Written in Response to Kugan’s Death in Police Custody 2009

It is an open secret that torture has a place in soliciting information from suspects. To those of us who had never experienced what it is like being a guest in the interrogation chamber, we can only imagine the horrors that await there. Kugan’s death revealed the truth to the public of the extent to which information extraction process could go. This must stop! There must be some other means, more humane, more professional manner of intelligence. The end must never justify the means.

The late Kugan was not yet proven guilty; we cannot and should not label him a criminal. He was not a hero either. Neither was he a martyr. What he was, he was a victim, of fate, of circumstances, of overzealousness. Let us not idolize him, not for the life he chose to live, not for the way he had to die. But let us remember him for what he brought to the fore.

His family’s loss taught us of the needs to be deferential of others despite their callings. His passing had reminded us that the law of the jungle has no place in this society. He left us with an overwhelming desire for forbearance, for respect, for faith, for trust, for peace.

So let him rest in peace. Let those suspected of causing his untimely demise answer for their deeds. Let us persevere to rid this country of pestilence, bigotry and intolerance.

Note: Sent as a response to Malay Mail Online wrt the topic on 05032009.

Colours and Me

I read one of my friends' Facebook entry last night about whether a person is just single-coloured or multi-colored. Personality-wise I think, not the chameleon-type skin colour mind you. Although I have never thought of myself as being a very colour-coordinated person, as a matter of fact my choice for colour is lousy, they do mean certain things and carry certain messages. These are two poems that I wrote during my Maktab days. See if you can tell what the colours mean.


THE LIVING COLOURS

The concept : Torquise on red
And red on maroon
The feature’s divine.
I see green all systems go
No amber light, no holds barred
I am coming for you
Ready or not.
The concept : Deeper red on red
Red on blue.


Lambert
(27/07/1990)



LIVING COLOURS II

Pretty in pink
And back in black
Sugar-laced purple cloak
White doves flew overhead.

Back in black
Pink shaded by blue tint
Red heat and a twist of green
A final gurgle in the toilet sink.

Lambert
(15/05/1991)

An Act of Revenge

Seven years ago she hurt me. Her dumping me after our three and a half years relationship caused me emotional traumas. How could a person, after making countless promises, whispering millions of sweet-nothings, do such a thing? My whole existence became dreary drags that I had to suffer through. My self-esteem was deflated, dwindling to near nothing. All my dreams were shattered. My life was ruined.

After our final telephone conversation, I suffered the pain of separation in silence. Pieces of the telephone set strewn all over the floor, after I threw it against the wall in my initial rage of the news, were witness to my loss. They saw me crumpled like a piece of soiled serviette. No tears came. I was too shocked to cry. I sat on the floor; my back against the wall, staring into the nothingness which my life would be without her.

I pent the pain inside me for a long time. I tried my best to hide the fact from my family and friends. Being good people they were, most of them noticed that something had gone wrong for me. Perhaps my brooding, my senseless shying away from them, and the broken telephone set gave me away. A few of them approached to coax the reason out of me. However, I am a man with many excuses; I blamed the unfavourable weather, the poor performance of the stock market, and even my poor, innocent students at my school. I made a lot of things, a lot of people scapegoats to avoid detection. Eventually, the questioning ceased. Those good people around me, very likely suspected a worse cause as the reason for my evident transformation, understood that I wished to be left alone. Still, I suffered in silence.

After a three and a half year relationship, a lot of her stuffs were in my keeping; mementos from places we visited, photographs snapped at those locations, books we loved to read together, a jacket and clothing items left behind from her long gone visits, and of course those intimate letters from her. Perhaps out of my attempt to breathe life into the dead ember of our union I kept those things where they were; on the window sill, draped over the lazy chair, scattered on my study desk, in the cupboard, and under my pillow. Perhaps she would return to me and finding those items as when they were left would help us proceed as if the break-up never happened.

I contemplated going over to her place and having things out with her. It never took place. The distance was too great. She was living three states away and with her parents. In my need to assuage my pain, I thought of sending goons over to bang her around a bit, break her leg, hang her. They never occurred. I am a law-abiding citizen and whatever was the reason she did what she did, it wasn’t excuse enough to maim her.

I needed a way to vent all that was bottled-up inside. There were people around me who cared about me and needed my reciprocating the attention. I had pushed them aside while mulling over my loss. I made up my mind. I would have my revenge and do away with her forever. My revenge would take the form of removing all evidence of her existence. Erasing her from my memory would be justice enough for her evil deed. Wiping her off the plane of reality would serve me a new lease of life. I loved her too much to be physically abusive.

Eight months after the fact, I put aside all her things. I arranged the photographs in an album, wrapped the dolls and small trinkets with tissue papers, washed, dried and neatly folded her jackets and dresses, wiped dust off the book covers and read and re-read her letter. I put all her things inside a cardboard carton.

I brought the box to my backyard. As I poured a liter of diesel liberally over and inside it, images of what could have been between the two of us swirled in my mind eyes. Striking a match reminded me of the candles on her birthday cake we celebrated together at this very spot and countless other intimate moments we shared. Touching the flame to the diesel soaked box of memories, I said a silent prayer, wishing safe journeys for us, former companions, on our now separate paths of life.

Note: Another sappy stuff from my university days. A piece of creative writing it is, but fictional it is not! Enjoy!

Satu Pemerhatian Dari Sudut Kiri Kafetaria

Aku perhatikan lenggok langkahmu, gemalai, aturan kiri kanan tersusun rapi. Baju kurung, sutera di mataku, dengan lorekan warna kuning, merah jambu dan biru laut terlalu cocok dengan perawakan timurmu. Tiga butiran mutiara berkait, berayun di hujung tabir tudung litup. Ayu.

Orangmu langsing, bertubuh datar, lekuk pinggangmu bagaikan surihan biola. Termanggu aku, longgar lututku, seperti sendi mekanikal yang tercabut skrunya.

Wajah bujur sirih, bibir merekah merah delima, tampak anggun bila ditarik hujung-hujungnya oleh senyuman. Sepasang butiran mata galak, bebolanya hitam pekat, kerdipan bintangpun tidak seseri kilasan jelinganmu. Dua garisan kening lentik bercantum dengan jambatan hidung. Tanda lahir penyeri muka tertitik di pipi.

Dudukmu duduk puteri. Sopan santun ketimuran. Aku perhatikan jemari runcing halusmu menyuap santapan. Perlahan-lahan kau temukan geraham atas dan bawahmu menghancurkan juadah dan aku bayangkan rengkungmu membayang apabila kau menelan.

Padaku kau sempurna.

Aku lihat jua tutur bualmu dengan teman sebelahan. Tata bicara yang aku kurang periksa biji-butirannya. Namun begitu pada tanggapanku, melalui gaya mimik muka bersahaja, juihan bibirmu dan tunduk kepalamu kepada komentar jiran itu, bincanganmu adalah berkisar kepada hal-hal kehatian ataupun mungkin ia sedang bercerita tentang sorotanku ini. Biarkanlah.

Konsentrasiku dibunuh. “Mat, beri api.”

Abang senior minta api rokok. Aku nyalakan sumber inspirasi dan sumber karsinorgennya. Baru aku sedar yang nasi di pingganku telah kedinginan, tangan kananku berkerak dengan sisa-sisa dan ais di dalam gelas Nescafe ‘O’ Beng aku telah habis cair, mentawarkan minuman kegemaranku itu. Detik waktu terhenti dalam aku menelaahmu. Aku geleng kepala.

Dari jarak 17 kaki yang memisahkan kita, aku lihatkau bangun menuju ke sinki mencuci tangan, kembali ke meja menjemput rakan setiamu. Berangkatlah kamu kembali ke istana diiringi dayang-dayang. Lenggok-langkahmu tetap gemalai, tarian kaki kiri-kananmu tetap teratur, wajahmu tetap sempurna.

Aku puji tuhan kerana mencipta makhluk sepertimu, bidadari dunia bagiku, mampu membunuh waktuku untuk memujamu.

Kau tetap sempurna.

x.x.1990

This was written when I was in the 1st sem of my Maktab days as an exercise of descriptive writing in BM. Though meant as an exercise, the event was real and the characters were non-fictional.

Most probably a BM teacher would butcher my language to bits. I cringe, too, reading it again after it had lain hidden after all this time. Sappy it may be, but please do enjoy this very rare occassion when I answered the Muse's call in BM.

A SMIRKING CHESHIRE CAT

How to smite two souls,
To bond, to fuse them.
Whence,
The lovemonger, the nuncio of Cupid,
The betwixter,
Finds his joy corpulent,
In untying their Gordian knots!

Once,
In a white dishonesty
Wishful of an honest contingent,
I felt gratified
Besmirching a little more
My fully saturated blotter.

Lambert
(24/09/1992)

** Dedicated to Putera & Farah – St. Thomas, Kuantan 1992 **

This poem was penned towards the end of my practicum days at Sekolah Rendah St. Thomas, Kuantan.  Here's thinking of my flatmates; Sivakumar, Putera and Tee Meng Eong.  Salad days were they then eh, Mates?  We should get together some time! 

Weekenders!

Weekends are generally not the best of times that you can expect ordinary folks to be on the net. By ordinary I mean people who have decent 5-day a week jobs as opposed to me who, in some folks eyes are on a ’permanent’ vacation. Not that I don’t have work to do. I have tons of it, up to my ears even sometimes. The difference being, I don’t go to an office, working the stipulated hours of 9-5 (to 9 for some folks I know).

I work at my rented house, in the library, or at the faculty’s gazebo. Whichever place suits my mood at the time. Being a full-time student allows me that privilege I suppose. However, having too much independence could be counterproductive as well. I am at liberty to while my time away. Not that I don’t have work to do, I have tons of it. It is just that while I am in the middle of writing something, while I am mulling certain idea, while I am waiting for a certain theory to make sense, while I am trying to make two concepts gel, I gaze too much at the laptop screen. During those times, the mind becomes a wanderer: it could go back in time, it could fly forward, or it could become wishful.

But I digress. Let’s get back to weekends not being the best of times to catch people on the net. Unlike me, who puts equal value on every day of the week (not because I don’t cherish them – unlucky me, I have to work 7 days a week), these other folks consider their Saturdays and Sundays as precious, priceless These are the 2 days when they manage to shake off their shackles and enjoy - freedom. Not the time to sit in front of a mundane monitor, clicking on the mouse buttons, punching senselessly on the keyboard scouring the virtual world. This time is better spent in the real world.

Weekend is the time best spent in either of two ways, or a combination thereof, whichever suits the purpose. Either you spend time being yourself or you spend the time for yourself. Not much difference between the two choices but let me explain. The former choice is like when every weekend you put on your dancing shoes and be Fred Astaire. Or perhaps, a more down to earth example, you stay at home and play mummy or daddy, whichever one is your preference. Get up in the morning and get breakfast ready; the aroma of steaming home prepared nasi lemak wafting throughout the house is almost enough to make the wait for weekend worth it. Watching the kids and hubby / wifey (or your brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, if you are not married, or your cats if you can’t bother entertaining people) go heartily through the repast is a pay-off itself that no corporate manager can outmatch. So you go on through the weekend doing things only available to be done on weekends – go to the zoo, bring the children for a picnic, visit grandma and grandpa, wash the kids’ school shoes. Anything that you do, that you think you do for other people, but are actually doing it because you are being yourself.

The latter choice entails that upon hearing the alarm clock going off, picking it up and smashing it up against the wall (too dramatic!) and going back to bed for a snooze until midday. Forget the rest of the world; this is the day you reserve for yourself – a day of self-indulgence. Go dye your hair, go hang-gliding, loaf and laze around the house, whatever pleases you. Fulfillment that is only available on weekends.

As for the combination of the two; I leave it to your imagination. I could give you a hint though. Turn off the alarm clock, lock the bedroom door and now there is only you and your partner. Should I say more? The kids can wait for breakfast while watching the telly, a little longer wait will make them eat heartier! And the rest of the world just sails on by.

I did tell you that my mind sometimes wanders far off, didn’t I?

So come on back Monday. The two days I am without their chatters and presence are the two longest I’ve ever known. Let these folks here return to their computer terminals at their offices where with a click of a button they can discover the Internet again. Allow them the opportunity to enter the realm of the net. Let them discover me again –I who cannot be myself and cannot do things for myself because I am missing out on weekends. Let me not be alone again in cyber-space.

My Love Story

DI KAMAR INI

Di kamar ini aku kesepian
Jasadmu tidak bersamaku
Di kamar ini aku kesunyian
Bicaramu tidak menemaniku
Di kamar ini aku kerinduan
Ujudmu terkadang di sisiku.

Di kamar sepi ini kauelus kewujudanku
Di kamar sunyi ini aku bayangkan kau bersamaku
Di kamar rindu ini tuturmu riang di benakku.

Dalam kejauhan ini, kita kekal satu
Dalam kamar hati ini, kau tetap ratu
Dalam cerita cinta ini, cuma engkau dan aku.


Lambert
(15/09/1995)


... and I miss you so much!

Note : This poem is dedicated to my dearest wife, whom I on many occassions had left behind in my pursuit of self-actualization!

With Regards to the Feline Species

Recently one of my friends had a bad accident happenned to the family's cat - Snowy. I hope he pulls through. What prompts this entry is the last remark my friend made on his blog regarding that accident - "Why did the cat have to cross the road?" or something similar to that effect. I have cats too, and I understand that they can be difficult creatures to predict or understand. I shared with him this poem I wrote relating to the complicated kind of relationship a cat may have with its human owner. Enjoy!

The company I keep

A breath of fresh air came near me
As I sat, tooling with my pen, stumped
Studying my mien, leaping on my knees
Nuzzling my chin, asking for a kiss.

I declined. She reclined.
I resisted. She persisted.

Perhaps when I feel more sociable
Your presence I’d greet.
Still baffled, both wishing to be rapt
I turned to my paper, she coiled at my feet.

Lambert (04/08/2000)


This I did not share with him. It won't do the family's morale much good reading this. But if he happens to check this blog, I hope he finds it interesting too. Snowy lives still, Mate. It is a piece of creative writing I shared with my class a few years back. Enjoy!


My Unforgettable Aloysius

I shed tears, of happiness and of sadness, when I think back of my friend, Aloysius. He is not with us anymore, God bless him. He had given me many memorable moments to cherish in what short time he was with me.

Aloysius came to me one dark starlit night when I was woken up by a scratching at our front door. My husband, being such a cautious creature that he is, had a baseball bat with him as he flung open the door, fully expecting to see a monster. Alas, it wasn’t, it was to be our friend – our Aloysius. Shivering, as it was a cold night, mewling of hunger, the little creature rubbed its body against my leg. I melted when I looked down and saw those big blue eyes.

We adopted him. Or Aloysius adopted us. We became very close, every member of my family, from our little Emma to the gruffly Allen, our first born, took to him immediately. He quickly became one of the family, never to be left out from all activities or events.

He was there, weaving between our legs as we went about our chores around the house, loudly screaming should we forget to feed him, disdainful at times in his treatment towards us. We loved him nonetheless. When little Emma barked her shin running up the stairs, Aloysius provided comfort for the girl. Cunningly grabbing the girl’s attention by jumping onto her lap, he dried her tears by cocking his head and staring into her wet teary eyes as if he was incomprehensible of her cry. He nuzzled her, the girl’s tears eventually dwindled, and her sobs soon turned to laughter as the little creature successfully made her forget the mishap that befell her.

That was but one example how he had brightened up our lives. He was always there, most of the time undemanding and somewhat submissive, but always attentive to our mood. He was as bright as the stars that lit the night when he came to us.

Sadly, he wasn’t long with us. His playfulness proved to be his undoing. Chasing a butterfly that fateful day, he strayed into the path of traffic as I watched in horror. The scream stopped in my throat as I heard the thud of the car’s bumper knocking into him. He was thrown into the air and landed near my feet. Our Aloysius died after having been with us for a short eight months.

The whole family grieved his passing. Mostly, the emotion showed in tears, and suggestions of adopting other pets. The latter was vehemently snubbed for fear of another loss. Nothing will ever replace Aloysius.

To this day, Aloysius is very near to my heart. His time with us will always be cherished; the thought of him makes me understand how valuable companionship is.

My Version of the Hidden Curriculum

Reservation


Some trees stand with leaves unstirred
And, yet some bow, some broke
A trial of the plants’ pulp makeup
The saplings are more fragile than the oak.

The green of shoots, the yellow of foliage
Pre-programmed at Nature’s discretion
The brown mulch’s food, the cannibals tower
Lilac tinged stance carnivorously fashioned.

Sun-soaked soil, some trees still want to stand
Water-parched dirt, some trees still want to stand
Spayed barren earth, some trees still want to stand
Entrenched, anchored, unalienable.

The prevailing wind rules this land
The pungent air that wafts on jaundiced wings
The sturdier ones conditioned, the shrubs hedged
The reservation is at its best while the air stinks.


Lambert
(26/01/2000)

What is, is not what it should be!

I suppose the truth had finally dawned on me. If a few yesterdays ago, I, with very little commitment would voice out, “Oh, I lost RM400 every month because I went and furthered my studies!” now painful realization makes its presence felt. That RM400 every month would help a long way to make my life more comfortable and worse, that RM400 is mine! I’ve been robbed blind.

Needless for me to paint the picture, it’s been drawn for you by the media and the huge cries from the public, especially those in the DG41 schemes who felt shortchanged by the system, this is about the discrepancy in the remuneration system, this is about some upper echelon people, whose decision would decide the fate of many, failing to do their homework.

There are two parts to my story. The first is ‘funny’, the second is tragic. So it is a kind of a Tragicomedy.

Chapter 1:

I started my profession as a teacher in the early ‘90s, fresh from the Teachers Training College with a salary of – pittance, I didn’t mind that. I got to do what I had always wanted to do – teach. I enjoyed those earlier years, working with the children, watching them grow. I got myself a wife and was overjoyed when she joined a maktab to become a teacher like me. What could be better than two people sharing their lives and professions?

Several years later I joined a university and earned a degree. My wife couldn’t join my venture because of several juniors had by then joined us at home and needed lots of TLC. Thank you Wife for your sacrifices and understandings. I could never repay you enough for willingly undertaking them.

I returned to teaching three years later and was ‘promoted’ to DGA41 (Pegawai Perkhidmatan Pendidikan SISWAZAH). The capitalization and the colonization are mine to express the import of the words. Work got a bit more tedious as my new audiences are now semi-adults – lots of whims, lots of scenes. I coped, as I had enough tutelage at both the maktab and university to cater for and counter those antics.

This year, a salary hike was announced. All Public sector workers would benefit. A degree holder like me would get 15% increase; my wife a non-degree holder gets 25%. Thank you, thank you, bloody generous of you! Yay! Jubilation! Celebration! Exultation!

Then, came the ‘Crunch’. We sat down one night and studied the ‘new’ salary tables recently released by the relevant authority, joyfully thinking of what we could do with the extra income. Putting the tables side by side, mine a DGA41, my wife’s, a DGA32, suddenly we found out that under the new salary scheme, the difference in our monthly salary is a mere RM6.00 (Yes a mere SIX Ringgit). We looked at each other and burst out laughing. The mirth most probably was due to disbelieve and shock. Why on earth did I bother to bust my arse going to university for an advantage in income of only such a miniscule amount over a person, who not only is a non-graduate, but is also several years my junior in length of service?

Oh, come now, quit whining! It’s funny, please laugh! Don’t worry, I won’t feel offended if you do. The joke is on me! It is a RM6.00 worth of a joke.

End of Chapter One.


Chapter 2

I couldn’t remember exactly, but I believe there 30 of us in that class at the maktab, way way back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth. I had lost touch with most of them, but for sure, one, for love of academia, got her masters degree, one for love of money, quitted and started a business in logistic, one for being independent and self-respecting, lost his job, and the rest, me included, for the love of imparting knowledge, remain what we are – teachers.

At this juncture, I think I should clarify something. A teacher is not a bloody cylinder of wax with a wick in the middle to be burnt and discarded when melted. That is a misconception that was introduced to idolize the teaching profession. Maybe it was necessary and relevant to do so in the days of old when teachers didn’t require substantial monetary reward for existence and subsistence. When pupils humbled themselves and ‘served’ the ‘idols’ in place of Ringgit and Sen. I do not feel that teachers want adoration and idolization any more these days. They are now professionals wishing only for justifiable remuneration for duties duly performed. It is as simple and as mercenary as that.

OK, got that out of the way, good. Let’s get on then.

Many among us, at least those with whom I am still in touch with, for his or her own reason never ventured to university. I am sure complacency is not an excuse any of us would use to justify that. Perhaps opportunity forgone or inopportunity would be better explanations for remaining as non-grads. Which is fine as they still get to do want they want to do and get paid for doing it. As time went on and jobs performance was good, so up went their salaries and in due time, with all the accompanying brouhahas, found themselves promoted to the DGA32 scale. Good for them.

I, on the other hand, took the road less traveled by. And by God, did I have to pay for doing that. I busted my brain, my arse and myself to earn that degree. I lost half my pay for three years while I was at the university, at the same time too, I forwent my seniority, and I ended up owing tons of money to make it through it all. All in the name of answering the call for teachers to better themselves academically ( and financially, I assumed at that time.) After all it wouldn’t make sense at all that the paper chase is not accompanied by monetary gain, would it?

So I ended up as a DG41 teacher, what could be so bad about that? For one, the night before I sat down and studied the salary tables, curious to know what would I be making if I hadn’t embarked on that self-bettering journey. I gasped when I found out out that I could have been RM400 richer every month had I sat on my arse and let the world roll by while the grass grew under my feet. Man, I felt like the rug had been pulled from underneath me. This must have been the slickest scam ever pulled on anybody. So, despite all my and my family’s sacrifices, despite all the hard work that I put into getting that piece of paper, despite all the financial strain I put on my family, it ended up stabbing me in the back. I felt so cheated. How could this happen? Why do you people up there allow this to happen? All that trouble just to get poorer.

Note:

In a letter to the editor in a Malaysian daily today : an idiot who goes by the penname ‘Guru Kampong, Temerloh’ wrote something about teachers when they join the teaching profession should not think about getting rich through this profession. This profession is about “derived satisfaction”. Your students succeed; your reward is your satisfaction. I’d say feed your family then with that ‘derived satisfaction’, pay your monthly bills then with that ‘derived satisfaction’, put a roof over your head with that ‘derived satisfaction’. You must be from a kampong indeed if you are still deluded by the thought that your ‘sacrifice’ means a hoot to anybody. Grow up please! Wake up! This is not about getting rich, this is about getting what is mine (or what should / could have been mine)

Chapter 2 ends.

2 years later - Teachers are still not happy about this as evidenced by this letter to the editor:

Guru DG29/41 terus gigit jari
http://www.bharian.com.my/Current_News/BH/Monday/Surat/20080915001247/Article (15/09/2008) Berita Harian Online

SEJAK akhir-akhir ini, suara Guru DG29/41 yang tidak mendapat DGA32 sudah semakin sepi dan seakan mereka terpaksa menerima hakikat walaupun sangat pahit untuk ditelan. Segala luahan dan keluhan mereka di media tidak didengar dan perjuangan melalui kesatuan guru tidak memberi hasil diharapkan. Kesatuan guru adalah saluran yang betul bagi guru DG29/41 untuk membela nasib mereka tetapi apa yang berlaku cukup mengecewakan, terutama bagi guru DG29/41 yang baru dilantik ke DG41 dari DG29 tanpa mendapat DGA32 yang belum mencapai tujuh tahun dalam DG41. Sebagai contoh mudah, guru A dari DG29/41 yang sudah berkhidmat selama lima tahun dalam DG41 dari DG29 (sembilan tahun) hanya berada pada P1T9, dengan gaji pokok RM2,419.45. Tetapi guru B dari DG29/32/41 sekarang sudah bergaji RM2,871.70 pada P1T14 daripada lantikan DG32 (empat tahun) yang juga dari lantikan DG29 (10 tahun).
Perbezaan gaji mereka ialah RM452.25 atau lima tahun berkhidmat, pada hal guru ini sama tempoh perkhidmatannya iaitu 14 tahun dalam bidang dan bawah bumbung sama. Walaupun rundingan demi rundingan dibuat antara kesatuan guru dengan Jabatan Perkhidmatan Awam dan Kementerian Pelajaran, ia terlalu umum dan tidak diperhalusi dengan betul yang dikhususkan untuk membela nasib guru DG29/41. Akibatnya, keputusan yang dicapai tetap merugikan guru DG29/41 malah menjarakkan lagi 'jurang' dengan DG29/32/41 kerana keputusan tetap lebih menguntungkan guru DG29/32/34/38/41 yang sudah banyak mendapat faedah yang sangat besar sebelum ini tanpa berjuang seperti DG29/41.
Dalam situasi ini, hanya kesatuan saja menjadi harapan tunggal guru DG29/41 untuk dibela nasib mereka.

CIKGU PRIHATIN, Kuantan, Pahang.

For God's sake MOE/JPA/whomever it might concern, do something about this please. What does it take to make you people move your collective heavy asses - a revolution or something?

The Driftwood

If all material things
Of substance belong to land,
The piece of driftwood I spied must
Be covetous of the four
Frolicking souls on the sand.

So near and yet still far
Beckon home the tantalizing sands.
Yet unrealeased it was,
Grappling with the ocean’s
Jealous, protective hands.

What dread is that driftwood’s life.
Its heart must have come burst.
To and fro, see and saw. It could have
Been crying, for we heard
It wailing above the surf.

There it swirled amidst
The flotsam and the jetsam
Imbibing the sea: A watery hell,
Its home and prison; A lost soul
Breakers caged, disowned and damned.


Lambert.
12/01/2001

Note: This poem was written / created while on an outing with 3 very close friends in 2001 at Batu Ferinnghi in Penang.

MovieLand Vs. BolehLand CSI

One must really hand it to the CSI Series for portraying an ideal state of affairs. Bruckheimer must have made the connection to what the public wishes from the Police – undying devotion and dedication to serve a single end – solving crimes by letting or making evidence(s) speak the truth.

Such public wish remains unfulfilled wish here in BolehLand. Here those who dare rule. It may sound anarchical, but when one feels that one cannot feel safe in one’s surrounding due to some quarter having absolute freedom to impose its will on others, how can not that be. It must be said that some types of evidence has little value here. In a country where every individual is fingerprinted as a matter of record at the tender age of 12, it is a crying shame that such a valuable resource as those individualized records is overlooked and not given a chance to serve at least one of the purposes for which they are kept – identification.

Cars have been broken into lately in my neighbourhood. One of those was mine. I woke up one morning to find the driver’s side glass had been smashed and the louts, perhaps frustrated by the design of my cars stereo system, had successfully damaged it when they tried to wrench it out of the dashboard. I have the radio still, but I might as well have it stolen. It is now a piece of junk at the foot of my bed.

So, this grieved citizen, sullied by having his property defiled right in the sanctity of his own courtyard, called the ‘Cepat, Cekap, Betul’ people for assistance. The helpful person on the other side of the phone inform me that I was supposed to come to the Police Station to report the incidence – fine. And then this CSI addict and at the same time, a starry-eyed idealist, asked the RM64 question – “Will you be sending people here to get fingerprints from my messed-up car?”

The answer –“No! Bring the car here to the station.” Wait a sec – that would not be what the CSI would say.

I was expecting something like – “Give me your address, Sir. We’ll despatch a team right over. In the meantime, please keep your hands off the car, lest you taint valuable evidence.”

A RM128 question was asked – “What should I do? I can’t drive the car with broken glass all over the seat.”

The friendly person was heard talking to his colleagues, “It is alright isn’t it if the car is cleaned up for it to be driven to the station?”

“Tak apa, boleh. Cuci dulu nanti datang report.”

The truth dawned on me then. Finding out who the criminals are, is of the least interest to them and I was but an addition to the statistics. Whatever hope I have of assisting the Force to apprehend the criminals was dashed as soon as I compromise the evidence – I’ve watched too many CSI series and understood the implication of such action.

To say the least, I found all my conceptions of these ‘To Serve and To Protect’ people of BolehLand dashed to pieces. Bruckheimer had deceived me into hoping that my case is dealt with by the same and equally dedicated teams of BolehLand CSI. Shame on you Bruckheimer!

I cleaned my car, replaced the windscreen and never bothered to go to the station to report the incident. Wait, before you go and accuse me of perpetuating and/or suppoting a crime because I did not report it, think of the purpose of such action. Why report a crime? (This is a RM256 question – it gets more expensive you see with deeper or more profound revelation). Is it for you to end up a statistic or for you to be (or at least feel) protected?

If you choose the former – fine, go report, and have a nice day. But if your choice is the latter, go report – do you feel protected now?

The second choice, besides having the Force keep order and peace in the society, entails the generation of the feelings of security amongst the citizens of this nation. The Force cannot shoulder such huge responsibility alone. The onus is on us, the person walking the street, as well. Let us contribute in whatever little ways we can. More importantly, make us feel that our contributions matter.

How can I feel secure when I was forced to forgo of an opportunity to contribute to the preservation of such security? I cannot say that I feel secure tonight while the perps who defiled my property yesterday still walk free, secure in the the knowledge that their identities remain unknown, thanks to the dedication of BolehLand CSI.

Some may opine that the fingerprints won’t mean hoot. Very few criminals are successfully charged of their crimes based on evidence of fingerprints. But the keyword here is the feeling of security. Security for the lay people and insecurity for the criminals. The Force’s presence embodies both. Its refusal to be present at scenes of crimes may send the wrong signal – go ahead, do what you will, we are not coming for you. Lost then is the deterring influence the Force has over unlawful activities. Lost then the peace of mind the public has.

The least that the search for fingerprints at crime scenes would do is to put the fear that their identities might be known into these criminals. With the fear of such revelation, these thugs would not be so smug and cocky as they go about their business. That would be the death of the state of anarchy, in my area at least. Then of course the criminals may opt to wear gloves, but that’s another story.

I, your #1 fan, curse you Bruckheimer for making me wish for a different state of existence. Ban CSI series on BolehLand TV! Oh yeah – and May the Force be With You!