"Salag!"

People crowded the door and windows so densely, they blocked out the light. Shouts and screams flooded from the streets. My head pulsed against the din, still disoriented after finding myself in a strange place amidst chaos. Where was I? What happened, and why was I here?

"Let him go! You can't do this!"

Everyone chanted the same sentiment, and the need to see became monumental. What is happening? I shoved between shoulders, ducking under arms and even pushing someone aside. I need to see!

 

Finally, I made it through, only to be pulled back by the crowd. "No, child, stay back!"

I barely heard them as I froze at the sight. Men in khaki military uniforms swarmed the street, some wearing caps marked with a star, but all either pushed the crowd back violently or beat those who dared get too close. Men and women alike shouted from their doors and shops, some pleading. Most cowered away while others charged forward in rage, only to be dragged down and beaten the same. A flag with a red sunburst flew overhead, and even I knew that didn't belong.

All of it drowned out the sounds of warplanes overhead.

One man stood at the center of it all, hands already bound as Japanese soldiers bowed him forward, forcing him to march ahead. Salag, Salag, they all shouted, and it was that moment I realized I knew that name. I knew who this was.

My great-grandfather.

Thin, hardworking hands pulled at my arm, leading me away as she instructed me to keep my head down.

"Do not look at them any longer," my great-grandmother said, her voice shaken. "Salag is strong. He will make it through."

 

*****

By the second day, I had already learned the rules under the occupation. Do not look at the soldiers. Do not talk to them. Respond politely if spoken to first. Do not resist them. Do not argue with them. Work hard and do not let them catch you idling. Do not break curfew.

Do not look up at the warplanes overhead.

I worked in the rice paddies during the day, harvesting what we could while separating the good from the bad. The best quality went to the soldiers, while we kept the rest hidden, hoping that the Japanese wouldn't demand more. No one questioned why I was there, only teaching me how to live in the current times. If anything, there was no time to question, only survive what we could.

In between survival, however, there was planning. Bags of rice were set aside, along with sacks of taro and tapioca. Durian, bananas, leafy vegetables, and other roots joined the pile, anything the village could spare. It wouldn't be questioned why it was there, easily waved away as food storage.

That pile disappeared at night as I followed them into the jungle, carrying the packs in silence as we each tread around the rice paddies. Every rustle in the brush, or even the slightest hint of a voice, forced a pause. Soldiers patrolled the area constantly, but not many braved the jungle, not like the Kadazan and other people of the land.

The moon was high in the sky before we reached our destination, dense trees along a cliff face, and hiding behind the leaves were more cautious faces. Caution melted to relief at the sight of our faces and bags, and one by one we filed into the cave.

Underground fires managed to keep the makeshift stoves warm, with meager blankets lining against the rock. Three, maybe four families took refuge in this particular shelter, and I prayed the other missions were successful. These families once lived alongside the Kadazan in the same village, but since the Japanese took Sabah, certain families had to flee, all because they were Chinese.

"Did they let him go?" one of them asked, guilt riddled in their face.

"He will be fine," I murmured back, preparing to hike to the next location where other families waited. "He is strong."

*****

By the third day, morale was waning. No news, and no signs of the Japanese relenting. I could see it in their faces as hope began fading, leaving behind anxiety about what to do next. Salag was not just their chief, but their protector and guide. 

Work continued as normal, tending the fields during the day and feeding those in hiding at night. The same rules as always: keep your head down, do as you're told, work hard, and no idling.

As the sun began to set, a hushed whisper began to spread. It started from the village, trickling from the main streets to smaller roads, walking trails to the rice paddies.

By the time the news reached us, no one moved, barely believing what we heard before we ran. More joined as we reached the village, someone demanding others find bandages and herbs to bring with them. People ran from their houses, their shops, all to gather around at the mouth of the village where others had already gathered. I saw my great-grandmother, and with her, we pushed to the front.

Supported by two others, limping into the village was my great-grandfather, bloodied and bruised, but alive. Hope rekindled in the people's eyes, everyone taking part in ushering him home before the Japanese could disperse the crowd.

For a moment, Salag and my eyes met. Instead of pain, there was a triumphant smile, still standing despite it all. He was strong.

And this time, no one paid attention to the warplanes overhead.

*****

This is a story about my great-grandfather and the part he played during the Japanese occupation of Sabah, Borneo, during WWII. The majority of the story was passed on to me through storytelling traditions, from my grandfather, great uncle, and father, and the rest I supplemented through research. I also want to mention the role the Chinese families played after his return, as my family commonly credits them with healing my great-grandfather as thank you for hiding them and keeping them safe.

This was always my favorite story about my great-grandfather, demonstrating leadership, loyalty, courage, and the meaning of community.