The woman cried. She had been used by those Japanese soldiers like nothing more than a tool for their pleasure. This wasn't what the villagers had expected—this wasn't liberation. It was something darker. Crueler.
Even under white imperialist rule, they hadn't witnessed such barbarism. Brutality, yes. But not this. Not this depravity.
The Japanese soldiers rounded up the villagers, shouting commands none of them understood. Confusion filled the air. Fear.
Some of the soldiers, drunk on power and bloodlust, forced family members to violate each other. Mothers. Sons. Daughters. Fathers. It was unspeakable.
Aman could only watch, frozen in horror. His mother—his own mother—had been raped and murdered right before his eyes.
He vomited. Then collapsed.
Soldiers dragged him up, shoving him into a crowd of trembling villagers. His ears rang. His body ached. But the pain inside was louder than any wound.
Then, a Japanese officer stepped forward. He spoke in broken Malay with a thick accent.
"Ahhh, well… we are here to liberate you from the British imperialists. The glorious Empire of Japan needs people… manpower… to help with building… infrastructure… for the army."
Liberation? Was this some kind of twisted joke?
The officer showed no empathy. No remorse. Nothing.
Aman wanted to vomit again. But he was empty.
Then, the village chief—an old, proud man—stood up. "What is this?! Madness! You expect us to help you after you ra—"
A shot silenced him instantly. Blood sprayed as the elder collapsed, face first into the dirt.
Without hesitation, soldiers began setting fire to the village. The smoke rose into the morning sky, black and thick. Orders barked. Guns raised.
Anyone who couldn't walk was shot where they stood.
Aman looked around. He was alone now. Alone, but alive. Somehow.
His mind flashed to his siblings in Temasek—Singapore. Nini and Nana. Were they safe? His father—was he still alive?
His body throbbed with pain from the beatings. His legs trembled beneath him.
A villager dared to speak. "Sir, we're tired… please… can we rest?"
One soldier said something in Japanese. The villager didn't understand.
A Japanese officer grinned. "Sure," he said in Malay. "If you can run… try it."
The man took a hesitant step. Then ran.
A single gunshot ended him.
Aman watched. These men weren't soldiers. They were sadists.
As the guards turned away, distracted by another task, Aman moved. One step. Then another. Then he ran. Fast.
Someone shouted. A bullet flew past him.
But no one chased him. Not seriously.
The officer gave a lazy wave, "Let him go. Not worth the trouble."
Aman didn't stop running. Not until his lungs burned and his feet bled. His only thoughts were of Nini, Nana, and his father.
Eventually, he stumbled upon a river. He dropped to his knees, drank, washed his face.
The water reflected his image—filthy, bruised, pathetic. That's how people had always seen him. Timid. Soft. Bullied for his looks, his quietness.
But maybe… maybe that weakness had saved his life.
He lay there, staring up at the sky. But survival needed more than luck. He had to plan. He had to eat. He had to move.
His next goal was Jitra. His father might be there.
He stood up and began walking. It would take hours. But what choice did he have?
After an hour, a strange smell reached him. Smoke. Burnt rice.
He saw British soldiers.
Hope lit inside him—was he safe now?
He ran toward an officer, but then froze. The rice fields were burning.
"Why…?" Aman whispered.
A British officer turned to him. "What? You survived the Japs? Lucky you."
Aman's eyes stayed on the burning fields. "Why are you burning food?"
The officer sighed. "Scorched earth policy. We can't let the Japs have anything."
"But… this food isn't just theirs. What about the locals? What will we eat?"
The officer didn't answer. He just turned and walked away.
Then he called back to Aman. "We're heading to Jitra. You can come, if you want. No promises, though. The Japanese… they move fast. Like lightning."
The officer paused. "They hit Pearl Harbor. America's in this now. You think you've seen hardship? Back home… my family died in a German bombing."
Aman didn't respond.
The officer motioned to a soldier. "Get him on the truck."
Aman climbed into the back. Numb. Tired. Confused.
At least the British weren't like the Japanese. At least, not yet.
The truck rumbled forward toward Jitra. Toward the unknown.
He sat quietly, staring at nothing. His mind replayed the horror in his village.
Why? he thought. Why must war mean pain for everyone?
Humans… they didn't care. They never did.
He clenched his fists. Rage boiling beneath his hollow face.
"I want to kill that bastard…" Aman whispered.
An Indian soldier beside him heard the words and looked over. But Aman's face was blank. Dead.
The fire inside him had not gone out. It was just beginning to burn.