The afterlives and memory politics of the Ipoh Cenotaph in Perak, Malaysia

Geoforum 54 (2014) 142–150

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The afterlives and memory politics of the Ipoh Cenotaph in Perak, Malaysia Hamzah Muzaini ⇑,1 Wageningen University, The Netherlands

a r t i c l e

i n f o

Article history: Received 11 July 2013 Received in revised form 11 April 2014 Available online 20 May 2014 Keywords: Memory Monument Symbolic accretion Reconciliation Malaysia

a b s t r a c t As political regimes undergo changes, so do memorial landscapes established by or associated with them. Such is also the case when new nations are born out of the ashes of decolonization, where monuments of former imperial rule may be co-opted, displaced or destroyed to mark the transition between authorities. Yet, such re-appropriations are not always state-led and do not necessarily take place only during critical junctures of regime changes. Furthermore, original meanings embedded within them may not be totally erased as they leave traces. Drawing on the Cenotaph Remembrance in Ipoh, Malaysia, in 2008, this paper examines how a British monument honouring the imperial war dead, which has been largely neglected since Malay(si)a’s independence in 1957, has been readapted from the bottom-up as an inclusive memorial – via new symbolic accretions and a ceremony – to mark the memory of both locals and foreigners sacrificed during conflicts throughout Malaysian history. While these measures have, to a certain extent, rescued the formerly British-focused monument from obscurity, the paper unravels issues rendering the re-adaptation a highly contested affair, derived primarily from recalcitrant colonial memories and the multi-ethnic complexion of the Malaysian nation. Ó 2014 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

‘Imperial effects occupy multiple historical tenses. They are at once products of the past imperfect that selectively permeate the present as they shape both the conditional subjunctive and uncertain futures. Such effects are never done with in the definitely closed off passé composé (Stoler, 2008: 194–5, original emphasis). As political regimes undergo transformational changes, so do memorial landscapes established by or previously associated with them. Such is also the case for nations born out of the ashes of decolonization where new ways are often sought to reinterpret the past in order to mark the transition between authorities. There has been much geographical work on how such memorials have withered or stood the test of time following what Forest and Johnson (2002: 525) refer to as ‘critical junctures of history’ in Europe – such as during the fall of socialist regimes – accomplished ⇑ Address: Cultural Geography Chair Group, Wageningen University, P.O. Box 47, 6700 AA Wageningen, The Netherlands. E-mail address: [email protected] 1 Visiting address: Room B307, Gaia Building (Building 101), Droevendaalsesteeg 3, 6708 PB Wageningen, The Netherlands. http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2014.04.013 0016-7185/Ó 2014 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

especially by those just coming into power (see also Harvey, 1979; Johnson, 1995; Heffernan, 1995; Atkinson and Cosgrove, 1998; Gough and Morgan, 2002; Whelan, 2002; Forest et al., 2004; Till, 2005). However there has been less exploration of the re-appropriation of (European) imperial monuments outside Europe by non-state actors whether at critical political junctures or not (but see Muzaini and Yeoh, 2007; Cherry, 2013). This paper addresses this gap by focusing on the Cenotaph (or ‘empty tomb’) built in 1927 by the British in Ipoh, Malaysia, which was neglected after Malay(si)an independence in 1957 but recently given new life – via new symbolic accretions and a ceremony – in 2008. Erected in numerous sites around the world by the British to honour their war dead from the First World War, although later to also include those from the Second World War, Cenotaphs are arguably one of ‘the most obvious reaffirmations of British national identity’ (Heffernan, 1995: 294), although they also affirm British imperial status in their many colonies. Similarly, those established in Malaysia (part of British Malaya in 1927) also became the foci of high profile remembrances primarily undertaken by the then British government and attended mainly by its foreign British subjects. It is not surprising therefore that following Malaysia’s independence from British rule in 1957, these monuments became regarded as nothing more than relics of the colonial past and were frequently side-lined: moved to peripheral locations, neglected or restricted as sites for memorial ceremonies commemorated not

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Fig. 1. The Ipoh Cenotaph. Source: author.

by the locals. As symbols of the British Empire and reminders of Malaysia’s political subjugation by a foreign colonial power, Cenotaphs no longer held significance for the postcolonial Malaysian state and its citizenry, at least in terms of direct public engagement with the British monument. This changed in 2008 when the Cenotaph in Ipoh, Perak (herein the Ipoh Cenotaph) (Fig. 1), became the site of a memorial ceremony to remember the dead from numerous conflicts in Malaysia both during and after the British colonial period. This was already remarkable given a climate of the national government playing down memories of what was seen as a war that took place between the British and the Japanese, and where the locals were mere spectators (Cheah, 2007; for similar in the case of Singapore, see Wong, 2001). Yet, the event (herein the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance) at the Ipoh Cenotaph, was also unique for being initiated from below by non-state actors seeking to ensure that the sacrifices of both local and foreign soldiers who fought during Malaysian conflicts were remembered. The 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance also stands out by its organisers promoting it as an event that would bring together all Malaysians writ large. In this regard, the paper focuses on how the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance was choreographed to not only recuperate a monument that had long been physically neglected as a means to honour the war dead but also to extend its relevance to a multi-ethnic Malaysian society.2 The sociopolitical landscape of Malaysia is such that it is dominated, numerically, politically and economically by Malays. The boils down to the dominant ideology of ketuanan Melayu (Malay supremacy) that is adopted by the government in Malaysia where Malays are invariably given special rights as bumiputera (‘sons of the soil’), which has often led to much resentment among members of the other ethnic communities. Yet, also interesting is the fact that, unlike many other parts of Malaysia, the Chinese ethnic group makes up the majority in Ipoh – where the Ipoh Cenotaph is located and Cenotaph Remembrance held – although the state government is still very representative of the Malay-dominated federal government. Despite the seemingly neglected state of the Ipoh Cenotaph and the colonial memories it embodies, the vestiges of imperial memories, as Stoler (2008) reminds us above, are never ‘closed off’. Their embers can live on, influencing the postcolonial moment. Former colonial icons may continue to matter even after they have been re-appropriated. Accordingly, the paper’s examination of the

2 As of 2010, Malaysians comprised Malays or bumiputera (67.4%), Chinese (24.6%), Indians (7.3%) and Others (0.7%), (Department of Statistics, ).

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perspectives of ordinary Malaysian citizens reveals how support for the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance has been far from unequivocal. While some accept the event as a memorial gesture to the local war dead, others criticised the decision of organisers to conduct it at what was still seen by many locals as a British symbol, and how it also offended ethnic sensitivities. More broadly, the paper first shows how important changes to memorial meanings and practices can also take place at times other than critical junctures, in this case spearheaded from the bottom up, even if this may go against more dominant stances taken by the state. Second, alongside reflecting on how such a memorial event can be vexed by the plural complexion of societies, it shows the ways in which imperial sites may still evoke strong responses long after the dust of decolonization has settled (Stoler, 2008). Methodologically, the paper is firstly based on the textual reading of the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance and conversations with its organisers to shed light on the rationale for the event and how it was choreographed. It then focuses on opinions derived from interviews with 46 locals from Ipoh as well as other parts of Malaysia who happened to be in the vicinity when the event took place or have travelled specifically to be part of it. This is to extract their views on the ways in which the event was conducted during the day. The respondents were stratified to ensure that the opinions of all ethnic groups in Malaysia were represented. Interviews were conducted in Malay, transcribed and later translated into English. As many of the respondents declined to be named, only pseudonyms are used here to facilitate more candid responses.

On afterlives and politics of imperial monuments Since Nora’s (1989) work on sites of memory, much has been written in geography that shed light on how memory, as embedded in landscapes, is not only present-orientated but also malleable in its meanings (Dwyer and Alderman, 2008). This is most dramatically reflected at moments of political transition, which ‘create the possibility for significant redefinitions of national history and identity’ (Forest and Johnson, 2002: 527), an indication of how history represented spatially can be altered to denote only what is needed for a new era of political legitimacy (Johnson, 1995; Till, 2005). In the context of political hand-overs, while completely new sites of memory may be created, those linked to former regimes may also be re-appropriated in the service of new agendas, disavowed or subjected to iconoclasm. Examples include the removal of Soviet-era statuary in post-Soviet Moscow (Forest et al., 2004) or the attachment of new associations to old monuments in Rome (Atkinson and Cosgrove, 1998). Outside of Europe, Yoshihisa (2011) and Crampton (2001) also observed how similar re-appropriations can occur in Taiwan and South Africa, respectively, to indicate shifts from one authority to another. To understand the complex afterlives of these monuments associated with former regimes, the notion of ‘symbolic accretion’ is useful. Dwyer (2004: 420) defines ‘symbolic accretion’ as ‘the appending of commemorative elements on to already existing memorials’ to capitalise upon or remove (and replace) interpretations of the past. Given the malleable and unsettled condition of memory especially during moments of political transition, these acts may serve to either reinforce the meanings of a ‘left-behind’ monument if these can serve the purposes of the incoming regime, neutralise former political meanings by making them mere tourist attractions, or contradict the dominant interpretations of the memorial (Dwyer, 2004). Such practices may thus resuscitate waning markers of imperial rule – although these may also be reanointed with new symbolic capital to legitimize the current status quo – or disavow it towards promulgating a new commemorative landscape reflective of the new political set-up. Here, therefore,

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monuments (both of outgoing or incoming regimes) are not ‘ornamental features of the urban landscape but rather highly symbolic signifiers that confer meaning on the city and transform neutral places into ideologically charged sites’ (Whelan, 2002: 508). Yet there are limits to the extent to which new regimes have free reign over how they alter the meanings associated with monuments attached to fallen ones. Johnson (1995) exemplified this with how the Red Army Monument in central post-Soviet Budapest has had to be retained – even as others were relegated to the city’s periphery following the end of the Cold War – to mark how the Soviet Union helped free the city from Nazis in the Second World War. Top-down initiatives to change the meanings of old monuments may also be foiled by other memory-makers who lobby for former imperial monuments to be retained, as the case was in South Africa with the Voortrekker Monument (Crampton, 2001). Light and Young (2010) also stated how, for more practical reasons like costs, socialist monuments in Bucharest still form part of the post-Cold War landscape as ‘left over spaces’. These cases show how the re-appropriation of ‘old’ monuments is not always easy. Far from arbitrary historical references in space, monuments often have to connect and/or compete with existing, plural modes of remembering. As such, ‘[t]o think with ruins of empire is to emphasise less the artefacts of empire as dead matter or remnants of a defunct regime than to attend to their reappropriations and strategic and active repositioning within the politics of the present’ (Stoler, 2008: 196). It is thus apparent that the dominant re-appropriation of sites and monuments associated with former regimes during transitional moments can be a fraught endeavour. Indeed, attempts to imbue new meanings onto them may not always be popularly accepted or even undermined by counter-memory-making. This is especially the case when memories of what these sites and monuments used to represent prove to be recalcitrant despite attempts to discipline them to new objectives (Stoler, 2008; see also Whelan, 2002). It is made more complicated when this happens against the backdrop of a multi-ethnic and multireligious society such as that in Malaysia, where members of different ethnic communities experienced – and seeks to remember – the Second World War differently and in their own ways. In fact, this might explain why the Malaysian government has sought to maintain, in the first place, a position of non-remembrance when it comes to memories of the colonial-era armed conflict. Seen as something that involved only foreign combatants (Fujitani et al., 2000), the promulgation of a common narrative to encompass the many war experiences of its citizenry, and remembering the war publicly without irritating particular religious and ethnic sensitivities, may be too much of a challenge and it was easier to exclude the event from national historiography (Cheah, 2007). Still, this has not prevented Malaysians themselves from inserting memories of the war into the public sphere to ensure that the sacrifices of those who fought and died are not forgotten altogether. Cheah (2007) indicates how this is done through popular media, and Muzaini (2012) and Lim (2000) show how different ethnic groups in Malaysia have resisted the national culture of non-remembrance of the war via sites and ceremonies that are communal and more intimate. This paper now turns to one such attempt at remembering the war against the backdrop of formal silence. It focuses on how non-state actors in the Malaysian state of Perak have sought, through the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance, to revive the Ipoh Cenotaph that was erected by the British. This event deviates, however, from other bottom-up acts of memorymaking in Malaysia in terms of its high-profile nature and the aim of its organisers to create a site of memory that may appeal not only to foreign commemorators – salient also for their tourism contribution – but also to all Malaysians writ large, regardless of

ethnicity, religion and war experience. While such an aim meant securing support from the state and publicity for the event, there have also been critiques regarding the persistence of colonial meanings tied to the Cenotaph which have rendered the location inappropriate. Despite the organizers’ attempts to craft the event so as to cater to the needs of the ethnic groups present, issues also continued to surface not only in terms of how the war is to be discursively remembered but also how this is to be done. Before describing these issues, however, the paper first provides a historical background to the Cenotaph in the light of the formal Malaysian culture of non-remembrance.

‘First remembered, then forgotten . . . ’: the British Cenotaph in Ipoh Since independence from the British in 1957, the Malaysian government has been highly biased in formally marking its involvement in the Second World War. Although the war has been cited, and narrated within national museums, as one of the factors that paved the way for Malaysia to be freed from the reins of imperial rule, the tendency has been to frame the Second World War as something that occurred when the country was still part of British Malaya, and thus not worthy of formal remembrance in a postcolonial Malaysia. With notable exceptions – such as Lieutenant Adnan Saidi, who led his men valiantly against the Japanese before he was killed, and later elevated as a ‘local’ hero – many who fought during the war also hailed from other countries and were therefore seen as unsuitable to be celebrated by Malaysia. In effect, British Malaya was perceived as backdrop for other people’s conflicts and the war as an unfortunate interlude in its history (Fujitani et al., 2000). The decision by the government to play down the country’s involvement in the Second World War may also be due to the fact that there was much rivalry between ethnic groups arising from their different treatments by the Japanese; while the Chinese were treated badly, some Malays collaborated with the Japanese. Thus, remembering the war has the potential to incite ethnic tensions. Even when the war is publicly represented, such as within museums or textbooks, the general proclivity, according to Cheah (2007), is that the Malay experiences are often privileged at the expense of others. While the status of Malays as bumiputeras in Malaysia is relevant here, the non-inclusion of Malaysian Chinese experiences from national historiography is especially stark given how they bore the main brunt of Japanese brutality as punishment for financial and manpower support of the earlier Sino-Japanese war. This might be explained by the fact that, although there were Chinese who fought against the Japanese, and more of them died during Japanese-perpetrated massacres, their heroism was ‘tainted’ by the fact that many of them engaged in post-war activities during the Malayan Emergency (1948–1960) and ‘Re-Insurgency’ Period (1972–1990) in the attempt to transform the country into a communist state (Ban and Yap, 2002). Yet another reason for the formal position in Malaysia with respect to the war could be the fact that the government, as part of the ‘Look East’ policy developed to reduce reliance on the West, has always deferred to Japanese investments for its economy. Hence, to maintain bilateral ties and protect economic interests, war memories where the Japanese had committed many atrocities in Malaysia were best left untouched. One consequence of the formal stance on the war that the Malaysian government has taken is that monuments that were established when Malaysia was part of British Malaya were peripheralised. These included Cenotaphs set up in parts of Malay(si)a where there were sizeable concentrations of British subjects meant to honour individuals who fought and died during the world wars.

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still referred to as part of the national iconography) is marginalised in the capital’s symbolic landscape, used mainly for tourism and foreign commemorations. While the Cenotaph in Kuala Lumpur has had a chequered history, those in other parts of the country were mainly neglected or their use was restricted to foreign-led ceremonies (e.g., in the state of Penang). In the state of Perak, however, such ceremonies were usually held at the Commonwealth Taiping War Cemetery (see Fig. 3), leaving the Ipoh Cenotaph to be neglected despite retaining its location at the ‘heart’ of old Perak. Inaugurated in 1927 and known then as the Perak War Memorial, the Ipoh Cenotaph was largely neglected after the last formal memorial service conducted by the British in 1956, although there were sporadic events held there until 1966 when the British military left Malaysia following the end of the 1963–1966 Confrontation. The original plaque with the names of 91 Britons who left Malaya to enter battle during the First World War was also removed in the 1960s (presumably to safeguard it against vandalism although this could not be confirmed). Indeed, prior to the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance, there was only one marker standing that reads (in English): Fig. 2. The Kuala Lumpur Cenotaph. Source: author.

Cenotaphs were proposed to be metonymic, representing a singular abstraction of mass death and anti-individualistic by not celebrating heroism and by mourning soldiers regardless of class or rank (Gough and Morgan, 2004). They are also frequently made generic in design, a conscious decision made to reflect the dead of many faiths and allow for a more collective form of memory with which everyone may identify (Crompton, 1999). Yet, within the context of Malay(si)a at least, Cenotaphs remain a tangible element of ‘British imperialism’ (Fujitani et al., 2001). Established without much local involvement, ceremonies held at Cenotaphs were also not meant for locals and were choreographed with many rituals that were drawn from Western traditions, such as the laying of the wreaths, to which locals were not accustomed. Moreover, these monuments initially referred to the First World War, which did not resonate with Malaysians. Even though memories of the Second World War were later added to the Cenotaphs by way of additional inscribed texts, it was largely foreign combatants who were commemorated for their service and not the locals who experienced the war as civilians. It is thus not surprising that, following Malay(si)a’s independence and to mark its new identity, the Cenotaphs were neglected or remained as foci for foreign-led ceremonies. In 1964, under the pretext of urban redevelopment, the Kuala Lumpur Cenotaph was moved from its prominent location in the city centre to where it is today at the periphery of the capital. Where it now stands, the monument has also been symbolically accreted to extend war remembrance to include the later communist insurgency periods (Emergency and Re-Insurgency) and the 1963–1966 Malaysia-Indonesia Confrontation, where Indonesia opposed the formation of Malaysia through diplomatic and low-level military pressures. This was accomplished primarily by the addition of new texts to this effect and the provision of the Malay translation of ‘To Our Glorious Dead’ (Fig. 2). Adjacent to the Kuala Lumpur Cenotaph, the National Monument (Tugu Negara), which depicts Malay warriors standing over slain communist soldiers, was also constructed in 1966 to further mark Malaysia’s transition from imperial holding to independent state. It is at this monument that annual celebrations of Warriors’ Day (Hari Pahlawan) to remember the nation’s heroes were held until this was stopped in 2010 when the National Fatwa Council declared this practice as ‘un-Islamic’. Today, the Kuala Lumpur Cenotaph (and ironically, the Tugu Negara as well, although it is

‘Sacred to the memory of the men from the state of Perak who fell in the Great War 1914–1918/And those who died in the 1939–1945 War’ Even when the state sought to recuperate the city’s history and heritage, including its colonial past, as part of overarching projects to improve tourism in the 1990s, through the inclusion of historical signboards, museums and storyboards, the Ipoh Cenotaph itself remained unnoticed although it is included on the heritage city map (Perak State Government, 1999); yet, this map is made available mainly to tourists and are not given out to locals due to limited supply. The different fates of Cenotaphs in Malaysia reflect how monuments tied to past regimes may be re-appropriated by subsequent regimes to unhinge themselves from memories of past subjugation following critical historical junctures (Forest and Johnson, 2002). In Malaysia, the general tendency has been to forget the war experiences not only of its non-Malay citizenry but also of its British forebears. Yet, as Light and Young (2010) remind us, memories of imperial rule that are marginalised are not necessarily forgotten (see also Stoler, 2008). For instance, while formally marginalised, war memories of the Malaysian Chinese have found sanctuary within private domains or through popular media, Still, these have not taken place without incident. For example, a ceremony conducted at Nilai in 2007 where fallen Malaysian Chinese from the wars (some of communist persuasion) are buried was met by public outcry from the Malaysian Malay community. A few movies, like ‘The Last Communist’ (director, Amir Muhammad, 2006) which depict the years of the communist Emergency and Reinsurgency, have also been summarily banned by the Malaysian government as seditious. Thus, as Blackburn and Hack (2012: 257) put it, ‘War memory in Malaysia continues to reflect the plural society of the nation-state, in which the different Malay, Chinese, and Indian communities essentially lived separate lives’. It is in such politicised environments that the Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance was held in 2008. ‘. . .Then remembered again’: the inaugural Cenotaph Remembrance On the morning of 13 June 2008, the Cenotaph Remembrance was inaugurated. In attendance were the High Commissioners of countries involved in the conflicts (including Australia, United Kingdom and India), the local and international press, representatives from the Perak state government, military personnel from

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any religious denomination. Instead of replacing the other ceremonies he is involved in, their dates were made to coincide so foreigners would not need to make multiple trips (Thambipillay, 2008). While Thambipillay did obtain permission and logistical help from the state to hold the event at the Ipoh Cenotaph, organisation for the event was done by the Wira Association and funded by sponsorship by local businesspeople and other wellwishers, thus making it a project very much driven from below. The 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance event also differed from other ceremonies he had previously conducted by dint of some of the other symbolic accretions which gave it a postcolonial twist. First, the original plaque, with the 91 names, later found at the Public Works Department storeroom in Ipoh, was reinstalled. More saliently, a new plaque was affixed (Fig. 5) with words in English reminiscent of additions made on the Kuala Lumpur Cenotaph after 1957: Fig. 3. Taiping War Memorial. Source: author.

Perak, Perak teachers and school children, and local and foreign uniformed war veterans. Accompanying the event were brass bands and bagpipers giving performances, speeches, prayer recitations, the observance of silence and the laying of wreaths. In the light of the exclusionary nature of formal commemorative culture in Malaysia, and neglected nature of its Cenotaphs, the 2008 event at the Ipoh Cenotaph was the brainchild of R. Thambipillay (a Malaysian Indian), to revive a ‘forgotten’ monument and counter the general culture of selective to non-remembrance in Malaysia (pers. comm. 2008): ‘The Cenotaph Remembrance is meant to pay homage . . . not only to the Allied forces but other [Malaysian] fighters buried elsewhere . . . or who fought in other wars but not remembered . . . also, the event is to revive some of these forgotten monuments.’ Thus, the idea for the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance emerged as an attempt to not only resuscitate an abandoned memorial but also to remember the sacrifices of all (not only the foreigners) who fought, including war survivors and those interred elsewhere and could not, for some reason, be moved to the Taiping War Cemetery. Thambipillay also envisioned an event where ‘Chinese, Malay, Indian [in line with Malaysia’s plural demographics] as well as Orang Puteh [‘white people’]) can come together’ and differences may be transcended. R. Thambipillay, former chief of police in Batu Gajah and now chairman of the Wira [‘Heroes’] Association, a non-profit organisation that raises funds and donations for various social work and charitable activities, over time has become a highly influential figure and key player in shaping Perak’s commemorative landscape. Since the 1980’s discovery in a local cemetery of abandoned graves of soldiers who died during the Malayan Emergency at Batu Gajah, he made it his mission to ensure that those who were sacrificed defending Malay(si)a were not forgotten. Hence, he spearheaded many services in Perak prior to the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance, such as the ‘God’s Little Acre’ ceremony at the Batu Gajah Cemetery where he found the graves (see Fig. 4) and another for fallen Gurkha soldiers from Nepal who fought during the communist insurgencies, now interred at Tambun Camp (Thambipillay, 2003). However, these tended to remember only specific events or groups from the Emergency, and favour certain forms of religious expression – e.g. Christianity for God’s Little Acre, and Sikhism/Hinduism for Tambun – in line with the faiths of the majority of the dead buried in situ. Thambipillay therefore wanted the 2008 Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance to be different, not only by also honouring memories of those who died in conflicts aside from the Emergency but by not being partial to

‘In Memory of Gallant Members of the Armed Forces, Police and Civilians Who Sacrificed their Lives Defending the Nation during . . . Malayan Emergency 1948–1960 . . . Indonesian Confrontation 1962–1965 . . . the Re-Insurgency Period 1972–1990.’ Through the new plaque, the emphasis of the former symbol of British colonialism was thus broadened to other conflicts to have taken place in Malaysia since independence. While Malaysians may not relate to the First World War, more recent events (such as the Emergency and Re-insurgency period) in addition to the Second World War were more relatable to Malaysians; at the least there were still survivors from the war generation who would remember what happened during those years. As Thambipillay (pers. comm. 2008) put it, ‘by updat[ing the Cenotaph] locals can see it as something they too can be interested in. With all the [non-Malaysian] names on the plaque before, it is no wonder Malaysians do not care’. Second, Thambipillay also choreographed an extensive ceremony in the hope of injecting new life into the Cenotaph that had long faded into the background. During his speech, he said: ‘With this, the decades-old Cenotaph now has a breath of renewed life where we can gather to honour not just the two world wars but also those who fell in conflicts that took place after Malaysia gained independence in 1957’. As such, the ceremony was a way of re-introducing the Ipoh Cenotaph – a hitherto neglected site – to locals, and to honour the war dead from multiple conflicts. By enlarging the scope of the monument, he also hoped that, aside from the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance, which was to become an annual affair, the site would also be used for ‘more similar ceremonies [in the future] . . . to foster friendships among families whose past generations were involved in the wars as well as boosting state tourism’ (Thambipillay, in The New Straits Times, 14 June 2008). This speaks to the ability of rituals and embodied ceremonies to enliven, even if just for a brief and transient moment, what are otherwise static monuments (Connerton, 1989). The 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance was also made more accessible to Malaysians via the introduction of a multi-ethnic, multireligious element. Although the usual (foreign) crowd were present, many locals representing state bodies, military institutions, schools and ethnic groups in Malaysia, made up the more than 300 people in attendance there that year. Through these involvements of the local population, Thambipillay had therefore hoped to project the ceremony as a ‘Malaysian’ event. Schoolchildren, dressed in their uniforms and representing the mosaic of ethnicities in Malaysia, were also intentional to make the event something that is beneficial to the young as well as the old. During his speech, Thambipillay said:

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Fig. 4. Batu Gajah Christian Cemetery. Source: author.

‘It is admirable to see some of you who are getting along with age but have the spirit to attend this ceremony. I am sure your fine example will encourage youngsters like these 150 school children with us here’. In a press release, Thambipillay (2008) also believed that the event served as a ‘valuable source of historical knowledge for the young on how and at what expense our continued freedom was attained’. Through these narratives, and others that spoke of ‘sacrifice’ and ‘heroism’, Thambipillay thus projected the event as salient to nation-building and useful for getting the young to learn of the war, thus invariably promoting the event as ‘rhetorical topoi . . . that teach us about our national heritage and our public responsibilities and assume that the urban landscape itself is the embodiment of power and memory’ (Boyer, 1996: 32). In line with other Cenotaph ceremonies in Malaysia led by foreigners, such as during Armistice Day, there were the marks of a ‘Western’-style ceremony – perhaps as gesture of acknowledgement to the original context of the monument and to cater to foreign veterans in attendance – including the moment of silence and laying of wreaths, which have become staples in remembrance ceremonies in other parts of the former British empire (Heffernan, 1995; Gough and Morgan, 2002). However, multi-faith prayers were also inserted into the event which, as the event’s emcee put it, represented ‘multi[-ethnic], multi-cultural, multi-religious Malaysia, all coexisting in peace and harmony’. Here, speeches and prayers were read by leaders of Islam, Christianity, Sikhism, Hinduism and Buddhism, in accordance with the religions of both those commemorated as well as those present. Yet, it could also be argued that this symbolised a way of representing multi-religious

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Perak to the world (via the foreign participants and media) and further projecting the ceremony as one resonating with all Malaysians. Still, it was a measured move, as specific practices, such as the burning of the joss sticks for the Chinese, were disallowed because, as Thambipillay (pers. comm. 2008) put it, ‘I do not want the event to become too overwhelmed by the variety of remembrance practices we Malaysians have and scare people away who may not understand’. Interestingly, such rituals were part of the contested 2007 Chinese-led ceremonies at Nilai although it did not emerge if this was why Thambipillay had decided not to include them this time around. Also present at the ceremony were the indigenous population (Orang Asli) to represent civilians who had contributed to wars but have thus far been excluded from physical memorials such as the Cenotaphs. During his speech, Thambipillay mentioned, ‘For the first time, we have included the Orang Asli in the ceremony because their role in fighting the communist has never been remembered’. Indeed, given that they live nomadic lives in the jungles of Perak, many were inevitably embroiled in the war as aides to Allied guerrilla fighters against the Japanese (The Star, 17 June 2008). There was another advantage to having both the Orang Asli (and other foreign veterans) there. As ‘relentless recorders’ of history (Connerton, 1989: 15), their role was also to inspire members of the younger generations there, as material witnesses to otherwise abstract stories of war. Their presence also served to resuscitate aspects of the past left out of history books, particularly via reminiscences with others during the event and with the media through which they had the chance to talk of the past (The Star, 17 June 2008). Thus, forgotten facets of the past could be brought to life again not only for Malaysians generally but also those who actually went through these events. The re-appropriation of the Ipoh Cenotaph by Thambipillay (and the Wira Association) was first a reflection of how a monument associated with a former colonial power may be co-opted not only by dominant elites during periods of political transition but also from the bottom-up by non-state individuals and organisations seeking to attain their own objectives. More than that, in attempting to revive the neglected British monument, Thambipillay had effectively countered the formal climate of non-remembrance in Perak (and Malaysia more generally) with respect to the war years. Yet, in contrast to the ceremonies conducted independently by minority groups (e.g., at Nilai), foreign-led ones (e.g., at the Kuala Lumpur Cenotaph) and those targeted at specific events (e.g., at Batu Gajah), the multi-ethnic and consolidated nature of the 2008 Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance, as a Malaysian event, also makes it more amenable to being accepted by the Perak state government. The rules forbidding certain elements (e.g., the burning of joss paper that may make the event appear to be honouring the Malaysian Chinese) were also telling of how Thambipillay may have sought to neutralise potential criticisms emerging from the state or its people. In fact, the choice of the Ipoh Cenotaph itself may be a calculated move not only for its central location but also the fact that it had not been used or updated until then to extend beyond the world wars, hence signifying a sort of ‘clean slate’ for a postcolonial symbolic accretion of an abandoned monument. Unfortunately the slate was not as clean as the organisers may have wished.

Reproducing colonial biases, transgressing Asian sensitivities

Fig. 5. New plaque on the Cenotaph. Source: author.

Despite positive reviews of the 2008 Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance in subsequent press reports, many focusing on the event as a site of memory that unbiasedly remembered all wars in Malaysian history (The New Straits Times, 14 June 2008; 17 June 2008), conversations with locals revealed a different story. First,

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the event was seen as privileging specific colonial stories and subjectivities. In terms of its location, it had not escaped many that the Ipoh Cenotaph brimmed with colonial connotations. Despite the efforts at rededication, it was still seen by a few, like Rainah (Malaysian Malay, 26 years of age), as ‘British . . . just for the British [participants] there’. The 2008 Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance was also criticised for its lack of promotion to locals, such as Alisha (Malaysian Malay, in her 80s) who said, ‘I did not know about the event’, perhaps a reflection of how publicity only took place a few days in advance in local broadsheets even though invitations for selected individuals were sent months ahead. Many also took issue with the preference for stories of battles at the expense of everyday suffering. As Zainal (Malaysian Malay, in his 70s, who went through the war as a child) said, ‘[the ceremony] does not honour men like me because I did not fight’. To support his point, he noted how ‘Orang Asli are there because they fought’. Indeed, while much was said in the speeches by Thambipillay and the other invited guests about the ‘sacrifice in battles’ and ‘fallen heroes’, there was hardly mention of locals who suffered as civilians. Second, the event was criticised for its exclusion of local rites and customary rituals. Allen (Malaysian Chinese, 35 years of age), for example, lamented that ‘there was nowhere for Chinese people to practice rituals like the burning of joss sticks they are familiar with when praying for the dead’. According to Thambipillay, this was intentional as he did not want to encourage such (Taoist) practices because ‘I wanted to make the event for everyone, where every religion is featured without any one of them seeming special’. Yet, where it concerned the act of honouring the (war) dead, locals took their rituals seriously. As Allen said, ‘if you want locals to take part in the ceremony you have to do it properly or your prayers will not reach the dead’. By not following the proper ways of praying to the spirits of the war dead, it also meant that, as Seng (Malaysian Chinese, 78 years of age) said, ‘our forefathers will not bless us’, premised on the Chinese belief in ancestral worship. With the inability to practice their own remembrance rituals, and perhaps coupled with the greater leeway given to Western traditions, local Malaysians therefore felt that the event was not really intended for them. Third, there were also those who, like Rahimah (Malaysian Malay, 46 years of age), who did not like the fact that ‘we were made to say our prayers in front of non-Muslims and take part in prayers [of other faiths]’. The statement reflected her belief that respect to the Muslim dead ‘should only be at the cemetery or at a mosque and where only Muslims are present’. The 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance thus went against some local Muslim sensitivities. Reminiscent of the National Fatwa (‘decree’) against the marking of ‘Warriors Day’ at the Tugu Negara, this pointed to the awkwardness she felt in not only ‘imagining’ the war dead via the monument, which she saw as ‘un-Islamic’, but also partaking in rituals and prayers that were not of her own faith. Notwithstanding the inclusion of Western elements, such as wreath-laying, which Kamal (Malaysian Malay, 74 years of age) saw as ‘just following the Whites’, a more serious contention was whether the (war) dead should even be collectively remembered. Fatimah (47) related how the ceremony ‘is just not the way we honour the dead as it is wrong to treat people who died in wars as special since we are all equal in the eyes of God’. Kamal also cited how it is more important to remember what ‘we have done in our lives and not if we died during wars unless it is for upholding religious values (jihad)’. Thus, the sentiment was that, in Islam, one should never glorify these deaths, seen as going against religious tenets. In the discussion thus far, two things become apparent. First, the Ipoh Cenotaph was still very much associated with British colonial rule, even though it had been left abandoned since the 1960s. In fact, despite being projected as a gesture to remember aspects of the war past that have been pushed aside before, and allowing for a

ceremony that was intended to resonate with all Malaysians, the high profile event had only served to remind people (who had forgotten) or informed others (who did not know what it was before) that the Cenotaph was actually established by the British. In this regard, far from the democratic ideals intended for the monument to unite all in the remembrance of the imperial war dead (Crompton, 1999), the Cenotaph Remembrance brought to mind how it had excluded locals who had fought as well as those who suffered. It would thus seem that the 2008 Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance event had reinstated (vis-à-vis supplanted) the colonial meanings of the monument, showing how new memories ‘do not entirely replace the previous ones which are still part of their symbolic capital, to intermittently wax and wane in different contexts’ (Viejo-Rose, 2011: 467). Second, that Malaysia is a plural nation dominated by the Malay ruling class and bound by the adage of ketuanan Melayu added yet another layer leading to the 2008 Ipoh Cenotaph Remembrance as a contested event. For one, compounding the already challenging aim of providing a common war narrative to bind the myriad experiences of the ethnic communities, Thambipillay was also faced with the task of choreographing a ceremony that could take into consideration the panoply of traditions in Malaysia that are based on different faiths and customs. The frustration expressed by the Malaysian Chinese at not being able to practice their own rituals was also underlined by the fact that Perak has the highest proportion of Malaysian Chinese living in urban areas. It was also in the past a hotbed of communism and where the Emergency began with the murder of British planters in 1948. Notwithstanding the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance in Ipoh being a bottom-up initiative where its organising committee comprised mainly non-Malays, and the state only playing a supporting role, these factors had led to the event being framed, according to Tseng (Malaysian Chinese, 81), as ‘another way the Malay government wants to say we [Malaysian Chinese] are not important’. Despite these criticisms, it was apparent that the ceremony had in fact also attracted more people to see the new plaques and the wreaths, notes and other things left behind at the Ipoh Cenotaph in the days and weeks after the event. This signified a certain revitalisation of the long-neglected monument as a result of the event. Some respondents also felt the criticisms about the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance benefiting foreigners more were uncalled for. As Adam (Malaysian Malay, in his 40s) said, ‘both Malaysians and foreigners suffered in those wars and to make one group prominent over the others is to miss the whole point’. Indeed, the British were involved in many of the wars and thus deserve their place in the event, and to say that they should not be there is, according to Lina (Malaysian Malay, 35 years of age), ‘not only disrespectful to the people who too lost limbs and loved ones but also to forget the war as a time when there was much cooperation between British and locals’. The emphasis here is that, regardless of the origins of the people who fought, the focus was on a common enemy, demonstrating how such sites could bring people together rather than tear them apart. There were also those who appreciated that, as Lina continued, ‘we now have a memorial that remembers all . . . when before these were only by and for foreigners’. Some also liked that: ‘The ceremony brings everyone together, school children, veterans, state officials . . . I think it is appropriate that we all take part to remember the older generation who died . . . it is something good for the state’. [(Rosnah, Malaysian Malay, 29 years of age)] Here, Rosnah was referring not only to the diversity of local representatives from the state but the fact that it was an event where all ethnicities may feel represented due to multi-religious prayers: ‘I appreciate [that] all the religious groups are represented and it is

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the type of event we should have more of. . . where Chinese, Malays, Indians, mat sallehs [foreigners] can get together’. On contentions over the rituals performed, some thought that this was a moot point: ‘If the Chinese want to burn joss-sticks, they can always burn it somewhere else . . . the ancestors can still get them [the offerings] . . . why must they burn them here . . . they just want to cari pasal [find cause for conflict] . . . this is a multi-ethnic event and we must respect each other’s religions. I thought the multi-religious prayers were appropriate’ (Kay, Malaysian Chinese, in her 20s). Thus, even as there were criticisms, there were also some positive ways that the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance may be perceived to speak more accurately of the past (e.g., the spirit of cooperation between colonialisers and the colonised) and bridge ethnic differences rather than fray the delicate multi-ethnic fabric that comprises contemporary Malaysia. Conclusion This paper has been focused on the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance that took place at the Ipoh Cenotaph in Perak, a monument that was originally established by the British when Malaysia was still part of colonial Malaya. Organised by non-state actors, or what Dwyer and Alderman (2008) refer to as ‘memorial entrepreneurs’ who do not always gain monetary rewards from re-appropriating the past but are influential enough to effect change in local memorial landscapes, the discussion has first reflected upon how changes made to monuments linked to previous governments may be accomplished from the bottom-up and not only during particularly salient moments. Indeed, while the literature in geography has provided insight into how monuments associated with former regimes may be co-opted, displaced or destroyed during ‘critical junctures of history’, such as by succeeding regimes seeking to denote a change in leadership through the manipulation of their sites of memory (Forest and Johnson, 2002; Whelan, 2002; Johnson, 1995; Till, 2005), the findings here show how such reappropriations may also take place in times long after formal political transitions and not necessarily by the presiding government. In fact, as the paper has revealed, such events may actually work, although not antagonistically, against dominant cultures of postcolonial memory-making that may seek to marginalise if not exorcise memories of former subjugation by a foreign power. Such re-appropriations from below, however, do not take place in a political vacuum and certain compromises have had to be made. Applying the concept of ‘symbolic accretion’ (Dwyer, 2004), the paper has indicated how the Ipoh Cenotaph and the surrounding ceremony have had to be materially, socially and symbolically transformed to facilitate its transition from being a relic of colonial times to becoming now a monument that can speak to a more postcolonial ‘Malaysian’ present. The organisers may also have had to insert new practices and restrict particular rituals during the event so that the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance would resonate with the population at large and not be seen to privilege any specific ethnic group. This provides insight into how decisions to reuse colonial monuments for purposes of postcolonial remembrances – especially those in multi-ethnic societies and where locals have never been a significant part of the monuments’ making and maintenance in the past – cannot be a straightforward process. Frequently, they entail salient changes to enable resonance with the people (Cherry, 2013). Arguably, without these changes, the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance may not have attained the support of the Perak state government, and also the success it did.

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Even though the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance has been appreciated as a tourism booster and a salient means of honouring the contributions of those who fought for Malay(si)a in prior conflicts (The Star, 19 June 2013), the paper has also demonstrated how there was much disagreement not only with respect to the choice of the Ipoh Cenotaph (still seen as a ‘British’ monument) as a site for the event but also how the event (with its ‘Western’ rituals and lack of local ones) was choreographed. Firstly, this is an indication of how attempts by memory-makers to undo the past by reappropriating traces of what was before do not always render the prior symbolism associated with them necessarily passé. In fact, (in)tangible colonial traces may continue to serve as ‘inert remains’ and persist as ‘vital refigurations’ in the postcolonial present even if these have seemingly been forgotten (Stoler, 2008: 194; Crampton, 2001). Second, it reflects on how contestations over the re-appropriations of colonial sites as postcolonial icons extend beyond issues of their associated discourses; they can also be contentious in terms of the practices to honour the dead. For sure, the paper has clearly shown how colonial monuments can have fraught afterlives (see Muzaini and Yeoh, 2007), especially when these are located in societies that are not only multi-ethnic but deeply mired in a politics of race where one ethnic group is formally privileged at the expense of others. Yet, a third reading of the 2008 Cenotaph Remembrance has also emerged: the event as a reconciliatory gesture. While many of the wars marked by the event were fought by those hailing from different corners of the earth, it was indeed the case that these generally tended to be against common enemies. Thus, the event at the Ipoh Cenotaph may be seen to provide yet another occasion where nationalities can converge although this time with a different common purpose, that of transnational remembrance. Viewed this way, the choice of the Cenotaph as the location for the event then seems apt given the original aspirations for the monument to be an inclusive – even if then in the service of imperial Britain – symbol that is stripped of any marks of division (Crompton, 1999). While this may, in reality, be a difficult ideal to realise, given that memorial landscapes will remain contentious as long as they are bound to the need to forge particular (local or national) identities and attachments (Gough and Morgan, 2004; Forest et al., 2004; Johnson, 2011, 1995), it is this third perspective that actually inspires hope that monuments associated with former regimes can in fact contribute more towards ironing over, rather than accentuating, differences. Perhaps then, they can become what Yoneyama (2001: 341) has referred to as ‘postnationalist public spheres in which diverse historical understandings can overlap in multiple ways and be shared coalitionally’. Acknowledgements I would like to thank the editor, three reviewers, and Meghann Ormond, for their comments and suggestions on earlier versions of this paper. References Atkinson, D., Cosgrove, D., 1998. Urban rhetoric and embodied identities: city, nation, and empire at the Vittorio Emanuelle II Monument in Rome, 1987–1945. Ann. Assoc. Am. Geogr. 88, 28–49. Ban, K.C., Yap, H.K., 2002. Rehearsal for War: The Underground War Against the Japanese. Horizon Books, Singapore. Blackburn, K., Hack, K., 2012. War Memory and the Making of Modern Malaysia and Singapore. NUS Press, Singapore. Boyer, C., 1996. The City of Collective Memory: Its Historical Imagery and Architectural Entertainments. First MIT Press, Massachusetts. Cheah, B.K., 2007. The ‘black-out syndrome and the ghosts of world war II: the war as a ‘divisive issue’. In: Koh, D.W.H. (Ed.), Legacies of World War II in South and East Asia. ISEAS, Singapore, pp. 47–59. Cherry, D., 2013. The afterlives of monuments. S. Asian Studies 29 (1), 1–14.

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