Your grandfather's world issit?

This brat from school comes to mind of late. We were in Primary 4 – St Joseph’s, Kuching in the '70s – kids whose voices have yet to crack. He was the doted only son of wealthy folks who pretty much gave in to the boy's whims and fancies.

There was something in the manner he spoke that came across more as declaration rather than dialogue. “Argh, you don’t know! We will do it like this.” He had his groupies. They seemed to find his antics entertaining, while most of us just went on with life. I guess when you’re used to having it your way at home, you believe you can have it your way everywhere.

SL, the brat, called for a meeting during recess one day – it was for the inter-class football tournament organized by the school for upper primary levels. For many of us, it was going to be our first-ever tournament.

SL had said earlier in class he wanted to talk about tactics. Tactics, so it turned out, was SL insisting we looked “pro”, that we wore new jerseys, soccer shorts and knee-high socks with shoes. He declared animatedly about how confident we’d be on the field and how, in looking like “pros”, we’d play like pros. And he went on and on. I remember watching his groupies bobbing their heads in unison like cheap Taiwanese toys of that era.

Jonah cut in: “Don’t want.”

The table went silent, and the din around the canteen gushed to fill its space. The heads stopped bobbing. “My family no money. I don’t care got jersey or not. Just can play football good oreddy. Don’t want.”

Jonah, the quiet Dayak, spoke for the rest of us that late morning. Jonah – whose father carried sacks of grain at the wharf every day, who struggled at the bottom of class, who couldn’t handle math, who struggled with reading – stood on the reality of his world and rejected the cocky near-sightedness of SL, whose father owned pepper plantations from Serian to Sarikei, who had vacationed in New Zealand, who had white shirts and whiter teeth, and whose shoes were better than Bata.

Jonah’s message was simple: Look beyond your nose – the universe doesn’t revolve around you.

We played our first game the following week. We wore singlets, the other side played shirtless. Most of us played barefoot. We won that game and the games after and became top team for Primary 4. We didn’t look like “pros” nor played like “pros”, but we didn’t lack confidence definitely. We played honest and we played the best we could.

I don’t know what became of SL or Jonah. My family moved after the following year and I’d forgotten that episode until today. Today I read something that triggered those memories of 30 years ago, a solid reaction to a dim myopic proposal.

To the government-endorsed plan of scaling the Great Pyramid at Giza and draping it with a giant Malaysian flag the size of four football fields (!) and token 57 flags of Muslim states, Zahi Hawass, chairman of Egypt's Supreme Council of Antiquities which oversees the site has this – in short – to say: F-U.

"Why should I allow them to drape it?" Hawass said. "If they want to make propaganda, let them do it somewhere else. They can do it in any other place in Cairo."

Bravo, Egypt.

Boo, Malaysia. In your eager rush to be cool, you’re now seen by the world as some egotistical bumbling, insecure bumpkin. Congrats. You just made it in time for this year’s Top 10 World’s Idiotic Ideas.

To whoever came up with that plan estimated to cost around RM200,000 courtesy of the “set-an-example” developed state of Selangor (only in Khir Toyo’s mind), Youth and Sports Ministry, Perhebat and some other corporate goons, let me say this: It was a cheap shot. It was insensitive. It was plain stupid.

I’m concerned on two counts:

1) Are the people appointed to steer Malaysia so dim that this is what they mean by towering Malaysians? It truly, deeply, irritatingly baffles me when I see, read, hear of so many intelligent people in this country and yet we have clowns as our stewards. It’s in fact frightening.

2) This one hints at something graver. To have even considered such an idea shows that you are so used to having things your way – forced down the people’s throats, bloated and blurred with only your perspective, rammed through our courts and Parliament with your cronies’ heavyweight machinery. You may deny it, you may coat it with all kinds of cotton-candy spin, but your actions betray you yet again.

And you go on bolder and bolder thinking you're just so good. Until you hit that brick wall. Egypt, today, is that brick wall. Until you wisen up to your folly, many more walls lie ahead. What's your call, clown? Shiok sendiri and padan muka?

Just over 30 years ago amidst the drowning din at recess time, a quiet Dayak named Jonah stood his ground and spoke out against insensitivity, myopia and arrogance. He lit a torch for me: Look beyond your nose – the universe doesn’t revolve around you. Learn to see the ever-complex relationships constantly unfolding in a dance. Act true. Act right.

Our steward-clowns could do well to learn from Jonah. Forget about the jersey, just play football. Play honest football. And when you finally get the cup, it's because you are indeed good. Not self-advertised.

Lessons from inside a word

The next time you squeeze a bottle of ketchup, straighten those shoulders a little. Feel proud. The sauce may be a foreign blend but the word sits right here at home.

According to word archaelogists – or etymologists, specifically – ‘ketchup’ very likely originated from ‘koaychiap’ or “brine of fish” from China (Amoy dialect). It came to our shores, morphed phonetically to kichap, before being picked up by the Brits and anglicized as catsup. First recorded in 1711, ‘ketchup’ is now an everyday word in common English. And somewhere along the way, tomatoes got the better of fish. Wat to do, they don’t have the Sunda Basin and happy-happy ikan bilis. Today, ketchup sits side-by-side kicap and koaychiap in a typical kitchen, sauce sisters across culture and time.

I get dizzy on etymology. It’s something I picked up from friends while in the US. Also the works of many writers I hold dear use etymology to launch into their sometimes dreamy, sometimes crusty tangents.

Etymology – the natural history of a word – allows one to trace its growing spirit before its current form came to be. Hence it drives towards fundamentals, principles, and intent. It’s about roots, baby. Which is why I oftentimes prefer that to a dictionary listing. With etymology, there’s this added dimension to the meaning of a word.

For instance, the etymology of Etymology
1398, from Gk. etymologia, from etymon "true sense" (neut. of etymos "true," related to eteos "true") + logos "word." In classical times, of meanings; later, of histories. Latinized by Cicero as veriloquium.

True sense. Man, I like that. The roots of a word informs a lot. It has the capacity to fill one with wonder. One of my all-time favourites is ‘enthusiasm’, first shared with me by Eric E, an intense American, while we downed cheap beers late night in design studio.

Enthusiam
1603, from M.Fr. enthousiasme, from Gk. enthousiasmos, from enthousiazein "be inspired," from entheos "inspired, possessed by a god," from en- "in" + theos "god".

Ooooo…. Awesome.

Because it is embedded history, etymology also helps us better understand where we come from, who influenced us and how we’ve influenced the world. Words from other cultures get sorok-ed into the English language because there was no equivalent or fit for that description or concept, and so their usage becomes relevant and desired. It boosts communication, it gets an idea across, it speaks louder than any political mouthpiece, and it captures values.

The previous administration erected those twin towers, tallest building in the world at the time, to “let the world know we’ve arrived”, according to its founder. It was a RM4.1 billion PR campaign. Gadzooks! We've also sent people to Mt Everest, to the Poles, to anywhere where we could get some worldwide publicity; and even a sidebar would do. Our govt now wants to send an ‘angkassanavt’ up in the ethers to check out the view. Also to let the world know we’ve arrived.

Ayo sayang, no need la.

In many quieter and subtler ways, we have arrived. Long before we became self-conscious and insecure about our image, we were already accepted. We were accepted because we had then-fresh ideas, lifestyles and descriptions. The rest of the world thought these were way-cool and over time, they were absorbed into everyday life.

Etymology gives us a clue to what we’ve contributed to global culture.

Launch – the term for a bigger-sized boat – comes from the Malay word lanchar, which means quick, agile. It was appropriated by the Portuguese (lancha, or barge, launch) when they camped here for a couple of centuries. The eventual spelling (since 1697) was influenced by the English verb launch.

And bamboo? Check this out – 1598, from Du. bamboe, from Port. bambu, earlier mambu (16c.), probably from Malay samambu, though some suspect this is itself an imported word.

The bogeyman – possibly came from the name Bugis, another American friend Stephen B told me. Some scholars believe its origins come from the tales of European sailors who returned from voyages in the South Seas after kena belasah by the most vicious of pirates at the Straits of Melaka. I mean, talk about world class.

My favourite, since I’m smitten over environmental design:
Compound – describing a spatial set of buildings – comes from our very own ‘kampong’. Yup, homegrown goodness. It was appropriated into the Dutch (kampoeng) in the 17th century and subsequently absorbed into English.

Now, if only our developers, planners and architects – and purchasers – reached more into their soul rather than their pockets, we’d see fewer stupid condo-towers (a modern-age American import) and lifeless terrace housing (a modern-age European import) and more community-enabled spaces (kampung glocal, brudder).

Substance, folks, substance. Rather than being obsessed with that swanky suit to show off to the world, first have substance. In the course of time, in just being real, you’ll find the world embracing you, no matter if you’re in flip-flops and sarong.

After all, it all comes down to true sense.



p.s.
Credits to http://www.etymonline.com/ for information on the entries, except ‘bogeymen’ which can be found in Wikipedia here.
Thanks to yck for the tip on ketchup. Btw, he’s Malaysian.

Integrity, where-la your goal post?

Cheers: Malaysia’s public service just launched a new training seminar for its staffers – Module for Strengthening Civil Service Integrity, Bernama reports here. I’m inclined to say I sokong. Anything that sincerely champions the National Integrity Plan is fine by me. God knows we need a potent, well-conceived plan and untainted action.

Jeers: Buried at the end of the story is the not-so-fine print – this module was drafted by Jakim, the Islamic Development Department of Malaysia. *Choke* What’s that again?

What in the world is Jakim, a religious department, drafting modules for the secular civil service? How could one religion, in multi-religious Malaysia, be tasked to carry the beacon of Integrity? And what are you ultimately saying by this, my dear shifty government? You speak in strange tongues.

I wholeheartedly bangkang. I don't question the module's explicit intent. I question its principle. Isn’t that the job of Intan, the Institut Tadbiran Awam Negara? There was nothing mentioned in the report about their role. Rather Jakim will partner Malaysia Insitute of Integrity (MII) in monitoring the implementation at all government departments, said Chief Secretary to the Government Samsudin Osman. Don't get me wrong. As far as reported speeches go, I thought Samsudin's had good stuff.

But to the key decision-makers behind this module: You are either (1) sincere but naïve; (2) arrogant and blind. Here’s your own five-second module to ponder:

Integrity 101: Definition of the word.

Integrity:
1. Steadfast adherence to a strict moral or ethical code.
2. The state of being unimpaired; soundness.
3. The quality or condition of being whole or undivided; completeness.

Good.... now, pop quiz.

Do you think that by getting Jakim to draft a secular program, you are pursuing a condition of being whole or undivided? Are you being ethical, and is your decision sound? Do you sincerely believe this will stitch the fraying edges of multi-racial, multi-religious Malaysia? Are you hijacking the National Integrity Plan even before it takes flight? Or - am I mistaken – is this the idea of the National Integrity Plan?

Hmmmm....what's in the pot?

His shy question makes me chuckle. It feels more like a simple greeting to open a conversation, which I am happy to participate. “S'benarnya, saya budak Cina,” I answer.

He tends the tables at the nasi kandar store over at SS2 where I often have my meals. He is Indonesian, he tells me, his manner replete with sopan Nusantara. “Dari Java Tengah.”

“Wah,” I gush. “Saya memang niat nak gi lawat situ. Dekat dengan Solo ke?”

“Yogya, ‘bang. Dekat Borobudur.” And he goes on in gentle tones to describe his kampung, the plateaus, the economic hardships which forced him to seek his fortunes in Malaysia. He speaks in Bahasa Melayu not Bahasa Indonesia probably knowing I’ll be nonplussed within five seconds if he used the latter. “Kalo ‘bang lawat nanti, kontek la saya,” he invites.

We chat for a good 5-10 minutes before he excuses himself to clear some wares off the table. I do not know his name. Not yet anyway. Over another meal at another time, our paths will cross again and I will know more.

I’m always happy to come upon ‘foreign’ labour in this country. I see them as brethren, brudder, kaki. My job exposes me to a spread of common folk from across our region. They come to lay bricks, saw wood, bend steel bars, set tiles and plaster walls and to them I am grateful. In the kopitiams and mamak stores, these are the folks who bring that bottle of Chang beer to your table, prepare the prawn mee, and scoop wads of kuah onto your nasi briyani. In many homes, a bevy of domestic helpers mop the floors, iron your clothes, and fix your meal.

They come from the salt-tainted shores of Bangladesh, the over-crowded kotas of Indonesia, the tropical villages of Vietnam and the Junta-beaten squatters of Myanmar. They are farmers who know the cangkul well but have never held a hand trowel before, factory workers who’ve mixed special blends of arabica coffee but the standard 1:3:3 concrete mix draws a blank. They make me pull my hair in frustration and they make me feel I belong.

More for better than for worse, I think, Malaysia without realizing it has become an accidental melting pot of Asian people and culture. How fortuitous, I feel. So what if among this group it’s the poor who come? I’m tired of fat, rich people anyhow. So what if it’s not exactly meeting our glorious Brain-Gain agenda? I don’t buy into the politicized elitist-exclusive bullshit. Each of these persons has a story or two to share, a skill – perhaps even a craft – we may yet learn from, and fresh eyes to see if we care enough. If we care enough lah.

They operate largely unnoticed by the masses and media who are oftentimes more taken in by those with disposable income. For many, they are digits to ease our inconveniences. Hello, like the Chinese and Negro digits back when America was building its railroads? Like the Caribbean digits who perished in the Panama Canal? You’ve looked in their eyes? Some shine brighter than yours or mine.

Many a time, in between mouthfuls of kari laksa, I’d lose myself in wonder. What dreams does that skinny chakueyteow helper carry inside her? In her chirpiness and bounce, does she long for an LV bag, a huge brick house? That Myanmese boy who brings my soya-bean ais, does he pray for a freer nation back home, or really just a warmer blanket during the wet monsoon nights?

Wan comes from a village outside of Medan. He was helping out late on a delayed project. I gave him a lift home. We shared stories in that 40-minute drive from Dang Wangi to Sg Buloh. We laughed, talked about the beauty of our respective lands, and grumbled about politics and how wonderful it would be if people just reached at commonalities rather than differences. “Bisa senang, datanglah Medan,” he thanks me just before he walks towards his quarters.

Lek was a little boy when America extricated itself from Vietnam. He doesn’t remember much except for the wup-wup-wup drone of Bell-Huey choppers and fire, lots of fire. He remembers his Dad didn’t come home one day. And not long after, two of his elder brothers were also killed. “Mother cry a lot,” he said while wiping off excess cement from his steel trowel. Mother took care of the family – he has three living siblings. Lek is the eldest now. “Now my turn take care of family,” he says spiritedly. Lek has a little boy under the care of his wife back home in Saigon.

Siti is the indefatigable domestic helper with one of my clients. She’s from Bali and her family works the rice terraces at the foothills of Ubud. She has two toddlers and she wonders if they’ll remember her when she goes home. “I write to them at night,” she speaks in English. Cheerful most times, her eyes well up a little when she thinks about home. “Malaysia good to me. But Bali… my family is there now.”

In the 18 months she’s been with my client’s family, Siti can now whip a mean lasagna in the kitchen, a dish among many others she has learned. That’s a continent better than what I can do with flour. Lek, who was a certified plasterer and brick-layer back home, has picked up plumbing and electrical skills, and knows that a proper paintjob includes at least one base coat and two final coats. Wan, a farm-hand back home, is today adept with aluminium window and showcase installations. He is also comfortable with those massive power tools used in cabinet factories.

In due time, they will go home. They will carry with them this new knowledge and experience and hopefully put them to further use. If enough of them set their newfound skills collectively, we may get to see a newer, fresher Southeast Asia. I would like that a lot. I see it as an ironic twist to our K-economy, a kind of learn-as-you-earn scheme. In not so far terms, a more enlightened Southeast Asia will make for a better Malaysia – errr, that’s if we have the right stewards steering this country of course.

As for me, I have emerged richer in every exchange with these folks. They help me see and teach me to walk. I am fuller with their stories and imaginings. Who knows, perhaps some time, when the pot is fuller with vignettes and anecdotes, and when the scent of the stew is about right, I might just embark on a story. A simple story that revolves around the lives of these people, the WD-40 to our daily grind.

Race to where ah?

“Eh Chinaman. Gee-me your physics homework. I kena copy.”
“WTF, you Thambi busy ah last night?”
“Ya lah, go see movie with Wira. That Mat osso wanna pinjam from you aft’wards.”
“Naah tek lah…. Next week my turn copy from you OK”

That was 1980. We were in Form 4. That was how we spoke. Among friends and among schoolmates, that was the norm. Racial slurs, jibes, thrust and parry. And we all laughed in good fun. We were coloured, yet colour-blind. We weren’t unique. Whether it was friends I made in Sibu, Kuching, Kuantan, PJ and yes, Singapore, it was the same.

So there we were, a couple of Chinamen, a Bhai complete with turban, a couple of Mats, and a Thambi, we did stuff – cycle to the beach, spear baby ikan keli, at night we’d lie on the putting greens at the Royal Kuantan Golf Club and talked about that ah-moi babe in Form 6, and that minah in Singh’s class.

And so it formed, my impression of Malaysia as far as the skin went. It was a collage in Technicolor. There were accents, subtle tones and hues, a layered composition that constantly sought a dynamic balance. We, the people, composed it. And arguably above all, that wonderful person film-maker/actor/singer P Ramlee composed it. He cucuk-ed just about every ethnicity that had a foot set in this country. Racial slurs, jibes, thrust and parry. We laughed, and of course we gawked at Saloma’s waistline.

I left Malaysia in ’84 and for 18 years satiated my curiosity about what’s out there. Many a time I was caught breathless. Be it nature or culture, be it the soft gaze of a white mother upon her adopted black child, be it the harvest moon. I soaked it all in awe. Yet through all that, I held in my heart’s pocket those gems about my homeland. They were unique. One gem was the impression – freeze-framed – that when it came to colours, Malaysians cared more about the aura than the pigment of the skin.

I am now back in tanah-air and I am angry. Somewhere in the time between disco and trance, between Ilmu Alam and Geografi, between KL Turf Club and KLCC, polarisation took place.

I am angry because that wonderful collage which graced my early years is being recklessly slashed by graceless, clumsy hands. Hands which stir hatred, bigotry, and fear in order that they grasp greedily at power. At every opportunity, race is used to sow dissent. Damn you, who sow that seed. And damn you, who nourish that seed.

The latest ear squat episode is a query into possible police abuse. Simple as that.

Why is it turning into a racial issue? Racial slurs, jibes, thrust and parry. Thrust and parry. Thrust and parry. Thrust and parry. No one’s laughing his time around. I’ve visited a few websites and forums both political (govt and opposition) and personal. Some comments are bloated with bile and that’s scary. This making a mountain out of a molehill must stop.

Ugly politician, there is a difference between a rational argument and a thoughtless accusation. And that seat you occupy in Parliament is a locus of honour, not a badminton court – play your games and score your points elsewhere.

Parrot-journalist, there is a difference between tape-recorder reporting and critical reporting. I’ve read food stories that dissect the dish better than some political commentaries of yours. And grow a backbone – we’ve moved beyond jellyfish.

Slimy internet troll, there is a correlation between freedom and responsibility. And look for your soul – we are human no?

Hey, we are all coloured folk and we stand plain on this soil. Aspects of our cultures have fused over the decades and centuries. We were also enriched externally – from the Indians, Arabs, Chinese, Indochinese, Nusantara brethren, European colonists, Japanese occupiers, and our cultural landscape carries this legacy. We drew philosophies from Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, Islam, Christianity, animism, and our physical landscape carries this legacy. Tell me, how many places on this planet can lay claim to that?

And hence given that, while we may be Malay, Chinese, Indian, Eurasian, Dayak, Melanau, Bajau, Orang Asli, behind that coloured skin we are mongrel. Mongrel nation, mongrel values, mongrel thoughts, and this ought to be our strength not our failing. Why allow petty issues like race shear our community when instead so much could be gleaned from humbly reflecting on a bowl of chendol or laksa? What about sago pudding, nasi lemak, kueh nyonya and the dozens of other hybrid dishes? There are many lessons and stories of constructive coexistence in each and every morsel of these local fare. Plus they taste bloody good…

Who knows perhaps someday, if our course is charted well with intelligent debates, openness and right action, I’ll chance upon a Form 4 Malay kid saying to a Chinese buddy:
“Eh, Pork-Eater. Gee-me your physics homework. I kena copy lah.”
“What lah, Sunat-Boy. Busy last night issit?”

Racial slurs, jibes, thrust and parry. They laugh and cucuk each other all the way to the basketball court.

As for now, just reading that gives you goose-pimples, doesn’t it? That’s how far we’ve fallen.

...bertambah mutu

Sometime past 5pm yesterday, in the very grounds where the judiciary lost its clout under a previous administration, Malaysia shed a segment of its old skin and took another step towards maturity. Well done.

Chairman of the independent commission of inquiry Tun Mohamed Dzaiddin Abdullah’s gesture may be small but its significance is enormous and hopefully sets new benchmarks on transparency in this country.

Amidst growing suspicion of the actual identity of the nude ear squat victim - me included - Dzaiddin made the decision to recall the key witness all the way from Temerloh in order that those in the gallery including press folks and Bar Council observers could see for themselves that the alleged victim is indeed the actual victim.

Excerpts from the Sun:

“DPP Suhaimi Ibrahim then informed the inquiry that the clearest-possible static image taken from the video clip of the woman was being displayed on the projector. (Her breasts in the image were covered.)
The projector, which was earlier placed in front of the commission members exclusively for their viewing, was yesterday placed facing the commission members, the media, and those in the public gallery for them to compare her image in the video with her face for identification.
Suhaimi asked her: "Whose picture is being displayed?" and she said: "Mine". Dzaiddin then told her to remove her headscarf to allow Nair to look at her. Nair, who was seated behind her got up and took two steps in front and looked at her. He looked at the image on the projector for comparison and then nodded.
Suhaimi then told the woman to face the public. She did so for less than 10 seconds. The woman's face matched with the still images on the video. Nair then got up and told the panel the woman was "positively identified."

This is huge because the Chairman listened; without the cloak of egotism, he listened to the arguments of lawyer SN Nair on the need for positive identification of the alleged victim. This is huge because the Commission evaluated those points. And finally, acceding that positive identification by other independent observers was the right thing to do.

I believe I woke up to a new nation this morning. That though many issues on accountability and transparency remain and the terrain is still murky and scarred, we are moving in the right direction. And we can move collectively as satu Bangsa.

Sometime past 5pm yesterday, in the very grounds where the judiciary lost its clout under a previous administration, Malaysia shed a segment of its old skin and took another step towards maturity. It kicked aside petty issues like “power” and “lose face” and “I say it’s so, therefore it is so”.

Instead it chose to stand by truth.

Sigh, not this too...

My head hurts. Too many things are not gelling in the independent commission on the ear squat episode. Yesterday’s proceedings (the second day) were disquieting enough, but today’s just grills your patience. I don’t have enough to comment on today’s - it is still going on - except that The Sun has reported that the alleged owner of the video clip, police constable Dzul Fatah has denied showing the clip to his l/kopral colleague. From the testimonies heard so far, it is safe to conclude that lies are being fabricated.

Either members of the commission are dim and dense or the media is doing a poor job of documenting the proceedings. Or both. Not enough is being done to allay the flood of questions in a reader’s head as he/she reads. And I’m no lawyer.

My questions – and they are not exhaustive:

a) How is it established that the main witness is indeed the real victim in the MMS video saga? Where is the concrete evidence? Just because the woman says so? The media mentions that all the while her back is to the gallery so the public and media do not see her face. This concurs with AP’s report. But no member of the commission is reported to have said on record affirming she is indeed the person. There was no mention of police statements with mug-shot nor court files presented to the Commission strengthening the claim. Not yet anyway. Shouldn’t that be basic protocol? Shouldn’t that be the first thing a DPP produces even before calling in the main witness? Shouldn’t references be made to those documents?

She identified herself as a Malay Malaysian and was arrested along with five other men on June 29 this year at Damansara Jaya.

Her race isn’t the concern. Or is it? I can’t tell anymore. Ultimately, I’m more concerned about how information is obtained, evaluated, packaged and dispersed, and finally stamped as truth. I find the process frightening because of the lack of critical questions and demand of reason.

b) Did she come forward to the authorities upon hearing that what she went through was possibly abuse of power? Or did the police trace her for this hearing?

c) What was her height, and in relative to policewoman’s? I wouldn’t describe the woman in the video as “petite” as noted by the media of the alleged victim. The actual victim seemed taller than the policewoman. Without too much difficulty and using the lockers as a scale, one can make reasonable estimates on the actual victim’s height and square that with the alleged victim. Reporters, you were there. Tell us.

d) Were her clothes checked for illegal items? Before or after the strip-down? What is the typical process of searching like? Body search then strip search? This is important to establish the rationale for strip searches in the first place. It is pointless if drugs which might be hidden in clothes and accessories such as hair bands, buckles and false bra lining are not examined closely and confiscated. It is observed the actual victim puts on her clothes after the ear squats. Her clothes were next to her suggesting she wore them into the locker room before being asked to strip. Had the police checked her clothes and accessories prior? Do they carry out these procedures with the same temerity as they observe ear squats?

e) How is it true that this was indeed taken at predawn on June 29, 2005? Just because one policeman’s account apparently concurred with the alleged victim’s story? What makes him so sure it was June 29, 2005 and not April 29, 2005 or Oct 29, 2005 or whatever day when he was on night shift? How was this ascertained? Too many variables – it could have happened on a different dawn thus taking the proceedings towards a totally different direction.

f) The alleged victim claimed she was not aware if there was a window in the locker room. Honey, the victim looked directly at the camera – at least twice. The window – as evidenced in the video – was clearly in the open position. The windowsill as testified to the Commission is 4 ft-10 inches high from the floor. Judging from the video, it likely spans the breadth of the circulation space in the locker room. It is likely a casement window with more than one leaf utilizing metal stays (that’s the prong you see in the foreground of the video). At that size, height, make and position, it is hard to not notice the window. It is in your face. And probably what you look for first when asked to strip.

g) There may be a blue protective coat over the glass panes. But the video clearly shows it as being in the open position. For a window to be opened from the outside, it has first to be left unlocked from the inside.

h) How many rooms are used for ear squats? The Chinese nationals reported being in a different kind of room. That’s assuming they are telling the truth, of course.

i) Three months before the next step? The handphone technician claims he received the order to transfer the clip onto a laptop sometime during the fasting month. Nevermind he’s been struck with amnesia over the identity of the policeman. But if his other account was true, then it was a clear three months before whichever person/s possessing the clip did anything more. The L/Kpl testified that he watched the video played to him by the Konstabel some 90 minutes after the incident. What else happened after that? Is it normal for a voyeur who was so eager to show off his bounty to his colleague suddenly remain silent for three months? Hey, even the technician got so excited he emailed the clips to two friends that very night.

Something in the process stinks. You can’t allow someone to claim she was the one, and accept it as the truth. If that was the case, hundreds of women (and some men) could possibly lay claim to the same story.

And the media was wrong to accept that at face value as well. Wrong and dumb. On this I congratulate The Straits Times (Singapore) and AP for headlining: “Malay woman claims to be victim in police nude video”. That’s more responsible journalism.

Until more concrete answers emerge, I am taking this only as a work in progress.