The Tenth Gong Rings

On July 21st every year, a gong tolled at Negara (Country) community centre–nine times.

It marked Racial Harmony Day.

Racial unrest shook the cultural melting pot of Singapore that day in 1964.

Lives were lost–too many.

The ninth strike stood for unity.

But it didn’t stand for memory.

And that didn’t vanish.

This is a story of someone who dared to remember.

With boldness.

And grace.

Because doing it again is how we begin.

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The gong in front of Eshan Ali and Marla Tan stood in its oriental splendour, waiting to be tolled.

Gargantuan, gleaming, waiting.

Its sheer weight claimed Marla with tradition.

Marla and Eshan had stood in front of it every year for the last five years.

Negara Community Centre, their work home, had a tradition like no other organization–employees rang the gong at 12 p.m.

Their lunch hour.

Every year, without fail.

Nine times.

The gong rang in Racial Harmony Day–the 21st of July–a day that Singapore chose to honour.

A day in the past she’d rather forget.

But had to mark, for the peace it demanded.

It was an unspoken rule–employees never struck the gong ten times.

A rule that made the rebel in Marla bristle.

She watched as Eshan struck the gong, feeling its heavy toll. A wall of silence seemed to have erected itself instantly around the employees–one that they never spoke of.

“It’s for peace,” Eshan touched her shoulder gently before pulling away.

His gaze was warm, but his hand–

Cold.

Steely.

“Don’t disturb it.”

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Eshran’s gaze lingered in Marla’s mind long after the ceremony had ended.

It pulled her towards the community centre’s hub with an urgent force.

And poignant history.

There it was.

An audio recording, on a turntable, waiting to share history.

A turntable?

Who used those?

Almost in desperation, she turned to the centre’s 75-year-old janitor.

“Oh, we do have one. Try the storeroom at the end of this corridor.” He pointed with knowing fingers.

Marla found it–a turntable that still circled with life when played.

As old as the unrest itself.

The recording was still clear.

The gong–enormous, imposing–was struck during a time of unrest.

It chimed for souls lost.

Employees who operated this community centre–Negara–had struck it after the unrest that had claimed a rogue wave of lives.

Old chants and dialects, spoken in pain, filled the room.

Then, a child.

His tiny, weary voice–

“I remember.”

It struck Marla faster than the riots had at the time.

The gong rang in a painful past–one that Negara Community Centre and its employees had kept buried.

For bittersweet harmony.

Marla’s mind halved. The truth had dawned. But a day steeped in rich history?

It deserved commemoration.

Truthful retelling, for all to understand.

“Some wounds don’t heal, Marla.” She hadn’t noticed Eshran enter the room.”You’ll not only reopen them…you’ll open Pandora’s box.”

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Marla’s heart thudded her awake on the 21st of July.

She rose, a dead weight keeping her rooted in bed.

A laden sandbag of tradition, history, and her need to share.

To tell, with truthful tones, the untold story of what happened.

She arrived at the community centre, ready.

Waiting to ring in truth.

In front of a sea of watchful eyes belonging to colleagues and the residents who lived around the centre.

But before she moved to strike the oversized bell, Eshan caught her eye.

His silent request?

Nine times.

Only.

She nodded.

But not in assent.

Because everyone deserved the truth.

One.

Two…

Nine.

She struck once more.

It sounded loud and clear. It felt familiar…yet new.

Phones in the crowd suddenly buzzed with haunted life.

All was silent.

The crowd greeted her with stunned glances.

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She faced a sea of accusing faces the next day.

Even Eshan met her with silence.

But the community centre’s office felt–

Renewed.

Plaques, with forgotten names, lined the walls.

Stories around the hub accompanied those names.

On a more restful evening, she spotted Eshan.

In his hands was a bouquet of white lilies and red roses.

Singapore’s colours.

True Singaporeans, they never spoke.

But shared a look–

That meant more than words could.

He placed it in front of a new plaque–one lined with at least a hundred names.

The gong never rang again.

They didn’t need it.

Because it never left.

But they needed to do it again–to remember.

To begin.

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