Excavating the The Hilton Hotel of Hawkins Road
Staff Writer Yu Ke Dong ruminates on film-as-archeology and the ways we engage with, reimagine, and supplement histories — through the eye of the camera, and the experience of the body.
Film still taken from the archival short film Singapore: Refugees from Indochina Find Sympathetic Reception in Model Camp (1979), publicly available on British Pathé.
When we think of history, we probably think of archaeology – dusty excavation sites, half-crumbled temples, perhaps a fossil or two. Few think of the potential of media archaeology. In the 20th century, however, the world saw television (and later, video) replace printed media as the primary form of mass communication. As technology progressed, our myriad existences became increasingly intertwined with the moving image. Today, archival films serve as powerful ways of accessing modern histories that have faded or been suppressed over time, providing incontrovertible proof of the past, in grainy film stock or dust-ridden videotapes. At the same time, though, film is rarely as objective as it seems. The invisible hand of the editor leaves so much of history on the cutting room floor, turning what seems like objective documentary into persuasive dogma. How may we begin to understand these filmic artefacts, turn them over in the light, to see them for what they truly are?
Perhaps we shall begin at a remarkable, yet contested, moment in national history. A three-minute film shot in 1979 for the Australian Broadcast Commission, accessible today in the archives of the British Pathé. Titled Singapore: Refugees from Indochina Find Sympathetic Reception in Model Camp, the journalistic film, narrated by reporter Peter Munckton, documents a bustling, vibrant refugee camp built along Hawkins Road in the northern part of Singapore. The camp, known as Hawkins Road Refugee Camp, was built on the grounds of an old British army base in 1978, hosting thousands of Vietnamese refugees fleeing the Saigon after the Vietnam War.
As the report’s title suggests, the camp was perceived as a haven of humanitarian welfare in comparison to other refugee camps in the region, which were built hastily to manage the burgeoning refugee crisis, and were rife with allegations of poor hygiene, abuse and corruption. This remarkable standard led Munckton to glibly dub the Singaporean camp as “[the] Hilton Hotel camp”, extolling its exceptional hospitality and prosperity. Supported by the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), the camp’s self-governing camp committee organised concerts, language lessons, festivals, and other activities for the undoubtedly grateful inhabitants. Moreover, the refugees were granted a remarkable level of autonomy, permitted to travel between the camp and the local heartlands, and were even given a daily allowance by the UNHCR.
In spite of the outstanding conditions of the Hawkins Road Refugee Camp, in the film, Munckton also acknowledges the perils faced by refugees in reaching Singapore’s shores: “... their high spirits and optimistic attitude can be better appreciated when you consider that most of them lost family members, particularly children, during their dangerous flight from Indochina.” Refugees fleeing on boats were ill-equipped, poorly provisioned and extremely vulnerable to savage pirate attacks. Those who were lucky to have not been robbed or killed were still at risk from drowning at sea, and those who had arrived at relatively safe shores were considered extremely fortunate.
Trekking down the deserted View Road, I came across a curious, indiscrete memorial. Three blocks of concrete, striped with yellow, were laid out in a line on the road’s edge. Past the fence, an impenetrable hedge of leaves and vines cut off any glimpse of what lay beyond – getting through would be tough. Following the road , I traipsed down the road till I spotted where the fence ended. There was a path -- almost imperceptible to an unsuspecting passerby, but where I stood, the tall grass parted to reveal an opening into the forest. It was mid-afternoon, and there was no one around to witness the curious sight of an ordinary person kicking his way into the dense overgrowth. Trying not to lose courage, I plunged in.
As with most secondary forests in Singapore, it didn’t take long to lose sight of human civilization; sprawling trees quickly blocked any sight of the fractured tarmac, the growling of cars morphed into the incessant rasp of cicadas. I took a deep breath, and the smell of soil and bark filled my lungs. Reality became darker, greener, more dangerous. I had entered a verdant underworld.
Examining this remarkable artefact of national history, we must ask ourselves: what details does this film obscure, and what details does it embellish? Indeed, the portrayal of Hawkins Road as a “Hilton Hotel” works in manifold ways. For one, it designates the hotel’s so-called “guests” as fundamentally transient and intrinsically foreign; at the same time, the camp’s supposed luxury distinguishes itself from its less charitable regional neighbours, according the state with unshakeable moral authority. Munckton’s cheery images of smiling refugees and singing choirs, however, also obfuscates the state’s history of overt hostility towards refugees.
In May 1975, early groups of refugees who arrived at Singapore’s shores were provided food, water, and mechanical repairs by the military – seeming sweet salvation! But the next moment, they were then forcibly ejected back into dangerous waters, their weapons confiscated. Titled ‘Operation Thunderstorm’, this coordinated task demanded the rejection of clearly vulnerable refugees – not only were they homeless and in peril, but many were also victims of physical and sexual assault. Amongst those not turned away immediately, only those lucky enough to have been given resettlement guarantees by other nations were allowed on land. Refugees were thus left sandwiched between hostile land and dangerous oceans, floating in both literal and metaphorical limbo unless such a guarantee was somehow procured.
Even after being admitted into Hawkins, the refugees were under constant threat of being evicted and repatriated to Vietnam by the Singaporean government, where they – marked as defectors of the country – would be subject to arrest and forced reeducation. Several staged protests and some even attempted suicide after their resettlement bids were rejected, but the authorities were unmoved – none were ever allowed to resettle permanently in Singapore. In spite of the state’s humanitarian reputation, it is clear that no real or lasting protection was afforded to the Vietnamese refugees. Yet, Munckton uniformly describes the Hawkins Road community as having “high spirits and optimistic attitude”. The threat of violence, deportation and persecution is thus rendered invisible, a necessary erasure to maintain the mirage of humanitarian benevolence.
What Munckton’s report also neglects to mention is the remarkable scale of aid given by ordinary people. An extraordinary number of foreign-owned ships came to the refugees’ aid even when the military turned them away, advocating to their own governments for resettlement guarantees. In the camp itself, much of the material support for refugees came in the form of direct donations from the public, including money (in the form of red packets), used clothes, equipment, food and other essentials. Singaporeans and Singapore-based foreigners facilitated field trips, language lessons, and even career training. Personal testimonies from Vietnamese refugees often speak of lifelong friendships formed with local volunteers, and many surviving refugees have since returned to Singapore decades later to visit them.
Looking back, it is clear that these acts of kindness were what made Hawkins Road Refugee Camp a true refuge for those in need. Yet, the role of public support has been downplayed. Instead, Munckton credits the state’s “strict” regulation of refugees moving on and off the island as the main reason for the camp’s success. Like most histories, this particular narrative has been deliberately shaped to support existing structures of power, rather than shedding a light on the transformative potential of community organising and grassroots action.
The final yet most resounding omission in Munckton’s report: the refugees’ own voices. Munckton’s film contains hundreds of refugee faces, yet none of them are permitted to speak directly to camera. What are their stories? Where have they been, and what have they seen on those perilous journeys across the seas? In the same year that the film was produced, the camp’s committee banded together to produce the literary journal Nhân chứng (Witness), an anthology of anecdotes, poems, songs, interviews and other accounts by the refugees themselves. Yet, none of these many accounts were reflected in the film; the disempowering act of stripping away of individual voices transforms the refugee community into a homogenous whole, becoming whatever best suits the prevailing narrative imposed upon them.
It began to rain. Droplets rattled the leaves, and the forest itself quivered, whispering in that ancient secret language unknown to human ears. The soil dissolved into treacherous muck, slippery and squelchy, breaching my shoes. Determined to reach my objective, I forged ahead, scrambling across decaying tree trunks and sloping hills. My clothes became soaked in rainwater, and I shivered in the cold. Still, there was no going back.
Strange objects emerged from the ground: rice sacks and plastic buckets, earthen bricks and water drains. Traces of fleeting human presence, but for what purpose? Where did they come from, and who had left them behind? I examined each object carefully, but stubbornly, they yielded no clues. There would be no discovery here. Using them as markers to reorient myself, I pressed on.
This year marks the half a century since Operation Thunderstorm, but the history of Hawkins Road Refugee Camp remains largely unknown amongst the public. While it still stood, few newspapers reported on the camp, and what little journalistic exposure there was dwindled quickly over the years following the camp’s closure in 1996. Within the national archives, only scattered references and a handful of news articles document the camp’s existence. The camp’s journal was discontinued by the Ministry of Culture after only one issue, staunching the outflow of refugee stories and voices. The campsite itself was decommissioned, and very few traces of original structures remain at the site, which has since been renamed to the benign and ahistorical View Road (along Admiralty Road today). With this final transformation, few people who visit the site today would have any idea of the remarkable events that transpired along that unremarkable road.
Where history has been erased, how do we rediscover the past? This critical examination of filmic artefacts surrounding the Hawkins Road Refugee Camp demonstrates that even journalistic documentaries by third-party organisations are biased at best and deceptive at worst. We know that history is often written by the victors, and film is no exception. Still, as (self-fashioned) media archaeologists, we must struggle on, finding solutions in unconventional, alternative sources of knowledge.
We may look, for instance, online. While the Internet has certainly yielded many negative influences on civic discourse, it has also undeniably provided infrastructure for accessible, safe spaces where communities (particularly those on the margins) tend to congregate organically and speak freely. On Facebook, there exists a scattered constellation of groups where former Vietnamese refugees – now based all around the world – have gathered to reconnect and share their experiences. The most prominent among such groups is Vietnamese Boat People Refugee Camp, 25 Hawkins Road, Sembawang, Singapore, where former refugees and volunteers have created a remarkable repository of photographs documenting their time at Hawkins Road. Some members share accounts of their brief experiences as refugees in Singapore, while others ask for assistance in reconnecting with separated friends and acquaintances from the camp. Many have shared video clips of their journeys to the old Hawkins Road site, circulating old maps and specific directions to help others make the pilgrimage. Like a spiritual predecessor to the 1979 Nhân chứng, this proliferation of images, video and narratives has formed a sort of ever-growing, grassroots counter-archive, where the history of Hawkins Road has been kept alive.
There is also another alternative source of information which may yield much insight, though perhaps far more challenging. It calls upon us as historians to abandon our instincts to shelter in air-conditioned archives and libraries, where it is safe and comfortable. Instead, we must venture out into the great big world, where sights, sounds and textures await us. In Research-Based Art Practices in Southeast Asia; The Artist as Producer of Knowledge, Caroline Ha Thuc speaks of “sensual knowledge”, which is “transmitted via affect and body language”. Rooted in the ethics of care, sensual knowledge approach eschews bookish research for bodily experiences. Our senses, after all, provide us with the only forms of unassailable truths. Upon such truths, we may dare to imagine the past in its various sensorial forms. In so doing, we embrace the role of the artist/writer alongside the role of the historian.
Heeding this call, we must learn to explore past sites however we can; leaping fences, ducking under gates, going where we may not have imagined going before. Do you hear the mynah’s call, smell the fragrant pandan, feel the damp earth beneath your feet? Imagine, now, the sounds of chatting, the roar of bus engines, the clink of utensils as people finish their meals as the sun sets, wondering if the next day would be like the last. These speculations, though ephemeral, are powerful and meaningful. They are ways in which the past is, albeit temporarily, relived.
Half-blind, I nearly fell into what I had been searching for: two concrete tunnels, jutting out from the brown earth like a pair of crumbling mausoleums. They led into a network of underground military bunkers, dating back to the British administration. Beside them, shards of ceramic pots lay, nearly invisible, in the dirt, like desiccated beetle shells, like ancient guardians. I glanced around, but couldn’t see anything else; if there were any other trace of humans living here, it had been swallowed whole by the forest.
Just then, the rain had eased; the smell of wet earth arose, musky, intoxicating, almost overwhelming. Creeping up to the two tunnels, I peered inside each dark opening, hoping to glimpse any trace of the many lives which had passed through these grounds. Perhaps, one of them had left behind some graffiti, or some other trace of their temporary residence. I strained my ears, detecting the faintest echo of a voice, the music of children laughing, the terrible sound of weeping.
Nothing remained. Only the hollow rasp of dried leaves, and the musty smell of secrets.
*This essay contains fragments of filmic analysis, cultural and political research, as well as documentation of my experiences exploring the former Hawkins Road site for an experimental film. Many thanks are owed to Stephanie Jaina Chia who helped me explore the original site, and for both Stephanie and Trinh Ngoc Minh for aiding me with my production. And of course, thank you to my editor Goh Cheng Hao for pushing me to think of the past in ways I had never before.
Photos by Yu Ke Dong.