They say that, if you had been around when President Kennedy was shot, you remember forever the moment that you heard that news. I was, and I do.
In November 1963, I was seven. My father, who was self-employed and who worked from home, was just outside the house. About twice or three times that morning he had asked me if “the paper man” had come, and each time I told him that he had not, and his frustration increased with each response he received from me.
Suddenly, at about 9 ‘o clock the paper man came down the common path to our front garden. Unusually, he called out to my father. “It’s here,” he called in Malay. “He’s dead, isn’t he,” was my father’s reply in Malay. “Yes,” responded the paper man, clearly shaking his head. He said a few more things, but my mind was on trying to figure out why he was shaking his head even though he had said “yes” to my father.
I barely saw the paper man leave, because my father’s abrupt ending of the conversation brought me out of my ponderings. He sat down on the top of the two steps leading to our front door, placed the paper out on the ground in front of him and started to read it earnestly.
He glanced up at me when he saw me draw close. “He’s dead,” my father said to me. “Who’s dead?” I asked. “Kennedy,” replied my father, pointing at a picture of a smiling man (who looked a bit like the school principal). “Who’s Kennedy?” I asked. “The President,” replied my father. “Who’s the President?” I asked. I received no reply because he continued to read.
I waited a moment before repeating my question. “President Kennedy is the President of America,” replied my father. How do you explain all this to a child, let alone at a time like this? “He’s like Lee Kuan Yew, only much much bigger, and more important and more powerful, but he’s American, and he’s dead.”
I knew who Lee Kuan Yew was – he was the Prime Minister of Singapore. He was the one whose speeches my parents listened to on the radio, and went away impressed. His photos appeared on lots of posters around the market place and shops. When he travelled in his open-top car, lots of policemen on motorbikes accompanied him in a pattern around the car. He was someone very, very important in Singapore and highly respected.
My father had said that Kennedy was much bigger. My mind went on to contemplate the size of car that would have to be built to accommodate him. I imagined a Lee Kuan Yew look-alike of gargantuan proportions, enormous muscles bulging at his arms, yet quite dead.
I asked my father how it was that the man on the front page of his newspaper had died, and he told me that he had been shot. I wondered how on earth anyone could have taken such a good photograph of a man who had just died. In response to all my questions and between reading passages in the paper, he told me that a man had shot dead the most important man in America which was a country far away. He, like others, did not really know the reason why, but thought that it was because he didn’t like Kennedy to be powerful.
It was not until many years later that the significance of it all slowly fell into place, and I could relate to that dreadful event. But I remember the moment I had heard the news – it had begun with the paper man that day.