“War has been declared! Call everyone even those from the next kampong!”
Razali commanded, his voice loud and urgent. “We’ll meet this afternoon at our usual place. Make sure the message gets out to all… we must respond to their threats we must defend our rights!”
They weren’t gathered at the community center. No, not yet. The chosen battleground was the old playground tucked inside the village of Kampong Ladang, nestled within the district of Paya Lebar, where the community center stood.
Paya Lebar : paya meaning “swamp” and lebar meaning “wide”—had once been a vast stretch of swampy lowland, fitting its name: the wide swamplands. It was home to a sprawling, noisy squatter settlement, known for its backyard farms, pig pens, and rows of makeshift zinc-roofed homes.
Most villagers made a living cultivating vegetables or raising chickens and pigs in their backyards. And right in the thick of it, the children had their own business to settle. From as early as the 1820s, the entire area began its transformation into plantation estates.
Chinese settlers made up the majority, clustering into tight-knit communities, while the Malays were more dispersed—settled deeper inland in small family pockets of seven to fifteen members. One of the largest Malay settlements was Kampong Wak Tanjong, located further in, just off Lorong Tai Seng, the main road threading through the area.
Lorong Tai Seng wasn’t just any road it had a reputation. Whispers of secret societies and underworld dealings once clung to its name. Yet, despite the occasional danger, the kampongs: Malay and Chinese alike lived in surprising harmony.
Generations had passed with families looking after one another. When parents went off to work in the rubber estates or nearby factories, neighbours would step in without hesitation to mind the children. That trust ran deep. During the dark days of the racial riots, it wasn’t the authorities but the villagers themselves who protected one another.
Chinese families sheltered their Malay neighbours, watching over their homes and livestock. Malay families were quietly moved to safer enclaves like Kampong Wak Tanjong, hidden away until the unrest passed. It wasn’t about race it was about kampong spirit.
About having each other’s backs. Festivals were the highlight of village life. Hari Raya, Chinese New Year, and weddings were grand, joyful affairs. Music blared from open windows, kids ran barefoot through alleys, and no one went home hungry. Trays of food crisscrossed the kampongs—red eggs for weddings, ketupat and rendang for Raya, pineapple tarts for New Year. Everyone was invited. Always.
To the south, Lorong Ternak connected Kampong Ladang to Kampong Dalam, where the surau stood—a modest but essential spiritual center for the Malays. Just beyond these kampongs lay the wide, open stretch of Paya Lebar Airport, Singapore’s very first international airport.
It was so close that you could see the landing gear of the planes as they roared low over the rooftops. Children would stop mid-play to wave frantically, hoping the pilot might see them. And when the first Boeing touched down on Singapore soil, the whole village turned out : fathers, mothers, grandmothers, barefoot kids in dusty shorts—all craning their necks skyward to witness history thunder down from the clouds.
We were there too—pressed up against the chain-link fence that separated the airport from the kampong, sitting on upturned kerosene tins and coconut husks, our faces tilted to the sky. The air was thick with anticipation and the smell of damp earth. Nobody wanted to miss it. When the deep hum of engines finally rolled over the rooftops, we leapt up, shading our eyes with one hand, pointing with the other.
“There! There it is!” someone shouted, as the sleek silver bird descended, its wheels fully extended, gleaming like a giant in the afternoon sun. For a moment, even the kampong dogs fell silent. The Boeing roared over us, close enough to feel the tremble in our chests, the rush of wind whipping through our hair. It was like magic, like a dragon had entered our world—huge, powerful, and impossibly real.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone, swallowed by the runway and airport hangars beyond. We stared after it, still breathless, our ears ringing, our hearts pounding. That day, we didn’t care about wars over the community center. We weren’t Malay kids or Chinese kids, we were just kampong kids, caught in the awe of a flying machine that had somehow landed in our backyard.
The community center was one of the initiatives introduced by the Government as part of its community development efforts, and it had since become the heart of activity in the village. It was where public kindergarten classes were held, usually in the mornings, attended by almost all the children from the village and neighboring kampongs.
Evenings were reserved for recreational activities : badminton, table tennis, board games and the center even had a television, drawing villagers who didn’t have one at home to gather and watch together.
It became so popular that even those who did have a TV still came to join the crowd. The center also played host to the Member of Parliament’s regular “Meet-the-People” sessions, further anchoring its role as the social and civic hub of the community.
The playground where the gathering was held sat right in the middle of Kampong Ladang. It wasn’t just a place for holiday fun—it was where children played every day, especially in the evenings. While the kids ran about, the adults and elderly would gather on their verandas or sit by the windows, laughing as they watched the games unfold—Bola Hantam, Rounders, Galah Panjang, or Baling Selipar.
As they watched, many would find themselves reminiscing about the good old days—because they too had once grown up in this very kampong, playing those same games on the same soil.
“They’ve declared war on us,” came the voice of Razali, the oldest among them and without question, their leader. Boys from Kampong Wak Tanjong, Kampong Ubi, and Kampong Dalam had all gathered. Word had spread fast and wide. The battlefield was ready. Then a sharp voice cut through the crowd.
“Eh! Why is she here? This is not for girls!” All eyes turned toward her. She was standing confidently among the boys from Kampong Ladang. Razali himself was from Kampong Dalam.
“She shouldn’t be here… this is only for boys,” the voice continued.
“Who said? Abang Razali said I can be here and join in,” she replied, chin slightly raised. All heads turned to Razali.
“Yeah, she’s one of us! Why can’t she be here?” the boys from Kampong Ladang chimed in, rallying behind her. Razali grinned.
“It’s okay. Let her be. Did you see how she hantamed the ball at me the other day? I can still feel the pain!” He pulled up the back of his shirt to show everyone a large blue-black bruise. “See? Still there!” he said, pointing at the mark. Then, looking straight at her, he gave a playful wink. She blushed. It had been an accident. They were playing Bola Hantam, and when she got the ball, she threw it hard aiming for the nearest target. That just happened to be Razali. She hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. It was a hard rubber ball, the kind the kampong kids made themselves—using rubber milk secretly gathered from the nearby plantation. Locally crafted and unforgiving in impact.
“Okay, okay, let’s proceed with our strategy. We need to figure out how to deal with those Chinese boys, we must act now to claim what’s rightfully ours!” Razali declared, standing tall like a wartime commander. “How can they deny us our right to use the community center? One of our spies told me they’re planning to sabotage us. We cannot let that happen.”
He crouched down and drew out a plan in the dirt. “Here look. The center is located right at the edge of our kampong. The Chinese boys all live on the outskirts. That means we have the advantage, because the center is technically on our turf. So this is what we’ll do…”
He pointed to a well-trodden path bypassing the kampong center. “They’ll need to use this road to get there. We’ll set up blockades here… and here,” he marked two spots with an ‘X’. “We’ll prevent them from coming through this way. They’ll be forced to take the longer route, and by the time they arrive, we’ll already be there and in control.”
A ripple of excitement passed through the group. “Each day, we’ll assign one person to stand guard here. And we’ll place our snipers hidden in these spots,” he gestured toward a few strategic corners behind banana trees and old zinc fences.
“If the Chinese boys try anything sneaky while the guard is away, the sniper can fire a shot to distract them and someone else can run to alert the others.” He straightened up, eyes gleaming.
“Now go start making the guns! And make one for our sister here too.” That stirred an immediate protest.
“She? Why does she need a gun?” one of the boys from Kampong Dalam snapped.
“Girls don’t carry guns!”
“Don’t worry, I can make one for you, sis,” said Rosli, her neighbour, already gathering twigs and bamboo scraps.
“No need. I’ll make my own, and mine will be better than all of yours!” she shot back, arms crossed defiantly. “I’m going to use the best young cherry fruit seeds—and I won’t tell any of you where I’m getting them from!”
Razali turned to look at her. She caught the look and held her breath. He was impressed. She could feel it. “Gosh… he’s so gorgeous,” she thought, heart thudding wildly.
And when he turned and smiled at her, she nearly melted on the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he stood there, issuing commands with the easy confidence of a kampong general. In that moment, she didn’t just want to fight the war she wanted to win it.
Chpt 7 / 36
