When I used to be a Malaysian

Sigh…I wish we were back in the 1960s when the triads and not the politicians ran the country. Malaysia was a much better place back then. Back then we had brothers. Today we have unprincipled politicians who split this country into racial compartments and instead of fighting on the streets with parangs like decent people we fight in the Internet to argue about whose race and religion is better.

NO HOLDS BARRED

Raja Petra Kamarudin

I was not always a Malay. Well, no doubt I was born into a Malay family, according to the Federal Constitution of Malaysia, but I never regarded myself as a Malay. I mean, you always hear about a woman trapped in a man’s body, right? Well, I was a Malaysian trapped in a Malay body, although my external features would never give you that impression.

In 1963, at the age of 13, I was packed off to the Malay College Kuala Kangsar (MCKK) to continue the tradition of being the first of the third generation in my family to receive an education in what was at that time the most elite school in Malaysia.

My father was pleased as punch and my grandfather was so elated that I was invited to spend my school holiday at The Residency, the resident of the Governor of Penang. I suppose in a family where there were more grandsons than the number of Parliamentarians we have in the Malaysian Parliament that made me stand out.

Well, my great-grandfather had ten wives and 44 children, one of them my grandmother. So imagine how many of us were running around four generations later, meaning my generation. Hence to be the first of my generation to get into the MCKK was sort of an achievement, although I never thought of it like that.

And I hated it. The MCKK was an all-Malay school and I wondered what the hell I was doing there. While the rest indulged in extra-curriculum activities, I sat under the ‘Big Tree’ to read my quota of a book a day. Of course, my contemporaries considered me a sissy because I was a loner who never mixed with the rest, especially on the playing fields. But my world was my books and I was pretty content to bury myself in my books and escape the world I had been thrown into.

Hardly a month in the MCKK and I wrote a tearful letter to my father begging him to allow me to go home. I was miserable and I wanted out. It was not until about 30 months later before I was given a reprieve and allowed to go home.

I was transferred to the Victoria Institution (VI) -- which is next to the Stadium Negara/Stadium Merdeka -- and I suddenly found bliss. I was now amongst a ‘normal’ crowd and my ‘best friends’ had names like Rajadurai, Yim Seng, Gurmit, Onn, Bakar, Sam and many more. Most of them had some form of triad connection such as Sam who was with the Long Fu Tong, Bakar who was with the Kampung Baru branch of 24 and Yim Seng who was with 08.

It did not take long for me to get dragged in and by the time I sat for my LCE exam I was already active with the Long Fu Tong that controlled Petaling Street and Sultan Street with its headquarters at the Malaysia Snack Bar and Green Grove Snack Bar. The Rex cinema was our daily hangout where we waylaid members of the opposing triads and relieved them of whatever worldly possessions they may have owned.

We never touched the general population but only those who also ‘ada jalan’, as we would say back in those days. It was a sort of 'those who live by the sword die by the sword' code of ethics. And the opposing force quite accepted this code of ethics because you do not venture into enemy territory without taking that risk. So it was a sort of ‘it’s just business and no hard feelings’ type of situation.

And we all lived, and sometimes died, by that code of ethics. And strange as it may sound, it was considered ethical to pau members of the other side who are foolish enough to not respect territories. In the event that physical harm is suffered or blood is shed, it is settled through a ‘table talk’ and the payment of ‘medicine money’. Then all becomes honky-dory again.

If a settlement is not reached through the table talk then time is given for the other side to leave the table before the war commences, just like in the Baling Talks between Chin Peng and Tunku Abdul Rahman. Of course, sometimes one side might ‘play dirty’ and the parangs start flying even before the other side can leave the table. But that would mean the war is going to become very bloody and it would be very difficult for the war to end until the ‘traitors’ are sent to meet their maker.

But that is the job of the Tiger Generals and fighters. I was neither because I never went up the ranks with notches on my parang. In fact, I did not even carry a parang. I was just a jalan member whose job was to make up the ranks, which was safer and ensured that you reach old age.

After form five, by that time I was 17, I left the VI and bummed around for a few years racing motorcycles and acting as one of the bodyguards to rock bands, who in those days were targets of rival rock bands who proved who was the better band by beating up the band members of the rival band.

For example, if Kuala Lumpur bands played in Penang, the Penang kaki would beat them up and vice versa. So when you played in another town you needed bodyguards to ensure that you made it home in one piece. And it was quite fun because bands attracted groupies so while the bands played their gig we would need to guard the groupies so…hmm, maybe I should leave the rest unsaid.

Anyway, that was about the time I met my wife, Marina, who lived in Brickfields. She was then 14 and I was already an ‘old man’ of 17. Brickfields, however, was controlled by 08 so imagine the problem I faced when I went to pick Marina up for a date. I had to sneak into Brickfields without getting caught.

One day, however, I did get caught. A 36 chap named Koh Loh cornered me at the Railway Club in Brickfields. He had a parang in his hand and I thought that was the end of me. There was no escape this time. Before I could decide whether to go down on my knees and plead for my life or just run like hell, one 08 chap named Dennis leaped forward and stood between me and Koh Loh, also with a parang in his hand.

Koh Loh backed down and Dennis and I became best friends thereafter, until one day he was murdered by person or persons unknown years later. His assailants ambushed him one dark night and whacked him to a pulp with baseball bats.

We then had a table talk with 36 and settled the dispute with Koh Loh when Dennis, a 08 Tiger General, told them I was under his protection. You see: Dennis was a friend of a friend so that was why he came to my defense although before that I did not know him personally. Thereafter, Richard, the 36 Tiger General, also became a close friend until soon after May 13 when he was shot dead while playing Mah Jong in Brickfields.

I had tremendous respect for both Dennis, who was fearless even when faced against so many opponents, and Richard, who did a mean Kung Fu and could ‘fly’ through the air and floor someone with a kick to the face a laBruce Lee. Incidentally, the nickname they gave me was Chap Chong Kui, which you Chinese readers would know what that means.

But do you know what? It was not until many years later that I realised Dennis was Indian and Richard was Chinese. At that time this fact seems to have escaped me. It was not until after 13th May 1969 that I realised Dennis was Indian and Richard was Chinese. And it was Umno that woke me up and made me realise this.

Thus ended the good old days when I lived on the streets of Brickfields amongst friends of different origins whose race I was not even aware of. I suppose, on reflection, I was a wild teenager back in the 1960s before 13th May 1969. However, how bad we may have been, racism was not one of our bad points back in those days in the 1960s. We were all brothers and the brotherhood was our true family and we lived by the code of ethics of the streets.

Then, after 13th May 1969, the government cleaned up the streets. They rounded up all the triad members and sent them to Pulau Jerejak. And then racism took over. I sometimes wonder whether the triads or the politicians are better. For sure the triads had a certain code of ethics that is absent in politicians. And brother never betrays brother, not like what happens today. You prefer to die than do that. And that is why, until today, I regard betrayal as the worst crime, worse than murder.

Sigh…I wish we were back in the 1960s when the triads and not the politicians ran the country. Malaysia was a much better place back then. Back then we had brothers. Today we have unprincipled politicians who split this country into racial compartments and instead of fighting on the streets with parangs like decent people we fight in the Internet to argue about whose race and religion is better.