My father was some sort of a local hero. Dominic John Pereira aka DJ Pereira was the Chief Clerk of the Socfin estate in Slim River, Perak. He was one of the very select few locals who held that post in the British-owned company. He reported only to the white manager who reported to the headquarters in Damansara, Kuala Lumpur and was overseer for four divisions and hundreds of local staff. He was very influential because he could help get jobs for people.
But, that was not the only reason why he was well-known. He stood up for what he believed in -- even at the risk of personal injury. When I was little, my brothers often talked about some of his exploits. Two stories stayed in my mind -- both happened during the end of the Japanese Occupation of the then Malaya (now, Malaysia). In one instance, he was asked by some Japanese for petrol for their bus which had stalled. My father had hidden petrol and, of course, the Japanese knew that and asked him for it. He showed them all he had, but, they insisted that he had hid more. Finally, he said, "I've shown you everything I have and I don't have anything more. So, if you want to shoot me, you can!" But, for some reason, they didn't!
Some time later, an arrogant young Japanese assistant manager had an exchange of words with him. My father did not understand Japanese and didn't know what he was saying. Finally, the young Japanese called him out from his office and, in front of all of my father's subordinates, slapped him. My father, who is no pushover, turned around and gave him a resounding blow that sent the young man rolling on the ground. The latter picked himself up, drew his sword to strike my dad but was stopped by the other men.
Serious charges were levelled against my father and meetings were held between the Japanese side and my father's side. He was finally exonerated and, I am glad for that because if he had been killed I wouldn't have been born!
I never realised how much he was respected until he died. When he died, the route the hearse took from my house to church where the funeral service was held was lined with people all along the way. I was very little then, but that was one detail of the few things I remembered of my father. Another thing I remembered was the walks I had with him. He was retired and old by then, and every evening, if it didn't rain, he would take me on a long walk, usually to the town centre of Teluk Anson (now Teluk Intan) and back. Often, he would stop at a mee stall and we would have mee soup together!
At the time we went walking, the mee soup stall would be closed. But, if my father stopped by, the mee soup man would not hesitate to take things from the stored away stuff to make a bowl of soup for him and his only daughter! And, my father would always leave a lot of change on the table.
My father was a man's man. My brothers adored him. I mean he would race with his five sons on the beach when we went to Port Dickson for holidays. I didn't know him as well as my brothers. My brothers were born in the passion of youth and, perhaps, my father could relate to that. I was born when all the passion and the excitement of the early stages of marriage were spent and my parents had gotten all the fighting out of the way! Then, they got lovey dovey again and in the mellow warmth and understanding of their latter years I was born -- after my mother had prayed for six years for a daughter!
My father gave my family a distinctive history but it disintegrated after he died. What followed then was a dark blotch from which some of us barely scraped through; a few never recovered. Suffice to say that my mother, in the true vein of the Catholic faithful, "carried her cross -- or rather -- crosses" faithfully. She bore up courageously and, despite the circumstances, I never once saw her crumble. Instead, she found the grace to smile and carry on.
I was closer to my mum -- close enought to be constantly at odds with her! She was always tightening the knots of her apron strings and I was always untieing them! In exasperation, she would exclaim: "From the age of 10, you have been fighting for your freedom!" I never took my mum as seriously as I should have -- not, until she died.
It was my last semester at the University of Wisconsin, Madison where I was studying for my degree in journalism. Brother Number Four flew up, saying he wanted to attend my graduation, and after my final exam, a day before graduation, dropped the bombshell that mother had passed away. Graduation took on a different meaning after that. I never cared about how I looked which bothered the heck out of my mother. It was important to her that I looked good to reflect her status as a wife of a former local somebody. I didn't care. So, for graduation I was going to dress up in a simple batik kaftan and walk to campus in sneakers which the kaftan would have hidden!
Instead, I went shopping and bought myself a pair of fancy heels in a size that constricted my feet (because there was no size to fit my feet) and I pulled out a nice sari I had never won. Dressed in these, and with my brother, I made the long walk to the campus graduation grounds tottering in feet-pinching shoes! Just so that I would have pictures to show home that the daughter of the local somebody had achieved something and looked good and that her mother had done well by her.
I started to dress better after my mother died. She would have been pleased by it.
Graduation was bitter sweet. But, I was glad for my American classmates with whom I sat. They knew what I was going through and said nothing but included me. Among us, we shared a bottle of wine sitting in the stands. It was good company. It was followed by a party which my good friends, Ellen and Chuck Broughton held for me. All my American friends attended. It was a distracted but comforting time. I have always been glad that at the time of my mother's passing I kept good company. She would have been pleased to know it.
Of all my brothers, I was closest to Brother Number Four. Stellachen -- Stellas was his name and the "chen" is from "achachen" which is the Malayalee term for elder brother, and hence, for short, Stellachen -- was always looking out for me. My mother used to say that when my brothers returned from school all except my fourth brother will throw their bags on the floor somewhere and race to the lunch table. My fourth brother, however, would place his bag by the cot where I lay and play with me first before he had his lunch. He was protective of me and would vet all my prospective proposals and boyfriends and tell me which one drank too much!
I know my fourth brother loved me. But, there is no one whom he loved more than his daughter, Joanne Naomi Pereira aka Lolly! Lolly was the apple of his eye! She could do no wrong! She was the youngest of his three children and the only girl. Lolly would get into fights with her brothers and if they complained, it would fall on deaf ears! Infact, they would be disciplined but she would get off the hook! If anyone said that was unfair, my brother would reply, "She is a girl, lah!"
He taught his sons never to hit her, and so, any girl -- no matter how much she incensed them!
I can still remember how patient he was with her and how he made himself approachable to her. He was her greatest toy. Lolly would find some part of him to play with. He would be sitting in his favourite chair and reading papers while she would be humming around him doing her masak-masak (play cooking) on his arms and legs. Then, she would go around to his head and tie up his hair in a pony tail on the top of his head. Maybe he was aware and maybe he wasn't but he seemed oblivious to the fact that his daughter was making him into a spectacle and that it was very, very comical!
When she was hardly four and her brothers were out playing with their friends, Lolly would walk restlessly around the house wanting someone to play with and finding none. Her father would take her out and teach her how to skateboard. He never did that for his sons, but for his daughter -- he would do anything.
"Lolly" was the last name he called out before he died. My brother collapsed from an aneurism in my house, slipped into a coma and never regained consciousness again. More than my parents, I often miss him. Because we spent a lot of time talking. We would be planning this and planning that! My nephew would always comment: "When Acha (father) and Aunty Jet (my pet name) sit to talk, the calculator will come out!" We didn't have money but we made countless plans!
I learnt from him how to make money work for me. It came in very handy when, after he was gone, I had to learn to take care of myself by myself and manage my affairs independently.
It took me a long time to validate my history. My brothers are growing old and time is short. And the younger generation know so little about my side of their history. I want them to know that theirs is a good history. Mistakes were made -- only because we are human. Now, though, we can be magnanimous and forgive and forget because the sum total, bearing down on who we are today, is good.
In the last couple of years, the surviving members of my family have begun to reconcile with themselves and with each other. We are thankful for the people who have gone on before us and the connections they left behind. They have given birth to a second and third generation that -- I am very proud to say -- have found their feet and living their own lives.
We recently held a memorial for the family members who are no longer with us in celebration of who they were, the connections they left behind and the people they influenced. Uploaded are some pictures from the event. My parents' wedding picture, of course, was not taken then! I included it here because it says something of who they were in the generation that has long gone.
In loving memory of my father, DJ Pereira, my mother, Sara Pereira, and my brothers Stellas and Walson Pereira. The latter has been missing since 1983. We wish him well.
