THE MEMOIRS OF MUSTAPHA HUSSAIN - Malaysia Today

316 Memoirs of Mustapha Hussain
that I gave them money and food before arranging their return to mainland
Malaya.
The officer asked, “How many white men did you assist?” I replied,
“None”. He wanted to know why not. I said, “I did not have the opportunity
to do so. You must think for yourself. I have to take care of the
Malays, my people, first. Furthermore, what would the Japanese say if I
helped white men?!” This officer gave the impression Malay lives were
worthless. He also did not wish to see me freed. He would have liked
me to be hanged. I saw all that in his eyes. He then tossed me a telegram
stating that my eldest daughter was seriously ill, and asked, “Would you
like to go home?!” I said “Yes,” with earnestness, especially after seeing
that the telegram bore a much earlier date. “If you want to go home, sign
this statement!” pushing a document under my nose. I read the prepared
text. It was an admission of crime for having been with the Japanese. It
was Hobson’s choice. There was also another statement that I would not
leave my house without permission from the British Intelligence Chief
in Taiping. This British Officer looked ready to slurp my blood if he
could! What more did he expect? Was it not good enough that a Malay
had helped his own people?
Before leaving, I asked him to thoroughly investigate my case. If I
was guilty, I was willing to accept any sentence after a fair trial. I admitted
that I was with the Japanese, but if he himself was invited by six armed
Japanese, he too would have gone with them. ‘No use farting against
thunder’. The British Government was irresponsible; they had fled Malaya
when they were the ones entrusted to defend it. After a heated exchange
of words, I signed the documents under great stress and duress, with my
daughter’s face flashing across my eyes. I returned to my lock-up to bid
my friends goodbye with a message, “Don’t forget to arrange an AT Club
gathering some day!”
Stepping out of the police lock-up, I inhaled a lung full of fresh air.
Even fresh air seemed more delicious outside the prison compound. With
$4 in my pocket, I made my way to Ipoh town to look for my brother’s
friends, but none would come near me. They were too afraid. Dejected
and despondent, I boarded a bus that had planks as steps and returned to
Taiping. In the bus, a certain whiff flirted with my nostrils and I found
warder Mastan’s words one hundred percent accurate. In Taiping, I sought
a Chinese man from Batu 20 who handed me $10 without my asking.
Malays would not even see me. Did it have something to do with my
much-misunderstood war activities, or were the Malays I met truly
penniless? Perhaps there were reasons I could not fathom.