~

NADRA

This is a fictional account based on the gruesome December 1950 Maria Hertogh riots. The Maria Hertogh riots took place in Post-War Singapore. The riots, which lasted for 3 days, took 18 lives and left over 178 wounded, was one of the worst racial riots in Singapore.

~

He first set eyes on this strange looking girl that fateful Hari Raya in a little shophouse in Rangoon Road near the clutter of junk he called home. The effulgence and sounds of great merry-making had drawn his attention. He tottered there like a winged insect fascinated by light while his stomach rumbled agonizingly. He was a young boy emaciated by prolonged hunger, face cadaverous with cold when he peered into that shophouse.

He found her awfully outlandish, that foreign girl. She wasn’t at all like any of the girls living in the kampongs he stole from. Her high forehead, her long lashes, and her long pointed nose, no, she couldn’t be Malay even though she was in the company of his kind. He was about to turn his interest to the kenduri piled sky high on the table when he heard her, that same orang balat, prattle to the crowd in a familiar language- his own tongue - Melayu.

“They wouldn’t let me come, ibu.” She whined. “I pleaded with the Matron, but they wouldn’t grant me the permission.” All this she said in fluent Malay. This rattled him and he couldn’t help but continue scrutinizing her and her animated blabbering about her ‘imprisonment’ in the convent (whatever that was). He was utterly amazed.

As the night grew frost-bitingly cold, he finally tore his gaze off her and scurried back to the dark side of Rangoon Road covered in the shadows of poverty. Just as he was about to turn away from the window, he heard them call out to her, that girl whom he had been so enraptured by, “Nadra… We’re so happy we can eat all these goodies with you today.”

So that was her name.

He had forgotten what he had come out for. He went back empty handed but no longer famished.

~

The dismal monotony of his life had almost led Aadil to forget that girl, Nadra whom he had spied six months ago during the Hari Raya celebrations at one of the shophouses in Rangoon Road. That was until he heard about ‘that Dutch girl’ from the kaypoh Uncle Yuusof (whom he had intended to steal from) selling currypuffs down the road.

“That Dutch girl ah…” He dragged the ‘ah’ in attempt to garner as much attention as possible from the aunties who would regularly pop down to his stall to buy some of his famous chicken currypuffs. “She’s causing her foster mother Che Aminah and her real mother that Mrs Hertogh so much heartache you know. They just cannot reach a compromise… But I’m sure you’ve already heard about it… So I won’t talk about it anymore.”

Aadil cocked his head to one side and stared imploringly at Uncle Yuusof, “What is it old man? Just finish what you were about to say.”

Was that Dutch girl the same girl? Was she that girl, what was her name? Oh. Nadra. Was she that same intriguing person?

“Why should I tell you boy?” Uncle Yuusof said fully cognisant of the boy’s fervid inquisitiveness.

Aadil knew he would get nothing out of this man if he did not buy any currypuffs from him. Business in exchange for a bit of juicy gossip was how Uncle Yuusof worked.

“Forget it gossip-monger.” Aadil spat and swaggered away.

He had little idea how right he was. Nadra was stirring up a whirlwind of conundrums in the British dominated courtrooms. While the rest of the world threw in their two cents worth on the court case between the foster mother Che Aminah and the biological mother Mrs Hertogh, building up a discordant hum of human voices everywhere, Aadil spent his days beseeching gullible passebys for money and stealing from those who refused him.

~

The fracas was building up. Livid crowds of Malay supporters of Che Aminah were gathered outside the Appeal Court. Many were flinging shrill guttural imprecations at the Europeans.

“How unreasonable! Che Aminah brought that girl up! She had better get custody of Nadra!” one middle aged Malay man exclaimed furiously.

Another voice loud and booming shouted, “The girl doesn’t wish to return to her biological parents… Those revolting Europeans who gave her away just like that!”

The same thing was happening at the Padang, and at various municipal buildings as well. There was so much tension everywhere.

Aadil found himself caught in a sea of incipient delirium.

Abruptly, a deafening roar came from the crowd swallowing him whole. The crowd went crashing everywhere. Strident calls of “Those colonial bastards!” rang loud and clear like an anthem above the heads of the fiendish, outraged, multitude.

Soon the throng of Malays swarmed and a malevolent plan had been prosecuted. The crowd was spurred to attack any European or Eurasian seen on the streets. Steely eyes were aimed at sourcing out any foreign looking individual.

Aadil, stuck within the mob felt an inexorable doom. Nausea overwhelmed him and the foul smell of sour perspiration ate at him. The ever-widening pool of blood soon stained the streets a bright red, like markings of war paint on a victorious clan. Aadil met the feverish gazes of those around him in stupefaction. The crowd continued to shove him convulsively forward. He could not escape from this raging conflagration of wrath.

As the mob moved on, blocking roads, stopping the flow of traffic, the police moved in. The struggle grew more turbulent. Suddenly, Aadil was battered on the back of his head with a solid block-like object. He fell to the ground and was stomped on by the stampede of Muslims convinced that their pandemonium would bring about justice. To the chagrin of the horde, custody had been awarded to Mrs Hertogh and not their beloved Che Aminah.

~

When Aadil awoke, he found himself sprawled by the side of the road, blood already dried into scabs on his body. He felt an excruciating pain rip through his cheek. There was a deep gash there.

As he pulled himself to his feet, a stinging soreness attacked his feet. As far as his eyes could see, he saw a scene of obliteration before him.

Who said love conquered all? How can that be? Look at what love gave us- a world full of killing and blood spilling.

He stood there.

~

Kenduri – Feast

Orang Balat – Westerner

Ibu - Mother
Kaypoh – meddlesome, interfering