THE MEMOIRS OF MUSTAPHA HUSSAIN - Malaysia Today

298 Memoirs of Mustapha Hussain
firewood stove in front of the lock-up, I asked, “Are the detainees being
stewed here?” Even that did not tickle them. They kept mum.
The next day, after hundreds of attempts, I got to know a few of
them: former Co-operative Officer Tahir; Kinta District Officer Raja Omar
and several Chinese towkays (merchants and shopkeepers) who had cooperated
with the Japanese during the Occupation years. But the majority
of inmates were members of the Japanese Special Police arrested by the
Bintang Tiga and handed over to the BMA. It then dawned on me why
most detainees were suspicious of me. As most of them were familiar
with police work, they feared I was an informer thrown into the lock-up
to gain their confidence and gather information.
Still missing the luxury of a blanket and the softness of pillows, our
beds were now planks, instead of the bare and cold cement. It was,
however, impossible to sleep; monster-sized bed bugs were eating us alive.
You just have to push a little finger in the crevice, and hundreds of them
would be ready to attack. Some detainees were convinced specially bred
bed bugs had been surreptitiously planted in the cell so that inmates
could not sleep and would soon admit to their crimes. There was some
truth in this.
I was still wearing clothes worn the day I left my farm more than a
month earlier – an alpaca coat, a white (now grey-brown) shirt, a singlet,
a checked pulaikat sarong, home-made underwear and a pair of old shoes,
all aged not less than five years. These clothing items were acquired
during the British rule, carried into the Japanese Occupation, and then
into the Bintang Tiga transition period and now the BMA era. If I washed
my underwear, I only wore my sarong. So it was with my shirt and singlet.
But the alpaca coat was never washed as I needed it to keep me
warm against the cold at night. Shoes had to be left at the Police Station’s
storeroom. Here, I did not get soap, toothbrush, toothpaste and razor
blades. My hair was getting long.
My worst deprivation was not being able to smoke. Luckily, despite
having no money, newfound friends secretly offered a puff or two. If
luck was on my side, I would have some leftovers, which I hid in my
clothes. I undid some stitches of my sleeve cuffs and hid broken bits of
matches there. Cigarettes, also cut into short bits, were hidden in my coat
underlining. My coat, which bore many secret holes, could match any
magician’s cape.
After a few days, I managed to gain the friendship of some fellow
inmates. Raja Omar was suffering from the same nervous disorder as I
did (and still do). He looked gloomy and his mental fortitude was fast
slipping. Enchik Tahir was still able to laugh and was quite a joker. There