1.

Margaret Shennan, 2000, Out in the midday sun: The British in Malaya 1880-1960

This chronicle of Malaya (colonial peninsula Malaysia), told from the perspective of "Malayans" (colonials in Malaya), takes us through three eras: the "building of British Malaya" (1880-1920); the "golden years" (1920-1940); and "the long retreat" (1940-1960).



Through primary sources, we're given glimpses of the British preoccupation with class, accent, "conventions of dress which took little account of a tropical climate", "the hierarchical nuances of colonial life", and the divide between "officials" (the administration) and "unofficials" (the private sector). We learn of changing sexual mores (before World War 1 single colonial males habitually engaged Asian concubines, and 236 Chinese, 48 Japanese, and 10 European brothels thrived in Singapore). We witness a growing social and racial divide.

We learn of the trial of Mrs Ethel Proudlock in 1911; the mission to hunt down the German cruiser Emden, which shelled Penang in WW1; and the mutiny of 1915. We learn of the "halcyon days" of the 1920s and 1930s, with the empire at its height: "We found the Union Jack flying at every port except Marseilles," marvels one traveller.



And we follow the debacle of the Japanese invasion, the ignominious and by some accounts treacherous retreat of the British, their improvised reoccupation after the end of WW2, and their role in the Emergency (1948-1960). Queen Elizabeth's coronation in 1953 "proved to be the last great old-style celebration of colonial Malaya"; independence came in 1957. The British didn't all immediately set off home, but as the 1960s wore on, they were definitely dwindling.

One reviewer sees this book as "a worthy mosaic of British society in Malaya". Though not uncritical, its collection of snippets is in large part a defence of the Malayans, whose achievements, Shennan argues, have not been sufficiently credited, and whose "philistinism" has been unjustly exaggerated.

But I can appreciate that many would find some of the sources' nostalgia irritating. Another reviewer detects "careful implied commentary": "The final sentence of the section dealing with the inter-war years is a quotation by an evidently nostalgic unnamed source: '... the WONDERFUL carefree life on estates, the happiness of my childhood... Sunshine, servants, WONDERFUL memories.' That juxtaposition of 'sunshine' and 'servants' is telling."

But others, including Phua Kai Lit, are more acerbic:

"The less kind will call it an 'Orientalist' piece of work with the white colonials occupying centre stage while the Asian 'Others' ... are largely bit players... Although Shennan does discuss racism among the British colonials, she seems to adhere to the imperialist view that British colonialism was progressive and relatively benign... It is easy to get all nostalgic and misty-eyed for the 'good old days' if one were positioned at the top of the colonial stratification system... It is quite another if one were positioned at the bottom of the colonial ethnic and class system..."

And indeed there is a measure of insouciance on display. One chronicler "wanted her children 'to remember Malaya as we loved it -- the RURAL type of Malaya', not the later 'Americanized type' with skyscrapers". Hmmm... And British Malayans' confidence that "their contribution will be seen as constructive and humane" is surely misplaced. All over Southeast Asia we continue to struggle with problems that are the residue of colonialism. The British form may not have been the most benighted, but it was still pernicious.

It's always sobering, this kind of thing. I see myself as a labour migrant, not an expatriate. I earn local pay; and I have no privileges that my local colleagues do not enjoy. But we live in a postcolonial world. The ongoing impact of colonialism still needs to be worked through. The book reminded me, as a guest, to a) be conscious of my impact; and b) be conscious of how fortunate I am: my Malaysia is a pretty sunny place, but it is not this way for many of its inhabitants.



2.

Ahdaf Soueif, 1999, The map of love



I enjoyed this novel, set mostly in Egypt. I appreciated the way the narratives, separated by almost 100 years, wove themselves together, now harmonizing, now contrasting. ("The novel's melancholy comes from its illustration of the follies and misunderstandings of one age being repeated in another.") I liked the way each memory is literally unpacked. (It comes out of the trunk that comes to light when a family member dies.) I enjoyed reading about the life of a rich, cultured Egyptian family, in both periods. I winced at the picture of colonial humiliation -- and no less so at the plight of 1990s Egypt (and nearly 20 years later, we know it was bad already, and would only get worse).

And -- of course -- I loved the "mapping". As this commentator notes, "love here encompasses a far broader map than just romance: love of country, of nature, of language, of sensual pleasures; love between siblings, family members, friends, generations; love even between the living and the dead".

I have to say I didn't care much for the heroines. Layla, yes, and her two-generations-later counterpart, Amal. Both play the role of the sister of the male love interest (Sharif and Omar) and the friend of the female one (Anna and Isabel). They're strong, good, a little mysterious -- but ultimately ordinary women.

But the needy Isabel, who never really emerges as a character? Or the amazing, not-quite-credible Anna, so rarely putting a cultural foot wrong, so able to put on and inhabit her new environment like a new suit of clothes? (Although her little desert adventure, clad in men's clothes, is not as far-fetched as one might think.)

And I didn't find the love stories that credible, especially the one that comes out in the second generation between Isabel and the highly strung Omar. If you know your lover had an affair with your mother before you were born, then he's TOO OLD for you! Period.

Ahdaf Soueif is now an activist. Earlier this year, she had this to say about the situation in Egypt:

"Basically, now we are at a stage where the counter-revolution is overall triumphant, and the two huge institutions which were designed to be checks on the power of the government have decided that their interests lie with the government. So, there is this really ugly coalition. Its very active in lots of ways. It has many arms. One arm is attacking human rights, NGOs, students in universities, making people disappear from the streets. Another arm is handing down ridiculous prison sentences; another is implicating the country in more and more foreign debt, selling off bits of the country, giving franchises and rights to mammoth international corporations. So you have an extremely active counter-revolution.

"And on the side of the revolution, a lot of the energy and effort goes into all the issues around the people who have disappeared, have been detained and killed. There is also the discourse on how to learn from our past mistakes, so as to be at a better place when the next wave comes. The certain thing is that nobody believes this system is sustainable. Something is bound to give."

Anna and Sharif will be turning in their graves.

3.

Rabindranath Tagore, 1915, Home and the world



It's true, as David Atkinson notes, that this novel's rhetoric is "ponderous" and its characters "exaggerated and one-dimensional". But the politics is fascinating -- especially today when populism and nationalism seem to be assaulting humanism at every turn. You can't help but love Nikhil, with his open mind, his desire for progress, and his rejection of extreme, showy methods. But his wife, Bima, seems unimpressed by these qualities, and is swept away by the firebrand Sandip. The two men represent conflicting visions for Bengal (at the time in the throes of the first partition, which sundered it from the land that is now Bangladesh).

Atkinson again:

"Nikhil is the enlightened humanist who asserts that truth cannot be imposed... Sandip represents himself as a realist, one who brutally confronts the world... Ostensibly, Nikhil and Sandip share the same goal: freedom from oppression. Where they differ is in their understanding of freedom and in how this freedom is to be realized."

It's the story of every revolution...

The ending is ambivalent. We're not sure whether Nikhilesh will survive or -- like Omar -- succumb to his wounds.

I hope he survives... Like me, he has "the bad habit of taking everything too seriously"; like him, I feel that "my true identity is of a traveller on the journey of life"; like him, I worry that "I failed to light the lamp I wanted to light".

I'll close with some pictures of the Bengal that I know, which is but one part of the Bengal that Tagore knew: