The day began before dawn with calisthenics, their vigorous voices counting out tens in unison, like youth camp. He worried that they’d be heard, but the others assured him the nearest village was dozens of miles away, and the treetop sentries would spot intruders long before they came within earshot. Siew Li was here too, to his relief—if she’d been sent to a different camp, he might not have seen her for a long time. She was now calling herself Lifeng, sharp phoenix. No one was ever alone in this place, so private conversation was impossible, but he was certain the glances they exchanged were meaningful.

They seemed to sing all the time. Even by the stream, cleaning themselves, the air was jolly with song. Mostly revolutionary anthems, but also folk tunes, to remind themselves of their connection to the people. Drying himself with a Good Morning towel, the same as he’d had in town, Xiongmin thought what a beautiful world he’d landed in. His comrades trooped along the forest floor chirping like birds, strong music buoying them. After parade each morning, they sang “The Red Flag.”

Learning to use a gun was easier than he expected. His hands were steady, and he was soon able to hit a target from a couple of hundred paces. The rifles needed to be cleaned and oiled every day so the humidity of the jungle didn’t rust them. They practiced marching with weapons by their sides, until he forgot he was carrying one. Compared to their heavy rucksacks, the gun weighed nothing at all.

With such an early start, by breakfast time he felt like he’d done a full day’s work. The food was indifferent, boiled tapioca with some vegetables if they were lucky. Hot water to drink. He missed coffee, but was careful not to complain. Fresh food was hard to come by, of course, though there was talk in the camp of starting a vegetable garden. They’d been there long enough that it looked like they might be able to stay.

The bulk of the day was taken up by xuexi—learning. Apart from Mandarin lessons (they called it “national language”), there were lectures on all sorts of subjects. They pooled their knowledge. He learnt about the geography of Russia and China, the countries they sought to emulate. There were propaganda talks to make sure they understood the ideology correctly. Weak points in their thinking were ferreted out and eliminated. Had he been damaged by his years in the city? They praised his early beginnings, marked out as a revolutionary by his treatment at the hands of British oppressors. He learnt to think of Batang Kali as a battle, his mother’s village a concentration camp, his dead father a martyr in the struggle. He’d been angry before, but now his rage had a focus. Language and theory showed him how to understand what had happened. Mr Chiam was now an object of pity, so trapped in his cowardice and bourgeois preoccupations that he could think only of petty wealth, rather than using his abilities to further the cause of his race.