This was heady talk. They egged each other on, growing loud and agitated. Their patrol leader was a man known as Chengyi, perhaps 22, with a gift for whipping up patriotic sentiment and fanning discontent. It was right for them to be angry, he said. The Ma Gong had defeated the Japanese and forced the white devils from Malaya, yet this country was still not theirs. Not till they’d cleared the dead wood from the top would they be able to hold their heads up. How could they claim independence, when the government remained a lackey of foreign powers, in thrall to the parasite sultans? All around him, heads nodded. He was so wise, able to put into words the thoughts they’d had all along.

Chengyi was tall and square-jawed, exactly like the strapping heroes on the covers of their revolutionary books. He could have had any woman he wanted, but as far as anyone knew he was celibate. The camp on the whole was not expected to indulge in personal relationships, for fear it would complicate matters. This made sense to Xiongmin. Isolated in the jungle with five males to each female, the potential for jealousy was too great. Maybe after the revolution, he thought, looking at Lifeng. Anyway Chengyi didn’t have the time, working so tirelessly for the good of the community, chopping wood, building huts, full of revolutionary fervour—anyone who felt themselves wavering only had to talk to him for half an hour to find their spirits renewed.

After dinner (rice, salt fish, sweet potato), they sang or read. Sometimes, there’d be a discussion before bedtime. Topics were proposed, then debated if there was sufficient interest. Was smoking tobacco ideologically sound? Would the non-Chinese have a place in Soviet Malaya? What were the lessons of the Emergency? The atmosphere was feverish. Anything could be said at these times. Rumours and complaints were damaging when covert, and murmuring was severely dealt with—but here, in the open, even the leaders could be criticised in the harshest terms. Why, Lenin himself could be questioned. The leadership was only temporary, after all, and would be dismissed after the revolution. Openness and transparency was all.

Some nights, there would be the special treat of a concert. Any excuse, any Soviet or Chinese festival, would see them rigging up a stage from tables and blankets. Food was a little more plentiful on these occasions, and the day would be given over to rehearsing. More girls in pigtails harmonising prettily, more revolutionary heroes thwarting the plans of vicious imperialists. They always finished with sponge cake, steamed over the camp fire, and the rousing “Internationale”.