31 August 1957 brings different memories and meanings to those who experienced it, write Kerry-Ann Augustin and Intan Maizura Ahmad Kamal
TODAY, we celebrate 57 years since Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra Al-Haj stood on the podium and shouts of Merdeka echoed throughout the nation. How many of us really understand that Merdeka means more than waving flags and watching a marching parade? We ask what Merdeka meant for those who were there to witness it for themselves.
TOH PUAN UMASUNDARI SAMBANTHAN
“That’s a beautiful photograph!” I uttered, amazed by the big black and white photo on the wall framed by a gold trimming. There, a timeless moment was captured. Tun V.T Sambanthan, a tall, dark, handsome man wearing a white dhoti was placing a broad cloak of detailed embroidery over the shoulders of a man in a songkok with spectacles. The look of unadulterated joy was plastered on both their faces. “Ah, that is a special Indian tradition, reserved for very, very special people,” Toh Puan Umasundari Sambanthan says, smiling. “And Tunku was a very special person.”
When talking to her, you may find your eyes welling up a little, or feel a slight lump forming in your throat and a crack in the steadiness of your voice because when the wife of the late Tun V.T Sambanthan speaks, she stirs up a passion in you about a Malaysia you wish you knew.
“Tunku sold a lot of his properties to help Umno. And it was the same for others like my husband. They didn’t have much money, but Tunku, Tun Tan Cheng Lock and Tun Sambanthan worked together and made personal sacrifices because they wanted the same thing - freedom,” she confides, adding that it was only after independence that they started building Malaysia from scratch.
Life under colonial rule, she tells me, was a painful one. After the British, came the Japanese, a period she often describes as cruel. She peppers her conversation with examples of a colour-blind Malaya, like the time her father hid Chinese kids from the Japanese who sometimes took these children as prisoners, or tales from her childhood spent with Malay and Chinese kids whose fathers were like brothers to each other. She speaks of Tunku fondly as an individual and as a leader who truly believed that Malaysia belongs to each and every one of us who stood together for its independence, irrespective of race or religion.
“I cannot describe that feeling when the Malaysian flag was hoisted for the first time at the stroke of midnight on August 31, 1957. Everyone was emotional,” she says. “We couldn’t believe this was actually happening.”
The 85-year-old may need a walker to aid her movement but all she needs to make me understand the significance of that historic day, are her memories. “For all of us there, we were seeing the national flag for the first time, hearing the national anthem for the first time, feeling freedom for the first time - now we were free to think for ourselves.”
Decades have passed since and Uma does not hide her discontent for the fiascos that now shadow the nation she proudly calls home. “Malaysians need to re-learn how blessed we are to live in a place that has so many races and religions in one place,” she confides. “Each religion teaches us the same thing - love, peace, kindness. If we practise what we preach, if we are true to what we are taught, then we will live harmoniously.”
She pauses momentarily and adds: “We shouldn’t be using religion as a political tool.”
Before I leave she pulls me in for a hug. She smiles and says: “I am optimistic that we can return to how we were one day. We’re only 57.” KA
BAHRIN AND BAHARUM MD ATAN
His kindly eyes dance with mischief as Bahrin Md Atan recalls the day he, along with hundreds of excited Malaysians, converged on Stadium Merdeka to witness Tunku Abdul Rahman’s historic proclamation of the country’s independence.
“Half of the stadium was filled with schoolchildren. I remember how splendid the convent girls looked in their blue uniforms!” says the soft-spoken 75-year-old former teacher, desperately trying to make his voice heard above the din of a family gathering in full swing.
He was 17 years old at the time and had made the journey to the stadium with his friends by bus.
“I woke up at 5 in the morning on that day. We were living in Kajang. My two friends and I walked to the bus station in town, about 1km away, to board the bus. We reached the stadium at 7.30am and there was already a big crowd.”
His father, a visiting teacher, had gone on ahead with his own friends in their family car.
Bahrin, a Petronas HR personnel before his retirement, says chuckling: “I don’t think he even knew I was planning to see Tunku! I remember taking our seats in one corner of the stadium, fairly near to the front of the stage where Tunku was seated. Everyone was in high spirits, excited at the thought of being free from the British.”
He recollects the sense of anticipation in the air days before Tunku’s proclamation. “I remember cycling down the street and how friends would holler ‘Merdeka’ every time we passed each other. Every day we’d do that until the day came. We’d already proclaimed Merdeka before Tunku even said anything!”
He concedes that as young boys, they didn’t really fully understand the significance of the day at the time. “All we understood was that we were going to be free from communist harassment. We thought that once we got independence, communist activities would also cease.”
Continuing, he says that although they too were caught up in the fervour of the day, he and his friends never really contemplated what their new future held. “We listened intently when Tunku took to the podium and made his speech. We were also entranced when the British High Commissioner spoke. But to be honest, we were more taken by what our sultans were wearing, resplendent in their attire compared to the British High Commissioner who sported a funny hat!”
Chuckling, Bahrin says that so charmed were they by the attires of the dignitaries that even the ride home on the bus was filled with chatter of who wore what. “We left the stadium at 12 because we wanted to catch the military parade.”
Back at school days later, talk of Merdeka continued, recalls Bahrin. “My friends and I couldn’t stop talking about what we had seen. We were particularly curious about how the people who’d form the government would fare and what changes, if any, we’d experience. It was a new chapter for the people and no one could predict how our story would unfold.”
Bahrin’s elder brother, Baharum, was also at Stadium Merdeka on Aug 31, 1957. The 76-year-old former school principal had gone on earlier with their father and his friends in their family car. “There were four of us and I remember how excited everyone was. We reached the stadium just after 7.30am.”
He recalls getting seats exactly behind Tunku. “I could feel the buzz, and the stadium heaved with people of all races. Everyone was united in this single dream. When Tunku proclaimed independence, I couldn’t help but shed tears. Not only because we were finally free from our colonial masters but also because our independence had been achieved without any bloodshed.”
Eyes misting, he concludes: “I can’t describe just how proud I was of our leaders at the time - Tunku of course, but also Datuk Panglima Bukit Gantang (Abdul Wahab Toh Muda Abdul Aziz) and Tun Muhammad Ghazali Shafie.” IM
WAN MOHAMAD SALIH
On August 30, 1957, 17-year-old Wan Mohamad Salih and his grandfather took a gruelling 10-hour train ride from Kuala Kangsar to Kuala Lumpur.
“We were so excited!” the former secondary school teacher exclaims. “Despite the long journey and the knowledge we could get caught in a possible communist ambush, my grandfather was determined to witness the historic moment.” Wan describes the atmosphere to be almost electric, saying on the night of the 30th at the Selangor Club Padang, people of all races and backgrounds mingled happily, adding that there were even Europeans in the mix, who were happy to see we were finally free.
His uncle joined them from Seremban, and when the first note of God Save the Queen played and the Union Jack started to make its descent, he turned around to find his uncle in tears. “We had our freedom but it didn’t mean we hated the British,” Wan Mohamad Salih says, explaining that to his uncle, the British despite their rule, left us with important legacies such as good education.
“Many people who went to the padang that night were there to see two things - the lowering of the Union Jack and hoisting of the Malaysian flag,” a moment he remembers vividly.
“Surprisingly, no one had made an announcement to the gathering to sing the national anthem together. But they sang their hearts out anyway and to this day, that was the loudest unorchestrated Negaraku I have ever heard.”
I ask him about the morning of the 31st, and Wan lets out a laugh. “We were more excited about the football match that was going to take place after the declaration of independence ceremony to be honest! I think most people stayed back for that!”
Wan Mohamad Salih, who grew up with many non-Malays says mingling with people of different races came naturally in those days. The tough colonial times also taught them what it meant to stand united. However, he feels the significance of the chants of Merdeka are no longer appreciated.
“It’s funny,” he says. “There were so many people at the Selangor Club padang that night and also on the morning of the 31st, shaking hands and hugging in joy. A lot of them were people who had no education, who never had the opportunity to go to school. But they understood the meaning of Merdeka. And now, we have so many graduates and institutes of higher learning, but educated people don’t know the meaning of Merdeka and say horrible things to each other on social media. Education came as a paradox in that sense.”KA