Blame Not The All-Mighty But Our Leaders

 [Excerpt of my memoir will resume next week]

 

Blame Not The All-Mighty But Our Leaders

M. Bakri Musa

 

Last week’s devastating floods were heart-wrenching, with Malaysian leaders’ incompetence aggravating it. That is not new. A decade and half ago when the southern tip of the peninsula was similarly inundated, then Prime Minister Abdullah saw fit to fly to Australia to open his brother’s new restaurant. While Prime Minister Ismail Sabri was at home this time, he might as well have been in outer space. He was (still is) but a bobbing ping pong ball, visible everywhere but just as useless.

 

            This latest flood came at the worst possible time, amidst the Covid-19 pandemic. The ulama viewed that as a test from Allah; to me, more a failure of leadership. Quoting the Qur’an, they reminded us that those are the signs of the end of time. I hope so – for those leaders.

 

            I was enmeshed in two past Malaysian disasters. First, the May 1969 riot while on holiday at home immediately after graduating from medical school. That tragedy claimed thousands of lives. The second was as a surgeon in Johor Baru responding to the Malaysian Airline System (MAS) hijacking crash on December 1977 that killed all 100 on board, including the seven crew members.

 

Four observations from both experiences. One, the critical importance of accurate timely information, and the dangers of misleading ones or outright lies. Silence is just as dangerous as vicious rumors would then fill the gaps as quickly as air to a vacuum. Two, the need for adequate preparations, as with having a disaster plan and frequent drills. Three, competent empathetic leadership to direct operations and comfort those affected.

 

Last, disasters, more so natural ones, are oblivious of class, race, or other artificial labels we pin on each other. The current Covid-19 pandemic is illustrative, what with rich nations favoring citizens over others in dispensing vaccines, and ignoring the needs of poor countries.

 

Disasters claim far fewer victims and caused much less damage in the West than in the Third World. God is not testing those in poor countries more stringently, as some religious types would have it, rather those in the West have used their God-given akal (intellect) to learn from earlier tragedies.

 

California’s 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake measured 6.9 on the Richter-scale but took far fewer lives than less powerful ones elsewhere. I remember that calamity well. After checking on my family’s safety, I phoned the hospital. Unable to make contact, I drove there, to find that nearly all the other off-duty doctors and nurses were already on site. They too had reacted like me. Because we had a disaster plan and frequent drills, we knew what to do.

 

With the Johor plane crash, I too rushed to the hospital on hearing the news, as did many of my colleagues. There we waited and waited, with no news or any communication from anyone. Frustrated, I took two car-loads of personnel and supplies to where we thought the crash site would be, only to be overwhelmed by the eerie silence, downed trees, and upturned earth amidst the penetrating smell of gasoline fumes and burnt flesh.

 

A poignant moment of that tragedy was the funeral service the following Friday held on the hospital grounds by the morgue. Then Prime Minister Hussein Onn had decreed that there would be only one inter-denominational service, with leaders of all the victims’ presumed faiths represented. I was never more proud of Hussein Onn’s leadership for that one profoundly wise decision. That beautiful memorial service was a much-needed closure for the victims’ loved ones, as well as for the nation. Of even greater significance, no ulama carped about mixing “Islam” versus “non-Islam” remains in one mass grave, or having Muslim prayers said alongside Buddhist and Christian ones. The power and influence of enlightened national leadership!

 

Fast forward to last week, our ulama bemoaned whether those volunteers at the Sikh temple were serving halal vegetarian meals! I applaud former Federal Mufti and Religious Minister Zulkifli Al-Bakri for visiting the temple and thanking those hard-working volunteers. As for Prime Minister Ismail Sabri and his Religious Minister, they were irrelevant – and useless, missing in action.

 

Following that MAS crash I submitted an unsolicited report outlining an effective mass disaster plan, recommending regular drills and improving the communication system. My superior was impressed, and promised to forward my recommendations “higher up.” If he had meant to compliment me, he failed. I would have been more impressed and satisfied had he responded, “Let’s do it!”

 

            As for misleading information during a crisis, despite the gory images on Canadian and Japanese televisions of the May 1969 riots, the Malaysian embassy staff both in Ottawa and Tokyo whom I had earlier contacted for advice kept reassuring me that “everything was fine.” Those horrifying scenes were but Western propaganda intent on besmirching “Malaysia’s good name.” The result? I landed at a deserted Subang Airport and had to be escorted into town in a police Land Rover.

 

            Back to floods. When I lived in Bungsar in 1976, the slightest rain would inundate the sole access road. Intrigued, one day I stationed myself at the entrance. Sure enough, with the first rain drop young men from the neighboring rumah kilat would congregate and throw pellets into the culvert. They would then collect a few ringgit for “helping” stranded motorists.

 

As for those engineers and civil servants, they remained comfortably ensconced in their cozy offices and luxurious homes oblivious of citizens’ misery, or what caused the flood. That is still the tragic reality today, and not just in Bungsar or by young men only.

 

Often the dangers with disasters are the ensuing chaos and panic. Competent leadership, regular drills, and timely accurate information help reduce that. Malaysia lacks all; that remains her greatest and continuing tragedy.

 

Cast From The Herd: Excerpt #17: Coasting Dangerously

 Cast From The Herd:  Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia

M. Bakri Musa

Excerpt # 17:  Coasting Dangerously

 

When class resumed the next day following the dreaded Sixth Form Entrance Examination, the obsession was, as expected, with the test. Our Form Teacher Mr. Sham led the review. Things went well until we came to the questions on topics yet to be covered in class. He suggested that we should have been able to answer them based on what we had studied earlier in the year. He did not convince us; he was defensive when the class became very vocal in our protest. 

When we came to the bonus question, he ran out of excuses. He made the preposterous suggestion that it was not so much a test of our knowledge rather our ability to write a coherent essay. That brought a collective cry of derision that surprised him. In anger he dismissed the class and retreated to the safety of his office – a lion tamer chased out by his now-agitated felines. 

By the end of the week the class was back to its routine. Soon we would be in “test mode” preparing for the national terminal examination, the Cambridge School Certificate. Not for me however. My school experience was never again the same. Classes now bored me. When a teenager gets bored, then be ready for some nasty things to happen, to him and others around him. 

I had two sets of friends, one of Hokkien Chinese. Our particular penchant was imitating the idiosyncrasies of our teachers. Nothing unique there! One such character was Mr. Kamaruddin; he taught English Literature to the lower classes. He had the irritating habit of breaking into spontaneous soliloquies of Shakespeare. Even in casual conversations he was often heard to quote Shakespeare at the slightest provocation. 

Such a teacher would be difficult to parody; we would have to memorize some Shakespeare – no easy feat. Lucky for us he had a funny gait; his strides long and purposeful, but he did not swing his arms much, or worse, they appeared to move in the same direction as his legs, like a wind-up wooden toy soldier. We exaggerated that, and it was hilarious. Better yet, when we did it everyone recognized right away that we were mimicking him. 

At recess one day we saw him headed for the latrine with his trademark stride. We immediately imitated him. We must have been very effective for the girls burst into hysterical laughter. That only encouraged us! 

When class resumed after recess we were still high over our earlier successful parody, with the girls still laughing. Then something happened. Instead of our regular English teacher, this character whom we had earlier caricatured walked in. Right away he went into his impromptu Shakespeare soliloquy. He waxed lyrical about enjoying a morning stroll under the beautiful blue sky when suddenly an ugly dark cloud intruded. After a few more verses in his affected Elizabethan English accent he commanded, “Will all ye guilty parties, reveal thyself!” 

We pretended not to have any clue as to what he was talking about. He recited a few more Shakespearean lines; again we ignored him. Then with his eyes wide, jaws clenched, and teeth glistening through his flared lips and wide nostrils, he jabbed his right index finger towards me and my three compatriots who were in the earlier gig and hissed, “You four guilty idiots! Stand up!” 

When we did not respond fast enough, he jabbed his finger again and yelled, “You, you, you and you! Stand up!” We did. 

After another soliloquy on the punishment fitting our earlier dastardly deed, he wrote on the blackboard, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” We were to write the entire play ten times, due two Mondays hence, about ten days and two weekends later. After making sure that we had understood his sentencing, he marched out – in his trademark stride!

I was stunned. My three fellow partners in crime however, were not at all perturbed. This infantile punishment, the repetitive writing of lines a la Bart Simpson’s “I must do my homework” was the favorite with our teachers. That did more to degenerate my penmanship than all my later years in medical school. 

We decided to ignore him. He was not a teacher for any of our classes and thus had no authority over us. We were encouraged by the fact that our form teacher Mr. Sham made no reference to the incident. By that first Saturday however, I was nervous. I asked one of my partners in crime whether he had started his. His reply was a defiant “No!” Adding with arrogance, “Not going to; not now, not ever!” 

That did not alleviate my anxiety. My partners were not interested in furthering their studies; I was. I had worked too hard to risk being expelled now. 

By the Friday before the deadline, I was frantic. The others remained defiant. At my insistence we decided to talk it over with our form teacher, Mr. Sham. We did, in his lab office. Before we could even say “Good morning, Sir!” he blurted in his thick Indian accent, “Vell, are you all gentlemon enough to apologize?” 

So he knew all along what had happened. “You mean,” I stuttered, “if, if we were to apologize we would be spared the chore?” 

“Ve a gentlemon! Say you are sorry!” he chided us. “Go, now! He’s in the common room,” and waved us out. That was it. No discussion. He was our form teacher and we dared not disobey him.

 

As we walked to the teachers’ common room we were still arguing whether it would be worthwhile apologizing if it would result in only a reduction of the punishment. To capitulate at this late stage would mean losing face with our classmates, especially the girls; our earlier bravado nothing more than bluster. 

Momentum has its own way of solving problems. Amidst our indecision we were already at the door to the teachers’ lounge. I knocked, and not hearing a response knocked again, this time much louder. An angry voice responded, “Just come in!” 

We entered. Mr. Kamaruddin was sitting on a sofa in the far corner chatting with his colleagues. He appeared relaxed in his wide “man spread” pose on the chair, not at all like the monster that he was the week before in front of our class. We went up to him in single file, like condemned prisoners. His colleagues quickly excused themselves. We stood at attention and attempted to greet him a good morning but only jumbled murmurs emerged. 

“Good morning!” he replied, looking elsewhere while clasping his hands in front of his crotch, his right foot tapping the floor. As agreed to, I was the spokesman. 

“We wish to apologize,” I blurted. No response. I continued, “We’re sorry for what we did.”

“You want what?” he barked.

“We ... we wish to ...” I attempted again. 

“I don’t want to hear a collectivist apology,” he stomped his foot. “The last time I checked the communists have not won!” 

I did not know what to make of his response. Thinking that I had committed a gross grammatical error, I rephrased myself. “I wish to apologize . . . .” 

“That’s better,” he interrupted. Then his eyes darted to Boon Wah. 

“I wish to apologize ...” Boon Wah was about to continue but Kamaruddin shifted his glare to Sing Toh, and then Tong Poh. 

Tong Poh had not yet finished his when Kamaruddin hollered, “Now get out of here! I don’t want to see you punks ever again!” 

We beat a hasty retreat amidst the stares of the other teachers whose attention had now been drawn by the yelling in the corner. 

Kamaruddin may be a bastard of a teacher, but he did teach me something that morning, and not just in grammar, as with the nuanced difference between the first person plural pronoun “we” versus the singular “I.” The more enduring lesson was that when you make a mistake, own up to it. Do not dilute or hide behind your collectivist “we” unless of course you are the Queen of England. Worse, do not offer a passive, non-attributable “Mistakes were made!” 

By the following week the whole nasty incident was forgotten, and I was still bored.

Next:  Excerpt #18:  My Other Set of Troubles

Cast From The Herd: Excerpt #17 Coasting Dangerously

 Cast From The Herd:  Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia

M. Bakri Musa

Excerpt # 17:  Coasting Dangerously 

When class resumed the next day following the dreaded Sixth Form Entrance Examination, the obsession was, as expected, with the test. Our Form Teacher Mr. Sham led the review. Things went well until we came to the questions on topics yet to be covered in class. He suggested that we should have been able to answer them based on what we had studied earlier in the year. He did not convince us; he was defensive when the class became very vocal in our protest. 

Then we came to the bonus question. Here he ran out of excuses. He made the preposterous suggestion that it was not so much a test of our knowledge rather our ability to write a coherent essay. That brought a collective cry of derision that surprised him. In anger he dismissed the class early and retreated to the safety of his office – in a lion tamer chased out by his now-agitated felines. 

By the end of the week the class was back to its routine. Soon we would be in “test mode” preparing for the national terminal examination, the Cambridge School Certificate. Not for me however. My school experience was never again the same. Classes now bored me. When a teenager gets bored, then be ready for some nasty things to happen, to him and others around him. 

I had two sets of friends, the first was of Hokkien Chinese. Our particular penchant was imitating the idiosyncrasies of our teachers. Nothing unique there! One such character was Mr. Kamaruddin; he taught English Literature to the junior classes. He had the irritating habit of breaking into spontaneous soliloquies of Shakespeare. Even in casual conversations he was often heard to quote Shakespeare at the slightest provocation. 

Such a teacher would be difficult to parody. First, we would have to memorize some Shakespeare – no easy feat. Lucky for us he had a funny gait; his strides long and purposeful, but he did not swing his arms much, or worse, they appeared to move in the same direction as his legs, like a wind-up wooden toy soldier. We exaggerated that, and it was hilarious. Better yet, when we did it everyone recognized right away that we were mimicking him. 

At recess one day we saw him headed for the latrine in his trademark stride. We immediately imitated him. We must have been very effective for the girls burst into hysterical laughter. That only encouraged us! 

When class resumed after recess we were on a high over our successful parody, with the girls still laughing. Then something happened. Instead of our regular English teacher, this character whom we had earlier caricatured walked in. Right away he went into his impromptu Shakespeare soliloquy. He waxed lyrical about enjoying a morning stroll under the beautiful blue sky when suddenly an ugly dark cloud intruded. After a few more verses in his affected Elizabethan English accent he commanded, “Will all ye guilty parties, reveal thyself!” 

We pretended not to have any clue as to what he was talking about. He recited a few more Shakespearean lines; again we ignored him. Then with his eyes wide, jaws clenched, and teeth glistening through his flared lips, he jabbed his right index finger sequentially towards me and my three compatriots who were in the earlier gig and hissed, “You four guilty idiots! Stand up!” 

When we did not respond fast enough, he jabbed his finger again and yelled, “You, you, you and you! Stand up!” We did. 

After another soliloquy on the punishment fitting our earlier dastardly deed, he wrote on the blackboard, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” We were to write the entire play ten times, due two Mondays hence, about ten days and two weekends later. After making sure that we had understood his sentencing, he marched out – in his trademark stride!

I was stunned. My three fellow partners in crime however were not at all perturbed. This infantile punishment, the repetitive writing of lines a la Bart Simpson’s “I must do my homework” was the favorite with our teachers. That did more to degenerate my penmanship than all my later years in medical school.

 

We decided to ignore him. He was not a teacher for any of our classes and thus had no authority over us. We were encouraged by the fact that our form teacher Mr. Sham made no reference to the incident. By that Saturday however, I was nervous. I asked one of my partners in crime whether he had started his. His reply was a defiant “No!” Adding with arrogance, “Not going to; not now, not ever!” 

That did not alleviate my anxiety. My partners were not interested in furthering their studies; I was. I had worked too hard to risk being expelled now. 

By the Friday before the deadline, I was frantic. The others remained defiant. At my insistence we decided to talk it over with our form teacher, Mr. Sham. We did, in his lab office. Before we could even say “Good morning, Sir!” he blurted in his thick Indian accent, “Vell, are you all gentlemon enough to apologize?” 

So he knew all along what had happened. “You mean,” I stuttered, “if, if we were to apologize we would be spared the chore?” 

“Ve a gentlemon! Say you are sorry!” he chided us. “Go, now! He’s in the common room,” and waved us out. That was it. No discussion. He was our form teacher and we dared not disobey him. 

As we walked to the teachers’ common room we were still arguing whether it would be worthwhile apologizing if it would result in only a reduction of the punishment. To capitulate at this late stage would mean losing face with our classmates, especially the girls; our earlier bravado nothing more than bluster. 

Momentum has its own way of solving problems. Amidst our indecisions we were already at the door to the teachers’ lounge. I knocked, and not hearing a response knocked again, this time much louder. An angry voice responded, “Just come in!” 

We entered. Mr. Kamaruddin was sitting on a sofa in the far corner chatting with his colleagues. He appeared relaxed in his wide “man spread” pose, not at all like the monster that he was the week before in front of our class. We went up to him in single file, like condemned prisoners. His colleagues excused themselves. We stood at attention and attempted to greet him a good morning but only jumbled murmurs emerged. 

“Good morning!” he replied, looking elsewhere while clasping his hands in front of his crotch, his right foot tapping the floor. As agreed to, I was the spokesman. 

“We wish to apologize,” I blurted. No response. I continued, “We’re sorry for what we did.”

“You want what?” he barked.

“We ... we wish to ...” I attempted again. 

“I don’t want to hear a collectivist apology,” he stomped his foot. “The last time I checked, the communists have not won!” 

I did not know what to make of his response. Thinking that I had committed a gross grammatical error, I rephrased myself. “I wish to apologize . . . .” 

“That’s better,” he interrupted. Then his eyes darted to Boon Wah. 

“I wish to apologize ...” Boon Wah was about to continue but Kamaruddin shifted his glare to Sing Toh, and then Tong Poh. 

Tong Poh had not yet finished his apology when Kamaruddin hollered, “Now get out of here! I don’t want to see you punks ever again!” 

We beat a hasty retreat amidst the stares of the other teachers whose attention had now been drawn by the yelling in the corner. 

Kamaruddin may be a bastard of a teacher, but he did teach me something that morning, and not just in grammar, as with the nuanced difference between the first person plural pronoun “we” versus the singular “I.” The more enduring lesson was that when you make a mistake, own up to it. Do not dilute or hide behind your collectivist “we” unless of course you are the Queen of England. Worse, do not offer a passive, non-attributable “Mistakes were made!” 

By the following week the whole nasty incident was forgotten, and I was still bored.

Next:  Excerpt #18:  My Other Set of Troubles

No Joy, Only A Colossal National Shame

 No Joy, Only A Colossal National Shame

 

M. Bakri Musa

 

Five and a half years after the United States Department of Justice (USDOJ) filed its largest ever criminal complaint relating to the embezzling of One Malaysia Development Berhad (1MDB, a government-linked company), Malaysia’s Court of Appeal today (December 8, 2021) unanimously upheld High Court Judge Nazlan Ghazali’s earlier (July 2020) conviction of former Prime Minister Najib Razak. He fined Najib RM210 million and sentenced him to 12 years in jail. Ghazali however let Najib out on bail to await his appeal.

 

            Najib should not have been granted this privilege considering the scale of his crime and his subsequent behaviors. That the Appeals Court Judges had to admonish his high-priced lawyers and Najib not to treat the courts as kedai kopi (coffee shop) was instructive.

 

            Now the Appeals Court is repeating the same mistake made by Judge Ghazali by allowing Najib a stay of execution. He should have been stripped of his expensive Armani suits, put in an orange prison garb, have his mug shot taken, and be driven straight to prison. That smug silly grin must be wiped off his face, to serve as a much-needed antidote for us Malays, especially those in United Malay National Organization (UMNO) still intoxicated with their current revelry of “Malu apa bossku?” (What is there to be ashamed with my boss?)

 

This being Malaysia, one cannot separate the racial element. The only way the Appellate decision could have been more powerful would be had all three Appeals Court Judges as well as the prosecuting team (or at least its lead prosecutor) been all Malays. Malays very much need a shock therapy and a powerful antidote to our current mass delusion that we are a pristine and innocent lot, only that we had been “cheated” by those crooked Jews at Goldman Sachs and the ever avaricious Chinese personified by the likes of that moon-faced Jho Low. This mass delusion has been amplified by those government-issued ulama who had received the dropped crumbs from the plundering of 1MDB in the form of free Hajj trips.

 

Seeing Najib in orange and his mugshot making global headlines would awaken us from our collective denial and slumber, as well as disabuse us of our hitherto blind trust in and assumptions of this crooked leader, and others like him.

 

            Those who still believe in Najib’s innocence and that these charges are politically motivated have much to explain. At least three other jurisdictions (US, Singapore, and Switzerland) had much earlier secured guilty pleas or convicted the other principals involved in 1MDB. Goldman Sachs, Najib’s premier enabler institution, has already admitted guilt and paid restitution to Malaysia.

 

Then there were those obscene images of the piles of boxes stuffed with foreign currencies hauled from Najib’s personal residence soon after the 2018 elections. Najib had used the excuse that those were political “donations” from his friends and admirers abroad, to be used for his and his party’s campaign. While those learned Appellate Judges could not be persuaded thus, it was an easy sell to those simple kampung folks. Except for one inconvenient fact:   what could those villagers do with those Euros, pound sterlings, and US dollars? Those pisang goreng village hawkers would not recognize their value. Beyond that, you would be blind and stupid to think that giving out cash during an election is not plain outright corruption regardless whether the country has any specific statutes governing that or vote-buying specifically. Elsewhere such infusion of funds from abroad to influence a domestic election would have been deemed treasonous.

 

Leading up to as well as during his lengthy trials, numerous legal challenges, and appeal, Najib’s supporters clung to the “innocent till proven guilty” mantra. Two observations on that. One, that is a courtroom standard. In positions requiring the highest trust and fidelity, as with the nation’s leadership, the standard must of necessity be much more stringent and considerably higher, as with not even a hint of impropriety. Two, Najib is a convicted criminal since July 2020. That conviction has now been sustained by the Court of Appeal. What would be their excuse now for continuing to support him?

 

Already we are hearing snippets of this new “truth,” as with Najib being responsible for the nation’s economic growth. That is a pathetic and poor version of Mussolini making Italian trains run on time. Najib is a crook, plain and simple; nor could he make Malaysian trains or anything else be punctual. For those who still harbor a soft spot for this plunderer, remember Malaysia is still (and for decades to come) being burdened by the humongous debt incurred by 1MDB. Imagine the lost opportunity costs had those precious funds been spent on schools and universities.

 

While Najib is not at all embarrassed by his many unsavory deeds, Malays (in particular those in UMNO, the party he led for many years) should be. Najib’s successor to lead the party, one Zahid Hamidi, is himself facing his own series of criminal trials. Mohammad Hassan, a former car salesman from my father’s hometown of Rantau, Negri Sembilan, is now helming UMNO.

 

Tok Mat, as he is fondly referred to, is trying to carve an enlightened reformist image but with minimal impact, being overshadowed by both Najib and Zahid. Tok Mat’s courageous as well as most meaningful act now would be to summon an emergency meeting of his party’s Supreme Council to expel Najib from the party. While he is at it, he should do likewise with its current interim president, Zahid.

 

If Tok Mat does not have the gumption to do that, then UMNO Youth leaders must demand such a meeting. UMNO Youth was once dubbed the party’s “ginger group,” to spice up leaders who have made themselves too comfortable in their positions. This is the time for the young in UMNO to heed Sukarno’s wisdom:  “Give me a thousand men and I’ll move the mountain. Give me ten young men, and I’ll shake the world.” I am assuming that those UMNO Youth leaders are young men and not pubescent boys or stunted adolescents.

 

 

The Sultans as well as the Agung should follow the lead of Negri Sembilan Ruler Tunku Muhriz who much earlier in October 2018 withdrew the state’s highest royal honor on Najib to “safeguard the honor and dignity of the Negri Sembilan royal institution.” A short simple statement that spoke volumes. The Sultan of Selangor who had merely “suspended” his on Najib should now rescind the award.

 

The Oxford and Harvard educated Perak’s Sultan Nazrin never tires of pontificating on the evils of corruption. It would be far more effective if he were to retract Perak’s honors heaped upon Najib. Most of all the Agung must set the highest example by stripping Najib of his Federal as well as Pahang state honors. That the Agung and those other sultans and heads of states have chosen to remain silent remains the nation’s glaring blemish.

 

Kudos to the Johore palace. It saw Najib’s evilness early and did not dispense any honors upon him. On the academic side, only one local university saw fit to honor Najib, the now shuttered Limkokwing University. Bravo to our academics and scholars!

 

Malays must take an unequivocal moral stand against corruption and breach of faith among our leaders. Time for them to punish this pengkhianat (traitor), Najib Razak.

 

Doing all those would not help recover the colossal loss from Najib’s embezzlement of 1MDB, but at least it would show the world that at least our society has some morals and a sense of outrage. 

Cast From The Herd Excerpt #16: Test , Where is Thy Sting?

 Cast From The Herd:  Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia

M. Bakri Musa

Excerpt # 16:  Test, Where is Thy Sting?

Back to my primary school tests, they were fun; more a game. I would be presented with a number of patterns or words and then told to pick the right answer from the choices given. Easy enough! The best part was that I did not have to study. Soon a mindset developed in me that I need not study for my class tests. 

Then there was the extraordinary interest of my headmaster, Dr. Rawcliffe. This was after all only primary school. Only much later did I discover that those were a series of IQ tests; he was doing research on the cross-cultural and racial aspects. Today I would love to get a copy of his paper. Rawcliffe was doing a follow-up on the pioneering studies of his predecessor, Dr. G.E.D. Lewis, also a London University PhD and briefly my first headmaster. 

I would carry this attitude of not studying for class tests right up to secondary school. That was fine with science and mathematics but disastrous for history and geography. I remembered how discouraged I was; after every test (except for math and science) I would get a big red F. No matter how hard I tried I could not better my scores. 

Then one day my teacher asked me to hand out the graded exercises. There was one student with an A+; I scanned the first few pages while on my way to deliver it to the owner who happened to sit in the far corner of the classroom. Much to my surprise all he did was regurgitate what was in the textbook. I thought I had to come up with something original. So when asked why the Roman Empire collapsed, I put forth my own theory based on what I had read. That was not what my teacher wanted; he wanted to read the textbook all over again, only this time in my script. 

So from then on I summarized my textbooks. On the next test I regurgitated the stuff. It worked! I also discovered that by writing down things I could remember them well, an insight that would serve me well later in medical school. At the national examination two years later, I aced my history and geography, the two papers I had earlier done poorly in class tests. I may have done well but I hated both subjects. It was a relief when I was selected into the science stream and spared from having to take those two subjects. The irony was that had I not done well in the two, my aggregate score would have been lower. I would then not have been selected for the science stream and still had to take both subjects in the Arts stream.

So that December when I reviewed the previous bonus questions of the earlier Sixth Form Entrance Examinations, they were more like the IQ tests of my primary school years than the mindless regurgitation exercises of my secondary school tests. 

On that Monday morning of the entrance examination we were all ushered into the large school hall. Only a small portion of it was occupied as most of the students opted not to sit for the test. With the desks placed far apart, it made the hall even more forbidding. To my surprise, Mr. Sham Singh was the invigilator. Typically with external tests we would have an outsider, as if they did not trust the local staff, or perhaps just to add to the tension. Perversely for me, with Mr. Sham there, it heightened my anxiety precisely because of the unusualness of the practice. 

After we had settled down, he read the instructions in a slow deliberate tone, word for word and never looked up. That too was unusual. He acted as if he did not know us. Then he came to the bold letters of the instruction page. He looked up and in a firm voice told us not to even attempt the bonus question until all the earlier ones had been answered, or we would be penalized. 

That was it; no hint of familiarity, no wishing us good luck. He was somber, like a judge reading out a death sentence. I remained calm. I viewed the wide spacing of the desks and Sham’s unusual formality as attempts at intimidating us. I figured they would pull such a stunt but I was ready. Ignoring the just-given instructions, I flipped to the last page for the bonus question. There it was, and above that, the warning in bold big fonts not to attempt it until all earlier questions had been answered. 

“Discuss the impact the different life forms have on each other and on the environment. Where possible use local examples to illustrate your points.”

Right on target! I nearly banged my fist on the desk. It was as if the examiners had asked me to write their question. I beamed, not so much elated at knowing how to answer the question, more from a sense of victory at having outguessed the examiners. The mandatory questions were routine; many reworded from the textbooks. As I expected, there were questions on topics yet to be covered in class. I disposed them all with ease. 

For the bonus question I discussed the British introducing cobras on their oil palm plantations to control the rodents and the associated dangers to the workers. I wrote of the devastations when one neighbor raised goats which denuded the hillsides resulting in severe erosion and silting of the streams. I made reference to my old nursery rhyme O Bangau, about the starving egret, how it suffered from events far remote from it, being at the end of a long food chain. My essay was all from first principles and using local examples. 

I finished early. Looking around, my classmates were still hard at it. I did not submit my paper early as I did not want to appear cocky. I continued tweaking my answers, paying attention to grammar, improving my sentence structure, correcting spelling errors, and enhancing my penmanship. When the bell rang, many were still scribbling hard. 

I felt good, like the fisherman who had worked hard to create the perfect fly, had cast it well, and felt an immediate strike. I was confident of a prized catch but would not know for sure what fish or how big until a few months hence. My sense of achievement was heightened when I saw that some of my fellow anglers were still sorting out their rods, wondering what bait to put on, or where to cast their lines. 

It was well after midday when we left the hall. We were hungry and exhausted; despite that, many lingered around to curse the ordeal we had just endured. The anger and frustrations were palpable, especially over questions on topics yet to be covered. Few attempted the bonus question, and then only half-heartedly. My classmates were very good at following instructions. 

The next day I tried to resume the routine I had for the past nine months but could not do it. I was just not interested in studying as the materials were no longer new, exciting, or challenging. 

Next:  Excerpt # 17:  Coasting Dangerously