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-drawn carriage” in Japanese), originally from Japan and introduced to the island in 1880. Allen Goh Collection, 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 horse-drawn 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.

(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.

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

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’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.

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

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.

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.

(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.

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. (Left) 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. (Right) 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. By the end of 1920, the Singapore Taxicab Co. was advertising a “Call a Taxi” service in The Straits Times. Its black-and-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. 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. 13.
(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.

1950s

(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

The founding of Singapore in 1819 and its early development have traditionally been attributed to Sir Stamford Raffles. Nadia Wright claims that his role has been exaggerated at the expense of another.

In 1830, William Farquhar (1774–1839) wrote to The Asiatic Journal explaining why he was due “at least a large share” of the credit in forming Singapore.¹ Yet, it is Stamford Raffles (1781–1826) alone who is hailed as the founder of Singapore. This notion, propounded by his biographers, has been reinforced by constant repetition, official acceptance and the omnipresence of Raffles’ name in Singapore.

In contrast, Farquhar’s pivotal role in the events leading up to the founding of the British settlement in Singapore in February 1819 and during its nascent years has been vastly underrated. To add insult to injury, Farquhar has been mocked, and his character and accomplishments belittled over the years.

To understand the origins of this aberration in Singapore’s history, we must turn to the biographies of Raffles. The first, The Life of Sir Stamford Raffles, written by Demetrius Boulger in 1897, during the heyday of the British Empire, would establish the trend of glorifying Raffles and disparaging Farquhar.²

The First Biography on Raffles

Boulger portrayed Raffles as a hero who had risen from poverty, who was forced to leave school prematurely to support his mother and sisters, and who rose to fame solely by his own efforts. None of this is true.

Raffles’ father, Captain Benjamin Raffles, was a commander of vessels until the late 1790s, and lived until 1811. When Raffles left school around 1795, some 16 years earlier, his father was still living with the family. Raffles was privileged to have remained at a private school until he was 14 (most children then would have left school by age 11) and to have obtained a highly sought after position as an extra clerk at East India House.

Raffles owed much to the financial support and patronage of his wealthy uncle, Charles Hamond, who secured Raffles’ entry into Mansion House Boarding School and paved the way for his employment at India House, while his later career and status were propelled by his patron, Lord Minto, the Governor-General of Bengal. However, Boulger’s “facts” have become part of the myth surrounding Raffles and helped create an enduring fascination with the man. Boulger was scathingly dismissive of any role for Farquhar, declaring that Raffles was the sole founder of Singapore and wholly responsible for its development.³ Such views were accepted and repeated without question by subsequent biographers.

Farquhar’s role in Singapore has been defended in the past by eminent historians such as John Bastin, Mary Turnbull and Ernest Chew. Bastin wrote that Singapore’s early success “must be attributed generally to [Farquhar’s] fostering care and benevolent administration”. Mary Turnbull noted that Farquhar had nurtured the settlement through its precarious early years, while Ernest Chew argued that Farquhar had been neglected in the founding narratives of Singapore, contending that Farquhar had been “left behind” by Raffles to run the settlement and subsequently also “left behind” in history.⁴

(Left) Colonel William Farquhar, c. 1830. Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
(Right) A portrait of Sir Stamford Raffles presented by his nephew, W.C. Raffles Flint, to London’s National Gallery Portrait Gallery in 1859. Image source: Wikimedia Commons.

Although Farquhar’s role was periodically raised in the press and more recently included in the history curriculum of Singapore schools, the Raffles myth has prevailed. A group of students who re-assessed the roles of Raffles and Farquhar in 2007 could not have expressed it better, concluding that Raffles was “the real founder of Singapore as all the history textbooks say so”, and because he had a statue erected in his honour and an MRT station named after him whereas Farquhar had nothing.⁵

Indeed, landmarks in Singapore such as Farquhar Street, Mount Farquhar and Farquhar’s Strait have all disappeared.⁶ Singapore’s first and only Commandant and Resident suffered the converse of memorialisation: the “phenomenon of forgetting”,⁷ a phrase coined by the 20th-century French philosopher Paul Ricoeur.

Farquhar’s Accomplishments in Malacca

From as early as the 17th century, European trading companies competed for trade in the region. By the early 1800s, the British had secured trading posts at Penang and Bencoolen (Bengkulu) while the Dutch ruled Malacca, the Maluku islands and Java.

The British, however, came to occupy Malacca serendipitously as a result of the Anglo-Dutch treaty of 1788, which stipulated that if a war should break out, either party could occupy the colonies of the other to protect them against enemy invasion. This occurred in 1793 when France, already at war with Britain, attacked the Dutch Republic. William V, the Dutch ruler was overthrown and fled to England in 1795. There, he ordered Dutch officials to hand their bases over to the British for safekeeping and to stop them from falling into French hands. The understanding was that the British would return these Dutch territories when peace was eventually restored.

Into this fractious scene entered Farquhar and Raffles. Farquhar and Raffles were employees of the powerful East India Company (EIC), formed at the turn of the 17th century ostensibly to trade with India and Southeast Asia, but which eventually became a powerful agent of British imperialism.

Farquhar first arrived in Malacca as an officer of the EIC in 1795 when the British occupied the Dutch port. He was appointed its Commandant in 1803, and in 1812, in recognition of his wide responsibilities, his title was changed to Commandant and Resident. It was in Malacca that Farquhar honed his skills as an administrator, the experience laying a strong foundation for his subsequent management of Singapore.

During Farquhar’s 15-year stint in Malacca, he was answerable to two lieutenant-governors and nine governors in Penang, all of whom were more than satisfied with his administration. Farquhar dramatically turned Malacca’s economy around, implemented British laws declaring the slave trade a felony, and fought for the town’s survival. It is implausible that Farquhar would have changed from being a competent ruler in Malacca to an incompetent one in Singapore.

Following the Congress of Vienna in 1815, the British were obliged to return Malacca to the Dutch. Merchants in Penang, whose trade had flourished during the British occupation of Malacca and Java, were worried that their inroads into new markets might be curtailed after the Dutch reclaimed their possessions. Along with Farquhar, the merchants pressed Colonel John Bannerman, the Governor of Penang, to protect British commercial interests in the Eastern Archipelago (present-day Indonesia).⁸

The Search for a New Site

Bannerman thus sent Farquhar to negotiate with rulers in the region, and in August 1818, he managed to secure a trade treaty with Sultan Abdul Rahman of the Johor Empire. Although the treaty gave Britain most favoured nation status, Farquhar knew that something more substantial was needed to protect British interests once the Dutch returned.

In 1816, Farquhar had advocated founding a new base south of the Straits of Malacca and now he urgently pushed to secure the Carimon Islands (Pulau Karimun), situated some 20 miles southwest of Singapore and commanding the entrance to the strait.⁹

Bannerman was unconvinced, citing the costs involved, but he did forward Farquhar’s suggestions to the Marquess of Hastings, the EIC’s new Governor-General who administered British interests in the Far East.

Hastings faced further pressure to act from the merchants in Calcutta and then from Raffles, who had arrived in the Indian city. Hastings decided to build upon the strong footing obtained by Farquhar’s commercial treaty and sent Raffles on a two-fold mission: first, to settle a dynastic dispute in Aceh, and then, to establish a new post at Rhio (Riau). Because of Farquhar’s experience and expertise, Hastings appointed him to take charge of any new post, but made him subordinate to Raffles, who was based in Bencoolen, Sumatra, at the time.¹⁰

A painting of Francis Edward Rawdon-Hastings,
first Marquess of Hastings, Governor-General
of India (1813–23), by Joshua Reynolds.
Image source: Wikimedia Commons.

Raffles and Farquhar met in Penang and on 19 January 1819, Raffles’ small fleet sailed for the Carimon Islands.¹¹ As the islands proved unsuitable, Farquhar suggested Singapore as an alternative base.¹² After Raffles and Farquhar stepped ashore on 28 January, Raffles, who had only recently contemplated Singapore as an option, realised that the island was an ideal spot to stake British claim.

But there was a problem. The island was part of the Johor Empire and its ruler, Sultan Abdul Rahman, had sworn allegiance to the Dutch. Raffles got around this by exploiting a dynastic dispute: he made a deal with the sultan’s older brother and rightful heir, Tengku Long, offering him the throne in return for permission to establish a post in Singapore. Tengku Long agreed and Raffles installed him as Sultan Hussein Mohamed Shah of Johor.

Raffles then signed a treaty with Sultan Hussein and Temenggong Abdul Rahman, the local chief of Singapore, on 6 February 1819. This treaty allowed the EIC to lease land for a trading post. It was tiny – extending only from Tanjong Katong to Tanjong Malang, and inland for about one mile. The rest of the island belonged to Malay nobles and even within the British post, British regulations did not apply inside their compounds.

Raffles did not purchase the island of Singapore, nor acquire it for Britain as often claimed. Indeed, the acquisition was far from guaranteed. After appointing Farquhar Resident and Commandant as ordered by Hastings, Raffles gave Farquhar a list of instructions and departed for Penang on 7 February 1819.

The Dutch were furious at Raffles’ actions. So was the British government which was engaged in negotiations with the Dutch over their respective spheres of influence in the East. The Dutch protested, and reports were received that they would retake Singapore by force. Although Bannerman tried to persuade Farquhar to leave at once, he refused to abandon Singapore: Farquhar knew this was Britain’s last chance to obtain a new base in the region.

In the meantime, Sultan Hussein and the Temenggong regretted having signed the treaty. They wrote to Sultan Abdul Rahman and to his viceroy asking for forgiveness and accused Raffles of having coerced them into signing it. Farquhar persuaded the nobles to retract their statements, and due to his early actions, the post remained in British hands – at least for the time being. However, Baron Godert van der Capellen, the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies, continued to insist that Sultan Hussein had no right to allow the British to establish a post, and demanded that the British withdraw from Singapore.

“View of the Town and Roads of Singapore from Government Hill”, 1822–1824, as drawn by Captain Robert James Elliot. This panorama looks seawards from Government Hill and shows the Plain used to garrison troops on the left, with the Singapore River Basin in the centre, and Chinatown to the right. The painting was drawn during William Farquhar’s term as Resident and Commandant between 1819 and 1823. All rights reserved, Crawfurd, J. (1828). Journal of an Embassy from the Governor-General of India to the Courts of Siam and Cochin China. London: Henry Colburn. Collection of the National Library, Singapore. (Accession no.: B20116740J)

Farquhar’s Work in Singapore

While the politicians argued, Farquhar got down to work. Few of Raffles’ supporters have given Farquhar credit for building the settlement from scratch with precious little money, and limited manpower and resources. Yet Farquhar achieved the near impossible: he cleared over 650,000 square yards of jungle and swamp, built a reservoir and aquaduct, defence works, accommodation and facilities for the troops, and roads and small bridges. The population grew significantly as men from Malacca who knew and respected Farquhar flocked to Singapore to find work or to trade, bringing with them the money and muscle that were vital to the growth of the settlement.

The wealthy businessman Tan Che Sang, who had formed a close rapport with Farquhar in Malacca, followed him to Singapore, bringing capital for investment and trade as well as leadership expertise. Entrepreneurs such as Tan Tock Seng and Tan Kim Seng who similarly moved from Malacca, played vital roles in cementing Singapore’s position as a commercial centre.

Raffles made a short visit to Singapore in late May 1819. Delighted at its metamorphosis, he commented on the numerous ships in the harbour and the large kampongs (villages). Proudly he claimed to the Duchess of Somerset:

“[Singapore] is a child of my own, and I have made it what it is. You may easily conceive with what zeal I apply myself to the clearing of forests, cutting of roads, building of towns, framing of laws, &c &c.”¹³

But in fact, Raffles had not been in Singapore all this while: the improvements to the island’s economy and infrastructure were all due to Farquhar’s able leadership. Farquhar administered Singapore for nearly four-and-a-half years between 7 February 1819 and 1 May 1823, while Raffles was present for barely eight months during those years: from 31 May to 27 June 1819 and returning on 10 October 1822.

During Raffles’ absence, Farquhar turned the fledgling port into a successful settlement. Visiting merchants and sea captains praised the conditions and prospects of Singapore. Letters sent to Calcutta described the settlement as “most flourishing”, affirming that the shore was “crowded with life, bustle and activity and the harbour is filled with square-rigged vessels and prows”.¹⁴ Visitors enthusiastically wrote of its increasing population, the cleared lands, the roads, the buildings and the busy port with its burgeoning trade in regional produce. They were impressed by the large neatly laid out cantonment, the extensive Chinese and Bugis kampongs.¹⁵ Even William Jack, a sycophant of Raffles, praised the great progress of the settlement.¹⁶

By late 1821, Singapore was a successful commercial settlement of some 5,000 settlers. The plain at Kampong Glam was marked out for the European town, with roads neatly laid out.¹⁷ Land allotments were numbered, registered and marked on a map and the major streets were named. Buildings, including a boat office, engineers’ park, three hospitals and the Resident’s bungalow were erected and a spice plantation established.¹⁸

Over 15 miles of road were laid, nearly half of which were carriage roads between 12 and 16 yards wide. Farquhar ordered further dredging of the Rochor River, making it more navigable. This led to an expansion of the Bugis village along the river banks as the community took advantage of the better facilities for trade and boat repairs.¹⁹

Farquhar passed measures to ensure the health and safety of residents, in particular to combat fire and disease. As most buildings were constructed from timber with attap (thatched) roofs, fire could easily spread. So Farquhar instructed residents to store as much water as possible to fight such a threat. To combat the outbreak of disease, especially cholera, residents were asked to keep their houses and yards clean. Farquhar also forbade residents from throwing rubbish onto the road, ordering that it be dumped in designated areas.²⁰ The modern-day image of Singapore as a clean city has a long history, beginning with Farquhar.

As well as building the town infrastructure, Farquhar was proactive in establishing Singapore as a trading centre. He wrote to rulers in the region, encouraging them to trade with Singapore – taking pains to emphasise its facilities, its extensive roadstead and the gateway it offered to the Eastern Archipelago. He also highlighted Singapore’s free trade status – although Raffles intended this to be only a temporary measure. Farquhar opened up trade with Brunei, and hoped to extend it to Siam, and as far as Japan. He envisaged Singapore as the new emporium of the East, outdoing even Batavia (Jakarta).²¹

Indeed, by 1822, Singapore’s trade had reached $8 million – mainly in regional produce. Opium topped the list followed by Indian textiles, silver coins and tin. But Farquhar’s ambitions were hampered by reality. Hastings doubted the legality of Raffles’ treaty with Sultan Hussein and was worried that the settlement would be returned to the Dutch. Hence, in October 1819, Hastings imposed severe reductions on costs and personnel, and ordered that no new construction work was to take place in Singapore.

Other issues arose. As the population increased, so did the crime rate – largely due to gambling and opium smoking. Farquhar planned to rein in these activities by selling licences for the sale of arrack (a local alcoholic spirit) and opium, and for the running of gaming houses.²² This would also generate revenue which he could use to pay for a much-needed police force.

Contrary to what has been written, Farquhar did not introduce cock fighting licences, a charge that is often levelled against him. In fact, Farquhar abhorred the sport and had refused to allow cock fighting licences in Malacca. In Singapore, he “strictly prohibited” cock fighting except on specific Malay festivals, and then only with his permission. It was John Crawfurd, who succeeded Farquhar as the next Resident of Singapore in June 1823, who first allowed a cock fighting licence to be issued in the settlement.²³

Initially, Raffles was wary of introducing opium licences, fearing it would adversely impact the EIC’s opium trade. He saw Singapore as an outlet for selling opium throughout the region and was determined that the EIC’s opium trade be “protected and offered every facility”.²⁴ However, despite his own concerns, Raffles issued instructions for the introduction of opium licences, declaring that “a certain number of houses may be licensed for the sale of madat or prepared opium”.²⁵

Raffles not only instructed Farquhar to auction the licences and re-auction them “every three months until further orders”, but he also took a 5 percent commission on each opium licence for himself.²⁶ Raffles’ supporters have distanced his role in the opium licensing scheme by accusing Farquhar of introducing these licences by wilfully disobeying Raffles’ orders. Ironically, the opium farms “introduced” by Farquhar and sanctioned by Raffles became Singapore’s largest single source of revenue from 1824 until 1910.²⁷

While Farquhar has been acknowledged as the founder of the first police force in the settlement, several of his other achievements have been overlooked. For example, it was Farquhar who rediscovered Singapore’s deep water harbour, recognising its commercial and strategic significance, and arranging for its depths to be measured.²⁸ Farquhar named it New Harbour, a name that remained until 1900 when the harbour was dedicated to Admiral Henry Keppel.²⁹

Farquhar undertook the first survey of the island, later compiling a map that was forwarded to Raffles. He also drew up a schematic town plan in 1821, as well as a detailed map showing the town, New Harbour and adjoining islands which he presented to the EIC.³⁰ He began the practice of recording Singapore’s daily temperature and pressure readings, maintaining these for two years and providing a benchmark for comparisons today.³¹

“The Esplanade, Singapore” (c.1845), watercolour on paper, by Scotsman Charles Andrew Dyce who lived in Singapore in the 1840s. Concerned that Stamford Raffles was selling large plots of land to the residents, William Farquhar reserved valuable ground near the shoreline for military use and this eventually became the Esplanade (the Padang today). National University of Singapore Museum Collection, courtesy of NUS Museum.

Farquhar also established a spice plantation and the first botanical garden, experimenting with the cultivation of pepper, coffee, spices and cotton. Although Farquhar was following Raffles’ orders, the success of these gardens owed much to Farquhar’s keen interest in natural history. Later, concerned that Raffles was selling large plots of land to the residents, Farquhar reserved valuable ground near the shoreline for military use, land that eventually became the Esplanade (and known as the Padang today).³²

Farquhar established a prototype post office, which Raffles refined into an official Post Office in 1823, after receiving practical advice from Farquhar.³³ Just as he had done in Malacca, Farquhar encouraged the work of missionaries, and helped them to set up Singapore’s first school.³⁴ Having laid the foundation stone of the Anglo-Chinese College in Malacca in November 1818, Farquhar was similarly involved in the establishment of the Singapore Institution (precursor of today’s Raffles Institution). He was its President and also a trustee and patron, as well as a generous contributor to its subscription fund.

On his own initiative and risking censure from Raffles and Hastings, Farquhar granted asylum to Prince Belawa and 500 of his Bugis followers who had fled from the Dutch in Rhio. Despite angry protests by the Dutch, Farquhar stood his ground, and Raffles and Hastings supported this decision.³⁵ The Bugis established themselves along Rochor River as traders and boat builders, and the community proved a great asset to Singapore. The Bugis remained grateful for Farquhar’s resolve as seen in their farewell address to him.³⁶

While Farquhar was expediently developing Singapore, Raffles remained in Bencoolen and took only periodic interest in the settlement. He was most tardy in replying to Farquhar’s letters, even urgent ones, and seemed to hinder rather than support the work Farquhar was doing. Returning in October 1822 after three-and-a-half years’ absence, Raffles was elated with the rapid progress of Singapore, telling the Duchess of Somerset that:

“Here is all life and activity; and it would be difficult to name a place on the face of the globe, with brighter prospects or more present satisfaction. In little more than three years it has risen from an insignificant fishing village, to a large and prosperous town.”³⁷

All this Raffles attributed to the “simple, but almost magic result” of freedom of trade – with no mention of Farquhar’s instrumental role.³⁸

Even so, Raffles decided to demolish much of the town and remodel it according to his new plans. By this stage, he was in poor health and intended to return to England by mid-1824. Believing that Britain would retain Singapore, Raffles saw that his last chance to retire in glory was to reclaim Singapore as his own.

Raffles had earlier set aside land at East Beach (Kampong Glam) for the European merchants, but they were most unhappy as the site was unsuitable for loading and unloading goods. Instead, the merchants wanted to build their godowns along the north bank of Singapore River − land that Raffles had reserved for the government. Aware that trade was vital for Singapore’s future, Farquhar had allowed the merchants to provisionally build warehouses there. As he later explained, had he not done so, Singapore would have “completely withered in the bud”.³⁹

Upset by Farquhar’s actions, Raffles complained to Hastings that his subordinate had deviated from instructions by allowing construction along the north bank, claiming that he would have to demolish these buildings and several others at great cost to the government.⁴⁰

Realising that his original orders to build on East Beach were impractical, Raffles then sought another location. He chose the swampy south bank of the river, where he had ordered the Chinese to establish their kampong in 1819. Disregarding the distressed pleas of the scores of Chinese whom he had settled there, as well as the need for financial prudence, which he had so impressed upon Farquhar, Raffles ordered the swamp to be filled in to form a new commercial precinct.⁴¹

Map of the Town and Harbour of Singapore” drawn by William Farquhar between 1821 and 1822, and presented to the East India Company in 1825. The British Library Board (IOR/X/3346).

The relationship between the two men grew more acrimonious. Raffles continued to undermine Farquhar’s reputation by sending letters to Hastings making accusations against Farquhar. He repeated his earlier complaints that Farquhar had overspent government funds, but later withdrew that criticism.⁴² Raffles later asked his friend Dr Nathaniel Wallich to hint to Hastings that Farquhar had illegally acquired large areas of land, but later retracted that allegation. In fact, after admitting that he had been misled over the extent of Farquhar’s land acquisitions, Raffles went on to authorise him a grant of some 150 acres.⁴³

Raffles further claimed that Farquhar had not provided a detailed account of the land grants he had allotted, and favoured certain individuals when granting land. In contrast, Raffles selected the best allotments for his family and friends, and allowed his brother-in-law William Flint to build on reserved land.⁴⁴ Although Farquhar sent detailed despatches and documents to Hastings that clearly refuted those charges, the seeds of doubt had been sown.⁴⁵

Raffles began to sideline Farquhar. He excluded Farquhar from his new Town Committee that he had set up in October 1822, and instead relied on the inexperienced Philip Jackson for engineering advice. In February 1823, Raffles took Farquhar’s place at the weekly Resident’s court.⁴⁶ Despite these and other rebuffs, Farquhar assured Raffles of his full cooperation, gave advice when asked, and allowed the committee to use his maps.

Farquhar’s and Raffles’ differing attitudes on the status of Singapore further strained relations between them. Raffles saw Singapore as a British port, while Farquhar regarded it as a Malay port that belonged to the Malay rulers. Farquhar insisted on abiding by the terms of the treaty signed by Sultan Hussein and the Temenggong on 6 February 1819, without which Singapore could not have been founded, as well as the arrangements Raffles and he had signed with the Malay rulers on 26 June 1819.

Farquhar expressed concern when Raffles began to sell land, pointing out that Raffles had no authority to do so as the land rightfully belonged to the Malays. Raffles interpreted this as another instance of Farquhar’s opposition to his plans.

Raffles wrote to Hastings on 11 January 1823, stating that he did not consider Farquhar capable of running Singapore after his own resignation, when Singapore would fall directly under the Bengal government’s supervision. Hence, he wanted Farquhar quickly replaced by “a more competent” local authority.⁴⁷ Yet the very next day Raffles wrote to his cousin, ecstatic at the progress Singapore had made under Farquhar:

“The progress of my new settlement is in every way most satisfactory, and it would gladden your heart to witness the activity and cheerfulness which prevails throughout. Every day brings us new settlers, and Singapore has already become a great emporium. Houses and warehouses are springing up in every direction.”⁴⁸

Despite that praise, Raffles wrote two further despatches to Bengal, accusing Farquhar of mismanagement, incompetence and other irregularities.

On 1 May 1823, Raffles dismissed Farquhar as Resident and took over control of Singapore.⁴⁹ He had no authority to do so as Hastings was the one who had appointed Farquhar.⁵⁰ Feeling humiliated, Farquhar protested to the Bengal government. However, swayed by Raffles’ despatches, but at the same time concerned at the lack of evidence sustaining his accusations, the government appointed John Crawfurd to take charge. Upon Crawfurd’s arrival, Raffles dismissed Farquhar as Commandant.⁵¹ This second dismissal was also without authority and without due cause.

Farquhar left Singapore on 28 December 1823, embittered by his unjustified fall from grace. He received heartfelt farewell addresses from the Bugis, Chinese and Indian communities who showed their deep affection and respect for him, and their sense of loss at his departure. The European merchants were more circumspect in their written address, but still collected $3,000 for a farewell gift. The Chinese raised $700 for their own gift. This money paid for silverware which Farquhar later received in London: an elegant epergne from the Chinese, and a magnificently engraved cup from the European and Armenian merchants.

(Left) The silver cup that Farquhar received from European and Armenian merchants as a gift when he left Singapore on 28 December 1823. © Private collection.
(Right) The epitaph on William Farquhar’s tombstone inside his mausoleum at Greyfriars Burial Ground in Perth, Scotland, bears testament to his contributions as “Resident in Malacca and afterwards at Singapore which later settlement he founded”. © Philip Game, photographersdirect.com.

In London, Farquhar composed a Memorial to the Court of Directors complaining of his illegal and unjustified dismissal, and petitioned to be reinstated.⁵² It was a war of words with Raffles battling for his pension, and Farquhar for his reputation. In the end, Farquhar lost.⁵³

EIC protocol, the changing political scene and, above all, Raffles’ misrepresentations and untruths prevailed. Farquhar’s friend John Palmer had foreshadowed the final outcome, warning Farquhar that even if he were acquitted of the charges laid against him, he would not obtain redress. Palmer knew that the EIC would have to “condemn itself” in order to do justice to Farquhar, and that would not happen.⁵⁴

Farquhar deserves as much credit as Raffles in the founding of modern Singapore. His vital role in the events leading to the establishment of a foothold on the island cannot be brushed aside. Although Raffles raised the British flag, it was Farquhar who kept it flying despite intense pressure to abandon the post. Above all, he developed the settlement into such a commercial success that in 1824, Britain decided to retain it.

For various reasons, Farquhar lost his rightful place in the history of Singapore. The time to set the record straight is all the more important as the city-state marks the 200th year of its founding in 2019.

Notes

Singapore’s history didn’t begin in 1819 when Stamford Raffles made footfall on the island. Tan Tai Yong makes sense of our 700-year history in this wide-ranging essay.

A facsimile of the last page of the treaty signed on 6 February 1819 between Stamford Raffles and the Malay chiefs. The page shows the signatures of Raffles, Sultan Hussein Shah and Temenggong Abdul Rahman. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore,
National Heritage Board.

On 28 January 1819, Stamford Raffles and his entourage landed on an island that was home to some 1,000 Chinese, Malay and orang laut (“sea people” in Malay). Soon after their arrival, they met Temenggong Abdul Rahman, the local chief in Singapore, and Tengku Long – eldest son of the late sultan of the Johor-Riau-Lingga empire – who was later installed by the British as Singapore’s first sultan, Hussein Mohamed Shah.

Along with a formal ceremony and banquet, a treaty was signed on 6 February 1819 allowing the British East India Company (EIC) to set up a trading post on the island.¹ Conventional narrative looks back to this day as the beginning of modern Singapore.

Wa Hakim, then 15 years old, was one of the orang laut who was present on the day the British arrived. Already an old man in his 80s, he shared his recollection of what transpired on that day:

“I remembered the boat landing in the morning. There were two white men and a Sepoy on it. When they landed, they went straight to the Temenggong’s house. Tuan Raffles was there, he was a short man… Tuan Farquhar was there; he was taller than Tuan Raffles and he wore a helmet. The Sepoy carried a musket. They were entertained by the Temenggong and he gave them rambutans and all kinds of fruit… Tuan Raffles went into the centre of the house. About 4 o’clock in the afternoon, they came out and went on board again.”²

But the story of Singapore goes back much further. The island as it was 700 years ago in fact shares a number of similarities with today’s cosmopolitan city-state. In the 14th century, Singapore was already a centre for a vast trading network and actively engaged in commerce with neighbouring ports and regions. Commodities such as hornbill casques and lakawood (a type of aromatic wood used as incense) were exported from Singapore, or Temasek, as it was known then.

(Top) This gold armlet and rings are part of a larger cache of gold ornaments recovered in 1926 at Fort Canning. Reminiscent of East Javanese craftsmanship during the time of the Majapahit empire (c.1293–c.1500), these ornaments are proof that Singapore’s history predates Stamford Raffles’ arrival by more than 500 years. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.
(Above) Earthernware shards from circa 14–15th century recovered from Empress Place indicate that Singapore had social, economic and cultural links with other population centres in maritime Southeast Asia, including Sumatra, Java and Borneo. Image reproduced from Kwa, C.G., Heng, D.T.S., & Tan, T.Y. (2009). Singapore, a 700-Year History: From Early Emporium to World City (p. 44). Singapore: National Archives of Singapore. (Call no.: RSING 959.5703 KWA-[HIS])

Archaeological finds provide evidence that early Singapore imported ceramic wares from China, along with other products from around the region. Singapore also traces a royal lineage that has its roots in the 13th century, beginning with a prince from Palembang, Sri Tri Buana (also known as Sang Nila Utama), and ending when the last king, Iskandar Shah, fled to Malacca, following a scandal involving the daughter of a royal minister and an invasion by Majapahit forces from Java.³

All this is proof that Singapore was already a city of considerable stature centuries even before Raffles set foot here. Hundreds of years before modern Singapore came to be, the island was already firmly embedded in a wider regional web and frequently engaged with powers and political entities well beyond its immediate borders.

Yet, it is undeniable that Raffles and his deputy William Farquhar, along with the machinery of the colonial administration, played an instrumental role in furthering Singapore’s rise into a bustling port-city, and by extension, the global city we know today. The year 1819, therefore, marks the beginning of a journey that resulted in the eventual blossoming of a cosmopolitan and independent republic.

Two hundred years after that fateful day, we can reflect on our history and heritage and the elements that contributed to the Singaporean identity and spirit as we know it today. A series of setbacks that threatened to pronounce the demise of the island at various stages of its post-1819 history, such as the devastation of World War II, the exit of the British, the merger with the Federation of Malaya and then separation from Malaysia, have become inextricably woven into a narrative that speaks of ever-resolute tenacity.

Linkages and Connectivity

A confluence of regional and international factors contributed to the rise of Temasek as a port in the 14th century. Under the Song dynasty, Chinese trade with Southeast Asia grew between the 12th and 13th centuries. The new trade policies reduced reliance on a single main entrepôt – Srivijaya in Palembang – in the Malacca Strait and encouraged the rise of numerous autonomous port-polities in the region that engaged directly with China.⁴

At the end of the 13th century, the aforementioned Palembang prince Sri Tri Buana was on an expedition in Bentan (Bintan) when he spotted the white sandy coast of Temasek from a distance. He decided to relocate here and rename the island Singapura.⁵ We know something of Temasek’s life, trade, people and culture from sources such as the 14th-century Daoyi Zhilue (岛夷志略; A Description of the Barbarians of the Isles), a collection of accounts from Yuan dynasty Chinese traveller and trader Wang Dayuan (汪大渊), and Sejarah Melayu (Malay Annals), a 17th-century Jawi work that traces the history and genealogy of the Malay kings of the Malacca Sultanate.⁶

Interestingly, almost everything we know of Singapore from this period of its history comes from textual sources beyond its shores – all of which point to early Singapore as being part of a much wider sphere and sustained by trade.

Similarly, the establishment of modern Singapore in the early 19th century had very much to do with its position as a strategic location for trade. Lying at an important crossroad along the East-West trade route between the South China Sea and the Indian Ocean, the Malacca Strait was the key passageway through which the markets of the Indian subcontinent, and the Middle East and beyond gained access to China, Southeast Asia and Australasia.⁷

As the Dutch held sway over much of Southeast Asia at the time and controlled the seaways through which EIC ships had to pass, Raffles saw the need for the company to secure a port for itself along the India-China trade route.⁸ In 1818, Raffles described the problem in a letter to his superiors in the EIC:

“The Dutch possess the only passes through which ships must sail into the Archipelago, the straits of Sunda and Malacca; and the British have now not an inch of ground to stand upon between the Cape of Good Hope and China, nor a single friendly port at which they can water and obtain refreshment.”⁹

Singapore was a rich prize because of its location. Soon after the British arrived, the value of the island’s entrepôt trade rose to almost 40 percent of its total commerce.¹⁰ Colonial Singapore became inextricably linked by trade – through the free flow of goods, people and ideas – to the larger world.

As Singapore’s soil was unable to support large-scale agriculture, and sustained only a small population at the point of Raffles’ arrival, the young settlement became reliant on its hinterland for essential resources. People were also needed to enable the port to thrive. By 1821, the population in Singapore had grown to 5,000, many of whom were Malaccans who had followed William Farquhar when he moved here to become Resident of Singapore (he was previously Resident of Malacca).¹¹ In addition, the EIC brought prisoners from India to build local infrastructure. Therefore, diverse peoples from around the region and beyond came together in a collective effort to bring life to modern Singapore.

The British East India Company brought prisoners from India to Singapore to build the settlement’s early infrastructure. One of the prisoners’ early tasks included transporting soil from Pearl’s Hill and Bras Basah as landfill for the marshy area that would become the commercial hub of Singapore. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

The heavy reliance on trade, however, meant that the fortunes of Singapore were inevitably susceptible to larger economic developments beyond its shores. At the turn of the 20th century, the adverse impact on the local economy caused by volatile commodity prices, notably rubber, illustrated the danger of being heavily dependent on the world market.

Trade continued to play a major factor in Singapore’s revenue even after independence, and remains a vital part of the economy today. Upon becoming an independent nation in 1965 and losing Malaysia as a hinterland, the government turned its attention from regional trade to a more global perspective. To embed itself in the international market, Singapore began establishing stronger communication links and more seamless transportation networks.¹²

Today, as one of the world’s most trade-dependent nations, Singapore continues to seek new ways to stay rele­vant in the global market and remain connected with the rest of the world. This often explains its ambition to punch above its weight in order to entrench itself in the global community.

Resilience and Enterprise

As mentioned earlier, when Farquhar announced he was moving to Singapore to set up a new British settlement, thousands of Malaccan men left their homes to start a new life here, despite Dutch attempts to stop the mass migration. Among the motley group of traders, peddlers, carpenters, labourers and other workers were a number who quickly rose to become prominent businessmen: in the words of Raffles’ Malay scribe Abdullah bin Abdul Kadir – better known as Munshi Abdullah who published his autobiography, Hikayat Abdullah (Stories of Abdullah), in 1849 – Malacca fell into a “drought” while Singapore experienced “the rain of plenty”.¹³ In his book, Munshi Abdullah describes the rapid transformations that took place in the first few years of the settlement:

View of Singapore from Government Hill (present-day Fort Canning Hill), based on a painting by government surveyor J.T. Thomson, 1846. It illustrates the ceremony during which Governor of the Straits Settlements William J. Butterworth (standing in the centre of the lawn with his wife) presented a state sword to Temenggong of Johor Daing Ibrahim on 31 August 1846 to acknowledge his role in helping to curb piracy in the area. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

“I am astonished to see how markedly our world is changing. A new world is being created, the old world destroyed. The very jungle becomes a settled district while elsewhere a settlement reverts to jungle. These things show us how the world and its pleasures are but transitory experiences, like something borrowed which has to be returned whenever the owner comes to demand it.”¹⁴

The men who came with Farquhar were determined to carve out a better life for themselves, seizing the opportunity to start afresh under the British. In the decades that followed, the colony continued to witness the arrival of tens of thousands of Chinese migrants in search of better opportunities: by 1897, there were 200,000 inhabitants in Singapore. Among them was the great-grandfather of the man who was to become the first prime minister of independent Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew.¹⁵

Many of these migrants worked as coolies, trishaw riders and shop owners, and toiled away to send whatever money they could back to their families in China. Since these workers were often men, Singapore soon faced a gender imbalance, which was mitigated in the 1900s by a surge in Chinese female migrants. Among these women were hardy samsui labourers, who worked in tin mines and construction sites, and amahs (domestic servants).¹⁶ These women were just as determined as the men to eke out a living.

Singapore became a place of opportunity and new beginnings: while these migrants laboured to send most of their hard-earned wages to their families back home, they also seized the fresh start that the island offered to build a new life.

While still tied by birth to the lands they came from, the new arrivals were also invested in building new lives in Singapore, and – when they started families of their own here – to building a better life for their children. The latter decades of the 1800s to early 1990s saw a reform in education, with more government-operated English schools, as well as ethnic communities taking greater ownership in providing vernacular education.¹⁷

New Chinese, Tamil and Muslim-Malay schools were established, teaching a more updated curriculum in their respective ethnic languages. However, the better jobs still went to English-educated locals. Still, Asians of any calibre invariably faced a ceiling when it came to their career advancement: in 1912, the British Empire officially barred non-Europeans from assuming senior roles in public administration.¹⁸

As these issues of discrimination brewed, locals began to ponder over the idea of nationalism, and what it meant for Singapore, whose population comprised mainly migrants who hailed from different countries. Eunos Abdullah, the first Malay Legislative Councillor, spoke up against a colonial administrative system that favoured foreigners over locals, and argued for greater education and career opportunities for “sons of the soil”, a term he gave to the Malays. He saw Malays as collectively belonging to the nation, and rejected the idea of any allegiance to the local sultan.¹⁹

Likewise, the Straits Chinese community also faced the dilemma of remaining loyal to a distant and increasingly politically unstable China, or declaring allegiance to Singapore and a British administration in which their career opportunities were curtailed.²⁰

The early 1900s saw people in Singapore becoming more disillusioned by their lowly status under the British. With this disgruntlement began a dialogue about what nationalism meant in a colony of diverse peoples. The dialogue was to continue for decades afterwards.

With the devastation of World War II in Singapore – and the failure of the British Empire in protecting Singapore – came further questions about nationalism and independence.²¹ Britain surrendered and the locals were left to face the brutality of the Japanese. Literature that hinted of the suffering of war, anti-Japanese sentiments and expressions about nationalism appeared in newspapers, such as the poems of the local Malay poet Masuri S. N.

Anti-Japanese resistance movements also took root, the chief example being the Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army (MPAJA) created by the Malayan Communist Party.²² In the wake of the failure of the colonial government to protect Singapore, people had no choice but to hold their ground alone.

The Japanese surrendered in 1945 and the British returned. They were in for a rude shock; instead of the warm reception they were expecting, what they saw resounding in the streets of Singapore was a cry for freedom or “merdeka” among English-educated locals. Their calls for independence were met with strong support from the other communities.²³

Having been left to fend for themselves and endure the atrocities of war, the people of Singapore now knew that they could not count on a foreign government for their security and prosperity. They began to have a newfound confidence, driven by the disappointment of being abandoned during the war. They now desired to be freed from the masters who had proven themselves unworthy.

Yet with the abrupt arrival of independence in 1965, a massive burden was thrust upon the new government led by the People’s Action Party. How the first generation of leaders laid the foundations of what Singapore has become today is a whole other story of its own, complete with its fair share of moral courage, enterprise and resilience against a backdrop of struggle and turbulence.

Diversity and Differences

Whether in colonial, independent or early Singapore, a diverse, migrant population has always characterised the island-city. In Daoyi Zhilue, Wang Dayuan notes that Chinese people lived alongside orang laut natives at Longyamen (“Dragon’s Tooth Strait”; most likely referring to the waterway between Sentosa and Labrador Point), where ships called for trade. Later, the Malaccan immigrants who came with Farquhar largely comprised Indians and Straits Chinese.²⁴

In 1822, Raffles, dissatisfied with the way Farquhar had developed the settlement, instructed assistant engineer Philip Jackson to draw up a plan for the town of Singapore. Titled “Plan of the Town of Singapore” (more commonly known as Raffles Town Plan or Jackson Plan), the blueprint demarcated living spaces and organised the island’s layout according to ethnic communities. Hence, the diverse population was segregated rather than united, with different neighbourhoods laid out for the Chinese, Malays, Bugis and Indians, as well as a dedicated European Town by the Singapore River.²⁵

Each ethnic group retained its distinct culture and livelihood, and continued speaking its native language or dialect. Because the groups were kept separate, there was minimal interaction and little need to negotiate differences in the pursuit of unity. As already mentioned, the idea of a distinct Singaporean nationhood and the question of national identity only began to take shape around the 1900s, as Asian locals became better educated and increasingly dissatisfied with their lot.

By 1833, “Chinese, Malays, Bugis, Javanese, Balinese, natives of Bengal and Madras, Parsees, Arabs, and Caffrees [Africans]” could all be found in Singapore, as a great variety of ships sailed into its protected harbour.²⁶ The story of Singapore as a thriving port city in Asia is “the story of multi-racial communities and networks”.²⁷

In the earlier decades of the 20th century, The Malaya Tribune received much support as the newspaper that expressed the voices of the local communities. Readers and contributors often discussed ideas of nationhood and belonging, and of their role in Singapore.

As Chinese and Indian workers continued to stream into Malaya in search of work, questions of who were the rightful sons and heirs of the Malayan land (was it open to all races who claimed Malaya as their home, or were only the Malays eligible?), and whether it was appropriate to maintain ties with one’s country of origin, were debated in the Tribune. One lawyer wrote in the newspaper: “No matter what their nationality is, they [the local-born] should be proud to be called Sons of Malaya as much as Sons of other Countries.”²⁸

Identity and Unity

In light of the increasing dissatisfaction with the colonial administration, a sense of collectiveness among the locals began simmering: what was the significance of their living together, and how were these dwellers to distinguish themselves through their sense of belonging to this island? If these migrants of diverse backgrounds considered this land as their home, how should they be united in order to be set apart?

As much as these issues lingered in people’s minds, they only remained abstract concepts until the British left and a united Malaya – and later, a united Singapore – was born. When Malayans were left to govern themselves, free of their colonial masters, the questions of identity and unity became more pertinent than ever. These questions now needed answers, and the answers would come to impact the everyday lives of the people.

Questions of racial identities and citizenship featured prominently in the negotiations leading to Singapore’s merger with the Federation of Malaya in September 1963. While part of the Federation, tensions ran high as Singapore’s Chinese-dominant People’s Action Party (PAP) directly contested the ruling United Malays National Organisation (UMNO), which sought to protect Malay interests. As a result, riots broke out in Singapore between Chinese and Malay factions in 1964.²⁹ Even after Singapore and Malaysia went their separate ways and Singapore gained independence in 1965, the racial divide within the island’s boundaries presented the PAP government with the daunting task of managing these racial tensions and forging a common Singaporean identity.

On 9 August 1965, Singapore separated from Malaysia to become an independent and sovereign
state. Singapore’s union with Malaysia had lasted for less than 23 months. Image reproduced from
The Straits Times, 10 August 1965, p. 1.

The ruling party’s stand was clear: equal treatment across ethnic groups, and integration rather than separation. English, a “neutral” language among the main ethnic groups, was to be the language of business as well as of inter-racial communication in Singapore. English was hence taught alongside ethnicity-based mother tongue languages, in line with the government’s bilingualism policy.³⁰ By 1987, all schools used English as the primary medium of instruction – bringing the curtain down on ethnic-based vernacular schools – with Chinese, Malay and Tamil taught as second languages.³¹

A trans-cultural Singaporean identity and business practicality took precedence over one’s ethnicity, with the government envisioning that racial differences would give way to a sense of collective nationhood. Concrete policy steps were taken: in stark contrast to the racially segregated clusters that Raffles mandated, the PAP set ethnic quotas in public housing estates in 1989, ensuring that every such estate and block of flats housed families of different races.³² This move made clear the government’s stand against the formation of communal enclaves: in the PAP’s opinion, the key to harmony was not to keep diverse peoples apart, but to bring them together.

Since Singapore’s earliest days as an entrepôt 700 years ago, diversity has been a constant. Singapore has always been a city of migrants, who brought with them trade, dynamism, cultural diversity, and the wherewithal to make the nation what it has become today. Colonial Singapore required migrants to build up its infrastructure and develop its economy, and all throughout its history, waves of foreigners have been arriving on its shores in search of better prospects.

Contemporary Singapore is no different: as the city continues to search for new ways to remain relevant in the global marketplace, people from all around the world find themselves here in search of investment and work, and to carve out a better life for themselves.

Singapore continues to welcome the influx of new immmigrants, while also seeking ways to integrate these newcomers. As the city’s population continues to grow more diverse, its identity also becomes increasingly more fluid. One thing is certain: as the canvas grows more colourful, the difficult task lies in blending the colours seamlessly while ultimately creating a harmonious whole.

Notes

The intrepid Mrs G.M. Dare – true to her name – was Singapore’s first woman driver. In April 1907, she embarked on a 686-mile road trip across the Malay Peninsula.

Mrs Dare’s driving adventure was published as “Motoring in Malaya: Adventurous Trip of Two Ladies in F.M.S.” The Straits Times on 18, 19 and 20 June 1907. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 18 June 1907, p. 11.

When we two ladies contemplated making a motor tour through the Malay Peninsula, accompanied only by a native gardener (who knew nothing of mechanics), people thought it rather a wild scheme. But as we both felt capable of looking after the machinery ourselves, and only wanted our man to clean and oil the car, we were determined to take the risk. We started off on our travels in April 1907.

Our car was a quite new Adams-Hewitt, constructed with especially large 34-inch wheels to ensure a good ground clearance. The wheels were fitted with Moseley “Perfect” tyres and detachable rims. We carried our baggage with us, and were provided with all necessary spares as well as one outer cover and two inner tubes in a waterproof case. These were never used; although we crossed many patches of unrolled granite and sharp marble road metal, we never suffered from a single puncture and rarely had to pump up the tyres. Our car was named “Ichiban” (Japanese for “Number One”), as it bears the registered number S-1.

Mrs G.M. Dare, Singapore’s first lady motorist, and her husband George Mildmay Dare on their Adams-Hewitt with the licence plate number S-1. The car was named “Ichiban”, Japanese for “Number One”. Image reproduced from Makepeace, W., Brooke, G.E., & Braddell, R.S.J. (Eds.). (1991). One Hundred Years of Singapore (Vol. 2, p. 364). Singapore: Oxford University Press. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 ONE-[HIS]).

Starting from Penang

Having decided to start our trip from Penang, we planned to ship ourselves and Ichiban by the steamer Perak for the settlement. As the Perak could not dock at the wharf in Singapore, poor Ichiban had a bad start being transported to the steamer. It happened to be low tide in the Singapore River, so she had to be pushed down three flights of steep stone steps onto a series of uneven planks of different lengths and full of nails, and into a tongkong [sic], a Chinese cargo boat, at an angle of 45 degrees. The strain on the brakes and frame was very severe, and how the tyres stood the pinches and drops between the planks was a marvel. Fortunately, Ichiban escaped with only a bent mudguard and a broken oilcap.

Penang is 395 miles north of Singapore. On arrival, we discovered that the steamer would not call at the wharf in Penang until the next day. As a repetition of the tongkong experience was not desirable, we left our faithful gardener on board to guard the car while we spent the day and night up the hill at Crag Hotel, at an elevation of 2,400 feet, where the temperature is cool and the views magnificent.

Returning the next afternoon, we were lucky enough to meet the genial secretary of the Straits Automobile Association, who gave us valuable assistance in landing our car, and we were soon driving smoothly off the wharf to the Eastern & Oriental Hotel.

We spent several days in Penang and made some delightful excursions on the roads about the island. One particularly lovely drive was along the coast of Batu Ferringhi, and then inland beyond Teluk Bahang and up a mountain pass into Pahang. After repeated delays caused by the steamer’s defective water tank, we finally left Penang by the 3.26 pm steam ferry bound for Prai in Province Wellesley.

Flabbergasted Natives

On reaching the mainland, we screwed on the milometer and embarked on our 34-mile run to Bagan Serai in Perak. There are many good roads in this district such that it is easy to take a wrong turn – and we did it twice! We found it exceedingly difficult to get reliable directions. The natives were so flabbergasted at the spectacle of a lady driving a “devil wind carriage” that they were quite incapable of answering our questions, and the only correct information we obtained was either from the Chinese or sharp little Kling boys.

However, we got on the right track at last, and after crossing the Krian river on a pontoon bridge, and passing through Parit Buntar, we eventually reached Bagan Serai Resthouse at 7 pm. Our first thought was to see how many miles we had done, but alas the milometer was gone! We informed the police of our loss, hoping that someone might have picked it up. We had very little hope of recovering it, not having a notion where it had been lost, but to our great joy, a constable came round to the resthouse at 9.30 pm to say that the milometer had been found at Sempang Lima – five miles back.

Taiping and the Larut Hills

The Larut plain and estuary as seen from the Larut Hills. Image reproduced from Harrison, C.W. (Ed.). (1910). An Illustrated Guide to the Federated Malay States (facing p. 55). London: The Malay States Information Agency. (Accession no.: B30160627C; Microfilm no.: NL16350)

Bagan Serai Resthouse is not at all a bad place with an upper storey, but if it were only kept clean! The rooms were thick with dust and the furniture broken. The beds, however, were clean, and the dinner quite good.

A map of the Malay Peninsula created in 1906. It includes the places that Mrs Dare and Miss Hardman visited during their road trip in 1907. Image reproduced from Swettenham, F.A. (1907). British Malaya: An Account of the Origin and Progress of British Influence in Malaya. London, New York: John Lane the Bodley Head. (Accession nos.: B29031891K, B29267224A; Microfilm nos.: NL19101, NL3279)

In the morning, we drove back for the milometer – which was quite uninjured but the journey delayed us somewhat – and headed for Taiping 26 miles away. Six miles beyond Bagan Serai, the Kuran river is crossed by a small pontoon boat, which is hauled across the stream by a wire rope. Two planks were laid each side to bridge the intervening space of water from the pontoon to the boat, and we drove over these on board, the planks being carried with us to be utilised in the same manner on the other side.

From this point, the road began to ascend, and we crossed the Semangol Pass, which at 1,279 ft affords a glorious vista of the wooded Larut Hills and the grand mountain ranges of Perak. The road surface was excellent, and a pleasant spin through flat, open country past many deserted tin mines took us into Taiping by 9.30 am, quite ready for the excellent breakfast provided for us by the kind friends with whom we stayed.

Taiping is prettily situated on a flat plain, backed by the Larut Hills (3,600 to 7,000 ft). There is a picturesque lake in the Public Gardens, a good racecourse, rifle range and cricket ground, and two excellent clubs. The well-stocked museum contains the best collection of old Malay krisses and knives in the Federated Malay States.

There are also several bungalows on the Larut Hills belonging to the government as well as private individuals. English flowers and vegetables thrive up there and the temperature is cool enough to make a nice fire at night. The Resident of Perak E.W. Birch kindly placed the bungalow named “The Box” at our disposal and we spent a day and night up there, revelling in a perfect wilderness of lovely roses, heliotrope, lilies, geraniums, azaleas and all sorts of English flowers, in addition to varieties of tropical blooms.

From “The Box” at 4,200 ft, the views are immense. Below, Taiping looks like a tiny map and the roads (being of white limestone and marble) show out distinctly, as was the very straight line of railway to the coast of Port Weld. To the right, in the distance, is the island of Penang and to the left the group of islands called the Dindings; on a clear day, the opposite high mountains of Sumatra are faintly visible.

Inland, one looks into the heart of the Malay Peninsula. Range upon range of mountains from 4,000 to 9,000 feet, nearly all untouched and unscaled by man – primeval jungle – the happy hunting ground of tigers, elephants, deer, wild pig, bears, monkeys and what not!

(Left) In Taiping, Mrs Dare and Miss Hardman travelled on elephants like these to the cool shady riverside for a delicious tiffin of Malay curries. Image reproduced from Harrison, C.W. (Ed.). (1910). An Illustrated Guide to the Federated Malay States (facing p. 70). London: The Malay States Information Agency. (Accession no.: B30160627C; Microfilm no.: NL16350)
(Right) Menggelunchor involves sitting on thick pieces of plantain fibre called upih and tobogganing down the smooth rock in the river into the pool below. Mrs Dare was treated to such a scene in Taiping.

We returned to Taiping and motored out to the 18th milestone on the Kuala Kangsar road where, at the Penghulu’s, we were provided with an elephant, on which we rode for two miles. On arrival at the cool shady riverside, we found a shed erected and a delicious tiffin of Malay curries for our benefit. It was great fun watching the Malays and the men of our party seated on thick pieces of plantain fibre called upih and tobogganing down some 60 feet of smooth rock in the river into the cool inviting pool below – an activity called menggelunchor.

Bound for Ipoh

We left Taiping for Ipoh via Kuala Kangsar, a distance of 56 miles, at 8.30 am on 20 April, and had a delightful run over the Bukit Larut Pass. The morning was exceptionally clear and the mountains a magnificent sight. Right in front of us was Gunong Pondok, a huge perpendicular pinnacle of limestone rock.

Kuala Kangsar is the former capital of Perak, and the sultan lives in a fine palace on the banks of the broad river. We proceeded along the upper road, which leads through the official portion of the town past the hospital, barracks and various government offices to the Malay College, where we breakfasted with friends. Then, taking riskshas, we visited the School of Art and the new Residency situated on a wooded knoll. After tiffin, we left Kuala Kangsar immediately so as to arrive in Ipoh in time for tea and to escape the usual afternoon rain squall.

Crossing Perak River

At Enggor we drove across Perak River on a rickety bridge of boats, and proceeded without mishap along the smooth undulating road through well-wooded country until we reached the tin-mining town of Sungei Siput.

There, we were alarmed by a fearful clattering in the car, and were relieved to find that it was caused by nothing worse than the top section of the chain-guard having somehow caught in the number plate! It was of no real consequence but it meant a vexatious delay as the whole cover had come off and a piece cut out. A Chinese tinsmith’s shop was close by, but no offers of money would induce him to lend us his metal-cutting scissors, or to come and work himself unless the car was taken to his shop, which was obviously impossible, as there was no road! So we set to work and cut away the metal with two pairs of wire-cutters, a long and tedious job, made doubly difficult by the large crowd of rude Chinese coolies who had surrounded us by then but offered no assistance. After three quarters of an hour’s delay, we continued our journey.

More Obstacles on the Road

A few miles further on it began to pour in torrents, necessitating another half an hour’s stoppage under the trees with the apron up, till the rain moderated a bit and we proceeded another few miles; then to be once more held up by a couple of huge tree trunks that had fallen right across the road. The second of these had been sawn in pieces, and could be pushed out of the way, but the first one was immovable!

As we were only nine miles from our destination, it seemed ridiculous to go back all the way to Kuala Kangsar, so we were determined to bridge the obstacle. We and our Malay attendant pulled up some planks from the wayside benches, laid them in position so as to form an inclined gangway from the road to the top of the prostrate trunk, and covered the uneven ends of the planks with bits of bark. Some natives helped to push the car over and after an hour and a half’s delay, Ichiban was again on the move. Half a mile on, another and yet larger tree blocked the way but here the government coolies were already at work sawing it up, so half an hour more saw us again spinning along, and enjoying the now fine evening and beautiful sunset.

We had, however, only covered another mile when a fourth large tree obstructed us. It was getting dark and the road was lonely. A bullock cart laden with split logs was parked behind it, with the Sikh driver fast asleep beneath. We were now so accustomed to climbing trees that we soon had the contents of the cart piled on each side of the tree in a sort of sloping bridge and while two of us looked on, the third drove the car over triumphantly!

Ichiban took it like a bird, but the toolbox under the step caught on the logs and was wrenched off, the contents spilling out; thankfully the step itself was uninjured. We picked up the tools and the debris, and packed everything away as neatly as possible and were off again, ultimately reaching the Residency at Ipoh without more misfortunes. We felt that quite enough for one day had fallen to our lot, and congratulated ourselves on having surmounted all with so little damage to Ichiban.

Ipoh and Beyond

Ipoh is a large and flourishing town in the centre of the tin mining district. There are also interesting marble works, the whole country being full of huge limestone and marble rocks. Even the milestones are made of white marble! We stayed two days for repairs, thoroughly appreciating the rest in this most comfortable and prettily situated Residency, the garden extending to the edge of the Kinta River.

We left Ipoh on 22 April at 8 am for our longest run of 98 miles to Tanjong Malim. The road to Gopeng is more hilly but it has an excellent surface and the scenery is very pretty. We stopped en route at Sungei Raya to look at a curious five-storeyed Chinese temple built inside some limestone caves. At Gopeng, the road diverges along a high ridge on which are situated the District Officer’s house and a nice resthouse with an upper storey and broad verandah. The resthouse commands a fine view over the town and adjoining mining country, backed by ranges of limestone cliff.

The Malayan kingfishers that Mrs Dare and Miss Hardman saw when they were driving through the jungle were likely the white collared kingfisher (top) and the white-breasted kingfisher (bottom). Image reproduced from Robinson, H.C. (1927). The Birds of the Malay Peninsula: Volume 1: The Commoner Birds (p. 100). London: H.F. & G. Witherby. (Call no.: RSING 598.29595 ROB)

The rest of the road to Tapah was equally smooth, and we ran up a very steep hill to the resthouse where we tiffined. At 2 pm, we started on our remaining 58 miles to Tanjong Malim, and arrived at 7 pm. The road is very winding and too overgrown to travel at any great speed, although the surface is smooth and made of red laterite. From Bidor, the road goes through the thickest jungle, and here we spotted jungle cocks, blue pheasants, brilliant blue flycatchers and kingfishers as well as colourful butterflies. We ran over two snakes and saw a huge black scorpion about nine inches long! Two strong-smelling musangs (civet cats) ran across the road at different times, and in one place a very distinct scent of tiger was apparent – it is not a place one would care to spend the night in, should one’s car break down!

The resthouse at Tanjong Malim is very comfortable and the food good. We found our supply of petrol waiting for us here, sent from Kuala Lumpur by the Federated Engineering Company.

We left the next morning at nine, and covered the 17 miles of charming road to Kuala Kubu in an hour. After calling at the post office to pick up our mail, we turned up the road to the Semangko Pass, at 2,700 ft. The gradient is very easy and the splendidly made road winds up and through magnificent jungle, every turn revealing some new beauty. Being the only road into Pahang at present, we encountered much bullock cart traffic. Almost every turn we encountered two or three bullock carts, but as they are accustomed to the Motor Mail Service, the bullocks themselves move to the proper side of the road the moment they hear the horn, even when their drivers have fallen asleep!

The Motor Service along Kuala Kubu-Kuala Lipis Road. The road connects Kuala Kubu Bahru in Selangor to Kuala Lipis in Pahang. Image reproduced from Harrison, C.W. (Ed.). (1910). An Illustrated Guide to the Federated Malay States (facing p. 218). London: The Malay States Information Agency. (Accession no.: B30160627C; Microfilm no.: NL16350)B30160627C; Microfilm no.: NL16350)

About one-third of the way up, a horrible grating noise proceeding from the interior of the car greatly alarmed us, but we could not locate it and thought the noise was due to an insufficiency of oil in the gear box. In addition to this awful din, our new water tank began to leak badly so we went up very slowly, stopping at every stream or waterfall to fill up the tank and cool down the overheated engine. On arriving at the Gap (the boundary between Selangor and Pahang) at 2.40 pm, we decided to stay there for the night.

The next morning, after giving the gear box a good dose of oil, we started on our 15-mile-run downhill to Tras, and thence for eight miles on to Raub, the water tank having to be filled at every available opportunity. Whilst tiffining at Raub Resthouse, the car was left at the local garage to have the tank resoldered. The manager there informed us that special riveted tanks should be used in this climate. We had only travelled eight miles out of Raub when the tank began to leak worse than ever! This time, the solder at the junction of the waterpipe and radiator had given way. We bound it up as well as we could with rubber tubing and wire, and by dint of constantly refilling we eventually arrived in Kuala Lipis at 7 pm, making a total of 62 miles for the day.

After crossing the Lipis River, the road skirted its bank for a good part of the way. Kuala Lipis is pleasingly situated at the junction of the Lipis and Jellei ­rivers, after which they join and become the main Pahang river, the sole route to the east coast from the interior – a trip of over 200 miles. We stayed two days at the Residency, the walls of which are made entirely of plaited palm leaves, in white and brown.

Raub to Kuala Lumpur

The manager of the Motor Service kindly took our radiator in to Raub to have the pipe properly fixed and brought it back the next morning. The same afternoon we left on our return journey, only doing the 39 miles into Raub, where we spent a most comfortable night in the resthouse. We left Raub the next day at 10.30 am, the car going up the Semangko Pass quite nicely this time. After a rest and cool down at the Gap, we started off again at 2.45 pm, and ran down the hill to Kuala Kubu in two hours – 50 miles in all during the day – a countryfied spot on the banks of a river.

We left on 28 April at 11 am for Kuala Lumpur – a run of 38 miles – but it took us the best part of the day as the wretched tank again leaked like a sieve and we had to stop every two or three miles to replenish the water. The road was somewhat more stony and hilly in places. We passed a great many alluvial tin mines with their armies of Chinese coolies. Seven miles from Kuala Lumpur we passed the famous caves at Batu, and from there a fine broad road goes into the capital of Selangor.

Kuala Lumpur

The capital has a large European population, with well-built bungalows, churches, hospitals, government offices, a town club, a country club and the Public Gardens with a fine large lake.

Government offices in Kuala Lumpur. Image reproduced from Swettenham, F.A. (1907). British Malaya: An Account of the Origin and Progress of British Influence in Malaya (p. 276). London, New York: John Lane the Bodley Head. (Accession nos.: B29031891K, B29267224A; Microfilm nos.: NL19101, NL3279)

The Resident General, W. Taylor, with whom we stayed, has a beautiful house up on the hill overlooking the lake and gardens. In fact, the place is very hilly, each house standing on its own separate eminence. There are many motorcars here, and the big engineering works belongs to the Federated Engineering Company, so we had Ichiban thoroughly overhauled during our four-day visit.

We left on 2 May for Dusun Tua – 17 miles of charming road through very pretty scenery. The day was perfect and the car going beautifully, so we did not hurry. It is impossible to drive right up to the resthouse now, the old bridge having been replaced by a narrow and high iron suspension bridge, but on this side of the river there is an iron roofed shed, big enough to shelter two motorcars, and a little beyond, stabling and syces’ quarters. Ichiban was deposited in the shelter, and our baggage carried up to the resthouse. Not having telegraphed beforehand, we did not expect to get anything solid to eat till dinner time, and were going to order tea. But some other person who had ordered a tiffin had not turned up, so we instead ate it thankfully!

The Public Gardens in Kuala Lumpur that Mrs Dare visited. The lake can be seen on the right. Image reproduced from Harrison, C.W. (Ed.). (1910). An Illustrated Guide to the Federated Malay States (facing p. 218). London: The Malay States Information Agency. (Accession no.: B30160627C; Microfilm no.: NL16350)

The resthouse is beautifully clean and the attendants most obliging, ­especially a cook who made delicious cakes for tea. The hot sulphur baths are delightful; the water is led into big bath tanks direct from the natural spring, which bubbles up at a temperature of 162 degrees Fahrenheit.

After tea, we had a stroll up the road for a couple of miles, and saw a few huts or shelters, much like fowl houses, and caught sight of some figures inside, but really did not see any Sakeis (aborigines) properly. The following day at 10.30 am, we left for Seremban, a distance of 44 miles, and had a delightful run to Kajang, Semenyih and Beranang – the roads were very good but as soon as we passed the frontier into Negri Sembilan, they became stony and full of ruts. Moreover, many of the bridges were being re-made, so we had to cross rough little structures at the side of the road.

All went well until after we had passed Mantin and were well up the pass to Setul. There we were stopped by two fallen trees right across the road. As these trees must have been about 150 feet long and thick in proportion, it would have taken days before they are removed. So we were thankful when the government coolies arrived and cut away the bank on the hillside and widened the road sufficiently for our car to crawl underneath, with her hood taken off completely and the driver’s head well bent down. It really was great fun, in spite of the hour-and-a-half’s delay! Several carts, with their kadjang (screw pine) roofs removed, and two dog-carts also got safely through. After this, we met with no more adventures, and the rest of the road was in good order right into Seremban, which we reached at 2.40 pm.

Seremban and on to Singapore

A resthouse in Seremban, one of Mrs Dare’s final stops. Image reproduced from Harrison, C.W. (Ed.). (1985). An Illustrated Guide to the Federated Malay States: 1923 (facing p. 121). Singapore: Oxford University Press. (Call no.: RSING 959.5 ILL)

Seremban, the capital of Negri Sembilan, is a good-sized town prettily situated on hilly ground and backed by ranges of fine mountains. A great deal of tin is brought in here for export by rail to Port Dickson on the coast, and thence by steamer to Singapore. There are boxes, vases, trays, frames, and all sorts of quaint Chinese things manufactured in solid tin and fancifully engraved. It is as bright as silver and only requires polishing with a hard brush to keep bright.

Kind friends again hospitably entertained us for a couple of days and then we continued our journey to Malacca by the Remban road, a distance of 60 miles. An excellent surface and shady road greeted us, and we passed through well-grown rubber plantations and finely wooded hills. We drove leisurely as it was so cool and pleasant, and reached Tampin (33 miles) by 12.30 pm.

After a pleasant little tiffin with the District Officer Mr Flemming, we continued at 3 pm and crossed the boundary into Malacca territory. The road became execrable as far as Alor Gajah and turned into a series of mud holes. On nearing Malacca, there was a distinct improvement and we were able to quicken the pace a bit. We drove all the way to Tanjong Kling by the excellent coast road, before staying a week with the Resident Councillor and his wife. Meanwhile, Ichiban was sent by train to Port Swettenham and shipped from there in the steamer Selangor.

We boarded the Selangor in Malacca and reached Singapore on 13 May, after a most enjoyable trip of 686 miles.

References

Death of Mrs. G.P. Owen. (1927, January 29). The Straits Times, p. 9. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Ladies motoring in the Malay Peninsula (1907, May 9) The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, p. 6. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Ladies motoring in the Malay Peninsula. (1907, May 11). The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, p. 12. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Makepeace, W., Brooke, G.E., & Braddell, R.S.J. (Eds.). (1991). One hundred years of Singapore (Vol. 2, p. 364). Singapore: Oxford University Press. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 ONE-[HIS])

Monday, April 8, 1907. (1907, April 8). The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, p. 232. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Motoring in Malaya: Adventurous trip of two ladies in F.M.S. (1907, June 18). The Straits Times, p. 11. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Motoring in Malaya: Adventurous trip of two ladies in F.M.S. (1907, June 19). The Straits Times, p. 11. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Motoring in Malaya: Adventurous trip of two ladies in F.M.S. (1907, June 20). The Straits Times, p. 11. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

The late Mr. George Mildmay Dare. (1907, December 16). The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, p. 5. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Along with the introduction of running water and electricity at the turn of the 20th century were advertisements featuring modern home appliances. Georgina Wong has the story.

Modern utilities and amenities revolutionised home life across the world in the early 20th century, and Singapore was no exception. What it really boiled down to was the introduction of gas, electricity and running water to households. In their wake, a vast array of appliances that made use of these modern utilities soon appeared on the market, radically changing the way people cooked, cleaned and entertained themselves at home.

Singapore’s march to modernity from the 19th century onwards was not without its complications. This was primarily due to the vastly differing living circumstances and situations of the population at the time. Most European expatriates – who lived in the city centre and its environs in “modern” homes made of brick – were generally the first to receive new amenities such as sanitation and electricity. The majority of the Asian population, on the other hand, were either living in attap houses in kampongs (villages) on the outskirts of town and beyond or crammed into tenement shophouses well into the 1960s. Unfortunately, the physical construction of these dwellings did not facilitate access to modern amenities.

A major factor in the modernisation of the home was the introduction of running water and proper sewerage. Prior to 1910, the use of night-soil buckets was the primary means of waste disposal, the term “night-soil” being a polite term for human excreta. Residents would pay night-soil collectors to remove their human waste from outhouses – literally a shed outside the main dwelling – for use as fertiliser in gardens and plantations. The implementation of islandwide sanitation was a massive infrastructural project, and it was not until 1987 that the night-soil system was finally phased out.¹

Kampong folks making the move to high-rise living in HDB flats in 1963. These village dwellers did not have access to modern amenities until they relocated to public housing. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Running water was another issue that took many decades to resolve. While wealthier households in the town centre had access to piped water by the mid-1800s, some villages were still drawing water from communal pumps and wells as recently as the 1950s.²

Naturally, in those early days, modern home appliances like electric washing machines were targeted at those who had access to running water and electricity. Until the 1950s and 60s, when more residents had been relocated to public housing that could support a full range of utilities, only a handful of dealerships importing home appliances existed.

By the 1920s, some households in Singapore had begun to use gas as a primary fuel source for cooking and for heating water. Ads for gas, such as this one by the City Gas Department in 1953, were placed in cookbooks, among other publications, specifically targetting homemakers. Image reproduced from Allix, P. (1953). Menus for Malaya (p. 80). Singapore, Malaya Publishing House.
(Call no.: RCLOS 642.1 ALL)

Gas and Electricity 

Before the advent of gas and electricity in Singapore, the energy source for municipal and household uses, such as street lighting and cooking, came from the burning of oil, coal and wood. In 1862, Singapore Gas Company opened Kallang Gasworks, the first plant dedicated to manufacturing gas for street lighting.³ In 1901, gas production was taken over by the Municipal Commission and expanded for home use.⁴

Electricity followed soon after: in 1906, Raffles Place, North Bridge Road and Boat Quay became the first streets to be lit by electric lighting.⁵ Electrical supply was made available for private use soon after, albeit only to households that could support and afford the installation of wiring systems.

As a result, home gas and electricity became commonly advertised in newspapers, books and magazines, with the messaging revolving around their economic benefits, reliability, safety and convenience. Through the medium of print advertisements, the municipal gas and electricity departments took pains to assure customers that the energy saved in the long run would be worth the relatively large start-up cost of installing gas pipes and electrical wiring in their homes.

Modern Home Gadgets and Appliances 

The introduction of electricity in the home fuelled demand and created a consumer market for household goods and entertainment, resulting in a flood of new inventions from the United States, Europe and, later, Japan. Besides home staples such as electric lights, appliances such as refrigerators, blenders, electric irons, ceiling fans and vacuum cleaners were also heavily advertised in the early 20th century.

In general, the advertising of household goods in Malaya was undertaken by local dealerships as well as the department stores that imported them. However, major brands such as General Electric Company, Morphy-Richards and National also placed advertisements for their own products, as they had the means to run extensive advertising campaigns to ­promote their goods in what had become a fairly competitive market for household products.

Initially, only the more affluent had the means to purchase modern household appliances. For example, an electric iron advertised in The Straits Times in 1947 cost 11.50 Straits dollars,⁶ which was equivalent to almost two months of a factory worker’s wages at the time.⁷ By the 1950s and 60s, however, such appliances had become much more affordable to middle-class households.

Home goods were often touted as essential to the “modern home”. The “ideal household” was a concept that had existed long before the introduction of electrical home gadgets but thanks to a slew of advertisements in the early decades of the 1900s, it soon came to mean a home that was fully equipped with modern conveniences such as a washing machine, gas stove, refrigerator, electric lighting, fans and even air-conditioners. Smaller appliances like electric irons and hair dryers were marketed as practical gifts to buy for friends and loved ones to help make their lives a little easier.

(Left) A 1952 ad by Osram depicting the warm and cosy home atmosphere that its lamps promised to create. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1952, p. 8.
(Right) Ads such as this one for Morphy-Richards appliances in 1953 were mostly found in newspapers and magazines read by the more well-to-do. The “modern” way of life was cast as an aspirational ideal.
Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1953, p. 14.

Home Entertainment

One of the most exciting introductions to households in the mid-20th century was home entertainment in the form of radio, television and the gramophone. These innovations grew to become household staples in Singapore, creating an entirely new way for families to spend their leisure time. One could enjoy vinyl recordings of popular and classical music, radio and television shows and dramas, daily news from around the world as well as sports and racing commentaries and broadcasts – all from the comfort of one’s home. Radio and television would eventually grow to dominate media and communication around the world, with advertisers quickly adopting these new media to sell their goods and services.

This 1940 General Electric advertisement emphasises the suitability of its radios for the tropics through its depiction of a “Malayan” scene. People initially feared that radios made in the West could not withstand Singapore’s hot and humid weather. The illustration was executed by Warin Advertising Studios in its signature painterly style. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1940, p. 98.

On the Radio

Radio broadcasting in Singapore began as a niche interest in 1924, with the Amateur Wireless Society of Malaysia (AWSM) effectively the preserve of the wealthy wireless enthusiast.⁸ This was soon followed by the establishment of Radio Service Company of Malaya in 1933, which set up Radio ZHI and British Malaya Broadcasting Corporation in 1935.⁹ By the 1930s, radios in Singapore could receive shortwave broadcasts from around the world, such as the Empire Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation (now the BBC World Service).¹⁰

However, local demand for radios was slow on the uptake: in 1929, the Federated Malay States government received applications for only 119 radio licences, compared with the 1,000 issued in Hong Kong the same year. This was largely due to misguided public opinion on the reliability of radio reception and the longevity of radio mechanisms in the tropics. It was commonly thought that radio parts would easily rust and warp in the humid Malayan weather, and that the lack of radio engineers or technicians in the region meant that there might be no real hope of repair.¹¹ As a result, advertisers throughout the early 20th century went out of their way to assure customers that their radio models had been specially made to withstand the tropical climate.

Unsurprisingly, the growth of the industry was driven mainly by the providers of radio services and products, who stoked demand via advertising. The founders of the early broadcasting groups, such as AWSM, were representatives of companies with a vested interest in developing a radio audience, such as General Electric and Marconi’s Wireless Telegraph Company.¹²

As demand for radio sets increased and prices became more affordable, dealers began importing the latest models from various brands. To distinguish themselves from the competition, advertisers would boast of the reliability and reception quality of their products, and assure buyers that they were purchasing the best and latest technology available in the market.

(Left) Transistor radios, such as the one featured in this Philips ad in 1966, made their debut in Singapore in the mid-1950s and became highly popular in the following decades after portable battery-powered versions were introduced.
Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1966, p. 12.
(Right) A 1966 Mitsubishi ad for a “micro TV”. Image reproduced from Her World, January 1966, p. 9.

Turn on the Telly

The first television station in Singapore, Television Singapura, aired the first broadcast on 15 February 1963, which ran for five hours. It featured the national anthem, an address by then Minister for Culture S. Rajaratnam, followed by a documentary programme on Singapore, cartoon clips, a newsreel, a comedy programme and a variety show.

Singapore households readily embraced television – the first broadcast was watched at home by 2,400 families as well as by members of the public gathered at Victoria Memorial Hall and 52 community viewing centres spread across the island.¹³

Some of the earliest programmes aired in Singapore were Huckleberry Hound, Adventures of Charlie Chan and local variety shows like Rampaian Malaysia, which featured music from various local ethnic groups.¹⁴

Advertisements for television sets not only emphasised their high-quality picture and sound reception, but also promoted the idea that with their “luxury styling” and “cabinet construction”, these new entertainment devices would double up as attractive furnishings for one’s living room.

WHO RUNS THE HOUSEHOLD? In the 1950s and 60s, Singaporean women began entering the workforce, but were still expected to undertake housekeeping and child-rearing duties. Women did shift work or less demanding jobs in factories so that they would be able to take care of the family after work hours. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore. From the early 20th century onwards, many advertisers of household- and domestic-related goods in Malaya began to target women as their main audience.15 An overwhelming number of advertisements featured women – and very rarely men – as the main consumers and users of home technology. The prevalence of such advertisements – unprecedented before the advent of pictorial advertising.16 – reflected as well as influenced public perception of women’s roles in society: the fairer sex was often depicted as belonging in the domestic sphere, and responsible for caregiving and house-hold management.17 Advertisements published in Singapore during this time mostly portrayed women – of various ethnicities and economic backgrounds – posing with household goods while looking glamorous alongside high-end appliances, or else engaged in domestic chores such as cooking, sewing or doing laundry. A rare household ad targeted at men in 1969 promoted Singer sewing machines as good gifts for their wives.18 Singer put out many creative and visually interesting ad campaigns targetted at women, as evident in this 1961 ad. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1961, p. xi. By the 1950s and 60s, women in Singapore began entering the workforce in fairly large numbers, but were generally still expected to undertake housekeeping and child-rearing as their primary tasks. This doubling up of duties, among other reasons, relegated many women to shift work and other relatively less demanding lower-paying jobs, such as factory or secretarial work, so that they would have the time to take care of the home after work hours.19 With this in mind, most household appliance advertising focused on making women’s lives easier. Advertisements stressed how the cost of purchasing modern household products would be more than amply justified by the reduced time and effort spent doing housework and, in the process, reward the busy woman with a more stress-free and simple life. More importantly, advertisers tried to mould public attitudes to suit household consumerism, for instance, by imbuing housework with notions of idealism and romanticism. Advertisements sometimes implied that the work performed by a woman around the house was not done out of necessity but more as a labour of love, and that the care she put into it was an indication of her love for her husband and children. Purchasing household appliances that allowed housework to be done better and faster was therefore an investment of care in the family, a symbol of a woman’s dedication to her primary role as wife and mother.20 This 1956 ad by The East Asiatic Co. depicts a “glamorous housewife” alongside a Kelvinator refrigerator. Many ads at the time featured impeccably dressed women with nary a hair out of place, even while in the midst of doing household chores. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1956, p. xx.

Notes

Ronnie Tan and Goh Yu Mei recount the story of a ruthless Malayan Communist Party cadre whose cold-blooded murders caused a sensation in Singapore in the 1950s.

Wong Fook Kwang, who went by several aliases, including Tit Fung (literally “Iron Spearhead” in Cantonese)¹ was the dreaded Commander of ‘E’ Branch, the assassination wing of the Malayan Communist Party (MCP). The MCP was most active during the Japanese Occupation years when it formed the Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army (MPAJA) to fight the enemy, and again in the aftermath of World War II, in the thick of the Malayan Emergency (1948–60), when it waged a guerilla war against the British in a bid to topple the colonial government and set up a communist regime.

Sometime in April 1951, Wong received a terse message from the MCP’s South Malayan Bureau’s jungle headquarters in Johor, Malaya.² The order was clear: Lim Teck Kin, a 62-year-old “rich but kind and highly respected towkay” and pineapple magnate, must die.³ Lim was marked for assassination because he was, in the eyes of the communists, a “reactionary capitalist” employing hundreds of workers. He was therefore deemed as “an oppressor of the masses”.⁴

A mug shot profile of Wong Fook Kwang at the time of his first arrest on 11 June 1952. Image reproduced from Clague, P. (1980). Iron Spearhead: The True Story of a Communist Killer Squad in Singapore (n.p.). Singapore: Heinemann Educational Books (Asia) Ltd.
(Call no.: RSING 335.43095957 CLA)

To carry out the killing, Wong ordered his henchman Yang Ah Lee⁵ to keep Lim under close surveillance for a week. Once the two men had established Lim’s daily routine, they put their plan into action.

Shortly after 8 am on 21 May 1951, two masked assailants intercepted Lim’s chauffeur-driven car just as it was about to leave the driveway of his house and turn onto East Coast Road. The Malay chauffeur Sairi was held at gun-point by one of the assailants, while the other fired two shots at his employer in quick succession. The deed done, the assailants walked away calmly to a waiting taxi driven by a fellow communist.

After the assailants had fled, Sairi immediately reversed the car into the driveway and raised the alarm. While one of Lim’s daughters frantically called the police, another instructed Sairi to drive her wounded father to the hospital. Lim, however, succumbed to his injuries along the way. Before losing consciousness, Lim’s last words to his chauffeur were “Apa macam?”⁶ or “What’s happening?” in Malay.⁷

Apart from masterminding Lim’s killing, Wong also instigated the murder and attempted murder of several others, including a student and even one of his comrades. Unlike in Malaya where MCP fighters could conduct open warfare from their jungle hideouts, the communists here, given that “every approach to Singapore was well-guarded”, sought to overthrow British rule “by means of subversion and terror” in order “to bring about social and industrial disruption”.⁸

The methods employed to achieve this included intimidation, arson attacks and murder. Wong, as the Commander of ‘E’ Branch, was tasked to carry out the killings. It was clear that he was nicknamed “Iron Spearhead” because of his cold-hearted and steely nature.

Chief Executioner of the MCP in Singapore

The gun that was used to kill Lim Teck Kin as well as in the attempted murder of a 14-year-old schoolboy. Image reproduced from Clague, P. (1980). Iron Spearhead: The True Story of a Communist Killer Squad in Singapore (p. 6). Singapore: Heinemann Educational Books (Asia) Ltd. (Call no.: RSING 335.43095957 CLA)

Little is known about Wong’s early years, except that he was born in China around 1926 and left for Singapore with his parents while still as an infant. When the Japanese invaded Singapore and Malaya during World War II, one of the first things they did was to extract revenge by singling out the Chinese for persecution, knowing that the latter had provided financial and material support for China’s war efforts against Japan. The oppressive rule of the Japanese during the Occupation years between 1942 and 1945 was exploited to the hilt by the MCP “who in the guise of patriots, enticed several thousands of young Chinese, including women, to join the MPAJA”.⁹ Wong was one of their most ardent recruits.

As an MPAJA member, Wong’s role was to “eradicate evils and kill traitors”.¹⁰ He was also believed to have planned the assassination of several senior Japanese officials as well as those suspected of colluding with the enemy. Wong was held in high esteem by his superiors in the MPAJA and quickly moved up the ranks. When the Emergency was declared in Malaya and Singapore in 1948, Wong, then barely 23 years old, was appointed as the MCP’s Commander of ‘E’ Branch after his predecessor left for Malaya to command a fighting unit.

The appointment obviously suited Wong to a T, for he was described as “a formidable character: ambitious, dedicated and ruthless”. He not only had a tight grip on the unit’s finances, his word too was law, for in meetings he was “always in the chair, directing and giving orders”.¹¹ It was at one of those meetings that businessman Lim Teck Kin’s fate was sealed as well as that other victims – including the failed attempt on the life of a 14-year-old student.

The car in which pineapple tycoon Lim Teck Kin was killed. Image reproduced from Clague, P. (1980). Iron Spearhead: The True Story of a Communist Killer Squad in Singapore (p. 23). Singapore: Heinemann Educational Books (Asia) Ltd.
(Call no.: RSING 335.43095957 CLA)

How to Murder a Teen

Upon receiving instructions from the MCP’s South Malayan Bureau’s headquarters to take out an unnamed 14-year-old male student – who was suspected to have provided leads to the police about an acid attack on a teacher – Wong took a personal interest in planning the murder. The heinous attack on the teacher was believed to have been carried out by his own pupils.¹² Just as he had planned the earlier murder of Lim Teck Kin, Wong monitored the student’s movements and ambushed the teen while he was cycling home after a game.

On 2 October 1951, the plan was put into action. With Wong watching expectantly from behind an inconspicuous doorway, two of his assailants, one of whom acted as a look-out, waited for the student to cycle past River Valley Road. However, unlike other days, this time the boy was not alone. He had met a friend earlier and decided to dismount his bicycle and walk with his friend along the pavement while pushing his bicycle.

At the junction of Teck Guan Road and River Valley Road, one of Wong’s accomplices suddenly emerged from his hiding place and took the boys by surprise. Pulling out his gun, he fired six shots at the intended victim at point blank. Miraculously, the bullets missed their target and the boy managed to make a run for it. Incredibly, there were no passers-by nor motorists to witness the attempted murder along the busy road, so even the police were not notified immediately. By the time the boy managed to compose himself and make a police report, a few hours had lapsed, by which time Wong and his accomplices had long made their getaway in a trishaw.

While fleeing from the scene, Wong and the gunman had a close call: the trishaw they were travelling in was stopped by a police car on routine patrol. Fortunately for the two men, the police officers had no inkling of the botched attempt to kill the boy and only did an identity card check. Had they carried out a full body search, the outcome for Wong and his accomplice would have been very different as the weapon used in the attempted murder was still in the gunman’s possession.

The skeletal remains of Siu Moh were discovered by the police in the swamplands of Serangoon in November 1954, three years after he was killed. Image reproduced from Clague, P. (1980). Iron Spearhead: The True Story of a Communist Killer Squad in Singapore (p. 149). Singapore: Heinemann Educational Books (Asia) Ltd. (Call no.: RSING 335.43095957 CLA)

How to Murder a Comrade

Even before the attempted murder of the student, Wong had ordered and planned the murder of one of his own comrades, a 30-year-old man named Siu Moh. Siu was suspected by his superior Ah Poh of embezzling $300 – money that had been extorted from various businessmen and shopkeepers. Wong concurred with Ah Poh that Siu must pay for his alleged misdeeds with his life.

Kong Lee,¹³ a member of the ‘E’ Branch Committee, however, disagreed with the plan to kill Siu and made his view known to Wong. The latter paid no heed to this and was prepared to contravene party rules, which made it clear that no one was to kill a fellow communist without the express approval of the MCP headquarters in Johor. So Wong decided to carry out his task quietly, seeing to it that Siu “would simply disappear forever”.¹⁴ To this end, both he and Ah Poh hatched a meticulous plan to kill Siu and dispose of his remains secretly. They decided that after the murder, Siu’s remains would be buried in a prawn pond in a tidal swamp at the end of Upper Serangoon Road.

On 1 September 1951, Siu was lured to a desolate hut rented from a shrimp catcher. Here, he faced a kangaroo court, with Wong acting as both accuser and judge. During the mock trial, Wong accused Siu of embezzlement, despite the latter’s denials. Wong’s co-accusers at the clandestine gathering included Ah Poh, a lady named Lim Wai Yin (alias Ah Soo) and two other unnamed accomplices. Siu’s protestations were ignored. His accusers bound him hand and foot, gagged him with a cloth, bundled him into a boat and rowed out to a site nearby where he was mercilessly hacked to death. After the deed was done, Wong “swore his followers to secrecy – on pain of death”.¹⁵

Capture and Detention

On 11 June 1952, four policemen, including a Chinese lieutenant, were in a police car patrolling the area around Bugis and Rochor roads. At 1.10 pm, they turned onto Albert Street, which was “renowned for good, inexpensive, Chinese food”,¹⁶ with the intention of conducting surprise checks at coffee shops in the area. The police officers approached a table with three Chinese men, who were so engrossed in eating and drinking that they did not notice them.

View of Albert Street. On 11 June 1952, Wong Fook Kwang and two of his cronies were at one of the coffee shops on Albert Street when they were approached by police officers. Wong bolted from the scene but was eventually caught and taken to Beach Road Police Station for interrogation. All rights reserved. Lee Kip Lin Collection, Lee Kip Lin and National Library Board, Singapore.

When asked to produce their identity cards, all three men refused to do so. The police lieutenant then raised his voice, to which the men reluctantly complied. Unbeknownst to the police officers, one of the men in the group was the villainous Wong Fook Kwang. An unsuspecting police corporal turned to Wong and did a body search for weapons, finding on his person instead a paper packet containing what appeared to be dried plums. Still suspicious, the corporal separated the fruit from the paper. In that instant, Wong bolted from the coffee shop and into a side street leading to Rochor Road, with the police officers hot on his heels.

At the height of the chase, a young Englishman happened to be driving along Rochor Road. On seeing a Chinese man being pursued by the police, he decided to join the chase, stepping on the accelerator to catch up with the fleeing suspect. The Englishman managed to knock Wong down with the fender of his car and got out to apprehend him until the pursuing policemen arrived. A search of the suspect’s pockets unearthed several Chinese newspaper cuttings relating to communist activities. An examination of his identity card revealed that he was Wong Fook Kwang – a name that did not mean anything to the police officers at the time.

Wong’s name did not show up on the wanted list because the police were blissfully unaware of his identity as the commander of the MCP’s assassination wing in Singapore. As author Peter Claque put it, “The police lieutenant was like a man who shoots at a noise in the jungle hoping to kill a pigeon and discovers that he has shot a tiger”.¹⁷ In the meantime, the other two men who had been with Wong had already made their escape by the time the policemen returned to the coffee shop.

Wong was taken to Beach Road Police Station where Special Branch officers were waiting to question him and examine the newspaper cuttings. True to his nature, Wong remained silent¹⁸ when he was interrogated by Special Branch officer, Superintendent John Fairbairn.¹⁹ A police search of the house located at the address listed in Wong’s identity card unearthed a cache of communist literature and documents, evidence which proved that Wong “had important communist connections and was a leader of some kind”.²⁰

On 27 June 1952, Wong was ordered to be detained under the Emergency Regulations²¹ for two years. Shortly after his arrest, Wong was visited by an elderly Chinese lady who claimed to be his mother.²² She said that Wong was her only son, and appealed to the authorities for his release but to no avail. The Special Branch came down hard on anyone deemed to have communist connections.

The day after his arrest, Wong appeared ill and a doctor confirmed that he was suffering from advanced tuberculosis and had to be moved to the prison ward at the Singapore General Hospital (SGH) for observation and treatment. When doctors assessed that Wong had recovered sufficiently, he was transferred back to Changi Prison on 16 October 1952 and placed in solitary confinement. Twelve weeks later, on 15 January 1953, Wong suffered a relapse and was sent back to the prison ward for treatment. His condition had deteriorated to the point that it was presumed his end was near. But somehow he survived.

During Wong’s second stay in hospital, the elderly woman who had earlier claimed to be his mother visited him several times. On one of her visits, she was accompanied by a man (later found to be a member of the MCP who had taken the opportunity to survey the surroundings). The information was likely used to plan Wong’s escape after MCP leaders had sanctioned it.²³

On 4 March 1953, between 2 and 4 pm, the elderly woman again visited Wong at the prison ward. She also brought him a parcel of food. The parcel was thoroughly examined by a senior guard on duty before she was allowed entry. After being let through, Wong’s “mother” spoke to him in hushed tones – likely informing him of the impending attempt to help him escape.

Wong Fook Kwang escaped from the prison ward of the Singapore General Hospital on 4 March 1953. He was on the run for more than a year before he was captured. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The Brazen Escape

A severe thunderstorm raged that night. At 9.30 pm, the nurse on duty visited the 12 patients in the prison ward and noticed that Wong was in bed but awake. Shortly after, the duty police corporal switched off the lights and the nurse’s assistant went round the ward to place the last dose of medication for the day on the patients’ bedside tables. When the assistant reached Wong’s empty bed, he assumed that Wong had gone to the bathroom, so he put the medicine on the table and moved on.

Unbeknownst to him, Wong had made a run for it earlier, barefooted and in his hospital pyjamas. How he had pulled off this brazen prison break “without being seen by the three constables who guarded the ward” is a mystery to this day. The 1.7-metre-tall fugitive managed to escape with the help of a man named Ah Hong, who had sawn through the wire netting that covered most of the window of his cell as well as the inch-thick iron bars, bending it outwards in the process. “While the sawing was going on, Wong hid quietly in the verandah. He had managed to slip out of his bed unnoticed.”²⁴

Following Wong Fook Kwang’s escape from the Singapore General Hospital prison ward, a bounty of $2,000 was offered for his recapture. Courtesy of ISD Heritage Centre.

The alarm was raised at 9.40 pm when a sentry doing his rounds discovered the sawn iron bar. Special Branch was immediately alerted and road blocks set up islandwide to recapture Wong. A bounty of $2,000 was offered for information leading to his recapture. Sometime close to midnight, the hacksaw used to commit the mischief was discovered nearby. The four guards were suspended for being negligent in their duty and subsequently sacked.

Wong had escaped without his identity card as it was kept in a safe by Fairbairn. Since it was not possible for Wong to move around Singapore freely without one, especially with police road blocks set up in densely populated areas, Fairbairn knew that Wong would most likely seek refuge in rural suburbs where it would be easier to hide. The search for Wong, however, turned out to be a protracted affair that took more than a year.

Fairbairn’s hunch was right; after Wong had successfully evaded the police dragnet, he found his way to Pasir Laba²⁵ in Jurong, in the western part of the island. There, for more than a year, he posed as a farmer and lived in an “attap-roofed shack, surrounded by lallang and bushes” in a low-lying, swampy area.²⁶ During his time on the run, Wong had recovered fully from tuberculosis, dosing himself on controlled drugs smuggled into Singapore by fellow communists in Johor.

Wong’s Recapture

It was in October 1953, seven months after the brazen escape in March, that Special Branch received a tip-off from underworld sources that Wong was hiding out “in a small hut in a patch of jungle on Singapore Island, about 200 yards from an unnamed village north-west of the city”.²⁷ They were also informed that Wong was protected by two armed men at all times.

The attap-roofed shack in Pasir Laba, Jurong, where Wong Fook Kwang was hiding out while on the run until his recapture on 9 July 1954. Image reproduced from Clague, P. (1980). Iron Spearhead: The True Story of a Communist Killer Squad in Singapore (p. 135). Singapore: Heinemann Educational Books (Asia) Ltd.
(Call no.: RSING 335.43095957 CLA)

It would take another nine months before Wong would be nabbed. Special Branch officers devised a meticulous plan. It initially involved gathering intelligence on the terrain and inhabitants in the area. Later, the officers discovered that there were many stray dogs in the area that were likely to bark at approaching strangers and alert Wong. It was clear that the best way to recapture Wong was to have policemen encircle the entire area surrounding the hideout.

Fairbairn also requested for Royal Air Force reconnaissance planes to fly over the area at irregular intervals to obtain aerial photographs. After carefully studying the images, Fairbairn concluded that he would need some 300 men for the job. Fortunately, he had the support of Alan Blades, Head of Special Branch, for the massive operation.

Shortly after midnight on 9 July 1954, a police convoy travelled along Jurong Road towards Pasir Laba. Soon, the entire area was completely surrounded by police officers. At 8.40 am, they barged into Wong’s shack but found that it had already been evacuated. Wong had managed to escape again!

A thorough search was made of the surroundings to flush out the fugitive. This time Wong did not get very far: he was found lying face down in the lallang, hoping that the tall grass would shield him, when a policeman nearly stepped on him. Wong did not put up a struggle, and was handcuffed and brought before Fairbairn. In Wong’s makeshift dwelling, the police found the drugs he had been using to treat his tuberculosis as well as banned communist publications. He had apparently made a full recovery by the time he was caught.

Wong Fook Kwang was recaptured at his hideout in Pasir Laba on 9 July 1954, after being on the run for more than a year. Image reproduced from Singapore Standard, 11 July 1954, p. 1.

Postscript

At Wong’s trial in November 1954, his one-time comrades, Kuan Kay Tee and Yang Ah Lee, both of whom had defected, spilled the beans on him. They revealed details of the events leading up to Siu Moh’s murder, the whereabouts of Siu’s remains as well as Wong’s role in Lim Teck Kin’s murder. Despite their testimonies against him in court, Wong was not convicted of murder due to insufficient evidence. He was sentenced to a three-month jail term for escaping from prison, in addition to another five years for possessing banned communist literature. Even so, the punishment meted out to Wong seems light given the severity of his crime. During his trial, Wong asked to be banished to China with his mother instead of a prison sentence. It would take two years before his wish was granted on 20 June 1956.

Sometime in 1953, Wong had become engaged to Lin Hui Ying (林惠英), a fellow MCP member.²⁸ Shortly after their marriage was approved by the MCP, she was arrested for her communist work.²⁹ In 1954, Lin gave birth to their daughter in prison, and upon her release in 1955, she was deported to China. She settled in Hainan island and Wong subsequently lost contact with her.

In China, Wong married another woman. Although the union resulted in the birth of a son and daughter, it did not last and the couple were divorced in 1980. Wong then began searching for Lin.³⁰ Unfortunately, by the time Wong received news of her in early 2004, she had already passed away the year before on 14 February 2003 at the age of 89. Wong died three years later in a hospital in Fuqing, in the city of Fuzhou.³¹

Notes

Thrift, hard work and resilience are qualities that can be nurtured through food. Chantal Sajan recalls the legacy of her grandaunt.

The writer’s mother Madam Devaki Nair (left) and grandaunt Madam Salachi Retnam in 1991, with some of the Indian Peranakan dishes they had prepared using recipes that were passed down through oral tradition. Pegang tangan, or touch of hand, ensured that the right quantities of ingredients were used and nothing was wasted. ­Image source: The Straits Times © Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted
with permission.

There was a time – before the invention of modern kitchen miracles such as electric blenders and KitchenAid – when Chetty Melaka¹ families in Singapore plated up a veritable cornucopia of Indian Peranakan dishes on a very tight budget, using the simplest of kitchen utensils.

There were the lesung (granite mortar, usually sold with a matching granite pestle) – the “eclectic blenders” of the era – which could pulverise, mash up and liquefy almost any ingredient known to man. With such simple but sturdy early-day “appliances”, one hardly needed the KitchenAid either. And there was no need to go to the gym too: the arduous pounding made sure one had quite a workout – to say nothing of toned arms.

Through skillful time management, the freshest produce and a system of cooking that entailed pegang ­tangan (touch of hand), the matriarchs of Chetty Melaka kitchens prepared food that hardly needed refrigeration, with their uncanny sense of pegang tangan greatly reducing wastage – from the food ­preparation stage right through to the quantity served.

A typical Indian Peranakan house in Kampung Chetti, or Chetty Village, at Jalan Gajah Berang in Malacca. The front porch of the house is called thinnai, where strangers are allowed to rest or spend the night. This tradition is not practised by other South Indians in Singapore and Malaysia. Image reproduced from Dhoraisingam, S.S. (2006). Peranakan Indians of Singapore and Melaka: Indian Babas and Nonyas – Chitty Melaka (p. 23).
Singapore. (Call no.: RSING 305.8950595 SAM).

It was anathema in our family to write down recipes. Everything was passed down through the generations by agak-agak (guesswork). If you got it wrong, you had to finish your mess yourself – and God forbid any chucking of food down the rubbish chute.

Food wastage is such a cardinal sin in Chetty Melaka kitchens that – even to this day – the matriarchs would consume the leftover food themselves rather than invoke the wrath of Annapurni, the resident kitchen deity of Chetty Melaka families, who although dress and speak like Malays, are staunch Hindus. The goddess, we were all taught even before we grew our front teeth, presides over the making of food, so every precious morsel wasted is an insult to her.

Because of this, we grew up valuing money even more – that by cleaning our plates, we were building up our store of merit by honouring the work of those who had slaved in the kitchen all day to put food on the table and also to those who worked all day to make it possible to buy the produce and the ingredients in the first place.

This deeply ingrained value would, in our later lives, hold us in good stead when we procured ingredients from the supermarket, mentally calculating how much we needed to prepare our dishes without buying in excess – so that food did not sit in the fridge and spoil.

I can still remember my grandaunt Salachi Retnam, who became my mother’s guru in everything fragrant, aromatic and downright mouth-watering relating to food after my grandmother had passed on in the 1980s.

In 1991, she was the subject of a cover story by food writer Violet Oon for her culinary magazine, The Food Paper. Ms Oon interviewed my grandaunt and my mother on the fading art of Indian Peranakan cuisine, together with photographer-turned-food writer K.F. Seetoh, who also shot a few photos for our family album.

Group photo of Indian Peranakan girls, some wearing the baju panjang, 1910–1925. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Achi Atha, as we called our grandaunt (atha is the Tamil word for “grandmother”, making no distinction between grandmother and grandaunt), was born at the turn of the century in 1903, a British subject who lived with her uncle in Katong after her parents passed on early in her life.

Achi Atha came under the care of her unmarried uncle and his sisters, and was taught the intricacies of Chetty Melaka traditions. She lived through World War I as well as the Japanese Occupation of Singapore during World War II.

According to her granddaughter (and my cousin) Madam Susheela, Achi Atha would wake up at the crack of dawn to make sure breakfast, lunch and dinner were taken care of, and then she would prepare the “kueh menu” for the day.

“Atha would gather bunga telang (butterfly pea flowers) to extract its blue dye for popular desserts like pulut inti and kueh dadah, and then she would prepare inti (grated coconut cooked with gula melaka and pandan leaves) to be used as fillings for these desserts, all of which were usually made “a la minute” when an unexpected guest dropped by,” she said.

Even in such frugal times as between the two world wars, Achi Atha always had something homemade and sweet on hand for guests. “No one was allowed to leave without a drink or a dessert,” said Madam Susheela. “That was the custom in our ancestors’ homes, which has continued in our lives until this present day.”

For Hindus, the mantra “the guest is God” – from the Sanskrit Atithi devo Bhavah – has manifested in the age-old Chetty Melaka practice of honouring any guest with warm hospitality and food and drink, even if they visit our homes unannounced.² Chetty Melaka women are known not only for their Malay-Indian dishes but also for their Straits-influenced grooming and attire. Like the Chinese Peranakan (Straits Chinese), they were resourceful in every aspect of their culture.

My grandaunts and grandmother would frequent Geylang Serai or Arab Street to buy kain lepas (sarong kebaya, which were sold in 4–5-metre lengths), and they would tie these wraps in such a way that would allow them free movement to do their housework – from squatting over a charcoal stove to climbing the jackfruit tree to slice off ripe backyard produce to even bedtime, with a change of their very diaphanous blouses that showed a plain chemise underneath. No nighties needed – why allow that extra expense?

Even their hair had to be neatly combed with scented oil to make sure not a strand was out of place. To achieve this, the matriarchs used a single thread that they held tightly around the hair starting from the crown and down to the ends of their tresses – to catch every stray, non-compliant strand. This was all neatly coiffed into a cucuk sanggul – or chignon bun.

Hairdressers and hair salons hardly did any brisk business with these tight-wadded, chignon-sporting women looking their best, even on a windy, bad-hair-day afternoon. Their shoes, which matched their kebaya outfits, were embellished with indigenous beaded designs in a recurring leitmotif.

Even when she was well into her mid-90s, when she turned up early in the morning to advise my mother on the finer points of cooking ayam buah keluak,³ my grandaunt parlayed raw produce, fowl and grains into scented rice, rich, curries and melt-in-the-mouth desserts without breaking a sweat.

An advertisement for the 4711 Eau de Cologne. Chetty Melaka women swore by this cologne which they used to treat almost every malady. Image reproduced from The Straits Times Annual, 1936, p. 11.

The perfume du jour since the early 1900s among Chetty Melaka women was none other than that must-have curio of scents, the 4711 Eau de Cologne – and my grandaunt literally bathed in it. She also swore that it fended off almost every malady known to man– from cooling the body down to curing insomnia and even the common cold. Now, how many of us can boast that our French perfume can multitask like that in the sweltering Asian heat? That tiny bottle of Eau de Cologne, conceived in 1792 in Germany, certainly punched way above its weight.

By the early 1980s, my mother had already become quite the exponent of this Indian sub-culture’s cuisine. She had learnt how to prepare curry powder – not from store-bought packets – by manually drying the raw ingredients under the sun and then getting them milled in Little India in big batches that could last for up to three months when kept in the fridge.

Coriander seeds were dried in the sun on flat baskets, which also acted as sieves to drain out excess water. So were cumin, fennel, dried chillies and fenugreek seeds. These were later combined to make curry powder for vegetable curries, meat and fish dishes.

The homemade curry powder, if done according to matriarchal dictates, never stuck to the pan when it hit the oil, as no flour or fillers were allowed. And that meant that one needed to use less of these spice mixes, as they were potent dish enhancers.

This is also where the pegang tangan approach comes in handy during the cooking process – the touch of hand that allows the cook to use the spices judiciously with no wastage; just by the touch of the hand, one can intuitively gauge how much chilli powder to add for heat, and how much curry mix to put in the ayam buah keluak so that it does not overpower the distinctive taste of the buah keluak.

It is an alchemical moment when cook, spice and ingredients are almost immersed in some sort of inexplicable kitchen Zen, on a level beyond the abilities of lesser neophytes, who can only pore over recipe books, trying to cook by rote.

For the interview with Violet Oon, in just one morning, my mother had whipped up a chicken curry, a dry-fry mutton Mysore dish, a fish stew, ikan panggang (grilled fish), stir-fried vegetables, Indian Peranakan chap chye (braised mixed vegetables), fragrant basmati rice, a range of yogurt accompaniments made with mint and pomegranates, and desserts – rich, chocolate cake and Malay-style coconut candy. My grandaunt’s disciple had truly come into her own.

Nothing goes to waste, true to the teachings of my grandaunt – as after the photo shoot, there were takeaway boxes on hand for everyone as well as another round of guests in the evening that my mother had scheduled earlier that day – to finish up every last grain of pandan-infused and cardamom- and cinnamon-enhanced basmati rice and curries.

Achi Atha passed on two years after that great repast, followed by my mother six years later. But their teachings and their culinary values have gone on to inspire every other aspect of their children’s, grandchildren’s and great-grandchildren’s lives.

The lessons in the kitchen taught us to be prudent, resourceful, hardworking and frugal, and yet to always seek a richness in our lives through well-prepared dishes made from the freshest, and not necessarily, the most expensive of ingredients.

Notes

Lim Tin Seng traces the history of nine iconic bridges spanning the Singapore River that have ties to the colonial period.

This illustration shows the locations of nine bridges along the Singapore River. Anderson Bridge is sited nearest the mouth of the river, while Kim Seng Bridge is the furthest.

The bridges erected over the Singapore River during the colonial period are more than mere structures providing safe passageway across this historic body of water. They were hailed as marvels of engineering – given the technology and building materials available at the time. More importantly, by promising conveyance to an endless stream of human life and cargo, these bridges also came to symbolise the lifeblood of transportation, commerce and social interaction in pre-independent Singapore.

Despite such lofty associations, many of these colonial bridges started out as humble wooden structures. One of the earliest that spanned the Singapore River dates back to 1823. This rickety bridge made of wood was known as Presentment Bridge, and stood at the site where Elgin Bridge is found today.¹

Stronger materials such as iron, steel and reinforced concrete, as well as more sophisticated structural bridge designs like the steel truss arch, the tied-arch and the truss girder, were not adopted until after the second half of the 19th century.² The introduction of new materials, designs and technology to Singapore was the legacy of the colonial government, who called upon foreign architects, civil engineers and builders to lend their expertise to bridge building projects on the island.

From the final decades of the 19th century until the 1950s, Singapore would witness the construction of modern iron bridges, such as the first Elgin Bridge, Ord Bridge, Read Bridge, Cavenagh Bridge and the third Coleman Bridge, as well as stronger steel or reinforced concrete bridges like Anderson Bridge, the second Elgin Bridge and the second Read Bridge.

1. Anderson Bridge 

Anderson Bridge, which connects Empress Place to Collyer Quay, is named after John Anderson, Governor of the Straits Settlements and High Commissioner for the Federated Malay States (1904–11). In 1901, a proposal was made to replace Cavenagh Bridge – which had been used since 1869 – with Anderson Bridge.

A c.1910 photograph showing Anderson Bridge and the clock tower of Victoria Memorial Hall on the left. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Cavenagh Bridge could no longer support the growing vehicular and pedestrian traffic that came with the rapid development of Singapore because its low height allowance prevented vessels from passing unencumbered beneath at high tide. After Anderson Bridge was built in 1910, Cavenagh Bridge was, fortunately, spared the wrecking ball and turned into a pedestrian bridge.

Anderson Bridge was designed by Municipal Engineer Robert Peirce and his assistant D.M. Martin. With a length of about 230 ft (70 m), the bridge has an elaborate steel truss structure comprising three steel arches spanning the length of its deck framed by a towering column at each end. Each column bears a plaque made of red granite imported from Egypt. The bridge also has two pedestrian footpaths, one on each side, and rusticated archways flanking each footpath, making a total of four archways.

The bridge was constructed by Howarth Erskine Ltd and the abutments by the Westminster Construction Company Ltd. The steelwork was fabricated in Britain, while other components such as the railings, castings, rainwater channels, gully frames and covers were produced locally at the municipal workshops on River Valley Road.

In 1987, the bridge was refurbished as part of the Singapore River masterplan and subsequently earmarked for conservation by the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA) in 2008. Today, the bridge is used by both vehicles and pedestrians. Every year since 2008, the bridge is bathed by the glare of floodlights after darkness falls as one of the landmarks in the serpentine Formula One Singapore Grand Prix.

A striking night scene of Anderson Bridge, 2009. The bridge is named after John Anderson, Governor of the Straits Settlements and High Commissioner for the Federated Malay States (1904 –11).
Courtesy of Carrie Kellenberger via flickr.

2. Cavenagh Bridge

Cavenagh Bridge is named after William Orfeur Cavenagh, the last Governor of the Straits Settlements under British India control (1859–67). Completed in 1869, it is the oldest bridge in Singapore that still exists in its original form.³ The bridge was designed by George Chancellor Collyer, Chief Engineer of the Straits Settlements, and Rowland Mason Ordish, a civil engineer based in London.

A 1900s postcard of Cavenagh Bridge, with a view of the government quarter. Completed in 1869, it is the oldest bridge in Singapore that still exists in its original form today. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Ordish was responsible for the design of several notable projects in London, including Joseph Paxton’s Crystal Palace (1851) and the dome-shaped roof of Albert Hall (1871). He was also a prolific bridge builder, having designed the Franz-Josef Bridge in Prague (1868) and the Albert Bridge in London (1873). In 1858, Ordish patented a bridge construction method called Ordish’s straight-chain suspension bridge, which comprised a rigid girder suspended by inclined straight chains instead of hanging chains. This cutting-edge technology was adopted for Cavenagh Bridge, giving the bridge the design we see today.⁴

The bridge was constructed using iron to ensure that it could withstand the high tensile forces of the cables. The iron components were fabricated in Glasgow, Scotland, by P & W MacLellan, the same firm that made the cast iron for Telok Ayer Market. The components were later shipped to Singapore and assembled by Indian convict labour.

Although Cavenagh Bridge was built too low for vessels to pass beneath it during high tide, it served the local populace and business community well. In fact, it was used by both vehicles and people who traversed between the business district of Commercial Square (today’s Raffles Place) at the south bank of Singapore River and the administrative district in the north. By the time Anderson Bridge was opened in 1910, Cavenagh Bridge had served its purpose and was converted into a pedestrians-only footbridge.

Around 30 years ago, Cavenagh Bridge underwent a five-month refurbishment at a cost $1.2 million to preserve and strengthen its structure. It reopened on 3 July 1987.

3. Elgin Bridge

A view of Presentment Bridge in the 1830s. Built in 1823, this was one of the earliest bridges that spanned the Singapore River. It was replaced in 1844 with Thomson Bridge. In the background is Government Hill (present-day Fort Canning Hill). Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore,
National Heritage Board.

As mentioned earlier, Presentment Bridge was one of the first bridges erected by the colonial government over the Singapore River. Built in 1823 by Philip Jackson, the Assistant Engineer and Surveyor of Public Lands, to link the northern and southern banks of the river, the wooden bridge sat on timber piles. It was 240 ft (73 m) long and 18 ft (5.5 m) wide, and had an arch in the middle that could be drawn to allow vessels to pass beneath.⁵

After numerous repairs undertaken between 1827 and 1842, Presentment Bridge was demolished and replaced by another wooden bridge in 1844 called Thomson Bridge. It was named after its architect John Turnbull Thomson, who was then Government Surveyor of the Straits Settlements. Like its predecessor, the bridge also underwent several rounds of repairs before it was dismantled and replaced with Elgin Bridge in 1862.

The bridge that we see today is, in fact, not the first but the second Elgin Bridge. It is named after the 8th Earl of Elgin, Lord James Bruce, also the Governor General of India (1862–63), and connects North Bridge Road with South Bridge Road. The first Elgin Bridge was built in 1862 by engineer George Lyon to replace the aforementioned Thomson Bridge.

When completed, the first Elgin Bridge, like the bridges before it, served as an important transportation conduit between the north and south banks of the Singapore River. In 1886, the bridge was widened and strengthened to accommodate growing traffic as well as a tramway line. By the 1920s, traffic using the bridge had become so heavy that a decision was made in 1925 to replace it with an even wider one that could accommodate two 25-ft (7.5 m) carriageways and a “five-foot way” (as pavements or walkways were referred to in the colonial period) on each side.

The new structure, which would become the Elgin Bridge we see today, was completed in 1929. It was designed by Municipal Bridge Engineer T.C. Hood and features three elegant arches supported by slender hanging columns. The concrete-encased steel framework was fabricated in Glasgow and assembled locally. On both ends of the bridge are cast-iron lamp posts and roundels of the Singapura lion designed by Italian sculptor Cavalieri Rodolfo Nolli. These embellishments were salvaged from the first Elgin Bridge.

(Left) View of North Boat Quay with the first Elgin Bridge across the Singapore River, c. 1910. Docked on the river are twakow or tongkang (bumboats) that used to transport goods. The clock tower of Victoria Memorial Hall stands in the left background. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) The second and current Elgin Bridge, 2016. The bridge stands on the site of one of the first bridges built across the Singapore River called Presentment Bridge. Elgin Bridge is named after the 8th Earl of Elgin, Lord James Bruce, also the Governor-General of India (1862–63). Courtesy of National Heritage Board.

In 1989, Elgin Bridge was repaired and strengthened as part of the masterplan to liven up the Singapore River. Two pedestrian underpasses were added in 1992. On 3 December 2009, the bridge was given conservation status by the URA.

4. Coleman Bridge

View of Coleman Bridge leading to New Bridge Road, c. 1950. This is the third Coleman Bridge – named after the city’s first Superintendent of Public Works George D. Coleman – before it was replaced by the fourth
(and current) bridge in 1990. Courtesy of
National Archives of Singapore.

Coleman Bridge, which links Hill Street and New Bridge Road, was named after its brainchild, George D. Coleman, Singapore’s first Government Superintendent of Public Works (1833–44). History, however, records four Coleman bridges in all.

The first was conceived as early as 1833 as an iron suspension bridge to provide a second passageway – in addition to Presentment Bridge – across the Singapore River. But when the bridge was erected in 1840, the builders again used wood instead of iron. The 20-ft-wide (6 m) bridge was made of wood harvested from the damar laut tree, a material considered to be “of the very best description of timber”.⁶

Although this first Coleman Bridge was deemed a “perfect [work] of a permanent and substantial order”, it soon succumbed to wear and tear.⁷ In 1864, it was torn down and replaced with the second Coleman Bridge. Completed in 1865, the second bridge was designed to be “stronger and more serviceable” than the first.

However, once again, due to budget constraints, a wooden rather than steel structure was erected, much to the chagrin of the public.⁸ The bridge was also poorly constructed, and on the eve of its opening, it was reported that several parts of the bridge were already “improperly fastened” and its piles “eaten by sea worms”.⁹ The bridge was closed in 1883 and replaced three years later in 1886 by the third Coleman Bridge.

To rectify the shortcomings of its predecessors, the third reincarnation of the bridge was constructed using iron. The entire length of the deck was held up by a continuous girder with a curved lower flange that spanned 76 ft (23 m) at the centre and 38 ft (11.5 m) at both ends. It featured a pedestrian walkway on each side as well as three lanes to accommodate the ever increasing traffic between the northern and southern parts of town. The bridge was adorned with ornamental cast-iron lamp posts and intricate iron balustrades bearing Victorian motifs.

The bridge was built to last, and so it did for a full 100 years before it was replaced by the fourth and current Coleman Bridge. Constructed in phases between 1986 and 1990 as part of the New Bridge Road Widening Scheme, the new twin-bridge hosts a four-lane carriageway on each of its decks as well as pavements and underpasses for pedestrians. To preserve the history and heritage of the bridge, elements from the third Coleman Bridge, including the arched support, cast-iron lamp posts and iron balustrades, were retained.

5. Read Bridge

Read Bridge was built to link Clarke Quay and Hong Lim Quay, and the one standing today is not the original but the second Read Bridge. Before the first Read Bridge was constructed in 1889, Merchant Bridge occupied the same location – named after the merchant warehouses that once lined both ends of the bridge. The wooden structure, which was completed in 1869, was also referred to as Tan Tock Seng Bridge, after the prominent Chinese merchant and philanthropist, Tan Tock Seng, who owned several shophouses nearby. In 1886, the municipality decided to replace Merchant Bridge with the first Read Bridge after the former was found to be “in a shaky condition”.¹⁰

The first Read Bridge was an iron girder bridge, with two 77-ft (23 m) spans and a concrete pier in the middle to support the structure. Construction of the bridge began in 1887, and its first cylinder was laid by William Henry Macleod Read, the Scottish merchant and public figure after whom the bridge was named. Although the bridge served the mercantile community well, it turned out to be too low for heavily laden twakow (lighter boats) to pass under during high tide, and had to be replaced eventually.

(Left) The first Read Bridge was completed in 1889. It had two spans supported by a concrete pier in the middle, as seen in this 1904 photograph.
Lim Kheng Chye Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
(Right) The second and current Read Bridge, 2016. It replaced the first Read Bridge in 1931, which in turn had replaced Merchant Bridge, or Tan Tock Seng Bridge, in 1889. Read Bridge is named after the Scottish merchant and public figure, William Henry Macleod Read. Courtesy of National Heritage Board.

Completed in 1931, the second Read Bridge was a steel box girder bridge designed by Municipal Engineer K.G.M. Fraser. It was a utilitarian structure simply adorned with only four ornamental street lamps.¹¹ The initial design, however, by Municipal Bridge Engineer T.C. Hood, was envisaged as a tied-arch structure with a towering 120-ft-high (36.5 m) arch similar to that of the current Elgin Bridge. But due to insufficient funds, this design was abandoned.

The steelwork of the second Read Bridge was manufactured by the British firm Motherwell Bridge and Engineering, but as the material became exposed to the harsh tropical climate, it began to corrode not long after its completion. By the end of the decade, the bridge was reported to have suffered “exceptionally heavy corrosion, despite being designed with particular care”.¹² In 1991, the bridge underwent major repairs as part of the Singapore River clean-up and was converted into a pedestrian bridge.

In the early days, Read Bridge was variously known as Malacca Bridge as it was located close to Kampong Melaka, and also Green Bridge due to the colour of its original paintwork. At the time, the area around the bridge was also a hub for the Teochew community, with Teochew labourers gathering on the bridge after work in the evenings to listen to traditional storytellers. In 2008, the bridge was conserved by the URA.

6. Ord Bridge

Ord Bridge – which links Clarke Quay and River Valley Road – was constructed in 1886 and named after Harry St George Ord, the first Governor of the Straits Settlements (1867–73). It replaced a footbridge known as Ordnance Bridge, which was built in 1865. The latter was so named because an arsenal and commissariat store was located nearby. Ordnance Bridge was also called ABC Bridge, after ABC Road, which later became Ord Road (now expunged).

Ord Bridge near Riverside Point at Clarke Quay, 2010. The bridge is named after Harry St George Ord, the first Governor of the Straits Settlements (1867–73). It replaced a footbridge known as Ordnance Bridge, which was built in 1865. Courtesy of William Cho via flickr.

Structurally, Ord Bridge is an iron bridge with distinctive X-shape girders. The 135-ft-long (41 m) and 24-ft-wide (7 m) bridge has a structure that resembles standard-gauge railway bridges as it was modelled after similar bridges in India. However, about a month after the bridge was opened, it suffered a mishap, with the weight of the structure causing the northern abutment to slip. This problem was later traced to the way in which the piers had been laid during construction; they were found standing on “tiptoe” on a slopping bedrock rather than embedded firmly into solid foundation.¹³

Ord Bridge was also known as Toddy Bridge because of the many toddy (palm liquor) shops operating in the area. The bridge has since come under URA’s conservation programme.

7. Clemenceau Bridge

A view of the second Clemenceau Bridge, 2015. It was completed in 1991 and connects the Central Expressway’s Chin Swee Tunnel with Clemenceau Avenue. Courtesy of Remember Singapore blog.

This bridge that spans the Singapore River today is the second Clemenceau Bridge at this site. It is named after Georges Benjamin Clemenceau, the French Prime Minister (1906–09 and 1917–20) who visited Singapore in 1920.

The first Clemenceau Bridge was built in 1940 by Fogden, Brisbane and Company Ltd. The original structure was 330 ft (100 m) long and 60 ft (18 m) wide, with a height clearance of 7 ft (2 m) for vessels to pass beneath during high tide. This bridge was designed by Municipal Bridge Engineer T.C. Hood. Although it was a simple looking structure, it is remembered as the first bridge in Singapore that used web guilders. The entire bridge was constructed using reinforced concrete to improve its resistance against corrosion, a problem that had plagued most of the bridges along the Singapore River at the time. The bridge was built as part of a road scheme that stretched from Clemenceau Avenue to Keppel Road, and replaced the Havelock stretch of Pulau Saigon Bridge. The latter was referred to in the early maps of Singapore town as Bridge No. 1.

The first Clemenceau Bridge stood for nearly 50 years before it was demolished in 1989 to make way for the Central Expressway (CTE). A new replacement bridge with the same name was then built in 1991. Today, the bridge, which has eight lanes instead of the previous four, connects the CTE’s Chin Swee Tunnel with Clemenceau Avenue.

8. Pulau Saigon Bridge

Pulau Saigon Bridge is named after a small island that once sat in the middle of the Singapore River between Clarke Quay and Roberston Quay, facing Magazine Road. Initially a mangrove marsh, the island was later home to a village called Kampong Saigon. After the island was enlarged in 1884, merchants began to use the island to store goods from Indochina. By the early 1900s, the island had become a rather busy place filled with warehouses and sago mills. There was reportedly even a municipal waste incinerator as well as a railway depot on the island.

In post-1890s maps of Singapore, Pulau Saigon Bridge is shown to be made up of two bridges, Bridge No. 1 and Bridge No. 2. Both bridges were built during the 1890s: the first linked Pulau Saigon to the northern bank of the Singapore River, leading to roads such as River Valley Road and Merbau Road, while the second bridge, on the other side of Pulau Saigon, linked the island to roads at the southern bank, such as Havelock Road and Magazine Road.

Pulau Saigon Bridge was originally made up of two bridges, known as Bridge No. 1 and Bridge No. 2. Built during the 1890s, the first bridge was replaced by Clemenceau Bridge in 1940, while the second was dismantled in the late 1980s to make way for the Central Expressway. This 1985 photograph shows Bridge No. 2. Ronni Pinsler Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

When the first Clemenceau Bridge was constructed in 1940, Bridge No. 1 was demolished. Bridge No. 2, which had a single arch similar to that of Anderson Bridge and Elgin Bridge, would remain standing until Pulau Saigon was reclaimed to join the mainland in the 1980s. The 141-ft-long (43 m) Pulau Saigon Bridge we see today was built in 1997. The five-lane bridge, which links Saiboo Street and Havelock Road, has a granite-finished pedestrian pavement on each side as well as a 197-ft-long (60 m) pedestrian underpass.

9. Kim Seng Bridge

Kim Seng Bridge is located at the stretch of the Singapore River just before it emerges from a small canal.¹⁴ It is named after Tan Kim Seng, a prominent merchant and philanthropist who donated 13,000 Straits dollars to the colonial government in 1857 for the construction of Singapore’s first reservoir and waterworks.

Predating the present bridge are two earlier constructions. The first was reportedly built in 1862 before it was replaced by the second bridge in 1890. The second bridge was depicted in early maps of Singapore as being part of Kim Seng Road, which runs from River Valley Road at the northern side of the Singapore River to Havelock Road in the south.

In 1953, the City Council decided to replace the second Kim Seng Bridge with the present bridge. A new bridge was needed to relieve traffic congestion as well as eliminate a dangerous horseshoe bend at the southern end of the bridge that had been the scene of many fatal accidents.

The new bridge was completed in 1955 and, at 85 ft (26 m) long and 66 ft (20 m) wide, it is twice the size of its predecessor. The bridge was built by Ewart and Company, which used pre-stressed concrete, a new building material, as well as special high tensile steel from Britain, thus allowing the bridge to hold a load of up to 2,700 pounds per sq ft (13,183 kg per sq m).

References
Barry, J. (2000). Pulau Saigon: A post-eighteenth century archaeological assemblage recovered from a former island in the Singapore River (pp. 11–13). Stamford: Rheidol Press. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 BAR-[HIS])

Bridges to the past along the Singapore River.(1986, October 5). The Straits Times, p. 1. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Buckley, C.B. (1984). An anecdotal history of old times in Singapore (Vol. 2, pp. 690, 783). Singapore: Oxford University Press. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 BUC-[HIS])

Goh, C.B. (2013). Technology and entrepôt colonialism in Singapore, 1819–1940 (p. 112). Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. (Call no.: RSING 338.064095957 GOH)

Hancock, T.H.H. (1986). Coleman’s Singapore (pp. 1–2, 66, 87). Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia: Pelanduk Publications. (Call no.: RSING 720.924 COL.H)

National Archives of Singapore. (1913). Map of Singapore showing the principal residences and places of interests [Survey map]. Retrieved from National Archives of Singapore website.

Ng, M.F.C. (2016). Singapore River walk (pp. 47–56). Singapore: National Heritage Board. (Call no.: RSING 915.95704 NG-[TRA])

Samuel, D.S. (1991). Singapore’s heritage: Through places of historical interest (p. 86). Singapore: Elixir Consultancy Service. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 SAM-[HIS])

Savage, V.R., & Yeoh, B.S.A. (2013). Singapore street names: A study of toponymics (pp. 88–89, 317, 322–324). Singapore: Marshall Cavendish Editions. (Call no.: RSING 915.9570014 SAV-[TRA])

Singapore. Municipality. (1930). Administration report of the Singapore municipality for the year 1929 (p. F–2). Singapore: Fraser & Neave, Limited. (Microfilm no.: NL3414)

Singapore River preserved. (1985, September 30). The Straits Times, p. 12. Retrieved from NewspaperSG.

Survey Department, Federated Malay States and Straits Settlements. (1893).

Tan, I. (2012). Bridges to our heritage: The significance of five historic bridges over Singapore River (pp. 50–52, 67–70). Retrieved from University of Edinburgh website.

Plan of Singapore Town Showing Topographical Detail and Municipal Numbers [Survey map]. Retrieved from National Archives of Singapore website.

Tyers, R.K. (1993). Ray Tyers’ Singapore: Then & now (pp. 7, 11–12, 26–27, 95). Singapore: Landmark Books. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 TYE-[HIS])

Wan, M.H., & Lau, J. (2009). Heritage places of Singapore (pp. 9–15). Singapore: Marshall Cavendish Editions. (Call no.: RSING 959.57 WAN-[HIS])

Notes

The city was a major pit stop for visiting entertainers and sportsmen in the early 20th century, according to the writer Paul French.

Most people are familiar with the idea of Singapore as a major transportation and shipping hub. There is no lack of historical documents that point to its role as an entrepôt that facilitated trade between the East and West for centuries past.

Less familiar, perhaps, is the notion of Singapore as a key nexus in the regional and global entertainment circuit, not only for the performing arts – dance, theatre and variety shows – but also for popular commercial sports such as boxing.

In the 1930s, Singapore was known as the mecca of boxing in Asia, with most of the bouts taking place at the Happy World amusement park in Geylang. Lim Kheng Chye Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The island-city’s role as the one-time regional centre of the thriving entertainment industry can be attributed to two factors: first, its position as a multicultural centre with a sizeable European population homesick for Western-style entertainment and sport (and which also enjoyed patronage by some local residents); and second, its geographic location which made it the ideal stopover for entertainers and sportsmen travelling from Europe and heading to China, Australia, Japan and other points east of Singapore, and, in the case of boxers, Australians especially who stopped here en route to bigger and more profitable matches in Europe.

Until now, the role of Singapore as a hub for regional entertainment and sports has not been formally documented by the academic community. Rather, these threads have begun to emerge from the work of academics who write for popular audiences. Many of these writers uncovered this phenomenon in the course of their research.

One such example is Andrew David Field’s Shanghai’s Dancing World: Cabaret Culture and Urban Politics 1919–1954 (2010), which traces the rise and fall of the dance industry in Shanghai as well as the movement of artistes between this city and Singapore. Another interesting subject is that of fashion trends in Lee Chor Lin and Chung May Kheun’s In the Mood for Cheongsam: A Social History, 1920s to the Present, which documents the movement and adaptation of the elegant form-fitting Chinese dress throughout Asia, including Singapore.¹

Ferreting through the collections of Singapore’s National Library on the subject of early 20th-century Chinese treaty port history whilst researching my books Midnight in Peking and City of Devils: A Shanghai Noir,² I was alerted to a series of intriguing leads relating to European and Australian entertainment troupes who toured the region during this period. Along with these accounts were stories of boxers from China, Thailand, the Philippines and Australia, and also further afield from London and Cairo, who made a stop in Singapore to entertain the public and earn some income at the same time.

Recent work by Singaporean writers and historians, notably Adeline Foo, on the dancehalls of Singapore’s famous (and now defunct) trio of “World” amusement parks – Happy World in Geylang, Great World along Kim Seng Road and the New World at Jalan Besar – has uncovered additional details on the links between several Chinese cities, Shanghai particularly, and the nightlife and cabaret scene in Singapore in the 1930s and 40s.³

Singapore’s role as a nexus of the entertainment and sports industry between 1920 and 1940 sheds light not only on the myriad forms of entertainment and sports that its residents were exposed to but also important aspects of the sociocultural changes that took place here during this period.

Here are three examples I came across during the course of my research at the National Library. These accounts – mainly gleaned from its newspaper archives NewspaperSG – place Singapore at the heart of the regional and global networks of the entertainment and sports industries in the early 20th century. There are plenty more of such gems, I suspect, buried in the library’s collections and archives just waiting to be discovered.

The Globe Trotters Come to Town

Florence Broadhurst, who performed under the stage name “Miss Bobby”, was among the cast of The Globe Trotters troupe that staged shows in Singapore in February 1923. She established The Florence Broadhurst Academy and Incorporated School of Arts in Shanghai in 1926, offering classes in violin, pianoforte, voice production, banjolele, dance and even journalism.
Courtesy of The Powerhouse, Sydney.

On 5 February 1923, Singapore’s Victoria Theatre played host to the glamorous Globe Trotters, a performance troupe comprising English and Australian artistes. The Globe Trotters was described in The Straits Times as “The Most Up-to-Date Musical Company Touring the East”.⁴ The troupe was in Singapore for a week, performing nightly at 9.30 pm and received rave reviews from the local press. Among the cast was a young Australian woman named ­Florence Broadhurst, who performed under the stage name “Miss Bobby”.

After her Singapore engagement, Broadhurst continued to tour Asia with The Globe Trotters for several years, with appearances across Malaya, India and the Dutch East Indies (Indonesia) as well as Hong Kong, Manila and various Chinese and Japanese cities, among other places.

Three years later, in 1926, The Globe Trotters were scheduled to appear in Shanghai, at its Town Hall in the International Settlement⁵ district. Even before the curtains were raised, the gutsy Broadhurst decided to leave the troupe there and then. After spending some time earning a living by dancing in the city’s famous cabarets, she started her own school – The Florence Broadhurst Academy and Incorporated School of Arts.

The private school initially offered classes in violin, pianoforte, voice production and the banjolele, a cross between the ukulele and the banjo, which Broadhurst had learnt to play while on tour with The Globe Trotters. Soon, the school began offering lessons in modern ballroom dancing, classical dancing, musical culture and even journalism. Broadhurst lived and ran her academy in Shanghai for a year until the bloody riots of spring 1927 erupted, sparked by the violent suppression of communists by Kuomintang forces led by General Chiang Kai-shek.

Broadhurst decided the city was getting far too dangerous for her liking and in the summer of 1927 moved again, this time to London. She would become a famous couturier in pre-war London and then, after returning to her native Australia in 1948, an accomplished water colourist, wallpaper designer and interior decorator. She founded a successful company called Florence Broadhurst Wallpapers, and her signature handcrafted brand of wallpapers was bought over by another Australian after her death in 1977.

In researching the early life of Florence Broadhurst in Shanghai, I wondered about the circumstances that brought her to this Chinese city in 1926. And this in turn led me to discover her role in The Globe Trotters and her time in Singapore.

Broadhurst originally hailed from Mungy Station, near Mount Perry in rural Queensland. She launched her show business career in 1915 when she was just 16 after winning a singing competition. The prize was a chance to sing “Abide with Me” with the legendary Australian soprano Dame Nellie Melba, whose concerts raised substantial sums of money for the Australian war effort during World War I.

Broadhurst subsequently appeared at wartime fundraisers across Australia with an entertainment troupe called the Smart Set Diggers, where she was reportedly a popular contralto. After the war, the troupe broke up and re-formed into several new troupes, including The Globe Trotters, which was managed by Australian theatre impresario and comedian Richard (Dick) Norton. He invited Broadhurst to join his troupe and in 1922 they embarked on a tour of Asia.

The first Australian entertainment troupes actually started touring Asia before World War I. Norton had successfully toured the vaudeville circuit in the Far East with the Bandmann Opera Company (more a theatrical company than strictly opera), which was made up of Australian acts but based at the Empire Theatre in Calcutta, India. Norton had returned home to lend his skills to the war effort but after the war, he realised that there was money to be made in taking variety and entertainment shows to the European colonies in Asia. And thus, The Globe Trotters and others of its kind were born.

The Globe Trotters was advertised as “The Most Up-to-Date Musical Company Touring the East”. The troupe performed at the Victoria Theatre in Singapore in February 1923. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 3 February 1923, p. 7.

The Globe Trotters left Brisbane in December 1922, sailing for Batavia (Jakarta) in the Dutch East Indies first and then on to Singapore in February 1923, where the Victoria Theatre was chosen as the venue for its performances. Advertisements taken out in The Straits Times provide us with the names of other members of The Globe Trotters – namely Leilla Forbes, J. Wallingford Tate, Charles Holt, Betty Norton and Ralph Sawyer.⁶

As troupes often gained and lost various members during their travels, it is possible to track their movement through the venues they played at and the names of the artistes mentioned in advertisements, flyers and programme booklets. We know that The Globe Trotters featured a couple of comedians, a duo of female impersonators, a pianist and Florence Broadhurst as the troupe’s main singing act. The members of the troupe were involved in a bit of everything: sketches, singing, comedy routines, Pierrot dances (based on a character in pantomime) – in short “putting over a bit of patter”, to borrow a term from showbiz, keeping audiences sufficiently entertained throughout the show.

Singapore was a major stop for visiting theatrical and entertainment troupes from Australia during the period between the two world wars. After Singapore, The Globe Trotters went on to perform in several towns across the border in Malaya, including Kuala Lumpur and Georgetown in Penang, Siam (Thailand) and India (specifically Calcutta and Bombay). The Globe Trotters continued their tour into 1924 with appearances in Hong Kong, Japan and various Chinese cities, including Tientsin (Tianjin), Peking (Beijing) and Shanghai.

Interestingly, while the reviews of The Globe Trotters in Singapore were generally favourable – with The Straits Times proclaiming Broadhurst’s singing as “delightful”, fellow cast member Leilla Forbes’ return to vaudeville as “heralded with success” and praising the troupe as giving yet “another very excellent show” – their performances did not sell out every night.⁷ The simple reason was that the post-World War I entertainment scene in Singapore and in other major cities in Asia was already saturated with touring companies from Europe, America and Australia.

These foreign troupes were competing with shows put on by newly formed touring companies based in Asian cities such as Shanghai; such troupes comprised largely of émigré Russians who had settled in China after the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. As these troupes crossed paths in cities like Singapore, entertainers often met in between shows, with many leaving one troupe to join another. This appears to have been the case with our next case study – Joe and Nellie Farren.

From Midnight Frolics to Farren’s Follies

In the 1930s and early 40s, Joe Farren would become the king of Shanghai’s nightlife scene. This was a time when the city was at the height of its fame, earning the sobriquet “Paris of the East”. Dubbed “Dapper Joe” by the local newspapers, Farren had choreographed chorus lines at several of the city’s largest and most famous cabaret venues – the Canidrome for instance in Shanghai’s French Concession and The Paramount Ballroom in the International Settlement, among others.

Shanghai’s iconic Bund area before World War II. In its heyday between the 1930s and 40s, Shanghai was a cosmopolitan city, thanks to the presence of many foreign settlements. The city earned itself the sobriquet “Paris of the East” and attracted entertainers from all over the Western world. Kennie Ting Collection.

With his wife and dance partner ­Nellie, Joe had started out in the late 1920s as an exhibition dancer demonstrating waltzes and foxtrots in a city that was in the throes of a “dance madness”.⁸ But exactly how did Joe and Nellie Farren end up in Shanghai?

My search for the story of Joe Farren led to Vienna around the time of World War I, where a young Jewish man named Josef Pollak worked as an exhibition dancer in the city’s dancehalls. In 1924, Pollak was recruited to join a troupe of European entertainers called The Midnight Frolics, which was about to leave for a tour of several Asian port cities, including Batavia as well as Kobe and Yokohama in Japan, Manila, and Chinese cities such as Tientsin, Canton (Guangzhou), Peking, Wuhan, Nanking (Nanjing) and Amoy (Xiamen).

The Midnight Frolics were, like The Globe Trotters, a motley crew of entertainers comprising tap dancers, Russian ballerinas, a mouth organist, a singing violinist, a magician and an Italian tenor. Among the recruited Frolics were two émigré Russian sisters Nellie and Eva – both trained in ballet and equally adept at performing mild comic numbers. Pollak was paired with the older sister Nellie, and they became dance partners, and later, husband and wife, anglicising their names to Joe and Nellie Farren.

In January 1928, Joe Farren began organising his own revues in Singapore with a touring American bandleader named Ralph Stone, who later, back in the United States, would include the song “A Little Street in Singapore” in his repertoire. The venue was once again the Victoria Theatre, where their names appeared in a newspaper advertisement as a “Company of Well-known Continental Revue Artists”, billing each of their two-night shows as “Nights of Gladness” and “Dancing Mad” respectively.⁹

The troupe also staged cabaret shows at the Adelphi Hotel¹⁰ – which used to stand on the corner of Coleman Street and North Bridge Road – in January and February 1928, this time calling themselves The Midnight Frolics. At the Adelphi they offered a nightly “Cabaret Dinner and Dance” for $3.50.¹¹

An advertisement for The Midnight Frolics starring Joe and Nellie Farren. The troupe performed at the Adelphi Hotel in Singapore in January and February 1928. Image reproduced from The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser, 2 February 1928, p. 1.

Old newspaper advertisements also provide clues to the evolving nature of entertainment troupes visiting Singapore. Members came and went, some of the troupes took on new names and at various points were joined by other European artistes as well as Russian émigrés and American musicians. To attract new audiences, the troupes frequently added other popular forms of entertainment to their repertoire, such as cabaret shows and tea dances.

Farren’s Follies performing in Shanghai, 1934. The revue was formed by husband and wife, Joe
and Nellie Farren. Courtesy of Vera Loewer.

In 1929, Joe and Nellie Farren moved to Shanghai, first as exhibition dancers at some of the best hotels in the International Settlement, and then, as part of their own revue. That revue was named Farren’s Follies, with both husband and wife headlining the show. In 1933, Joe returned to Singapore and the Asian entertainment circuit as an impresario with his own troupe comprising mostly Russian émigré dancers recruited in Shanghai.

Nellie Farren on stage in Shanghai, c.1933.
Courtesy of Peter Hibbard.

The National Library’s newspaper archives also reveal other, less salubrious, stories that shed light on the lives of these entertainers. In July 1928, at the end of the Midnight Frolics’ tour of Singapore, The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser reported a case brought before the Civil District Court by one Mrs Alexandra Coublistsky (trading as a milliner under the name Madame Galardi) against Mr Syed Mohamed Alsagoff for $238, being the cost of a white georgette frock, a mauve nightdress and a marocain coat.¹²

The garments had been supplied to a Miss Nellie Farren, “dancer”, on Mr Alsagoff’s account. Alsagoff, however, claimed that he had not given Miss ­Farren permission to charge her expenses to his account. The hearing was eventually adjourned with no decision taken. Nellie Farren, as we know, was the Russian dancer with the Midnight Frolics; Mrs Coublistsky, one can assume from her name, was possibly an émigré Russian settled in Singapore and running her own business; while Alsagoff was a member of a wealthy and politically influential Arab trading and property-owning family of Hadhrami ancestry.

The milliner’s claim, although incomplete and possibly alluding to liaisons of an indelicate nature, offers some insights into the interactions between visiting foreign entertainers and local residents. Whatever the reasons were, Joe and Nellie Farren decided to leave Singapore in 1928 for Shanghai to forge a new start.

Friday Night Fights

Throughout the 1930s, boxers from all over the world competed for championship belts and prize money at matches held at Asia’s grandest sporting arenas. Dubbed the “Oriental Circuit”, the fighters were frequently on tour and often fought several times a month. Purses were small but regular, although ­accusations of match rigging dogged many bouts. As with everywhere else, organised crime was never far from the boxing rings in Asia.

In the 1930s, boxers from all over the world competed for championship belts and prize money in the “Oriental Circuit” – with Singapore as one of the hubs. One of the boxers was Andre Shelaeff (right), dubbed “The Russian Hammer”, a young Russian emigre from the Chinese city of Harbin. Courtesy of Paul French.

Some of the biggest names in the sport passed through the Oriental Circuit in the 1930s – Young Alde, The Marine Ace, The Japanese Wonder, Clever Henry, the Bronze Bull, Kid Terry, the Siberian Bear, Joe Diamond, Daring Jessy, Kid Andre, Knocker Nokano, Lewko and Young Frisco, among others. But only one boxer ultimately had the guts, gumption and talent needed to make it to the top of the heap. This was Andre Shelaeff, also known as “The Russian Hammer”, a young Russian émigré boy from the Chinese city of Harbin, then known as the “Moscow of the East”.

Shelaeff was born in Harbin in 1919, his parents part of the Russian émigré community that had settled in the Chinese city following the Russian Revolution in 1917. Blessed with both good looks and talent, Shelaeff managed to carve out a successful boxing career in Shanghai, becoming the reigning welterweight champion of both China and the Orient in June 1937.

An advertising flyer publicising a series of boxing matches held at the Canidrome Gardens in Shanghai’s French Concession on 25 June 1937. The main match was between Andre Shelaeff and Billy Addis. Image reproduced from North China
Daily News,21 June 1937, p.32.

Having won that title, Shelaeff embarked on a tour of Asia to defend it – first to Manila, and then to Singapore, the regional boxing centre. Singapore was then known as the mecca of boxing in Asia, with most of the bouts taking place at Happy World in Geylang, an amusement park featuring everything from dancehalls, jazz cabarets, circus acts, Chinese opera and Malay bangsawan to roller skating rinks, fairground rides and restaurants. On weekends and on public holidays, upwards of 50,000 people would throng Happy World until the wee hours of the morning.

Shelaeff fought several times in Singapore. The archives of The Straits Times and The Singapore Free Press and Mercantile Advertiser carry advertisements for all the major fights and include important details such as the weight, height and match records of the boxers.¹³ Both newspapers employed boxing correspondents to report on the fights, with predictions of who might win before the matches took place. Needless to say, these reports were much sought after by the legions of gamblers placing wagers on the winners and losers.

These newspaper accounts reported that Happy World was regularly packed to full capacity with an audience comprising local residents and foreigners along with personnel from the Royal Navy and British Army stationed in the city.¹⁴ The biggest local boxing promoter in the 1930s was Arthur Beavis, a former British featherweight champion in the 1920s who had settled in Singapore.

Poring through the reports written by Singapore’s boxing correspondents between the 1920s and 40s, we see names of Asian boxers from all over the region, including Japan, Thailand and the Philippines, flocking to the island. Singapore was also a major stop for boxers moving between the East and West to seek their fame and fortune. In 1936, Mohamed Fahmy, an Egyptian champion, fought in Singapore as part of a Far East tour. The Cairo-born fighter subsequently left Singapore for England in search of bigger purses.

Mohamed Noor bin Bahiek, also known as Joe Diamond, was born in Mecca and periodically visited Singapore in the 1930s to fight, gaining a large following among the local Malay community.¹⁵ South London’s “round-headed and red-haired” Johnny Curly fought in Singapore in 1928 before leaving for a tour of Australia and New Zealand, and returning to Singapore in 1936.

Heading in the opposite direction in 1938 was the Melbourne-based Australian middleweight champion Al Basten, who visited Singapore en route to England for a tour. The boxing scene in Singapore was so vibrant at one time that fans regularly got to see the best fighters from Asia, the Middle East, Europe and Australia battling it out at Happy World on Friday nights.

A Hub for Trade and Entertainment

Singapore’s position as a major touring venue for both entertainment troupes and boxers between the two world wars was largely a spin-off from its role as a key nexus in the regional and global shipping routes. Just about every ship journeying between Europe and Asia, and onwards to Australia and New Zealand, passed through Singapore. This explains perhaps the preponderance of European and Australian entertainers and boxers in Singapore. Occasionally, Americans based in the region visited Singapore on regional tours, but their numbers were few and far between.

Singapore has traditionally been thought of in terms of hard trade, an entrepôt for goods passing through from East to West and vice versa. However, port cities are invariably entry points for ideas, trends and new innovations. In the inter-war period, this exchange of culture included the latest entertainment acts, dances, jazz and big band music as well as sports such as boxing.

Notes

Nadia Ramli traces the history of the Malay art scene in early Singapore through a collection of art-related ephemera, catalogues and publications at the National Library.

In April 1948, an art exhibition held at the Y.M.C.A. Singapore was reported in The Morning Tribune as “the first occasion of the Malay Artists of Singapore holding an Exhibition of Art”.¹ The event, helmed by the Singapore Malay Art Class, was organised by C. Mahat (Mahat bin Chadang),² a pioneering Malay artist who had been nurturing budding talent through his art classes since 1947.

Early Malay Art Groups

In 1949, C. Mahat and another artist, M. Salehuddin, set up the Persekutuan Pelukis Melayu Malaya (PPPM, or the Society of Malay Artists, Malaya).³ This marked the beginning of a collective effort by Malay artists to establish themselves in Singapore’s visual arts scene.

The society held its first show at the British Council Hall in February 1951, showcasing a total of 197 artworks on themes such as Malayan scenery, occupations and events. A Straits Times article, titled “Paintings of Nadra on Show”,⁴ highlighted two oil paintings that depicted Maria Hertogh, the Dutch teenager who sparked a series of racial riots⁵ in December the previous year. (Hertogh was given the name Nadra upon her conversion to Islam.)

In the 1950s, other art collectives and groups emerged, albeit mostly short-lived. In 1956, the Angkatan Pelukis Muda (Young Artists’ Movement) came into the scene, founded by a group of aspiring young artists, but it was unable to garner sufficient support and dissolved soon after.⁶ Subsequently, in January 1960, a few artists and art enthusiasts came together to form Tunas Pelukis ’60 (Budding Artists ’60), with S. Mahdar as mentor.⁷ The latter was known back then for the naturalism and realism in his art.⁸

In April 1961, the art section of Lembaga Tetap Kongres Bahasa dan Kebudayaan Melayu (LTK; Permanent Board of Congress of Malay Language and Culture) staged a major exhibition at the Victoria Memorial Hall. The exhibition featured the works of 34 Malay artists, both experienced as well as amateur artists. The souvenir publication for the event included photographs of selected works, including that of established artists such as C. Mahat, Sulaiman Haji Suhaimi, M. Salehuddin, M. Sawoot, Aman Ahmad, and younger artists like Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid, S. Mohdir, S. Mahdar and Rohani Ismail.⁹

(Left) “The Face in Meditation” (undated) by Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid, which depicts a mask-like face and contorted limbs, is reminiscent of batik with its bold colours and strong outlines. Courtesy of National Gallery Singapore.
(Right) S. Mohdir’s “Dalam” (1975), which means “deep” in Malay, depicts the unexplored depths of the world beneath the sea. This work has often been cited as an example of an early experimentation in surrealism by a Singaporean artist. Courtesy of National Gallery Singapore.

The LTK continued to promote art and cultural activities in the following years, with its festivals in 1963 and 1968 providing platforms to exhibit the works of budding artists.¹⁰ In its 1968 cultural festival souvenir publication, Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid wrote that an “exhibition of paintings such as this is one of the many ways of introducing the artist and his works to the public”.¹¹

The call for an art society for Malay artists eventually culminated in the formation of the Angkatan Pelukis Aneka Daya (APAD; Association of Artists of Various Resources) in July 1962. APAD was led by Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid, Muhammad Ali Sabran, S. Mohdir, Ahmin Haji Noh, Hamidah M. F. Suhaimi and Mustafa Yassin.¹²

The association became active in organising solo and group exhibitions, and also took part in collaborations with other cultural groups, art societies and art galleries, both in Singapore and the region. APAD continues to exhibit works by Malay artists today, making it one of the few art societies in Singapore that have survived the test of time.

Nurturing Young Talent

Before formal arts education became widely accessible to the community (the pioneering Baharuddin Vocational Institute was opened only in 1965), classes run by individual artists and art societies provided the only means of learning art outside of schools. Seeing the importance of art education and building a learning community, APAD organised outings to draw or paint as well as overseas study tours to Kelantan, Kuala Lumpur and Malacca, in addition to its series of children’s art classes and programmes aptly named TUNAS (Sprouts). These efforts created an awareness of Malay artists and their works, and also expanded their network within the local and regional art communities.¹³

In July 1964, APAD launched its formal art classes. Details of the syllabus and curriculum are found in the information booklet Kelas Lukis (Art Class). ¹⁴ Classes for beginners taught students still life and the use of pencil and charcoal, while more advanced classes included portraiture drawing as well as watercolour and oil painting. The association also conducted classes for art students sitting for their GCE O-Level art examination.

Art education also came by way of books. Two landmark publications – one published in 1949 and the other in 1960 – helped to generate interest in visual arts among the Malay community. The first is C. Mahat’s Petua Melukis (Tips on Drawing).¹⁵ Written in Jawi, Petua provides instructions on sketching and painting, with notes and diagrams for the beginner on how to draw perspectives, create shadows and depths, and sketch basic figures and animals.

The second publication is Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid’s Sa-kilas Pandang Seni Lukis dan Perkembangannya (A Glimpse of the Arts and its Development). Chapters in the book include discussions on Eastern versus Western art as well as the development of the arts among the Malay community in Singapore and the region. Advertisements that appeared in Berita Harian in 1961 and 1966 marketed it as the first Malay-language book to cover an in-depth study of the art scene in Singapore.¹⁶

Here is a glimpse of exhibition catalogues and ­collaterals – published between the 1960s and 90s – from the collection of the National Library.

Pameran Lukisan Anjuran Seksi Seni Lukis Lembaga Tetap Kongres (1961)
The souvenir publication of reportedly the largest-scale exhibition featuring Malay artists in Singapore held in April 1961. The event was organised by Lembaga Tetap Kongres Bahasa dan Kebudayaan Melayu (LTK; Permanent Board of Congress of Malay Language and Culture). The back cover features a poem by Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid titled “Suara!” (Voice!).

Contemporary ’81 (1981)
This is one of the many contemporary arts exhibitions organised by Angkatan Pelukis Aneka Daya (APAD; Association of Artists of Various Resources). The cover features a work by pioneering artist Ismail Muda (Ibrahim Bin Muda). The late artist also conducted art classes, including graphic art courses, introduced by APAD in the 1980s.

Karya Seni 25 (1988)
In celebration of the 25th anniversary of APAD, this souvenir catalogue showcases a selection of exhibited artworks and their creators. The front cover features the artwork “Searching for Peace” by Sujak Rahman. He is regarded as one of the finest batik painters in Singapore and is known for his “Mother & Child” series of artworks. Also known in Japan, Sujak won the first prize at the Hokkaido International Cultural Exchange Award (1986) and had his works exhibited in Japan from 1984 to 1988. Apart from batik, Sujak also works with other medium such as acrylic and oil.

Introspection (1991)
This is a catalogue of Sarkasi Said’s (Tzee) solo exhibition “Introspection”, held at the National Museum Art Gallery, Singapore, in 1991. As a batik painter, Tzee is well known for his works on silk that use mixed-media, acrylic and dye. The catalogue includes an introduction by art historian, T. K. Sabapathy.

Malay Artists Singapore (1995)
N. Parameswaran, the organiser and curator of this exhibition held at Galeri Petronas in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, in 1995 wrote in the introduction of the publication that it was a “reunion exhibition” of sorts for Singaporean Malay artists and provided an opportunity for them to exhibit their works outside of their usual circles.

Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid: The Man and his Art Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid (1933–2014) was a prolific and award-winning writer, poet and artist. Writing primarily in Malay, he penned hundreds of poems, short stories, essays, newspaper articles and plays in his lifetime. His series of abstract paintings, “Lalang”, were the most famous in his oeuvre. Abdul Ghani was an active member of the literary and visual arts scenes in Singapore. He was a founding member of Angkatan Pelukis Aneka Daya (APAD; Association of Artists of Various Resources) and served as its president between 1962 and 1983. He was also a member of the National Arts Council from 2000 to 2002 and the recipient of three prestigious literary awards: Anugerah Tan Seri Lanang (1998), Southeast Write Award for Malay Poetry (1998) and the Cultural Medallion (1999). The Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid Collection at the National Library comprises letters and literary manuscripts as well as publications and ephemera related to the visual and literary arts. Included in the collection are letters and notes that document Abdul Ghani’s involvement with art associations, exhibitions and various events in Singapore. Catalogued by subject matter and time period, the collection provides rich insights into the development of the Malay visual arts scene in Singapore. Portrait of Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid. All rights reserved, Eric Foo Chee Meng 1979–2001. Courtesy of National Arts Council. References National Library Board. (2014). Abdul Ghani Abdul Hamid written by Nureza Ahmad & Shah Alam bin Mohd Zaini. Retrieved from Singapore Infopedia. Syed Muhd Hafiz. (2012). Semangat APAD: The pioneering generation. In. Our pioneer artists: Malay visual art practices from post-war period (p. 7). Singapore: Angkatan Pelukis Aneka Daya. (Call no.: RSING 759.95957 OUR)

Notes

In the aftermath of the Japanese Occupation, the colonial government set up feeding centres to address malnutrition among children in Singapore. Cheryl-Ann Low has the details. 

The Japanese Occupation of Singapore (1942–45) brought about acute shor­tages in basic necessities such as food as well as disruptions to health, educational and financial services.¹ The interim British Military Administration in Singapore, set up in the wake of the Japanese surrender in September 1945, and the British civi­lian government that subsequently took over from 1 April 1946, had their work cut out for them: to rehabilitate Singapore’s economy, and figure out how to alleviate the pressing problems of overcrowding, poverty, disease and malnutrition.

One of the more pressing issues was the severe shortage of food. Rice production in Burma, Thailand and Indochina had declined drastically during the war and the export of rice to Singapore would remain significantly below pre-war figures until 1947.² The colonial government tried to address the problem by implementing various feeding schemes in Singapore, including one for children, to provide people with at least one nutritious meal a day at an affordable price and also help counter the black market, where basic staples such as food items were being sold at grossly inflated prices.³

Poring through the old files of the Social Welfare Department (SWD), we find detailed accounts of how the children’s feeding scheme began and how it laid the foundations for the Children’s Social Centres, which went beyond feeding to eventually providing care and education for children.

Free Meals for Children

To meet food shortages, the British Military Administration started a feeding scheme in November 1945, providing free meals to children in three schools – Rangoon Road School, Telok Kurau Road School and Pearl’s Hill Road School – as well as to preschool-age children at Prinsep Street Clinic and Kreta Ayer Street Clinic.⁴ The scheme was implemented by the Education Department, which had extended the provision of meals to children under the care of the clinics upon the request of the Medical Department.⁵ The programme proved to be a success and was later expanded to include more schools and clinics, such as Outram Road School, Telok Kurau Malay School, New World School and Joo Chiat Clinic.⁶

When the British civilian government returned in 1946, the clinics run by the Singapore Municipal Commission continued to provide milk for babies until they turned one but, unfortunately, did not have the funds to feed older children of preschool age. The SWD, which had experience in running various feeding programmes, initially declined taking over the feeding scheme for preschool aged children.

T.P.F. McNeice, Secretary for Social Welfare, was concerned that managing the scheme might jeopardise the progress of its existing feeding programmes. However, seeing that there was no other solution, he tentatively committed to the task in a letter to the Child Feeding Committee in September 1946, writing “… should your Committee be able to show to the satisfaction of the Government that no one else can undertake this work, and should the Government wish me to do so, I am prepared to reconsider what my Department can do.”⁷

The Children’s Social Centres sought to teach children daily living skills and good habits such as cleaning up after themselves, 1952. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

On 7 October 1946, the various powers-that-be agreed that the SWD would operate the feeding scheme for children aged two to six years old. The department also went one step further by offering to feed older children who were not attending school, although there was no scheme planned for this yet.⁸ The SWD went to work quickly, undertaking to supply a free meal a day to selected children at two existing crèches – one on Victoria Street and another on New Market Road – both of which were operated by the Child Welfare Society.⁹

The SWD’s child feeding programme was officially launched on 2 January 1947 at these two crèches even as it was preparing to open more feeding centres across the island. When a new centre on Havelock Road began operations on 7 January 1947, the feeding service at the nearby New Market Road crèche moved over. More child feeding centres soon opened in subsequent months – totalling 12 by the end of May 1947 – in areas such as Joo Chiat, Kampong Kapor, Arab Street, Prinsep Street and Beach Road.¹⁰

It should be noted that the child feeding scheme was not a mass-feeding programme for the poor, but targeted at addressing the effects of widespread malnutrition among children. As such, only undernourished children were ­eligible for the daily free meal at the child feeding centres. Singapore’s College of Medicine provided advice on nutrition and menu-planning. For example, in December 1946, Dr C.J. Oliveiro from the college sent the SWD the chemical analysis of a list of foods that were high in nutritional value and beneficial to children if included in the diet.

These food items included wild boar meat, lean beef, broad beans, kacang hijau (green beans), blue Prussian peas and Brazilian black beans. Oliveiro also gave tips on food preparation methods. The peas and beans, he advised, “must be ground to a fine meal before cooking otherwise they are indigestible. If there is difficulty in grinding… then they ought to be soaked for one night in clean water…”¹¹

Each eligible child was issued an authorisation card that also contained a record of when the child was measured, weighed or medically examined. Two volunteer doctors visited the feeding centres regularly to check on the children, and records were kept of such visits.¹² The records were carefully studied to assess the impact of the meals on the health of the children. It was reported in May 1948 that although some 60 percent of the children had gained weight, 28 percent showed no improvement and 12 percent had actually lost weight.

Concerned that the meals were not having sufficient impact, Oliveiro made several recommendations to improve the effectiveness of the feeding scheme. He acknowledged that the menu was monotonous at times and proposed removing items like ikan bilis (anchovies) as they were hard and indigestible. Suspec­ting that the food was consumed by those it was not meant for, he cautioned against allowing children to take their meals away from the feeding centres. Similarly, he reminded the SWD that the centre supervisors should advise family members not to eat the meals provided for their children.¹³

A committee appointed to review the child feeding scheme in 1950 assessed that it was no longer necessary to provide full meals for children at Children’s Social Centres. Hence, the meal was replaced with a snack consisting of a vitaminised bun, a milk drink and fresh fruit such as an apple, 1952. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Help from Volunteers

Voluntary workers were critical to the ope­rations of the feeding scheme, which was run with a minimum number of paid staff.¹⁴ In January 1947, McNeice drafted a letter for Lady Gimson, wife of then Governor of Singapore Franklin Gimson, for her to invite volunteers to assist with the work at the feeding centres. The duties included supervi­sing clerical, serving and cleaning staff; keeping simple records; taking the weight of children; and making suggestions on how to improve the centres and better meet the needs of the children.¹⁵ By late October 1947, there were more than 150 workers volunteering their services at the 20 children’s feeding centres. In reality, the commitment and contributions of the volunteers went beyond the duties listed by McNeice.

In June 1947, some of the volunteers organised a bridge and mahjong drive to raise funds to purchase materials for “handwork” (vocational lessons) at the centres. This effectively was the start of the Children’s Centre Fund. Other fund­raisers included concerts and charity shows. In another project, 17 volunteers got together once a week to sew garments for the children at the centres. Fabrics were bought using the Children’s Centre Fund, and some volunteers even carted their own sewing machines from home.¹⁶

The dedicated volunteers committed themselves to the cause and tackled the challenges head on. May Wong, a volunteer who helped to set up and run the feeding centre at Pasir Panjang, recalled the problems that she and her fellow volunteers faced when the centre was first set up, with some people even using the facilities as a public toilet! However, the volunteers did not lose hope and soldiered on until the situation improved. Wong said: “In the beginning, we had a terrible time. No matter what we did, we cleaned it up and had all the children and everything [sorted out]. The next morning we go, everything would be turned topsy turvy and sometimes they used them [the centre] as a bathroom even, as a toilet. Well, we cleaned it up, we persevered… well it was really quite difficult to get to educate them [the children] but finally we managed so that they would understand that it was for their own good, and not for ourselves, and they should not destroy things like that.”¹⁷

Girls learning how to knit at a Children’s Social Centre, 1951. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Besides feeding, the voluntary workers also engaged the children in activities. Lady McNeice, wife of the aforementioned Secretary for Social Welfare T.P.F. McNeice, was a volunteer in charge of the centre at Mount Erskine. She recalled: “Because there was no education, they [the children] had nothing to do, nothing to occupy them… But a whole batch of volunteers taught the boys carpentry, and lessons in English and Chinese; and the girls would have also lessons in Chinese and English and learned to do knitting and sewing… I felt we were helping the children who were needy.”¹⁸

Going Beyond Food

In the early days of the child feeding scheme, the SWD envisaged opening a series of centres that would go beyond feeding the children to keeping them engaged with various activities and facilities, such as hygiene classes, crèches and playgrounds. This vision was elucidated in a script dated 11 January 1946 for a radio talk given by T. Eames Hughes, Deputy Secretary for social welfare. The script further informed, with a touch of humour, that several centres were already being developed along these lines, with furniture and fittings that were custom-made according to the measurements of some “temporarily kidnapped” children!¹⁹

A carpentry lesson for older children in progress, 1962. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Other than plans to expand the functions of the centres, the SWD also widened the pool of children who were entitled to the free services. Within two months of the commencement of the child feeding scheme, it was observed that many of the eligible children were often accompanied by older siblings whose ages ranged from about eight to 14 and who were similarly undernourished.

Lady McNeice recalled that these older siblings would “look longingly at what was being done for the younger children”.²⁰ Since older children were not entitled to free meals at the centres, volunteers collected money to buy them food from Family Restaurants (see text box below). The volunteers also organised meaningful activities for the older children, such as training in carpentry, sewing, handicraft and laundry work.²¹

Baby cots and floor mats for naptime at a crèche, 1963. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

In June 1947, the Finance Committee approved the SWD’s proposal to employ full-time paid staff at selected centres so that these could be kept open throughout the day as clubs for children as well as provide older children with daily free meals – with the proviso that the number of such children not exceed 25 percent of the number of children aged between two and six.²² Thus, over time, the services at these centres were expanded to meet the nutritional, social and educational needs of older children up to 14 years of age.

The SWD noted in 1949 that this expansion was initiated and largely carried out by the centres’ volunteers. This was not the only group of people who supported the child feeding scheme. Generous private donors and organisations also chipped in by providing space for the feeding centres to expand.²³ A feeding centre at Geylang Serai, for instance, was located within one of the houses belonging to a Tungku Putra. When the possibility of expanding the feeding centre into a club for children was raised with Tungku Putra, he kindly agreed to have an extension built to accommodate additional activities and even provided the labour required to carry out the work. ²⁴

Children’s Social Centres

As the functions of the children’s fee­ding centres evolved over the years, most volunteers voted to rename the centres as Children’s Social Centres. So, from 29 October 1948, the feeding centres became officially known as Children’s Social Centres. In addition to the provision of free meals, the centres now provided educational and recreational activities, such as classes in English, Mandarin, arithmetic, knitting, sewing, wood modelling, basket-making, painting, hygiene, gardening, doll-making, book-binding, physical training and games.²⁵

Picnics, parties and cinema outings were also organised to keep the children entertained.²⁶ Much care and thought went into organising Christmas parties at the centres. The organisers sought out sponsors for treats and gifts, taught the children to put up performances and also arranged for visits by Santa Claus.²⁷ For the 1952 Christmas celebrations, C.E. MacCormack of the SWD wrote to the managing director of Rediffusion, reques­ting that his staff Jimmy Choo, who was known for his magic tricks, be given leave of absence on 11, 17 and 18 December to perform magic shows at Christmas parties held at the Children’s Social Centres. The request was granted.²⁸

Instructors were also hired to provide training in vocational subjects such as tailoring, carpentry and rattan-work.²⁹ Alongside these training programmes, the SWD organised events in the 1950s, such as the annual sale of handicrafts made by the children at the centres.³⁰ The handicrafts included woodwork, basketry, toys, knitted items and needlework.

Some centres also set up food stalls at the events, and companies such as Fraser and Neave and Cold Storage sold drinks and ice cream, pledging part of the profits to charity. Cathay, Shaw, Rex and other cinemas also chipped in by screening publicity slides of the events in their theatres. Most of these fund-raising events would take place in the final months of the year when people did their annual Christmas shopping.

A Christmas party in full swing at a Children’s Social Centre, 1955. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

In time, feeding children became less of a concern than it had been in the immediate post-war period. A committee appointed to review the child feeding scheme in 1950 assessed that it was no longer necessary to provide full meals for the children. Instead, a snack consis­ting of a vitamin-fortified bun was now dispensed together with a milk drink and fresh fruit.³¹ Education now became the focus of the Children’s Social Centres, and the SWD organised classes to train staff so that they would be better equipped to nurture the children and help develop their fullest potential. The topics included lessons in teaching and learning, planning kindergarten activities, art and craft, music, dance, identifying common children’s diseases as well as child development.³²

In the years to come, as the government opened up more primary school places for children, the Children’s Social Centres faced falling enrolments and started closing down in the 1960s. Conversely, with more women joining the workforce, the SWD began to build more crèches for preschool-age children.³³ These crèches provided childcare services to families in the lower income groups. The National Trades Union Congress took over the running of these crèches in the late 1970s.³⁴

Lady Anne Black (wearing hat), wife of then Governor of Singapore Robert Black, at the annual sale of works organised by voluntary workers of the Children’s Social Centres, 1956. The items for sale were made by children at the centres. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

A Village to Raise a Child

While the records of the SWD trace the history and development of child feeding centres and their subsequent incarnation as Children’s Social Centres, a story of humanity and generosity emerges, bringing to light different parties that contributed to the well-being of children in Singapore between the 1940s and 60s.

There were the staff of government departments as well as voluntary wor­kers who collaborated in the running and funding of the centres and crèches, property owners who allowed children’s centres to be set up on their premises, businesses that supported the sale events, philanthropists like Lee Kong Chian who paid for items sold at the sale events,³⁵ and various sponsors of gifts and treats.

As the familiar proverb goes, “it takes a village to raise a child”, these files offer a first-hand look into the “village” that helped to feed and nurture the children of Singapore in the decades following the Japanese Occupation.

Having a square meal for 35 cents at a People’s Restaurant, c. 1946. The first of such restaurants opened on 29 June 1946 to provide lunch for workers at subsidised rates. Ministry of Culture Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore. Family and People’s Restaurants Family Restaurants were one of the communal feeding schemes managed by the Social Welfare Department after the Japanese Occupation. The first Family Restaurant was opened on 18 December 1946 at Maxwell Market, serving eight-cent meals consisting of rice, potatoes, salmon, green peas, gravy and iced water or Chinese tea. By then, People’s Restaurants (another communal feeding scheme) had been in operation for half a year, charging 35 cents a meal. People’s Restaurants catered primarily to wage earners wanting a mid-day meal at a reasonable price, while Family Restaurants sought to provide healthy meals at the cheapest possible price to those of lesser means. The Social Welfare Department discontinued feeding schemes from late 1948 onwards as demand had fallen due to improved economic conditions.

Notes

A treaty that sealed Singapore’s fate, a contract for the sale of child brides, and a drawing of an iconic theatre are among the items showcased in a new book, 50 Records from History, published by the National Archives of Singapore.

A Treaty Most Unfriendly

[Left] This map of Singapore was created using information gathered during John Crawfurd’s 10-day sail around the island after the conclusion of the Treaty of Friendship and Alliance in 1824. The map was published in his 1828 book, Journal of an Embassy from the Governor-General of India to the Courts of Siam and Cochin-China. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.
[Right] This map shows how the Malay Peninsula was divided between the British and the Dutch prior to the 1824 Anglo-Dutch Treaty. Malacca, which is flagged as Dutch, would eventually come under British rule upon the conclusion of the treaty. © The British Library Board (C11074002 IOR 1/2/1 Folio No. 345).

Singapore came under the control of the British East India Company (EIC) on 2 August 1824. This was after the second Resident of Singapore, John Crawfurd, had signed a treaty with Sultan Hussein of Johor and Temenggong Abdul Rahman to officially transfer their sovereignty over the island to the British.

This 1824 Treaty of Friendship and Alliance replaced the agreement that Stamford Raffles, representing the EIC, signed with the Malay chiefs in 1819. Unlike the earlier agreement which only permitted the EIC to set up a trading post on the island, the Sultan and Temenggong now ceded “in full Sovereignty and property to the Honourable the English East India Company, their Heirs and Successors for ever, the Island of Singapore… together with the adjacent seas, straits, and islets to the extent of the ten geographical miles, from the coast of the said main island of Singapore”.

The British could sign this new agreement in part because of the Anglo-Dutch Treaty that had been inked only months earlier, on 17 March 1824, which clearly demarcated the territorial interests of the British and their Dutch rivals in Southeast Asia. Following the ratification of this treaty, the Dutch withdrew their claims to Singapore and ceded Malacca to the British. In return, they gained sovereign control over Bencoolen (Bengkulu) and other British possessions in Sumatra.

Gaining sovereignty over Singapore gave the British a free hand in determi­ning its future. In 1826, barely two years after the agreement was signed, Singapore, Penang and Malacca came to be ruled as the Straits Settlements, with English law introduced through a royal charter backed by the full authority of the British Crown. The charter provided the three territories with a proper and enforceable legal framework that would greatly facilitate growth in local commerce and trade.

However, the British held the view that Sultan Hussein and Temenggong Abdul Rahman were unsuitable partners in advancing Singapore’s further development. Under the terms of the first agreement, the three signatories – the EIC and the two Malay chiefs – shared power. However, the British felt that the authority shared with the Sultan and Temenggong were disproportionate in comparison with their contributions.

The Sultan and Temenggong were initially reluctant to sign the treaty as it would strip them of their sovereign rights over Singapore, which had been passed down from their ancestors. When they hesitated, Crawfurd held back their allowances until they agreed to sign the treaty three months later. The Malay chiefs relented as they had become dependent on the British for their monthly stipends and also needed British military protection from the Sultan of Riau who regarded Sultan Hussein as a usurper.

In exchange, the Sultan and Temenggong each received a lump sum of money, had their allowances increased, and were guaranteed due respect and personal safety in Singapore and Penang. A year after the treaty was concluded, Crawfurd sailed around Singapore to mark the anniversary of official British control over Singapore and its surrounding waters and islands. A 21-gun salute was also fired on Pulau Ubin to commemorate the event.

There were three original signed copies of the ratified 1824 treaty: one for the British India government, which is now archived with the British Library’s India Office collection, and the other two for the Sultan and Temenggong.¹ The copy belonging to the National Archives of Singapore was created in September 1841 at the request of then Governor of the Straits Settlements Samuel George Bonham.

[Left] John Crawfurd, the second Resident of Singapore (1823–26) threatened to deny Sultan Hussein Shah and Temenggong Abdul Rahman of their allowances in order to get them to sign the 1824 Treaty of Friendship and Alliance that would strip them of their rights over the island. Courtesy of National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.
[Right] The 1841 copy of the original “Record of the Treaty of Friendship and Alliance, 2 August 1824” signed between John Crawfurd, the second Resident of Singapore (1823–26) and Sultan Hussein and Temenggong Abdul Rahman. This treaty replaced the 1819 document that Raffles signed with the Malay rulers, which only permitted the British to lease a two-mile stretch of land along the northern shore and allowed them to start a trading post, or “factory”, within its confines. With this 1824 treaty, Singapore was effectively ceded to the British in its entirety. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The practice of selling child brides is not to be confused with that of the mui tsai. Mui tsai (younger sister in Cantonese) were young girls who were sold as domestic servants to rich Chinese families. Child brides (or san po tsai in Cantonese), on the other hand, who were sold to Chinese families in return for a dowry, usually ended up marrying one of the sons of the family she was bought into. Pictured here is an identification card for a mui tsai issued by the Chinese Protectorate in 1932. The reverse of the card shows the terms and conditions that employers had to agree to upon registering their mui tsai. Lee Siew Hong Collection, courtesy of the National Archives of Singapore.

Child Brides for Sale

Before the 1950s, it was common for ­impoverished Chinese parents in Singapore to sell their daughters as child brides, especially if they had too many children to feed. This relieved the parents of the expenses of raising another child, while the typically wealthy family who bought the child paid a lower dowry for the young bride-to-be and, at the same time, procured her services as a maid.²

This social practice of buying and selling young girls is documented in this contract (契约; qi yue) dated 8 September 1939. The girl in question is Tay Ai Lan (郑惜兰), a 12-year-old child bride (童养媳; tong yang xi), who was sold for a dowry of $88. The contract specifies her date of birth as the 18th day of the ninth lunar month. It also lists the names of her parents, the representative from the other family as well as the two matchmakers who witnessed the transaction.

Child brides in Singapore were known by different dialect names: the Hokkiens referred to them as sim pu kia, while the Cantonese called them san po tsai. Both can be loosely translated as “little daughter-in-law”. Despite its namesake, the practice of child marriages was more accurately described as an adoption rather than a marriage, as the young girl usually worked as a domestic servant for the family before she finally got married to her intended husband.³

A contract, like the one for Tay, may have been drawn up to legally bind both parties to the betrothal until the girl reached puberty. However, a child bride might not eventually marry her intended husband for a variety of reasons, one of which could be his objection to the marriage.⁴ Fortunately in Tay’s case, she did go on to marry the second of three sons in the family when she turned 18. It was a union of “few dramatic ups and downs”, and the couple eventually had many children and grandchildren.⁵ Tay’s contract was donated to the National Archives of Singapore by her son Tan Boon Chong in 1991.

The practice of giving up an unwanted child for financial reasons was carried out not only in Singapore but also in rural communities in Hong Kong and other parts of Southeast Asia. In Singapore, child marriages continued to be practised until the mid-20th century by “debt-ridden, gambling, opium-smoking fathers or those who needed money to fulfill filial duties like paying for medical or funeral expenses for elderly parents”, noted Koh Choo Chin, a social worker in the Social Welfare Department in 1948.⁶ She observed that superstition was also one of the reasons why parents were willing to sell their daughters as child brides. To the Chinese, a girl born in the Year of the Tiger, for example, was believed to bring bad luck to the family.

Girls could be sold as child brides even while they were still babies or between the ages of nine and mid-teens. Compared with a typical bridal dowry, child brides cost significantly less. In the 1950s, the family of a child bride in Singapore was paid around $40, while regular brides received a dowry of between $150 and $200.⁷

In those days, the practice of child marriage was often conflated with the mui tsai (“little sister” in Cantonese) system, in which young girls were sold to affluent Chinese families as domestic servants but without a pledge of marriage to a son of the family.⁸ As with child marriages, a document was drawn up between the two parties, and the girl would be transferred to the new household. All ties with her parents were cut once the purchase money was handed over.⁹

While the British colonial government attempted to prohibit the acquisition of mui tsai through the 1932 Mui Tsai Ordinance, they did not attempt to push for similar legislation for child marriages.¹⁰ This document offers a rare glimpse into this social practice in 1930s Singapore.

契约 “Indenture of Selling Daughter”, 1939. This contract was made between the family of 12-year-old Tay Ai Lan who was “sold” for a dowry of $88 to a wealthy family. Tay ended up working as a domestic servant for the family she was indentured into – as many child brides did – before she married the second son in the family when she turned 18 years old. Tan Boon Chong Collection, courtesy of the National Archives of Singapore.

The People’s Theatre

“Architectural Design Drawing of the National Theatre: Perspective View”, 1960. Alfred Wong Partnership Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

On the slopes of Fort Canning Hill, ­facing Clemenceau Avenue, once stood the iconic National Theatre, which was built to commemorate Singapore’s attainment of self-government in 1959.

At the theatre’s opening on 8 August 1963, Yang di-Pertuan Negara (Head of State) Yusof Ishak explained that the buil­ding was “dedicated to the ideal of a harmonious development of a diversity of cultures within the framework of national unity”.¹¹

This architectural drawing shows the open-air theatre with its distinctive facade featuring five vertical diamond-shaped bays. A fountain was later erected outside the theatre in 1966. While these features have been said to symbolise the five stars and crescent moon on Singapore’s state flag respectively, its architect Alfred H.K. Wong has commented otherwise.

In actual fact, the building was designed such that the brick infill facade could structurally reinforce the back wall of the stage house. Wong arrived at this design as he wanted to avoid the use of a conventional rectangular grid. While the National Theatre Trust suggested ador­ning the diamond-shaped elements with national symbols of some kind, this did not happen in the end as Wong explained: “Fortunately, no agreement came of this suggestion, as I’d much prefer to leave the brick work with its varied dark orange colour as a symbol of a material that was made out of the soil of Singapore.”¹²

The plan to build a national theatre that could provide cultural entertainment for the masses was first announced in 1959 by then Minister for Culture S. Rajaratnam. The theatre was subsequently dubbed the “People’s Theatre” as a third of its $2.2 million price tag came from public contributions. The funds were solicited through various donation drives, most notably the “a-dollar-a-brick” campaign.

Wong’s theatre design was selected through a competition. The theatre, with its open-air concept complemented by a cantilevered roof providing shelter for the overall structure, was described by the acclaimed ballerina Margot Fonteyn, who performed there in 1971, as the “perfect one for this sort of climate”.¹³ Wong would later design other prominent buildings such as Singapore Polytechnic and Marco Polo Hotel.

When the National Theatre officially opened on 8 August 1963, it was the largest theatre in Singapore with a seating capacity of 3,420. The theatre even had a revolving stage that cost $10,000 a year to maintain, although it was rarely put to use.

The National Theatre, as seen during the 1965 Malaysian Solidarity Convention. The open-plan design of the theatre had a particular quirk; it allowed non ticket-holders perched on the hill outisde the theatre to watch the events for free. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The first show performed at the theatre was the Southeast Asia Cultural Festival, and included performances by Cambodian royalty and Hong Kong film stars. Wong recalled that regional countries sent “their best” to the festival, which was touted as the “greatest show in the East”.¹⁴ He later said in an oral history interview in 2012: “I tell you, it was unforgettable. I mean, for me it was like the experience of my life because when the curtains opened – I mean – you had [a] full house, you had probably about 8,000 behind in the open air all clapping and yelling away. You know, it was tremendous. I mean – I’ve never seen an audience react to that.”¹⁵

The festival was held in the theatre even though it had yet to be completed. A canvas was put up where the roof was still unfinished – and Wong noted that “(at) night time when it’s all lit up, it was all right”.¹⁶

Over the next two decades, the National Theatre hosted various national and cultural events. These included National Day Rallies (1966–82), university convocations as well as performances by world-famous names, such as the British pop group Bee Gees and the Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet.

Popular events were sometimes “attended” by more than just ticket-holders, as the theatre’s location at the base of Fort Canning Hill allowed people to position themselves strategically on the hillside above the building to enjoy the same events for free. The theatre’s open-air design also invited complaints about noise from passing traffic, inadequate shelter from heavy rain, and the presence of rats, bats and cockroaches.

The National Theatre was demo­lished in 1986 amid concerns that the building was structurally unsafe. The government also had plans to construct an expressway nearby, which eventually became part of the Central Expressway.

Despite its demolition, the Ministry of Culture noted that the National Theatre had played an important part in nation-building by inculcating “a spirit of self-help and a sense of nationhood”. In 2000, the location of the National Theatre was declared a historic site by the National Heritage Board.¹⁷

The three historical records covered in this essay were written by Kevin Khoo, Fiona Tan and Yap Jo Lin respectively. Kevin is an oral history specialist, while Fiona and Jo Lin are archivists. All three work at the National Archives of Singapore.

Notes

Oral history is often considered as “little” – personal accounts of humble folk, as opposed to “big” or written history on serious topics. But “little” does not mean negligible or inferior, says Cheong Suk-Wai.

If you delve into the Oral History Centre (OHC)’s trove of some 4,900 interviews with Singaporeans and foreigners of diverse backgrounds, you will encounter one constant – the following disclaimer that prefaces every interview transcript: “Readers of this oral history memoir should bear in mind that it is a verbatim transcript of the spoken word and reflects the informal, conversational style that is inherent in such historical sources. Oral History Centre is not responsible for the factual accuracy of the memoir, nor for views expressed therein; these are for the reader to judge.”

This disclaimer is necessary as oral history accounts could fuel lawsuits arising from family or business feuds or, if the interviewee’s memory is foggy, suggest what is actually wrong as right. Worse still, if interviewees deliberately lie in their accounts, leading those who assume the untruth as fact down the garden path.

Alas, such a disclaimer can deter prospective users from the OHC’s collection. After all, they might wonder: “Why should one pore through a story that might be riddled with factual inaccuracies?”

For this reason, some people who plumb history for a ­living have traditionally looked askance at oral history, believing its interviewees to have less veracity, ergo, their interviews to be of less value than written history simply because the interviewees are relying on memory and therefore prone to give vent to their ­feelings and emotions in recalling incidents in the past.

Learning

Those critical and disdainful of oral history tend to view it as being little better than gossip, rumours and tall tales, which were all grist for the graffiti on the walls of ancient Rome, as British journalist Tom Standage documented in his book, Writing on the Wall: Social Media, the First 2,000 Years. Yet, as Standage noted, such brazen communications were what ultimately kept all levels of society on the same up-to-date page, thus enabling Roman society to be open, informed and thriving.¹

But while it is wise to be circumspect about the authenticity of an oral history account, it does not mean that an oral account in itself is unreliable or, worse, inferior to the written text. If it was so, then why does a witness’s oral testimony in a court of law still hold water and, indeed, sometimes become the deciding factor on whether an accused person in the dock gets to live or die?

Those who deride the value of oral testimony against written or printed accounts would do well to take a leaf from The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire Trial. This fire that took place in a garment factory broke out on 25 March 1911 in the 10-­storey Asch Building off Washington Square in New York City. It killed 146 people, most of whom were factory employees who had jumped through the building’s windows to their deaths because the factory’s escape door was locked.

The fire is considered one of the worst industrial accidents in American history. The factory’s owners were put on trial between 4 December and 27 December 1911 for manslaughter. Their lawyer Max David Steuer – who, like the factory employees, was an immigrant in America – succeeded in getting them acquitted by demolishing the credibility of the prosecution’s star witness, Kate Alterman.

Steuer did so by making Alterman, who was illiterate, repeat four times in court her account of how her friend Margaret Schwarz died in the fire. Each time Alterman retold her story, she rehashed faithfully evocative phrases such as “curtain of fire” and described a man in a panic as being “like a wildcat”. It soon dawned on the jury that the pro­secution had likely made Alterman commit to memory a written account of the fire as the prosecution believed it to be.

The trial turned on the question as to whether the factory’s owners knew that the escape door had been locked. Through his relentless cross-examination of Alterman, Steuer cast enough doubt on what she described of the fire to absolve his clients. Thus, putting down certain assertions on paper – as what the prosecution did in this case – does not in and of itself make those assertions any more verifiable and authoritative than oral testimony.²

The greater trust in textual as opposed to oral historical sources these days is even more befuddling when you consider that humankind has, for the better part of its 300,000 years on earth, used the oral tradition to pass down the roots of their tribes, their family trees, chronicles of births, deaths, wars and conquests, and how territories changed hands over time.

Writing in the magazine History Today in 1983, British sociologist and oral historian Paul Thompson³ noted that early societies that could not read or write made storytellers their “tradition-bearers”. For example, he points out that “the griots of African villages recite by heart the genealogies of landholding”, as do the Chinese of dynastic succession or community roll calls of natural as well as political disasters.⁴

Thompson further noted that even after humankind became literate, its intellectual luminaries still had great regard for oral accounts. Among them was the Greek historian Herodotus (c. 484 BC– c. 425 BC) and the French man of letters Voltaire (the pseudonym of Francois-Marie Arouet). Voltaire (1694–1778), who was as cynical as they come, wrote his biography of France’s Sun King, Louis XIV, after interviewing those who knew the monarch well. No less than Samuel Johnson (1709–84), the English mora­list and a literary lion like Voltaire, praised the latter’s collation of oral testimonies on the Sun King.

Thompson demonstrated that professional historians and top thinkers have long used oral testimonies that uphold strong, scholarly standards.

Valuing

Now, if we accept that oral testimonies are valuable, just what about them is so valuable then? Well, to begin with, such interviews offer us rich, layered perspectives of people from all walks of life that simply cannot be replicated by textual sources because the latter format is founded on structure and objectivity, not serendipity and epiphanies.

The importance of having the perspectives of oral history, however, becomes clear when, for example, you compare two accounts about the areas in Singapore that were targeted by Japanese fighter pilots in the days leading to the fall of Singapore on 15 February 1942. The interviewee in the first account who, understandably shall remain unnamed in this instance, said that the Japanese shelled the Cathay Building off Orchard Road because it was the tallest building in Singapore then.

Veteran journalist Khoo Teng Soon, however, recalled otherwise in his oral history interview: “In those days, the tallest building in Singapore was the Cathay Building. And that used to be the landmark for the Japanese. They never bombed the Cathay Building because it was a very useful building for them to know their bearings. They knew that once they flew over the Cathay Building, they were on their way to any spot they wanted to bomb.”⁵

Khoo should know. He worked in that very building for wartime Japan’s Domei (now Kyodo) information agency.

Cathay Building on Handy Road, 1941. During the Japanese Occupation, the building housed the Japanese Broadcasting Department, Military Propaganda Department and Military Information Bureau. Cathay Building was gazetted as a national monument on 10 February 2003. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Similarly, the availability of a variety of views on a historical event lends its context greater definition, colour and, most importantly, nuances. A fuller context, then, gives readers a fuller and firmer grasp of a particular period in the past. For example, in his oral history interview, former Director of Education Chan Kai Yau lamented how, as a boy in the 1930s, he hardly played with his friends after school because he had to queue for hours just to buy a precious loaf of bread – which was very light, brown and did not taste of much.⁶ His compatriot Mrs Gnanasundram Thevathasan, a former Justice of Peace, backed up his recollection by recounting how everyone made cakes from rice flour because wheat was too expensive for most households then.⁷

An oral history interview conducted in the 1980s (top) and one carried out in the 2010s (above). The basic techniques of conducting an oral history interview remain largely the same. However, the recording equipment used has changed significantly. In the 1980s, interviews were recorded using high-fidelity reel-to-reel tape recorders and open-reel tapes. These tapes typically could only record 30 minutes on each side and required special care to prevent deterioration. Today, digital recorders and flash memory cards provide better sound quality, allow for longer recordings and are more compact and easier to preserve. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

It was ironic, then, that the onset of the Japanese Occupation in February 1942 brought with it a seemingly abundant supply of wheat flour to Singapore. Chan Kwee Sung, a columnist for The Straits Times between 1998 and 2002, and the author of One More Story to Tell: Memories of Singapore, 1930s–1980s,⁸ recalled that the Japanese distributed so much wheat flour as rations that “at almost every corner of Chinatown, you would find a wanton noodle stall because of the abundant supply of flour”.⁹

Or take Muslim Religious Council of Singapore pioneer Haji Mohamed Sidek Bin Siraj’s account of how people fleeing China began settling in Kampong Glam, which was predominantly Malay, from the 1920s. The casual observer might assume tension among the communities there from then on, but Haji Mohamed Sidek clarified as follows: “They didn’t come in hordes. They just opened sundry shops… and they acquired the Malay language. And as shopkeepers in Jalan Sultan, they catered to the satay sellers who were Javanese. The Chinese there could speak Javanese too.”¹⁰

Experiencing

Beyond a greater understanding of how Singaporeans evolved amid changing circumstances, the vivid, personal insights afforded by oral history allow readers to experience the force of the very human drama that is real life. Plastic surgeon Lee Seng Teik, for one, recounted effectively the horrors of the Spyros ship explosion – still one of the worst industrial accidents in Singapore history – when he recalled “truckloads” of victims arriving at the Singapore General Hospital’s newly minted Accident & Emergency wing on 12 October 1978. He said: “I was to meet an officer, Dr Kenneth Cheong, who was supposed to give a talk that day. But at 2 pm, we had the very first indication of disaster… someone notified everyone of the possibility of a major disaster and to get ready.

“The meeting with Kenneth was off. Within half an hour, the first casualties arrived. We knew we had a true disaster – the casualties were in truckloads, lorries, not ambulances because there were too many casualties.

“As a director, I had never seen anything like it and, hopefully, will never experience that again.”¹¹

Lee and his colleagues worked “flat out” for three days, trying to cope with the onslaught of burn victims. “We didn’t go home for three days,” he added. “I almost passed out on my way home after three days.”

Those who have documented such tragedies in their writing sometimes leave gory details out. But an oral history interviewee, when asked to tap his memory on that, would invariably say what they see in their mind’s eye – and the more articulate the interviewee, the more graphic, or nuanced, the account is likely to be. The difference between an oral history account and a textual one, then, is the difference between a fully fleshed-out portrait of a person and a stick figure sketch of him. In this way, oral history not only fills in the gaps from details omitted in written form, but restores the highlights and shadows of the past.

Koeh Sia Yong’s oil painting titled Persecution (1963) showing innocent men dragged to execution grounds by Japanese soldiers. Operation Sook Ching, which took place in the two weeks after the fall of Singapore to the Japanese on 15 February 1942, saw thousands of Chinese men singled out for mass executions. According to some estimates, as many as 50,000 men died in the bloodbath. Courtesy of the National Gallery Singapore, National Heritage Board.

The historian’s work is often like that of a detective; they both track down truths of the past. And the greater the range of critical clues they have, such as those provided by the “I was there” insights of oral history, the better their chances of getting to the bottom of what, where, why and how something actually happened.

Now, you might ask, why should that matter? Why should one dig out such details about a person’s past? Mark Wong, Senior Specialist of Oral History at OHC, has a good answer to that. In an interview with me for my upcoming book on OHC’s 40th anniversary, Wong said: “History is why we are in this building now, why the chairs we are sitting on are shaped this way, why we are wearing shirts and jackets and trousers.” Or, as the aforementioned Paul Thompson noted in his book, The Voice of the Past, the value of all history is its “social purpose”, which is about helping everyone make sense of the present by understanding what shaped it.¹²

Singapore’s Speaker of Parliament Tan Chuan-Jin said as much in his reflection on Singapore’s bicentennial year in The Straits Times on 13 February 2019. “As a former student of history,” Tan wrote, “I do often consider: What if no one saw our potential as a landing point, a site for trade and exchange, a home? What if we hadn’t appeared useful, to anyone? What if the economic issues of the time had tripped us up along the way? Or the weight of commerce had shifted and rendered our geopolitical position worthless?”

He added that “little history, the local stories of people and communities” is as “vital” as “big history, the nation-building stuff”. If big and little histories are woven together, he added, that would give Singaporeans a better sense of who and where they are. “In an age of globalisation,” he noted, “our shared histories, memories and affections link us and give us relevance and access to so many places and people. And in those links too, we find common ground to move ahead, make progress.”¹³

Injured victims being rushed to hospital after an explosion and fire on board the Greek oil tanker, S.T. Spyros, on 12 October 1978. Seventy-six people died and 69 others were injured in the accident. Ministry of Health Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Verifying

Those who prize fairness, balance, social justice and democracy would also find much to recommend about oral history. As noted earlier, most grand historical texts tend to record the accounts of winners, not losers. Oral history ­collections, on the other hand, are a great leveller: it is adamant that the lives of the grave­digger, the nightsoil carrier and the street opera actor matter as much for posterity as those of presidents, politicians and tycoons. Thanks to OHC’s dedicated inter­viewers, users of the collection can now say with confidence that they have access to a layered and multidimensional view of Singapore history.

Such a view is particularly relevant for Singapore society when you consider that many among its most accomplished, sometimes considered as society’s elite, actually had a keen grasp of how those on the ground had to live. Among them is James Koh Cher Siang, a former permanent secretary in the education, national deve­lopment and community development ministries. An alumnus of Oxford and Harvard universities, he recalled how, as a boy, he was waiting at a bus stop with his schoolmates near Tiong Bahru when several fire engines whizzed past them. Koh recalled: “One of my friends told me, ‘Oh, maybe my house is on fire’. So we took a bus and rushed there and indeed, it was true, his house had burnt down.”¹⁴

All told, and in addition to OHC’s intellectual rigour and unstinting professionalism in preparing, conducting, assessing and processing its interviews, I have learnt three rules of thumb that could help determine the veracity of someone’s oral statements. These are:

1. Select the accounts of those who admit to what is of no conceivable benefit to them

People are wont to save their ego instead of saying sorry whenever apologies are due. So when someone shares something that would not put him in the best light, his account is more likely than not to be truthful. Writer Felix Chia, who escaped the Imperial Japanese Army’s execution of Chinese men during the Sook Ching massacre¹⁵ at the start of the Japanese Occupation in Singapore, recalled in his interview how he pilfered daily provisions meant for Japanese households. He would take along a tingkat, or tiffin carrier, every day and at 3 pm, when he and a Malay colleague divided up the spoils – delive­ries of fresh meat, fish and vegetables for the Japanese – he would hide some of the food in his tingkat and take it home.¹⁶

Then there is Vernon Cornelius, lead singer of The Quests, one of the most popular local bands in Singapore in the 1960s. Dubbed Singapore’s Cliff Richard, Cornelius recalled in his interview: “I met Cliff Richard in Kuala Lumpur in 1995… I was embarrassed that my friend introduced me to Cliff Richard as ‘the Singapore Cliff Richard’. I felt like an idiot because we’re grown-ups now.”¹⁷

2. Veer towards those who are able to recall happenings in specific detail

The more detailed a story, the greater the chances that it is true. Among the most popular entertainment game shows on British television today is Would I Lie To You? Now into its 12th season, it revolves around two teams of celebrities trying to decide if the yarn each is spinning is fact or fiction. Invariably, and unless they are habitual pathological liars, whenever participants are able to back up their story in great detail, they are most likely telling the truth.

Vernon Cornelius (pictured on extreme right) lead singer of The Quests, was touted as Singapore’s Cliff Richard by the press. The Quests were formed in 1961 and went on to become one of the most successful bands of the era. May 1966. Photo by Peter Robinsons Studios, courtesy of Vernon Cornelius.

In one uproarious instance – viewed 2,094,573 times on YouTube as at 14 February 2019 – the British comedian James Acaster claimed that Mick Trent, a 12-year-old guest on the show, was his “sworn enemy” after the boy put cabbage leaves in Acaster’s bed, causing an almighty stink. The comedian added that Mick later sent him a parcel in the post containing half a cabbage, wrapped in cling film. Acaster asserted further that his friends and fans began ribbing him about being “cabbaged” and took to hiding cabbages around his dressing room. “One even started a Twitter feed with the hashtag #OyOySavoy,” he huffed. As revealed later, every word he uttered was true.¹⁸

In contrast to this hilarious story, we have the disquieting OHC interview of a certain Social Welfare Department officer, whom I shall also not name here, on the likely cause of the ruinous fire at Bukit Ho Swee on 25 May 1961. The officer said: “I think it was some cooking utensil which, somehow or other, fell. And the whole place was a burning inferno in minutes because the place was all attap and wood.” His account on this point, which was already woefully short on details, trails off with no further mention of the alleged utensil. I should add that the actual cause of the fire was never determined.

Residents with their belongings gathering outside the fire area in Bukit Ho Swee on 25 May 1961. The fire, which razed a 0.4-sq km area consisting of a school, shops, factories and attap houses, was one of Singapore’s biggest fires. The fire left 16,000 kampong dwellers homeless and claimed the lives of four people. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

For my upcoming book on OHC’s 40 years, I combed through more than 300 complete oral history interviews in its redoubtable collection. I found most of these bracingly unvarnished, satisfyingly detailed and often heartfelt. One of the best examples of these attributes is the interview with Liak

Writing a biography can be tedious, painstaking work. But the effort can also be uplifting and inspirational, as Irene Ng discovered when she began researching the life of S. Rajaratnam.

When I embarked on writing the biography of S. Rajaratnam in 2005, I did not realise that it would take over my life. A project that originally involved just one book became two volumes¹ – one already published, another in the making – and a third, an anthology of Rajaratnam’s short stories and radio plays,² published as a surprise baby in between. And who knows, there might be a fourth book.

It has been a long research journey. I started with the question: how does one capture the complex life of a man who was one of Singapore’s founding leaders, the first minister for culture (1959) of self-governing Singapore, the first minister for foreign affairs (1965–80) of independent Singapore – and the ideologue who wrote the country’s National Pledge in 1966?

S.Rajaratnam during an election mass rally at Fullerton Square, 1 April 1959. Seated sixth from right is Secretary-General of the People’s Action Party, Lee Kuan Yew. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

In trying to answer this question, I turned to the archival materials at the National Archives of Singapore (NAS), aptly situated at the foot of the historic Fort Canning Hill. The building, a former schoolhouse, had the feel of, well… an old school with a run-down air (at least when I visited it between 2005 and 2015 for my work). Within the building itself, however, was a treasure trove of old documents, photographs, maps, radio broadcasts and television footage. It is hard to describe the sense of anticipation I feel each time I enter its reading room, ever hopeful that I would come across new insights and learn new ways of understanding the past.

Over the years, I have built a respectful relationship with the NAS as I gained a deeper appreciation of the challenges it has faced in fulfilling its mission. It plays an indispensable role in preserving the primary records of our past, the very essence of our heritage. I don’t think I overstate the importance of the NAS when I say that it is a bastion of social memory and national identity. Yet, all too often, its role is neglected and underappreciated by the public.

I had known Rajaratnam since my days as a journalist and had interviewed him in the 1980s and 90s. Writing his biography may have been the furthest thing on my mind then, but those encounters gave me a sense of the kind of man he was: his thinking, his values, his mannerisms.

S. Rajaratnam, c. 1970s. S. Rajaratnam Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

By the time I started on his biography in 2005, he was already 90 and suffering from late-stage Alzheimer’s disease. With the permission of the trustees of Rajaratnam’s estate (his Hungarian wife Piroska Feher had died in 1989; they had no children), I browsed his personal library and private papers in his old bungalow in leafy Chancery Lane, a process that continued until some months after his death in February 2006. Other than his vast collection of books, there were the boxes upon boxes of papers, files and photos, all gathering dust.

I became worried that the materials would deteriorate in the heat and humidity, or worse, be misplaced or destroyed. After Rajaratnam passed away, I recommended that important items be donated to the archives for preservation. So imagine my despair when, during one visit to his house, I saw hundreds of books smouldering in a bonfire in his garden. Thanks to the actions of the NAS and the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS), however, most of his books and other important items, such as his armchair and typewriter, found a new home in their premises.

The experience reinforced my conviction that the images, voices and documents of our founding leaders should be syste­matically preserved for the benefit of the present and future generations.

Writing Rajaratnam’s biography for me is part of the larger endeavour to preserve memories. Biography is the form through which writers recreate life from archival documents such as letters and diaries, TV and radio recordings, newspapers and official records – in this case, Hansard documents (transcripts of parliamentary debates). This work is vastly different from my previous job as a newspaper journalist. Journalists write the “first draft” of history, chronicling people and events with speed and immediacy in mind. In contrast, biographers may take years – in my case, more than a decade – to complete their account of a subject’s life. I am grateful to all those who have helped me and believed in me throughout the arduous process, particularly my patient bosses at ISEAS.

During my research journey, NAS staff very kindly steered me through their vast collection. They organised dozens of boxes of materials, provided an outline of the files in each box, and even highlighted which boxes might contain the most interesting files that would aid my research.

Pitt Kuan Wah, then director of the NAS, and Ng Yoke Lin, senior archivist, both shared with me useful historical insights into the defining moments of the post-independence era, such as the drafting of the National Pledge. They also alerted me to newly acquired resources, including audiovisual materials, and tracked down additional items to help in my writing – these led me to unexpectedly valuable files. More recently, for the second book on Rajaratnam I am working on, staff at the NAS made it possible for me to access secret files that had to be declassified first.

With their help, I ploughed through thousands of documents, including declassified British and Australian records as well as documents from Singapore’s Ministry of Culture and Cabinet files. I spent hours listening to Rajaratnam’s sound recordings. I watched video footages of him at work, observing his body language, listening to his tone, imagining the emotions – both the elation as well as the angst – of the moment. These multifaceted resources helped me build a nuanced and complex portrait of the man, and to write what I hope is an engaging and authoritative account of his life.

How did I know that Rajaratnam wore a relaxed smile and exuded confidence at the controversial event on 31 August 1963 marking Singapore’s de facto independence? From the archival television footage.

How did I know that he sounded somewhat diffident when he spoke to journalists in his first press conference as foreign minister in 1965? From the sound recordings of the interview.

How did I know that he courted the Hungarian girl, who would later become his wife, in late-1930s London, with romantic picnics by the beach, rowing a boat and swimming? From his photos in the archives.

Oral history interviews were another rich resource. When I first started my research in 2005, most of the recor­dings had yet to be transcribed or digitised – forget about instantaneous online access – so it was a slow and painful slog. For access to records, I had to fill in a form, “Request to Access Oral History Interviews”, which took time to process. All this has now changed. The expansion of the Oral History Centre’s digital platforms and services over the years has greatly eased the work of researchers, especially for those based overseas.

While I conducted my own interviews with more than 100 people, including Rajaratnam’s one-time political opponents, for the book, they were supplemented by oral history interviews from the NAS. These provided me with different perspectives and useful anecdotes that helped to enrich the narrative.

But a caveat: some of the oral history interviewees may have been inaccurate, biased or forgetful in their recollections. Equally, some of the interviewers may not have been as probing as they could have been – they are not journalists after all. In short, the oral histories are as useful – and as fallible – as any written record, so one must sift through the records with a critical mind. But without them, the narratives of the past would be all the greyer.

S. Rajaratnam outside his flat at 12 Steele Road, London, 1930s. Image reproduced from Ng, I. (2010). The Singapore Lion: A Biography of S. Rajaratnam. Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. (Call no.: RSING 327.59570092 NG).

Then there are Rajaratnam’s personal notebooks of various vintage. From his days as a journalist – at The Malaya Tribune, the Singapore Standard and The Straits Times – he developed a habit of neatly copying out salient or interesting parts of the books he had read into a personal notebook. These included quotable quotes, definitions of theories and ideologies, and references drawn from history. His notebooks, which mirror his constant preoccupations, were particularly rich with references to Lenin, Marx, democracy, nationalism and race-related issues.

In the process, Rajaratnam’s handwri­ting became as familiar to me as my own. From the size and shape of the letters in his copious handwritten notes, I learnt to distinguish those written in his later years, when his mind was no longer what it was, and make my judgment on their use accordingly.

In addition to the materials in the NAS, I was given special permission to access files kept at the Special Branch – the predecessor of today’s Internal Security Department – on condition that I adhered to the rules of the Official Secrets Act. These files gave me useful leads on the people he associated with when he was a radical left-wing activist in the 1940s. I discovered that, because of the revolutio­nary company he kept and his subsequent anti-colonial activities, the Special Branch listed him after the war, quite mistakenly, as a Trotskyist and later as an anti-British, anti-government agitator.

In order to trace his earlier life in London, I visited King’s College, where Rajaratnam had studied law at his father’s behest, to retrieve his university records. I discovered, among other things, that, ­having lost all interest in law during the war, he dropped out of university in 1940 to pursue his passion for writing. I also spent time sifting through British colonial papers at the Public Records Office in Kew and the British Library in London.

All the materials I find shed new light on one or another aspect of my research. They add to the evidence – check one against another, weigh the biases, examine the angles, follow the trail. The evidence, however, is often complex and occasionally contradictory. After all, historical records themselves are not entirely neutral. Reconciling conflicting accounts and interpretations become a constant challenge.

To give a simple example: on the fateful day of 7 August 1965, how did Rajaratnam travel from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur to meet Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew where he received the shocking news of Singapore’s separation from Malaysia? It is a crucial point in my narrative as it is one of the darkest days in Rajaratnam’s political career. In his oral history interview, Rajaratnam said he travelled by plane. But there are conflicting accounts in other published sources. Then Minister for Social Affairs Othman Wok recalled driving Rajaratnam in his car to Temasek House in Kuala Lumpur. Lee himself recalled asking Rajaratnam to take a plane and not to inform anyone of his trip, but he was told years later of Othman’s recollection that they had travelled by car. Othman’s version is the one that has been used in the media. Now which version should I use, and how do I justify it?

All this places a greater demand on the skills of the writer to manage complexity and ambiguity in the narrative. However rigorous one’s research, one must be prepared for a certain degree of controversy.

I find it most satisfying when I make a new discovery during the research process, or see a new pattern, or am able to add depth to a current historical record. Few people, for example, knew until fairly recently that the young Rajaratnam found fame as a fiction writer in London, where he lived for 12 years from 1935 to 1947. He wrote short stories that met with critical acclaim, and was regarded as a leading Indian short-story writer of English works at the time – a pioneer of Malayan writing in English.

I found out that his short stories were praised by no less than E.M. Forster in a BBC broadcast on 29 April 1942.³ His work also drew the attention of George Orwell, who invited Rajaratnam to write for the weekly BBC series, “Open Letters”, to explain the different aspects of war in the form of a letter to an imaginary person. In a broadcast introducing the series on 4 August 1942, the BBC announced that “Raja Ratnam, who is well known among the new Indian writers in Great Britain, will address his letter to a Quisling”.⁴

My heart fluttered when, sifting through a musty cardboard box buried under piles of books in his house, I spotted some of the literary magazines containing his published works. How precious they were. With the permission of his estate, they have since been entrusted to the National Library of Singapore.

S. Rajaratnam and his Hungarian wife, Piroska Feher, relaxing at home with a friend (left), c. 1980s.
S. Rajaratnam Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Even fewer people know that, while working as a newspaper journalist, Rajaratnam had freelanced for Radio Malaya, writing news scripts and radio plays. I discovered among his private papers the scripts for the six-part radio play, “A Nation in the Making”, which explores the controversial issues of race, language, religion and national identity. The pages were yellow, dusty and crumbling from age. At my urging and with the assistance of the NAS, the scripts are now preserved in the ISEAS library.

To restore Rajaratnam’s literary legacy, I compiled seven short stories and seven radio scripts into an anthology, The Short Stories and Radio Plays of S. Rajaratnam, which was published in 2011.

It is gratifying to see the younger generation taking a fresh interest in Rajaratnam’s fiction and adapting it for a contemporary audience. The latest effort was in 2017 by a young filmmaker, Jerrold Chong. He adapted one of Rajaratnam’s stories, “What Has to Be”, into a short animation film for the annual Singapore Writers Festival’s initiative, “Utter 2017: SingLit Unearthed”, which adapts the best of Singapore writing into film.

There were, of course, frustrating moments during the research process. For example, besides his radio plays, Rajaratnam also wrote and presented programmes on Radio Malaya on a range of other subjects, including international issues, before he stood for his first general election in May 1959. I know this because I found payment invoices for his scripts in his old Samsonite briefcase in his house. There were about 50 receipts from 17 September 1956 to 7 March 1959, detailing the titles of the scripts and his fees (between $25 and $40 for each work). Unfortunately, not a single recording of these scripts can be traced anywhere. This experience, among others, highlighted for me the heavy responsibility that our national archives bears.

Speaking out as a member of parliament, I began pressing for greater government support and funding for the work of our national archives. During the budget debate in 2006, for example, I called for major renovations to the NAS building as it was not purpose-built for a modern archives. I said: “It is to the credit of the excellent staff there that the NAS has been able to deliver good service to the public, despite its cramped workspace and tight funding.” I contrasted it with the British National Archives at Kew, which is “a modern airy building, a state-of-the-art building, with large research areas, with proper lighting for reading and research”. It also has a free museum and a cafeteria.

I repeated my calls in parliament over the following years. By 2010, I was beginning to sound like a broken record: “We should do more to develop our National Archives and ensure it has the resources to keep up with the expanding demands. Despite its importance, the archives still failed to attract interest as part of our heritage, and suffers from under-funding and neglect.” Again, I called for its building to be renovated “so that it is at least on par with the standard of our National Museum and Library”.

I am sure mine was not the only voice calling for greater national support for our archives. It is indeed good news that renovation works to the building have finally been completed and it recently opened, in time for Singapore’s bicentennial celebrations this year. But more important than the building itself, of course, are the precious resources within, both human and historical.

The challenge going forward is how the national archives can bring all its resources together to engage the public. It must be a place not only of reflection, but also of imagination. It must not become merely a venue for scholarly research, but a platform for public discussion: to help us understand the past, make sense of the present, and draw lessons for the future.

Rajaratnam could not have described my thoughts on this subject more succinctly when he wrote in an unfinished speech I found among his private papers: “Coping with the future calls for a different kind of intellectual discipline – an imaginative leap, based on past facts, on how to shape a desirable future.”

Notes

Pulsating music, strobe lights and postage-stamp dance floors packed with shimmying bodies. Tan Chui Hua gives you the lowdown on the history of the disco scene in Singapore.

“you watch this gyrating throng
caught slow-motion
by insidious search-light eyes
as phantoms writhing
drowning in a wet haze
of a multi-coloured dream
gone psychically mad
a nightmare born out of wailing voices
washed away unheard
for some prehistoric rites”

– Chen Nan Fong, 1971¹

When Gino’s A-Go-Go, Singapore’s first discotheque – or disco for short – opened along Tanglin Road in 1966, it seemed like a laughable idea to many locals. Accustomed to live bands and tea dances, they thought grooving to the canned music of British teenage pop sensation Bee Gees at Gino’s was a strange thing. In fact, the press described the upstart’s debut as having an “atmosphere of closed camaraderie that you can only find on a postage-stamp size dance-floor packed too tightly to waltz in”.²

But Gino’s, bankrolled by Herbie Lim, grandson of rubber king Lim Nee Soon and riding the discotheque fever swee­ping across fashionable cities of the world, soon began seeing long snaking queues of mainly young people every night.

Ronald Goh, whose family business Electronics and Engineering installed the discotheque’s state-of-the-art sound system, recalled: “The DJ was not much of a DJ, except that he played… you know there was two turntables, and he alternate[d] sounds from one vinyl to another.” Goh explained: “The DJs were university students, they came in the evening and ran the disco… this was just the beginning, where they ­actually play vinyl, or records, over a sound system with a dance floor and started this disco fad.”³

Despite Gino’s success, disc-jockeys (or DJs as the word later became abbreviated) – whose job was to spin gramophone records or discs on a turntable – would remain an anomaly in Singapore for a while longer. It was, after all, the heyday of live bands in Singapore and they were not going to be upstaged so easily.

Discos, Discos Everywhere

The 1977 hit film Saturday Night Fever epitomised the global discotheque scene in the 1970s and early 80s. Starring John Travolta in his breakout role and Karen Lynn Gorney, and featuring music by the Bee Gees, the film played in Singapore cinemas for weeks to sell-out crowds. Needless to say, discos here saw an immediate spike in patrons, with many replicating the slick moves of Tony Manero (the character played by Travolta) on the dance floor.

There was a lull until 1969, when two disco clubs opened – Fireplace on Coronation Road and The Cosmic Club on Jervois Road. As the revelry from Fireplace continued until the wee hours each night, a series of complaints by irate neighbours led the police to shut it down.⁴ The Cosmic Club was short-lived too: the police declared it an unlawful club on the grounds that the club was “prejudicial to public peace and good order” and that “such a club would attract young Singaporeans in their impressionable years… to demoralise and create a sense of false values”.⁵

The warning came too late. When the hotel development boom of the late 1960s and early 70s descended upon Singapore, hoteliers caught on to the fact that having an in-house discotheque would be a sure-fire way to attract young Singapo­reans looking for novel ways to entertain themselves. A slew of new discos opened in quick succession in various hotels in town: Ming Court’s Barbarella (1969), Equatorial’s Club Crescendo (1969), Cuscaden’s The Eye (1970), Hilton’s Spot Spot (1970), Shangri-La’s Lost Horizon (1971), Mandarin’s Boiler Room (1971) and several others.

Existing nightclubs and lounges, such as Pink Pussycat in Prince’s Hotel Garni, began rebranding themselves as discotheques with resident bands to draw the crowds. Psychedelic lighting and loud décor became must-haves. The hype rose to fever pitch when Pierre Trudeau, then Canada’s prime minister, was seen “getting down” on the dance floor with a local former model at Spot Spot during his visit to Singapore in January 1971 to attend the meeting of the Commonwealth Heads of Government.⁶ The press had a field day with the story.

The flurry of discos opening inevitably led purists to question – what exactly is a discotheque? The word “disco” is derived from the French word disque, which means discs or gramophone records, so if one goes to a library or bibliothéque in France to read books, then by extension a discothéque is where one goes to listen to records.

The Pink Pussycat at Prince’s Hotel Garni on Orchard Road began rebranding itself as a discotheque with resident bands to draw the crowds. Featured here is local band The Hi Jacks in a photo taken on 30 May 1973. Source: The Straits Times © Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted with permission.

“There should be no live band in a discotheque,” Kim Khor, then manager of Soundbox at Hotel Miramar, sniffed. “Our locals don’t appreciate discotheques. They prefer live bands, something which is difficult to understand.”⁷ Soundbox, which opened in 1971, was touted as Singapore’s second discotheque in the truest sense of the word.

For disco fans in Singapore, however, what really mattered was a good party: loud music, light effects and a small dance floor packed to the brim.⁸ Disc jockeys, it seemed, were not the main attraction. A 1971 tabloid noted: “When is a disco not a discotheque? When there is a live band but no discs. Which means that all the swinging joints in town are not discos in the true sense of the word. This controversy over the definition of this particular brand of night clubs has been aired. But who cares? A squeezy dancing floor with an electronic band blasting away the ears and walls has got the discotheque label slapped on it.”⁹

War of the Dance Floors

As more discotheques opened, the share of the disco-goer pie began shrinking in proportion. By 1970, business owners were complaining that the industry was no longer a “paying proposition”.¹⁰ The long queues outside star establishments, however, kept the hopes of new entrants into the disco scene high.

Staying on top of the game called for more innovation and offerings. The owners of Barbarella at Ming Court Hotel sank more than $300,000 to set up the three-level establishment, with its iconic space-age design inspired by its Jane Fonda movie namesake – somehow looking at odds with Ming Court’s staid Oriental-inspired décor. Every month, $30,000 went towards the cost of hiring live bands, and another $4,000 for renting psychedelic slides for 16 projectors.¹¹

Barbarella discotheque advertising performances by its foreign band, The Pitiful Souls. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 3 January 1970, p. 20.

Not to be outdone, Spot Spot plastered its walls with thousands of sparkly red sequins and imported an antique bartop from Malacca for serving cocktails and alcoholic drinks. Lost Horizon took discotheque fantasy up a notch with a seafaring theme, complete with custom-built gondolas, Chinese junks, Portuguese fishing boats and a French man-of-war. Winsome female greeters dressed in nautical gear, while slide projections of Venetian scenes and themed drinks ensured an over-the-top experience.¹²

Discotheques began scouting for better, newer and more famous bands, many of them from overseas, to the point it was noted that “very few local bands can make it to the nightclub scene these days” as “there are so many bands around – some very good, some above average, others average and of course some below average”.¹³ Discotheques also began holding lucky draws, costume parties and games to bring in the crowds. The Boiler Room, for example, started weekly disc jockey contests and tied up with record companies to hold launch parties for new album releases.

But the proverbial pot of gold, for most disco operators, turned out to be mere wishful thinking. Disco clubs became trapped in a web of spiralling costs. The disco set was, after all, made up of Singapore’s young, with plenty of aspiration but limited fiscal power. While popular bands cost more to hire, cover charges had to be priced affordably for young people. Gino’s, which had rebranded itself as Aquarius, was one of the few exceptions because it did not hire bands.¹⁴

With the revival of discotheques in the late 1970s, the former Lost Horizon at Shangri-La Hotel was revamped to become Xanadu. Opened in 1981, the million-dollar discotheque boasted complex laser effects, a high-tech sound system and plush interior décor. Courtesy of Shangri-La Hotel, Singapore.

Disco-on-the-Move

In the late 1960s, when it became clear that hiring live bands was unsustainable in the long run, Larry Lai, a Rediffusion DJ,¹⁵ began toying with the idea of the mobile disco, calling his outfit Moby Dick.¹⁶ “For an initial fee of $250, Moby Dick performs non-stop for four hours and gives you that ‘disco’ setting in your own parlour, club, or simply ‘where-you-want-it’ – complete with ultra-violet and strobe lights and a disc-jockey who will act as MC for your party, plus these two a-go-go girls.”¹⁷

His idea, however, was met with scepticism: the general response was “What! Pay you to dance to records? You are crazy. I can do that free at home.¹⁸ Ignoring the naysayers, Lai teamed up with Mike Ellery, Rediffusion’s manager for English programmes, and registered Moby Dick as a partnership in 1970.

Having a great business idea was one thing; making it work was another. Technical challenges had to be overcome – from nailing the right sound and volume to the right lights and effects. Hagemeyer, the distributor for National products in Singapore, sponsored the company’s speakers, amplifier and turntables. Lai’s engineer colleagues at Rediffusion reconfigured the equipment into a mobile disc jockey station.¹⁹ Next came the lighting effects. Lai explained: “The technology was there but we needed more than just flickering colour lights. We needed something to ‘wash’ walls and stuff like that. So the simplest thing that we could do was to buy a slide projector and then do our own colourful psychedelic slides… and then Mike had the brainwave of getting an all-beat-up speaker with no sound, but if you put in a signal, a sound input, and you turn up the volume a little bit, the speaker cone would vibrate. So we stuck little pieces of broken mirror… then we paint[ed] it… the mirrors with little bit of DayGlo paint, then we shone a spotlight on to the speaker cone[s] which then reflected little flickering light[s].”²⁰

Radio and Rediffusion stalwart Larry Lai, 1975. Together with Mike Ellery, Rediffusion’s manager for English programmes, Lai started a mobile disco called Moby Dick in 1970. Source: The Straits Times © Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted with permission.

Moby Dick rolled into action. Pamphlets were sent to prospective clients, such as clubs, hotels and military camps. Lai and Ellery found two Ford Falcons – large cars with bench seats – and piled the equipment in the back while ferrying a sexy go-go girl each in the front. Friends in the press wrote up articles on the “new fad” to generate public interest. Then calls started coming in. Lai said: “The only people who knew what mobile discos were all about were the British military, the Australians, all the Caucasians from either Australia or Europe or America. Only they would give us the business.”

“So we played [at] the British military camps, the Kiwis in Sembawang. Then we played at the American Club, the Tanglin Club, Singapore Cricket Club… the memberships were all heavily foreign.”²¹

Bikini-clad a-go-go girls and DayGlo body painting were part of the package offered by Moby Dick, Singapore’s first mobile discotheque. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 20 September 1970, p. 6.

To create a disco night mood, Ellery and Lai imported psychedelic posters of icons such as The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix painted in luminous colours and ran an ultraviolet light over them: the effect was surreal. The song list was peppered with bubblegum favourites to get feet tapping. When the go-go girls in bikinis got up to dance on tabletops, DayGlo paints were provided and male patrons were invited to paint the girls’ bodies. As Ellery described it: “Getting pretty girls involved, greater traction… well it’s a show! It makes a better show, more fun.”²²

Word got around. The hotels finally caved in, scaled back on live bands and engaged DJs instead. Moby Dick started landing contracts with hotels, clubs and restaurants. Ellery and Lai found themselves having to hire more DJs and roadies to run the shows, and this was how DJs such as Brian Richmond, Victor Khoo and Bernard Solosa – who later became household names in the 1970s and 80s – first cut their teeth. Mobile disco businesses opened one after another, and Brian Richmond launched his own outfit a few years later.²³ The age of true discotheques had finally kicked off.

In retrospect, the shift was unsurpri­sing as Ellery noted: “Mobile disco is consistent and affordable. And we always got the latest pop tunes straight off the charts. We fly them in. … Sometimes I believe the hotel would have its own system already in, and we would probably add on a bit to it, the speaker systems and all that.”²⁴

In an article that Brian Richmond wrote on the golden age of disco, he said: “It is hard to describe the magic of those days. DJs were entertainers. For instance, I used to play the congas, sometimes we would rap between songs; the onus was on us to get the crowd warmed up, and their feet and bodies moving. We would sing the chorus, play the favourite songs of regulars, and greet people we recognised. These were tricks of the trade – to make someone feel good, welcoming them by name; also to know when to keep mum because someone was there and not wanting to be seen! We would do the fast music, then at some point, dim the lights and do the lovey-dovey music for people to smooch to… then we would bring up the tempo again. The DJ was king, and he dictated the scene.”²⁵

Brian Richmond in his element, 1976. He started out as a mobile disco DJ and became a household name in the 1970s and 80s. Source: The Straits Times © Singapore Press Holdings Limited. Reprinted with permission.

The Clamp Down

The permissive 1960s gave way to the puritanical 70s when the government decided it was time to stem the tide of – or at least the perception of – rising immorality in Singapore. Discotheques, with their predominantly young crowds, unsavoury reputation and association with drugs, brawls and “permissive behaviour”, became prime targets.²⁶

In 1971, a 100-percent increase in entertainment tax was imposed on all venues with live bands, and nightclubs in the central district were forbidden from remaining open after 1 am on weekdays, except on the eve of public holidays.²⁷ In 1972, the Ministry of Home Affairs ordered a three-night surveillance on nightspots on Orchard Road. The ministry said that entertainment places doubled as drug distribution centres, in particular for Mandrax or MX pills (a type of hypnotic drug) and ganja (cannabis), and concluded that “these nightspots and youthful customers have common characteristics: psychedelic lights, abstract art, loud ‘soul’ music, long hair (or wigs), coloured T-shirts, denim jackets with badges and signs, bell-bottoms, loose blouses and jockey-caps”.²⁸

In July 1973, then Minister for Home Affairs Chua Sian Chin delivered a stern warning to nightlife establishments, singling out discotheques in parti­cular. He said: “I am informed that our discotheques are places which are predominantly patronised by local youths, especially long-haired teenagers, who go there to revel in star-wandering rock and soul-moving music in a hallucinatory atmosphere so familiar with the drug and hippie cult.”²⁹

Following his warning, six discotheques were closed down in November that year, including Mandarin’s Boiler Room and Ming Court’s Barbarella. Twelve highly popular discotheques, such as Lost Horizon and The Eye, lost their liquor licences. Hotel discotheques providing public entertainment were no longer allowed to serve alcohol.³⁰

For nightspots that remained opened, a long list of strict conditions was imposed for their continued operations. These included the prohibition of alcohol, psychedelic lighting, private cubicles and lewd images. Persons under 18, long-haired men and patrons not sporting a tie or wearing a national dress were denied admission. In addition, operating hours had to cease at midnight, with an hour’s extension on Saturdays and public holidays; in the event of breaches, the payment of a substantial cash deposit would be totally or partially forfeited.³¹

Mervyn Nonis, a musician with popular local band The X-periment, recalled those grim days. He said: “… all the clubs were just… All closed, you know, so there was no entertainment, you know. At all… You could just imagine the scene. All the bands were jobless…”³² And then, in a final death knell to the disco scene in Singapore, dancing was banned in most discotheques by end 1973.³³

These curbs hit the discotheques hard. The fierce competition among nightspots in the early 1970s had already taken a toll. Some, such as The Eye, tried to adapt by hiring extra guards to turn away undesirable patrons and raising cover charges and the prices of drinks. Some, such as Spot Spot, had already closed down in 1972 due to market stresses and increasing government surveillance. The others converted into cocktail lounges and bars that were less stringently monitored by the authorities.³⁴

Nonis remembered that bands and DJs took turns to perform on the dance floor after the dance ban: “… the clubs were allowed to open. But no dancing was allowed… You just watch. And we used to alternate with Brian Richmond… So Brian Richmond, the equipment, was on the dance floor… Just music and then… so when we came on, it was like a show band sort of thing… What we felt was the public was not getting enough. Like, when they used to go to the clubs, that means they couldn’t let themselves… go. Or let the [their] hair down… So… I think it was a bit boring… Because how long could you just listen and do nothing, you know what I mean?”³⁵

The X-periment, which was formed in 1967, performing at the Baron Night Club on Upper Serangoon Road where it held a lengthy residency. Courtesy of Joseph C. Pereira.

It was only in 1975 that the government began rolling back some of the restrictions. Male patrons without ties were no longer barred, business hours were extended and liquor licences were reissued. Strobe lights and private cubicles, however, were still a no-no and projectors were not allowed. The damage, however, had been done. The disco scene was a shadow of its former self. In 1977, the grand dame of discotheques, Barbarella, closed for good.³⁶

Can’t Beat ’Em, Then Join ’Em

When the American musical drama Saturday Night Fever, with John Travolta in his breakout Hollywood role and songs by the Bee Gees hit Singapore’s cinema screens in 1978, all things disco – fashion, music and slick dance moves – resurrected with a vengeance. New discotheques opened, and demand for disco dance classes grew. The national hunt for representatives in Singapore to take part in EMI’s annual World Disco Championship in London was launched in 1979.³⁷

Realising that there was no trum­ping the popularity of Hollywood, the government took a different tack. In 1978, community centres began organising disco nights for young people, to the point that disco dancing, “once associated with shady discotheques”, was fast becoming the rage in Singapore’s community centres. The main difference was that only sugar-spiked soft drinks were served.³⁸

“Respectable” folks began jumping on the bandwagon. The Singapore Armed Forces started disco dance classes. Charities, festivals and other events held disco nights to attract young people. Even the Young Men’s Christian Association got into the act, launching its own version of a “clean” discotheque that did not serve liquor in 1975, and organising Singapore’s first disco queen competition in 1978, complete with fog and bubble-making machines as competitors danced in cages.³⁹

The first disco dance organised by Bedok Zone 4 Residents’ Committee at the Bedok Central Area Office in 1986. The event was officiated by then Minister for Home Affairs S. Jayakumar. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

In 1979, the New Nation made the following observation: “Saturday night has never been so feverish in Singapore. The disco industry sustains a baker’s dozen of discotheques in top hotels – with prices to match. There… the energetic generation gets its exercise on postage-stamp-sized dance floors. Lower down the socio-disconomic ladder, thousands flock to the Leisuredrome to disco rock the weekend away at Kallang. Even community centres have seen the strobe light.”⁴⁰

And as a final feather in the cap for the industry, the police embraced disco. In December 1985, the first police disco for teenagers was held during the school holidays, and the response was “quite positive”. In February the following year, the police force launched a mass disco Lunar New Year party for 4,000 young people at World Trade Centre, featuring Dick Lee and his All Star Variety Band, a fashion show, and appearances by local artiste Jacintha Abisheganaden and bands such as Tokyo Square and Culture Shock.⁴¹

It had taken over a decade since Gino’s, but discos in Singapore had finally made it to the mainstream.

Jumping on the Band-wagon In the early years of discotheques, bands were a big part of the attraction. Getting “better and better bands” was a strategy to hold the attention of fickle crowds.42 Popular local bands, such as The X-periment, Flybaits, The Hi Jacks, Blackjacks, the X’Quisites, and Heather and the Thunderbirds, landed lucrative contracts.43 For instance, in 1973, Heather and the Thunderbirds signed an 18-month contract worth $144,000 with The Pub in Marco Polo Hotel.44 Many local bands, after establishing themselves in Singapore, were offered attractive contracts to perform overseas in cities such as Hong Kong and Bangkok.45 By 1970, the demand for good bands was so intense that many discotheques turned to foreign bands. Performers were brought in from the Philippines, Indonesia, Australia, the United States and even Europe. While local bands cost a minimum of $3,000 to $5,000 a month, imported bands cost at least three times as much. Filipino and Indonesian bands were said to be cheaper than non-Asian bands, which commanded around $10,000 a month, with one nightspot reportedly paying $18,000 a month for its foreign resident band.46 Such heady days were soon to pass, however, with the introduction of mobile discos as well as the government crackdown on nightspots. The Thunderbirds was formed in 1962 and evolved over time to include lead vocalist Heather Batchen. (an English girl living in Singapore who adopted Harvey as her second name after she married fellow band member Harvey Fitzgerald). Featured here is their album released by Philips subsidiary Pop Sound in 1970. Courtesy of Joseph C. Pereira. New-Age Discos Discotheques in Singapore continued to adapt to changing times in their bid to attract partygoers. Starting with the Top Ten club in Orchard Towers in 1985, discotheques did away with their postage-stamp-sized dancefloors and opted for mega spaces instead. Techno pop and remixed pop and rock replaced Bee Gees and Boney M, and live bands and singers were reintroduced. Outside the English-language circuit, the 1990s also saw a series of Cantopop discotheques and clubs popping up as Hong Kong’s music industry swept the region. These new establishments, notably Canto at Marina Bay, differed from the Mandopop and Cantopop joints of the 1970s in catering to the young fans of Hong Kong celebrity singers rather than to ageing Chinese businessmen. Meanwhile, the concept of discotheque reached new heights when nightlife veteran Deen Shahul launched the teenage-friendly disco Fire in Orchard Plaza in 1989 and Singapore’s biggest discotheque, Sparks, in Ngee Ann City in 1993. At their peak, Fire had branches in Indonesia and Malaysia, while Sparks occupied the entire seventh floor of Ngee Ann City and came equipped with separate arenas for different music genres as well as some 30 karaoke rooms. While none of these discotheques of yesteryear have survived, their legacies – from state-of-the-art sound and lighting systems to over-the-top and in-your-face interior designs – continue to influence those that followed in the years to come. Top Ten Discotheque in Orchard Towers, c. 1985. Singapore Tourism Board Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Notes

Photographs can capture subtext that is sometimes more evocative than the intended subject, as Gretchen Liu discovered when she explored the early work of the Photo Unit. 

The National Archives of Singapore (NAS) houses an astonishing five million prints, slides and negatives that vividly tell the story of modern Singapore. With the Archives Online portal providing access to over a million of these images, anyone can easily explore Singapore’s visual heritage with an internet connection and a few clicks.

While the collection includes photographs from private sources, a far greater number come from government departments. Of these, the vast majority are transfers from the Photo Unit, a small government department staffed by professional photographers and with its own in-house dark room for processing negatives. The history of the Photo Unit can be traced back with certainty to 1949. The photos are identified by the source line “Ministry of Information and the Arts”¹ (MITA).

Left: A Chinese opera staged in Kampong Glam, 1966. Right: Flat dwellers waiting for then Prime Minster Lee Kuan Yew during his tour of Tiong Bahru, Delta and Havelock housing estates in 1963. Both images from Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The Photo Unit captured events, milestones and scenes of Singapore through the twilight years of the colonial era. With the attainment of self-government in 1959, the unit acquired a renewed sense of purpose: in the days before television, photographs were a vital means of communicating new ideas, goals and achievements. Given the rapid pace of change in Singapore’s physical, social and economic landscape, these black-and-white compositions from the 1950s and 60s offer not only invaluable documentation but also captivating, sometimes surprising, and occasionally nostalgic, glimpses of the way we were.

Beginnings

The Photo Unit’s first assignment book is a dark blue 1949 government-issued “Office Diary” – which is with the NAS. The first entry was penned on 3 January at 11 am as “Blood Transfusion. Fail” (the session was repeated at 12 noon, presumably a success). The use of four film packs and eight flash bulbs was logged. The subject matter is a poignant reminder of the ­seriousness of post-war health issues, with diseases caused by malnutrition and rampant poverty. Tuberculosis, a manifestation of slum conditions aggravated by the war, was all too common then.

Office diaries recording assignments taken by the Photo Unit – including the page with the very first entry on 3 January 1949. Courtesy of Ministry of Communications and Information.

The state of the health of the population was just one of many troubling issues. With the end of British military rule – that followed the surrender of the Japanese – on 31 March 1946, the Straits Settlements was dissolved and Singapore became a Crown Colony, though a poor and shabby one. The population was nearing the one million mark, and there was a larger proportion of women, children and the elderly. Post-war economic recovery was slow and the future uncertain. Threats both external and internal faced the colonial government – armed insurgency by communist groups in Malaya on the one hand, and the activities of left-wing groups operating in Singapore on the other. Harsh measures were imposed. At the same time, the inevitability of eventual independence from the British was already manifestly apparent, even as the journey to that goal was utterly unclear.

A first small step was taken on 1 April 1948 when the colonial structure was amended to include a Legislative Council comprising several elected local members. Public opinion now mattered, and photography was perceived as having a useful role to play.

“The creation of a public relations branch was a tacit recognition of the large and legitimate part which public opinion must play in shaping the future of the Colony,” advised the 1948 Singapore annual report. The report acknowledged the need for the government “to keep the public informed of its policies and of the administrative details and functions arising out of the carrying out of those policies at a time of ever-growing public interest in public affairs and a readiness to assume responsibility for them”.² The authorities were also cognisant of the need to instill allegiance by spinning a positive light on its affairs to promote “a common and active loyalty to the Colony, its security and its welfare”.³

Browsing through MITA’s online photograph collection from the 1950s is like taking a slow journey through a very, very different Singapore. There are the expected official events and VIPs but also plenty of images that offer a time capsule of the island and everyday life, and youthful versions of familiar faces. Many of these images were first displayed in official “photo boxes” erected around the island. Back then, photo boxes – literally glass cases displaying important notices and photographs – were used by the government as a means to disseminate information to the public. In 1953, there were 53 such photo boxes and, by 1956, the number had increased to 93.⁴

Photo boxes containing images and notices were used to disseminate information to the public. This photo was taken at Collyer Quay, 1954. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The 1955 general election was the first time a majority of the seats in the Legislative Assembly were elected rather than appointed by the colonial authorities. After the election, the Public Relations Office was renamed the Department of Information Services on 1 January 1957, and relocated to the newly created Chief Minister’s Office. Photographs became increasingly important to government publications and publicity campaigns. Two photographers were on staff to “keep a record of public functions and of departmental activities and to print material for overseas distribution and for use in the publications of the Department or other government publications”. A generous 7,625 negatives were exposed during the year.⁵

Two years later, in the 1959 general election, Singapore attained full internal self-government when the People’s Action Party (PAP) won the majority of the seats in the Legislative Assembly. The new leaders were in a hurry to engage the hearts, minds and imaginations of people living in a complex multiracial society with divided loyalties and the legacy of colonial rule. Housing, education, the economy and jobs were all hot topics. New policies and programmes needed to be conceptualised and conveyed to the public.

The Photo Unit Steps Up

The task fell to the new Ministry of Culture (MOC), whose goal was to “channel popular thinking and feeling along national lines and to re-organise the Information Services and the administration of mass media for the dissemination of information”.⁶ In effect, the MOC served as the government’s public relations arm, educating newly minted citizens about government policies and rallying people around a Malayan national identity in anticipation of merger with Malaysia.

Sinnathamby Rajaratnam (1915–2006), or S. Rajaratnam as he was better known, a former journalist and a founding member of the PAP, served as the first minister for culture for six years, from 1959 until 1965. In that role, he was given the responsibility of formulating policies to create a sense of shared identity, a common Malayan culture and to keep the people informed. He soon earned a reputation as the government’s chief communicator.

Rajaratnam grasped that government ideals and policies, no matter how brilliant, needed to be communicated effectively or they would fail: not abstract slogans, but something more concrete was needed. Photographs were the ideal medium. Perhaps more than any of his fellow cabinet members, Rajaratnam understood the power of pictures. Apart from being a gifted writer, he was also a keen amateur photographer. The hobby was acquired during his student days in London, from 1935 to 1947. Surviving images from this time attest to his aptitude as he framed everyday scenes from unusual perspectives or with a distinctly modern flair.⁷

Not surprisingly, the Photo Unit, now absorbed into the new ministry, became engaged in a flurry of activity. In 1959, over 9,000 negatives were exposed, covering major news events and keeping a record of the government’s activities. Multiple copies of selected negatives were printed, a staggering 71,200, many of which were displayed in the ubiquitous photo boxes scattered around the island. Others were supplied to the press, local and overseas organisations as well as to the general public on request.⁸

Photographs also provided the raw material for other media, including Photo News, a series of large-format information posters with bright background colours and captions and explanatory notes in the four official languages. Over the next nine years, Photo News graphically conveyed the story of changing Singapore – the expansion of industry and housing estates, the launch of national service, cultural events and infrastructure projects. Ministers and members of parliament were featured opening schools, factories and community centres. Some issues were devoted entirely to foreign affairs, sharing the latest news on the prime minister’s visits overseas or foreign leadersʼ visits to Singapore.

City Council News Photo No. 3 (text in English, Chinese, Malay and Tamil). Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The 1960s was a decade of turbulence and transformation, and the Photo Unit was kept busier than ever. The work of the photographers continued to be reproduced in booklets, posters and various promotional materials and publications circulated by the ministry’s Publicity Division. Even with the advent of television, photography continued to play an important role. The first television broadcast took place on 15 February 1963 and regular broadcasting started a few weeks later. But few households owned television sets due to their high cost, and broadcasting was limited to only a few hours in the evening.

Data published in the Singapore annual reports record the prolific output of the Photo Unit. In 1960, some 8,835 film negatives were exposed and 71,864 photographs printed.⁹ By 1965, negatives were no longer counted but printed photographs were – some 209,800 that year. These serviced “53 photo boxes in markets and display boards in Government offices and 1,388 photo display boards in bus shelters and coffee shops”.¹⁰ In 1966, the unit printed 241,500 photographs. There were “some 53 photo boxes in markets as well as 53 photo boxes and display boards in Government Offices and 1,383 photo display boards at bus shelters and coffee shops which carry the Weekly Photo News posters published by the Division”.¹¹

Keeping Up with the Times

By the end of the 1960s, however, there was a distinctive shift. The use of photography for nation-building purposes was superseded not only by the widespread ownership of television sets, but also by the changing requirements of an increasingly sophisticated society. Photo News as a medium of communication was deemed outdated and ceased publication in 1968. The once omnipresent photo boxes were gradually dismantled. The very last photo box to be removed was on the High Street side of the Supreme Court building, sometime at the end of the 1980s. At the same time, a stronger awareness of the need to preserve the country’s history emerged. An important milestone was the establishment of the National Archives and Records Centre in 1968,¹² which was tasked with the custody and preservation of public records, including photographs.

Workers at a pineapple canning factory, 1952. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The Photo Unit has, however, continued in its work to photograph Singapore. Today, the unit is part of the Ministry of Communications and Information, and housed at the Old Hill Street Police Station building. Veteran photographer Goh Lik Huat, who joined the Photo Unit in October 1977, recalls that six or seven full-time photographers have manned the unit at any one time over the years. Over time, the nature of the assignments undertaken has evolved. Originally, the unit covered a wide range of activities, but the focus has narrowed down to the office of the president, prime minister and some key members in the Prime Minister’s Office.

Cameras are government-issued – from Rolleiflex film cameras in the 1950s to Leica cameras from 1965, and Canon digital cameras today. Black-and-white film continued to be used until the 1990s, but overlapped with and was eventually replaced by the use of colour film. The switch to digital cameras took place in the early 2000s. Each year, the unit organises its collection of photographs for transfer to the NAS where they are catalogued and made accessible to the public. In the early days, negatives were sent together with a printed contact sheet for easy reference. Today, the files are saved in compact discs. Technology has changed, but there is one endearing example of continuity: daily assignments are still manually recorded in an office diary.

Fishermen with the day’s catch, 1951. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Capturing the Bigger Scene

A photograph captures a moment in time and can be rich in unintended documentation – background shophouses, littered streets, barefoot children. In striving for the perfect shot, many of the less-than-perfect photographs have a gritty spontaneity that seem to fit the subject and the times. As William Henry Fox Talbot (1800–77), the English scientist and inventor who was one of the pioneers of photography, observed in The Pencil of Nature, the first photographically illustrated book published commercially: “It frequently happens, moreover – and this is one of the charms of photography – that the operator himself discovers on examination, perhaps long afterwards, that he had depicted many things he had no notion of at the time.”¹³

That the photographs from this era were taken with the idea of swaying public opinion or rallying citizens is in itself of historical interest. While only a few photographs from the collection can accompany this essay, the full sweep of history can be enjoyed by exploring the images on Archives Online. Alongside historic moments and iconic personalities, the MITA photograph collection offers insights into ordinary people and everyday affairs. Preserved, documented in place and time, they can be exhibited, reproduced, studied, interpreted, re-evaluated and, above all, enjoyed.

Notes

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Lee Geok Boi trawls the oral history collection of the National Archives to document how people coped with the precious little food they had during the war.

In times of war and occupation, food is about survival and not quality or flavour. For the people who lived through Singapore’s harrowing Japanese Occupation years from 1942 to 1945, survival was made all the more difficult for a number of reasons.

Singapore has always been a port city, its lifeline fuelled by trade and commerce.¹ Although the first commercial plantations of nutmeg and pepper never quite took off,² there were considerable swathes of land where pineapple, coconut and rubber grew in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

The town centre made up less than a quarter of the island and there were plenty of rural areas with kampongs that were engaged in market gardening, poultry and pig rearing,³ along with Indian dairy farmers who kept cows to produce milk for sale. Singapore’s rural areas were, in fact, so large that the Municipal Council that administered the island had a Rural Board.

The 1931 census put the population of Singapore at 557,700⁴ (although a census had been planned for 1941, it was never carried out because of the war). The only pre-war figure available is a 1939 estimation by the British, who cited the population size as 767,700.⁵ In 1943, the Chosabu (Department of Research),⁶ estimated that the population in Syonan-to – the Japanese name for occupied Singapore (meaning “Light of the South Island”) – was around 900,000.⁷

The sudden spike in the population between 1939 and 1943 arose from the influx of refugees from Malaya in search of safety on the island as well as the injection of some 100,000 British Army troops into Singapore for the defence of British Malaya.⁸ The unexpected increase in the population put severe pressure on food supplies, which was not a good thing as Singapore imported most of its food.

Pre-war Singapore was the key port in the region, handling not only commodities such as tin, rubber and copra (dried coconut kernels from which oil is obtained) from Malaya, but also the storage and distribution of oil from the Dutch East Indies (present-day Indonesia) and Borneo. Singapore was also a major distribution centre for foodstuffs and consumer goods in the region, with Japan as a key trading partner. In the 1930s, Japan supplied more than half of Singapore’s everyday essentials, ranging from canned sardines and cotton goods to glassware and bicycles.⁹

During the Japanese Occupation, food import and export businesses in Singapore were taken over by Japanese companies. This is a propaganda leaflet promoting Japanese goods and cooperation with the Japanese. Source: David Ernest Srinivasagam Chelliah (Acc 4/1990, 18).

Once Japan’s economy went on a war footing, it ceased to be Malaya’s main source of consumer goods. At the same time, Singapore’s other supply chains were affected by the war in Europe. More critically, Japan’s Pacific War disrupted Singapore’s food supply. Train and shipping lines that used to transport rice from Burma and Thailand were seized by the military, and the movement of people and goods were subjected to strict security checks. At the same time, traditional rice-growing cycles were affected by the war, leading to a reduced supply at a time when the need was greatest.

Pre-war Singapore hosted small enterprises producing such foodstuffs as soya sauce, noodles, tofu (beancurd), bread, biscuits and confectionery, all of which depended on imported ingredients. Once the supply of basic imported ingredients were cut off, these businesses either had to close down or resort to using substitutes.

For example, noodle makers had to use tapioca flour as a substitute for wheat or rice flour. People had to adjust their eating habits, switching from rice to other more easily available carbohydrates such as tapioca and sweet potatoes. While Singapore did not face outright famine during the Occupation years, it saw an increase in diseases relating to malnutrition and a spike in deaths. Between 1942 and 1945, the combined death rate for men and women more than doubled from 29,831 to 65,158.¹⁰

Queuing Up for Food

At the start of the Occupation in 1942, the Japanese seized the food stocks that had been set aside by the British. The appropriated stockpiles were reserved for Japanese military use with a smaller portion set aside for the general population.

This sketch by the artist Liu Kang portrays the Japanese distribution system of essentials, which was widely seen as responsible for the black market, and the enrichment of the Japanese and unscrupulous businessmen. Image reproduced from Liu, K. (1946). Chop Suey (Vol. I). Singapore: Eastern Art Co. Collection of the National Library Singapore (Accession no.: B02901746G).

The British defence strategy for Singapore in the face of an impending crisis was to hold out until naval ships came to the rescue. Part of this defence plan involved the stockpiling of food until help came, but this was never fully realised as Singapore’s humid climate meant that food supplies could not be stored for long periods. In any case, in the final days preceding the fall of Singapore, warehouses and shops were looted. Immediately after the British surrendered, Japanese soldiers conducted house-to-house searches; if loot was discovered, it was confiscated, and the perpetrators had their heads promptly cut off.

(Back) A ration card issued during the Japanese Occupation to control the supply of rice and other essential items. Queuing for rations became a way of life. There were rations for practically everything, and not just rice, flour, sugar and salt. Each time rations were bought, the card would be stamped to record the week’s purchases.
(Front) A $10 bill in use during the Japanese Occupation. Known as “banana money” because of the motifs of banana trees on the bank notes, the currency became worthless due to runaway inflation coupled with black market practices. Both images courtesy of the National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

Food import and export businesses in Singapore were taken over by Japanese companies, and the military administration began grouping suppliers of various commodities into distribution monopolies called kumiai. For instance, the import and distribution of rice was handled by Mitsubishi Shoji Corporation. The Cold Storage supermarket, which had a good refrigeration system and was a major importer of frozen meat, was made into a butai, a company linked to the military.

To exercise control over the population and the supply of food, a rationing system was instituted and the members of all households had to be registered to receive ration cards. As part of the rationing system, any movement of people from one household to another or out of Singapore had to be reported to the neighbourhood police. Rations would then be adjusted accordingly. Food and other related essentials were sold at controlled prices that were published in the newspapers daily. Theoretically, consumers could buy their rations at fixed prices although in practice, this was not the case.

Long queues for rations would form hours before the shops opened and people were rarely able to buy their quota of foodstuffs at the published prices. The quality, too, left much to be desired: rice was often weevil-infested and the sugar damp.

Over time, the rations shrank in quantity as well. The rice ration, for instance, started at 20 katis (about 12 kg) a month per person, dropping to 8 katis for men, 6 katis for women and 4 katis per child towards the end of the Occupation. Even then, people were not allowed to buy the full month’s entitlement all at once, but had to queue for them weekly or whenever new supplies were available.

Food became “cash” in the war economy. It became the practice for big companies to provide lunch for the staff as part of their wages. Cold Storage, being a butai, appeared to have been particularly generous in this regard. Chinese primary school teacher Tan Cheng Hwee, who used to work for Cold Storage during the Japanese Occupation, remembered his very big lunches at work: “That is the best part of our lives in Cold Storage, because our lunch, I think, is equivalent to that of the Commander-in-Chief of this Japanese Army in Singapore. Every day on each table, we had one [imported from the US] Rhode Island chicken. And we can pick and choose whatever liver we want. We had four plates and one cup of soup. And each bowl of vegetables is a very big one. We had so much to eat. So much so – there were about 20 people eating at the Cold Storage – every day they had enough remaining for eight people to carry home.”¹¹

A father and daughter having a simple meal of porridge and nuts. Deprivation and hardship were a constant feature of life during the Japanese Occupation. Image reproduced from Wikimedia Commons.

On top of this generous lunch, Tan was given 1 kg of rice to take home every day. Bags of rice became prizes at competitive games and social functions as well as wages for work done. It was more valuable than “banana money”,¹² the currency introduced by the Japanese for use in the Japan-occupied territories of Singapore, Malaya, North Borneo, Sarawak and Brunei.

Rationing remained in full force even after the British returned in 1945 and more stocks of food and other essentials began coming in. Image reproduced from Lee, G.B. (2005). The Syonan Years: Singapore Under Japanese Rule 1942–1945 (p. 159). Singapore: National Archives of Singapore and Epigram. (Call no.: RSING q940.53957 LEE-[WAR])

Another form of “cash” were the vouchers that were given out for various things; especially valuable were vouchers for cloth and clothing. Couples who registered with the military government their intent to marry were given cloth vouchers that could be exchanged or sold for something else. Informal barter trade became common. If someone had harvested too much tapioca, he could exchange it with a friend or neighbour for sweet potatoes or vegetables.

Given the shortages, celebrations of annual festivals and weddings were invariably low key. In any case, the Japanese military police, or Kempeitai, frowned on large gatherings and imposed a nightly curfew. Celebratory meals, on the rare occasions that they took place, were usually lunches and it was not uncommon for guests to bring food to share at the table.

Black Market Blues

Defined as the “illegal trading of goods that are not allowed to be bought and sold, of which there are not enough of for everyone who wants them”, the black market was very active during the Occupation years. Scarcity led to hoarding and inflated prices even though hoarding was a crime. Corrupt officials in the monopolies set up by the Syonan administration were themselves responsible for hoarding and trading on the black market for personal gain.

Many people who survived the Occupation had no choice but to turn to the black market for much sought-after medicines, tinned milk for babies and better food for the sick, among other goods. The black market was the only recourse as people began to release their hoarded stockpiles in order to get their hands on other essentials they needed.

Although British propaganda was remarkably effective in persuading people that the outbreak of World War II in Europe in 1939 would not reach Singapore, the more far-sighted had begun hoarding essentials to see themselves through what could be a really difficult time.

The relatively wealthier segments of Asian society in pre-war Singapore accumulated assets such as gold, jewellery, household goods, furniture and clothes. Some converted fixed assets such as property or land into gold or Straits dollars, which they kept hidden until the need to use them arose. As existing stocks of essential goods in occupied Singapore depleted and shortages were more acutely felt, all manner of consumer goods surfaced in the black market.

A newspaper notice listing the prices of basic food items at the start of the Japanese Occupation. The Syonan Times, 25 February 1942, p. 3.

As the Japanese administration printed more “banana money” to fund its war expenses, the value of the notes plummeted in value, made all the worse by the rise of counterfeit money. Spiralling prices meant that one had to carry large bags of notes just to buy the smallest items. Businessman Chua Eng Cheow said that when the banana notes were first introduced, the value was on par with the Straits dollar. Pre-war an egg cost 3 cents, but at the end the Occupation it was $100. A kati (600 g) of pork went from 30 cents to $1,500!¹³ The Straits dollar, gold and jewellery re-surfaced on the black market in lieu of the “banana” currency.

Black market trading was dangerous territory. If a nasty or desperate neighbour reported unusually lavish food consumption or the sudden availability of scarce medicine, the household could expect a visit from the dreaded Kempeitai, who paid for such inside information with cash or food. Because of the surreptitious nature of the black market, it provided numerous jobs for “runners”, or people who made a commission whether in kind or cash by connecting buyer with seller. Tan Cheng Hwee described it thus: “If you have something [of value], you ask one after another whether you require this thing or not. And probably that chap will say ‘Okay, I’ll try and sell for you’. Then it goes like this, from one person knowing until, in the end, 20 people know about it. Then the sale will go through… anything from measuring tape… to gold.”¹⁴

Chu Shuen Choo, another war survivor, recalled that things like food or medicines bought from the black market had to be hidden carefully, “otherwise you will be queried ‘where did you get this?’ and then you will get into trouble”.¹⁵

Growing Your Own Food

In order to develop self-sufficiency, the Japanese administration held exhibitions that taught people how to cultivate their own food. Seeds for crops were sold cheaply or given away. Radio Syonan broadcasted talks about food cultivation, and detailed instructions were published in the daily newspaper, The Syonan Shimbun.

(Top) People were encouraged to grow vegetables, sweet potatoes and tapioca during the Japanese Occupation. Image reproduced from Lee, G.B. (2005). The Syonan Years: Singapore Under Japanese Rule 1942–1945 (p. 165). Singapore: National Archives of Singapore and Epigram. (Call no.: RSING q940.53957 LEE-[WAR]).
(Bottom) The ground in front of St Joseph’s Institution on Bras Basah Road was turned into a vegetable garden as was every spare bit of land in Singapore including the Padang. Image reproduced from Lee, G.B. (2005). The Syonan Years: Singapore Under Japanese Rule 1942–1945 (p. 163). Singapore: National Archives of Singapore and Epigram. (Call no.: RSING q940.53957 LEE-[WAR]).

School fields were turned into vegetable plots and schoolchildren had to spend part of the time tending their vegetable plots. Any piece of land that could be easily used to cultivate food crops was made over. The best known of these conversions was the Padang fronting the Municipal Building,¹⁶ which was turned into a tapioca field. Other common crops were sweet potatoes, various types of beans, kangkong (water convolvulus), bayam (spinach), mustard greens, and gourds such as bitter gourd and bottle gourd. All fruits, even tropical varieties such as rambutans, durians and mangosteens, were considered a luxury as fruit trees took time to mature and when they produced fruit, it was only seasonally.

There were several issues with deve­loping food sufficiency in Singapore. Few people knew much about farming or keeping livestock and, to make matters worse, the island’s soil for the most part was not rich in nutrients. As chemical fertilisers were not available, some resorted to enriching the land with human faeces and urine, but this practice ran the risk of contamination and the spread of intestinal parasites such as tapeworms and food-borne diseases.

Keeping livestock posed its own share of challenges as there was no access to animal feed. Food scraps were scarce too as practically nothing was thrown away and people usually cleaned off their plates when they sat down to a meal.

Necessity being the mother of invention, some were quite creative in addressing these issues. In an oral history interview, Lee Tian Soo, then a student living in Chinatown, recalled: “I kept 20 to 30 fowls. We used to buy small chickens and then we looked after them… We had to look for something to feed the chickens. So we used to go down the drains with a candle to look for cockroaches. We would put them in a bottle and the next morning, we fed them to the chickens. Those chickens grew very fast.”¹⁷

Whatever that could not be eaten or was unpalatable was chopped up and fed to livestock along with duckweed to add bulk. Another survivor, Tan Sock Kern, nurtured a couple of goats that were given by an Indian friend into a small flock. Goats, she found, were easy to keep as they ate grass and, better yet, produced milk.¹⁸ Stray cats and dogs sometimes disappeared from the streets and into cooking pots. Kwang Poh, who sold cats and dogs for food, even did the slaughtering when asked to do so.¹⁹

The military began a campaign to return people from Malaya who were not originally from Syonan to their hometowns up north. They were soon joined by residents from Singapore who, out of their volition, also travelled north to stay with relatives in Malaya where there was easier access to homegrown rice and food. To reduce the pressure on food supplies, the Syonan administration began resettling people outside Syonan in remote makeshift villages where they were encouraged to grow their own food.

There was at least one small settlement for Indians on Batam. The Eurasian and Chinese Catholic settlement was located in Bahau, in Negeri Sembilan. The largest and most successful was the Chinese settlement in Endau, Johor. Bahau was an unmitigated disaster. The land there was hilly and the soil poor with no ready access to water. Malaria was particularly rampant and killed off the very old and the very young. Apart from malaria, the settlers knew little about crop cultivation. Weakened by disease and malnutrition, farming became too difficult. Bahau saw some 3,000 settlers – men, women and children – moving from Singapore in search of a better life. By the time the Occupation ended, between 300 and 1,500 people had died in Bahau (the exact figures are unknown).

The first settlers to Bahau – mainly young, single men – had to clear the land, build a rudimentary road from the train station to the camp and set up basic infrastructure before the families started arriving (Japanese propaganda photo). Courtesy of Father René Nicolas.

In Endau, malaria was less of a pro­blem and the community had leaders who had some knowledge of agriculture. Endau settler Chu Shuen Choo said in her oral history interview: “We had fruits, we had vegetables. … We had fish from the stream, eggs… a few ducks which, when we felt like eating, we just cut them up and ate them. … We had pork… And I would buy gula melaka (palm sugar) because my children wanted to eat sweets. We had no money to buy sweets, so I would cut this gula melaka into small portions, put them in the bottle. So whenever they wanted anything to eat, my sister would say ‘There is your gula melaka. Go and take’.”²⁰

At the end of the Occupation there were some Endau settlers who chose to remain there rather than return to Singapore. For the town dwellers, part of the attraction of Endau or Bahau had been the freedom from Kempeitai surveillance even though they knew they were opting for an uncertain life as “farmers”.

Wartime Victuals

With rice supplies drying up, tapioca, sweet potato and ragi (a type of millet) became the default staples in occupied Singapore. Tapioca and sweet potato were fairly easy to grow, especially tapioca, but it wasn’t pleasant to eat on its own. Tapioca that was made into noodles became rubbery when cooked. Bread was made with non-wheat flours, which yielded a tough loaf that sometimes had to be fried to make it remotely edible.

Chu Shuen Choo described ragi as “black stuff like sago. And we used to cook it like sago. Put scraped coconut on top of it and make it sweet, and eat it like a sort of cake to substitute rice. Otherwise we would be so hungry the whole day.”²¹ Cooking oil was scarce, so people had to make do with palm oil. Chu’s family would make their own coconut oil by boiling down coconut milk, and used their palm oil rations for lighting oil lamps instead.

Painting of a hut belonging to Dr John Bertram van Cuylenburg and Mrs van Cuylenburg in the Bahau settlement. The painting was done by Mrs van Cuylenburg in 1945. In 1943, due to food shortages in Singapore, the Japanese administration launched resettlement schemes to relocate people to farming communities in Endau in Johor and Bahau in Negeri Sembilan. F.A.C. Oehlers Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The phrase “a tasty wartime meal” sounds like an oxymoron, but a tasty dish simply requires aromatic ingredients. Although shallots, onions and garlic did not thrive in Singapore and had been imported before the war, there were other traditional aromatics that fared well here with minimal fertilising. Among these were ginger, serai (lemongrass), lengkuas (greater galangal or blue ginger), krachai (lesser galangal or finger root), limau perut (kaffir lime), limes, turmeric and chillies. Some even grew wild. Other typical Southeast Asian ingredients such as dried shrimps, ikan bilis (anchovies) and belacan (shrimp paste), were also fairly accessible as both were produced in Malayan coastal fishing villages.

William R.M. Haxworth was the Chief Investigator at the War Risk Insurance Department in Singapore when he was interned during the Japanese Occupation, first at Changi Prison then at Sime Road Camp. During his internment, Haxworth produced more than 300 paintings and sketches depicting the terrible living conditions in the prisoner-of-war camps. This sketch titled “Bread Ration” takes a humorous look at the fluctuating portion sizes of prison rations as well as the internees’ attempts at baking, with their “scones” resembling “stones”. W.R.M. Haxworth Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Tan Cheng Hwee said: “I used to cook long beans with a bit of dried prawns and belacan. I brought it to work and throughout this time, I was eating this sort of food.”²² With just a combination of three basic ingredients – salt, belacan and chilli – one could prepare a reasonably tasty dish of, say, sweet potato leaves. Adding coconut milk made the dish even tastier. Coconuts were easily available as there were coconut trees everywhere even though coconuts were a controlled commodity. Coconut pulp could be finely ground and used to thicken gravy as well as add bulk and dietary fibre to a dish, while coconut water is tasty and rich in vitamin C.

Salt, an essential ingredient in food, was abundant, with Singapore surrounded by sea water. Palm sugar was used as a sweetener and, in lieu of soya sauce, there was fish sauce, also easily made by allowing small fish and salt to ferment in barrels placed in the sun. Coastal villages in Punggol, Pasir Ris and Pasir Panjang were inhabited by Malay fishermen who engaged in fishing. Because so much of the island was still rural, there was a small supply of chickens, ducks, eggs and pork as well as some market gardening produce.

The availability of such food was, of course, confined to those with the ability to pay for them. For most, the wartime diet was wholly inadequate. Many people, especially children, suffered from diseases caused by malnutrition, such as rickets, beriberi, pellagra, scurvy and anaemia. People fell ill easily because their immune systems were compromised. Malaria was rampant as were water-borne diseases like typhoid and dysentery. Water had to be boiled, requiring the use of fuel and matches that were difficult to come by.

The drugs necessary to treat various diseases were not available or hard to procure, and the food needed to keep people healthy or aid in the recovery of those who were ill were beyond the reach of the poor. All this had a profound impact on the survivors of the Japanese Occupation. Thereafter, their mantra would be “Do not waste food”, repeated frequently to a post-war generation of young people who would grow up in the midst of relative plenty.

Notes

Fiona Tan tells us about the people who laid the bedrock of the National Archives of Singapore, along with details of how the institution has evolved since its inception in 1938.

“The man who is appointed to a post being created by the Straits Settlements Government will have a life-time job before him. An archivist is wanted.”¹

In April 1938, an advertisement to recruit the first archivist for the Raffles Museum and Library was placed in The Straits Times, describing the position – with typically dry British wit – as a “life-time job”. One can assume that this phrase was not in reference to the permanent nature of the job, but to the scale and difficulty of the tasks that awaited the person who eventually filled the position.

Since then, many brave and dedicated persons have played a part in preserving Singapore’s history through their work as pioneering archivists and early supporters of the archives.

The First Archivist: Tan Soo Chye

The man eventually selected as Singapore’s first archivist was Tan Soo Chye, a fresh graduate from Raffles College. Shortly after his appointment at the archives unit under the Raffles Museum and Library, the 24-year-old left for Batavia (present-day Jakarta) to study under Frans Rijndert Johan Verhoeven, the Landsarchivaris (National Archivist) of the Lands Archief te Batavia (State Archives of Batavia) in Java for two weeks. The Raffles Museum and Library was then located on Stamford Road, in the building that today houses the National Museum of Singapore.

Upon his return, Tan began indexing the Straits Settlements Records (SSR), a series of 170 large bound volumes of handwritten records from as early as 1800 that document the British administration of the Straits Settlements comprising Singapore, Penang and Malacca. These records had been recently transferred from the library of the Colonial Secretary to the care of the Raffles Museum and Library.² By 1940, Tan had compiled a “comprehensive index recording every person, event and institution mentioned in original documents of all records relating to the Straits Settlements” in the series.³

Tan Soo Chye, the first archivist appointed by the Straits Settlements government in 1938 to manage the historical records at the archives office at the Raffles Museum and Library. Image reproduced from The Straits Times, 13 August 1939, p. 13.

Soon after the outbreak of World War II in Malaya in 1941, the records were sent to the Raffles College for safekeeping.⁴ Edred J.H. Corner, the botanist responsible for the care of the remaining books and specimens in the Raffles Museum and Library during the Japanese Occupation, wrote a vivid account of how some of these records came back to the library’s possession – first through a passive, but incomplete, return from the Syonan Department of Education in February 1944, and later by a chance discovery and subsequent swift purchase of several missing volumes that were being sold as wastepaper by unknowing Chinese women labourers.⁵

After the war, Tan returned to his job as the sole archivist. He began to promote the SSR collection by writing articles on Singapore’s history for various newspapers, giving public talks on local history, and publishing essays about the SSR in academic journals, including the esteemed Journal of the Malayan Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society. Michael Tweedie, then Director of the Raffles Museum and Library, began exploring ways to provide Tan with opportunities for further study and professional development.⁶ Tan eventually obtained a Class II honours in history from the University of Malaya in 1951 and graduated at the same time as Hedwig Aroozoo (later Hedwig Anuar, the first director of the National Library).⁷

In December 1953, an unexpected turn of events saw Tan transferred to the Department of Customs and Excise. There, Tan rose rapidly through the ranks to become Comptroller of Customs in 1960, the first Asian to do so. Tan later served as a member of the National Archives and Records Committee, albeit for a short period, from 1975 to 1976, to advise the National Archives and Records Centre on what records to acquire and review as a representative of the Joint Chambers of Commerce.⁸

Historians Call for a National Archives

Cyril Northcote Parkinson, Head of the Department of History at the University of Malaya. He was one of the earliest to call for a national archives to be established in Singapore. This portrait was taken in 1961. Source: National Archives of The Netherlands, retrieved from Wikimedia Commons.

With Tan’s departure, the position of archivist remained vacant until 1967. Upon the separation of the Raffles Library and Museum in 1955, the archives unit became a department under the Raffles Library. In 1958, the Raffles Library was renamed Raffles National Library, moving two years later into the now-demolished red-brick building at the other end of Stamford Road and changing its name yet again – this time to just the National Library. All this while, the archives was under the charge of the library. During this period, reference librarians continued to provide administrative support and helped researchers with their requests, even though they had no experience in managing archival records.⁹

One of the earliest public calls for an independent archives came from Cyril Northcote Parkinson, Head of the Department of History at the University of Malaya. In 1953, he issued a strongly worded editorial in The Straits Times, titled “Lumps are Being Eaten Out of Our History: Cockroaches Make Past a Mystery”, in which he recommended setting up a national archives where “in air-conditioned rooms, on steel shelves, with skilled supervision and proper precaution against fire and theft, the records of Malayan history might be preserved indefinitely”.¹⁰

In 1956, Parkinson reiterated his view, which had now taken on a nationalist urgency, asserting that “one early sequel to Merdeka should be the creation of a Malayan National Archives”.¹¹ His view was echoed by Kennedy Gordon Tregonning, a history lecturer at the university, who urged for archival and records management legislation to ensure that the past will be “preserved for the historians (and the administrators) of the future”.¹²

While an archives was set up in the Federation of Malaya in 1957, Singapore continued to be without an independent archival institution. Tregonning, who succeeded Parkinson as head of the University of Malaya’s history department in 1959, continued advocating for a national archives in Singapore.¹³ During a visit to the Toyo Bunko¹⁴ in Tokyo, Japan, in 1966, he saw a collection of East Asian manuscripts printed on bamboo strips which inspired him further. Upon his return, he helped Hedwig Anuar, Director of the National Library, to draft a proposal to establish an archives institution in Singapore.¹⁵

Dutch archivist Frans Rijndert Johan Verhoeven advised the Singapore government on the best international practices on archives management and assisted in drafting related legislation, which eventually became the National Archives and Records Centre Bill. Image reproduced from Web Centre for the History of Science in the Low Countries.

Recommendation by UNESCO

In February 1967, the Singapore government approached the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) for technical assistance to set up a national archives. UNESCO assigned the aforementioned Dutch ­archivist Frans Rijndert Johan Verhoeven, who had just completed a stint as the Director-General of the National Archives of Malaysia from 1963 to 1966.

Between April and August 1967, Verhoe­ven advised the Singapore government on the best international practices on archives management and assisted in drafting related legislation, which would eventually become the National Archives and Records Centre Bill. Verhoeven also conducted an extensive survey of records and archives held at the National Library and at other government agencies. He found that there was no systematic method for appraising records among the government ministries and statutory boards he surveyed, and that only three departments had been transferring records since 1959. He also recommended halving the time that public records were kept restricted, from 50 to 25 years, and having archives staff, rather than administrative officers, be responsible for appraising records.

Furthermore, Verhoeven found that the pre-war records held by government departments were in a much worse state, as they had been “stored on wooden shelves and cupboards, a victim of the rigours of the tropical climate, of the continuous attacks of voracious insects and rodents, and liable to moulding and foxing from dampness and flooding”. There was “no air-conditioning, fumigation nor repair”, and the precious records were at risk from fire and flooding. Verhoeven anticipated an urgent need for additional space to accommodate both new and existing records.

The report prepared by Dutch archivist Frans Rijndert Johan Verhoeven on the state of Singapore’s archives and records management practices. Titled Singapore: The National Archives and Records Management, it was published by UNESCO in December 1967 and presented to the Singapore government in February 1968.

In addition, Verhoeven reviewed the archives’ existing holdings and concluded that there was much material “of historical value for the region”. He lamented, however, over the severely inadequate storage facilities and handling of the collections. For example, the National Library, which fumigated the documents twice a year, did not have “the staff, the equipment nor the know-how to give these unique and important documents the treatment they urgently need[ed]”. There were also inadequate descriptions, indices and lists of the holdings to aid research and access.

Verhoeven’s findings and recommendations were documented in a highly influential report, Singapore: The National Archives and Records Management, published by UNESCO in December 1967 and presented to the Singapore government in February 1968. In the document, Verhoeven underscored the importance of a national archives to Singapore’s growth as a nation: “Perhaps I should stress here, that no people can be deemed masters of their own history until their public archives, gathered, preserved and made available for public inspection and investigation, have been systematically studied and the importance of their contents determined. Therefore, it is a moral obligation of any democratic government to make archives of national and historical value available to the people.”¹⁶

The First Archives Director: Hedwig Anuar

In September 1967, Singapore’s parliament passed the National Archives and Records Centre Act, which established the National Archives and Records Centre (NARC) under the Ministry of Culture. The legislation empowered the NARC to ope­rate as a separate national institution and to take over the management of archives and government records from the National Library. Its new statutory powers included the critical provision that public records could now only be destroyed or disposed on the authority of the NARC director. On 7 February 1969, Hedwig Anuar became the first director of the NARC; she was concurrently director of the National Library.

A staff sorting records at the repository in the Lewin Terrace premises of the National Archives and Records Centre (NARC) in 1970. Image reproduced from Annual Report of the National Archives and Records Centre 1970.

Under Anuar’s leadership, the NARC rapidly built up its institutional infrastructure and capabilities. In January 1970, partly in response to its perennial problem of insufficient space, the NARC moved to bigger premises, taking over two refurbished colonial houses at 17–18 Lewin Terrace, Fort Canning Hill. The new facility had space for more mate­rials to be stored, more staff to be hired, and new equipment and services to be introduced. It was also furnished with a 24-hour air-conditioned repository.

Despite this, the archives’ collections continued to grow so rapidly that the institution expanded into four buil­dings by mid-1973, including a third facility beside 17–18 Lewin Terrace, operational by mid-1971; and a Records Centre at 45 Minden Road in Tanglin, which opened in 1973.¹⁷

In the early years, establishing the paper conservation department was a priority as the NARC had an enormous volume of paper records that urgently needed care from years of neglect. Hence, the paper binding and repair section, the predecessor of today’s Archives Conservation Lab, was set up in July 1970.¹⁸

Staff of the Raffles Library photographed in 1957. Between 1954 and 1967, the archives was a department under the Raffles Library, later renamed as the National Library. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Besides overseeing the NARC’s deve­lopment, Anuar also led the institution in establishing ties with other archival institutions in the region. In 1969, the NARC joined the Southeast Asian Regional Branch of the International Council on Archives (SARBICA), which had been established the previous year. Anuar also contributed to a greater regional awareness of archival resources in Singapore, presenting a paper in April 1969 on the National Library and NARC’s research resources on Southeast Asia at the SARBICA conference held in Puncak, Indonesia.¹⁹ She also served as the vice-chairman of SARBICA’s executive board between 1971 and 1973, and as its chairman from 1973 to 1975.²⁰

Anuar held the position of director of the NARC until 7 February 1978, when a senior archives officer took over as acting director.

The First Professional Archivist: Lily Tan

In September 1967, Lily Tan left Singapore to pursue her studies in archives administration at the University College London under a Colombo Plan Scholarship.²¹ Upon her return and appointment as senior archives officer in late August 1968, the NARC officially began operations with a skeletal staff of eight people: Tan, two clerical assistants, two archives attendants, a typist, a binder and an office assistant.

Mrs Hedwig Anuar (extreme left) with then Minister for Culture S. Rajaratnam at the presentation ceremony of the Gibson-Hill Collection to the National Library, 1965. Courtesy of National Library Board.

Ten years later, in 1978, Tan was promoted to acting director. In 1985, she became NARC’s director, and would lead the institution for over two decades until her retirement in 2001 – the institution’s longest-serving director to date.

One of Tan’s first major tasks as acting director was to draft a memorandum for the establishment of an oral history programme within the NARC. The setting up of a national-level oral history programme to document histories that were not found in official records had the strong support of several influential members of government. While the idea was first mooted by then Deputy Prime Minister Goh Keng Swee in 1978, it was the permanent secretary in the Ministry of Finance, George Edwin Bogaars, who played an instrumental role in securing high-level support from his superiors and the Ministry of Culture.²²

The proposal was quickly approved and the Oral History Unit began operations in September 1979, with Lily Tan concurrently holding the position as director of the newly formed unit. At the beginning of 1981, the Oral History Unit merged with the NARC to form the Archives and Oral History Department (AOHD), with Tan again serving as the director of the new entity.

In 1985, the AOHD was split into the Oral History Department – which came under the charge of Kwa Chong Guan, a senior Ministry of Defence officer who had been seconded to the Ministry of Culture – and the National Archives with Tan continuing as director, resuming its traditional role as the custodian of national records.²³

Lily Tan, Director of the National Archives of Singapore (1978–2001), at the opening of the exhibition “Road to Nationhood” in 1984. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Tan also oversaw the enhancement of the archives’ capabilities in preserving records. These plans included managing the Central Microfilm Unit (CMU) after it was transferred to the AOHD from the National Library in 1983.²⁴ Starting in 1995, the archives began to emphasise the importance of managing electronic records. As Tan explained: “If we fail to manage electronic records, there will be gaps in our history.”²⁵ These early initiatives in 1999 to develop guidelines on the archiving of e-mail records for the government and custom archival systems, such as the Electronic Registry System, continue to evolve and remain very relevant today.

Next, to improve access to its collections, the NAS launched an ambitious scheme to digitise its reference system in 1996. This meant painstakingly conver­ting the archive’s hardcopy finding aids into an online digital database. Beginning with Picture Archives Singapore (PICAS) in 1998, which provided access to the archives’ extensive photo collection, it grew into a full-scale online database called Access to Archives Online (a2o) in July 2000.²⁶ This was the precursor to today’s Archives Online database, which contains public listings of more than a million records. Technological advancements have also enabled the NAS to offer more records and of higher resolution on Archives Online, realising the vision of an archive that is accessible from home.

In April 1995, the Audiovisual Archives Unit was established within the NAS to collect, preserve and provide access to audiovisual records of national or historical significance. In the beginning, the collection comprised some 8,000 motion picture film reels and videotapes, which had been created by public offices, private organisations and individuals.²⁷ The NAS also became a founding member of the Southeast Asia-Pacific Audio Visual Archives Association (SEAPAVAA), established in February 1996 in Manila, the Philippines, to bring together ASEAN film and video archivists. Today, SEAPAVAA is the leading audiovisual archive association in the Asia-Pacific region.

Building Awareness

Under Tan’s leadership, the National Archives embarked on several initiatives – mainly exhibitions and publications – to generate greater public awareness of its collections and services.²⁸ Besides engaging traditional users, such as “people conducting historical research”, the NAS also cultivated new users, for instance, through dialogue sessions with arts practitioners.²⁹

Like her predecessor Hedwig Anuar, Tan also saw the importance of establi­shing good relations with archives outside of Singapore. She played a leading role in SARBICA’s executive board, serving as its secretary general (1978–81), vice-chairman (1981–84; 1997–99), chairman (1984–87; 1999–2002) and executive board member (1987–95).³⁰

Led by Tan, Singapore hosted high-profile regional and international archives-related seminars. One of these was the SARBICA seminar on the Management of Architectural and Cartographic Records in November 1991, a significant forum for dialogue between professionals across Southeast Asia, including archivists, libra­rians and professionals from other disciplines, such as urban planners, architects and conservation experts.³¹ Another was the IASA-SEAPAVAA Conference 2000, a major international conference hosted in conjunction with the International Association of Sounds and Audiovisual Archives (IASA) and SEAPAVAA. More than 190 leading archive professionals from 40 countries attended this event.³²

In 1993, Tan led the National Archives through a major restructuring exercise, which saw the amalgamation of the National Archives, Oral History Department and National Museum into a new statutory board, the National Heritage Board (NHB). Under the NHB, the National Archives and Oral History Department came together once again to become a single unit called the National Archives of Singapore, with the Oral History Department renamed the Oral History Centre. The NHB was tasked to preserve and showcase Singapore heritage across all mediums and to increase public awareness and appreciation of Singapore’s past.

Accordingly, NHB’s public outreach efforts were stepped up, with almost 40 NAS exhibitions curated between 1996 and 2011 at high-traffic locations islandwide, including schools, community hubs and shopping centres. One high profile project was “The Singapore Story: Overcoming the Odds”. Launched in 1998 and curated by the Singapore History Museum (now National Museum of Singapore), the travelling national education exhibition and accompanying programmes, which featured archival materials from the NAS’ extensive collection, attracted a record 648,000 visitors. To complement the exhibition, NAS published the book Singapore: Journey to Nationhood, which enjoyed a record print run of over 27,000 copies and was subsequently translated into Chinese, Malay and Tamil.³³

During Tan’s tenure as director, the archives relocated twice. The first was in 1984 to the refurbished Old Hill Street Police Station when it was still known as the Archives and Oral History Department. The new space had a substantially larger archival repository, a professional conservation and repair workshop, a microfilming lab, an exhibition space, a lecture hall and a large public reference room.³⁴

In 1997, the archives moved again to a building it could finally call its own – the former Anglo-Chinese Primary School at 1 Canning Rise. Designed to encourage public visits to the archives, the building was renovated to include an Archives Reference Room, an enlarged exhibition area, a theatre and soundproof audio recording rooms. The new premises also came with five purpose-built climate controlled repositories and large workspaces for the archives’ conservation and imaging laboratories, ideal for both archival work and public tours.³⁵

More recently, in April 2019, the NAS building reopened after an extensive 18-month renovation programme that saw upgraded facilities, expanded public spaces and a dedicated theatre for the screening of Asian film classics.

Building on Pioneers’ Work

Retiring from a long and illustrious career in the archives in 2001, Lily Tan handed over the baton to her successor. Many of her initiatives have been continued by subsequent directors of the National Archives of Singapore: Pitt Kwan Wah (2001–11), Eric Tan (2011–13), Eric Chin (2013–17) and Wendy Ang (2017–).

The pioneering officers who charted the course of the archives worked with a dependable team of staff, board members, government officials and public advocates who helped lay the foundation for many of the key programmes to acquire, preserve and disseminate records of national or historical significance.

The NAS has progressed a long way from its origins as a small archives unit in the Raffles Museum and Library in 1938. From a collection of just 170 Straits Settlements Records, the NAS has grown to become the trusted repository of a vast and growing multimedia collection of over 10 million records. It has become an archive of international standing today, and stands head and shoulders among the leading archival institutions of the world.

Insights from a Veteran Archivist Mrs Kwek-Chew Kim Gek has spent the last 45 years at the National Archives of Singapore (NAS). Besides her wealth of institutional knowledge, Mrs Kwek holds the record of being its longest-serving staff. She retired as Deputy Director (Records Management) in 2014 and currently works part-time as a senior archivist. She relates some of her experiences: On joining the National Archives and Records Centre (NARC) – as the NAS was known back then – in 1974: I’ve always wanted to be a teacher or librarian, but when I saw an ad for an archives and records position, I decided to apply. I hadn’t the faintest idea what an archivist did as archival work was new at the time in Singapore, but the job description attracted me as I’ve always had a keen interest in history. Many people didn’t even know how to pronounce the word “archives” back then and we had to correct them while trying to keep a straight face (“are-cheeves” was one of the several permutations!). On the set-up of the NARC in the 1970s: The archives was still in its infancy in those days. We had fewer than 10 staff members, and resources and funding were very tight. My boss Mrs Lily Tan, who would become the first director of the archives, used to describe our operations as a “man, a woman and a dog set-up”! On the training of young archivists in the 1970s: There were no formal courses to attend and I had no experienced colleagues to learn from. Training was on the job. We had to familiarise ourselves with the standard textbooks on archives and records by the two gurus of archives: T.R. Schellenberg and Hilary Jenkinson… Mrs Kwek-Chew Kim Gek (extreme right) with colleagues at an office function to celebrate the National Archives’ 25th anniversary in 1993. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore. In 1983, after almost 10 years on the job, I was sent on a three-month attachment with the State Archives of New South Wales, Australia, and in 1991, on a two-month stint in Ottawa and Toronto in Canada. These attachments combined theory and practice, and enabled me to meet archivists from all over the world. This network of contacts would prove extremely valuable in time to come when I had to seek advice from experienced people on archival best practices. On collecting private records from religious organisations: Mrs Kwek-Chew Kim Gek with colleague, Assistant Archivist Yao Qianying, of the Records Management Department. This photo was taken in 2017 when the National Archives was vacating its premises at 1 Canning Rise for major renovations. Courtesy of Mrs Kwek-Chew Kim Gek. One of my first tasks was to microfilm archival records of churches and Hindu temples. In those days, the churches were a little suspicious of our intent and unwilling to release their records to us. So, together with a photographic assistant from the National Library, we carted along a portable microfilm camera and carried out microfilming on site at the church premises. This was not ideal because we couldn’t control the ambient lighting to obtain the best results. Still, we made do… Going to a Hindu temple to collect records was a bit of a culture shock for me. Once, I was greeted by a Hindu priest with a chalk-marked bare torso and I didn’t know where to avert my eyes! On the value of NAS for Singaporeans: First and foremost, to meet the needs of the man in the street. Private records are important documents that any ordinary citizen might seek access to. For example, there are people who ask for copies of their school attendance records to show as proof when registering their children at the same school. We’ve also had people requesting for their marriage certificates in order to settle inheritance and estate matters. Second, archival records help us to understand ourselves as Singaporeans. The Maria Hertogh riots of 1950 and the racial riots of 1964, for example, teach us that race and religion are sensitive issues in Singapore and things that we should never take for granted. Reading primary records and listening to oral history accounts can give us new perspectives on historical events that have already been extensively documented. Finally, by providing public servants with access to past official records, they can learn which government programmes and initiatives were successful and which ones failed. This can be a useful exercise when framing and implementing new public policies. Interview was conducted by Mark Wong, Senior Oral History Specialist at the Oral History Centre, National Archives of Singapore.

Notes

Abigail Huang tracks the movement of the National Archives of Singapore, from its early days in the Raffles Museum and Library on Stamford Road to an old school building at the foot of Fort Canning.

Interpretive Centres by the National Archives of Singapore In the 2000s, NAS opened two World War II “Interpretive Centres”– places where archival records, especially oral history accounts, present multifaceted stories of Singapore’s history. “Reflections at Bukit Chandu”, at 31K Pepys Road, was officially opened in February 2002. Launched to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the fall of Singapore, it honours the brave soldiers of the Malay Regiment in their heroic defence against Japanese enemy forces in one of the last battles before the fall of Singapore in February 1942. The National Heritage Board took over its management in 2012. The “Memories at Old Ford Factory” exhibition gallery, at the Former Ford Factory at 351 Upper Bukit Timah Road, was opened in February 2006 to relive the dark days of the Japanese Occupation in Singapore between 1942 and 1945. This building, used as an assembly plant for the Ford Motor Company in 1941, was the site of the British surrender of Singapore to the Japanese. The exhibition was revamped and retitled in 2017 as “Surviving the Japanese Occupation: War and Its Legacies”. Reflections at Bukit Chandu on Pepys Road. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Who would have thought that obscure rainfall records from the 1960s would have a bearing on a landmark case before the International Court of Justice? Eric Chin explains the value of archival records in preserving and presenting evidence.

“and the archive… was caught up in the middle of it all”

– Anne Gilliland, Archival Science, September 2010¹

Archivists and those who use the archives for research work may be familiar with the well-known adage that archives are “about acquiring, describing and preserving documents as evidence”.²

This was most powerfully demon­strated in the resolution of the Pedra Branca dispute in 2008 by the International Court of Justice (ICJ). Prof S. Jayakumar and Prof Tommy Koh were unanimous in their view that the legal team “would not have the materials with which to write the written or oral pleadings”³ without the help of the National Archives of Singapore (NAS). At the end of the court proceedings, the judgment of 23 May 2008 on Pedra Branca (ICJ Judgment)⁴ was granted in Singapore’s favour. The NAS would go on to receive the President’s Certificate of Commendation in November that year for its “outstanding team work and contributions towards the successful resolution of the Pedra Branca dispute”.

The same honour was bestowed on the NAS some 10 years later on 28 October 2018 for “outstanding teamwork and contributions in defending Singapore’s sovereignty and national interests”, as part of an Inter-Agency Pedra Branca Team, when Malaysia filed an application at the ICJ on 2 February 2017 to review the judgment made in 2008.⁵

Evidence in the Everyday

“not compiled with an eye toward history”

– Arlette Farge, 1989⁶

How was the day won? The ICJ Judgment stated the basic legal principle on the burden of proof – “a party which advances a point of fact in support of its claim must establish that fact”.⁷ The key facts cited in the judgment were established through evidence found in diverse archival records, such as correspondences, official memos, reports and maps. These were compiled from the archival holdings of the NAS and other Singapore public agencies as well as from overseas archives.

Together, the documents provided a wealth of evidence testifying that Singapore’s actions were wholly consistent with the exercise of ownership, such as the exercise of control on who could visit Pedra Branca. Notably, the ICJ Judgment specifically highlighted the converse as well: the absence of any archival evidence of actions presented by Malaysia to contradict Singapore’s position.⁸

An 1851 painting of the gunboat Nancy and Horsburgh Lighthouse on Pedra Branca by John Turnbull Thomson, Government Surveyor for the Straits Settlements. Nancy sailed from Malacca and arrived at Pedra Branca on 1 May 1848 to combat piracy in the area. The lighthouse was designed by Thomson and completed in 1851. It is named after James Horsburgh, a hydrographer with the British East India Company. Courtesy of the National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board.

In a case where the legal exami­nation of the facts went all the way back to the 1800s, the heavy reliance on documentation provided by the NAS and other archives was to be expected. What was more surprising was that most of the archival records that eventually found their way into bundles of evidence for scrutiny were bureaucratic records created in the course of everyday business – received and dutifully kept as ordinary records of seemingly little national or historical significance. It is fair to say that the many who produced or filed away these archival records, some from over a century ago, could not have anticipated how they would come to be used one day.

Among the archival records that made a surprise appearance before the ICJ was a letter from the American Piscatorial⁹ Society dated 17 June 1972, requesting permission to undertake research in the waters surrounding Pedra Branca. There were also meteorological publications on rainfall that were held as “significant in Singapore’s favour”: the inclusion of Horsburgh Lighthouse as a “Singapore” station in 1959 and 1966 when such information was jointly reported by Malaysia and Singapore and, more significantly, its omission from the 1967 Malaysian report “when the two countries began reporting meteorological information separately”.¹⁰

It is clear that the value of the evidence contained in an archives is not always fully realised at the point of its creation. It is the role of the archivist to see a bigger picture, the ability to see beyond the immediate purpose and use of a document.¹¹

“Archives are not a static artefact imbued with the creator’s voice alone, but a dynamic process involving an infinite number of stakeholders over time and space.”¹² Those in the archives community are only too aware that archives are “always in a state of becoming”,¹³ as different people can view and interact with the same archival records from different perspectives and contexts at different times. This being the case, the value of the evidence contained in the archives is not confined to its use in legal proceedings alone.

Horsburgh Lighthouse on Pedra Branca island is clearly listed as a Singapore Rainfall Station on page 4 of the report, Meteorological Services Malaysia and Singapore: Summary of Observations for Malaya, Singapore, Sabah and Sarawak 1966. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Beyond Judicial Evidence

We can take a leaf from the Australian Society of Archivists, which has posited that the mission of the archivist is “to ensure that records that have value as authentic evidence of administrative, corporate, cultural and intellectual activity are made, kept and used”.¹⁴ This positions “evidence” as the constant at the heart of the archives but it also touches on the fact that the archives may be valued for different reasons, from the bureaucratic and organisational to the cultural, from being symbols of national pride to those of a community and the personal.

As the NAS entered its 50th year in 2018, it is apt that it can offer much for those wishing to cast a renewed eye on our history during this bicentennial year (marking Stamford Raffles’ arrival in Singapore). A multi-faceted archives can offer varying insights for diverse people, from historians interested in serious post-colonial discussions to those simply wanting to discover nuggets of interesting sights and sounds of the times.

A first stop when looking at NAS’ holdings relevant to the bicentennial must be what has become known as the Straits Settlements Records (SSR), which date back to the year 1800 and charts the history of the British administration in Singapore as well as the Malay Peninsula. Among these records are Raffles’ proclamations and his letters of instruction on the administration of Singapore.

A well-known example of Raffles’ influence on Singapore’s development is the six “Regulations” issued by him despite not having the legal authority to do so. More recently uncovered alongside the substantive parts of the regulations are his common-sense instructions for their dissemination. Apart from the original versions in English, Raffles astutely directed that the regulations be translated into both Malay and Chinese. He also directed that they “be published by beat of gong and affixed to the usual places for public information”. The use of the gong in lieu of the bell rung by a typical English town crier was at the very least practical; or perhaps it was simply a nod to local culture.

The NAS has come to learn a lot more about the contents of the early handwritten SSRs through the tremendous efforts of members of the public. These “citizen archivists”, as they are known, have steadily transcribed the manuscripts into searchable text since the voluntary project began in 2015. To date, more than 28,000 pages of the SSR have been transcribed to reveal a vast amount of new knowledge.

For instance, in the proclamation made under the direction of Raffles dated 14 March 1823, the transcription revealed that Raffles’ sense of British justice for serious crimes included the rather protracted punishment where the body of an executed murderer is “hanged in Chains and given to the winds”.¹⁵ We now know from our own archives that dramatic movie scenes of hanging skeletons were very much true to life back in the day.

Raffles’ Regulations III and VI set up a nascent magistracy, and the first notions of British-style justice was practised in Singapore until formal ties with English courts were cut in 1994.¹⁶ The reception of English law and its courts were formally confirmed in the Charters of Justice. The original copy of the 1855 Third Charter of Justice has been preserved by the NAS and is currently on display at the NAS exhibition, “Law of the Land: Highlights of Singapore’s Constitutional Documents”, at the former Chief Justice’s Chamber and Office, National Gallery Singapore.

A poster from the 1959 Legislative Assembly general election encouraging people to “vote to choose our government” as “Singapore is ours”. Ministry of Information and the Arts Collection, courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

The Third Charter of Justice provided for the post of the very first professional judge to be permanently located in Singapore – evidence of the island’s growing commercial and administrative importance by that time. Citizen archivist transcriptions, however, have provided evidence that the British did not necessarily have blind faith in their methods alone.

Another citizen archivist transcription revealed that on 16 April 1862, long before the 1990s push towards “Singapore law to develop in a way most suited to its people’s needs”,¹⁷ then Governor of the Straits Settlements William Orfeur Cavenagh voiced serious misgivings about magistrates fresh from the English Bar who possessed scant local knowledge. In a ­letter addressed to the Secretary to the Government of India, he wrote:

“I am unable to agree… as to the propriety of selecting Magistrates from the English Bar without any reference to local knowledge; although most readily acknowledging all the great advantages of a legal education as fitting its recipient for the performance of legal duties. I have long considered that a knowledge not only of the lang­uages, but of the general character and habits of Orientals is not merely essential but absolutely necessary to enable an Englishman to satisfactorily dispense justice amongst our Asiatic fellow subjects.”¹⁸

2019 also sees the 60th anniversary of an event on the other end of the colonial era. In 1959, Singapore achieved self-government with an elected 51-seat Legislative Assembly. The positions of Governor and Chief Minister would be replaced with the Yang di-Pertuan Negara (Head of State) and Prime Minister respectively. In the run-up to the election that took place on 30 May 1959, the importance of voting was emphasised through colourful posters and election songs,¹⁹ encouraging people to “vote to choose our government” as “Singapore is ours”.

The posters and songs preserved by the NAS serve as part of the evidence of the sights and sounds of an important but turbulent period, culminating with the archival document that has been imbued with symbolic value – the hastily typewritten Proclamation of Singapore in 1965.

The typewritten Proclamation of Singapore document signed off by founding Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew on 9 August 1965. This is another key document in the holdings of the National Archives. Courtesy of the National Archives of Singapore.

Evidence from Beyond Singapore

Apart from holdings transferred from other government agencies, NAS has for a long time been active in securing Singapore-related content from overseas archives. Unlike in ancient times, no single archive can claim to be the only “repository of both knowledge and proof in its day”.²⁰ Chief among the “foreign archives” that the public can access at the NAS Archives Reading Room are copies of “Migrated Archives”²¹ relating to Singapore from The National Archives in the United Kingdom.

These records from former British colonies were kept by the Foreign & Commonwealth Office and had not been available for public access until they were released in tranches from 2012. Similar records from the national archives of Australia and the United States have also been identified (and copied where permitted) as they provide different strands of evidence of Singapore’s colonial and post-colonial past as well as alternative perspectives of historical events. Through such steady work, the NAS seeks to be the primary and one-stop repository of Singapore content when it comes to archives from anywhere in the world.

A typical staff workspace with simple wooden desk and chair amongst the archives at the National Archives and Records Centre at Lewin Terrace, 1971. Courtesy of National Archives of Singapore.

Oral History as Evidence

“creating an archival record”

– Kwa Chong Guan & Ho Chi Tim, 2012²²

Instead of being cautious about treating oral testimony as evidence, the NAS sees the use of oral history and other forms of archives (apart from the textual) as the “path to a rich and nuanced understanding of events and actions”.²³ There has been a recent turning away by archivists and historians from the traditional reliance on textual records. There is a growing realisation that the purely textual is “not sufficient for all cultures and places”,²⁴ although the NAS has always proudly championed oral history through its Oral History Centre. In words co-authored by noted historian and former director of the Oral History Centre, Kwa Chong Guan,²⁵ the oral history recor­ding programme was “in effect creating an archival record of the circumstances of Singapore’s creation and development”.

The NAS’ long-time practice of drawing out concrete evidence as well as subtle nuances from key actors in events that have shaped Singapore and those who experienced the events first-hand and have a story to tell, has become the current refrain of many an archival theorist: “where documentary gaps exists… archivists should actively intervene with documentary projects such as oral histories… to create a ‘record’ that fills in the missing experience or knowledge”²⁶ or indeed, the eye witness accounts (i.e. evidence) of happenings.

Such was indeed required in the case of Singapore’s collective memory of the Japanese Occupation²⁷ where local records were all but destroyed. Where gaps have been less serious, oral history and archives in the form of photographs and audiovisual archives have also “contribute[d] to bringing to life individuals and communities that (may) otherwise lie rather lifeless or without colour in the paper record”²⁸ alone.

The Keepers of Evidence

“even if it is challenging – as all worthy activities tend to be”

– James M. O’Toole & Richard J. Cox, 2006²⁹

It would be remiss when speaking of evidence in the archives not to pause and recognise that archivists, historians and other researchers are now painfully aware that archives can sometimes only offer an “archival sliver”.³⁰ This may be partly attributed to the “avalanche of over documentation” (starting as far back as the mid-20th century³¹ and especially now in the digital age). Besides the indiscriminate disposal or deliberate destruction by creators of records,³² large gaps in archival records can also stem from careless appraisal methodologies or biases,³³ the exclusion of the marginalised,³⁴ and also the sheer failure by some to record transactions because of ignorance or deliberate acts by those wanting to be forgotten.³⁵

The wealth and reliability of evidence from any archive is ultimately shaped and nurtured by archivists, conservators and administrative staff who, together, have to apply sound archival ethics, policy, preservation and standards.³⁶ This started in Singapore some 50 years ago in 1968, when the National Archives and Records Centre was set up as an institution with its own dedicated mandate and “one Senior Archives Officer; two Clerical Assistants; two Archives Attendants; one Typist; one Binder; one Office Boy”.

Despite the modest numbers, it was a good start not least because the senior archives officer was Lily Loh (later Mrs Lily Tan), the first professionally trained archivist who would later be appointed director of the NAS from 1978 to 2001. She and her team of dedicated staff expanded operations to establish the first Oral History Unit, the first Audiovisual Archives Unit, and oversaw the move to the NAS’ current location at Canning Rise with its purpose-built conservation equipment and repositories based on international standards.

Today, the staff of NAS continue to build on this solid bedrock to preserve and present archival records that offer what the French historian Arlette Farge has evocatively described as a tantalising “tear in the fabric of time”.³⁷

Notes