Jitra, 9 December 1941 – The Calm Before the Storm
Aman had arrived in Jitra, but what awaited him wasn't a haven from the hell he had witnessed it was a pit of stagnant tension and quiet despair. He had expected to find safety here, to finally take a breath and find some hope. But the moment he stepped off the truck, it felt as if the war was already eating away at this place. The streets were eerily quiet, as if the world had been holding its breath. The Japanese invasion was still approaching, and everything felt like a ticking clock.
Jitra had the feel of a place poised on the edge, teetering between a fragile calm and an impending storm. The British forces seemed just as disoriented as the villagers. It was as if everyone was waiting for something waiting for the Japanese to make their move, waiting for some miracle or some reason to believe they could still survive.
Aman's feet were sore from his earlier journey, his body still bruised and battered from the soldiers' treatment. But it wasn't the physical pain that kept him awake at night; it was the image of his mother violated and murdered before him. The way the soldiers had laughed and taken their pleasure from her, the grotesque sounds still echoing in his head. He couldn't shake it. He couldn't forget.
The village elder had been executed without a second thought, his blood spilled into the earth without even a moment of grief. The horrors he had witnessed in his village were something no human should ever endure. He tried not to think about it, but it was impossible to ignore.
Aman had been dragging himself through this nightmare with only one goal: to find his father, Ali. He had heard whispers that his father was sent to Alor Setar. Aman wasn't surprised. He knew the British would be splitting up the locals for labor. The name "Ali," though common, carried weight. His father, a nurse, had likely been considered essential for the war effort—no matter how much he had tried to keep his head down. Aman had heard nothing since he was taken. His father was probably here somewhere in Jitra, and for some reason, Aman had the sinking feeling that the answers would come soon.
He was sitting near a crude fire in an abandoned building when the British officer found him again.
"Ah, you," the officer said with a strained smile, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I thought I'd lost you to the jungle already."
Aman looked up. The officer was the same one who had ordered the burning of the rice fields in front of him. The one who had been so detached when speaking about it, as if he was discussing something irrelevant. It struck Aman how cold and unfeeling he seemed, yet there was a strange sort of empathy in his eyes. This officer wasn't just a mindless tool of the British Empire; he was a man who seemed to know too much and yet was powerless to change anything.
"What's the matter?" the officer continued, a thin frown crossing his face. "Something wrong?"
Aman didn't know how to answer. He couldn't bring himself to ask about his father just yet. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably.
"I don't understand," Aman muttered. "All these soldiers… All this pain. Why are we here? Why do they keep pushing us?"
The officer let out a hollow laugh, staring out over the burnt land in the distance. "Why, indeed. You know, I've been asking myself that very question ever since I got here. Why am I here, when my country is under threat from Germany? Why am I stuck in a foreign land, fighting someone else's war?"
Aman didn't answer, but the question struck a chord within him. He had never once considered the futility of the British occupation from the perspective of the officers, who were clearly as trapped in this war as the people they oppressed.
The officer ran a hand through his disheveled hair, looking far older than his years. "You want to know why I ordered the rice fields burned?" he asked, as if trying to prepare himself for some confession. "It's because we cannot afford to let the Japanese take anything of value. We need to destroy everything before they can use it. I've seen what happens when they take over a place what they do to people. Worse than anything we've done, or will ever do."
Aman had heard the stories. Horrible, twisted things about Japanese occupation. But this British officer he wasn't speaking with anger. He wasn't trying to justify what he did as a soldier. He was speaking like a man who had seen the devastation of war and had somehow, in some twisted way, accepted it.
"I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore," the officer muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should be back home. With my family. I should be there with them. But no, I'm here. Watching the world burn. Watching everything I've ever known die in front of me. And for what? So the Japanese can take over and the British Empire can try to hold on to a piece of land thousands of miles away?"
Aman watched the officer carefully, sensing something more in his words. This man wasn't a true believer in the empire; he was just a man caught in a larger, uncontrollable storm. Yet, he had chosen to stay. And he knew why: because running away was impossible.
"So, what happens next?" Aman asked, his voice hollow with exhaustion.
The officer's gaze was distant. "What happens next? Well, the Japanese are coming. They'll take everything they want, and we'll have to sit here and fight until we can't fight anymore. We'll do what we can. That's what we've always done. But it's only a matter of time before this place falls. I just don't know if I'll make it through."
The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unspoken truths.
The officer seemed to snap out of his reverie and looked at Aman. "You know, I heard something about local Malay collaborators. KKM. It's all rumors, but there's a chance they'll be joining the Japanese when they get here. There's always someone willing to sell their soul to the highest bidder."
Aman's blood ran cold. The name KKM had floated around in hushed conversations. It wasn't something he had thought about before, but now the implications hit him. Betrayal wasn't just coming from the enemy it was coming from within.
"Do you think my father is with them?" Aman whispered, but the officer didn't answer immediately. He only shrugged.
"Who knows? But if he is... well, he's just as trapped as the rest of us. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying it's survival."
The conversation drifted. The officer spoke of the strange, brutal tactics the Japanese had employed in China stories that seemed like nightmares, things too horrifying for most to even comprehend. He spoke without emotion, as though the weight of it all had already broken him.
Aman sat in silence, his mind spiraling. His father's name Ali was common, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was close. Too close to Jitra for the story to end like this. His father was here, and Aman knew he couldn't rest until he found him.
But with every passing minute, the pressure mounted. He knew the Japanese were coming. He knew they would overrun the British. And he knew the traitors were among them. This was a war of survival, and the more Aman learned, the more he realized that survival meant more than just keeping his own life intact. It meant confronting the darkest truths of this war and the possibility that his own people might be as lost as the invaders.