Welcome to my vocational Taj Mahal

Vocational training seems primed for a push under the Ninth Malaysia Plan. The Youth and Sports Ministry is targeting 520 National Youth Skills Institutes (IKBN) to be built all around the country during that period.

Its Minister, Datuk Azalina Othman Said said this is to cater for the overwhelming interest shown by youths to undergo training at these centers. Good on you, Datuk.

What catches my eye is this. And it better be a mistake.

“A standard IKBN in an urban area or growth centre would cost RM100 million to build while in a smaller rural constituency, it would cost less, she told reporters, here Monday,” reports Bernama.

RM100 million for each school.

Gasp. She cannot be serious. Or is she?

Look, I’ve never handled any of these government projects before, but my architect buddies and I have done a fair bit of private sector mixed-use commercial and residential projects. Those projects should provide some framework for reference.

An average RM55 million – or half the value of each purported school – gets you about 150 medium-end apartment units complete with full clubhouse amenities like tennis courts, swimming pool, squash courts, gym, reading room, security system and CCTV and a 6-storey commercial complex (retail and offices) with elevators, escalators and air-conditioning, and required car-parking facilities. And given the occupant use and loading, more expensive life-safety equipment is also included eg smoke extraction system, fire sprinklers and alarm, smoke curtains etc.

Or a more pointed reference: The sales tag for the 35-storey MAS Building in prime real estate Jalan Sultan Ismail is going for a reserve RM130 million.

RM100 million building budget for each school…

Way cool, government. Unless you were planning on Burmese teak floors and Barcelona Chairs, please explain.


p.s. You know how it is when all is dark and you can’t see, your other senses pick up the slack? That’s how it is with transparency and governance. Because you, the ruling party, operate under a cloak, every government-issued report however small churned out by the media is scrutinized for aberrations. See, you’ve made me sharp.

I’m watching. Others are too.

Stating the obvious

I am Chinese. You may be Malay. Or you may be Indian, Dayak, Eurasian. So what, you say. Exactly, so what.

I find myself closer in spirit, thought and values with a number of Malay friends than I ever could any profiteering, conniving Chinese. And this includes family. Put me in a room with these ringgit-smacking beasts and I’ll cringe in pain, I’ll yawn or I’ll deliberately start a broiling debate on the table just to charge the mood a little. Ditto with my Indian buddies – I’ll go through seven tolls to help them out, Samy notwithstanding.

That’s stating the obvious, you say. Of course just about everybody has friends from different races whom they click just nicely. People form groups comprising individuals of similar ideas, goals, causes and wavelengths. That’s just natural.

I am definitely stating the obvious.

Now if that’s so obvious… why then is our political system today grooved along racial lines?

It’s plain clumsy. It's low IQ, low EQ. It’s perpetually divisive. How can this country ever talk about satu Bangsa, satu Negara when the leaders in government represent their respective races rather than core values?

Shouldn’t political parties and consequently government be founded more along value-based ideologies?

Why should I join the MCA to guard Chinese Malaysian rights when I am more interested in other aspects of equality and progress in society? Why should there be an UMNO when the Malay padi farmer in Kedah has more in common with a Chinese vegetable farmer in Cameron Highlands than with his fellow KL Malay sitting lumpy with a clutchful of APs speaking in some bahasa Barat? And you can try convincing me MIC can successfully promote the interests of the Indian Malaysian estate worker who earns RM200 a month as fairly as the hotshot Indian Malaysian lawyer.

I can see the logic for race-based parties 50 years ago. The country’s terrain was different then.

It seems to me Malaya as an entity was born divided. It was a land of spice, rubber and tin, and the British lords happily welcomed whoever was willing to come here to work. It was not about home, it was a field of labour. It was about migrants who came to make money with perhaps the intention of going back to their homeland.

The divide-and-rule strategy was a legacy of the colonial British in managing the different ethnic groups. Fair enough. They ruled us then. And the influx of Chinese, Indians and Indonesians fresh off the boat was so rapid and immense, divide-and-rule could be justified as a plausible, even humane, policy. Literacy was low, language proved a barrier, and these people were complete strangers to each other. It was all about economics and pragmatism for both the colonial masters and our immigrant forefathers (again this includes Indonesians).

Argue how you want, the British may have exploited us – which colonialist doesn’t? – but they had heart and goodwill. And among the many infrastructure, when it came time to leave, they left behind the Reid Commission as a roadmap to how an independent Malaysia would mature.

A key point in the report stressed on continuity of special privileges for the Malays with the recommendation that “in due course the present preferences should be reduced and should ultimately cease”. From the tone of the document, I sense the drafters of the Commission genuinely believed that the infant Malaysia had what it takes to grow up a rational, fair, and harmonious nation. I sense they believed Malaysia could be critical enough to grow out of its former colonial master’s methods like divide-and-rule and the ISA when its usefuleness have been outlived.

Forty-eight years onwards we haven’t fared too well as far as politics and government go. Rather than a wonderful tapestry, the nation is slashed along racial lines thanks to continued but modified divide-and-rule policies by a government made up of race-based parties. And we’re still threatened with the ISA long after the communist insurgency is over. You can dangle all kinds of national symbols and icons, change the names of towns and streets, change the history books, but the truth is we’re still practising the colonial British methods of government. If the agenda back then was about economics and pragmatism, today it’s about paranoia, fear and greed.

Closed doors, closed books, closed records, closed accounts instead of transparency to foster dialogue and debate. Case closed.

My goodness, here we are, 21st century Malaysians who desire kinship more through commonness rather than race, being forced to remember we are brown, yellow and black because of policies made by dimwitted bigots. Here we are with an ever-expanding middleclass, with an increasingly diverse and capable society, being told: “This has been passed by the cabinet, nothing to talk.” Like we are still illiterate. Here we are still yelling medieval slogans like: “Kalau tak suka, keluar.”

Honey, four generations of Indians, Chinese and Eurasians born on this soil is enough proof that we are Malaysians, no more immigrants. Four generations of looking up to the flag and Negaraku is enough proof that here indeed is where Tanah tumpahnya Darahku. Let’s not get into trivialities of qualifying loyalty.

It’s clear to me the country can no longer be governed along racial lines. It has grown beyond that stage. It’s clear to me that I will never support a political party where race forms its organizing spine. It doesn’t make any sense today. At best it can only offer wayang after wayang. Neither will I ever support a political party where religion forms its organizing spine. Definitely not in multi-cultural Malaysia.

Without trying too hard, I can foresee an able government sincerely wanting to integrate the people via sound policies and inclusiveness yet faithfully respecting Article 153 of the Constitution. The government today is not it.

Hakka and home

You couldn’t really tell which was the noisiest – the smoke-belching diesel generator or the whining gears of a concrete mixer. Or those Hakka plasterers.

Neither could you tell which deserved Workhorse of the Month Award – the seasoned-grey jackhammer rat-a-tatting for hours or the diamond-tooth power grinder spewing dust and sparks. Or those Hakka plasterers.

I came upon these folks one morning on a walkabout at a bungalow construction site. They left a lingering impression.

Way before Live-Work-Play became an urban lifestyle catchword among developers, these people were already embodying it in their own way. Dressed in utility samfu and pasar malam pants and dusty canvas shoes, these middle-age women and men bring their daily mirth to the workplace, unencumbered by the dour weight of the world. They don’t care about yoghurt, maybe yongtowfoo; not latte, perhaps satay. And don’t tell them to quiet down. That would be very bad manners on your part.

“They’re from Kajang,” the main contractor told me. He too was amused. “They are like one big family. They move as a group from job to job. Always the same members.”

And they’re so in demand they’re booked solid for months on out, he added.

Every morning before sunrise, a “family” van moves through the kampung baru alleys and picks up the members. Some of the menfolk may have already set off on their kapchais. Some mornings they’d stop for breakfast, especially if someone chung tau 4-D; they’d ynim kopi, sik yew-cha-kuee and set off for work.

In The Hundred Secret Senses, Amy Tan writes from the yin-eyes of Kwan: “We had a saying. When you marry a Thistle Mountain girl, you get three oxen for a wife: one that breeds, one that plows, one to carry your old mother around. That’s how tough a Hakka girl was.”

Well, I’ll be. It wasn’t thaaaaat hard to miss.

Along with the men, the women shoveled sand and lime, dumped sacks of cement into the mixer, and pushed loaded wheelbarrows over gangplanks. They plastered on the scratch coat, then the final coat days later leaving behind a finished sheen so smooth you’d feel bad it was going to be painted over.

The best part was they seemed happy. They seemed like community, like family. They spoke animatedly while plastering, moving as a group moving from room to room. They talked about their men and their children, and the food they had yesterday. They ribbed each other in a dialect I could not fathom but in laughter that I could. They had fun. And they did good consistent work.

These Hakka plasterers are a traveling social unit. A mobile cottage industry, they exemplify local community and support. No government aid, no datuk connections, just making an honest living. They are a post-colonial, post-Emergency style EPF, Socso and health insurance scheme all rolled into one. With breakfast thrown in sometimes.

Much has been said about the dearth of quality local artisans these days. From Kedah to Sarawak, many have left for a better paycheck in Singapore be it tile-layers, finish carpenters, painters, welders, masons. It’s not just brain drain, it’s skills drain just as much. Merit pays.

These Hakka plasterers have the skills. They too could have moved to work in Singapore and yet they stayed. They stayed because community - not just money - provides security.

“Haiyo, what for go there? Home is here,” one of the louder women answered me.

Her simple answer made me feel stupid for even forming that question. Plus the irony that Hakkas were considered foreigners amongst the Chinese, gypsies in their own land.

I think our local industries and human resource gurus could learn from this. That community needn’t break down in deference for a corporate-style method of operations. We needn’t whole-heartedly adopt Western concepts. Corporate ladders and KPIs may make surface sense but can it truly stir deep productivity?

In the first place, is productivity the proper gauge? As a word, it feels too slanted towards the mercenary and devoid of the spirit.

There must be a better word to measure performance, a word that reaches at deeper commitments rather than production numbers, of a nourishing environment that makes you want to stay, contribute, and be creative.

Perhaps something like belongivity instead.

I’ve done the corporate thing in a previous life. Yes, the company takes care of you, great benefits and all, but ultimately it is a machine mindset and you’re a cog, and you have a shelf life. It is cold, brrr-uddy cold.

And then there are those plasterers… Through all that yakkity-yak and smooth troweling of walls, they’re quite a scene to behold, and quite a lesson. It makes you think. Belongivity over productivity. Through them I learned, that size aside, some of the best things actually come in loud packages. Hakka loud.

And guess what. Home is here. Duhh.

Cane - a moral wand gone wild

I’m not exactly a pacifist, but I fail to understand the rationale behind this.

A former despatch clerk was convicted of CBT by the Sessions Court and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment and three strokes of the cane by Judge Rosenani Abd Rahman.

Three strokes of the cane – for Criminal Breach of Trust.

That’s the sort of punishment one associates more with rapists, kidnappers and robbers, and more recently illegal immigrants. The sum involved was RM122,690, reported NST, and persisted over the course of seven months. In all, the clerk M. Seri Shunmuganathan faced 21 charges of misappropriation of funds amounting to almost half a million ringgit.

Never mind how he could so freely cheat his former company, Sykt Chempaka Urus Sdn Bhd, for so long, for such a huge sum, without them knowing. Or that DPP Rahayu Abd Talib asked for a heavy sentence in view of “public interest” and rising numbers of misappropriation. Or that Shunmuganathan claimed he needs crutches to move around today because of police assault while in remand almost six years ago.

Just this. A despatch clerk breached the trust of his company and will get three ass-splitting, flesh-tearing strokes of the cane. He will be permanently marked on his butt like branded cattle.

Will any fat-assed ex-politician or businessman convicted of breaching the trust of his company and – God forbid – the nation, get the same treatment?

Help me out here. What is the history behind the induction of corporal punishment in CBT convictions? What were the intentions when it was made Law? Has this outlived its usefulness, assuming there was one in the first place?

I’m all for boosting the agriculture sector, but seriously… is Malaysia getting too rattan happy?

About now

Pak Lah has been quiet for a while. I don’t know what he’s been up to. I read he’s on vacation. The media speculates he’s priming for a cabinet reshuffle. A number of bloggers and their readers are expressing restlessness. One comment labeled him “boring”. There are cries for him to show up for work.

Me, I think it may be the most fertile period in our recent history.

I may not know where we’re headed as a society nor dare I hold my breath, but I’d take Pak Lah at the helm any day. The way I see it, thanks to his leadership – yes leadership – we’re moved into chrysalis mode getting ready for a new dawn. It’ll take a while and there’s no guarantee of good fortunes. And, more than ever, it will largely depend on us, the people. That makes all the difference. There is only one predictable message and it comes in the form of questions: What do you think? How do you feel? So how?

Sages throughout the ages have hailed the quality of silence and the unseen leader. By stepping back, individuals wake up, interest groups form, neighborhoods organize, people think, people care, ideas collide. Thesis, anti-thesis, synthesis. And we move on.

We move on as sentient creatures, able to carry a debate as a baby is carried – with responsibility; hoist our values as our flag is hoisted – with pride. And fight never to remain as sheep in a heavy-handed system. Nevermore.

An unseen leader essentially says: If you want it, earn it. And if it is the right thing, it will become culture.

The signs are there. Against the tide of lip-puckering ass-kissing, datuk kowtowing, lies, spin, dumb laws, GLC screw-ups and cover-ups, RM7,000-a-day consultants, local university wayangs, is she or isn’t she a Malay, the signs of intelligence are there.

The Moorthy case has brought about healthy debate. NGOs are not taking the episode lying down. It even prompted the former A-G to chastise judges in the civil courts for not having balls.

The Islamic Family Law (FT)’s induction is exposing what the solemn act of lawmaking in Malaysia is really like. Hey, let’s see who’ll get whipped, party Whip.

The AP episode lifted the veils of opacity an inch further to reveal some very curious decisions made by MITI. It also revealed the beauty of the Internet in enabling DAP’s Kit obtain real-time information to bring up as questions in Parliament. Carbon Copy, you're really a diamond.

The Bar Council’s rediscovering its voice, Bukit Cahaya is severely blighted but not obliterated, MPPJ’s got a swollen eye, and Taman Seri Petaling folks took Samy to task, bullock carts and all.

And I think women – more than at any other time in our history – are showing that they do matter with poise, heart and grey matter. Of late, they have made major inroads in redefining this country’s political, moral and social landscape. While the asses in Parliament continue to bray, while the Whip continues to subjugate conscience, there’s a tender thunder rolling in from Sepet to Seputeh, from squash to squats. And of course, the musings of the daughter of our previous PM continues to be insightful. The presence of these individuals and groups has been huge.

I’m all for Pak Lah – no keris, no hoots, no semuanya okay – because he enables. He won’t will the system. He probably knows he cannot. It’s too thick with muck for a single person anyway. Chances are, he wants you to do it. You and I.

Work with me, he said back then before disappearing backstage, fingers lightly on the steering wheel, and letting things be. It’s unnerving. Where’s papa? So hard to see in the fog, so many voices, so many views. Ouch police beat me. Eeeyer, so cheap - I osso wanna buy Agusta.

Stay on the course, stay true. And one by one, uncoerced, we learn to see again, listen and speak again. In our breast-pocket, waiting by our beating heart, is a vote. And ugly can be seen as ugly, good as good, in all their shades and hues. The questions remain: What do you think? How do you feel? So how?

These are the days, I tell myself, Pak Lah days. I can't tell if it's enlightened decision or plain inept, I really can't. But I sure appreciate it because the ball's in the people's court. The surface may not have changed, but inside the chrysalis is far from dormant. It feeds on one attitude: If you want it, earn it.

Let’s feed it well. You and I.

Walking

A year ago, I crossed over into 2005 with a middle finger raised at mainstream Malaysian architecture. Enough of selling out, enough of listening to developer fools, enough of architects who choose money over design for the people. I couldn’t handle the idea of being a mass murderer to the soul. Enough.

The evening before at 7.30pm, I quietly shut the door of the firm I used to work, stepped into the lift lobby and breathed in fresh air. Freedom in any kind of air smells fresh. In my hands, packed neatly in plastic bags, were the tools of my trade – pencils, scale rule, triangles, trace, and a candle that’d been snuffed out. I had given three months' notice, served it, and had no mojo left for the field. I had no job, didn’t plan on getting one, and firmly believed I was done with design in this country. Two years and I was done. After close to two decades abroad studying and working in uplifting environments, it took me two years here to throw in the towel. Disenchanted. Disfigured. Done.

Last night, I crossed over into 2006, this time with a candle in one hand – lit – and a pencil in the other, sharpened. I have returned to my immortal beloved with deeper convictions and a simpler compass: north points to honesty. I am square ready to face this year thanks to resolutions last year. They weren’t made on Jan 1 – I don’t believe in that – rather over the course of time.

The Spanish poet Antonio Machado wrote: “Traveler, there are no paths. Paths are made by walking.” Yes sir.

Last year, I walked. I walked in storms, walked over crackling embers, and shards of glass. I walked through alleys filled with red-eyed crows a-cawing, through taverns lined with whores taunting then jeering.

I walked along crevises with deep drops but strangely felt safe for there were butterflies beside me, a deer in the woods nearby, a toad who’d make me laugh, and a fairy who’d watch that I never get too thirsty. And when all seemed futile and I’d curl into a ball, the sun would break and the moon would shine. It had been a good walk.

Last year I stepped off the mainstream, eased into the eddying pools and decided the side stream makes for a better journey. On the edges of streams I see riverbanks being shaped, clams and crabs churning the mud, aerating it, mudskippers breathing through both their noses and skin, larvae kicking, flowers decaying, seeds bursting. The side stream is interactive, throbbing, a dynamo. The side stream doesn’t believe in traffic jams, doesn’t accept “aiyah…”, hates cronyism, arrogance and bigotry, and is still ever-ready to stick a middle-finger to soul-killers. The side stream is creative.

2005, in all reverence and humility, thank you. With a candle, lit, in one hand and a pencil, sharpened, in the other, I’ve stepped through the next portal and I’m ready. Let’s walk.