A scurry of footsteps collided against the fragile wooden floor, every press of their feet evoking a strained creak: a subtle implication to its antiquity. Farah’s house stirred awake. She was greeted by the sun’s rays as they stretched across the foliage surrounding the vernacular house, dashes of light seeping through openings of window gaps, pouring into the bedrooms. Usually, the discomfort of Malaya heat would’ve stirred Farah awake; however, due to the rain pour yesterday, the clouded sunlight no longer possessed its glaring talons. The kampung awoke to warm sunlight as it mellowed a soft breeze with the farm animals roistering about: the beginning of a vibrant day.
Outside, the raucous kampung children could be heard: muffled yells of elation as they reveled in the dusty earth. Sighing in thought, Farah’s eyes lingered on their jumping bodies and dashing smiles, evidently desirous of joining the group on their day’s escapade. Peeking through the narrow space that the window provided, she observed as the children had all kinds of contraptions. Gasing’s were let loose in a circle, framed by the huddle of children’s bodies as they spun in mesmerizing rounds. Billows of dust gathered at the tips, fighting a game of life or death—their duration determining their status. In another group, purposefully distant from the frenzied crowd, children were jumping on ropes formed by rubber bands, counting their successes between giggles and cheers of encouragement. Farah grew envious of her friends’ joyful spirits as she was instead tasked with chores by her parents. However, this bitterness was soon smothered, for today told a different story. A spirit of festivity consumed the entire kampung. Today marked the day of Malaya’s freedom, a chance to be their own—independence day had finally arrived.
Hours of pulling weeds and gathering foods passed, and the rich fragrance of curry and sticky, creamy coconut rice lingered around the dull wooden house, suffusing every corner. It seemed like Farah’s specially-picked foods proved their usefulness. Across a lengthy table were dozens of delicacies: ketupat’s were displayed in straw baskets, large bowls of curry occupied the center, ladles waiting patiently by their side, and decorated plates of vegetables were spread evenly. Farah was no longer in her casual attire but was instead clad in a cerulean blouse, deep pink petals embroidered on the sides as a maroon sarong sat at her hips, gold diamond patterns cast along its length, glistening under the artificial light.
Soon, amiable voices signaled the guests’ arrival as they entered with embellished plates and baskets bearing snacks: a gesture of appreciation. Once the entire kampung gathered at her house, their feast commenced. People rounded the table, mouths evidently salivating and eyes pinned on the dishes. They were anticipating, calculating every move like how a pack of predators would stroll the tall weeds of their prey’s premises first before striking. Then, their lingering ceased as hands and utensils bombarded the table, filling their plates as well as others to the brim. Silently observing a reunion through food, Farah could tell that everyone was already in high spirits, although the main event was yet to begin.
With sated appetites and cheery smiles, everybody was directed to the back area, where, atop a stout table, rested a feeble square television. The glossy frame was stained pecan brown with a grey screen in the middle, flickering to life as the contorted pixels met to form a blurry image. As the clock’s handle neared the twelve mark, everyone was ushered in the room, plopping down on couches and cushions. The glow of the black and white screen cast a dim light on Farah’s face as the distorted figures began to shape into bodies and the sporadic hum of the television molted into words. Farah looked up at the clock: there were ten more minutes until twelve.
The blank screen then briefly flashed a flurry of colors, morphing to shape a stupendous audience. Farah inched closer to the screen, in search of a particular person. Then, below the glaring stadium lights, emerged Tunku Abdul Rahman: the man who fought for this day. He sauntered to the center, clothed in a dark sarong, or at least that was what Farah could discern as the lack of colors on her screen caused a hindrance to this knowledge. She had desperately wished to experience this in person. To feel the warmth of the artificial light against her dark skin and to behold everyone in their woven dresses, cheongsams, and sarongs bursting with color, rather than the wearisome black and white, would be a sight to cherish. Farah checked once again: two minutes until twelve. Then, with one motion, the harsh stadium lights were replaced with a wave of darkness, the people’s only source of light being the dim glow of the moon. The ‘two minutes of darkness’ had commenced. Farah observed, intrigued, for being engulfed in this tenebrosity wasn’t the slightest bit eerie, but rather, a time of reflection and gratitude. It was the silence before the storm and the farewell of their past.
Then, the clock struck twelve. On command, the lights flickered back on and the room was rendered still, simply observing, as the Union Flag was lowered, replaced seconds later with the Flag of Malaya. Billowing in the wind, the streaked flag was tossed about carelessly, silent ripples cascading across the fabric in a mesmerizing fashion, its significance ever-present in the already luminous stadium. With fists raised, the Merdeka chants began and the audience joined in, causing an uproar of pride. They too, in their measly living room that could only fit so many, let their voices be heard. The muffled words of the television burst into the room, fusing with their own to form a single chant that was repeated seven times, all proceeding in divine synchronicity.
As Tunku Abdul Rahman commenced his speech, a warm wave of bliss unfurled within Farah, its gentle touch caressing her thumping heart, that soon waned to an ease as all her limbs grew light. It was done. The cuffs on their wrists clicked open, now resting on the floor, far from sight. They were free. The burdens of their past, shouldered for all these years, were now lifted. The speech came to its end and the transition was complete. All around her, relatives and friends began to cheer for this chance of freedom that was just bestowed upon them moments ago. But Farah sat motionless, hands clutching to the fabric of her skirt, still in disbelief for the new beginnings guaranteed to approach. Quietly, a sweet smile eased its way on her lips: an undeniable hint of joy, as she celebrated for her country. This day marked one like no other: it was to be cherished for centuries forthcoming. They were no longer under the restraint of a foreign presence, for they were their own. They now led their own path and were their own judges. Starting from this very second on August 31st, 1957, Malaya took its first step forward.