Singapore.

In real-life, the code number 117 was assigned to William L. Langer, chief of the OSS Research and Analysis Branch whom Bruce had reportedly met during World War II when the latter was involved with the French Resistance. Interestingly, while OSS 117 has been called the “French Bond” after the famous British Secret Service agent, Bruce’s French agent actually pre-dates James Bond by four years (Ian Fleming’s first Bond novel Casino Royale was published only in 1953). Furthermore, the archetypal three-digit code name 117 existed long before Fleming decided to call his character Agent 007.⁴

Even the silver screen adaptation of OSS 117 precedes James Bond: the French language OSS 117 n’est pas mort (OSS 117 Is Not Dead) was produced in 1956 and commercially released in 1957.

On the other hand, Dr No, the first James Bond film, was produced in 1962. In the 1960s, the OSS 117 character was again featured in a successful Eurospy film series directed by French filmmakers André Hunebelle (in 1963, 1964, 1965 and 1968) and by Michel Boisrond (in 1966). On these occasions, the lead role was played initially by American Kerwin Mathews, and subsequently by Frederick Stafford.⁵

OSS 117 Becomes Art Smith in Singapore

It is within the context of the successful Eurospy craze that French producer Pierre Kalfon offered director Bernard Toublanc-Michel the chance to adapt another OSS 117 story, Cinq gars pour Singapour. Due to copyright issues, unresolvable because Jean Bruce had died a few years earlier, neither the character Hubert Bonnisseur de la Bath nor his codename OSS 117 could be used in the film.

The lead character, Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency, is played by Sean Flynn, son of legendary Hollywood actor Errol Flynn and French actress Lili Damita. The younger Flynn was then taking a break from his photojournalism stint in Vietnam during the war. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

Hence in the movie, the hero is renamed Art Smith. A clear playful allusion is nevertheless made at the beginning of the movie when a car waiting for him at Singapore’s old Paya Lebar Airport is numbered 117.

Five Ashore in Singapore, like so many similar B-flicks, has a very simple plot that closely follows that of the original novel. Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency is sent to Singapore to investigate the whereabouts of several US Marines who mysteriously disappear while on shore leave. Upon his arrival, Smith meets four Marines who volunteer to assist him. Together, the five men pretend to be a group of Marines looking for a good time, but in fact hoping to be caught in the same trap as their missing colleagues.

Their search takes them all around Singapore, and eventually leads them to a mad scientist who has apparently kidnapped the marines for a diabolical experiment. This lame twist in the film’s finale is typical of super spy stories: however credible as a narrative, they generally end on a weak and often implausible note. Nevertheless, what makes Five Ashore in Singapore particularly noteworthy is its value as a documentary that captures realistic scenes of 1960s Singapore.

From R&R to I&I

Following the end of World War II, the US military used Singapore’s facilities for the repair and refuelling of its ships and aircraft, and also as a “shore leave” destination for troops stationed in various conflict zones throughout Asia.

In addition, on the orders of US President Harry Truman, from as early as July 1950, hundreds of American military “advisers” accompanied a flow of American tanks, planes, artillery and other aid supplies to the French forces in Vietnam embroiled in the first Indochina War.⁶ Many of these military personnel, inbound or outbound of Vietnam, transited at one time or another in Singapore.

By the time director Bernard Toublanc-Michel adapted Bruce’s novel into a movie in 1966, American involvement in Vietnam had dramatically escalated, with active combat units joining the fray in 1965 onwards to wage war against the communist forces of the north. This development impacted Singapore directly as demand grew for a Rest & Recuperation (R&R) programme for American troops. All active US military personnel serving in Vietnam were eligible for a five-day R&R during their tour of duty – after 13 months in the case of Marines, and 12 months for soldiers, sailors and airmen – in places such as Singapore, Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, Penang, Manila, Seoul, Taipei and Tokyo.

Soldiers nicknamed these breaks “I&I”, or “Intoxication and Intercourse”, as these outings were invariably fuelled by plenty of alcohol, drugs and sex. Singapore, true to its form then, was depicted as a rather seedy and dangerous city in publicity materials that were issued when Cinq gars pour Singapour was released in France in March 1967. The press release took pains to highlight the fact that American Marines are routinely warned to behave with discretion when they are in Singapore for R&R, including dressing as civilians when travelling in the city, because there has been cases where local boys had tried to pick a fight.⁷

Accident scene in Chinatown. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

In an interview given at his apartment near Paris on 1 June 2018, Toublanc-Michel said that the geopolitical context of Singapore against the backdrop of the Vietnam War was what made the adaptation of Bruce’s OSS 117 novel Cinq gars pour Singapour so interesting to him: it gave him the opportunity to explore and expose what he calls “les à-côtés de la guerre” (“extra income and activities”) that was generated on the sidelines of the war.⁸

In this sense, Bruce’s novel and its film adaptation by Toublanc-Michel also pre-date Paul Theroux’s 1973 novel Saint Jack and its subsequent 1979 film adaptation by Peter Bogdanovich depicting American soldiers in Singapore on R&R during the Vietnam War and the pimps who provide them with the necessary “entertainment”.⁹

Direct mention of the Vietnam War is made in Five Ashore in Singapore when the Marines led by Captain Art Smith take refuge in a movie theatre, where a newsreel in Malay addressing the Vietnam conflict and showing images of North Vietnamese troops is screened. Real American vessels are also seen anchored in the Singapore Strait – Pierre Kalfon had managed to obtain from the US military a permit to film these scenes, much to Toublanc-Michel’s delight¹⁰ – a rare visual testament of US naval power in Singapore waters at the time.

The background setting of the Vietnam War is made even more significant by the fact that the lead character Art Smith is played by Sean Flynn, son of legendary Hollywood actor Errol Flynn (and Hollywood-based French actress Lili Damita). The younger Flynn was taking a break from his photojournalism stint in Vietnam, where he had arrived in January 1966 as a freelance photo-reporter, working occasionally for magazines like Paris Match, Time, Life and the Daily Telegraph. Flynn quickly made a name for himself and earned the reputation of being a high-octane risk-taking photojournalist along the likes of British photographer Tim Page and American photojournalist Dana Stone, both of whom Flynn had befriended in Vietnam.

Sean Flynn (standing), who plays Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency, in action with an unnamed Singaporean actor. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

As freelance photojournalism did not pay well, Flynn went back to acting – something he had done from time to time since his teen years – to earn a fast buck. As Flynn had been in Vietnam and witnessed real action there, his sheer presence lent the film an added layer of authenticity.¹¹ As it turned out, Five Ashore was to be Flynn’s last screen appearance before he returned to Vietnam to cover the war. He mysteriously disappeared in the spring of 1970 near the frontier between Cambodia and Vietnam, never to be found again. Flynn’s mother would reluctantly declare him dead in absentia in 1984.

Singapore in the Summer of 1966

Five Ashore in Singapore was filmed on Eastmancolor, a colour film technology introduced in 1950, and shot entirely on location in Singapore between August and October 1966. When Bernard Toublanc-Michel was first approached by producer Pierre Kalfon to direct the screen adaptation of Bruce’s book, he had insisted that the entire film be shot on location in Singapore.¹²

The rest is history: a total of 52 locations were used in the film,¹³ than this wild bunch of hard-drinking and brawling Marines.

The story begins on 5 August 1966, as indicated in the visa stamped on Art Smith’s passport on his arrival in Singapore. It was just a few days before the fledgling republic celebrated its first National Day on 9 August, a week-long calendar of festivities that included a parade, fireworks displays and cultural shows. In the film, numerous glimpses of the national flag can be seen on the streets and on buildings, as well as billboards and banners with the words “Majulah Singapura”, which had been officially adopted as Singapore’s national anthem in 1965.

Having assisted New Wave film luminaries such as Agnès Varda and Jean-Luc Godard in their work, Toublanc-Michel was very familiar with portable film equipment that required little or no set-up time. Thus, he was ready to shoot nearly anywhere and at any time in Singapore, using two handheld cameras operated by director of photography Jean Charvein and cameraman Jean-Marc Ripert.¹⁴

In this way Toublanc-Michel was able to inject a documentary-like feel to his film, a characteristic captured by the numerous seemingly “stolen shots” of the city – of people and places caught unawares, something he remains particularly proud of¹⁵. With its tight budget, Five Ashore in Singapore could not afford to have entire streets or plazas cordoned off, nor could it hire dozens of extras.

To prepare for the scenes, Toublanc-Michel had his actors rehearse beforehand in the courtyard of the Cathay-Keris Studio on East Coast Road or at the Ocean Park Hotel next door where they were staying. Following the rehearsal, he would take his actors to the film location in a taxi, and have them wait while he discreetly positioned his two cameramen. The actors would emerge from the waiting taxi only when the director beckoned to them, walking into the scene to play their parts extemporaneously amidst whoever was present.¹⁶ In this way, real passers-by were filmed watching the film being shot and unwittingly became part of a scene.

For Western audiences, one of the main draws of the film was to view the “real” Singapore with their own eyes. Instead of the typical backwater Asian city that they had expected to see, the audience was surprised to find a unique place burgeoning with “impressive buildings, luxury shops, grand hotels and traffic jams”,¹⁷ a place where the East and the West meet, to use a cliché.

To add a frisson of tension to the film, press materials highlighted the simmering undercurrents and often prickly relationship between the races, making reference to Chinese, Malays and Indians who “cohabit, but do not sympathise, distrust each other and reciprocally accuse each other”.¹⁸ This specific reference could have been a nod to the bloody racial riots of 1964.

Singapore is also melodramatically described in the press release as an unsafe city to live in: “At night, Singapore is very vibrant and even dangerous. Vibrant because people live on the streets[…]. Dangerous because there are frequent quarrels. Men of all races and all horizons have disappeared in it without leaving a trace, or have been found in back alleys with their throats cut”.¹⁹ The disquieting backdrop serves as the perfect setting for the hammy cloak-and-dagger film plot.

An International Cast (and Some Locals)

The main cast of Five Ashore in Singapore was international, with actors chosen not only for their good looks and talent, but also for their fluency in both English and French. The film was shot in both languages to avoid unnecessary dubbing during post-production work. Pure action scenes mostly required just one take, while heavily dialogued scenes with close-ups required two takes: the first in English, the second in French.²⁰ The two versions of the film are still in circulation today, and each presents a slightly different edit from the other.

Sean Flynn – in what would be his final and, in this writer’s opinion, his best role yet – plays Art Smith with such detached nonchalance that he lends his character a certain mix of sangfroid and casual insouciance that most latter-day OSS 117 and perhaps even some James Bond screen incarnations have never been able to replicate. The other main male roles of the Marines went to American Dennis Berry, who had grown up in the US and France;²¹ British middleweight boxer and former world champion Terry Downes; polyglot Franco-Swiss Marc Michel, who had recently gained fame for his part in Jacques Demy’s 1961 film Lola; and the well-travelled Frenchman Bernard Meusnier. To look like real American Marines, the actors were given a crew cut by the hairdresser of the US Embassy in Paris before they arrived in Singapore.

Sean Flynn (left) as Captain Art Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency, Swiss actor Marc Michel as one of the Marines, and an unnamed Singaporean extra. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

The main female lead went to Swedish-French model and actress Marika Green, who had recently gained fame for her role in Robert Bresson’s 1959 film, Pickpocket. ²² With her shapely figure and requisite long legs, the actress was the perfect “Bond Girl”. All these performers were bilingual with the exception of Briton Terry Downes, whose lines had to be dubbed in French.

The main female lead was played by Swedish-French model and actress Marika Green. With her blonde hair and shapely long legs, the actress was the perfect “Bond Girl”. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

Several of the film’s key Asian supporting roles unfortunately followed in the tradition of “yellowface”, an early practice in the West (mostly on Broadway and in Hollywood) that saw Asian roles played by white actors. Hence, the mad scientist Ta Chouen was played by the Italian Andrea Aureli (credited by his Americanised stage name Andrew Ray); mama-san Tchin Saw by Trudy Connor; treacherous middleman Ten Sin, an improbable “Chinese” wearing a cap that resembles more a Muslim songkok, and played by Italian actor Jessy Greek (whose real name was Enzo Musumeci Greco); and odd-job man Kafir played by William Brix. All either wore terrible make-up, or appeared sans make-up, which only exaggerates the stereotyping to the point where one wonders if the yellowfacing was deliberate.

However, a couple of Singaporean talents did get a chance to act. For example, Ismail Boss²³ played the role of a mean Malay thug who kidnaps the American Marines. He was described in the press materials as an amateur actor who had been talent spotted by the production team whilst they were recceing a Malay stilt village where he lived.

The female role of Tsi Houa was played by Chan See Foon (credited as “See Foon” without her surname in the film).²⁴ Chan had been one of Singapore’s early supermodels. After having won the title of Varsity Queen in university, she began modelling and played occasional bit parts on TV and in film. In Five Ashore in Singapore, she has a full scene with Sean Flynn on Pulau Brani in which her baby is forcibly taken away from her before she dies in an explosion. A few other minor Asian roles were given to Singaporeans too, such as the part of local boys played by actors Abdullah Ramand and Lim Hong Chin.

Chan See Foon, one of Singapore’s early supermodels, plays Tsi Houa. She has a full scene, first with Sean Flynn who plays Captain Art Smith and then with Swiss actor Marc Michel who plays one of the Marines. In this scene on Pulau Brani, Tsi Houa’s baby is forcibly taken away from her before she dies in an explosion. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

The Singapore production manager G.S. Heng was a producer employed by Cathay-Keris for many years under the command of general manager Tom Hodge. Cathay had excellent shooting facilities at its Katong studio on East Coast Road, which was used by many overseas productions, including Five Ashore in Singapore for its nightclub and opium den scenes. Next to the studio was Ocean Park Hotel (also owned by Cathay Organisation), where the cast and crew were conveniently accommodated during the entire duration of the shoot, and where a party scene was filmed.

Today, Five Ashore in Singapore remains as a little-known but precious piece in the history of film in Singapore. Bringing together an international cast along with a few local actors, it captured the Lion City at a time of historic change. With its editing completed in January 1967, Five Ashore was commercially released in March 1967 in France – where it enjoyed a particularly long run at the Balzac Theatre in Paris – with a PG-13 rating. The film was subsequently released in Europe and North America where it was shown in cinemas right into the beginning of 1968.

Five Ashore in Singapore was retitled and released on 17 February 1968 in Singapore as Our Five Men in Singapore. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 22 February 1968, p. 4.

As for Singapore, the film was retitled as Our Five Men in Singapore and opened on 17 February 1968 at the Odeon cinema on North Bridge Road. Advertisements enticed would-be patrons to catch the “exciting street fight in Katong” and “exotic back alleys of Chinatown”, and touted it as “filmed entirely on location in Singapore”. Perhaps this is the main reason why we should watch the film – regardless of the half-dozen titles it is known by – and recapture a slice of 1960s Singapore.

Action scenes filmed in Chinatown. French lobby card, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.

A Movie By Any Other Name Like similar B-movies of the era, the film went by several different titles. The English version in the United Kingdom was called Five Ashore in Singapore, and in the United States as the double-barrelled Singapore, Singapore. 25 Inexplicably, in Singapore it was first announced as Singapore Mission for Five, 26 before being eventually retitled and released as Our Five Men in Singapore in February 1968. Its original title Cinq gars pour Singapour is French, as this is the title of the French novel it is adapted from. Cinq gars pour Singapour, when literally translated, means “Five guys for Singapore” – cinq is “five”, gars is “guys” and pour is “for” – and is a clever phonetic pun on the name of the city, since cinq-gars-pour (when said quickly) sounds exactly like “Singapour”. (Top) A Yugoslavian lobby card with the film title translated into Serbian – Pet Momaka za Singapour. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet. (Left) The French press kit of Five Ashore in Singapore. The film was commercially released in March 1967 in France, where it enjoyed a long run at the Balzac Theatre in Paris. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet. (Right) The Italian film poster for Five Ashore in Singapore, 1967. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.   The pun is lost in translation of course, but details such as the number of male protagonists and location were kept intact in most of the titles of the foreign-language versions that were either dubbed or subtitled, for example Cinco Marinos en Singapur in Spanish (also Cinco Muchachos en Singapur in Argentina), Cinque Marines per Singapore in Italian, Vijf Kerels Voor Singapore in Dutch, and Pet Momaka za Singapour in Serbian for the Yugoslavian version of the film.

Spy Music The music for Five Ashore in Singapore was composed by renowned French composer Antoine Duhamel, who had just begun his career by scoring French New Wave films by legendary directors Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut. At the request of Five Ashore’s director Bernard Toublanc-Michel, he composed Somewhere in Singapore (also known as the Marines’ March – “La marche des Marines” in French) with lyrics by Jimmy Parramore. Cover of the French record album of Five Ashore in Singapore, 1967. The music for the film was composed by renowned French composer Antoine Duhamel. © Barclay Editions. Courtesy of Raphaël Millet.   Quite brazenly, the song was directly based on the melody of the now iconic Yellow Submarine, the Beatles’ number one hit in 1966. Indeed, Toublanc-Michel had asked his actors who played the five Marines to stride out of Clifford Pier with the Beatles’ song playing in their heads, so as to lend a certain rhythm to their swagger. Other melodies with no lyrics composed by Duhamel include Paradise Limited for the club scene and Thème de la drogue (the drug theme) for the opium den scene.

Notes

Timothy Pwee charts the history of Singapore’s first Western-style pharmacies through old receipts and documents from the National Library’s Koh Seow Chuan Collection.

Among the items donated to the National Library by the philanthropist and architect Koh Seow Chuan are documents dating between the 1920s and 40s from the Medical Office in Singapore. The Chinese name of this old-style Western dispensary, 德国神辳大藥房 (De guo shen nong da yao fang; or in simplified Chinese 德国神农大药房), literally translates as “German Medicine Deity Medical Office” – a name that sounds altogether incongruous as 德国 is the Chinese name for Germany, while 神辳 refers to the Chinese deity of medicine.

Dr Trebing and the Medical Hall
The history of Medical Office is predated by that of the better known Medical Hall, another German-owned dispensary housed in the landmark red-brick building near Fullerton Square on Battery Road. From the 1860s onwards, dispensaries stocked with Western medications – the Singapore Dispensary at Commercial Square and the New Dispensary at the corner of Kling and Waterloo streets – were joined by an increasing number of competitors as Singapore’s population and the accompanying demand for medical expertise, including the services of surgeons and accoucheurs (male obstetricians or midwives), grew.

In the mid-1870s, a German medical doctor by the name of Christopher Trebing arrived in Singapore and started his practice. From as early as August 1874, print advertisements for one Dr Ch. Trebing, M.D., formerly a doctor with the 82nd Regiment in Province Hessen Nassau, Germany, began appearing in local newspapers.¹

By all accounts, the good doctor was successful because by the end of the 1870s, his practice had expanded from a single room in the Europe Hotel to a standalone building on Battery Road called the Medical Hall.² Although Trebing died a decade later, the Medical Hall survived him and passed through a succession of German owners. In around 1970, the iconic Medical Hall building was demolished to make way for the Straits Trading Building.

The Medical Office’s Inauspicious Start
Among the competitors that emerged in the following decades was the Medical Office, set up by German chemist Emil Kahlert in 1892 at the corner of North Bridge and Bras Basah roads. German eye specialist Dr Eugene von Krudy, who was already practising in Singapore, became the dispensary’s physician.

The Medical Office at the junction of North Bridge and Bras Basah roads, c. 1970s. Founded in 1892 by German chemist Emil Kahlert, this was one of Singapore’s earliest Western-style pharmacies. Its history has been eclipsed by the better known Medical Hall, a landmark for many years on Battery Road and established at least two decades earlier by another German, a doctor named Christopher Trebing. Courtesy of Foo Suan Dick and Foo Suan Wee.

In 1897, another German chemist by the name of Frederick Dreiss travelled to Singapore to acquire the Medical Office. Apparently, Kahlert, who had been planning to return to Germany, had taken out advertisements announcing his intention to sell the Medical Office in a number of German newspapers.

When Dreiss arrived here in April 1897, he agreed to the purchase price of $9,000 that von Krudy was asking for the Medical Office. However as Dreiss only had $7,000 on him, von Krudy agreed to lend him $2,300 and got the buyer to sign a legal document at his lawyer’s office.

Dreiss, who did not understand English, could not communicate with the lawyer and later claimed that he thought the document was merely a receipt for the loan. He later found out that the document was in fact a mortgage for the business, its stock-in-trade (i.e. the Medical Office’s stock of supplies such as drugs and equipment) and some furniture.

In October that same year, von Krudy had all the furniture, equipment and supplies seized from the Medical Office when he was not paid the sum he was owed by Dreiss. At the court hearing in November, Dreiss claimed that both Kahlert and von Krudy had conspired to cheat him by misrepresenting the Medical Office’s volume of business and duping him into signing the mortgage. During the hearings, several interesting facts emerged. One was that Kahlert had been made bankrupt back in 1891. Kahlert, however, failed to report to the Official Assignee and continued to do business in Singapore. Only when Dreiss’ lawsuit made the news did the Official Assignee summon Kahlert and ask for his finances to be examined. On hearing this, Von Krudy immediately paid off Kahlert’s debts.

Another revelation was that Max Wispauer, who became the owner of the better known Medical Hall in the 1890s, had met Dreiss when the latter first arrived in Singapore. Dreiss had sought Wispauer’s advice about buying the Medical Office and even asked to borrow $2,000 from him. However, Dreiss’ claims of being cheated by von Krudy were contradicted by various witnesses, and the presiding judge did not find sufficient evidence for the case to go to trial even though he found the entire matter altogether suspicious. Dreiss could have pursued his claim as a civil case but there are no records to indicate that he did so.³

After this debacle, von Krudy and Kahlert appeared to have left Singapore for good. In the 1899 Singapore and Straits Directory, the Medical Office was listed as a branch of the Medical Hall with Wispauer indicated as the proprietor of both dispensaries.

Regulating Drugs and Pharmaceutical Professionals
From the beginning of the 20th century onwards, quite a number of dispensaries as well as other companies doing business in Singapore began listing the names of their non-European staff in the Singapore and Straits Directory. The Medical Hall and Medical Office did not follow suit until more than a decade later when the names of three medical dispensers for the Medical Hall and two for the Medical Office respectively were mentioned in the 1912 edition of the directory.

Interestingly, the lead dispensers at both outlets – Foo Khee How who worked at the Medical Hall on Battery Road and Au Shin Wong of the Medical Office at the corner of North Bridge and Bras Basah roads – had the term “local qualification” mentioned after their names to distinguish them from their foreign colleagues. This qualification referred to was the passing of an examination administered by the new Straits and Federated Malay States Government Medical School for people applying for licenses to retail poisons.⁴

In Britain, the licensing of people who sold drugs and medicines had begun over one-and-a-half centuries ago. Shopkeepers who sold drugs, both herbal remedies as well as chemically derived ones, had started to organise themselves with the formation of the Pharmaceutical Society in 1841. This was around the same time that statistics on drug usage patterns and deaths due to the misuse of drugs were being collected. The 1852 Pharmacy Act in Britain resulted in the establishment of a register of pharmacists and limited the use of the job title to only those registered with the Pharmaceutical Society. This, in turn, led to the Pharmacy Act of 1868, which restricted the sale of specific drugs and poisons to qualified and registered pharmacists.⁵

A 1920s colour poster advertising the services of the Medical Office. The design is typical of the Shanghai “picture calendar” style (yue fen pai; 月份牌) popular in China and overseas Chinese communities between the 1920s and 1940s. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

It took another few decades before Singapore followed suit. Narcotic substances such as opium and morphine were of particular concern as they were highly addictive, and the first ordinances restricting their availability and use were passed in 1894 and 1896 respectively. In 1905, the Poisons Ordinance came into force, limiting the sale of listed dangerous chemicals to licensed persons. In 1910, the Poisons Ordinance was joined by the Deleterious Drugs Ordinance, which further limited the distribution of certain drugs (and syringes) to registered pharmacists, doctors and dentists. This meant that dispensaries had to have a registered person on its staff who was authorised to import or buy medical supplies, prescribe and fill prescriptions, and keep a record of transactions.

Interestingly, Western dispensaries back then in Singapore provided the kind of services that Chinese medical halls do today. At the beginning of the 20th century, the mass manufacturing of pharmaceuticals as an industry had only just begun and Western medical dispensaries prepared their own array of treatments, including most ointments, lotions, mixtures and even tablets, in the shop itself.⁶ As late as the 1960s, the pharmaceutical practical examination at the University of Singapore required students to make tablets on the spot. Going by an account of a student from that era, if the examiner managed to break the pill with his hands, the student would immediately fail.⁷

The End of a (German) Era
World War I, which began in 1914, saw increasing hostility by the British Empire towards Germans, both by nationality and by birth. In August 1915, Sir Evelyn Ellis, a member of the Legislative Council of the Straits Settlements, raised the motion that the Alien Enemies (Winding Up) Ordinance of 1914 be applied to both the Singapore Oil Mills and the Medical Hall (it had already been applied to other firms). He said that the current owner of the Medical Hall – despite being a naturalised British subject – was “an imitation Britisher” and “a German at heart”, and that “the business was being carried on purely in German interests”.⁸ Although Ellis later asked to withdraw the motion, the execution of his orders was merely delayed.

On 19 February 1916, The Malaya Tribune reported that the Colonial Secretariat in London had ordered all enemy firms in the colonies to be liquidated with immediate effect.⁹ In line with this order, the liquidation notice for The Medical Hall Limited was published three days later on 22 February.¹⁰ Finally, two years later, on 15 April 1918, both the Medical Hall and the Medical Office were auctioned off by the Custodian of Enemy Property, thereby closing the chapter on the era of German pharmacies in Singapore.¹¹

Decades later, the memory of Germans running the Medical Office still loomed large in popular memory. In T.F. Hwang’s “Down Memory Lane” column published on 24 March 1979 in The Straits Times, he noted that “to taxi operators and SBS bus workers, the name [of Bras Brasah Road] in Hokkien/Teochew dialects is Teck Kok Sin Long [德国神农],”¹² Teck Kok meaning Germany and Sin Long being the Chinese deity of medicine.

As a result of the forced seizure and auction, the Medical Hall at Battery Road was taken over by pharmacist George W. Crawford in partnership with Dr A.P. Lena van Rijn.¹³ The Medical Office, on the other hand, was acquired by a group of former staff led by its lead dispenser Foo Khee How, who later became the firm’s manager.¹⁴

The business receipts and invoices in the Koh Seow Chuan Collection, the earliest of which date from the 1920s, reveal that both the Medical Office and the Medical Hall used the same Chinese name 神農大藥房 (the Medical Office used the Chinese characters 神農大藥房 in the advertisements it ran in the Chinese press but 神辳大藥房 on its letterhead – 農 and 辳 were apparently used as variants of each other). This could suggest that the Chinese name for the Medical Hall originated sometime before World War I and continued to be used by both firms even though they were separate entities.

These two receipts from the Medical Hall (top) and an invoice from the Medical Office (above), both issued in 1927, reveal that both companies used the same Chinese name 神農大藥房 (the Medical Office used the Chinese characters 神農大藥房 in the advertisements it ran in the Chinese press but 神辳大藥房 on its letterhead – 農 and 辳 were apparently used as variants of each other). This could suggest that the Chinese name for the Medical Hall originated sometime before World War I and continued to be used by both firms even though they were separate companies. Koh Seow Chuan Collection, National Library Board.

The Medical Hall’s Foo Khee How passed away in December 1931, leaving behind four sons and five daughters.¹⁵ Foo Chee Guan, one of Foo’s sons, studied medicine at the Hong Kong College of Medicine where Sun Yat-sen, the founding father of the Republic of China, had graduated back in 1892. When Foo Chee Guan graduated, he returned to practise at the Medical Office just before the outbreak of World War II in 1942.¹⁶

From the oral history recordings of Foo Tiang Fatt, nephew of Foo Chee Guan, we know that some members of the Foo family escaped to their rubber plantation in the Karimun islands west of Singapore for the duration of the Japanese Occupation. Foo Chee Guan and his cousin Foo Chee Foong, however, stayed behind and continued to operate the Medical Office.

From perusing the business receipts of the Medical Office in the Koh Seow Chuan Collection and a number of newspaper articles, it appears that the Foos contributed to various causes before the Japanese Occupation, including the China Relief Fund, which helped raise money for China’s war effort against Japan, and St Andrew’s Cathedral. According to the bills of exchange in the collection, pre-war imports came mainly from Europe and America. The collection also contains numerous receipts for local purchases made at other dispensaries. The receipts issued in 1943 during the Japanese Occupation show that medicines were still available for sale at the Medical Office, particularly Japanese-made ones.

Modernity and Manufacturing
When the war ended in 1945, business activity in the Medical Office picked up. Foo Chee Guan and Foo Chee Foong took charge of the company in 1955, and the former’s nephew, Foo Tiang Fatt, joined them the following year.¹⁷ The 1960s, however, marked the beginning of the sunset years for the Medical Office as well as the other old-style Western pharmacies that prepared their medicines manually on their premises. The advent of the Western drug manufacturing industry and modern pharmacy retail chains were slowly beginning to make their presence felt.

In the 1970s, Cold Storage started expanding its Guardian Pharmacy outlet into a chain and began opening branches all over Singapore. In 1988, Hongkong-based Watsons Personal Care Stores entered the Singapore market and set up outlets in shopping malls and housing estates.¹⁸ When the government acquired the premises of the Medical Office in 1982, control of the company was passed to Foo Tiang Fatt and his cousin Foo Tiang Suan, and the firm moved to Geylang Road.¹⁹

Foo Chee Guan retired from practising medicine in 1985, at 74 years of age.²⁰ In the end, faced with increasing costs, the difficulty of finding reliable staff and poor business, the Medical Office was shuttered down for good and deregistered in 2012.

A selection of lotions, tinctures, ointments and powders made by the Medical Office right until its closure in 2012, bringing the curtains down on a company with a history that spanned 120 years. The company, however, still manufactures Milderma (extreme right), a prickly heat powder. Courtesy of Foo Suan Dick and Foo Suan Wee.

Notes

Acclaimed poet and playwright Robert Yeo pays tribute to his daughter and a noted author in chapter two of his work-in-progress sequel to his memoir Routes.

My wife Esther reminded me that it was a miracle, considering what she did in Bali in June 1975. It was our first visit to the famed island and we chose to stay in Kuta. It was all sea, sand, waves and coconut trees. We even asked a boy to climb a tree to pluck coconuts for us to drink the water. There were no buildings on the beach.

The surfing waves were not suitable for swimming but we found ways to enjoy ourselves. We allowed the waves to toss and roll us onto the sand, taking repeated tumbles, sometimes all shook-up and even painfully so. We did this twice a day over three to four days.

We loved one particular item and bought it, a beautifully carved full-length 1½-foot sculpture of the Hindu goddess Sita, made from tree bark and which weighed 10 pounds. On the way home, I was feverish and Esther had to carry the piece back to Singapore all by herself. Back home, she too became feverish a few days later and discovered she was pregnant. Wow, we thought, how lucky she was, what with all the tumbles she took in Kuta and carrying a heavy piece of sculpture, that nothing happened to her baby, our baby!

I became a father on 15 February 1976. My daughter Sha Min was born in Kandang Kerbau Hospital. There were two facts remarkable about her birth: the first that it was long and difficult, needing 20 hours of labour; and second, at the time of her birth, the government public maternity hospital held the record of delivering the most number of babies per year in the world. This record, which the hospital held from 1966 to 1976, may have later contributed to the government’s fear of overpopulation and prompted it to regulate birth as an official policy.

In the midst of her long labour when her pain became unbearable, my wife asked a nurse about epidural intervention and was confronted by the cold question from one of the nurses, “Who told you about epidural?” So the birth was natural, but the experience certainly did not make her feel she would like another baby in the near future.

Sha Min (善敏) means kind and alert. Esther was adamant that she did not want her first daughter to have a name that has a Nonya syllable, such as Gek, Geok, Poh, Neo, as my mother had lined up traditional names for her first grand-daughter. I agreed and so we consulted a Chinese almanac that took into account time, date of birth and gender, a process managed by Esther’s late father, who is Cantonese.

What was it like to be a father for the first time and a daughter as the firstborn? 1976 was the year of the dragon and a traditional Chinese father would expect a boy who could continue to bear the Yeo surname.

I wrote a poem about it.

A Dragon for the Family For My Daughter Sha Min (Top) Robert Yeo in a pensive pose in 1966 when he was 26 years old. (Above) Robert Yeo’s daughter Sha Min, who was born on 15 February 1976. Courtesy of Robert Yeo. Hushed, we hovered between rabbit and dragon, Between a whitish squeak and flaming breath. When you declined to be a rabbit, like Your father, the hush dissolved, and I was pleased Knowing how auspicious the dragon is. I was prepared to wait, but it’s lovely To be scorched so soon, as long as you will Promise not to burn our house to the ground Girl or boy, your sex didn’t really matter. I’m not the traditional Chinese father Who needs a son to continue his line And swell his clan. My brothers may line up, And my clan of two-and-a-half million, Though small, is big enough for me, for us. I don’t know whether small is beautiful, But since we have no choice, let’s make it so. Sha Min, sweetheart, you know this prayer I offer you is really not a prayer as You are born in a good year in a good place, The prospect of water-rationing notwithstanding… Say rather that I’m offering you a hope, One of the many hopes; and so as not to seem Arbitrary, let there be three, yes three, As this is the year of the three- clawed dragon.

I quote the poem fully to demonstrate the disjunct between the name and the character the baby is supposed to take on. Sha Min did not turn out to be dragonish at all; in fact, she grew up to be a very agreeable and even-tempered girl.

In addition, quoting the poem entirely also shows the pains I took to write in such a way that avoided the obvious influence of the great poem by W.B. Yeats, A Prayer for My Daughter. Hopefully, the Chinese mythological references will differentiate my poem from his.

(Left) Catherine Lim is regarded as the doyenne of Singaporean writers. Little Ironies: Stories of Singapore (1978), which is her first published book, earned her many accolades and is an all-time bestseller. Courtesy of Marshall Cavendish Editions.
(Right) Catherine Lim’s collection of 17 short stories, Little Ironies: Stories of Singapore, was first published in 1978 by Heinemann Southeast Asia in the Writing in Asia Series. It was used as a text for the GCE N-Level examination in 1987. In 2015, The Business Times selected Little Ironies as one of the Top 10 English Singapore books for the period 1965–2015.

In the process of collecting and editing short stories for an anthology of Singaporean writing from 1940 to 1977, I came across the stories of Catherine Lim. Subsequently I met her.

Catherine was a young teacher of English Language and English Literature in a junior college. She had lively, sparkling eyes, and was very fair and slim in a way that fitted the cheongsam she wore. I told her I liked the few stories of hers that I had read in magazines and newspapers, and asked if she could show me more.

A few days later, a few stories arrived and I was struck first by their appearance. Typed and marked up with pencilled or inked corrections, the A4-sized papers were crumpled, yellowed and dog-eared, evidence that they had been kept in drawers, read, moved-about and all but forgotten.

Secondly, I thought the stories were excellent as they had a sharp, satirical eye for human foibles and detail, showing a society in the throes of transiting from tradition to modernity. I thought, “How exciting it would be if she had enough for a single volume of just her stories”, and asked her to send more.

I had read about seven to eight stories, but they were not enough to make up a book. She did send more, altogether 17 stories. I forwarded them to John Watson, the genial, tall and bearded Englishman who was the General Manager of Heinemann Educational Books (Asia) Ltd, which had an office in Jalan Pemimpin.

Together with Leon Comber, based in Hong Kong, John had just started to publish titles in the Writing in Asia Series and he was pleased with Catherine’s stories. Consistent with editorial practice, he sent her stories to the eminent English author, Austin Coates, who lived in the British colony; Coates was the author, among many books, of one of the best biographies of Jose Rizal, the Filipino doctor, revolutionary and national hero, and he gave her stories a ringing preview. John showed me what Coates wrote:

“They are riveting; there is no other word for them. In their Singapore Chinese context they rank with the best of Guy de Maupassant and the Alphonse Daudet. Each story has the same sureness of observation, clarity in the presentation of character, and finely judged economy both of words and emotion…. Her knowledge of Chinese ways of living and habits of thought is masterly. It may sound absurd to say this, but so few people are able, as she is, to draw back and look at it objectively. She exposes men and women with a mixture of complacent ruthlessness and compassion.”

Catherine Lim’s stories were published in a book entitled Little Ironies in 1978 to much acclaim. It marked the beginning of her remarkable career in English writing in Singapore.

Martina Yeo and Yeo Kang Shua piece together historical details of the little-known River House in Clarke Quay and discover that it was once a den for illicit triad activity.

Walking along the Singapore River – where godowns (warehouses) lining its banks were a ubiquitous sight in the 19th and 20th centuries – one building strikes the casual observer as being atypical. Designed in the southern Chinese style with a prominent tiled roof and a curved ridge embellished with ceramic shards, the building is stylistically different from the others in the area. This is River House along Clarke Quay, poetically known as “House of Ripples” or Lianyi Xuan (涟漪轩) in Chinese.

Portrait of Tan Yeok Nee (陈旭年), a wealthy Teochew gambier and pepper merchant, 1890. Until very recently River House was believed to have been built by Tan in the 1880s. At around the same period, Tan also ordered the construction of another elaborate Chinese-style mansion along present-day Clemenceau Avenue, now a national monument known as the House of Tan Yeok Nee. Boden-Kloss Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Until very recently, River House was believed to have been built in the 1880s by Tan Yeok Nee (陈旭年), a wealthy Teochew gambier and pepper merchant. The house is a two-storey building with its front entrance facing the Singapore River. Unlike traditional southern Chinese mansions, however, the house is devoid of a detached entrance gateway that aligns with the edge of the street and typically leads to a forecourt.

Around the same period, Tan Yeok Nee also ordered the construction of another elaborate Chinese-style mansion along present-day Clemenceau Avenue – which has since been preserved as a national monument and is known as the House of Tan Yeok Nee. Given the geographical proximity of the two dwellings (they are only about one kilometre apart) and the similar architectural styles and approximate construction periods they shared, one wonders why Tan built the two residences so close to each other. More interestingly, it calls to question whether River House was even built by Tan in the first place.

River House has had different addresses over the course of its history: at first Municipal No. 3 North Campong Malacca (also concurrently as Warehouse No. 3 North Campong Malacca) in the late 19th century, followed by 13 Clarke Quay, and today, 3A River Valley Road. Its original address and location within the traditional commercial and godown district suggests that River House served as or was perhaps even originally built as a warehouse, as opposed to a private residence. An examination of the land leases and architectural history of the building will shed light on its owners, design, purpose and subsequent development.

Shady Beginnings
River House occupied eight parcels of land, five of which form the grounds of the main building. The land leases for these five plots were issued by the British East India Company to two different people between 23 July 1851 and 1 November 1855. The leases for the remaining three plots, which stretched from the main building to the now expunged vehicular road known as Clarke Quay, were issued only on 26 October 1881. All were 99-year leases.

An 1863 photograph taken by Sachtler & Co. and another dating from the mid-1860s show the land being occupied by a two-storey masonry building and several smaller single-storey houses. Surrounding the structures were swampy grounds with houses on stilts clearly visible on the opposite river bank.

Aerial view of Boat Quay and Clarke Quay before the area was rejuvenated. River House is circled in white. G.P. Reichelt Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The two-storey building in these photographs cannot be River House as it is stylistically different in form and much smaller than the building we see today. In fact, River House had not yet been built in the 1860s. It was only in July 1870 that the five land leases of the main house were consolidated under a single ownership comprising three individuals. This possibly marks the earliest date of construction. Given that the earliest building plans of private buildings held by the National Archives of Singapore date from 1884 and that no original building plan of River House has ever been found, it is possible to surmise that the house was likely built sometime between 1870s and 1883.

What’s more, there is no indication from archival records that River House was ever owned or leased by Tan Yeok Nee. The three owners in 1870 – Choa Moh Choon (蔡茂春), Lee Ah Hoey (李亚会) and Neo Ah Loy – had interesting backgrounds and were likely unrelated to each other as they had different family names.¹ The probable identities of two of these owners, however, provide a clue as to what the house could have been used for.

From as early as 1854 until his death on 10 January 1880, a man named Choa Moh Choon was known to be the headman of the notorious Ghee Hok Society (also known as Ghee Hok Kongsi; 义福公司). Based on evidence, such as the date of Choa’s death (as indicated in the Straits Settlements Government Gazette and various land transactions), it is highly likely that the owner of the land in 1870 where River House was subsequently built and the headman of the Ghee Hok Society were one and the same person.

Choa was born in the Teo Yeo (潮阳) district of the Teochew prefecture (Guangdong province) in China and arrived in Singapore in 1838 when he around 19 years old. His official occupation was listed as “Doctor and Theatre Manager” after it became compulsory for secret societies and their headmen to register themselves.² In actual fact, Choa was known to be involved in illegal activities. He operated brothels and framed a man who wanted to leave the Ghee Hok Society, causing the latter to be imprisoned for two years.

After Choa’s death, the aforementioned Lee Ah Hoey (one of the other title deed owners) became the society’s new headman. On official records, Lee was a “Rice Shop Keeper and Manager of Theatre”, but in reality, he was better known as the ringleader of the failed 1887 attempt to murder William A. Pickering, the first Chinese Protector of Singapore.³ As part of Pickering’s job was to stamp out Chinese triad activity in the colony, he made many enemies in the community.

Lee was subsequently tried and banished from the Straits Settlements on 12 October 1887, leaving the leadership of the Ghee Hok Society with no clear successor.⁴ Before Lee left Singapore, he appointed one Lee Yong Kiang (李永坚) to handle matters pertaining to River House. An Indenture of Mortgage dated 7 February 1890 between Lee Ah Hoey and Hermann Naeher of Lindau, Germany, indicates that Lee Ah Hoey was purportedly residing in China at the time the document was signed and that Lee Yong Kiang was acting on his behalf. Sometime between 7 February 1890 and 1892, Lee Ah Hoey had surreptitiously returned to Singapore. He was subsequently caught and deported for life in October 1892.

As for the third owner Neo Ah Loy, little is known about him. When the five land parcels were mortgaged in August 1873, the names listed on the mortgage document were Choa Moh Choon, Lee Ah Hoey and Leang Ah Teck (梁亚藉), suggesting that Neo Ah Loy might also have gone by the name Leang Ah Teck. This is not an improbable supposition given that Neo and Leang are Teochew transliterations of the family name Liang (梁).

A “Secret Society” House
Since two of its three owners were headmen of the infamous Ghee Hok Society, could River House have been or intended to be its new kongsi (secret society) house? Or was it purely coincidental that they were joint owners?

The Ghee Hok Society was predominantly made up of Teochews. It is believed to have been founded around 1854 by those involved in the “Small-Dagger” (厦门小刀会) rebellion in Amoy (Xiamen), China, who fled to Singapore after the movement failed. The Ghee Hok was one of several societies that made up the Ghee Hin Kongsi in Singapore – where it was variously known as the Heaven and Earth Society (Tiandi Hui; 天地会) and the Triad – whose main objective was to overthrow the Manchus and restore the Ming dynasty in China. Despite being part of the same umbrella organisation, the Ghee Hok Society engaged in frequent clashes with rival Ghee Hin triads.

In the decades leading up to the 1880s, the membership of the Ghee Hok Society grew from 800 in 1860 to 14,487 in 1889, the year before it was dissolved. Society members included those involved in illicit businesses as well as ordinary folks such as small-time hawkers and peddlers. Before 1886, the society’s registered address was 25-4 Carpenter Street, during which time it frequently clashed openly with rival societies in the area – such as the Say Tan (姓陈), Say Lim (姓林) and Hai San (海山).

On official records at least, there is no reference to River House serving as the Ghee Hok Society’s headquarters before 1886. From 1886 until its dissolution in 1890, the society was located at 3 River Valley Road, which was very near the junction of River Valley Road and Hill Street. It is possible that the leaders of the society were searching for a new site near Clarke Quay, presumably for easier access to the port facilities of the Singapore River. Both the official old and new headquarters – first at Carpenter Street and then at River Valley Road – were very small units and seemed rather unbefitting for such a large society. If this was the case, River House could have served as the unofficial headquarters of the Ghee Hok Society.

In December 1880, an earlier loan that was taken up before Choa Moh Choon’s death, and which used the house as collateral, was repaid in full. The house was then transferred to Lee Ah Hoey, Teng Seng Chiang (郑成章) and Koh Hak Yeang (许学贤) at the behest of the two remaining original owners, Lee Ah Hoey and Neo Ah Loy. It is likely that the legal owners of the house might have held the property unofficially in trust for the Ghee Hok society. As we shall see later, this was indeed the case for a subsequent group of owners of River House.

Teochew Influences
What we do know for certain is that the predominantly Teochew make-up of the Ghee Hok Society is reflected in the architectural style of River House. The building has a Teochew sidianjin (四点金) or “four-points of gold” layout, with two internal courtyards flanked by a pair of huoxiang (火巷) or fire alleys.

Traditionally, Teochew houses, especially the more elaborate mansions, contain side wings or congcuo (从厝) that extend beyond the fire alleys. The alleys serve as physical breaks that prevent fire, should one break out, from spreading easily from one part of the house to another. Additionally, these alleys provide privacy to extended families living in different sections of the house.

Side wings, however, are noticeably absent in River House. Could the owners have intended to build side wings after they had raised enough money to acquire the adjacent plots of land? Or did the owners foresee the importance of having physical breaks in an area packed cheek-by-jowl with godowns, knowing full well how fires can easily spread?

River House has a roof truss system in the tailiang style (抬梁式), which is made up of “successive tiers of beams and struts in a transverse direction”. This photo shows three cantilever beams on the front elevation of the building: one beam on the first storey and two on the second storey. These beams are known as jitou (屐头), and their ends are carved in a highly abstract chihu (螭虎) motif. The manner in which the beams are cantilevered is unique to Teochew architecture. Courtesy of Yeo Kang Shua.

Regardless, the fire alleys were probably the reason why River House survived a raging fire that engulfed its neighbour at 14 Clarke Quay on 21 August 1920. The fire was so huge that it required 36 firefighters and three firefighting machines before it was finally extinguished. The fire alleys, which provided the only escape routes for the occupants of River House, had front and back doors. The back doors opened into Clarke and Read streets, while the front doors opened into the now expunged Clarke Quay road. The main building did not have a back door at the time.

Besides its layout, other features of River House are typically Teochew too. These include the gentle curves of its roof ridges, its structural system as well as the recessed entranceway. The roof ridges are decorated with qianci (嵌瓷), or ceramic shard ornamentations, in an array of colours. According to the 1919 building alteration plan showing the proposed alterations to the house, the roof truss system is in the tailiang style (抬梁式), which “comprises successive tiers of beams and struts in a transverse direction”.⁵ The ends of the granite cantilever beams on the front facade, known as jitou (屐头), are carved in a highly abstract chihu (螭虎) motif. Chihu is believed to be one of the nine sons of a dragon or long (龙). Such cantilever beams are also characteristic of Teochew architecture.

Fronting the river is the house’s recessed entranceway. It is called the aodumen (凹肚门) as the layout of the entranceway resembles the Chinese character “凹”. In traditional Teochew architecture, the recessed entranceway does not have any openings leading to the outside apart from the main door, with lime-moulded panels or huisu (灰塑) taking the place of windows. However, River House has a window on either side of the entranceway. These windows are unlikely to be later additions, as they were already in place by the time the plans for proposed alterations were drawn up in 1918 and 1919.

Close-up photos showing the door seal (menzanyin; 门簪印) and its eyelet in the dragon-fish motif with remaining bits of string still tied to it, and one of a pair of incense stick holders or chaxiangkong (插香孔) in the flower-and-vase motif flanking the entrance. Traces of the green pigment used specifically in Teochew architecture can still be seen on these structures today. Courtesy of Yeo Kang Shua.

The centrepiece of the entranceway is a doorway framed with solid granite carved with different motifs. An examination of the geological composition indicate that the granite is possibly of local origin. The motifs include a pair of dragon-fish or aoyu (鳌鱼) carved with eyelets known as diaoliankong (吊帘孔), which were used for hanging ceremonial banners; a pair of door seals or menzanyin (门簪印) as well as a pair of incense stick holders or chaxiangkong (插香孔) embellished with a flower-and-vase motif and flanking the entrance. Traces of the green pigment used specifically in Teochew architecture can still be seen in the inscribed grooves of these motifs.

Above the door lintel, the plaque bearing the name of the house is held up by a pair of stone lions known as biantuo (匾托). The present pair of biantuo found at the house today protrude and appear to be blocking the plaque rather than elevating it; these are new and not the originals. The proportions and style of the new lions are unlike the flatter and rounder style that is typically Teochew.

In addition, the presence of a void between the plaque and the lintel is unique to Teochew architecture. The void and the plaque are currently concealed by the signage for the restaurant that currently occupies the building.

A Gambier Shed
By 1890, with the remaining owners – Teng Seng Chiang and Koh Hak Yeang – having passed away, River House came under the sole ownership of Lee Ah Hoey. As mentioned earlier, he had mortgaged the house in February 1890 to Hermann Naeher, a German who later became an honorary citizen of Lindau in southern Germany.⁶

When Lee defaulted on the mortgage, the house was sold to Arthur William Stiven of Stiven & Co. on 20 June 1891. This took place before Lee was deported for the second time in October 1892. Stiven subsequently sold the property to Tan Lock Shuan (陈禄选) on 7 July 1896.⁷ It is unclear what the house was used for under Stiven’s ownership, although his company was listed as “Merchants and Commission Agents” in the 1893 Singapore and Straits Directory, with offices at Boat Quay and Battery Road.⁸

Soon after Tan Lock Shuan acquired the property, he engaged an architect to design and build a gambier shed on the open space in front of the house. This open space made up the remaining three land parcels of River House, which were acquired by Lee Ah Hoey and Teng Seng Chiang in 1881. The shed remained a feature of River House for almost a century until it was demolished in the early 1990s when Clarke Quay was conserved as a heritage area.

Tan was the kangchu (港主) or headman of Sungai Machap, a pepper and gambier plantation, in Johor. From the mid-1880s onwards, large tracts of land in Johor were cleared for pepper and gambier plantations, both of which were lucrative cash crops then. The harvested crops were shipped to Singapore for processing and transhipment before being exported to the rest of the world. Tan most probably used the shed at River House for the processing, storage and trading of gambier from his Johor plantations.

A 1980s photo showing Tan Lock Shuan’s gambier shed built in front of River House. Tan was the kangchu (港主) or headman of Sungai Machap, a pepper and gambier plantation in Johor. The shed was demolished in the early 1990s when Clarke Quay was conserved as a heritage area. Courtesy of Urban Redevelopment Authority.

The 1896 building plan of the gambier shed is significant as it shows the existence of River House by this date. No demolition of any structures in the open area in front of the main house are indicated on the building plan. It is thus unclear if there were any structures, such as a detached entrance gateway typically found in Chinese mansions, in the open space prior to 1896.

A School Campus
After Tan Lock Shuan passed away on 30 July 1908 without leaving a will, the Supreme Court of the Straits Settlements granted Letters of Administration of his estates to Tan Soo Guat (陈思悦). Three years later, on 26 July 1911, the latter mortgaged River House to Tan Tji Kong for $23,000, a handsome sum at the time. While Tan Soo Guat would make timely payments on the loan’s nine-percent interest rate, he had trouble repaying the principal sum. Fortunately, he was able to sell the house on 30 April 1913 for $24,250, which was more than enough to repay the principal sum.

The new group of owners were Leow Chia Heng (廖正兴), Chua Tze Yong (蔡子庸), Ng Siang Chew (黄仙舟) and Low Cheo Chay (刘照青), all prominent leaders of the Teochew community and trustees of Tuan Mong School (端蒙学堂).⁹

Chua also served as the president and vice-president of the Singapore Chinese Chamber of Commerce in 1907 and 1908 respectively. He was a wealthy merchant who made his money in the import and export of rice and sugar. Both Chua and Ng were also trustees of Ban See Soon Kongsi (万事顺公司), a small Teochew society formed in May 1847, which made significant contributions to the finances of Tuan Mong School. Low was also a staff of Ban See Soon and managed its estates. Although River House was legally held under their individual capacities, the four men were, in fact, acting for and on behalf of Tuan Mong School.

In July 1913, the school relocated to River House from 52 Hill Street after the landlord sought to increase its rent. During the graduation ceremonies of the third, fourth and fifth student cohorts in December 1914, December 1915 and June 1917 respectively, photographs were taken at the recessed entranceway of the building – to date the first extant close-up photos of the building.

The photos show huisu (灰塑) or pargetting work (decorative plastering) on the walls of the recessed entranceway in sets of three panels: upper, middle and lower. These panels were traditionally moulded from oyster-shell lime (贝灰), sometimes with paper fibre added to the mixture to improve its tensile strength and to prevent cracking. The panels were then coloured using fresco painting. By the time the first graduation photo of the third student cohort was taken at River House in 1914, the original panels had been given a whitewash. The steps leading to the house that were once visible in the photos no longer exist today, after the ground in front was raised during restoration work in 1993.

Graduation photograph of the fifth Tuan Mong School cohort, taken in June 1917, at the recessed entranceway of River House. The panels of pargetting works (decorative plastering) known as huisu (灰塑) on the walls of the entranceway were originally moulded from oyster-shell-lime and coloured using fresco painting. The panels had been whitewashed by the time this photo was taken. The steps visible in the photos no longer exist today after the ground in front was raised during restoration in 1993. Image reproduced from Tuan Mong Collection: Photographs, 1914-1960. (Accession no.: B18977485E).

By 1917, River House could no longer accommodate Tuan Mong’s rapidly expanding student population and the school’s board of management started looking for new premises. On 26 April 1918, the building was sold to Ho Ho Biscuit Factory for $65,000 – more than two-and-a-half times the purchase price just five years earlier – and the school moved to 29 Tank Road.

In 1918 and 1919, Ho Ho Biscuit Factory submitted alteration plans to convert River House into a godown, suggesting that the house was perhaps not originally built to be a warehouse. The alterations included covering up the internal courtyards as well as reinforcements that increased the load capacity of the building. Although Ho Ho Biscuit sold the property in 1946, for the next five decades – from the 1940s to 90s – the different owners of River House continued to use it as a warehouse.

The first and second storey plans as well as the longitudinal section of the River House redrawn from a 1919 Ho Ho Biscuit Factory building alteration plan. The floor plans show the sidianjin (四点金) or “four-points of gold” layout of the River House, with its two internal courtyards and a pair of huoxiang (火巷) or fire alleys on either side. The longitudinal section shows the tailiang style (抬梁式) roof truss system used for the building. The alteration plan also proposed to cover up the two internal courtyards. Drawings by Chen Jingwen.

Leaving a Legacy
In 1993, River House was restored – sadly with some of its original Teochew characteristics lost in the process – and rented out as a commercial space (it is currently occupied by the VLV restaurant and lounge).

In 1993, River House was restored – sadly with some of its original Teochew characteristics lost in the process – and rented out as a commercial space. Courtesy of Urban Redevelopment Authority.

Despite its prominent location and intricate architecture, the fascinating story behind River House has been buried in the annals of Singapore’s history for too long. The evidence drawn from the National Archives of Singapore and other government agencies reveals a building with a somewhat dubious past, but nevertheless one that is intimately intertwined with the social, economic and political conditions of the time.

The location and architecture of River House bear testimony to the importance of the Teochew community in Singapore’s early trade, and the refined building traditions they brought from southern China. For nearly 150 years, River House has witnessed the rise and decline of the Singapore River as a trading centre along with various communities who made and lost fortunes along this body of water. Today, River House continues to play a similar role as successive generations recreate their own meanings while the building is repurposed for new functions.

References
Deportation of Chinese towkays. (1887, October 17). Straits Times Weekly Issue, p. 14. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Blythe, W. (1969). The impact of Chinese secret societies in Malaya: A historical study (pp. 80, 259–260). London: Oxford University Press. (Call no.: RSEA 366.09595 BLY)

Choa, M.C. (1864). The memorial of Chuah Moh Choon of Singapore Chinese merchant [memorial]. Straits Settlements Records, W54, p. 238. (Microfilm no.: NL151)

Dunman, T. (1865) Letter to the Secretary to Government Straits Settlements Singapore. Straits Settlements Records, W54, p. 286. (Microfilm no.: NL151)

Friday, 15th March. (1872, March 28). Straits Times Overland Journal, p. 3. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Friday, 16th September. (1870, September 23). Straits Times Overland Journal, p. 5. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Kim, Y.J., & Park S.J. (2017). Tectonic traditions in ancient Chinese architecture, and their development. Journal of Asian Architecture and Building Engineering, 16(1), 31–38, p. 32. (Not available in NLB holdings)

Knapp, R.G. (2010). Chinese houses of Southeast Asia: The eclectic architecture of sojourners & settlers (p. 72). Clarendon, Vt.: Tuttle. (Call no.: RSING 728.370959 KNA)

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林远辉 & 张应龙. (2016). 新加坡马来西亚华侨史 (p. 392). 广东: 高等教育出版社. (Call no.: Chinese RSING 959.5004951 LYH)

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National Heritage Board. (2006). Discover Singapore heritage trails (p. 25). Singapore: National Heritage Board. (Call no.: RSING 915.95704 DIS-[TRA])

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Sim, S. (2002, March 28). Mansion from the past. Today, p. 33. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Singapore and Straits directory for 1893.(1893) (p. 161). Singapore: Printed at the Mission Press, p. 161. (Microfilm no.: NL1180)

Singapore. Building Control Division. (1918). Additions and alterations to building, conversion into godown (cancelled) [Building plan no.: 438/1918]. Retrieved from National Archives of Singapore website.

Singapore. Building Control Division. (1919). Additions and alterations to 13 Clarke Quay for conversion into a godown [Building plan no. 40/1919]. Retrieved from National Archives of Singapore website. Singapore. Municipality. (1921). Administration report of the Singapore municipality for the year 1920 (p. 9–H). Singapore: The Straits Times Press. (Microfilm no.: NL3410)

Singapore. The statutes of the Republic of Singapore. (1987, March 30). Ngee Ann Kongsi (Incorporation) Ordinance (Cap. 370, 1985 Rev. ed.). Retrieved from Singapore Statutes Online website.

Song, O.S. (2016). One hundred years’ history of the Chinese in Singapore: The annotated edition (p. 487). Singapore: National Library Board. Retrieved from BookSG.

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Straits Settlements: Office of Inspector-General of Police. (1872, October 12). The Straits Times, p. 4. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

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Survey Department, Singapore. (1958). Sub-Division No.9, Block No.1 [Survey map] [Accession no. SP002158]. Retrieved from National Archives of Singapore website.

The late attack upon the Protector of Chinese. (1887, September 7). Straits Times Weekly Issue, p. 9. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Trocki, C.A. (2007). Prince of pirates: The temenggongs and the development of Johor and Singapore, 1784–1885 (pp. 101–102, 117–119). Singapore: NUS Press. (Call no.: RSING 959.5103 TRO)

颜清湟. (2007). 从历史角度看海外华人社会变革 (p. 151). 新加坡: 新加坡青年书局. (Call no.: Chinese RSING 959.004951 YQH)

Notes

The Singapore Council of Women was the city’s first female civil rights group that took bold steps to champion laws affecting women. Phyllis Chew documents its hard-won victories.

“Forget for a time the rights and privileges which a dying custom and a faulty judgment bestows upon a selfish husband, and learn to think in terms of your duties as fathers. The destiny of millions of Chinese girls is in your hands. Deal with them as you would like your daughters to be dealt with.”¹

Shirin Fozdar, Secretary-General,
Singapore Council of Women, 23 August 1954

After the Japanese Occupation ended in 1945, Singapore women – emboldened by a political awareness brought about by the events of World War II – emerged with a greater confidence in their abilities. They had witnessed the humiliating defeat of British forces by Japanese military might, and with it a shattering of the myth of white colonialist supremacy.

Taking inspiration from women such as Elizabeth Choy, the war heroine who was incarcerated and tortured by the Japanese military police, gender-related inhibitions were slowly cast away. Women began contributing to the war rehabilitation effort – for the first time two women were elected to the Municipal Commission² – and started reaching out to less fortunate segments of society.

Emerging from the confines of their homes, women volunteered for jury services and several took office as Justices of Peace. They volunteered at feeding centres set up by the colonial government for thousands of impoverished children who were denied food and basic nutrition. Others banded together to establish the first family planning association in Singapore, convinced that families should have no more children than they could feed, clothe and educate.

Women recreated an identity for themselves by setting up alumni associations (such as Nanyang Girls’ Alumni), recreational groups (Girls’ Sports Club) race-based groups (Kamala Club) religious groups (Malay Women’s Welfare Association), housewives’ groups (Inner Wheel of the Rotary Club), professional groups (Singapore Nurses’ Association), national groups (Indonesian Ladies Club) and mutual help groups (Cantonese Women’s Mutual Help Association).

One association, however, stood out amidst the post-war euphoria – the Singapore Council of Women (SCW). This was a group energised by its vision of uniting Singapore’s diverse women’s groups across race, language, nationality and religion in its fight for female enfranchisement. Looking back at the history of women’s rights movement in Singapore, it would not be an overstatement to claim the SCW marked the awakening of Singapore women to a new and heightened consciousness of what they could achieve.

Some of the committee members of the Singapore Council of Women, 1957. Shirin Fozdar, Secretary-General between 1952 and 1961, is seated 6th from the left. Image reproduced from Lam, J.L., & Chew, P.G.L. (1993). Voices & Choices: The Women’s Movement in Singapore (p.90). Singapore Council of Women’s Organisation and Singapore Baha’i Women’s Committee. (Call no.: RSING 305.42095957 VOI)

By defining clear goals, organising working groups, enlisting public support, and engaging the media, government and the international community, the SCW showed how Singaporean women, hitherto overshadowed and relegated to the fringes of society, would lead the way in changing their status quo.

Origins of the Singapore Council of Women
The seeds of the SCW were sown on 12 November 1951 when a small group of women under the leadership of Shirin Fozdar (see text box below) called a public meeting to discuss the formation of an organisation that would champion women’s rights in Singapore. Thirty prominent women in the community met, including Elizabeth Choy, Vilasini Menon, and Municipal Commissioners Mrs Robert Eu (nee Phyllis Chia) and Amy Laycock (see Note 2).

Shirin Fozdar was the Secretary-General of the Singapore Council of Women between 1952 and 1961. Strongly believing that women are equal to men, she had begun the fight for the emancipation of women in India when she was just a teenager. Image reproduced from Ong, R. (2000). Shirin Fozdar: Asia’s Foremost Feminist (cover). Singapore: Rose Ong. (Call no.: RSING 297.93092 ONG). Shirin Fozdar: Feminist Extraordinaire Shirin Fozdar was born in 1905 in Bombay (now Mumbai), India, to Persian parents. She studied at a Parsi school in Bombay and then at St Joseph’s Convent in Panchgani, Maharashtra. After graduating from Elphinstone College, she enrolled at the Royal Institute of Science (both in Mumbai) to study dentistry, where she met her husband, Khodadad Muncherjee Fozdar, a doctor. When the couple arrived in Singapore in 1950, polygamy was a common and accepted practice. As Secretary-General of the Singapore Council of Women between 1952 and 1961, Fozdar was the “brains” and public face of the women’s rights group. Inspired by the Baha’i principle that men and women are equal in status, Fozdar had begun the fight for the emancipation of women in India when she was just a teenager. Her involvement in the women’s movement in India culminated in her nomination in 1934 as the country’s representative at the All Asian Women’s Conference on women’s rights at the League of Nations in Geneva. In 1941, Fozdar delivered peace lectures to the riot-torn Indian city of Ahmedabad on the instructions of Mahatma Gandhi, leader of the Indian independence movement against British rule, who called her “his daughter”. Fozdar passed away from cancer on 2 February 1992 in Singapore, leaving behind three sons and two daughters; her husband had died in 1958. Her personal collection comprising newspaper clippings, letters, correspondences, minutes of meetings, receipts and invoices are on loan to the National Library Board for digitisation by her son Jamshed. These are found in the library’s Jamshed & Parvati Fozdar Collection.

The women agreed that despite the fine work done by the Young Women’s Christian Association, the Social Welfare Department and the Malay Women’s Welfare Association, their “admirable work could not ameliorate the legal disabilities under which women have been suffering and which were the root causes of many of the social evils”.³

Accordingly, Fozdar called for the setting up of a new organisation that would unite the women of Singapore and would not “overlap [with] the work and activities of the existing social welfare organisations, but go to the root causes of all the social evils that exist and handicap the progress of women towards their emancipation and their enjoyment of equal rights…”.⁴

Taking advantage of the politically conducive climate, the SCW was inaugurated on 4 April 1952, barely five months after that first meeting mooted by Fozdar. The first executive committee (with Fozdar as Secretary-General and Choy as President) comprised mainly members drawn from the main women’s groups of the period, including the YWCA. Altogether there were seven Chinese, four Indians, two Malays, one Indonesian and one Briton – a composition that would not change much over the next 10 years. This racial mix in turn reflected the composition of the rank-and-file SCW membership; the majority were Chinese, followed by Malays, Indians, Eurasians and Europeans.

War heroine Elizabeth Choy (in cheongsam) was the president of the Singapore Council of Women’s Protem Committee (1951-1952). As president, she helped to unite the diverse women groups in Singapore. Image reproduced from Lam, J.L., & Chew, P.G.L. (1993). Voices & Choices: The Women’s Movement in Singapore (p.116). Singapore Council of Women’s Organisation and Singapore Baha’i Women’s Committee. (Call no.: RSING 305.42095957 VOI)

An International Sisterhood
Influenced by two of its members – Winnifred Holmes, the overseas representative of the Women’s Council of the United Kingdom in Singapore and V.M. West, a former member of Britain’s National Council of Women – one of the first things that the SCW did was to affiliate itself with leading overseas women’s rights groups, such as the International Council of Women (ICW), the National Council of Women in Great Britain, the National Council for Civil Liberties in London, and the British Commonwealth League.⁵

Mrs George Lee (left) and Mrs Shirin Fozdar (right) of the Singapore Council of Women were invited by the China Women’s League to visit the People’s Republic of China. They met up with Vice-Premier Marshal Chen Yi in Beijing in 1958. Image reproduced from Lam, J.L., & Chew, P.G.L. (1993). Voices & Choices: The Women’s Movement in Singapore (p.119). Singapore Council of Women’s Organisation and Singapore Baha’i Women’s Committee. (Call no.: RSING 305.42095957 VOI)

Viewing itself as part of a network of a worldwide confederation of women, the SCW kept abreast with world affairs and lobbied for women’s rights through letter and telegram lobbies. When British women petitioned the House of Commons on 9 March 1954 to demand for “equal pay for equal work”, the SCW sent a telegram of support. When the United Nations Economic and Social Council registered the Convention on the Status of Women on 7 July 1954, the SCW alerted the local press.⁶ When Egyptian feminist Doria Shafik went on a hunger strike in March 1954 to seek voting rights for the women of her country, the SCW sent a telegram to General Muhammed Neguib of Egypt asking him to consider her demands.⁷

Closer to home, when Perwari, the Indonesian Women’s Association, marched to Indonesian Prime Minister Ali Sastroamidjojo’s office demanding the abolition of polygamy and child marriages in December 1953, the SCW extended its support.⁸ When Governor of Singapore Robert Black was transferred to Hong Kong in 1957, the SCW petitioned him to assist the Hong Kong Council of Women in its efforts to change marriage laws in the British colony.⁹

Both Fozdar and the SCW’s second president Mrs George Lee (nee Tan Cheng Hsiang) liaised with women’s groups in Hong Kong, Vietnam, Cambodia, China and Britain and undertook lecture tours.¹⁰ At the 1958 Afro-Asian Conference in Colombo, Fozdar’s criticism of Singapore as an important stop in the trade of Asian women triggered press publicity and caused an uproar with government officials, including Singapore’s Chief Minister Lim Yew Hock.¹¹ The SCW had been increasingly concerned about prostitution in Singapore as well as the rising number of girls and women from Hong Kong and China sold to brothel owners against their will.¹²

In the Public Eye
Throughout the 1950s, the SCW raised its public profile in Singapore by giving public talks to make its agenda known.¹³ But it wasn’t all talk and no action. The group developed its own distinct brand of community service. Instead of merely raising funds and working with existing welfare organisations, the SCW pioneered several new initiatives that it ran itself.

The Singapore Council of Women pioneered the setting up of crèches in factories in 1952. Lee Rubber Co. was one of the first companies that agreed to set up such a facility for its employees’ children. Chartered Industries of Singapore (pictured here) was one of a handful of companies that followed suit in the late 1960s. Image reproduced from Lam, J.L., & Chew, P.G.L. (1993). Voices & Choices: The Women’s Movement in Singapore (p.78). Singapore Council of Women’s Organisation and Singapore Baha’i Women’s Committee. (Call no.: RSING 305.42095957 VOI)

In February 1953, the SCW set up the first girls club in Singapore. Money was raised and a suitable site at Joo Chiat Welfare Centre was found. Equipment such as typewriters and sewing machines were donated, and SCW members recruited to teach English, cooking, sewing and self-defence. The club proved so popular that 200 girls registered on the first day, forcing the SCW to transfer some classes to Tanjong Katong Girls’ School.¹⁴

Another task the SCW pioneered was the setting up of crèches in factories in 1952. Noticing that large numbers of working women were finding it difficult to raise their children with full-time jobs, they appealed to factories that employed more than 100 women – such as Lee Rubber Co Ltd., Malayan Breweries and the Dunlop Rubber Purchasing Co. Ltd. – to consider setting up crèches within their factory premises.¹⁵ SCW members offered advice on how to run these crèches economically “so that children will not be left unattended… while the mother is at work”. Unfortunately, while some factories promised to look into the matter, most were reluctant to take up SCW’s offer.

The main focus of the SCW, however, was to provide counselling to the many hapless women who had been deserted or divorced by their husbands. SCW members spent much time liaising with the Department of Social Welfare on marriage counselling, and pressured the Department of Immigration to curb the importation of women from Hong Kong, China and Japan who came to Singapore to become secondary wives. With regard to the vice trade, the SCW proposed establishing a centre where women who wished to leave prostitution could be rehabilitated and taught useful skills to make a new living for themselves; this call, however, fell on deaf ears.¹⁶

Municipal Commissioner Mrs Robert Eu, who was a founding member of the SCW recalled: “Whenever, a mother came to see me in tears that her husband was taking another wife because she was three months pregnant, I had to tell lies to Immigration so as to prevent the man from importing another wife from Shanghai.” Lies were necessary because “if I told the truth, they would say I was interfering with Chinese customs, so I had to say he was importing a wife to be a prostitute”.¹⁷

The Fight Against Polygamy
In 1953, the SCW drafted an ordinance, the Preven­tion of Bigamous Marriages, which it distributed to members of the Legislative Assembly.¹⁸ The bill essentially called for the abolition of bigamous marriages.

This was a time when women were completely subject to customary and religious laws that allowed men to take more than one wife. Divorce laws were lax and women were greatly disadvantaged. While a man could divorce his wife on the slightest pretext, women could not do the same since the wife and children were often financially dependent on the husband as head of the household.

In addition, as most marriages were not properly registered, women were left with few rights for settling grievances in court and often had to resort to government or quasi-government agencies like the Social Welfare Department and the Chinese Consulate General for informal arbitration.

However, the bill was roundly criticised by conservative leaders from the Malay, Indian and Chinese communities, all of whom protested against it on the grounds of culture and customary laws.¹⁹ Undaunted, the SCW appealed to the colonial government, calling on the British authorities “to do for the women of Singapore what Lord Bentinck, your countryman, did for the women of India”.²⁰

In 1954, a petition was sent to Stanley Awbery, a member of the House of Commons in England, decrying “the terrible insecurity of married life in this country” and the opposition the SCW faced in its attempts to institute reforms. The petition prompted Awbery to ask the Secretary of State for the Colonies in the House of Commons to report on the divorce rate in Singapore as well as “the steps which were being taken to tighten the marriage and divorce laws so as to give the women the same marital rights as are enjoyed by women in other parts of the British Commonwealth”.²¹

The colonial government was placed in a difficult situation. While concerned with the protection of women in the colony, they were unwilling to interfere in local customs and careful with enacting legislation that would arouse religious controver­sies. The British authorities advised the SCW to first change the opinions of the men sitting on the Muslim Advisory Board (MAB) with regard to the rampant prac­tice of polygamy, the high divorce rate and the many instances of girls under 16 years of age who had been divorced multiple times in the community.

Following this advice, the SCW began to petition the MAB for reforms. Thus began in 1953 a series of correspondences between the SCW and the MAB, the local body responsible for advising the government on social, cultural, economic and religious matters pertaining to Muslims.²²

In 1953, SCW’s Muslim sub-committee members, many of whom had joined anonymously “for fear of being divorced” by their husbands, produced a handbill that was distributed to various kampongs. Quoting from the Quran, the handbill argued that monogamy, rather than polygamy, was the natural state of affairs:

“And if you fear that you cannot act equitably towards orphans, then marry such women as seem good to you, two and three and four; but if you fear that you will not do justice [between them] then [marry] only one or what your right hand possesses [i.e. females taken as prisoners of war]; this is more proper that you may not deviate from the right course.”²³

However, the police quickly put a stop to the distribution of these handbills for fear of serious repercussions (Shirin Fodzar had already been threatened with murder on two occasions).

In 1955, the SCW wrote to General (and to be president) Gamal Abdel Nasser of Egypt, then the dominant force in Arab politics, imploring him to rescue Muslim women all over the world and to legislate for monogamous marriage, so that other Muslim countries could follow in Egypt’s footsteps.²⁴

Aware that marriage laws in the Federation of Malaya were more flexible and that Malay men wishing to avoid Singapore’s stricter laws could make use of the loophole and get married in Johor, the SCW began to include the Federation in their agenda. In November 1955, a petition was also sent to all the Sultans in the Malay states.

A series of talks was undertaken by SCW committee members between 1955 and 1957 in the town halls of Kuala Lumpur, Penang, Ipoh, Taiping and Muar.²⁵ Fozdar’s rallying cry that “shame and misery are forced on Muslim women in Malaya in the name of God and religion”²⁶ at one of these talks won her many supporters as well as opponents.

Another reason the SCW took its fight across the border was because it was fired by its ambition to establish a Malayan Women’s Council (which would include Singapore in its make-up). Although The Malay Mail reported that Shirin Fozdar and the SCW had “a rapidly increasing following throughout Malaya and Singapore and not from the womenfolk only”,²⁷ it criticised “her programme for a Malayan Women’s Council… as revolutionary in its way as that of the most extreme nationalists in Malaya.”²⁸

Nevertheless, the seeds had been planted: a meeting of the UMNO Kaum Ibu (Women’s Section of the United Malay National Organisation) in 1958 moved a resolution that concrete steps should be taken to curb the high divorce rates and that divorced women should be given alimony.²⁹ A National Council of Women’s Organisations (NCWO) in Malaya also took root in 1963 with the express aim of raising the status of women by fighting for, among other things, reforms in marriage and divorce laws.

These developments placed pressure on the conservative MAB in Singapore for reforms and to agree to most of SCW’s demands as stipulated in the Muslim Ordinance of 1957.

The Women’s Charter of 1961
Between 1955 and 1959, the SCW lobbied various political parties in Singapore to address the injustices faced by women, arguing that “the attainment of independ­ence will remain an idle dream if the men in this country do not rise to generous heights to grant that independence to their own kith and kin – the women of the country”.³⁰

While leaders of several political parties jostling for power – this was the tumultuous period before the British acceded to Singapore’s request for internal self-government in 1959 – were sympathetic to SCW’s cause, they felt that putting it down as party policy could cost them votes in future elections due to its controversial nature.³¹ However, the Peoples’ Action Party (PAP), under pressure from members of its Women’s League – many of whom were young, Chinese educated and markedly socialist in their ideals – took the strongest stand on women’s rights.

Launched in 1956 under the leadership of Chan Choy Siong, a pioneer female politician, the PAP Women’s League adopted SCW’s 1952 slogan of “one man one wife”, as part of its anti-colonial manifesto.³² The first big event organised by the league was the celebration of International Women’s Day on 8 March 1956.

Members of the Women’s League of the People’s Action Party. The party canvassed on the Singapore Council of Women’s 1952 slogan, “one man one wife”, during the International Women’s Day rally in March 1956. Courtesy of Phyllis Chew.

The rally was held at four places simultaneously and attended by more than 2,000 people, most of whom were trade unionists and Chinese school students.³³ Women leaders from all walks of life were invited to celebrate the occasion. The SCW’s representative was Shirin Fozdar, who urged the frenzied crowd to support the abolition of polygamy. On the same day, a resolution was passed by the Women’s League in support of the principle of monogamy (and subsequently moved during the PAP’s annual general meeting in 1957).

Thus, the PAP became the only political party to campaign openly on the “one man one wife” slogan. The extent to which the adoption of women’s rights contributed to the PAP’s unexpected landslide victory in the 1959 general election that launched Singapore as a fully self-governing state should not be underestimated.³⁴ Women came out in full force on polling day because voting was now compulsory. The party’s clear victory – it won 43 of the 51 seats contested – and its subsequent control of the Legislative Assembly meant that Singapore society was now prepared to accept the idea of civil rights for women. As a result, the long-drawn-out controversy over the issue of polygamy and child marriages finally came to an abrupt end.

In the 1959 Legislative Assembly general election, the People’s Action Party was the only political party to campaign openly on the “one man one wife” slogan. As voting had become compulsory by then, women came out in full force on polling day. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

It took two years before the Legislative Assembly passed the Women’s Charter Bill on 24 May 1961 – with the ordinance coming into force on 15 September 1961 – finally bringing to a climax SCW’s decade-long fight for women’s rights. The Charter provided that the only form of marriage permitted would be monogamous, whether the rites were civil, Christian or customary. Women could now sue their husbands for adultery and bigamy, and receive both a fair hearing and justice under the law. The Charter strengthened the law relating to the registration of marriages and divorce, and the maintenance of wives and children, and also contained provisions regarding offences committed against women and girls.

Although the Charter did not apply to Muslim women, its promulgation forced the Muslim community to look into ways of further improving the status of Muslim women through an amendment of the Muslim Ordinance of 1957. In 1960, the Muslim Syariah Court was empowered to order husbands to provide maintenance to their divorced wives until these women remarried or died. Getting divorced was no longer a simple process for Muslim men, and they were not allowed to take another wife if they were unable to show proof of their financial means. Although the SCW was unable to introduce monogamy in Muslim marriages, it was, nonetheless, able to limit the practice of polygamy.

The End of the Singapore Council of Women
Having achieved her mission, Shirin Fozdar left Singapore in 1961 to set up the Santhinam Girls’ school in Yasohorn, northeast Thailand, an impoverished area where rural girls would have opportunities to learn livelihood skills instead of resorting to prostitution.

Deprived of Fodzar’s vision and dynamism, the SCW languished in the 1960s under a new political climate that saw grassroots organisations, such as the People’s Association, taking over many civic activities that were once left to NGOs. Eventually, left without a purpose and mission, the SCW was deregistered in 1971.

The SCW’s legacy goes far beyond the successful lobbying that led to the Women’s Charter of 1961. It blazed an entirely new path for women after World War II, seeing women as being equal to men and lifting women’s groups in Singapore beyond fundraising, social networking and self-improvement courses.

Rather than accept that women could only play supporting roles to men in society, the SCW confronted the injustices faced by all women in Singapore. From the outset, the SCW was single-minded in the pursuit of its goals, vociferous in its demands, wide-ranging in its call for reforms benefiting women, and forward-looking in its agenda. In short, the SCW was responsible for the awakening of Singapore women to a new consciousness of themselves as humans with a purpose and a goal.

Notes

Sundari Balasubramaniam examines Tamil print advertisements published between the 1920s and 1960s, and discovers fascinating insights of life during this period.

விளம்பரம் என்பது வணிக நிறுவனங்கள் தங்கள் தயாரிப்புகளை வாடிக்கையாளர்களிடம் விற்பனை செய்வதற்குப் பயன்படுத்தும் உத்தியாகும். இன்று கணக்கிலடங்கா விளம்பரங்கள் பல்வேறு ஊடகங்கள் வாயிலாக மக்களின் மனப்போக்கை அதற்கேற்றார்போல் வடிவமைக்கப்பெற்று நம்மைத் திணரடிக்கின்றன. மன உறுதி மிக்கவராயினும் நிறுவனங்களின் மனதை மயக்கும் விளம்பரங்களுக்குப் பலர் அடிமையாகிவிடுகின்றனர் என்பதே இன்றைய நிலைமை .

இன்றுபோல் அதிக ஊடகங்கள் இல்லாத அக்காலத்தில் விளம்பரங்கள் செய்ய வானொலி, வார இதழ்கள், நாளிதழ்கள் போன்றவை பயன்பட்டன.

60, 70 வருடங்களுக்கு முன் பத்திரிகைகள், வானொலி தவிர வேறு எந்த ஊடகங்களும் இல்லாத காலக்கட்டத்தில் விளம்பரங்கள் எவ்வாறு நம் வாழ்க்கையில் பங்கு வகித்தன என்பதை இக்கட்டுரை விளக்கும். மேலும் ஒரு பத்திரிகையில் வெளிவரும் விளம்பரங்களைக் கொண்டு அந்தச் சமுதாயத்தின் வளர்ச்சியை, அதன் வரலாற்றை அறிய முடியும்.

சிங்கப்பூரில் வெளிவந்த பொதுஜன மித்தி ரன் (1923), தமிழ் முரசு (1936-1960) ஆகிய பத்திரிகைகள் இக்கட்டுரைக்குப் பயன்படுத்தப்பட்டுள்ளன.

100 வருடங்களுக்கு முன்பு சிங்கப்பூரில் வெளிவந்த தமிழ்ப் பத்திரிகைகளில் விளம்பரங்கள் மிகக் குறைந்த அளவே வந்தன. அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில் நாட்டு நடப்புகளே அதிகம் செய்திகளாக வந்தன. உலகப் போர் நிகழ்வுகள், ஜப்பானிய ஆட்சி , இந்திய சுதந்திரப் போராட்ட நிகழ்வுகள், காலனித்துவச் செய்திகள் ஆகியவை அதிகம் இடம்பெற்றன.

1920களில் வெளிவந்த விளம்பரங்கள் அக்கால மக்களின் தேவைகள், கலாசாரம், அந்நிய அரசாங்கத்தின் பாதிப்பு, மக்களின் விருப்பங்கள், வாழ்க்கைத்தரம் போன்றவற்றைப் பிரதிபலித்தன.

பொதுஜன மித்திரன்

1920களில் வெளிவந்த இப்பத்திரிகையில் விளம்பரங்கள் முக்கியத்துவம் பெற ஆரம்பித்தன.

அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில் காப்புறுதித் திட்டங்கள், உடலுக்குச் சக்தியூட்டும் மருந்துகள் அதிகமாக விளம்பரங்களில் இடம்பெற்றுள்ளன. ஒரே மருந்து பலவகையான நோய்களைக் குணப்படுத்துவதாகப் பல விளம்பரங்களைக் காணலாம். அடுத்ததாகத் தலைமுடிக்கான தைலம் அல்லது எண்ணெய் விளம்பரங்கள் அதிகமாக உள்ளன. இனிப்புச் சுவை நீர் (சோடா), தனியார் மருந்தகங்கள் போன்ற விளம்பரங்களும் உள்ளன.

(Left) உடல் சோர்வு, இரத்த ச் சோகை , விஷக்காச்சல் , நரம்புத் தளர்ச்சி என பலவகை யான நோய்களுக்கு ஏற்புடையன. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்ப ட்டது. பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujana mittiran]. (1923, டிசம்பர் 8) (பக். 1). (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM)
(Right) நெருப்பு, கடல், வாகன விபத்து, வணிகம் நலிவடைதல் போன்ற பலவகையான இழப்புகளுக்கு காப்புறுதி வழங்கப்படுகிறது. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்ப ட்டது. பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujana mittiran]. (1923, டிசம்பர் 8) (பக். 1). (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM)

மருந்தகங்கள் தங்கள் தயாரிப்புகளை எடுத்துக்கொண்டால் உடல் சோர்வு, இரத்தச் சோகை, விஷக்காய்ச்சல் , நரம்புத் தளர்ச்சி என பலவகையான நோய்கள் குணமாகுமென்று விளம்பரப்படுத்துகின்றனர். அத்துடன் அதை எவ்வாறு எடுத்துக்கொள்ளவேண்டும் அல்லது பயன்படுத்தவேண்டும் எனவும் விளக்குகின்றன.

அக்காலத்தில் மக்களிடையே சாதிபாகுபாடு அதிகமாக இருந்தது. உணவகத்தில் மிகவும் ஆசாரமாகத் தயாரிக்கப்பட்ட பானங்கள், உணவுகள் கிடைக்குமென்றும், உயர் பதவியில் வேலை செய்பவர்களுக்குத் தங்க இடம் ஏற்பாடு செய்துத்தரப்படுமென்றும் விளம்பரங்களைக் காணலாம்.

தமிழ் முரசு

1935 ஆம் ஆண்டு முதல் இன்றுவரை சிங்கப்பூரில் வெளிவருகின்ற ஒரே தமிழ் பத்திரிகை இதில் சர்வரோக நிவாரணிகள், உடலுக்கு சக்தி தரும் மருந்துகள், கூந்தல் தைலம், திரைப்படங்கள், மது வகைகள், குறிப்பாக திராட்சை ரசம், பீர் சுருட்டு (சிகரெட்) போன்ற விளம்பரங்கள் அதிகமாக வெளிவந்தன.

குல்பஹார் வாசனை எண்ணெய், சந்தன எண்ணை விளம்பரங்கள், கோகுல் கூந்தல் எண்ணெய் என இதுபோல் பல நிறுவன கூந்தல் எண்ணெய்களின் விளம்பரங்கள் அதிகமாக வந்தன. அனைத்துத் தைலங்களும் முடி கொட்டுதல் உடல் சூடு போன்ற பல பிரச்சனைகளைத் தீர்க்கும் என்பதாக விளம்பரம் செய்யப்பட்டுள்ளன.

மிக அதிகமாக வந்த விளம்பரங்களுள் உடல் சக்தியைக் கூட்டும் மருந்துகளும் ஒன்று. ஆண்களின் சக்தியை மேம்படுத்துவதாகக் காட்டப்படுகிறது. காந்தரசம் என்ற நிறுவனம் தயாரிக்கும் லேகியத்தை உண்டால் சிங்கத்தையே அடக்கும் சக்தி பெற்றவராகிவிடுவர் என்று விளம்பரம் கூறுகிறது. இம்மருந்தை தயாரித்த காந்தரசம் என்ற மருந்து நிறுவனம் திரு அ.சி சுப்பையா அவர்களால் சிங்கப்பூரில் 1930 முதல் 1955 வரை நடத்தப்பட்டது.

அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில் அதிகமாக யுனானி மருந்தகங்கள் செயல்பட்டுவந்தன. இன்று அவை வழக்கில் இல்லை. பலவிதமான நோய்களுக்கும் இங்கு மருந்துகள் கிடைக்கும். சித்தவைத்திய நிலையங்களும் பரவலாக இருந்தன. இனிப்பு நீர், சயரோகம் போன்ற நோய்களைக் குணப்படுத்துவதாக விளம்பரம் உள்ள து. அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில் சயரோகம் பலருக்கு இருந்ததால் பல விளம்பரங்களில் அதைப்பற்றிக் காணலாம். 1936 ஆம் ஆண்டு வெளிவந்த விளம்பரம் வணிகக் கண்காட்சியைப் பற்றி அறிவிக்கிறது. பெண்களைக் கவரும் வண்ணம் அவர்களுக்கு அழகூட்டும் பொருட்கள் இக்காண்காட்சியில் கிடைக்கும் என்கிறது விளம்பரம். அக்காலக்கட்டத்திலேயே வணிகக் கண்காட்சி நடந்ததைக் காட்டுகிறது.

(Top left and right) ஹின்னாம் , மருந்த கம் தங்கள் மருந்துகள் பலவகைகயான நோய்களுக்குத் தீர்வு என்றும், மலிவு விலையில் கிடைக்குமென்றும் அறிவிக்கின்றன. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujana mittiran]. (1923, டிசம்பர் 8) (பக். 1). (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM). ஹின்னாம் & லிட்டில் மருந்தகம் லிமிட். 1938-1939. நார்த் ப்ரிட்ஜ் ரோடு. நார்த்பிரிட்ஜ் சாலையில் இயங்கி வந்த ஹின்னாம் & லிட்டில் மருந்தகம் லிமிட். 1938-1939. அன்புரிமைச் சலுகை , சிங்கப்பூர் தேசிய அரும்பொருளகம்.
(Above left and right) சின்சியர் மருந்தகம் தங்கள் மருத்துகள் பலவகை கயான நோய்களுக்குத் தீர்வு என்றும், மலிவு விலையில் கிடைக்குமென்றும் அறிவிக்கின்றன. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujana mittiran]. (1923, டிசம்பர் 8) (பக். 1). (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM). சின்சியர், மருந்தகம், சூலியா ஸ்ட்ரீட் , லீ கிப் லின் தொகுப்பிலிருந்து. காப்புரிமைக்குட்பட்டது, லீ கிப் லின் மற்றும் தேசிய நூலக வாரியம், சிங்கப்பூர், 2009.

இன்று பிரபலமாக இருக்கும் மைலோ 1930களில் இல்லை. ஓவல்டின் பானமே மக்களின் சத்து பானமாக விளங்கியது. இன்று வரும் விளம்பரங்கள்போல இந்தப் பானத்தைப் பருகினால் அனைத்துவித ஊட்டச்ச த்துகளும் பெற்று ஆரோக்கியமாக வாழலாம் என உறுதியளிக்கிறது.

(Left) ஆசாரமாகத் தாயாரிக்கப்படும் உணவுகள், பானங்கள் கிடைக்கும் என்ற விளம்பரம். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujana mittiran] (1923, டிசம்பர் 15, பக். 8). London: British Library. (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.9481)
(Right) டேங்க் ரோடு ரயில் நிலையம் அருகில் இந்தியன் காப்பி கிளப் இயங்கி வந்தது. அன்புரிமைச் சலுகை , சிங்கப்பூர் தேசிய ஆவணக்காப்பகம்.

அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில் , மதுவகைகள் குறிப்பாக, திராட்சை ரசம், பீர் போன்றவை ஆரோக்கிய பானம் எனவும், இவைகளை அருந்தினால் உடல் ஆரோக்கியமாக இருக்கும் என்றும் கூறும் விளம்பரங்களைக் காணலாம்.

1930களில் புகைப்பது நாகரிகமாகக் கருதப்பட்ட காலம். இந்திய மங்கைகள் புகைப்பது போன்ற விளம்பரங்கள், ஆண்களும் பெண்களும் புகைப்பது போன்ற விளம்பரங்கள் அதிகம் வெளிவந்தன.

அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில் திரைப்படங்கள், நாடகங்கள் பார்ப்பது, புத்தகங்கள் படிப்பது போன்றவைகளே மக்களின் பொழுதுபோக்கு அம்சங்களாக இருந்தன. தமிழ் நூல் நிலையங்கள் பல இயங்கின. நம் முன்னோடி எழுத்தாளர்கள் பலர் இந்நூல் நிலையங்களுக்குச் சென்று தங்கள் தமிழ் அறிவை வளர்த்துக்கொண்டனர்.

விளம்பரங்கள் நமக்கு பொருட்களைப் மட்டும் அறிமுகப்படுத்துவதில்லை. அக்கால நாகரிக வளர்ச்சி, மக்களின் ஆரோக்கியம், பொழுதுபோக்குகள், பழக்க வழக்கங்கள், நாட்டின் பொருளாதாரம் போன்ற பலவற்றை நாம் அறிந்துகொள்ளலாம். மக்களின் வாழ்க்கை உயர உயர, விளம்பரங்கள் அதற்கேற்றாற்போல் மாற்றம் காண்கின்றன. ஆய்வாளர்களுக்கு இவை மிகவும் பயன்படும் ஒரு வளமாகும்.

	காந்தரசம் கம்பெனியின் பொருட்கள் பற்றிய விளக்க புத்தகம். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. காந்தரசம் கம்பெனி: சித்த வைத்திய பார்மசி [Kāntaracam kampen̲i: Citta vaittiya pārmaci]. (1930). Singapore: Victoria Press. (Call no: RCLOS 615.321 KAN)
	தமிழ் நூல் நிலையம். அக்காலத்தில் பல தமிழ் நூல் நிலையங்கள் இயங்கின. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 3 மார்ச் 1941, பக். 10.
	குல்பஹார் வாசனை எண்ணெய் அனைத்துவித முடிப் பிரச்சனைகளுக்கும் இந்த எண்ணெய் ஒரு தீர்வாகும் என்ற விளம்பரம். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்ப ட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 5 மே 1936, பக். 1.
	மஹா வீர்ய விர்த்தி லேகியம் என்ற மருந்தின் விளம்பரம். இந்த லேகியத்தை உண்டால் சிங்கத்தையே அடக்கும் சக்தி பெற்றவராகிவிடுவர் என்று விளம்பரம் கூறுகிறது. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 8 பிப்ர வரி 1939, பக். 3.
	ஜோதி சித்த வைத்திய நிலையம். சித்தவைத்திய நிலையங்களும் பரவலாக இருந்தன. இனிப்பு நீர், சயரோகம் போன்ற நோய்களைக் குணப்படுத்துவதாக விளம்பரம் உள்ளது. படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 13 ஜனவரி 1954, பக். 9.
	மால்பரோ திரையரங்கில் வெளிவந்த சேவாசதனம் திரைப்படம். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 1 மார்ச் 1939, பக். 8.
	1936 ஆம் ஆண்டு வெளிவந்த இந்த விளம்பரம் வணிகக் கண்காட்சியைப்பற்றி அறிவிக்கிறது. பெண்களைக் கவரும் வண்ணம் அவர்களுக்கு அழகூட்டும் பொருட்கள் இக்காண்காட்சியில் கிடைக்கும் என்கிறது விளம்பரம். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 5 மே 1936, பக். 5.
	புலி மார்க் பீர் விளம்பரம். அக்காலக்கட்டத்தில், மதுவகைகள் குறிப்பாக, திராட்சை ரசம், பீர் போன்றவை ஆரோக்கிய பானம் எனவும், இவைகளை அருந்தினால் உடல் ஆரோக்கியமாக இருக்கும் என்றும் கூறும் விளம்பரங்களைக் காணலாம். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 5 மே 1939, பக். 1.
	கிரவன் ஏ 1930களில் புகைப்பது நாகரிகமாகக்கருதப்பட்ட  காலம். இந்த விளம்பரத்தில் சேலை கட்டிய இந்திய மங்கை கையில் புகையும் வெண்சுருட்டோடு காட்சியளிக்கிறார். படம் மறு ஆக்கம் செய்யப்ப ட்டது. தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], 10 அக்டோபர் 1939, பக். 6.

படங்கள் ஆதாரக் குறிப்புகள்

பிரிட்டிஷ் ட்ரேட் கண்காக்ஷி. (1936, மே 5). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 5. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

ஈஸ்டர்ன் யுனைடெட் அசூரன்ஸ் கார்பரேஷன் லிமிடெட். (1923, டிசம்பர் 8). பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujan̲a mittiran] (பக் 1). London: British Library. (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM)

குல்பஹார் வசனை எண்ணை. (1936, மே 5). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 1. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Hinnam & Little Dispensary Limited. (1923, டிசம்பர் 8). பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujan̲a mittiran] (பக் 7). London: British Library. (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM)

இந்தியன் காப்பி கிளப். (1923, டிசம்பர் 15). பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujan̲a mittiran] (பக் 8). London: British Library. (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM)

ஜோதி சித்த வைத்திய நிலையம். (1954, ஜனவரி 13). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 9. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

காந்தரசம் கம்பெனி: சித்த வைத்திய பார்மசி [Kāntaracam kampen̲i: Citta vaittiya pārmaci]. (1930). Singapore: Victoria Press. (Call no: RCLOS 615.321 KAN)

கிரவன் ஏ. (1939, அக்டோபர் 10). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 6. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

மகா வீரியவிருத்தி லேகியம். (1939, பிப்ரவரி 8). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 3. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

புலிமார்க் பீர். (1939, மே 5). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 1. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

சேவாசதனம். (1939, மார்ச் 1). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 8. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

தமிழ் நூல் நிலையம். (1941, மார்ச் 3). தமிழ் முரசு [Tamil Murasu], பக் 10. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

வாஜீகரண தைலம். (1923, டிசம்பர் 12). பொதுஜன மித்திரன் [Potujan̲a mittiran] (பக் 1). London: British Library. (Call no.: Tamil RCLOS 059.94811 PM)

Who was the architect behind Singapore’s Kranji War Cemetery and other similar memorials in South and Southeast Asia? Athanasios Tsakonas has the story.

On a bright and early Saturday morning on 2 March 1957, Governor of Singapore Robert Black presided over the unveiling of the Singapore Memorial at the Kranji War Cemetery. Under a sky filled with towering clouds, Black, a former prisoner-of-war interned in Changi during the Japanese Occupation (1942–45), was received by Air Marshal Sir Arthur Longmore, Vice-Chairman of the Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC).

Governor of Singapore Robert Black in conversation with relatives of servicemen who had perished in World War II during the unveiling of the Singapore Memorial at Kranji War Cemetery on 2 March 1957. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Some 3,000 guests, including dignitaries and representatives of the various Commonwealth governments, had gathered to bear witness to the culmination of an event that had commenced over a decade earlier in the aftermath of World War II

Unveiling the Memorial  

As the party comprising Black, selected guests and the presiding clergy was about to lay their wreaths at the base of the Cross of Sacrifice, a weeping, elderly Chinese woman dressed in a worn samfoo suddenly emerged from the crowd and stumbled up to the cross. Major-General J.F.D. Steedman, Director of Works at the IWGC, gently put his arm around her shoulders and led her away to a chair under the shade of a tree. Journalist Nan Hall reported in The Straits Times the following day that the woman had “sobbed loudly and rocked her head in her hands”. ¹

Following the unveiling and a short speech by Governor Black, the Last Post was played, hymns were sung, and blessings offered by clergy from the Hindu, Islam, Buddhist and Christian faiths. A flypast by jet fighters from the Royal Australian Air Force punctured the sky in a salute. The British national anthem, God Save the King, concluded the service prior to the laying of wreaths and inspection of the memorial by invited guests. The ceremony, steeped in the tradition of a protocol dating from the beginnings of the IWGC in 1917, would be over within an hour.

After the ceremony, the sobbing woman identified herself as Madam Cheng Seang Ho (alias Cheong Sang Hoo), an 81-year-old wartime heroine whose husband’s name was one of those engraved on the very memorial being unveiled. Madam Cheng and her husband Sim Chin Foo (alias Chum Chan Foo) had joined a group of army and civilian fighters known as Dalforce during the Japanese Occupation.² Her husband would subsequently be captured by the Kempeitai, the Japanese military police, and tortured to death.³

It was a poignant moment that captured the essence of the human sacrifice the memorial was erected to convey, not only for the servicemen who died in the war and whose names were inscribed on the stone panels, but also for those who would come to pay their respects and find some measure of solace.

The Legacy

Designed by a relatively unknown young architect named Colin St Clair Oakes (see box below), the Kranji War Cemetery resembles the design of many such war cemeteries he would design in South and Southeast Asia, influenced by his military service background and experience of having lived and worked in this part of the world.

Oakes’ appointment by the IGWC would prove an astute choice as he would introduce a modernist sensibility to the various commemoration and pilgrimage sites he designed in the region, a sensibility that would later define his career. Similarly, Kranji can be framed within the wider context of similar sites that bear testament to the horrors and brutality of war. Although located in disparate countries, the shared architectural heritage of these sites gave rise to a common history with its own narrative: the advance of the Japanese campaign, its subsequent military confrontation and occupation, and eventual retreat.

Kranji War Cemetery, like other similar sites in the region, had a contested history from the outset. It was perceived as quintessentially British or “imperial” in form and was primarily created for a colonised populace seeking independence from their oppressors. From the IWGC’s perspective, this “sacred site” represents the fallen soldiers and airmen of the Commonwealth forces in the war against the Japanese.

The bodies interred and names inscribed at Kranji reflect a foreign enterprise far removed from their places of origin. Kranji also bears testimony to its uncomfortable position within a society that is culturally different from the West. As a result, the cemetery has become relatively isolated, bereft of visitors as well as the accompanying vigils and commemoration services that might occur at the better known and more frequently visited war cemeteries and memorials of Western Europe.

Over the years, the literature on Kranji has placed the war cemetery and memorial within various scholarly frameworks. Edwin Gibson and G. Kingsley Ward’s Courage Remembered (1989), Philip Longworth’s The Unending Vigil (1967) and Julie Summers’ Remembered: A History of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (2007), nominally view Kranji through a Eurocentric lens, as an effect of the institution and its ideals. It is one of the few cemeteries created from the “distant” war against Japan, yet somehow fitting in within the wider war graves endeavour.

Outside the “imperial” view, the most comprehensive book written on Kranji is by Singaporean journalist Romen Bose. Titled Kranji: The Commonwealth War Cemetery and the Politics of the Dead (2006), the book offers the first insight into the establishment of the cemetery from the perspective of its host country.⁴ It details all of Kranji’s individual memorials and explores the politics of its approval and funding, along with the official unveiling of the Singapore Memorial. The publication also marks an important shift in the local perception of Kranji.

From the late 1980s onwards, there was renewed interest from both the public and state over the battlefield history of the Japanese invasion and occupation of Singapore. New literature on the subject gave rise to a national discourse on Singapore’s post-colonial history, raising important questions on national identity.⁵ Academics Brendah Yeoh and Hamzah Muzaini have described the prevailing literature as tending to “analyze these spaces of memory as loci of ’personal’ mourning or as symbolic manifestations of imperial identities”.⁶

The Imperial War Graves Commission in Asia

Barely two months after the surrender of the Japanese and the end of World War II, three senior officers of the British Army gathered at Croydon Airfield in South London on the wintry morning of 14 November 1945. The men had been tasked by the IWGC to travel to India, Burma and the Far East to visit sites that had witnessed some of the heaviest battles of the war and assess the burial sites where their fallen comrades had been laid to rest. They would then recommend the suitability of these sites in becoming permanent war cemeteries.

Accompanying the IWGC’s Deputy Director of Works, Major Andrew MacFarlane, was Colonel Harry N. Obbard,⁷ seconded from the army as the Inspector for India and Burma, and Major Colin St Clair Oakes, an architect recently discharged from active service. The itinerary included visits to all known military cemeteries so that the advisory architect could make proposals for their general layout and architectural treatment. The men would also traverse the Siam-Burma Railway and advise on the number, location and layout of military cemeteries from this dark episode of World War II. Covering over 26,000 miles by air, rail, road and water, the trip would conclude in Singapore. It would be late February 1946 before the team returned to London.

An early sketch design of the Singapore Memorial by Colin St Clair Oakes, with the tower’s original height of 24 metres (80 ft). Preliminary costings exceeded the budget and in order to avoid a perception of excess, the entire memorial was scaled down by 10 percent and the tower height reduced by 8 ft. Courtesy of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

Despite having to contend with the difficulty of travelling in war-ravaged countries, the party managed to visit hundreds of burial sites – many hastily prepared by the army graves service units – in five countries and over 50 cities within the space of just three months. Working around the clock with little rest, Oakes was forced to write his notes and prepare sketches under hurricane lamps well into the night. Yet, in spite of the personal discomforts of the trip, the conceptual ideas for the present-day Commonwealth War Cemeteries in India, Burma, Bangladesh, Thailand and Singapore had been cast.

Kranji: The Final Choice

A long-standing policy of the IWGC was to select sites that were the scene of significant battles or were associated with disturbing but significant memories. The scholar Maria Tumarkin, in her book Traumascapes (2005), identified the places upon which war cemeteries are founded as bearing the tangible imprint left behind at a place of violent suffering or “traumascape”.⁸ Obbard and Oakes were aware of this policy. In their initial tour of Asia, they were asked to identify sites that could be built as war cemeteries. Notable examples in this regard were Kohima and Imphal in India, Chungkai and Kanchanaburi in Thailand, Thanbyuzayat in Myanmar, and Sai Wan Bay in Hong Kong.

The Kanchanaburi War Cemetery, designed by Colin St Clair Oakes, in the town of Kanchanaburi in Thailand, near the border with Burma. The stone entrance portico and visitor shelter frame the cemetery, which houses almost 7,000 identified casualties from the notorious Siam-Burma Railway. Courtesy of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

The view along the main axis of the Sai Wan Bay War Cemetery located in Chai Wan, Hong Kong. Built in 1946, it commemorates fallen soldiers from World Wars I and II. The bay view beyond is now obscured by high-rise housing estates. Courtesy of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

The Cross of Sacrifice atop Garrison Hill at the Kohima War Cemetery in Nagaland, India, 1954. Garrison Hill – the former site of the British Deputy Commissioner’s residence housing his bungalow, garden and tennis court – witnessed the most bitter fighting in the Burma campaign. Colin St Clair Oakes, who also designed the cemetery, elevated the cross above a stone shelter and preserved the historic tennis court in memory of the fierce hand-to-hand combat that took place here. Courtesy of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

Arriving in Singapore on 6 January 1946, Obbard and Oakes would meet Colonel Foster Hall, the British Army’s Deputy Director of Graves Registration & Enquiries, and were also briefed by Lieutenant-Colonel A.E. Brown, the recently appointed head of the Australian War Graves Service.⁹ Over the next seven days, they visited burial grounds at Buona Vista, Changi, Nee Soon, Melaik (located north of the former Mental Hospital along Yio Chu Kang Road), Wing Loon, Point 348 (Bukit Batok Hill) and Kranji. Their primary task was to critically assess the suitability of the existing burial sites and select one place where all the Allied war graves on the island could be consolidated and re-interred permanently. Oakes would then assess each location and compile the final report for the IWGC.

Buona Vista, situated high up in a cluster of hills about five miles to the west of the port, had few trees but possessed excellent coastal views. However, its sandy soil and water run-off were problematic. Melaik, on the other hand, would be the most centrally placed cemetery on the island but was unfortunately enclosed within a dense plantation of rubber trees and the site hemmed in on three sides by building development. On the fourth side, across the road, it adjoined the mental asylum and leper colony.

Wing Loon, located at the eastern end of the island near Changi Prison and accessible by a semi-private road, had much to commend it with its views of the sea. But it would entail securing permanent access rights to the road and additional sea-fronting land to its south; this site was later ruled out due to the difficulty of acquiring land.

Nee Soon, Changi and Kranji had existing cemeteries. Nee Soon was situated on sloping ground facing the Seletar River estuary, about 400 yards from the main road. Oakes had identified Nee Soon as a “pleasant and suitable” site for a war cemetery, but agreed with Obbard that it was better retained as a permanent Muslim War Cemetery given the large number of Muslim graves at this site.

Changi cemetery, established during the Japanese Occupation by POWs incarcerated at the adjacent Changi Prison, was Obbard’s original choice for the Combined Allied Christian War Cemetery in Singapore.¹⁰ Its well-tended graves told a tragic history that was well suited for memorialisation. However, as it was located adjacent to the runways of Changi Aerodrome, which the Royal Air Force was enlarging, it was precluded from consideration as it would involve removing and re-interring the existing graves.

Ironically, Kranji cemetery, located within the grounds of a former POW hospital overlooking the Johor Straits, was not even considered in the first place. “Difficult cemetery to expand and situation not exceptional”, reported Oakes.¹¹ Obbard too concurred that Kranji, along with Buona Vista, as being “surrounded by jungle and are on very sandy soil, and would be costly to construct… [besides] there are no special historical associations with these two sites at Buona Vista and Kranji”.¹²

A panoramic view of Kranji War Cemetery and Memorial. The memorial is designed to resemble an aeroplane with its 22-metre (72-ft) central pylon and wing-shaped roof supported by 12 stone-clad pillars. Annual memorial services are held at the cemetery on Remembrance Day and ANZAC Day.Courtesy of Chester Chen via flickr.https://www.flickr.com/photos/jamcansing/16577417460/in/photostream/. Photo was shot with a pinhole camera on Kodak 120 black and white negative film.

It was, in fact, a small yet prominent hill in central Singapore that captured Oakes’ imagination and fulfilled all the necessary requirements. At a height of 104 ft, Point 348, also known as Bukit Batok Hill, overlooked Ford Motor Factory, site of the Allied surrender to the Japanese. Tall and conical in shape, it was well situated along the main road connecting Singapore town to the Johor Straits. The summit had been levelled and extensively terraced with a wide road built to access it, all constructed by Australian POWs.

During the early days of the Occupation, the Japanese had used the same labour force to erect a war memorial and a Shinto shrine known as Syonan Chureito on its summit to commemorate their war heroes. In a small gesture to the prisoners, the Japanese had allowed the Allied forces to build a memorial to honour their war dead; this comprised a 15-foot-tall wooden cross behind the Shinto shrine. Both were destroyed when the Japanese surrendered, and only two entrance pillars and a steep flight of 120 steps leading to the summit remained when the officers arrived to assess the site.¹³

In his report submitted to the IWGC, Oakes identified Point 348 as the site most suited for the development of the permanent war cemetery in Singapore. Writing to headquarters, he said:

“The site is one of the most impressive imaginable. From the summit, the views across the whole island, and to the sea beyond are superb…. Taking into consideration all factors, POINT 348 is probably the best site for the proposed Allied Christian Cemetery. With it could well also be combined a memorial to the missing from that theatre of operations.”¹⁴

The “factors” Oakes referred to were, in fact, three minor difficulties he foresaw in shaping the hill for its new role as a war cemetery. Aside from the existing terracing which was unable to accommodate the almost 2,500 estimated war graves, there was the “large unsightly factory with tall chimneys, which at present disfigures the main axis and proposed cemetery approach”.¹⁵ Both, however, were not obstacles to Oakes. To accommodate additional war graves, he recommended levelling the lower slopes of the hill to create more terraces, and as for the “unsightly” factory, he proposed screening it out with a gently sloping carriageway winding around the hill along with suitable plantings.

Another vista of the Kranji War Cemetery framed against the setting sun. Courtesy of Tan Heng Wang via flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/spintheday/25687925758/in/photostream/.

It was the third difficulty that proved insurmountable. Given the presence of the Japanese shrine, Oakes noted that “its previous association as an enemy memorial might be considered objectionable”.¹⁶ Obbard recognised the sensitivities associated with the site and, in the end, recommended that Changi be the preferred choice for the war cemetery, with Nee Soon to be retained for the Muslim war graves.

However, soon after the men left Singapore, they were informed that additional land required for establishing a war cemetery at Changi could not be secured. Instead, the Royal Air Force had demanded the urgent removal of the graves in the cemetery so that the airport could be expanded. Obbard then revised his recommendation in line with Oakes’:

“This hill [at Point 348] forms actually the best of all the sites we saw for a cemetery. We did not suggest it in the first place because its previous use as a Japanese memorial hill might be regarded as objectionable; but, if the Changi site is not available, then we strongly recommend the adoption of this hill site, on which a most impressive cemetery can be formed, and on which also a memorial to the missing could very well be set up. The advisory architect is preparing a suggested layout on this site.”¹⁷

However, in the subsequent chaos of the aftermath of the war and in spite of the uncertainty of the Changi site, the IWGC went ahead to recommend it as the permanent war cemetery for Singapore. This decision carefully avoided the sensitivities Point 348 would have generated among locals and returning service personnel. But it would be a short-lived decision, for HQ Air Command South East Asia had proceeded with extending the airport at Changi in the meantime and would not guarantee building near the earmarked site. With both sites Obbard and Oakes had recommended declared unsuitable, Kranji, which had been placed well down on their lists, was selected as a suitable compromise.

Work on establishing Kranji as a war cemetery began in April 1946, with all available clues to the locations of other grave sites in Singapore followed up. Search workers from the Graves Units in Australia and the United Kingdom were despatched to Singapore, but the lack of manpower to physically dig and relocate graves made progress painfully slow. Returning Singaporean residents assisted in the effort to locate and identify graves and remains. It was not until the end of 1946, some 16 months after the Japanese surrender, that all the war graves on the island had been exhumed and moved to Kranji.

Post-War Developments

Colin St Clair Oakes would not see through the completion of Kranji War Cemetery, nor attend the unveiling ceremony of his “winged” memorial. By the late 1940s, he had taken up a partnership at Sir Aston Webb & Son, and rejoined the Architectural Association. In 1949, with a young family and having endured years away during the war, followed by months travelling for the IWGC, Oakes was appointed Chief Architect of Boots Pure Drug Company,¹⁸ continuing his predecessor’s work in rebuilding the many Boots stores in England that were destroyed during the German bombings.

Kranji’s War Dead Named after the local tree, pokok kranji or keranji, Kranji is situated in the north of Singapore, on a small hill with commanding views over the Straits of Johor. The British first established a military base in this area in the 1930s, which also served as a depot for armaments and ammunition during the early days of World War II. When the Japanese attacked Singapore by air on 8 December 1941, the camp was turned into the battalion headquarters for the Australian forces. On 9 February 1942, Kranji was defended by the Australian 27th Brigade and a company of Chinese Dalforce volunteers when the Japanese first landed on Singapore soil at nearby Kranji Beach. During the Japanese Occupation, Kranji camp was appropriated as a field hospital for the Indian National Army (INA) until its departure in 1944. The camp was then modified to accommodate returning POWs from the SiamBurma Death Railway as well as large numbers of sick and injured POWs transferred from Changi Prison. As with the small hospital at Changi, the makeshift “Kranji Hospital” also established a small cemetery for those who died within its care. When the war ended, this simple hospital graveyard would be expanded to become Singapore’s main war cemetery. In early 1946, the Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC) would send officers and an architect to Singapore to advise on the general layout of Kranji for its impending transformation into a war cemetery and a memorial to the missing. Yet, plans for the present-day cemetery would not materialise immediately. As the IWGC had a long-standing policy of not taking over any remains that could not be satisfactorily proven as entitled to a war grave burial, there was a protracted impasse over identifying the remains of both combatants and non-combatants. Sorting and reburial of remains by workers despatched from the Graves Units in Australia and the United Kingdom, 1946. Kranji War Cemetery. Courtesy of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Across the causeway, the Malayan Emergency and numerous post-war independence movements in Asia seeking sovereignty from colonial rule would see further delays. It would take more than 10 years and the involvement of various parties, the British Army and War Office, the British Colonial Office, the IWGC and the Singapore government, before the Kranji War Cemetery and Memorial was officially unveiled on 2 March 1957. Today, Kranji contains the remains of 4,461 Commonwealth casualties of World War II from numerous burial sites spread across Singapore, including graves relocated from Changi, Buona Vista and Bidadari. The Chinese Memorial marks the collective grave for 69 Chinese servicemen killed during the Occupation in 1942. In addition, there are the Singapore (Unmaintainable Graves) Memorial, Singapore Cremation Memorial and the Singapore Civil Hospital Grave Memorial; the latter commemorates more than 400 civilians and Commonwealth servicemen buried in a mass grave on the grounds of Singapore General Hospital. The Kranji Military Cemetery, which is the resting ground for non-world war burials, adjoins to the west. The most visible structure is the Singapore Memorial, designed to reflect an aeroplane with its 22-metre (72-ft) central pylon and wing-shaped roof supported by 12 stone-clad pillars inscribed with the names of over 24,000 casualties who have no known graves. It is dedicated to servicemen from the United Kingdom, Australia, Canada, Ceylon, India, Malaya, the Netherlands and New Zealand. Annual memorial services are held at the Kranji War Cemetery on Remembrance Day and ANZAC (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) Day. The Remembrance Day ceremony is traditionally held on the second Sunday of November to honour those who sacrificed their lives in war. ANZAC Day takes place on 25 April. References Bose. R. (2006). Kranji: The Commonwealth war cemetery and the politics of the dead. Singapore: Marshall Cavendish Editions. (Call no.: RSING 940.54655957 BOS-[WAR]) Commonwealth War Graves Commission (2018). Kranji War Cemetery. Retrieved from Commonwealth War Graves Commission website. Lane, A. (1995). Kranji War Cemetery, Singapore. Stockport, Cheshire: Lane Publishers. (Call no.: RSING 940.54655957 LAN-[WAR]) Longworth, P. (1967). The unending vigil: A history of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. London: Constable. (Not available in NLB holdings)

A Biography of Colin St Clair Oakes Colin St Clair Oakes, the architect with the Imperial War Graves Commission responsible for designing a number of cemeteries located across South and Southeast Asia. These include Kranji War Cemetery in Singapore; Taiping War Cemetery in Malaysia; Kanchanaburi War Cemetery and Chungkai War Cemetery, both in Thailand; Rangoon War Cemetery in Burma; Imphal War Cemetery in India; Sai Wan Bay Cemetery in Hong Kong; and Chittagong War Cemetery in Bangladesh. Courtesy of the Oakes Family Collection. Born 23 May 1908, in the village of Tanyfron in north Wales, the childhood of Colin Sinclair Rycroft Oakes was bookended by the achievements of the Victorian age and the catastrophe of World War I. This was a period that also ushered in new attitudes to function and style – a movement that otherwise became known as Modernism. Admitted to the Northern Polytechnic School of Architecture in 1927, Oakes would come under the tutelage of British abstract artist and pioneer of Modernism, John Cecil Stephenson. The polytechnic would instil in him a cosmopolitan outlook and design temperament that veered towards the contemporary. It also inspired his first overseas foray, departing in April 1930 for Helsinki, Finland, to join the practice of architect Jarl Eklund. Eklund would also mentor a young Eero Saarinen, one of the great architects of the 20th century. Oakes’ return home in 1931 would prove short-lived. His application to the prestigious Rome Scholarship in Architecture, offering an opportunity to live and study at the British School at Rome, was successful. Travelling to the historic cities of Europe and producing detailed measured drawings from archaeological sites, Oakes’ work would be exhibited at the Royal Academy, and see his scholarship extended for a second year. It would also be the last, as by 1932, Italy’s fascist regime, coupled with rising anti-British sentiments, had created an environment of hostility. By spring of 1936, Oakes once again left England, this time for India. Appointed Second Architect to the Government of Bengal, he would quickly assume the role of Acting Government Architect, responsible for the design of numerous public projects such as the Calcutta Custom House, expansion of Dum Dum Jail, and technical colleges in Dacca and Chittagong. His design contribution included three bridges, notably the iconic SevokeTeesta Bridge spanning the Teesta River. Oakes’ experience of living in India, along with membership of the Territorial Army during his youth, would prove beneficial to the British Army when the Japanese entered World War II. Commissioned as a Captain, Oakes’ posting to Bengal would see his active involvement in the Allies’ Arakan Campaign into Burma. For his role in the campaign, Oakes was bestowed an MBE in May 1944 and promoted to the rank of Major. Shortly after the end of the war, Oakes came to the attention of Sir Frederic Kenyon, Director of the British Museum and Artistic Advisor to the Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC). On 2 November 1945, Oakes was invited to undertake a three-month-long tour of the very regions he had recently lived and fought in – along with Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Siam (Thailand), Malaya and Singapore – on behalf of the IWGC. It would culminate with his appointment as a Principal Architect of IWGC, and tasked with the design of numerous war cemeteries and memorials in Asia. These edifices would later prove to be his defining body of work, bringing together all that he had learnt from his past. In accepting the position, Oakes would follow in the footsteps of his predecessors but, unlike them, he would become the only Principal Architect who had served in the recent war.

An aerial view of Kranji War Cemetery and the Singapore Memorial. The Kranji Military Cemetery of non-world war dead is located on the right. Photo by Weixiang Schrödinger Lim.

Notes

Is traditional Malay medicine based on superstition and folklore or grounded in scientific evidence? Nadirah Norruddin uncovers the varying perceptions of Malay medicine in colonial Malaya.

Malay ubat-ubatan (medicine) and healing – which spans many centuries and has been passed down through generations either orally or in written form – is a complex and holistic practice.

A portrait of a Malay traditional healer, c. 1900. These medicine men usually carried their bottles of medicine and herbs wrapped in a kain sarong (“sarong cloth”) slung over their shoulders. Lim Kheng Chye Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Traditional Malay medicine incorporates principles and practices of pharmacology that are highly dependent on indigenous flora and fauna found in the wild.¹ Age-old literature and manuscripts – although scarce in number – document the ways in which plants, animals and minerals² native to the Malay Archipelago have been part and parcel of its healing practices. At the heart of Malay ubat-ubatan is the amalgamation of complex Islamic and Hindu beliefs and practices presided over by traditional or faith healers.

Colonial scholars and administrators in 20th-century Malaya were invariably conflicted in their perceptions of traditional Malay medicine. Local sources and interpretations were frequently overlooked, and this has in turn affected the way in which traditional Malay medicine has been studied and understood for decades. Some defined ubat-ubatan as remedies administered according to the principles of chemistry and scientific evidence, while others dismissed such healing practices as belonging to the realm of magic and the supernatural. For the most part, the British regarded traditional Malay medicine with suspicion and antithetic to its Western counterpart.

As a result, the practice and form of traditional Malay medicine underwent dramatic changes under colonial rule. Legislations, for instance – shaped by altruism or bigotry, but more likely a combination of the two – were introduced by the British to stamp out traditional Malay healing practices and regulate village healers.

The Spread of Islam and Malay Medicine

The adoption of Islam in the Malay Archipelago from the 13th century onwards not only introduced a new religious doctrine to the region, but also fostered a pan-Islamic identity and defined new parameters for the spiritual, social and economic way of life of its inhabitants. Gradually, Islam became syncretised with the prevailing belief systems of the Malay world.

Western scholars of the time held the view that the Malay community adopted a hybridised form of Islam. In his address before the Straits Philosophical Society in 1896, English orientalist and linguist Charles O. Blagden postulated that Malays were “only superficially Muhammadan” as their folk rituals were “unorthodox” and “pagan” in relation to the basic tenets of Islam.³ Such an assertion, however, simplifies the complex understanding and expressions of a dynamic and multifaceted faith.

Medicine in Islam is characterised by a history of enquiry, innovation and adaptation. This is reflected in the ease in which indigenous healers adopted and adapted Islamic symbolism in their practices. In the Malay Peninsula, ceremonies overseen by the pawang (or shaman) include Quranic incantations and prayers addressed solely to God, even though most other aspects of the rituals are Hindu-Buddhist or pre-Indic in character.

Although the origins are unclear, the Malay method of healing is mainly administered by the traditional medicine man or bomoh (see text box), who derives his knowledge from either ilmu turun (inherited knowledge) or ilmu tuntut (apprenticeship) and, in some instances, complemented by the Kitab Tibb (The Book of Medicine).

(Left) A typical Kitab Tibb (The Book of Medicine) manuscript from 14th-century Iran listing the cures, properties and methods of preparation for healing purposes. Such manuscripts were later translated and used in the Malay Archipelago. Collection of the Asian Civilisations Museum.
(Right) An anchak or sacrificial tray used by the Malay medicine man (or bomoh). The tray has a fringe around it called “centipedes’ feet”. The ketupat and lepat (rice receptacles made of plaited palm fronds) are hung from the “suspenders” attached to the tray. Image reproduced from Skeat, W.W. (1900). Malay Magic: Being an Introduction to the Folklore and Popular Religion of the Malay Peninsula (p. 414). London: Macmillan and Co.

There are numerous versions of Kitab Tibb manuscripts found in the Malay Archipelago. Mostly written between 1786 and 1883, these broadly outline three main types of healing practices: those using natural resources such as plants and herbs; those relying on wafaq (written symbols or amulets); and healing practices using Quranic verses, supplications and salawat (blessings to the Prophet). All these techniques can be used simultaneously or separately.⁴

The earliest edition of the Kitab Tibb was written on 12 wooden sheets, and prescribed medications based on plants, herbs and spices commonly found in the region. The manuscript also includes a list of dietary restrictions and a variety of taboos (pantang larang) the afflicted should observe.⁵ By the 19th century, surviving copies of the Kitab Tibb in the Malay Peninsula were known to contain detailed observations by the bomoh, including visual representations of disease symptoms as well as the appropriate incantations.

Types of Healing

Traditional Malay healing offers a holistic, multifaceted and ecological solution to a multitude of illnesses and ailments. It comprises aspects of the spiritual, such as magic, shamanism and the supernatural, and the empirical, such as dietetics and herbalism, which can be scientifically explained.

The betel vine, prayer bowl engraved with Quranic verses and invocations, and the mortar and pestle – among other items – are used in the practice of traditional Malay medicine. Bowl, collection of the Asian Civilisations Museum; betel vine, mortar and pestle, courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

Although Islam may have encouraged the use and incorporation of nature in traditional Malay medicine, natural remedies were already widely used in local healing practices and rituals prior to the arrival of Islam in the Malay world. For example, common plants, herbs and spices like bonglai (Zinggibar cassumunar) had been used to treat migraine, cough and gastrointestinal problems for centuries.

As observed by British physician John D. Gimlette in his book, Malay Poisons and Charm Cures (1915),⁶  bomohs used rattan splints for simple fractures and wood ash as an antiseptic dressing. When a baby was delivered by a bidan or midwife, the umbilical cord is cut with a bamboo stem and the stump dusted with wood ash or a paste made of pepper, ginger and turmeric.

Islamic medical science introduced new concepts to the pre-existing knowledge of the human body and the environment. The seeds of Islamic medicine and healing can be traced back to the Quran, the underlying philosophy of using flora and fauna in natural remedies grounded in the belief in Allah as the Creator of Nature. As such, tapping on the healing properties of the earth has been a long-standing aspect of the Islamic medical tradition. One of the verses from Surah An-nahl (16:69) of the Quran reads thus:

“Then eat from all the fruits and follow the ways of your Lord laid down [for you]. There emerges from their (bees) bellies a drink, varying in colours, in which there is healing for people. Indeed, in that there is a sign for people who give thought.”

Ancient medical texts in the Malay world did not have specific titles but were generally referred to as Kitab Tibb and primarily consisted of translations from Persian and Indian sources. Different manuscripts prescribed different courses of treatment even for the same ailments. Interestingly, the vast array of natural sources described in these manuscripts are likely still in use today in the Malay Peninsula, either as supplements or natural remedies.

The Andalusian botanist and pharmacist Ibn al-Baytar’s pharmacopeia, titled Compendium of Simple Medicaments and Foods and published in the 13th century, is still a widely consulted text in the world of Malay healing today. It lists 1,400 plants, foods and drugs, and their uses, organised alphabetically by the name of the plant or plant component.

Apart from their knowledge of humoural theory (see text box) and botany, traditional Malay healers also offered spiritual healing to cure the sick. The belief is that animate and inanimate objects, including the physical body, possess semangat (a vital force or soul). The loss of semangat can be detrimental to one’s physical and mental well-being.

A healer is purportedly able to manipulate and revive the semangat of the sick – particularly those suffering from mental and spiritual ailments. To treat patients who might have been “disturbed” by unseen forces, healers invoke supernatural entities through jampi (incantations), spells and elaborate rituals. Such ceremonies may sometimes take the form of a public event, witnessed by the entire village and accompanied by loud music. The public nature of such rituals was often derided by colonial administrators and scholars, who saw these practices as primitive and irrational or, as Gimlette puts it, “circumvent[ing] Muhammadan tenets”.⁷

The Cultural and Scientific Divide

There is a paucity of comprehensive written records of traditional Malay healing as much of it have not survived the ravages of time. Whatever extant Malay manuscripts – mostly inherited and passed down orally from one generation to the next (ilmu turun) or by way of apprenticeship (ilmu tuntut) – along with books and documents authored by colonial scholars, provide the only window into the ancient practices and beliefs of the Malay world.

In striving to achieve a balance of the body, mind, health and spirit, traditional Malay medicine does not differ much from Ayurvedic, Chinese and Hippocratic traditions that emphasise the same – especially with regard to humoural theory. Colonial writings, however, have tended to focus on Malay folk religion and animism, centering their writing around the use of amulets, incantations, charms and sorcery by the community.

The bomoh akar kayu (akar kayu means “roots” in Malay) believes that nature is the source of life and is imbued with restorative qualities. The bomoh akar kayu is well versed in the healing properties of plants and herbs, and forages hilly areas and dense forests like the one illustrated here in search of plants to make ubat (medicine). This 1869 print titled “Bathing Place Near Selita” in Singapore is by Austrian naturalist Eugen von Ransonnet. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

The late 19th to early 20th centuries saw a significant output in research by colonial scholars who studied Malay belief systems and healing practices. The body of ideas and literature generated by these early observers were often biased, filled with racist sentiments or tinged with romanticism, although some scholars were of the view that the sudden rise in writings on Malay magic and medicine was simply an effort at documenting the “primitive” and vanishing aspects of the social and cultural lifestyles of the Malays.⁸

The use of magic and the fervent belief in religion among Malays have often been cited as stumbling blocks to the development and progress of the community. In his September 1896 report from Kuala Langat, Selangor, where he worked in the Straits Settlements civil service, English anthropologist Walter W. Skeat made the overtly racist remark that “indolent and ignorant Malays” needed to be “saved from themselves”, and attributed the “many crippled lives and early deaths” to the “evil influence of the horde of bomors”.⁹ In fact, Skeat believed that increasing “contact with European civilisation” by the local Malay tribes had diminished their use of charms and spells.¹⁰

Biased perceptions of traditional Malay society, such as its healing practices, could have been used by the British to justify its political domination and imperialist motives.¹¹ There were, however, several scholars such as Thomas N. Annandale and John D. Gimlette, who acknowledged the benefits and scientific merit of traditional Malay medicine.¹² Both men were heavily involved in fieldwork and were well known for their research on traditional Malay medicine. Gimlette referenced local sources, including Kelatanese manuscripts, for his book Malay Poisons and Charm Cures (1915), which today remains a classic and definitive reference guide to the practices of Malay healers. As the use of some herbs and plants could lead to fatal consequences, Gimlette’s study of the wild varieties of vegetation in the Malay Archipelago opened up a new field of study for physiologists and pharmacologists.¹³

An attempt to comprehend the Malay pathological framework for medicine and disease is also evident in Percy N. Gerrard’s medical dictionary, A Vocabulary of Malay Medical Terms (1905).¹⁴ As a medical professional, Gerrard’s efforts were borne out of the desire to understand his patients’ medical ssues from a scientific and cultural point of view. This enabled him to treat his patients using Malay herbal medicine whenever necessary. Gerrard drew parallels to Western medicine and, in doing so, lent credibility to Malay practices and beliefs – at least in the eyes of the colonial administrators.

Like Gimlette, Gerrard praised the Malays’ profound understanding of plants and herbs, and highlighted the medicinal value of these untapped sources and the native knowledge of local medicine. Despite his affirmations of the scientific value of herbs in Malay healing, Gerrard felt that the community’s belief in the supernatural was an impediment to British acceptance of traditional Malay medicine and healers.

It is clear that colonial observers of 20th-century Malaya have largely contexualised their understanding and knowledge of Malay medicine against Western markers. This cultural chasm was mainly due to a lack of empathy and the inability to comprehend the complexities behind the religious rituals and healing systems of indigenous groups. For the most part, Malay healing practices were regarded as superstitions and folklore that could not be explained by scientific theories. Hence over time, some traditional Malay healers co-opted the language of religion¹⁵ and, eventually, science into their practice in order to gain wider acceptance by their Western critics.

Legislating Malay Medicine

Although Western medical services were gradually introduced to the local population, most Malays continued to consult their community healers as they allegedly had “complete faith in their own particular charms and cures” and “dread[ed] hospitals, doctors and western medicines”.¹⁶ As traditional healers were also involved in non-medical matters such as state, social and cultural affairs, they occupied an esteemed position in the indigenous communities they served.¹⁷

By the turn of the 20th century, the British had become more receptive to Malay healing practices. Although dismissive of the efficacy of traditional Malay medicine, the British were aware that traditional healers formed the backbone of a long-established support system that locals could turn to in times of physical, emotional and spiritual distress.

A significant example would be the role of the bidan, or midwife, in the community. Before the colonial government set up a maternity hospital in 1888, the demands of pregnancy – ranging from prenatal care to actual delivery and postpartum care – were handled by bidans.

The Malay midwife, or bidan, holds a pelepas (made from double slipknot palm fronds or string) before the mother and child as she recites an incantation to release them from the postpartum period. Image reproduced from Laderman, C. (1983). Wives and Midwives: Childbirth and Nutrition in Rural Malaysia. Berkeley: University of California Press. (Call no.: RSEA 301.209595112 LAD)

Although colonial medical officers acknowledged the importance of bidans, they were concerned that these midwives were operating under unsanitary conditions. In the early 20th century, a surge in the infant mortality rate was mainly attributed to traditional midwifery practices: many babies died from Tetanus neonatorum (umbilical infection).¹⁸  The authorities thought it imperative that bidans be trained and supervised to reduce maternal and infant mortality rates, and to develop trust and spread awareness of Western medical services among Malay mothers.

Under the Midwives Ordinance enacted in the Straits Settlements in 1915, all bidans had to be registered with the Central Midwives Board and undergo in-service training. Local women were also trained in biomedicine, midwifery and nursing in order to replace the traditional role of the bidan. The intention was not to encourage women to deliver in hospitals (due to a lack of beds and facilities), but rather to establish a pool of trained and licensed midwives who could recognise complications during pregnancy and refer the women to the hospitals if necessary. By the 1920s, mobile dispensaries as well as home and school visits were available to communities living in rural areas, and public campaigns were mounted to ensure that people had access to medicine and healthcare.

By 1936, there were 720 trained midwives in Singapore, 574 in Penang and 224 in Malacca. Despite these efforts, traditional bidans were still sought after by Malayan women in the subsequent decades due to the personal nature of the antenatal and postnatal services they provided, including up to six weeks after delivery.

Two other legislations introduced by the colonial government further threatened the existence of traditional healers and the provision of traditional medicine. Under the Sale of Food and Drugs Ordinance that came into force in 1914, the sale of adulterated drugs was deemed an offence “if the purchaser [was] not fully informed of the nature of adulteration at time of purchase”.¹⁹ The second legislation, the Poisons Ordinance of 1938 “regulate[d] the possession and sales of potent medicinal substances, to prevent misuse or illicit diversion of poisons”.²⁰

Group photograph of Malay midwives in Singapore, 1950. Known as bidan, these midwives specialised in women’s health matters, including fecundity, midwifery and contraception, along with beauty-related disorders. Haji Mawardi Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

These laws compromised the role of traditional Malay healers in the community, especially given the latent suspicions surrounding Malay medicine. However, due to the high costs involved in establishing an islandwide public healthcare system, the British authorities were rather lax at enforcing these legislations, and allowed itinerant and home-based traditional healers to continue practising their craft.

With the introduction of Western-style healthcare, including clinics and hospitals, and the increasing availability of over-the-counter medications from the turn of the 20th century onwards, traditional Malay healing played a smaller role in the lives and rhythms of the community.

State controls and the exposure to Western education further put paid to the services of traditional Malay healers. Although their numbers have drastically dwindled over the years, traditional Malay medicine continues to play an ancillary – and occasionally complementary – role to Western medicine today for those who recognise its efficacy in providing ritual care and treating spiritual ailments and conditions not yet acknowledged in Western medical science.

References

Bala, A. (Ed.) (2013). Asia, Europe, and the emergence of modern science: Knowledge crossing boundaries. Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. (Call no.: RSEA 509.5 ASI)

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Tuminah Sapawi. (1997, January 8). Bidan kampung now offers massage and other rituals. The Straits Times, p. 17. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

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Notes