9th of august, p.21
9th of August, page 21
Number Five had gotten their attention. Without looking at them, he unzipped his jacket and reached for the red button. He seemed to have trouble breathing.
“Sir, you okay?” the lead officer called out, his right hand reaching for his weapon in his side holster.
Another officer at the back was already contacting his supervisor about the strange man on the train.
Beep beep. Beep beep. Number Five’s watch.
Noon.
“Sir?”
Number Five exhaled one last time.
The female voice came over the speakers again. “If you see any suspici…”
Number Five pressed the button.
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Only moments earlier, three carriages away, Henry messaged Sally on WhatsApp: “Daddy’s on the way home from work. Where are you?”
Sally’s message came in seconds later: “I came to surprise you, Daddy. I’m at Changi Airport T1!”
The whoosh, when it came…
A hot gust of wind slammed into Henry’s body and lifted him off his feet, flinging him to his right, just as he was making sense of Sally’s message.
Everything happened as if in slow motion.
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Smoke quickly filled the entire train. People didn’t know where they were or which direction to turn to. The two women sitting in the reserved seats turned their heads to their left and closed their eyes to shield them from the debris brushing against their faces. One of them had her right leg torn off below the knee. Train doors flew out and landed hundreds of metres away narrowly missing people and parked vehicles.
Those waiting on the platform at Pasir Ris station were jolted out of their daydreams. Conversations ended and music stopped blaring through headphones. Everyone on the crowded platform saw the train barrelling towards them with flames shooting out from its carriages. Like a train from hell.
The image was still not registering in their brains. This was Singapore. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Bodies on the platform began to step back towards the staircases and escalators. When it became clear the train wasn’t going to stop, they ran.
Those stuck at the end of the queue felt a rush of heat slam into their backs as the burning train roared past them. Even after the train had roared past the station without stopping, the screaming on the platform did not cease.
On the train, the four TransCom officers were dead. Headquarters tried to reach them on their radio. There was no reply. People sat burning in their seats, dead before they even knew it. They were the lucky ones. Sections of the train’s roof were ripped out. Those sitting in carriages farther from Number Five had not been killed instantly but wished they had been.
A man with a large piece of glass embedded in his neck was bleeding to death. Six Nanyang Technological University journalism students, out reporting on National Day, were also wiped out in the blast. One of them had been filming scenes on the train with her handheld camera when she zoomed in on Number Five and the cops. This looked newsy, she thought. Then, a flash of bright light appeared in the viewfinder.
An injured woman lying face up on the floor let out a terrifying wail pleading for someone to help her. Her screams took on an accusatory tone when she realised no one would come to her aid.
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Flying backwards, Henry slammed into a vertical railing which caused his spine to crack. He landed on his back with a thud but was still conscious enough to see smoke wafting above him. The sides of the train were stained with blood and several of the windows had cracked.
He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t move. His head felt swollen. All he heard was a high-pitched sound in his ears.
There had been four people in the seats to his right. Now, there were only two. He wanted to see how many people there were on the opposite row but his neck wouldn’t respond to his commands and his head couldn’t turn.
He felt something warm and wet on his legs. Was it blood? His or someone else’s? His arms lay limp by his sides and he realised the air around him was getting more acrid. The screaming had stopped. Henry tried shouting for help but couldn’t. He didn’t know if anyone around him was alive to help him.
The train began to slow. It seemed to take forever before finally stopping. The warm sensation on his legs spread. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure walking past. His clothes were tattered and sooty, with red patterns on it. His face was blackened and his hair singed. He walked past Henry with a glazed look in his eyes. Then, he stopped where Henry’s head lay. The man sobbed and let out a chilling wail.
Tears ran down Henry’s face as he thought of Sally. If he were to die now, the last image he would want to see would be her face.
And there she was, smiling at him, encouraging him with her eyes to not give up.
Then, everything went black.
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All PM John saw were dozens of hands thrust in front of him as residents rushed forward to greet him.
He didn’t notice the e-biker tearing his way towards them.
The crowd parted and people screamed as the e-biker slammed into them like a shark attacking a school of fish.
A flock of pigeons fighting over dropped pieces of meat, bread and corn rose into the air, flapping their wings furiously to avoid the e-biker, as three security guards threw themselves in front of the PM. Their pistols drawn and knees bent, they quickly sized up the situation to see if it was safe to shoot as people and children ran across their field of fire. One of them had a clear shot, took a deep breath and was about to pull the trigger.
PM John looked at the man on the e-bike as it hurtled towards him.
Now the enemy had a face.
A ball of flame shot out like a giant mushroom shattering windows and glass panels of flats and shops nearby.
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The pasar malam was unrecognisable. The marquee sheltering the market was gone—its metal supports and beams had collapsed and trapped people inside as fires made short work of the structure. The metal struts that had held up the tent were scattered all over the area.
Gas canisters used for cooking caught fire and caused secondary explosions, which killed and injured more people, including those rushing forwards to drag casualties away. Those living in Ang Mo Kio and Bishan heard the loud popping sounds in the distance and thought they were part of the National Day celebrations.
One man was seen crawling around, his clothes and hair on fire as survivors desperately looked for a fire extinguisher. The roar of the flames drowned out his groans. His eyes were closed, his living hell written all over his face as he let out a silent scream. Eventually, three men grabbed three containers of sweet drinks from a stall and doused him with the liquid. It wasn’t enough until all three took off their shirts and smothered the flames.
For 85 people at the pasar malam, including PM John, help would arrive too late.
About fifty metres behind the marquee, three taxis were ablaze, their drivers dead, heads slumped on their steering wheels. Body parts and debris were scattered all around the church, community club, coffee shop and police post across the road. People held bloodied hands to their heads as they walked aimlessly and in circles, crying out for lost children, parents, spouses or friends.
“Have you seen my son? He’s five.”
“I’m looking for my wife. She has a walking stick.”
“Have you seen my husband? He has a beard and wears a turban.”
Black smoke blanketed the area as dozens of bodies lay on the ground. Survivors were tripping over the corpses of loved ones without realising it.
That woman without her legs couldn’t be my wife, thought the technician.
What a mess that elderly man’s body has become, thought a civil servant looking for his father.
Passers-by ran to help people then moved on to other victims when it was obvious they couldn’t be saved.
At a McDonald’s, diners who had been sitting next to windows were thrown from their seats still clutching hamburgers or chicken nuggets. Seven were killed.
People with blackened faces and blood-stained clothes sat on the ground cradling people they didn’t know. A woman in a hijab was comforting an elderly Chinese woman who had lost her left ear, and two of her grandchildren. An Indian man was trying to soothe a crying Malay girl who had lost her parents and younger brother.
Fires in the library were sending ash and burnt paper to the entire first level and out onto the square. The sprinklers kicked in like artificial rain and ensured the embers did not spread.
When it became clear no other bombs were going to go off, people poured out from their hiding places. Workers from the nearby supermarket grabbed tarpaulins and large gunny sacks from their storeroom to cover the bodies littering the square. They waved to police officers arriving on the scene and directed them to the corpses. Their colleagues grabbed bottles of mineral water from their chillers and distributed them to whoever was still breathing.
The 86th victim was Number Six.
Lying about fifty metres away from him were five children, their stepfather and their mother named Nora.
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There wasn’t a person who had not been touched by the bombings. Everyone knew someone who had lost a friend or a loved one in the blasts.
Twelve police officers didn’t report back for duty—dead, injured or unaccounted for.
The Singapore Armed Forces mobilised its troops to help their friends in blue maintain public order. Armed soldiers were seen all across the island, arriving in their Terrex infantry carrier vehicles and five-tonne trucks, in a show of strength. They, too, had not been spared from the attacks. Nine of their personnel had been killed, including a one-star general out shopping with his wife at Waterway Point. Twelve others were injured.
The SCDF were also struggling with calls for help. They mobilised as many of their ambulances as they could but had to activate those belonging to private ambulance companies as well.
The crowds cheered when they saw the heroes in green and blue arrive. Lining the streets, they cheered as Army vehicles, police cars and vans, and SCDF ambulances and fire engines drove by.
“Get them!” they shouted.
“Hang them!” they demanded.
“We love you!” they declared.
Traffic jams formed at the four attack locations as ambulances were blocked by cars desperate to get out and by police cars desperate to get in. Fire engines rushing to the scene added to the chaos. Stuck hundreds of metres from the casualties, paramedics alighted from their ambulances and ran with their stretchers and medical equipment to the victims.
Media outlets, whose reporters had been gathering at the National Stadium and at various housing estates in the country, directed journalists to the four sites. Most thought it was a prank.
Reporters worked feverishly, not fully believing the stories they were typing.
“At noon on National Day, four bombs went off simultaneously around Singapore killing an unknown number of people and injuring hundreds of others. It is believed suicide bombers…”
“Hundreds, if not thousands, are believed killed and injured after suicide bombers launched a coordinated attack on Singapore on National Day. We’re getting reports Prime Minister John Tang was also killed in one of the attacks at Toa Payoh Central.”
After
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All train services were halted. The authorities couldn’t take the risk of another mass bombing. But the Land Transport Authority decided buses would continue operating. People still needed to go home or rush to hospitals. It was a gamble but they had to keep the country moving.
As smoke rose from the wounded city, it struggled to come to terms with this new era.
Nurses, doctors and medical workers rushed off to work as loved ones hugged them and told them for the first time how proud they were of them. Many were foreign workers who had lived and worked in Singapore for many years and had regarded the country as their home.
This was their way of saying “thank you”.
Even medical workers from private clinics descended on the nearest public hospitals to volunteer their services. Taxis picked up uniformed healthcare workers along the road and sent them to their destinations for free.
“No need,” they told their passengers who handed them cash. “Go and save people.”
Off-duty police officers, SCDF and SAF personnel also rushed back to their workplaces to help in any way they could.
Hawkers and residents near the blast sites prepared food and distributed them to exhausted emergency crews and to relatives waiting anxiously for news of their loved ones. Pharmacists offered their stock of bandages, disinfectants and tape to SCDF paramedics trying to cope with the carnage. People with basic training in first aid bandaged wounds and used tables and chairs as makeshift stretchers to haul the injured to the nearest ambulances stuck in traffic.
Some motorists, not caught in the jams, drove the slightly injured to the nearest hospital.
“Who needs a lift?” they yelled.
Hands were raised and doors opened.
Many ordinary Singaporeans and foreigners living in the country went on Facebook and offered to drive people around for free. All they had to do was message them.
But others didn’t handle it so well.
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Mischief-makers, the disgruntled and the ignorant scratched the cars belonging to Muslims and threw bricks and flowerpots through their windscreens. Even the vehicles of non-Muslims were not spared.
Across the island, many Muslim families stayed home afraid of the reprisals they expected would come. Still, their homes were sprayed with paint or oil.
Insults were thrown at them in public. Several got pelted with soft-drink cans, dirt and packets of food that exploded and spilled their contents when they landed at their feet or on the walls behind them. Some found their targets. Non-Muslims had to step in and escort them safely away from the culprits baying for blood.
Shouting matches erupted island-wide at bus stops, malls and MRT stations as people struggled to get home.
“It’s all your fault!” an executive in a suit and tie shouted at a Muslim woman.
“I didn’t do it!” she yelled. “How can you blame me just because I’m wearing a tudung? I’m Singaporean too!”
A Chinese man came to her defence. “What makes you so sure Muslims did it? Maybe it was our kind?”
Non-Muslims glared suspiciously at Muslims. Their eyes hurled the accusations their tongues would not.
This scene was repeated everywhere as people jostled with one another trying to get onto public buses, each with an armed police officer on board. It was partly to reassure everyone it was safe and also to send a message they would not hesitate to shoot any troublemakers.
The country was tearing itself apart.
So far, about three hundred people had been confirmed as killed in the attacks with at least six hundred injured. The death toll was expected to rise with dozens unaccounted for.
Many had locked their doors, turned off their lights and monitored social media on their smartphones, tablets and computers. Most resisted the urge to post their disgust at the tragedy lest they open themselves up to online attacks by racists.
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Rahman, a 48-year-old taxi driver, read the news flooding Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. He had read about the racial riots in the 1960s and was expecting a repeat of what had happened. The Little India riot on 8 December 2013 had started with a fatal traffic accident. This one involved four bombs. It could only get worse.
His wife, Norita, whose lips were quivering, was mentally preparing herself for the lynch mob to arrive at their door. He looked at her helplessly and tried his best to reassure her they would be fine.
“We’re safe here. So long as we don’t go out, we’ll be all right. It’ll blow over. Everything will be okay. People will see it wasn’t our fault. No Singaporean Muslim would want this to happen. Go cook dinner. We eat like we always do.”
Norita nodded and rushed to the kitchen. She looked at her ingredients, her knives and utensils and was determined to cook like she always did. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her arms remained limp by her side. She didn’t know what to do with the food. Her body broke into spasms as she cried.
She cried for her family, for fellow Muslims and for the victims of the attacks. She cried for the dead children and for their parents. She thought about the people still searching for loved ones and those wondering how they could move on from here.
Then, she grabbed a knife. Stared at it. Emotions she didn’t know she had began to well up within her. They were aimed at the ones who had carried out these senseless attacks. The murderers.
She chided them.
“Stupid. So stupid to be fooled into doing this.”
More questions entered her head.
Did anyone know this was going to happen?
How much did they know?
And what did they do to try to stop this?
Norita wiped her tears away, put the knife down and attacked her fridge. She grabbed whatever ingredients she could get her hands on and did what she knew best.
We eat like we always do, her husband had said.
And no terrorist was going to prevent them from doing that.
“Shall I cook curry chicken or nasi lemak?” she shouted to Rahman who was in the hall.
But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at his MacBook reading as much as he could about the strikes.
“Singapore attacked!” screamed one headline.
“The Lion City BLEEDS,” shouted another.
“National Day of Mourning,” observed yet another.
