Briefly

KimGooi Photojournalist

The stories and photographs compiled here had been published in various regional newspapers and magazines during my career as a freelance journalist, beginning from the mid seventies onwards. Except for one – Waiting for the Tunku – which for various reasons had never been written until now.

After my detention and deportation from Burma in May 1978, the Tunku became my savior. He had the authority to ‘clear’ me and return my passport. This enabled me to get back to Bangkok and pursue my journalist career without delay. Otherwise I might have to wait twenty odd years. Dreadfully it happened to a friend who was deported back to Malaysia after a jail sentence in a foreign country. He waited two decades to get his passport back.

Eventually I was able to work for most of the major TV networks of USA, Europe, Japan and became a stringer for both New York Times and Time magazine – an invaluable work experience.

I’m also glad that the Tunku’s story is the theme and title of this collection of stories. In a small way I hope it would keep his memory alive and reveal a part of his humanitarian work which were not often publicized.

A word of thanks to my old school friend, Ooi Chong Jin, who is instrumental in telling me to stop spinning this tall yarn of the Tunku and just write it down. This is often the case when we, in our autumn years, meet over a drink or two.

There is also our dear headmaster JMB (Mike) Hughes of Penang Free School who is featured here too. A great teacher who taught us school is not all text books but field work and play is as important.

There is Peter Janssen, John Hail, Julian Spindler, Naoki Mabuchi of the Bangkok days, whose generous loans of precious books, time and the inductions of Black American Blues music, opened my eyes and perceptions to many of life’s treasures.

I remember reading the “Bushmen of the Kalahari” – after hearing incredible stories of hunting exploits and super human prowess which the Bushmen tell nightly at their camp site, stretching back to the days of their ancestors; the American author finally asked: “Are these stories true?”

To his surprise, the Bushmen felt dejected and sadly said: “Where’s the fun in telling something that is not true!” they said.

This profound wisdom comes from the illiterate Bushmen whose history is passed from word of mouth. With so much untruth and intellectual dishonesty around today, modern men could very well learn from the Bushmen of Africa.

Perhaps the world could be a better place. “God has a way of using the silly and downtrodden to bring down the smart and mighty.”

At the upper reaches of the Mekong – Lanchangjiang – in China circa 1993

Kim Gooi’s Photography Archives Exhibition for Biennale Jogja 2019

In The Land of Poppies
The Photography Archives of Kim Gooi
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Kurator: Mulia Idznillah & Ayos Purwoaji
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25 Oktober – 8 November 2019
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Pembukaan pameran
25 Oktober 2019
19.00 WIB
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Diskusi
26 Oktober 2019
16.00 WIB
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Galeri Kelas Pagi Yogyakarta
Jalan Brigjen Katamso GM II/1226
Prawirodirjan, Gondomanan, Yogyakarta
16.00 – 22.00 WIB
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Sebelum organisasi ASEAN terbentuk, pemahaman mengenai “Asia Tenggara” sebagai kesatuan kawasan dibayangkan melalui berbagai imajinasi informal yang melampaui batas pembagian teritorial negara-negara anggotanya. Hal tersebut dapat ditelusuri melalui narasi-narasi sejarah dan penjelajahan sebagaimana jalur pelayaran nomadik Suku Bajau, catatan harian para pelaut Cina, kisah para pelancong Eropa awal abad ke-20, hingga jalan tikus penyelundupan opium antarnegara yang berpusat di Golden Triangle, sebuah wilayah yang terletak di perbatasan antara Myanmar, Thailand, dan Laos.

Pameran ini menampilkan arsip dan karya fotografi milik Kim Gooi,seorang jurnalis lepas yang menyaksikan dan merekam dari dekat kehidupan di kawasan Golden Triangle selama bertahun-tahun. Sejak lama kawasan Golden Triangle tersebut menjadi sebuah wilayah subur nan angker, di mana bunga-bunga poppy (Papaver somniferum) tumbuh subur di lereng-lereng gunung. Di mana pada tahun 1950an hinga 1980an wilayah ini dikenal sebagai salah satu produsen emas hitam atau opium ilegal terbesar di dunia.

Melalui arsip liputan dan foto-foto Kim Gooi mengenai kawasan Golden Triangle, dapat disaksikan narasi pinggiran di seputar perdagangan opium illegal yang menjadi bagian dalam pembentukan sejarah modern Asia Tenggara; masyarakat adat yang mendambakan kemerdekaan, konflik sosial yang menjadi warisan era kolonialisme, perang sipil yang seolah tidak pernah berakhir, pusaran kemiskinan dan kelaparan, milisi anak yang dilatih di camp terpencil, hingga upaya negara dalam memberantas penyebaran opium dan turunannya.

Dari segala peristiwa dan fragmen sejarah yang direkam oleh Kim Gooi, diharapkan muncul sudut pandang baru dalam memahami Asia Tenggara sebagai sebuah kesatuan yang dibentuk melalui berbagai macam konstruksi geopolitis. Terutama kisah-kisah kecil yang selama ini absen dari narasi arus utama.
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Kim Gooi (l. 1947) adalah jurnalis lepas yang meliput kawasan Indocina dan sekitarnya selama lebih dari tiga dekade. Ia pernah bekerja untuk jaringan televisi utama di Amerika Serikat, Inggris, Australia, Eropa, Jepang, Korea, Hong Kong, dan berkontribusi sebagai penulis ke berbagai surat kabar yang terbit di Asia Tenggara. Selain itu, ia juga menjadi stringer untuk majalah TIME dan The New York Times.

Sebagai seorang fotografer, Kim Gooi juga pernah menyelenggarakan pameran tunggal berjudul “Images of Darkness and Light” (1986) di Kuala Lumpur. Berisikan kompilasi karya foto yang Ia rekam selama bertugas di sekitar perbatasan Thailand, Kamboja dan Burma dalam kurun waktu 6,5 tahun (1979-1985) sebagai fotojurnalis lepas.
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Pameran ini merupakan fringe event Biennale Jogja XV bekerja sama dengan Kelas Pagi Yogya (KPY)

Shanghai Old and New

Ancient bridge, Shanghai

All the tea in China

Popular Shanghai dumplings

Traffic on the Bund

Western legacy, the Bund Shanghai

Pedestrian pavement, the Bund Shanghai

Night scene at Huang Po river, Shanghai

Electric bike at pedestrian mall, Shanghai

 

 

Malaysiankini on Kim Gooi

Featured interview of poeple that had memorial enounters with Tunku: for Malalaysia day celebration, September 16, 2017.

From a Burmese prison to Tunku’s home

Susan Loone
10 Sep 2017, 10:39 am (Updated 10 Sep 2017, 11:20 am)

MALAYSIANS KINI | In 1977, the Bangkok-based photojournalist Kim Gooi was sentenced to a year in a Burmese prison

He was said to have violated immigration laws after he slipped into the rebellious Shan State. He thought he would die in jail.

Death was common in Burmese prisons, the “hell on Earth” he describes in “The Poet of Keng Tung Jail,” published in 2013. The book chronicles the horrors he faced on the inside, along with poems written by a fellow inmate and some of Kim’s photographs.

Yet prison was also the place where Kim would meet those who would eventually lead him to Tunku Abdul Rahman, the Father of Independence.

To Kim, the encounter with Tunku in 1978 was “a gift from above,” one of many recollections which he contributes to “Dialog: Thoughts on Tunku’s Timeless Thinking,” a 270-page compilation of anecdotes and essays by Malaysians about the country’s first prime minister.

While in prison, Kim was asked to pass a message to Tunku by a Burmese Muslim leader from Rangoon. At the time, 200,000 Muslims had just fled to Bangladesh due to persecution by Burmese authorities. It was also when Tunku served as the secretary-general of the World Islamic Council.

Kim was uncertain if Tunku would meet a “nobody” like him, but he took his chances and wrote to Malaysian Islamic Welfare Organisation (Perkim) anyway, as Tunku was head of the Penang branch.

“To my surprise, Perkim replied after a few days. They even asked for my mugshot as they wanted to print my letter to Tunku which detailed the plight of the Burmese Muslims,” Kim said in an interview with Malaysiakini.

He then managed to get the phone number of Tunku’s secretary, and fixed a date for a meeting.

“These are all very happy occurrences. I felt rewarded. A small occurrence, but this was something that filled my heart (with joy),” Kim recalls.

“I didn’t know what to expect as I’d never met Tunku before. There was a bit of apprehension on my part as I waited for him in his office,” said Kim, who has written for various news outlets in the US, UK, Australia and Malaysia, including New Straits Times, Harakah and Malaysiakini.

Kim couldn’t take his eyes off the mementos and gifts in Tunku’s office, including several tongkats and a tiger skin rug.

“Then Tunku came down, shook my hand and offered me coffee and cigarettes. I realised it was so easy to talk to him, there were no airs about him.”

Tunku was a “gold mine of information” and had a talent for making people feel at home. As Kim recalls, Tunku was generous, and had great empathy for common folk.

And so it was to his delight that soon after, he got the chance to meet Tunku again.

Kim’s passport was still under Malaysian immigration custody. He had a new job waiting for him in Bangkok, but he knew it could be months, maybe years, before he’d get his passport back, as a friend in a similar situation said it would.

An officer at the Penang Immigration Department suggested that he ask Tunku for help. It didn’t occur to Kim that Tunku still wielded a lot of influence in the government.

And true enough, Tunku issued him with a letter of support. With that letter, Kim was able to get a new passport from Immigration. His career was saved.

“Tunku was my saviour, redeemer, he saved my life and career and gave me a second chance.”

Since then, Kim has had a special bond with Tunku. When the Kedah prince visited Bangkok, Kim helped to round up a host of local and foreign journalists to attend his press conference.

Kim loved attending events organised by Tunku, like his birthdays, which he said was a real “sight to behold.”

“There were lots of Malaysian delicacies, but there were also a multiracial mix of guests at his parties, and lots of children, Tunku loved children. He was more than just a politician.”

Today, Kim lives in a modest terrace house in Tanjung Bungah with his family. He’s maintained a bit of his “hippie” lifestyle. Books and photographs lay scattered on the floor of his living room. His tiny garden is overgrown with plants and grass.

Dressed in a flowery orange shirt and sarong, he gives off the vibe of someone who’s seen it all. Now 70, Kim is an ardent practitioner of Chinese art and health. He still plays the blues on his harmonica, and still lives by his Taoist beliefs.

Here, in his own words, Kim talks about how certain world events shaped his life and career.

I AM INSPIRED BY TAOISM AND CHINESE SCHOLARSHIP AND CULTURE. Some may call me a “Chinese chauvinist,” but behind all these teachings is a universal humanitarianism. It is the only philosophy that can save mankind.

I STARTED MY CAREER IN JOURNALISM during the height of the hippie era. It was an incredible time of hope and optimism for the world.

MY CAREER WAS VERY MUCH INFLUENCED BYMUSIC, POETRY, PHILOSOPHY, AND DRUGS. It was all things combined. The hip word then was that these things were “groovy” and “cool.” I was called a hippie since my days at the polytechnic in Singapore, as I often wore blue jeans.

IN MY CAREER, I HAVE MET MANY WRITERS, SINGERS, POETS who introduced me to the world of photojournalism. They read a lot, and I learned from them. They also taught me how to travel the world, take photos, and get paid for it.

HIPPIES WERE FANTASTIC. They were highly educated and thoughtful people, and totally disillusioned with American culture, which we should emulate today, as it is the most rotten culture.

PEOPLE OF MY GENERATION ADORED THE USA. But from the hippies I learned the other side of the story. Look what they have done to the whole world, in Iraq, Afghanistan, Vietnam, and with the secret bombings in Laos.

BEING A JOURNALIST INTENSIFIED ALL THESE FEELINGS. I came face to face with American hypocrisy and lies, but at the same time, my experiences also led me to see that they have the “best” and “worst” the world has to offer.

THESE DAYS, JOURNALISM IN THIS COUNTRY IS VERY SAD. The world of journalism which I grew up with is no more. In my time, evidence mattered, and statements published were real, but today, you don’t know what is, with all the fake news on the internet.

From Merdeka Day to Malaysia Day, Malaysians Kini will feature personalities known to Tunku, as well as their memories about him. Their detailed recollections are featured in the book “Dialog: Thoughts on Tunku’s Timeless Thinking.”

MALAYSIANS KINI is a series on Malaysians you should know.

 

From Burmese Jail to meeting the Tunku Part I

Waiting For The Tunku

by Kim Gooi

“Being humble and respectful does not mean that one loses one’s social standing and identity in life; in fact it stresses one’s good character and class.”– Tunku

 

The sparrows come out

to sing a love song

The prisoners come out

to sing a farewell song

From Penang you came to listen

to a Burmese song

My dreams will sing

a waiting song

 

Journalists, such as myself, are taught not to make assumptions. Things are often not what they seem at first sight; there can be stories within stories.

For example, if I were to tell you that the lines of poetry above were taken from a journalistic memoir I wrote called “The Poet of Keng Tung Jail”, you might assume that I had arranged to visit the jail on assignment. However, I was not a visiting journalist. I was myself a prisoner in Keng Tung. Who, then, is the “Poet?” Me, perhaps? But the lines are not mine. They are an excerpt from a poem called “January”, written by a Thai prisoner called Taworn.

 

The other prisoners had warned me that Taworn was mad and I should avoid him, but that, too, was a false assumption. Taworn was far from mad. Tall, broad-shouldered and myopic, he peered at the world from behind thick glasses and an even thicker silence, broken by outbursts of laughter or sarcasm or sudden generosity that puzzled those around him.  Even the prison guards avoided Taworn.

But he was an educated, scholarly man who spoke three languages. I asked him to teach me Thai, jotting downindividual words in English on scrap material and cigarette papers for him to translate. Taworn did not stop at translation, however. He filled the space with strangely beautiful, original poems that blossomed like flowers from the buds of the single words I had given him.Taworn was the poet of Keng Tung Jail, and his friendship helped keep me sane in this most insane of environments.

Perhaps I should now lay to rest the unspoken question of what terrible crime I had committed to land me behind bars in the first place. My crime was inexperience, more than anything else.

I was a young photojournalist, based in Bangkok. Things had been going fairly well in the 6 or 7 months since I had arrived there in early 1977. I had just completed a photo essay for Asia Magazine on migrant workers at Bangkok’s Hua Lamphong Station. Now, my friends encouraged me to look further afield.Why not go north to Burma and do a story there? It was very much in the news. It was a chance to take great photos and cement my reputation.

So I travelled to Mae Sai, the most northerly town in Thailand, and crossed over into Tachileik on the Burmese side. The authorities in Burma would generally turn a blind eye to Thais who walked across the border during daylight hours in order to trade and barter with the Burmese locals, as long as they did not stay overnight.

I saw no reason why I could not blend in with these daytrippers. My features, at a glance, could pass as Thai; indeed my mother was from Trang in southern Thailand. On that score, I was probably right. I fit right in. But my camera equipment did not. Tachileik wasdominated by simple folk from both sides of the border, haggling over produce. What ordinary Thai could afford a camera, and why come here, of all places? As I openly snapped pictures of the tribal Burmese, dressed in their colourful costumes and selling their wares on the ground, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

The stares became whispers, the whispers reached the authorities, and within a few hours, I was arrested.

The Burmese authorities were already jittery in any case. Tachileik lies in Shan State, a region then filled with constant rumblings of insurgency and rebellion. By 1978, 20 to 30 casualties were suffered daily in Shan State alone in battles between government and rebel forces. A foreigner with a camera and uncertain motives would have done little to soothe their nerves.

My interrogation went on for hours. They went through my life history from the day I was born until the day I entered Burma.For me, it was like reciting a verbal autobiography.I soon discovered that while slipping across the border was deemed all right if you were Thai, it was certainly not all right if you were Malaysian. The obvious fact that I had no ill intent counted for nothing. I was sentenced to six months jail for violating immigration laws, to be deported from Burma on completion of my sentence.

It was this misfortune that led me to a stroke ofgood fortune, on a strange journey that took me from the most notorious prison in Burma to the living room of Tunku Abdul Rahman, father of Malaysian independence.

 

Life and Death in the Square World

I spent a full year jailed in Burma, not six months. Red tape and inefficiency doubled my sentence. I was told that my deportation had to be via the capital, Rangoon, but “the transfer papers are not ready”. They were never ready. Nothing much worked properly, in that era in Burma.

So I endured ten monthsof that year in Keng Tung Jail, 650 miles from Rangoon, where I watched ten men die before my eyes, and the last two months in Rangoon’s brutal Insein Prison, once the largest jail in the British Empire, where some prisoners were driven to eating rats just to survive.

But there was an easy cure for self-pity, in circumstances like these.

All I had to do was look around me.

There were those in pain, undergoing the savage beatings administered by the guards for the slightest infringement, real or imagined. The unfortunate victimwas clamped at the ankles with an iron rod, the thickness of a thumb and eight to fifteen inches long, and made to leap-frog round the prison compound with at least three prison guards (sometimes more) kicking, punching and striking him with rattan canes from behind. The iron rods would cut into the flesh, compounding the agony. The only relief came when he passed out. A heavy wooden block was then clamped onto his legs, and fellow prisoners would carry him back to the cell.

There were also those beyond pain. I thought of them as the living dead, wretched and pitiful souls who had lost the will to live completely.They had known, a long time ago, that the Burmese authorities would never release them. They were going to die in jail. They had seen their own deaths played out hundreds of times. Maybe in two years, maybe in five or twenty, the filth, disease and worst of all, the mental agony would get them. They were now mentally dead and had to be force-fed by others. Their eyes were vacant, beyond sorrow and suffering.

Insein held both the very young and the very old. Both had equally disturbing stories behind them.

The young were the children who been born in the jail, and had never seen the outside world. Some were still in the bellies of their pregnant mothers when whole familieshad been arrested and incarcerated. Now,they ranand played freely among the murderers, the lepers, the lunatics, the TB patients and the living zombiesaround them. What crime had these children committed, except to be born in the wrong place?

The old, perhaps just as innocent, were the Rohingyas.

The Burmese authorities had locked up these Muslims from Arakan State in the 1950s and forgotten about them. They were men whose crimes had disappeared in the mists of time. Or perhaps there had been no crimes in the first place, beyond their religion and the intolerance of the regime at that era.The oldest of them was 90 years of age, half blind and bent with age. He had been held for 28 years. A group of them stayed in the hospital compound, the younger ones already in their seventies but still able to walk around and move about during their daily prayers. It must have been their prayers and faith that kept them alive.

The Muslims of Insein Prison had an unofficial leader. His name was Aktar,a one-time millionaire businessman of Pakistani extraction, who had been jailed under the nebulous offence of  “sabotaging the socialist economy of Burma”.

Aktar had bribed the jail officials and was living in relative luxury in a special compound with about 30 followers – eight of them former Chinese Red Guards, whom he had personally converted to Islam, and who now acted as his bodyguards. He had good food brought to him from outside every day, as well as books and medicine.

Aktar soon heard that a new inmate from Malaysia had arrived in Insein, andI was summoned to meet him. He said that he knew the Malaysian ambassador had visited me and I would be free soon.He wanted me to take a personal message to the former Malaysian prime minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman, who was the first Secretary-General of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation (OIC), and tell him about the suffering and massacre of the Burmese Muslims.

Aktar lent me Islamic books, tolerated my many questions about them, and allowed me into his inner circle – the only non-Muslim given such a privilege. Although sometimes short-tempered at first, he had warmed to me greatly by time I was finally deported from Burma in May 1978.

I was back in Malaysia. But my passport had been seized by the government and I was told that I was under investigation because of my jail sentence. The passport could only be returned after I was cleared.When? “It could be years  –  or never”, I was told. I had two jobs waiting for me in Bangkok –one with the Business Times newspaper and the other as a reporter for the US news agency UPI at the 1978 Asian Games.

My career was in grave peril. I tried to put it out of my mind. It was time to keep my word to Aktar, and to pass on the message he had given me. But I was apprehensive. Why would Tunku Abdul Rahman even bother to see me? After all, I was a nobody, and he was a big man. But I thought I had to at least try. I owed that much, at least, to the forgotten Rohingya souls in Insein and their compatriots outside, who were suffering too. And a promise is a promise.

I had no real idea how to reach Tunku, in any case. Eventually I decided the best way would be to write a letter to Perkim, the Muslim Welfare Association he had founded. I wrote to them in May 1978, detailing the plight of the Rohingyas as my reason for wanting to meet Tunku. To my surprise, the editor of the Islamic Herald replied, requesting my photo and permission to print my letter in their next issue. They also gave me Tunku’s contact number and told me to call his secretary and make an appointment.

It was the beginning of my very fortunate and happy friendship with the Tunku.

Bangkok, 27 Jul 1985: – Tunku, wearing hat on left, with the descendants of Kedahans in Nongchok, outskirt of Bangkok Photo: Kim Gooi

From Burmese Jail to meeting the Tunku Part II

Waiting For The Tunku
It was about 10 in the morning. We were all waiting for the Tunku in the reception room-cum-office, stacked with souvenirs, trophies, walking sticks and memorabilia. This was to be my second encounter with Tunku; two weeks earlier,I’d had my first appointment with him, and had spent several hours talking about the Burmese Rohingya refugees and many other subjects, while he recorded it all on a mini-tape recorder (very rarely seen in 1978).

Samad,his driver,and Owen Chung, his aide-de-camp, stood around chatting. In a corner his Chinese secretary was pounding on a typewriter. I was seated beside a humble Malay lad of about 18 years of age. Facing us were three distinguished-looking men – two Chinese and an Indian Muslim. Obviously some rich tycoons, I thought.

As the Tunku came down the winding staircase, before I could stand up, the three big shots went forward and greeted the old man with gusto. “Tunku, Tunku! I just bought a 300-dollar shirt from Hong Kong for you. Can you play golf this Thursday? We’ve booked the golf course,” one of the Chinese said loudly.

Tunku, with hardly a glance, waved him aside. The second Chinese man cheerfully came forward and said, “Tunku, we’ve formed a Bumiputera company – 51 percent Malay and 49 percent Chinese. Can you sign for us? We got a piece of land in Balik Pulau we want to develop into a holiday resort.”

Tunku retorted, “Where did the Malays get the money to form the company to do big business?”

The tycoon confessed, “Actually, we put up the money for them.”

“I know the Malays have no money. You Chinese have the money, but still I just can’t simply sign the application for you. You have to tell me who are these people, what is their background?” Tunku admonished.“OK, OK, I’ll do that, Tunku,” the guy said, and quietly sat down.

Then the Indian Muslim man announced that he had convinced a friend in Sungai Petani to accept Islam.Tunku nodded happily and asked him to sit down. He then came straight to the Malay lad and me, and warmly shook our hands and attended to us, enquiring whether we had our coffee and how he could help us.

We said yes, and thanked him for the coffee. The Malay boy and I felt ten feet tall, the way Tunku treated us in front of the three rich and powerful guests.

The Malay boy said he had left school after Form Three and could not find a job and his family were poor. Tunku told him if he was not fussy about manual work, he would get him a job with the JKR (Public Works Department) tending trees and parks, and promptly dictated a letter to his secretary.

Turning to me, he said, “You have a problem with your passport after deportation from Burma. Just yesterday the immigration director from KL was here to visit me. What a coincidence! He told me if I need any help, don’t hesitate to tell him. I will give you a letter. You go to KL immigration and see him. You will get your passport back in no time.”

Tunku’sofficial letterhead was printed on paper of a special and unusual size, in order to prevent forgery. Cradling thefreshly typed and signed letter, I got off the next day at the Kuala Lumpur railway station and went to Immigration. I gavethe letter to the amazed officers there, who promptly handed over my passport. Thanks to Tunku, I had my job, my life and my future back.
After these episodes I had many more encounters with the Tunku, each of them memorable, educational and an insight to his wisdom and humanity.

The Visit To Bangkok
Tunku’s visit to Bangkok with Perkim officials in 1985 was another unforgettable event.

By then, my work had been going well and many of my articles were published in local and international media. After hearing complaints from the Malaysian attache, Tarmizi Hashim, that nobody had covered the news of Tunku’s arrival, I pulled every string I could among my reporter friends and the Foreign Correspondents Club. The next day, the entire Bangkok press corps turned up to hear a beaming Tunku talk about Perkim’s humanitarian work among Bangkok Muslims.

Tunku was a hit with the Thai reporters because he grew up in the Thai court of King Rama VI. To them, Tunku qualified as Thai royalty, and the government honoured him with two police outrider escorts whenever he came to the kingdom.

A Thai reporter asked Tunku whether he could still speak Thai. Tunku said that in Kedah, Thai is spoken differently from in Bangkok, for example “Tham Pleu, Tham Pleu” means “What to do, what to do!”Tunku’s knowledge of this phrase, common in southern Thailand but not part of the Bangkok dialect, greatly impressed the reporters. The next day it was front-page news in all the dailies: “Tunku speaks fluent Thai,” together with the comment that Tunku also pointed out the Malaysian journalist Kim Gooi who was once jailed in Burma, whom he knows.

Tunku, being a Kedahan prince by birth, had a special concern for the residents of the big Muslim community of Nongchok on Bangkok’s outskirts. These Muslims were the descendants of Kedahan slaves captured and brought to Bangkok to build the canals in the last century. That’s why all the mosques and many Muslim communitiesin Bangkok are along the canals. Tunku commented that they had not only survived but werenow living well, as the land where many settled had become valuable.

Tunku was so busy and had so many engagements during this trip that I was unable to sit down for a full conversation with him. But my camera recorded these encounters between Tunku and the local Muslims. He seemed genuinely touched by their presence and the opportunity to help them, and would never tire of relating the close historical ties between Kedah and Thailand to reporters.

Tunku also remembered that he had complained to the Thai government during an earliervisit that there was no central mosque in Bangkok, despite the substantial number of Muslims. The result was the big mosque we see today at Hua Mak district of Bangkok, he said proudly.

The Living Room in Ayer Rajah Road
Tunku’s home in Penang was a handsome British-style bungalow in Ayer Rajah Road, now renamed Jalan Tunku Abdul Rahman in his honour.

I visited Tunku whenever I could, sometimes to update him after returning from an interesting overseas assignment. (I once hand-delivered a Shan army commander’s walking stick to Tunku, a personal gift from the warlord Khun Sa. All Shan commanders carried these carved rattan canes into battle.)
His birthday open houses were also warm and touching affairs, as the guests’ children swarmed around him naturally, taking to the kind old man like ducklings to water. Tunku loved children.Once when a whole busload of primary school studentsdropped by, unannounced,to view the father of independence at close range, he personally called up the E&O Hotel and asked them to bring over cakes and refreshments for the children. (They obliged.)
In time, I became familiar enough to the security guards for them to wave me inside when I arrived. I would wait in the reception hall. It featured a tiger skin rug and sofa, and quite often the intimidating handlebar moustache of Owen Chung, Tunku’s aide-de-camp. Owen had a soft spot for Tunku, and told me how Tunku had obtained the best possible medical care for him after Owen had suffered a minor stroke.

Soon I would be invited to join Tunku in the living room. It became the venue for our many memorable chats. Casually but immaculately dressed, Tunku would fill the air with a lifetime of wisdom as well as smoke from his John Player slims.

For a journalist, talking to Tunku was a goldmine of information. He was astonishingly well-read and informed, with a particularly impressive grasp of history and world cultures. In our very first meeting, I explained at length the suffering of the Rohingyas in Burma and the growing refugee problem. Tunku seemed to have some knowledge of the issue already, and asked me to fill in the details.

“But I would regard the Rohingyas as Burmese, based on history. Wouldn’t you?” Tunku asked me. After all, they had been there in Arakan state for many generations, dating back centuries, and had their own kingdom at one stage. They may have genetic ties to the people of Bangladesh, but that should not make them strangers in their own land. “What is a race, anyway?” mused Tunku. “Look at the southern Thais. They may share some DNA with the Malays, but that makes them no less Thai, surely.”
Tunku was saddened by what I told him, and promised toorganiserelief efforts via the OIC. He had already done much to help Muslim refugees at the Cambodia-Thailand border who were the victims of the Khmer Rouge. Tunku, as the son of a Thai princess, had used his connection to the Thai kingdom to create a passageway for the refugees to come to Malaysia. Due to his efforts, about 10,000 Cambodian Muslims were given shelter in Malaysia in the 1970s.
Tunku, for his part, seemed interested in journalists and what we saw and thought. I recall visiting him on my return from covering the Aquino assassination in 1983. As usual, we had coffee and a long chat.When I told him I had just been in the Philippines, he told me of the arrogance of the then-president Ferdinand Marcos towards our Agong a few years before.

During a cruise stopover in Manila, our ambassador had arranged for a visit by the Agong to Malacanyang Palace. When the Agong’s limousine arrived at the palace gate, Marcos ordered the car to stop and the Agong had to walk up the driveway to the palace. Our ambassador was aghast and protested. Finally Marcos relented and a great insult to Malaysia was averted.

“Even then Marcos showed his arrogance,” said Tunku. “Instead of coming to the door to greet our Agong, he stood behind the desk and made the Agong walk up to greet him.

“This was too much,” Tunku said indignantly.

Just before that fateful first meeting in 1978, close to 40 years ago, I remember my mother being quite excited that I was going to meet the great man himself. She called me up later to find out how it went, and asked:
“So, what was he like?”
So, what was he like. My memories are still vivid enough. Tunku had an ability to make you feel completely at ease, and to open up. There was always jovial laughter, but also a warmth and sincerity about him that you could feel were truly genuine. He was humble, human, respectful; he never talked down to you or lectured you, which is not always the case for men who have held position and power.
It was easy for time to fly past in that living room in Ayer Rajah Road.

The Most Memorable Ride
I cannot to this day explain why Tunku would go out of his way to help a jobless eighteen-year-old Malay boy, a Chinese photojournalist without a passport, or the countlessother acts of kindness to others that marked his life.Many, I am sure, were never recorded but I hope at least they were not forgotten by the recipients of his compassion.

Tunku liked to explain this trait by relating the famous story of his mother, Che Menjelara, who claimed to be pregnant so that the Sultan would not punish the family of the Keeper of the Ruler’s Seal, as no harm could be done to others in a household expecting a child.When she eventually did become pregnant with Tunku, her compassion was passed on to him. “My complexion is dark because my mother told a white lie”, Tunku would chuckle.

He had no interest in material wealth, yet he enriched others with his gifts of empathy and compassion, his generosity and humility. Sometimes all you can do is count your blessings that your paths have somehow crossed.
On one occasion Tunku asked me how I had come to his house and how I planned to return to Tanjung Bungah. I told him I took a taxi and intended to walk to Pulau Tikus and take a bus back.

He said he could give me a lift to Pulau Tikus, since he went there most afternoons, to shop around in his favourite market.

In the car, his bodyguard Owen Chung sat in the front beside Samad. I sat proudly in the back beside Tunku as the limousine eased out of the driveway and cruised along the tree-lined Ayer Rajah Road, to Cantonment Road towards Pulau Tikus. That was the most memorable ride ever in my life.

 

Kim Gooi is a veteran photojournalist who has contributed to some of the world’s most renowned publications, including Time, National Geographic andthe New York Times, as well as American, European and Japanese TV networks. He now resides in his hometown of Penang, pursuing his interests in the blues, holistic health, and taiji. His book  “The Poet of Keng Tung Jail” is available from Gerakbudaya Penang; Gallery 1921 Kampung Kolam

 

Viva Indonesia

Indonesia is a beacon of democracy in the region – it is the biggest Muslim nation in the world and there are no shortage of religious fanatics. They have the best judiciary in Asean (have jailed ministers, big shots etc); their academics, media/tv, ngos/forums can discuss/write anything openly – no taboo on racial or sensitive issues.

Panchasila is the state ideology, Islam is not a state religion and anyone is free to worship any religion.

Gusdu(Abd Rahman Wahid) as president visited Israel despite giant protest from the Muslim. He says: As a poor student in Bagdad studying for his Islamic master degree he saw his Jewish benefactor lynched by muslim crowd cos they wanted to  confiscate his properties and kill him cos he is a Jew. He also said if we can’t protect our minority (Chinese) how can we called ourselves a great nation.

The Chinese enjoy more freedom, no bumiputra crap. The Army is neutral and Judiciary a shinny example of justice. I really don’t know…vis-a-vis Ahok (the besieged governor of Jakarta).

Indonesian Muslim population is the world’s biggest.

Let’s hope dirty politics fail and  good ulamas/ustazs and cool heads prevail. Malaysia is a disgrace in comparison, sounds shocking … right ? man!

Indo watcher, Tan Beng Chai, says: Ahok has literally made a clean sweep of Jakarta. The streets are free of beggars, very clean and free of garbage , the canals once very filthy are now clean with flowing waters. The workers are now enjoying minimum wage set by the Government and the administration is CLEAN with little or.no corruption from top down. President Jokowi and Ahok has transformed Indonesia and Jakarta. If you visit Jakarta now you will be amazed by the shopping malls, the hotels and the many resorts operated and owned by Indonesian Chinese Tycoons.

Despite massive violent protests by Muslim for insulting the Koran, the Christian governor still has a chance to retained his position says our expert Indo-watcher:                                             Chances of Ahok winning the Governorship of Jakarta is still very bright. The protesters that you saw gathering at Monash Jakarta are mostly the rural muslims who are not voters in Jakarta. They were paid for a sight seeing trip to Jakarta paid for by Ahok’s opponents. Almost 90 percent of the businesses in Jakarta are owned by Chinese towkays and they control a few million Indonesian workers (Jakarta has a population of 15 million including a few million Chinese.minority) They try to bring down Ahok using religion but Ahok’s supporters mostly Christians are campaigning very hard for him. In passing I would say that Ahok has been too arrogant.

From Indo-Watcher, Tan Beng Chai, on Jakarta governor Ahok – “Is he finished ?” I don’t think so. The election will be held on 15 Feb 2017, still time for Ahok to repair the damage he did it himself. Not all the protesters gathering at Monash were against Ahok moreover the protesters are not residents of Jakarta and cannot vote for Ahok’s opponents. On present count Ahok is having 60 percent support from the Chinese together with support from the Pribumi Catholics and Christians.Ahok has the tacit support of President Jokowi and has been working together to clean up Indonesia of Corruption and make Jakarta a livable city when Jokowi was Governor with Ahok was Deputy. Ahok is not finished yet.

Waiting For The Tunku

On page 3I8 of my book  “The Poet of Keng Tung Jail” you can read and see some exclusive stuff about the Tunku

 

 

 Epilogue

After my release and deportation from Burma, I went to see the Tunku to pass him the message from the Muslim leader in Insein Jail. The leader wanted the world to know about the atrocities and downright racism unleashed against the Rohingas by the Burmese military junta.

In one summer in 1978, 200,000 Rohingas from Arakan State fled across the border into Bangladesh to escape looting, killings and rape by the Burmese army.

Today, thirty-five years later, the situation had unbelievably worsened – with Buddhist monks instigating the attacks in what Burmese scholar, Maung Zarni, writing in his daily blog termed ’Burmese Buddhist Nazism and genocide’ against the Muslim minority.

Unlike the other chapters which were published in various magazines and newspapers, this has never been published before.

 

Many would vote Tunku Abdul Rahman as Malaysia’s most beloved prime minister because of his endearing ways. His wit, sharpness of mind, empathy and compassion for the common people were legendary.

But many of his admirers may not be aware of his colourful early career and his enduring connection with Thailand’s Muslim minority.

Much has been written about his political development and achievements. Robert McNamara, then-president of the World Bank, said in his opening address at the first Tun Abdul Razak Memorial lecture that he was envious of the Malaysians in the audience who had walked with the founding father of the nation, whereas he had to get to know the Tunku through the history books.

I was 10 years old in 1957 when the Tunku proclaimed independence from Britain and became the country’s first prime minister. I had the good fortune of meeting him several times in his later years. Watching him in action, listening to his wise words, I became one of his many admiring fans.

I first came face-to-face with the Tunku at his residence in Ayer Raja Road, Penang, in May 1978. He had long retired and hadnchosen Penang as his retirement home.

Why had he chosen Penang and not Kuala Lumpur? The people of Penang were honoured and happy that such a great man had chosen the island as his home. It was evident that he loved the island just as the islanders loved him.

It was about 10 in the morning. We were all waiting for the Tunku in the reception room cum office, staked with expensive souvenirs, trophies, walking sticks and memorabilia.

In a corner his Chinese secretary was pounding on a typewriter. Samad the driver and Owen Chung his ADC stood around chatting. I was seated beside a humble Malay lad of about 18. Facing us were three distinguished-looking men – two Chinese and an Indian Muslim. Obviously some rich tycoons, I thought.

As the Tunku came down the winding staircase, before I could stand up, the three big-shots went forward and greeted the old man with gusto. “Tunku Tunku! I just bought a 300-dollar shirt from Hong Kong for you. Can you play golf this Thursday? We’ve booked the golf course,” one of the Chinese said loudly.

Tunku, with hardly a glance, waved him aside. The second Chinese man cheerfully came forward and said, “Tunku, we’ve formed a Bumiputra company – 51 percent Malay and 49 percent Chinese. Can you sign for us? We got a piece of land in Balik Pulau, we want to develop into a holiday resort.”

Tunku retorted, “Where did the Malays get the money to form the company to do big business?”

The tycoon confessed, “Actually we put up the money for them.”

“I know the Malays have no money. You Chinese have the money but still I just can’t simply sign the application for you. You have to tell me who are these people, what is their background?” Tunku admonished.

“OK, OK! I’ll do that Tunku,” the guy said and quietly sat down. Then the Indian Muslim man happily announced that he had convinced a friend in Sungei Pattani to accept Islam.

Tunku nodded happily and asked him to sit down. He then came straight to the Malay lad and me and warmly shook our hands and attended to us, enquiring whether we had our coffee and how he could help us.

We said yes and thanked him for the coffee. The Malay boy and I felt 10 feet tall the way Tunku treated us in front of the three rich and powerful guests.

The Malay boy said he had left school after form three and could not find a job and his family were poor. Tunku told him if he was not fussy about manual work, he would get him a job with the JKR (Public Works Department) tending trees and parks, and promptly dictated a letter to the secretary.

Turning to me, he said, “You have a problem with your passport after deportation from Burma. Just yesterday the immigration director from KL was here to visit me. What a coincidence! He told me if I need any help don’t hesitate to tell him. I will give you a letter. You go to KL immigration and see him. You will get your passport back in no time.”

Two weeks earlier I had my first encounter with the Tunku and had spent several hours talking about the Burmese Rohinga refugees, while he tape-recorded it with a mini-tape recorder (very rare to see in 1978).

I was deported from Burma after a year in that country’s notorious jails. My crime was entering the country without a visa as a journalist. I was asked by the Muslim leader in the jail to see the Tunku when I got out and tell him all about their problems and persecution under the Burmese. [See story in Islamic Herald]

I wrote to Perkim, the Islamic Welfare Association founded by Tunku, and told them my situation and asked to see the Tunku as requested by the Muslim leader who was in jail with me. The reply was prompt and to my surprise they  requested permission to print my letter in the Islamic Herald. It was the beginning of my very fortunate and happy friendship with the Tunku.

My passport had been taken away by the government and I was told that I was under investigation because of the jail sentence. The passport could only be returned after I was cleared.

When? It could be years or never, I was told. I had two jobs waiting for me in Bangkok – with the Businese Times newspaper and as a reporter for the US news agency UPI at the 1978 Asian Games.

But without a passport I was unemployable. Tunku was my savior; as the former PM and father of the nation, he had the authority to clear my name. Without him, my career and future would have been greatly  jeopardised.

After these episodes I had many more encounters with the Tunku, each of them memorable, educational and an insight to his wisdom and humanity.

His birthday open houses were warm and touching affairs, with a generous spread of Malay food and other goodies. The Chinese families, around 60 per cent of those present, would surround him together with their little children, calling out: “Say happy birthday to Tunku!”

He loved children and the children swarmed around him naturally, taking to the kind old man like ducklings to water.

His visit to Bangkok in 1985 was another unforgettable event. By then my work had been going well and many of my articles were published in local and international media.

Tunku and his Perkim entourage came in Sarawak chief minister Taib Mahmud’s private jet. Taib was deputy president and Tunku’s right-hand man in Perkim. But there was no mention of the visit in the local press.

Tunku was very disappointed with Perkim’s press secretary (an Australian convert to Islam working for Perkim), said Tarmizi Hashim, the press attaché of the Malaysian embassy. Tarmizi rounded up the media. The next day the whole Bangkok press corp turned up to hear a beaming Tunku talk about Perkim’s important humanitarian work among Bangkok Muslims.

Tunku was a hit with the Thai reporters because he grew up in the Thai court of King Rama 6. To them, Tunku qualified as Thai royalty and the government honoured him with two police out-rider escorts whenever he comes to the kingdom.

He and his elder brother were “hostages” in the court as Kedah was still a vassal state of Siam at the turn of the century. He came back to Kedah in his early teens and studied at the Penang Free School. His elder brother stayed in Thailand and became a Major General in the Royal Thai Army.

“My brother died and was buried in a Bangkok Muslim cemetery,” the Tunku said. “When I became PM in 1957, the first thing I did was an official visit to Bangkok.”

“After being conferred the highest decoration, I went to the Muslim cemetery and exhumed my brother’s remains and brought them back to Kedah for reburial in my family’s cemetery. I am the only Muslim in the world who has done that,” Tunku said with a chuckle.

A Thai reporter asked Tunku whether he could still speak Thai. Tunku said that in Kedah, Thai spoken is differently from that spoken in Bangkok. Like “Tham Pleu, Tham Plue” means “What to do, what to do!

The next day it was front-page in all the dailies: “Tunku speaks fluent Thai,” together with the comment that Tunku also pointed out Malaysian journalist Kim Gooi who was jailed in Burma whom he knows.

Bangkok, 27 Jul 1985: – Tunku, wearing hat on left, with the descendants of Kedahans in Nongchok, outskirt of Bangkok

The Tunku with the people of Nongchok, Bangkok 27 Jul 1985

The Tunku addressing the people of Nongchok, with him is Tan Sri Taib Mahmud

The Tunku pointed out that the residents of the big Muslim community of Nongchok on Bangkok’s outskirts were descendants of Kedah slaves captured and brought to Bangkok to build the canals in the last century. That’s why all the mosques and many Muslim community are along the canals.

These were his people captured as slaves and brought from Kedah to dig the canals. Tunku never forgets them, they were close to his heart. Thank God, they survived and living well as the land where many settled has become valuable now, he commented.

Tunku also remembered he complained to the Thai government during the official visit that there was no central mosque in Bangkok despite the substantial number of Muslims. The result was the big mosque we see today at Hua Mak district of Bangkok, he said proudly.

In December 1985 Malaysian press attaché Tamizi arranged a meeting for me to meet opium king Khun Sa at his stronghold on the Thai-Burmese border. (5-part-story printed in NST Jan 27-Jan 31,1986). The guide and escort was a Chinese Muslim ex-general of the Kuomintang Army, Ma Sian.

Ma was an admirer of the Tunku and I suggested to him to present the Shan army commanders’ walking stick to Tunku. It is a beautiful rattan cane as thick as a toe with a curve handle. All the commanders carry one into battle and Khun Sa carried one whenever he inspected his troops.

The cane was duly delivered to the embassy. After a few months Tamizi told me that the embassy could not send it to Tunku because it is not proper coming from Khun Sa, the opium warlord of the Golden Triangle. You have to take it and deliver it to him yourself, they told me.

I presented the cane to him in 1987 and said it was from the Shan people. By coincidence I was told by Colonel Khern Sai of the Shan State Army that the Tunku’s mother was actually a Shan princess. This was not too surprising, considering that the Shan and Thai are branches of the same family of people.

As usual we had coffee and a long chat. When I told him I had been to the Philippines to cover the Aquino assassination, he told me of the arrogance and offences committed by then-president Ferdinand Marcos against our Agong (Malaysian King) a few years ago. Our Agong, after retirement went for a round-the-world cruise.

During a stopover in Manila, our ambassador arranged for a visit to Malacanyang Palace. When the Agong’s limousine arrived at the palace gate, Marcos ordered the car to stop and the Agong had to walk up the driveway to the palace. Our ambassador was aghast and protested. Finally Marcos relented and a great insult to Malaysia was averted.

“Even then Marcos showed his arrogance,” said Tunku. “Instead of coming to the door to greet our Agong. He stood behind the desk and made the Agong walked up to greet him.

“This was too much,” Tunku said indignantly.

In 1986, Marcos had to flee the Philippines and died in exile in Hawaii three years later.

For a journalist, talking to the Tunku was a goldmine of information. I was privy to many exclusive bits of information.

On one occasion the Tunku asked me how I had come to his house and how I planned to return to Tanjung Bungah. I told him I took a taxi and intended to walk to Pulau Tikus and take a bus back.

He said he could give me a lift to Pulau Tikus since he went there most afternoons, to his favorite market to shop around.

In the car, his bodyguard Owen Chung was in the front beside Samad. I sat proudly in the back sitting beside the Tunku as the limousine eased out of the driveway and cruised along the tree-lined Ayer Raja Road, to Cantonment Road towards Pulau Tikus. That was the most memorable ride ever in my life.

Flowers for Datok Kong

On page I60 of my book you can  read :

 

‘Flowers For Datok Kong’

UNITY WITH THE SPIRIT WORLD

 

 Datok’s birthday: Flower and Kenduri

                                   UNITY WITH THE SPIRIT WORLD

More than a century ago, J.D. Vaughan was Superintendent of Penang Police from 1851 till 1856. In his book  ‘The Manners and Customs of the Chinese of the Straits Settlements’, he wrote: “The Chinese people, nooks, corner of roads, trees, rocks and sundry other places with fays and fairies and goblins damned innumerable, and do them worship to propitiate them. Incense sticks, slip of paper, tinsel ornaments and other ‘gew gaws’ may be seen at the most out of the way spots showing that the inhabitants of the neighborhood have discovered an evil spirit there-abouts.”

Vaughan may be excused for his unflattering remarks, for like many colonial officials and westerners, they do not take the intangible seriously, unlike the inhabitants of Asia who experience the spirit world as indeed real.

The apparent Chinese indifference towards religious issues has often been seized upon by Westerners as an unerring mark of their want of spiritual profundity and sophistication.

If Vaughan were to look deeper, he would discover that Chinese mind is also practical and unpretentious and capable of the most abstruse speculation. In both philosophy and religion, what it seeks to do is to interpret life in terms of a monistic principle which will enable them to establish a unity between this worldly and other-worldly existence, between human self and nature, and between the material and the spiritual world.

What Vaughan described over a hundred years ago is still very much alive in Penang today. If he were to probe a little he would discover that the ‘shrines innumerable’ were for the worship of Datok (Keramat), the local deity or guardian spirit of the land (not goblins or evil spirits). It is indeed ‘damned innumerable’, occupying sundry other places, nooks and corners, trees and rocks all over the island. The worship of Datok Kong (in Hokkien) is peculiar to Penang, as nowhere else does it occur in such a scale and intensity.

                               Nasi Kunyit Kenduri feast for all and sundry

Every Thursday night (Malam Jumaat, beginning of the Muslim Sabbath) worshippers light up the shrines with incenses, and offerings. Partaking of pork is taboo among the strict devotees.

Recently I chanced upon a grand celebration of a Datok Kong in the mixed working/middle class suburb of Reservoir Garden, close to the hills of Ayer Itam. It was the birthday of Datok Ayer Puteh. It falls on the 6th of the 6th lunar month. Celebrations began on the 5th and went on for 3 days. In a small field a shed was erected to house the altar and paraphernalia, which had been brought down from the shrine at the foot of the hill about 2 km away. There were a white haji cap, a small Kris, seven colour flags, and offerings of flowers, betelnut and sireh, green coconuts, rokok daun(tobacco/palm leaves), Malay sweets and cakes like dodol, betir, kueh kerai and ketupat.

Uncle Tan, a sinewy old man of 75 brightened up when I approached him for some background history. “There are all together seven Datoks,” he enthused. “They are seven brothers, famous warriors of old.” The oldest is Datok Kuning, alias Pengulu Pulau Kechil; followed by Datok Panglima Hitam, Datok Puteh, Datok Merah, Datok Hijau, Datok Kechil and Datok Bisu, he rattled off as if the spirits were right there  in person. Other names that might crop up are Datok Musa, Datok Batu Acheh and Datok Ali, he added matter-of-factly.

I asked Uncle Tan are they really famous warriors before and how they came to be deified and worshiped with such reverence? Uncle Tan looked at me aghast as if saying, what dumb head!

“These Datoks, Panglima Hitam, Datok Puteh, Datok Merah, Datok Hijau, Datok Kechil and Datok Bisu, are very important and control the locality, if you pay respect and appease them, they can help you and solve your problems. If you violate and offend them like simply chopping down any trees or leveling the hills, misfortune will befall you. “

“Don’t you know so many bulldozers have overturned and accidents occurred to these violators,” Uncle Tan added, looking at me disappointingly.

Earlier on the Datok had come down from the hill shrine in a grand procession, preceded by flags and banners beating of drums and wailing Java pipes from the Menora troop. Datok Ayer Puteh came in the form of a medium in a trance. The medium wearing a sarong had very dark complexion, he was bare-chested and had a white sash across his shoulder. He weaved and danced with silat movements ceaselessly as the procession pass the housing estates.

The procession ended at the shed in the field. Opposite the shed stood an open stage for the Menora performance from the Penang Siamese Community.

Many years ago, the committee made a mistake by engaging a Chinese opera for the celebration. That night there was a thunderstorm and the stage was blown away. “The Datok was angry because he could not understand Chinese opera. We can stage Menora or Ronggeng dance for the Datok,” said Uncle Aw (uncle Blackie, a popular name among the peranakan Hokkiens), 71, who has been a medium for 60 years.

On the second day, which is the birthday, a kenduri was held in the afternoon. The shed was filled with pots of nasi kunyit, curry chicken, and all kinds of fruits. Before the food were distributed Uncle Aw went into a trance. The Datok blessed the large crowd with holy water as each came forward kneeling reverently. To those seeking a cure for sickness, he gave pinang and sireh to chew.

On the third night, an air of expectancy pervaded as a large crowd of devotees gathered. The Menora had ended and the troupe were entertaining the crowd with Thai songs and ramvong (folk dance) as a large crowd gathered waiting for the propitious hour. At 11 pm. Uncle Aw sat in front of the altar and went into trance, waving and swaying amidst thick incense (kamenyan) smoke; a cacophony of throbbing drums, clashing cymbals and gongs, and wailing java pipes (serunai).

The Datok swayed and silat-danced as the procession proceeded with groups of kids holding flags and a huge “Datok  Ayer Puteh” banner leading the way. A large crowd followed with joss sticks, incense urns, and all the paraphernalia of the Datok. Thick white incense smoke lifted through the dark night, the percussion and pipes intensified, the Datok swayed and danced with exuberance with each new step as the parade wound through the middle-class housing estate. Residents came out to watch and pray along the dimly lit streets.

Arriving at the shrine at the foot of the hill, the Datok. leaped into the shrine, the size of a small room, silat danced with renewed intensity while the drums, percussion and pipes reached a crescendo. The Datok sat down on the floor and slammed his hands on the cement floor, all was quiet – he spoke: “Datok banyak suka, semua orang sukahati, makanan pun chukup; Datok minta Tuhan kasi semua orang selamat. Sila chakap sama semua orang. [Datok is very happy, everybody is enjoying, the food is plenty; I will ask God to bless you all! Please tell everyone.] The message was translated into Hokkien as the crowd clapped and cheered.

“Datok minta empat ekor,” (give us the lottery numbers) someone shouted. Speaking all the time in Malay he said, “Wait, we have to pray to God first” (sembayang Tuhan dulu), he reprimanded. “Please bring the papers.” A piece of white paper and a pen were brought forward. “I mean joss paper for praying,” he scolded in a loud angry voice.

When the ‘gold’ joss papers were brought in, he scribbled three words in Jawi on the back and asked the people to bring it outside as gold offering to Tuhan (God). And then the people worshipped and prayed and the ‘gold’ papers were burnt as he instructed.

This done, the Datok said: “Now bring the paper. On the white piece of paper, which was eagerly brought forward, he wrote a four-digit number, which was pasted outside the shrine for the eager crowd to bet on race day.

The Datok asked for anyone with problems to come forward. A man asked whether he would be successful in his new business. The Datok took his hands and examined his palm and inquired:

“Do you pray to God? The man confessed that he was so busy he has forgotten to pray. The Datok reprimanded him and ordered that he pray regularly. Then he would be all right, and be careful of the shoulders and the back of the head; don’t let anyone hit you in those areas, he advised.

Another asked whether he would be okay if he proceeds to Singapore for work. The Datok took his hands and said: “Boleh, hang boleh pi tapi tak ’boleh lama. Hang mesti balek sini sebab bini dan keluarga ada sini, hang mesti balek sini.” (You can go but not for long, because your wife and family are here. You must come back)

The consultation over, the medium swayed, gave a jerk and sprang backwards into the arms of a devotee. For a few minutes he lay still. Some water were sprinkled on his face, a guy tapped him on his chest, the medium awoke as if from a long sleep.

It seemed like a current was being switched off, and we were back to the mundane world. Slowly everyone trooped back home in groups… seemingly happy that they had found unity with the spirit world

Naoki Mabuchi

Naoki Mabuchi – a journalist who came in from the cold

 Book by Kim Gooi : 

On Page 201, Naoki Mabuchi the man who gave his heart and soul to                                                                                      Cambodia

Naoki Mabuchi: May 8, 1944 – Oct 29, 2011                           Photo by Claes Bratt

 

Letter of condolence from King-Father Sihanouk to Sayhong Mabuchi  :-

[1st published in Dateline Bangkok, 1st quarter 1984; 2nd publication in the Bangkok World, Tuesday October 23, 1984]

[Author’s note: Hollywood’s ‘Killing field’ was based on this episode of Khmer history, however, Naoki who was there in the French Embassy says Sydney Shamberg and Jon Swain were not what they were in the film. They were most hostile to him, for venturing out to talk to the Khmer Rouge soldiers; and it was not true that they tried to make a photograph of Dith Pran from make-shift dark-room. Dith Pran already had a photograph, but the transfer of the photo to replace that of Swain was so badly done that they abandoned the attempt to trick the Khmer Rouge authorities, Naoki said. Only Al Rockoff remains his close friend till today.]

                                                                     

Bangkok circa 1980 – (L-R) : KimGooi; Naoki Mabuchi (ABC News cameraman); Ing K (author, documentary and movie director/producer); John Hail (UPI bureau chief, Dpa editor); the late Sanee Mongkol (ABC News sound engineer) – photo by Sayhong Mabuchi

 

As a journalist, Naoki Mabuchi has seen quite a bit of actions and the world. Perhaps he has seen that much to have been affected and drawn into its quagmire and finds it hard to leave.

He was wounded twice on the battle field. One of the only two movie cameramen to document the triumphant entry of the Khmer Rouge into Phnom Penh in April 1975, he was among the last of the foreigners to leave Kampuchea, escorted out by the Khmer Rouge through Aranyaprathet.

He was the only Asian journalist among a score of foreign newsmen taking refuge inside the French Embassy in Phnom Penh in April 1975. He became well known, at least in Japan, for his rare coverage of news in Kampuchea.

While in the French Embassy in Phnom Penh, Naoki was accused by many western journalists of being a member of the Japanese Red Army because he dared to venture out into the city daily to talk to the Khmer Rouge soldiers and the people.

“I was shocked by the accusation by such prominent journalists; [among them Sydney Shamberg of New York Times and British journalist Jon Swain] just because I did not cower in fear like them, thinking that the Khmer Rouge soldiers would kill me, they (the journalists) would not accept me as normal. I must be a Red Army member,” says Naoki.

“The truth is that not even one journalist or foreigner was harmed at all though there were many among them who were CIA people.” Naoki says the journalists even confiscated his camera in the embassy, which was another shock to him.

Naoki tried to stay behind with his Khmer wife, Sayhong, to cover the Kampuchean revolution. He was told by the authorities that he had to leave. they had no time to take care of foreign guests.

“I asked them how long it would take to rebuild the country. They told me one year. In April 1976, one year later, I ventured into Poipet and was arrested and detained by the Khmer Rouge for eight days.”

During the detention, stories were written that Naoki was tortured and that his head was shaven bald. All the stories were untrue. A local newspaper in Bangkok also accused him of being a Red Army member.

“When I was released I said that I saw no killing and the countryside around Poipet was peaceful. I was fed properly and after eight days I even got fatter. I saw people working peacefully in the fields. This is not what the newsmen or journalists wanted to hear, so they accused me of being a Red Army member.”

Through all these experiences, Naoki feels very strongly that the Kampuchean story has been greatly distorted and exaggerated due to prejudice and hypocrisy on the part of many journalists.

“When I was detained in Poipet, the authorities understood my reason for coming to Kampuchea and forwarded my request to Phnom Penh but the government said no; not this time, I should come through the proper diplomatic channel,” says Naoki.

At the beginning 0f 1979, Naoki went to Aranyaprathet to cover the Vietnamese invasion of Kampuchea. Since then he has never been far from the actions, small and big.

Recalls Naoki, “I was there right from the beginning. The Khmer people were there right along the border in early 1979. They were not in good shape. I crossed the border to talk to them and persuaded them to bring the sick across the border to the International Red Cross and aid agencies in Thailand. Eventually they trusted me and understood my intentions. I was able to communicate with them and there were good mutual feelings.”

From June 1979 Naoki started working for ABC News as their resident cameraman in Thailand. the highlight: Covering the Vietnamese incursion at Non Mak Moon in July 1980, Naoki was right in the front amid the exploding bombs and shells.

Thai-Kampuchean border circa 1980: Surveying No-man’s Land amidst refugees, warlords and anti Vietnamese resistance forces (L – R) Freelance American journalist Gary Ferguson; author Kim Gooi; ABC News cameraman Naoki Mabuchi – Photo by John Hail

He was the one who filmed the dramatic downing of a Thai helicopter gunship and an L19 spotter plane by Vietnamese gunners.

Naoki interviewed Pol Pot in December 1979 after his resignation as prime minister of the Democratic Kampuchea government. he is one of the few newsmen who had talked to all the top leaders of the Khmer Rouge.

Naoki today remains thoroughly committed to the Khmer people and their aspirations. he has been inside Kampuchea many times, coordinating non-governmental aid to the three factions of the anti-Vietnamese coalition forces.

Last year he spent ten weeks trekking with Khmer Rouge forces to Tonle Sap region. His rare footage of the trip has been widely sought by research scholars studying the Kampuchean conflict.

Says Naoki, “There is no greater fear in life than fear of your own mind or imagination.” Naoki has traveled three times round the world working as a still photographer and writer.

Sick and near starvation Khmer Refugees streamed across the Thai border a year after the Vietnamese invasion – photo by Kim gooi

Of his trips and experiences he says, “I found in Asia, people are lively and living vividly although there is chaos. Europe on the other hand is dead; and America is fake, like Las Vegas…castle on sand.”

                    Mabuchi with Bangkok friends Dec 2007 Photo by John Hail

Postscript: 8 June 2012

Mabuchi’s ten-week-long foray into the Vietnamese-controlled Tonle Sap region with the Khmer Rouge in 1983 was thought to be a sensational scoop at the time, but it caused him chronic hepatitis, which complicated his health from then on. More danger was to follow.

While making a documentary on the Vietnamese-Cambodian border, the Vietnamese hotel the crew were staying burnt down, killing a dozen guests including one of Mabuchi’s Japanese crew. Mabuchi said he survived because he crawled on all fours, nostrils just above the floor like a ‘Ninja’, because that is where the oxygen layers lie. Despite that his lungs were badly damaged and he lost his voice for weeks. He spoke with a rasp the rest of his life.

– Shortly after the fire, colleagues John Hail, Ing K and I visited Naoki at Bangkok’s Samitthevit hospital. He had just been flown in from Ho Chi Minh City and was barely alive. He was hooked up with tubes and beeping breathing apparatus. He couldn’t talk, but wrote notes to us and clearly retained his optimism and his will to live.

In September 2006 he published his long-awaited book in Tokyo. The title, loosely translated from the Japanese: “Pol Pot – I Saw the Life Running Through the Killing Fields”.

His later years were beset with health problems mainly as a result of his injuries, complicated by kidney failure, diabetes and failing eyesight.

With his energy waning, Mabuchi spent a lot of time in his final year at his mother’s house in Tokyo, researching Khmer history and culture and its relationship with Japan. In between he visited used book shops in Tokyo assisted by his daughter, Nungruthai Hirona, from his second marriage to his Khmer-Thai wife, Ell.

His body was found in a hot bathtub at his favourite public spa near the family home in Tokyo.

Mabuchi is survived by his daughter Wattana (named after the town of Wattana Nakorn near the Thai-Cambodian border) from his first marriage to Chinese-Khmer, Sayhong, who was with him in Phnom Penh’s French Embassy in 1975.

From his second marriage: son Donniie Kumemaro and daughter Nungruthai Hirona. They and their mum Ell live in Bangkok.

On May 8, 2012, Mabuchi’s ashes were brought from Tokyo to Tonle Sap and scattered into the placid waters. About 30 family members and close friends attended , among them Sayhong and legendary photographer Al Rockoff.

“After the scattering the ashes, the sky suddenly turned dark and all hell broke loose,” said Jo Oshihara, Mabuchi’s close buddy from Tokyo. “The wind began howling and a thunder storm ensued. We dashed into fishing village to take shelter. It’s like the heavens were expressing the great grief of our farewell.”

Tonle Sap, 8 May 2012 – Al Rockoff a buddy to the last: ‘ Man, you ain’t see nothing till you lost the best friend you had!’ Photo by Keiko Kitamura

Penang”s urban poor

A Tale Of Two Women, on page 134, is about Penang’s urban poor facing evictions because of the repel of the rent control act in 2000. As a desperate last resort a delegation led by Ong Boon Keong petitioned UNESCO’s supremo Richard Engelhardt who would decide on George Town’s world heritage  status, but alas to no avail                                                        Cheah Siew Chee, 80

A Tale of Two Women was first published in The Nation (Bangkok) on Apr 10, 2000; Malaysiankini on Apr 12, 2000; and Star daily (Malay- sia) on July 20 in 2000.

 

Grandmas Cheah Siew Chee, 80, and Ameena Amnal, 70, have a lot in common although they originally come from different parts of the world. One is from Hui Ann, China’s Fujian province and the other from Satang Kolong, Madras, India.

They have not been back to their native villages which they left more than half a century ago. Both came to Penang to join their husbands when they were young.

Now at the autumn of their life, they are largely forgotten – living in squalor in the inner city of George Town. Despite their age and poverty, both grandmas are healthy and cheerful – a reminder to many modern-day city folks the many virtue of hard labour and a frugal life.

Beneath their humble appearance lies the strength of human spirits and courage. “I worked in construction sites all my life since I arrived, until my legs were no longer able to bear the heavy load,” said Cheah cheerfully.

She was forced to retire five years ago at the age of 74, when she fell and broke a leg while clearing debris at a construction site in Macalister Road. The women of Hui Ann, Fujian Province, used to be a familiar sight in the country. Known for their colourful dress, tenacity and hard work, they were ubiquitous in the construction sites decked out in their distinguished red headdress and coarse blue cotton samfoo.

In the days when machinery was few and giant cranes unheard off, building materials and earth were moved by hands. Hui Ann women mostly did this heavy work – shuffling earth and heavy loads on their shoulders they toiled ceaselessly. It would be unimaginable for the building industries to be without them. Today few remember them.

We hear success stories of immigrants stepping ashore from crowded hold of junks and steamers with nothing and becoming rich overnight. The late tycoon, Datuk Loh Boon Siew came from Hui Ann and started life in his adopted country as a lowly coolie. How he rose to be one of the richest men in Malaysia is well documented.

Grandma Cheah embodies the long-suffering woman from a period when prejudice was still strong, and women’s rights unheard of. Half a century ago, she boarded a junk and sailed to Malaya to join her husband in Penang. Cheah said she was 32 when she arrived. She was married at the age of 16 into the Koay clan. Three months after the wedding her husband came to Malaya and she was left behind in China to take care of her blind father-in-law.

“I was abandoned and left with my in-laws. I didn’t see my husband again until 16 years later when I came to join him in Penang.”

For today’s modern women, it must be unthinkable, how she endured the lonely years living with her in-laws in feudal China. In Penang reunited after the long lapse, the couple stayed in a former horse stable in Noordin Street paying a monthly rental of RM13.50. Since the repeal of the rent control in 2000, the rental has increased to RM62.

The leaking roof is patched with wooden boards. The mews have 12 tiny cubicles on the ground floor and 12 on the top floor. There is no bathroom and the two broken down toilets are shared by 24 households.

The common passageway is where they cook and take their bath (wearing sarongs) from taps fixed by the residents. There is no water supply, the residents had to construct the water pipes themselves, she said.

She worked at construction sites for RM5 a day until 74, an age when many of us would have gone to meet our maker. Her husband died a year ago, aged 82. Her only son who is a daily-paid labourer has moved out to a low-cost flat with his wife, leaving their two sons aged 9 and 7 in her care.

Last month on International Women’s Day, Cheah was honoured by the Malaysian Local Democracy Initiative (Melodi), a human rights NGO, as the unsung hero of the country. She was given the Penang Builder Award, which reads “In recognition of women’s contributions to the country who was neglected by society.”

Perhaps her biggest triumph is her abundant human spirit and cheerful bearing which has seen her through thick and thin. “It is an inspiration to all who have seen her,” says a young neighbour.

She says the Koay clan’s ancestors (of her late husband) were Muslims. “That’s why when we die, we cannot take pork anymore,” (meaning they cannot use pork to pray to their ancestors). Another surprise, like Muslim village doors in rural China, the door of her cubicle is painted green, the only one in Noordin Street.

A Tale Of Two Womwn Part II

                                                             Ameena Amnal, 70

If not for the fact that the house [she is staying in with her extended family] could collapse and in all likelihood bury some of them, no one could have known that Ameenal Amnal, 70, exists at all. Muda Lane is a short, narrow street of pre-war residential shop houses in a mixed neighbourhood of Chinese, Tamil and Muslim families.

There is a toddy shop, Chinese kongsi (clan) house, and Muslim shops. Ameenal’s dwelling is conspicuous for the facade of the upper floor is broken and patched by decaying boards. It is quite a shock to step into the house. The top floor has collapsed completely, corrugated sheets have replaced the roof and large cracks appeared on the walls.

Ameenal says the house has been in this condition for more than 10 years. First the roof collapsed and the family could not afford the RM2,000 to replace it with asbestos sheets. Then the floorboards of the first floor and staircase came crashing down.

The family lived in three cubicles of plywood and plastic sheets on the ground floor. One cubicle is occupied by her married daughter and her husband, one by her 12-year-old granddaughter, (according to Muslim custom) while she sleeps in the third with the two unmarried sons and the 11-month-old grandson. Another son sleeps on a plank board outside her cubicle.

Blue plastic sheets on the top floor and the cubicle keep the rain and falling debris away. Initially she paid RM70.40 rental monthly, but over the past 20 years the rent was raised and stood at RM112 last year. Beginning this year (2000), the rent was raised to RM900 despite the fact that the place is not fit for human habitation. She says the landlord has given her until April to pay up or face eviction. The family cannot afford it as all the working sons and daughters are earning less than RM500 each.

has been staying in the house since she came from India 45 years ago and the house has deteriorated year by year. She was married at 20 and soon after her husband left for Penang to work as a stevedore (dock labourer). Five years later, the husband came back to India and brought her to Penang. Her husband died 20 years ago and she has not been back to India at all.

Since her arrival from India she has been working as a domestic help in an Indian restaurant. She cleans the house, serves food and does all menial work without a break until five years ago when age has caught up with her. She earns RM250 a month, she says.

Dressed in her colourful sari and shawls, she cuddles and carries her 11-month-old grandson everywhere she goes despite her advanced years. Still robust and healthy and surrounded by her extended family, the smiling Ameenal is unperturbed about her housing problem, come April when she faces eviction. “I hope government will give us a low-cost flat in River Road where we only pay RM100 per month,” she says cheerfully.

Author’s note: two years later, the roof of Ameenal’s house collapsed killing her grandson. Ong Boon Keong, head of SOS (Save Our Selves) called a press conference to highlight the plight of the poor and the author’s story. This was reported in the Kwong Hwa Chinese Daily: February 21, 2002

Champion of the urban poor, Ong Boon Keong, with the inner city’s residents facing eviction, handing a petition to Unesco’s Richard Engelhardt –  George Town, 21  April 2002