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.

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.