Those days of screaming and slaughter

I saw a man in black on the ground with his eyes closed, kneeling. He had on a red headband. Another man, with heavy moustache and a similar head-covering, was standing behind him.

He was holding a parang, the traditional machete used to cut bamboo. It looked sharp. Very sharp. Shining sharp.

"Look at this thick plank of wood," his voice thundered. "Look closely."

The man with the parang, threw the block of wood up into the air. With one strike of the parang, he split the thick wood into two. It fell on the ground with a plonk and a clank and a plop.

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READ PART 1: May 13 - At Peace Lane before the storm

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“Very sharp this thing is, yaaah?!” his voice thundered. The crowd was gasping. I could not believe my eyes. What's next, I wondered.

I looked at the other man kneeling, chanting some Arabic words I did not understand. As if praying for his life.

"Very sharp, this parang. Is it not?" The crowd murmured in agreement.

The man took the sundered pieces of wood and laid them side by side. Suddenly, the man jumped up and wielding the parang, struck the two pieces of wood, breaking them into four.

Everybody gasped.

"Very sharp, right?!"

The man kneeling on the ground was still chanting religious verses.

"Are you ready to witness a miracle?" the man with the parang asked. There was so much authority in his thundering voice. "Are you ready to witness how the power of Allah Taa’la works? The power of the Malay warrior spirit?!’

The crowd was getting excited and a few voices shouted back, “Yes, Allahu Akbar, God is great."

I could smell the sweat of the people around me. I could smell Indonesian clove cigarettes.

I could smell magic and mysticism. I could smell the foul breath of people. The smell from the dirty Segget river. The smell of anger and revenge.

Should I leave and go home and watch TV? But this is exciting. I must stay. I must watch.

Magical powers and mysticism

After preaching about the magical powers he had, he announced, to the horror of the crowd, that he was going to use his parang to “slaughter” the man,

“Gentleman, be calm and watch this. This parang that I used to cut the block of wood into pieces ... watch me use it on this man ... on his neck! Just watch. Nothing is going to happen to him.”

Was I ready for this?

He placed the parang at the nape of the man’s neck. There was dead silence.

Shouting "Allahu Akbar", he landed a blow, three blows, on the kneeling man’s neck. I almost fainted. Miraculously, the parang bounced back every time. 

Yes, it did! I saw it. I did! I did! 

Not a single drop of blood from the kneeling, chanting man.

The crowd gasped. I was not sure if they were shocked or relieved.

“The power of what we teach. The power of God. The power of martial arts. This man is kebal (invulnerable)! This man is protected by God. Nothing will harm him, Not even bullets of the kafirs, non-believers!"

"Not any Chinese sword. Nor any keris. Nor any parang. This is how we are going to do the jihad. Allah is great. Takbirrrr! Allah is great.”

The man roared. The crowd roared with him.

I was puzzled, searching for an explanation. There was none. Why was the man not beheaded? Why didn’t the head roll on the ground like the chickens for my grandma’s curry? Why was not a single drop of blood spilled? How could that be freaking possible?

How can I learn the art of invulnerability, even to a sharp weapon that was shown to have split wood into many pieces. How could that be? I wanted that power.

That was the day, a day of preparation for men in black and red headbands to head to the capital to battle with the Chinese. The city was aflame. Vehicles were on fire. 

Shops were burned down. Bodies lay in the streets.

I hate to have my memory go back to that day in 1969 when, as a very young child, I saw men in red headbands in Muar, Johor, with parang, kerambit, keris, daggers and all kinds of weapons, heading for the urban village of Kampong Baru, Kuala Lumpur, to meet at the residence of the then ‘menteri besar,’ Harun Idris, a politician known as a champion for Malay rights and dignity.

My saddest memory of that day concerned my Mathematics teacher, whom I loved and respected dearly, and who adored me and praised me for my hard work. 

One day, after May 13, 1969, she threw my exercise book out of the classroom. I did not know why. I cried inside. I was devastated for weeks.

I could not understand what was happening. I thought I was “the teacher’s pet,” as my classmates called me. I always tried to please my teachers because that was what my mother taught: respect your teachers all the time and do well in school because we are very poor people. 

Mother would cry every time I did not come home top of the class. She would sob. I would sob as well. There was a time I got Number 2 and I spent about two hours roaming around the village trying to figure out how to break the news to my mother, and what she will say after showing her my report card.

But that day, Miss Chan was angry. My teacher Miss Chan was Chinese. My best friend in school, Fook Shiang, was Chinese. My grandfather’s friends who visited the house often were Chinese. My aunt’s Chinese!

Grandpa adopted her when she was a few weeks old.

This was not making sense. Fear began to engulf me.

A fear of those days – of screaming and slaughter. - Mkini