For Flavia

 

Recently I became aware of my father's journals written during his time in the British army.  I was surprised to find that, at the age of 19, he was shipped out to Kuala Lumpur as an officer in what was called the Malayan Emergency. Even more surprising was the fact that he wrote a journal for every day of the year he was there.  He did confess to writing 'fingerposts' daily and then expanding the journal entry for that day when he had more time. 

My father, John Taylor, never discussed his army experience to us growing up.  I knew nothing of his time in Malaya until I read the journals. It turns out that his role was mainly a clerical one: making purchases for the men, paying bills and balancing accounts. However, he wrote about every detail of the daily activities and described everything he saw, including the butterflies and birds. I do not know why the journals are dedicated "For Flavia", but can only imagine Flavia encouraged him to write.  

By the time he started his third notebook, now ten months in, he started to question the need to continue. This is how it begins:

Tuesday, March 18th (1952). Embarking on my third volume of memoirs, I am still uncertain whether it is a moment more fitting for elation or melancholy.  Elation for my constancy or melancholy that I am now a manifest martyr to the daily routine of the written word. Amongst these doubts however, my pleasure in these little jottings is not unprofound.  It is probably unnecessary to remark that I am writing many days in arrears and the fingerposts on my slip are embodied in six words: 'Rain and idleness, chess and frustration'.  Of chess I remember a closely contested encounter with Dickie in which the balance was finally tipped by his superior weight of pawns. I have now lost three but this was the closest of them all and for a considerable space of time I had a knight and bishop pitted against his castle and at one juncture it seemed that I must win.  I am full of confidence for the fourth encounter. 'Frustration' beats me entirely, but may reflect on my growing propensity for idleness; inability to work and my now manifest atrophy of book reading. 'The rain', it raineth everyday; and 'idleness'; how can I expatiate on that when my diary is nearly a whole week stale?

Evidently there was quite a bit of downtime.  And throughout, I find my father trying to come to terms with the British army's presence in Malaya. I have to remember that he had only just left school, and was now in an ambiguous battle where there was no clear enemy. The practice of writing helped to make sense of it all, especially when attempting to explain it to someone so far removed. I believe this was a defining time for my father, as he later went on to dedicate his talents to literacy in southern Brazil, and learned how to bridge the gap between cultures.  He continued to keep a bird diary throughout his life, and was a regular letter writer. During my four years of college, without telephone or internet for communication, my

dad wrote a letter each week describing the happenings at home. I loved those letters... and swore that one day I would publish them as a book. They kept me connected to home and reminded me that I was always in my father's thoughts. My father wrote primarily because he loved writing, but in me he also found an appreciative audience.

Writing has become a source of comfort and enjoyment for me as well. I write to understand, to remember and to overcome feelings of inadequacy. I enjoy many other activities, those that tap into my creativity, but writing my blog has become my favorite. I completely understand that I don't have a "Flavia" to write for, and most people of Facebook don't have time to read my jottings... but I am my father's daughter.  

My father's Journal, for interest:  Journal 1 Shipping Out                   Journal 1 Malaya