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.

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.