No family photos adorned my tiny living-room walls. Just a framed portrait of President Ng Wik, glowering down as we ate our meagre meals or watched state-controlled television.
One night, antiquated wiring caused a domestic fire. Through the smoke I carried my semi-conscious wife and petrified children to safety.
The area commissar arrested me for allowing our supreme leader’s portrait to burn.
“This’ll reflect badly on you, too,” I warned. “Why not photograph me holding another portrait of Ng Wik and say I braved the flames to save it?”
The commissar considered. “Perhaps we could both appear in the photograph.”
One night, antiquated wiring caused a domestic fire. Through the smoke I carried my semi-conscious wife and petrified children to safety.
The area commissar arrested me for allowing our supreme leader’s portrait to burn.
“This’ll reflect badly on you, too,” I warned. “Why not photograph me holding another portrait of Ng Wik and say I braved the flames to save it?”
The commissar considered. “Perhaps we could both appear in the photograph.”
