Among the White Moon Faces

7. Outside the Empire

CHAPTER SEVEN Outside the Empire F or almost two decades, politicians had argued first for home rule, then for nationhood, and finally Tunku Abdul Rahman, a Malay prince, presided over the separation of the Federation of Malaya from the British empire. In 1957, when I was twelve, the Federation ofMalaya received its independence-Merdeka -andjoined the Commonwealth ofNations as its eleventh sovereign member-state.Throughout the peninsula thousands ofpeople cheered, had dark thoughts, prepared their passports for departure, sighed, felt reliefthat they were finally able to protect their rights from alien newcomers, checked their identity cards and citizenship papers. Thousands others never knew it was happening, made love to someone ofa different race, brought a pagan to mass, washed their feet at the water tank before entering the mosque for prayers of thanks, held meetings to secure financial holdings, checked their identity cards and citizenship papers, talked about multiracialism, wondered about the status ofthe English language, ate chapatis and mutton curry for lunch and rendang for dinner, proclaimed the Chinese would own the country, worried about the departure of the British Army, checked their identity cards and citizenship papers. Thousands argued about the rights of the sultans, and assumed everything would remain the same, only better. The terms of the debate for those in English education were rhetorically reassuring-a constitution, national identity, citizenship rights, a parliament, a judiciary, free elections. The British Empire was dead. The British Commonwealth was alive. The new university graduates, setting the course for a multiracial, multicultural, pluralistic democracy, set bold topics for our English papers and our debating teamsWhat is a democracy? Who should run the country, the army or the civilians? 117 Among the White Moon Faces Which should we value more, the individual or society? Is free speech ever wrong? A young student, I was not so much apathetic as complacent. British education had trained me for the privileged ranks ofthe Civil Service. Hungry and ragged or socially disgraced, I never doubted that my talents placed me in a meritocracy. The empire promised impartial evaluation under the socialist standards of the civil bureaucracy that the British prime minister, Harold Wilson, had established in defense against communist criticism of capitalism and entrenched class interests.With high grades validated from Britain, earning me respect where none else existed, I believed that scholarly excellence alone would decide my professional life. I was a resident in that sheltered elite village, the University ofMalaya, from 1964 to 1969. But the changes taking place in the political and social fabric of the new nation were causing rifts even inside the campus gates. Little was expected of the undergraduate except folly, frolic, and academic obedience. Lecturers were lofty men, chiefly white, to whom we were uninteresting children of the Asian masses. I signed up for history, geography, and English in the first year, but all that remains vivid are the weekly English tutorials, composed offive randomly selected freshmen, to whom were assigned a young lecturer newly arrived from Cambridge. Tall, gangly, and awkward, as if his arms and legs had grown too remote from a center of command, Mr. Preston was shy about women but voluble concerning Shelley, Byron, Keats,Yeats, and other assorted English poets.At our first meeting, he handed us a mimeographed booklet for the Practical Criticism course and asked us to analyze an anonymous poem, "Ode to Limestone." I recognized the style as Auden's. Unriddling the poem's structure and intertwined themes was the kind of thing I did when I had turned to poetry for consolation during my years in the cramped Malacca house. At the end of the third meeting Mr. Preston returned my essay without a grade. "You are supposed to write this without any help," he admonished me."Which reference did you use in the library?" "I wrote this myself," I protested, alarmed and flattered that he thought I had cribbed my essay. But he ushered me out of his office disapprovingly. The rest of the tutorials, however, went by without a fuss. He never questioned the originality of my essays again. They were returned with comments and grades, and I looked forward eagerly to the weekly meetings when, for the first time, it seemed to me, I was able to talk freely about language and ideas with someone who understood and shared my pleasure in both. Academic standards for the bachelor's degree in English literature were ensured by a form of quality control, with the English department operating...