The horror that was Syonan-to

"Love has its place, as does hate. Peace has its place, as does war. Mercy has its place, as do cruelty and revenge."

That is a succinct quote of Isreali politician Meir Kahane. His rightwing views may be anathemic to democratic values, but the quote is the reality of state of nations throughout history.

In my younger days I sat on retired lorry tyres outside our wooden hut and listened to village elders in idle talk. Under starry skies, and in between sips of black coffee, my late father told tales of the inglorious days of Japanese occupation. Much too late as an adult, I realised I should have documented his stories for treasured memories to pass down the generations. Dad was an un-educated immigrant from China. My siblings and I are English-speaking, so much of the richness of his story are lost forever. As I try to put two fingers to keyboard now, I am unable to place his exploits in context of time and place.

Japanese forces invaded Singapore on 8 Feb 1942 and by 15 Feb 1942 the Battle of Singapore was over. General Arthur Percival surrendered to prevent further loss of lives. Had Gen Percival held on a little longer, history may have taken a different path. Unknown to the British, Japanese forces were precariously low on ammunition and supplies at the time. The Japanese renamed Singapore "Syonan-to", which meant Light of the South. Then followed three and a half years of hell living under Japanese rule. The incidents dad narrated occured before the invasion, during the eight days battle, and in the occupation period.

With the fear of impending invasion, people flocked into the city towards the end of 1941. It is a shared instinct of all civilisations past, to seek protection in numbers when facing an invading horde. So dad and family found themselves amongst thousands of refugees in the city, displaced and frightened, On a moonless night of 7 Dec 1941, the terror began as Japanese bombers flew over the island. The enemy planes had flown out of their base in Indochina across the South China Seas. The British were caught unprepared, believing Japanese planes could not make that long flight. City street lights were not even turned off. And so bombs came floating down. Shattering sounds of 1,000 lb bombs exploding nearby was deafening and made the earth beneath the feet shake. Not being near to ground zero, the family was spared injuries from the blasts. The hearts though, must have missed several beats when the shock waves of the explosions hit them.

After sometime, the bombings stopped and the short air-raid sirens brought people out into the streets. The aftermath was a shell-shocked mass of people, leaderless, disorganised and frightened. Thankful that no one in the family were harmed, dad surveyed the carnage around them. Ash and debris were everywhere, several nearby buildings were total wrecks as they sustained direct hits. Some houses a little further down the street were in flames. Though he did not see any bodies, it was obvious many lives had been lost. The bombings triggered a reverse exodus and a mad rush to get out of the city.

Dad's family packed the little belongings they had. Unfortunately, their destination was lost to me. There were no means of motorised transport. The males took on the mules' role hauling packs on their backs as they trudged along. Grandma was slowing down the party, and so the matriarch insisted the others push ahead and she will catch up. After some tear jerking moments, everyone decided that was the best option. You see, grandma had lotus feet. It's a 10th century Imperial China practice of women binding their feet as a kid. As adults, the feet are contorted and smallish. The desired result is a unique gait that was a peacockish display of aristocratic lineage. Average walking speed is about three miles an hour. For grandma, it would be three hours to cover a mile. On her own, grandma was lost for several days. Finally, haggard and almost delusional, she appeared at the family's destination. For a while they had difficulty recognising the grandma that stood before the family, for she was totally covered in black dust. She said the first night alone, she slept over at a cemetery in the open. Awakened the next day by heavy rain, she described a weird rain coloured black by soot from the burning city. She was drenched and her entire body were all black from the soot.

A crude bunker was dug, the entrance concealed, and there the family spent their days praying no Japanese soldiers stray onto them. News on atrocities committed by Japanese soldiers in China had already reached Singapore, so they were gripped by the fear. Much as they tried to ration whatever little food they had, it soon ran out. Mom used to tell of the hunger of those days. When all food was gone, they resorted to the barks of certain trees. It was during those times that the men folk were forced to come out of hiding in search of food. On one such venture, grandpa went out and never returned. Despite the fear of going out in daylight, a search was conducted. After some time, they found him dead from bayonet wounds. There was no time for grieving. They hurriedly buried him in a shallow grave with silent pledges to give him a proper burial if the future permits. That was not to be, for years later, they were unable to locate his remains where the marker had been.Today we have grandpa's grave at Chua Choa Kang Cemetery with no remains in it.

Eldest sister is the only sibling born before the war and she was three years old at the time. There were several kids in the party hiding in the bunker, one of whom was a six year old cousin. Late one night, unable to sleep in the humid bunker, cousin could barely make out the shapes of the elders in the darkness, huddled in hushed discussion. Driven by starvation and the overhanging fear of the Japanese invaders, despair had overtaken them. The elders decided on mass suicide after strangling all the kids in their sleep. Great despair and hopelessness had impaired their thoughts. Young as she was, cousin understood what had transpired and refused to sleep that night, thus preventing a family tragedy.

Hunger makes one take big risks. One day out scavenging for food, dad ventured further than he had ever been. He chanced an abandoned farm building and approached it cautiously. The crackle of chickens had him excited and in unguarded glee he rushed into the shed. Too l

ate he saw to his shock, two Japanese soldiers with chickens fluttering in their arms. The next few moments seemed surreal and remained a mystery for dad to the day he passed on. The two soldiers spoke to him in fluent Hokkien, our dialect. They told him not to be afraid of them and warned him to be careful as those that will come after them are 'ang chews' who are ruthless. 'Ang chews' in Hokkien sound like 'red beards' and dad took it literally. In my youth I remained puzzled, and to my shame I did no research on it. Late in life, in a chance discussion with my brother, I realised 'ang chews' was a reference to Manchus. Both Taiwan and Manchuria were vassal states of Japan at the time and from which they conscripted soldiers to fight for the Chrysanthemum Throne. The two soldiers were Taiwanese speaking their Hokkien mother tongue! A revelation my dad never knew. I googled but could find no mention of Taiwanese and Manchurian conscripts fighting for the Japanese in Singapore. Perhaps this was an accidental discovery of unrecorded history.

Whilst foraging for food one day, dad observed a fire fight some distance away. The incident must have been during the eight days when battle was still raging. Despite great fear of being exposed, he stood rooted to the ground and took in the scene played out in the distance. A small band of Aussie soldiers were pinned down by a larger Japanese force. From his vantage point he was able to see some Japanese soldiers making a flanking move. He feared the worst for the Aussie troopers, but did not stay to see the final outcome of the clash. Self-preservation took the better of him, and he sprinted back to the safety of the bunker, no doubt with another tale of the outside world to tell.

I have no sense of time of how long the family holed up in the bunker. Days spent foraging for food seemed the only activity. Sooner or later, luck will run out. Poor dad was caught by a Japanese patrol one day and experienced an utter contemptuous display of cruelty. One of the soldiers toyed with dad before thrusting his bayonet into the abdomen of a frail helpless man. As he slumped to the ground, dad decided to feign death. That quick thinking saved his life. A Japanese kicked him a couple of times and decided he was dead. With retreating footsteps, Japanese laughter and voices soon faded away.To be sure, dad waited a while longer lying completely still. When he tried to move, the pain suddenly hit him like a lightning flash. Seeing his blood all over the body and on the floor made him go limp. Still in shock, he crawled for a while, not knowing where to go nor what to do. Blessed are those who has a good Samaritan in their darkest hour. The angel came in the form of an Indian man who was passing by. He did a quick examination of dad's wound and saw a portion of the intestines had oozed out. Using his own sweat-shirt, he wrapped it around dad's waist to hold up the intestines. Somehow or other, the good Indian man managed to carry dad to Alexandra Hospital. It probably helped that dad was by then emaciated and down to 40kgs. The Indian gentleman has been my unsung and unknown hero. One has to understand that in those days, the Japanese had an operation 'Sook Ching' going on. It was a cleansing of Chinese perceived to be a threat to Japan. Young able-bodied Chinese were rounded up and hauled away to be shot en mass in secret places. Getting caught helping a Chinese would have been a serious situation for the Indian man. Fortune was both bad and good to dad but it left him with a weakened body and nasty scars to show where the bayonet entered the abdomen and exited at the back. Japanese bayonets were extremely long at twenty inches to do that kind of damage. Painful as the wound must have been, it was psychological damage that could not heal. It left dad with a hatred for the Japanese for years. I do not know if he eventually came to terms with his demon.

During the occupation period, life must have been extremely difficult for all residents. Japanese distrust of Chinese saw the latter persecuted severely in the Sook Ching operation. Thousands of young able-bodied Chinese were rounded up and families never see them again. The killing grounds of Tanah Merah and Changi beaches were red with the blood of thousands of innocent civilians. The local Malays and Indians had it easier as the Japanese left them alone. Spies were planted in Chinese communities and any whispered words of subversion gets one hauled away to torture chambers. Amongst the Chinese, mistrust became a social cancer. An uncle had to resort to use of acid to erase the tattoos on his bodies. In those days, tattoos were a sign of gangsterism, specifically singled out by Japanese for elimination. Dad said the Kempetai, or Japanese military police, were the most fearsome lot. At road checkpoints, they played punks with the locals wherever fancy took them. He had seen them disturbing the women folks, slapping men for no apparent reasons, made passengers pull the rickshaws for the pullers, confiscate anything they liked. He said whenever he encountered the Kempetai, he had to bow low and he feared for his life.

I have no recollection of what the family did during this period except vaguely hearing dad talk of his stay at the hospital. Alexandra Hospital was known as the British Military Hospital back then. On 14 Feb 1942 it was the scene of a horrible massacre. Japanese forces overran the hospital and slaughtered over six hundred patients and staff. Most of the patients were wounded British soldiers, several were from the battleship Prince Of Wales which had been sunk earlier. It must have taken several more months before the hospital became functional again. Apparently dad must have been admitted to the hospital long after the Battle of Singapore was lost. During his recuperation at the hospital, he heard tales of hauntings of those massacred. Some of those hauntings remain to this day. Eventually he was tasked as a kitchen helper with a sideline selling cigarettes to the Japanese staff. The leftover food he was able to bring home were bonuses. He was still at the hospital when the war ended. On 12 September 1945 General Yamashita surrendered unconditionally to Lord Louis Mountbatten. Much as he hated the Japanese, dad respected their immense sense of pride. After the surrender, he said several Japanese doctors and nurses committed suicide within the hospital. He had seen a couple of hangings in the restrooms, and death by gunshots, but he did not see any hara-kiri. These Japanese preferred death to a life of shame in defeat.

This is my father's story and the closes I will ever get to feel that panic of fear, the pains of deprivation, and the hopelessness of life in a time of war. The Japanese occupation taught us as a nation to always favour peace but endeavour to build a strong military. Today, Singapore has a small but credible defense capability built on the backbone of citizen soldiers. There was utility in dad's first person story. It instilled in me a better sense of purpose in the three years I spent in the Army. For that I am grateful for the knowledge that the full-time and reservist training were not meaningless loss of time.

I conclude with a tribute to honour thousands of brave men who fought under British command. These were local Malay regiments, Australians, Indians and of course British soldiers. Many died gallantly in battles, many more died in prison camps, and surviving prisoners of war carry the scars of tortures inflicted by their inhumane captors. These were men the accident of history call upon to make ultimate sacrifices so that evil does not prevail. May their loved ones find comfort that a grateful nation always remembers.