When people talk about civilians and World War Two, the focus inevitably shifts to Europe and heroic tales of the French Resistance, as if they were the only party of resistance fighters (aka terrorists) in the War. Not a lot of people even think that Asia suffered predations as well, so I was happy to see an article in Sunday’s paper and even happier to note that it was about an Eurasian woman, Sybil Kathigasu.

Born to Indian and Irish parents in Indonesia, Sybil was brought up in Malaysia (Malaya, as it was then known) and was still there when the Japanese marched in using their own version of a blitzkrieg back in 1941. As the newspaper article puts it:

[Sybil]…endured unimaginable torture under the hands of Japanese soldiers. Her fingernails were ripped off with pliers and her legs scalded with iron rods … She suffered damage to her spine and skull after a severe beating by thick bamboo sticks. None perhaps was more torturous than witnessing her six-year-old daughter, Dawn … being hung from a tree over a fire.

… Sybil died aged 49 in Britain. And old wound on the jaw sustained from the kick of a Japanese boot had brought on a fatal bout of septicaemia.

Click on the image below to enlarge and sorry about the patchwork nature of it. My scanner is only A4 sized.

Although we have always been a very small part of the population, I’m proud to know that Eurasians were an active part of the resistance during the War. My paternal grandfather, for example, also used to keep a radio set (the possession of which meant an automatic death sentence). My father told me of one occasion when a Japanese patrol decided to do a random check of houses. They went from room to room in the family home. When the officer opened the door to one of the rooms, he saw a radio set in there that my grandfather hadn’t had time to hide yet. There was a frozen moment before the Japanese officer closed the door again and left the house.

Why didn’t the Japanese officer do anything? Had he lost faith in the war? Maybe he didn’t care one way or another? Was he was sick of all the killing? All I know is that if it wasn’t for that Japanese officer, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here writing this now. It was also just as well that my father’s family didn’t live in the capital, Kuala Lumpur, where the Japanese ruled with a much tighter fist. My maternal grandfather talked about walking through the city, past streets with the heads of resistance fighters (or just anybody who displeased the Japanese) rotting on top of long stakes. I’ve seen photos of it and it’s a gruesome sight. One can only imagine what that smelt like in the tropical heat.

It seems that everyone was forced to bow whenever they encountered a Japanese, officer or soldier and, as my grandfather bowed, he always made sure to mutter something like: “I can’t wait till you’re dead, you Japanese bastard.” If any of the Japanese thought he was insulting them, it would have meant beheading on the spot from one of the katanas that the officers used to wear, but he couldn’t help himself. It used to drive my grandmother crazy.

Ah, I wanted to talk about Sybil, but it looks as though I’ve ended up talking about my family. I know I have new blog readers here and you have to know that my favourite topic to discuss is politics and resistance to the prevailing dogma, which a lot of you may not like. But, bearing in mind what I’ve said, I hope you understand. I have no choice. It’s in the blood.

POSTSCRIPT: What happened during WWII, more than sixty years ago, has a direct bearing on who I am. I wonder what the grandchildren of Iraq and Afghanistan will have to say in the next sixty years? But how many writers have we already lost? How many artists? How many engineers? How many scientists? These are people whose gifts will now never help humanity heal, feel or progress.