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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Not even a torrential downpour could stop a nation from saying farewell

By Kin Mun "mrbrown" Lee

March 31^st, 2015

After seven days of mourning, it was time for The Funeral. On the 29th of March, 2015, after seven days of national mourning, the body of the first Prime Minister of Singapore made the final journey from Parliament.

In the preceding few days, in an unprecedented manner, people queued for hours, sometimes up to ten hours, in the sun and through the night, to pay their respects to Lee Kuan Yew in Parliament. Singaporeans are not generally an expressive people but somehow, his death brought out so much in us. And in the seven days, we saw patient queuing, volunteers helping out, and the efficiency of our civil service and armed forces.

By 10 a.m. on that Sunday morning, people all over had already gathered along the route the casket would take. I staked my spot on a transformer box along Stamford Road and St Andrews Road, next to an older gentleman, John.

And then it came. One drop. Two drops. Rain.

There was next to no rain for the days leading up to The Funeral. Which was not a bad thing because that would have made The Queue to the Lying-in-State at Parliament very messy and difficult.

But here it was. All of it. As if the heavens had released all the rain it was holding back for the last few days.

Up the umbrellas went. And John, who sat next to me, opened his small umbrella, kindly offering to share it with me.

No one ran. No one left. All stayed put, in the rain, because they were determined to see LKY off.

“My wife was thinking of watching the funeral at home,” John said to me, as we sat on the transformer box, both of us drenched by then. “I told her no, we must come here to see him off. It is the least we can do for all he has given us.”

Then John told me about his daughters, all grown up and in good jobs, and a little bit about his time serving National Service and encountering LKY.

“You did National Service?” I asked with some incredulity.

“Yes, third batch,” John said.

“That must have been a tough time to be a citizen soldier, no welfare and all,” I said.

“Ya, last time really tough. Early days of NS mah.”

Then the rain stopped for a bit and we all kept our umbrellas. But it was only for a few minutes because it came back with a vengeance. Up the umbrellas went again. No one left. No one ran.

“Lee Kuan Yew would be proud. This must be his way of reminding us that we need to be a rugged society. A little rain is nothing, it should not stop us,” John said, chuckling.

It reminded me of the third National Day Parade of Singapore, in 1968. It also poured that day. I was not born that year yet but I saw the photos and read the reports.

While it was a solemn occasion, there was still room for smiles. People came to not just mourn his passing, but also to celebrate his life. And the good cheer was amazing considering how heavy the rain had become. No umbrella or poncho was going to protect you from getting wet. We were all drenched thoroughly.

No one ran. No one left.

Volunteers and duty personnel did their jobs without complaint. Most stood out there in the downpour without any cover.

All of us stood together, waiting. Waiting for the cortege to arrive.

Some brought flags, some brought their smartphones to record this historical event for themselves. The rain kept pouring. You would not know if the faces were covered in tears or raindrops. Or both.

No one ran. No one left.

It felt odd to see this sight. Beneath a sea of umbrellas and rain coats, were faces of a people, gathered with single-minded purpose.

For this moment, we were family. And this was home.

Some managed to climb higher for a better view. But people also offered to lower their umbrellas when the time came, so that others could get a better view.

“Lower your umbrellas! It is coming!” the cry could be heard. And many did, standing in the rain now, without the benefit of shelter. So that others could see.

We knew the cortege was coming because the military moved into place to line the street. Civilians and soldiers — citizen soldiers — standing together in the rain.

No one ran. No one left.

Then I saw a sign bobbing above the umbrellas. The name of a school. And students in ponchos walked in a row behind it. More signs followed, with different school names on them. The students joined the soldiers along the street.

The four howitzers at the Padang behind us fired, beginning a 21-gun salute.

Boom!

“One,” we counted.

Boom!

“Two,” we counted.

Boom.

It would not be long now. The cortege would soon pass by.

You could not hear the booms any more, even though the howitzers still fired. All you could hear were cheers and shouts and crying.

“Lee Kuan Yew! Lee Kuan Yew!” chanted the crowd.

We came to do what we came to do. We said our thanks and our goodbyes.

John’s wife came up to the two of us grown men sitting up on the box and said to her husband, “Quick! I want to go home to watch the rest of the funeral.”

John climbed down with the dexterity of a man half his age. And then it was my turn.

Strangers came up to me and offered to take my backpack. Another held my camera for me. And yet another held out a hand for support. Together, they helped me down.