The Singapore Story: Memoirs of Lee Kuan Yew (66 page)

The Commonwealth Conference itself was fascinating. Leaders from countries big and small were seated around the oval table at Marlborough House and had equal rights of speech. I was most impressed by Harold Macmillan. He sat there like a patriarch, a great Edwardian figure with drooping eyelids and moustache, a deceptively languid air and an old-world cut to his suit. He greeted all the prime ministers as they came in, including those who were there by courtesy, as I was. As we shook hands, he smiled faintly and congratulated me with the remark that the referendum had gone well. I smiled back and said, “Yes, with the help of the British government in getting the right terms to put to the people.” He and Duncan Sandys, who was at his side, both looked pleased. It was one burden off their colonial shoulders.

India was the biggest nation represented but Nehru was a tired man. He had no life, no vigour in his demeanour or his delivery. He was not forceful in opposing Britain’s joining the common market. The most memorable speech was made by Robert Menzies, prime minister of Australia, a big, stout, robust figure, with a broad face and a strong, deep voice that rang out in full volume. His bristling eyebrows added emphasis to his delivery whenever he frowned. He spoke with passion, conviction and authority. He brushed aside Macmillan’s assurances of continuing close ties with the Commonwealth countries after Britain had joined the common market. “I run a federation. I know how federations work,” he said. They were either centripetal, in which case the states came closer and closer together as in Australia, or they were centrifugal, with the states moving further and further apart until they eventually broke away. They were never static. There was no other dynamic at work in such groupings. If Britain joined the EEC, the ties with the Commonwealth would weaken and atrophy.

Looking back over the past 30 years to see how both the old and new Commonwealth have drifted away from Britain as her interests have become more and more enmeshed with Europe’s, I have often been
reminded how prophetic Menzies was. He knew where Australia’s interests lay, and he did not doubt that they were being sacrificed after Australians had shed blood in two world wars for Britain.

For the British prime minister, Menzies’ powerful speech was a body blow. It was delivered on a Friday morning, so instead of replying that afternoon, Macmillan adjourned the conference for the weekend in order to meet the Commonwealth leaders separately at Chequers and prepare his reply. On the Monday, an urbane Macmillan gave a polished performance. He was filled with sadness that Britain had to take this path, but the course of history had changed. Wealth was created best in large continents, like America and Europe, where good communications facilitated trade and other exchanges. An overseas empire like the one Britain had built was no longer the way to wealth. For a person of his age and generation, who had been born and bred in it, it would have been so much easier to have carried on with the old ties. But the future had to be faced, and it was his task, however unpleasant, to link Britain to this engine of growth and progress on the continent of Europe. It was a masterly performance, noncombative, even melancholic, with hints of nostalgia for the old Commonwealth. It soothed all the leaders present but left them in little doubt that the prime minister of Britain had a duty to do, and that duty meant responding to a beckoning Europe. He would do his best to keep up the ties of Commonwealth and empire, provided the Europeans (or rather President De Gaulle of France, although he was not mentioned) allowed him to.

I had decided to return to Singapore via Moscow this time, despite the Tunku’s displeasure, and left London on 19 September by British Airways. I could not allow myself to be deterred from getting what I felt was a necessary part of my political education: to see the capital of the Soviet Union and the Russians. And I had to do it before we went into Malaysia, when Kuala Lumpur would control my passport. I was greeted by Soviet officials at the level of those deputed to meet leaders from non-independent
countries, notably the vice-chairman of the Committee for Cultural Relations and Foreign Countries. A few Commonwealth diplomats also turned up at the airport, including the British and Australian charges d’affaires and the Canadian ambassador, Arnold Smith, later Commonwealth secretary-general.

I told Western correspondents that I was returning home via Moscow in order to take in the capital of one of the biggest countries in the world. There was no political purpose behind my visit. In fact, the highest official I got to meet was First Deputy Foreign Minister Vasily Kuznetsov. But I learnt much at a dinner given by Arnold Smith at which several foreign diplomats taught me how to interpret what I saw. Moscow was an interesting experience. I had an eerie feeling that whatever I did was being watched. And true enough, as I had been warned, at the city’s best hotel – the National, where I was put up as their guest – the washbasin and bathtub had no stoppers. I had brought with me a hard rubber ball, the kind I throw for my dog to retrieve, but it worked only for the washbasin. The hotel service was bizarre. I had arrived at night and been taken out to dinner. The next morning I was served a huge breakfast of caviar, smoked sturgeon, great plates of rye bread, tea and coffee, vodka and cognac – all laid out on a velvet cloth placed over a large, round table. I was out the whole day and taken to the Bolshoi ballet at night. When I got back to my room, I found my breakfast still on the table. I was aghast, and concluded that in this communist paradise, service performed by one human for another must be considered demeaning. So I slept next to the remains.

When I got back to Singapore on 29 September, I told a welcoming crowd of party supporters at the airport that I was still myself. The Russians knew me and were prepared to deal with me and trade with us, but I had gone to Moscow to learn and had not been contaminated. My stand was like that of Prince Sihanouk and President Nasser. We would defend our territorial integrity, our ideas and our way of life. We
would be neutral in any conflict between big power blocs. But we were not neutral where our interests were concerned. It was only through intelligent appraisal and understanding of what was happening and why it was happening that we could chart our way forward. For instance, we could see that no single nation, not even one as powerful as Britain, could pretend that a big combination in Europe would not affect it. It would therefore have been utterly ludicrous for Singapore with 1.8 million people to have tried to go it alone.

I explained all this for the benefit of the Tunku, but did not convince him. I was to learn later that he was indeed displeased about my visit to Moscow, and had issued a statement in Kuala Lumpur to say that it had come as a surprise to him. It would naturally nullify what I had said when attacking the communists. He saw me as a disobedient official from a troublesome border province. He had disapproved of my going to enemy communist countries, yet I had gone.

29. Pressure from Sukarno

The Tunku was not in a happy mood. Something significant had happened while I was away. The Malaysia Agreement signed on 1 August had triggered adverse reactions from Indonesia and the Philippines who both coveted the Borneo territories. On 24 September, he had issued a warning to the Indonesians to keep their hands off Malaysia – “we expect others not to interfere with our affairs”. He was responding to a statement by Ali Sastroamidjojo, the former prime minister of Indonesia, that Jakarta would not remain indifferent to its formation. This was the first hint that trouble was brewing. Next, the Philippine foreign secretary staked out a claim to North Borneo, asserting that the Republic of the Philippines was the legal successor of the sultanate of Sulu, which owned it, and that North Borneo had never been ceded to the British – they had only leased it.

The Tunku brushed this aside. The British had been masters of these territories since 1878, and for 100 years their right to them had never been questioned. But what he said about us was worrying. He told the UMNO Youth movement that he did not want Singapore, but had to take the island into Malaysia because otherwise the communists would have got into power there. Now he was fearful that if they ever succeeded in doing so in the future, Singapore would refuse to cooperate with the Federation and there would be “trouble galore”. His concern was understandable. While I was in Moscow, the Barisan had published an analysis of the results of the referendum, in which they said that their immediate aim was to overthrow the present PAP government in the next general election, and then go on to win the election for Singapore’s seats in the
federal parliament. Lim Chin Siong went further, calling on the party to marshall all left-wing and anti-colonial forces in order to gain control of the federal government in turn and defeat the “British-Alliance Axis”.

Razak responded by warning the people that they must beware of the enemies of democracy, that the Barisan was working not for their real interests, but for those whose loyalty was outside the country. Lim Chin Siong retorted that if the ruling Alliance believed in parliamentary democracy, it must accept the right of the opposition to change the government through the electoral process. Lim’s truculence strengthened the conviction of the Tunku, Razak and Ismail that the situation must be brought under control quickly, now that the referendum was over and Singapore’s security was going to be Kuala Lumpur’s responsibility.

At a meeting of the Internal Security Council held in Singapore on 8 September, a joint report from the commissioners of police of the Federation and Singapore put out by our Special Branch recommended a phased operation against the communists and pro-communists before merger. Razak, who represented Malaysia in place of Ismail, wanted action without delay.

Chin Chye, who represented me as I was away attending the Commonwealth Conference in London, was against anything hasty. Selkirk, for the British, supported Chin Chye, saying that while there was a threat, it was not one requiring violent suppression. A dissatisfied Razak went to London to press Duncan Sandys, who replied that he wanted action postponed until after the legislation for Malaysia had been debated in the House of Commons, which would not be before February the following year. He had to consider reactions in Britain, where he believed the arrests would undoubtedly cause considerable criticism.

After Razak reported this to the Tunku, the Malayans called for another meeting of the Internal Security Council in October. It again postponed taking a decision on the question of arrests. The PAP’s main concern now was to consolidate its gains and make sure Singapore was
not dominated and kept down by Malay leaders in Kuala Lumpur. I emphasised to Selkirk that ideally we should delay the arrests until after merger. I stressed to Philip Moore that no action should be taken before the election of the 15 Singapore seats in the federal parliament. I wanted the Barisan to be free to contest them because if they were removed and there was no apparent communist threat, the Alliance could win a fair number of the seats. Later, Lord Lansdowne, minister of state to Sandys, referred to my “surprising candour” in telling him that it was to my advantage to preserve a pro-communist rump in the opposition. Indeed I had my reasons.

I had gone to see the Tunku after I returned from Moscow and had spent a few days with him. My explanation for my visit to the Soviet Union mollified him, but I knew he was not satisfied. He was uncomfortable with someone who had a mind of his own and was too ready to argue and, if necessary, take independent action. True, I did not undermine him, but neither did I listen to him, by which he meant obey him. He and Razak were planning for the period after Malaysia; that included who should be in charge of Singapore to do their bidding, and I sensed that the Tunku was writing me off as a compliant caretaker. He wanted someone who was as obedient and loyal as Tan Siew Sin or Lim Yew Hock. He and Razak both liked Keng Swee, but even Keng Swee was not altogether “safe”. He was too intellectual and not susceptible to persuasion or temptation.

Things were not going well, therefore, and after another visit to Kuala Lumpur in mid-November, I told Moore that my relations with the Tunku had further deteriorated; his actions had made it clear he wanted to drop me after Malaysia. In Singapore itself, Tan Siew Sin was putting in a considerable effort to rebuild the MCA opposition and Razak was casting around for younger Malay leaders. Most sinister of all, the Tunku had asked me to release Chua Hoe Ann, leader of the biggest Chinese secret society on the island whom we had detained under the Criminal
Law Temporary Provisions Ordinance. Chua had organised thuggery against PAP branch workers during the previous election, and I feared for their personal safety on future occasions, because after merger the Tunku would have the power to release gangsters like him.

I had already told Selkirk that the Tunku intended to resurrect Lim Yew Hock. The Tunku had proposed that the PAP stand aside in the Sembawang by-election necessitated by the death of Ahmad Ibrahim in order to let his candidate fight it out with the Barisan. I had rejected the idea. “It was complete stupidity,” I told Selkirk. He must have concurred, for he reported to Sandys that the Tunku was pursuing a doomed policy. Sandys replied, agreeing with Selkirk, that I was at present the best instrument for governing the island.