When mere intelligence is not enough

Not too long ago, I watched a TED talk video of Angela Lee Duckworth of the University of Pennsylvania who has been conducting ground breaking studies on 'grit'—the quality that enables individuals to work hard and stick to their long-term passions and goals. More recently, I read a TIME magazine story about the "Single Most Valuable Personality Trait" that determines 'success': conscientiousness, which to me sounds like "grit" in a starched white shirt. (Personally, I prefer "grit"; conscientiousness seems to imply something boring, clean, kosher and fingernails that are much too well manicured, although I agree the meaning of the two lie in the same ball park.)   Every now and again, the business world (and some of us) looks for the single magic word that describes everything there is to know about success (whatever the hell that means), and today's word is conscientiousness. Example, read the story in Business Insider Malaysia (30 April, 2014): 'The only major personality trait that consistently equates with success is conscientiousness.' QED.

Although, "conscientiousness" has become the new flavour of the week (or month) among the business types, it has been the object of study for several years. A Psychology Today report in 2011 by Scott Barry Kaufmann says, "When it comes to achievement, Conscientiousness is a great thing. All else being equal, the person who has tenacity, persistence, stamina, and grit will be more successful then the person who is lazy and unmotivated. Over 25 years of research supports this common sense view: Conscientiousness is the most consistent and best predictor of both job and academic performance. Clearly, long-term planning and self-control is useful when one is directing his or her self toward a standardized form of achievement."

The operative word here is "standardized". Parents and teachers love "conscientiousness". They call it "intelligence", with all the implications of genetic and cultural superiority. So when we hear, "My son/daughter is intelligent," we know exactly what is meant. It also implies that their super babies are on his/her way to degrees in medicine, engineering, law, accounting, or the like, will make plenty of money while serving a life sentence of drudgery, and (certainly for Asians) will look after the parents when they're old. I know of many who desperately want to escape this prison. Granted, some doctors, lawyers, engineers and accountants are absolutely brilliant, but many have become chefs, writers, dancers, painters, actors, etc., because they want to do something "meaningful", and some have become scoundrels to get rich quickly.

Intelligence and brilliance

Creativity, on the other, appears to be best defined by what it is not. It is one quality parents, teachers and employers like to believe (and announce loudly) that they like, but actually hate. It is way too troublesome. Fashion dictates that they side with creativity (as in 'Steve Jobs was so-oo creative') and we want to be part of the hip movement. But in reality the pull is in the other direction: "Why are you being so difficult? Why can't you be like everyone else?" Creativity is something best seen and (possibly) admired from afar, something that is best swiftly beaten out of children, students and employees.

Is creativity the difference between mere intelligence and brilliance? Millions on Facebook and other social media try so hard to look clever even if they only post pictures of the slice of cheese cake they had for dessert in a fancy restaurant, or cute kittens. Thousands flounder about trying to become writers and poets. The media loves the magic of creativity, and not just because their readers do. Creativity is so damned sexy. Open any newspaper, magazine or internet browser and see.

But, hey, all is not lost. In another story, Psychology Today in 2012 says, "When it comes to creativity, there's good news and very good news. The good news is that the mysteries of the creative process are finally giving way to a rigorous scientific analysis. The very good news is that, with the right skills, you can boost your own creative output by a factor of 10 or more. Significant creativity is within everyone's reach -- no exceptions. What's more, greater creativity breeds greater happiness. The creative process is itself a source of joy for most people. And with new creative powers we're also better able to solve the little problems that beset us daily."

Imagine when conscientiousness and creativity work together. The choice is yours. As I challenge my writer's-workshop participants: do you want to be brilliant, or merely intelligent?

Courage and fear

Frank dropped in to visit me (and buy some books) yesterday. He is an interesting one: a mathematician, a photographer, and a lover of arts and literature. (I always get the eye-roll when I tell anyone that I also enjoy reading books on mathematics. So there. He, of course, is an academic; quite a different level that.)

We were talking about over-intellectualising everything, reading more into a situation than there is. I told him the story of my housekeeper, recently diagnosed with a malignant growth in her breast. Panic, panic, panic: that is, by everyone else, except her. I was shocked too, but also a little taken aback by her passive response. Was she in denial? Was everyone else simply doing the Chicken Little, the-sky-is-falling, dance on her behalf, with limited understanding of the situation? Why don’t you panic, damn it! Or did she really not understand the implications?

“She is like a cat,” I said to Frank. “Simply living; taking life in its stride.”

“Meow, meow. Scratch, scratch, scratch,” Frank responded, understanding.

We are supposed to be living in an age of knowledge, but there is so precious little of it. All we do is panic. Chemicals in fruits and vegetables: panic. In meat: panic. Franken food: panic. Fracking (whatever that is): panic. Transfat: panic. Mercury poisoned fish: panic. Climate change: panic. Antibiotics: panic. Medicines: panic. Street crime: panic, etc, etc, etc. Everything is bad: panic!

We have thousands of things to panic about and we do it remarkably well, which brings me to another story.

Why is there a television in the police station?

This happened two weeks ago. (Why am I writing about it only now? Frank suggested I should.) I was out on my daily 6.30-am walk with my stick and my Doberman. Dawn was just breaking, so I could see, but not very clearly. Three motorcycles rode past. Then they turned around. I froze on the spot. Something was wrong.

Across the road in front of the kindergarten on Jalan Kasah, a man was dropping off his wife who worked there, as he did every morning. The three motorcycles surrounded the MPV. Knives and machetes came out, and the six punks set about to mug the couple holding daggers to their throats, with me right across the road barely ten feet away. I mind ticked, evaluating my choices. There was no way I could take on six armed punks, with my dog, a stick and a bad knee, not to mention (ahem), as a sexagenarian.  I could have released my dog on them, except that there would have been mayhem. The punks could have hurt the couple badly in panic, and I would have been defenceless if they turned on me. So I did the only thing I could: shouted like hell to wake some neighbours nearby. Nobody came out, although several people watched from afar.

I don’t how long this went on: maybe a minute, maybe less. I’m not sure if they got what they wanted when they got on to their bikes to ride off, swearing, waving fists and weapons at me. One rider threw something in my direction from about six feet away. I was not hit.

I went up to the couple. The woman was hysterical and the man looked dazed. I told him that she needed to see a doctor, indicating his MPV, but I don’t think he understood. Just then, another neighbour plucked up enough courage to come near. “She needs to see a doctor,” I told him. "Yes, yes," he said and took charge of the situation.

I was outraged and angry at my helplessness, at the helplessness of my entire neighbourhood that was being victimised daily, as I walked home. I was in no mood to hang around and talk. I spoke to my next-door neighbour, the security rep for our street, and he promised to get something done. This was the third mugging I had witnessed on our street in a month.  I saw the first two as the gang was getting away. (Same gang; I recognised the faces.) This was full frontal.

Throughout the day, I was still outraged and angry, but in control. Then the next day I was struck by another emotion: inexplicable fear. I began to hyperventilate and I couldn’t focus on anything. I became incoherent. (I think I asked someone where I could buy a samurai sword.) All sorts of things went through my head. Was I in shock? Was this PTSD? What was I thinking? But what else could I have done? I could have been killed. I chewed off a few heads on the phone that morning (which I am sorry for). Sorry, innocent bystanders. Are you going to make a police report? Whatever for? I might as well speak to my furniture!

Even after two weeks, the feeling is still there, but at least I feel well enough to write about it. I guess it will take a long time for it to go away completely. If it does.

As I was coming to work this morning, I glanced inside the Balai Polis Bangsar Baru. Can someone tell me why they have a large screen television in a police station?

Malaysia's fact-free zone

Or, so much noise, so little signal. Like listening to a short-wave radio.

I will start with two stories. The first one is quite benign; the second, not.

Silverfish Books has always had a section on philosophy, theology and metaphysics; not quite the 'idiot's' guide to religion, but something more thought-provoking. Two lovely young women came up the stairs once, to show us some books by a religious group (some would call them a cult) that I had heard of, and to ask us if we would stock them. "Sure," we said, and told them our terms. Their next question was, "Where will you shelf them?" "We have a few shelves for religion," we explained, whereupon, they said that theirs was not a religion but a way of life. So, big mouth, me, asked, "Do you know of any religion in the world that claims not to be a way of life?" They were politely offended, stunned and silenced. They withdrew quietly, taking their books with them, sticking to their beliefs, even if it meant not disseminating the 'word'.

The second incident happened when I was in the university. I stayed in a hostel with five blocks, mine quite creatively called E-Block. There was the usual inter-block rivalry over all sorts things like sports, like who could shout the loudest, who could piss the furthest (it was a mostly men's hostel), fart the most times, and so on. We would often tease visitors from the other blocks and greet them with water filled balloons, often missing on purpose, but getting a great laugh from it. Then one night, it turned ugly. It started with some E-blockers hooting at a group of visitors from another block who had come to work on a tutorial with some friends. It then progressed to shouting, name calling, object throwing, chasing with sticks and ending in fisticuffs. I watched in horror, shock and confusion; they were all my friends!

I remember the kindergarten wisdom: united we stand, divided we fall. Rubbish: as individuals, we stand; united, we are a mob, bullies. William Golding got it spot on in the Lord of the Flies, the story of a group of British boys stuck on an uninhabited island after a plane crash, who try to govern themselves with disastrous results.

There was an interesting story in The New Yorker on-line by Maria Konnikova recently, I Don’t Want to Be Right, about a study by Brendan Nyhan, a professor of political science at Dartmouth on parental attitudes toward vaccination and other subjects, and how it is almost impossible to change a perception, once formed; and how ineffective factual correction is . The story says: 'Nyhan’s interest in false beliefs dates back to early 2000, when he was a senior at Swarthmore. It was the middle of a messy presidential campaign, and he was studying the intricacies of political science and came to the conclusion that “The 2000 (US presidential) campaign was something of a fact-free zone ...” It appears it’s almost impossible to get people to change a belief or attitude, even when they are way off the truth.

In the first story, I guess no amount of logic would have changed the belief of the two women that theirs is the only 'way of life' that existed. The second is stranger because there was no belief system involved except maybe superiority. Curiously, they still get together every year and behave like they did when they were students in campus. Arrested development? Superiority complex? Beats me. Another friend, Ikram, who also attended the 30th anniversary bash with me, dropped in to Silverfish a few days after the event and said, "Shall we do that again in another 30 years?" I laughed. It was my sentiment exactly.

Running a bookshop like Silverfish is fraught with danger, given the quasi-intellectual nature we appear to project. We love the free exchange of ideas (many ambassadors visit us for that reason), but when some people insist that we should agree with them no matter what, it becomes difficult to say the least. They don't understand, that while we may call a spade a spade, we are not always interested in taking sides; that even if we do chose a side, facts remain unaltered. It became really bad during the run-up to GE13, and no amount of factual correction made a difference. Unfortunately, even a whole year after GE13, it still hasn't stopped, and this will probably continue to GE14.

Another quote from the story: "In a study, Kelly Garrett and Brian Weeks looked to see if political misinformation ... that was corrected immediately would be any less resilient than information that was allowed to go uncontested for a while. At first, it appeared as though the correction did cause some people to change their false beliefs. But, when the researchers took a closer look, they found that the only people who had changed their views were those who were ideologically predisposed to disbelieve the fact in question. If someone held a contrary attitude, the correction not only didn’t work—it made the subject more distrustful ..."

"Shouting, shouting, shouting," says good friend and academic, Sumit Mandal, of Malaysian politics. The less you have to say, the louder you shout it.

Which brings us to another quote from the story: "False beliefs, it turns out, have little to do with one’s stated political affiliations and far more to do with self-identity: What kind of person am I, and what kind of person do I want to be? All ideologies are similarly affected."

In other words, you may shout as much as you want, but people are not dumb; they know what they want. They are watching you. Or, is that merely wishful thinking?

Malaysia, the "swing" state

What lousy timing: I was in the USA when Obama was traipsing through our backyard. I kept up with what was going on by reading online, with the local newspapers seemingly uninterested in the goings of a small third world country of no consequence. Where are you from? Malaysia ... you know, where that plane disappeared? Oh yes, of course. I remember the plane, but I forget the name of the country. Oh, well. Finally, on April 28, there was a photograph of Obama and a bunch of excited teenagers on page A6 of the NYT with a report on the visit In Malaysia, Obama Works to Mend Troubled Ties.

Why did Obama decide to come to Malaysia, anyway? We are a nothing country in their scheme of things, a fourth division or non-league player. Anyway, that was the impression I got from reading three American newspapers daily for the ten days I was there. Could Obama's visit be due to the way China has been flexing its muscles in the region? This was abundantly clear during the MH370 search; nobody wanted Chinese ships in their territorial waters! Or could it be due to our shaky human rights record? Even Myanmar appears to have moved ahead on that front. The TPP could have been another reason but, seriously, are we the only country standing in the way of a predatory trade agreement?

It didn't add up. The bulk of the NYT story was about the niceties and platitudes that heads of states exchanged publicly when they visited one another, making plenty of meaningless noises. (We don't know what they spoke about during private conversions, though.)

The NYT reported Obama saying things like, "We are working more closely together than ever before," 'treading gingerly on human rights issues, and saying', "The prime minister is the first to acknowledge that Malaysia still has some work to do on these issues, just like the United States ...", pleading lack of time and not lack of concern for not meeting with opposition leaders ... and yadda, yadda, yadda: typical non-statements and plenty of soft shoe dancing that we have grown to expect during visits of presidents and prime ministers, kings and queens, and others representing them, besides the fake pomp and pageantry. (Some would simply call it bullshit.) Obama's comment about non-Muslims was reported, although I would argue that 'no country in world can afford to ignore half its population, men and women of any religion' would have been a better way to put it. Especially, if they are the ones paying the rent.

"On Sunday, president Obama visited Malaysia to underscore how much has changed in the last 16 years (since Al Gore's visit) -- not the lest in this country's attitude towards the United States, which has evolved from deep seated suspicion to a cautious desire for cooperation." Really? Perhaps, if NYT reporters had looked out of their windows, they might have noticed some protesters and placards on the streets. Maybe, they were too preoccupied with Syria and Ukraine to bother. In truth, nothing much has changed in the last 16 years. If anything, the situation is now worse. True, we do not have a vituperative leadership spewing bile at the US at every turn like 16 years ago, but merely one that's unready, unwilling and unable. And perhaps, clueless.

There was one bit in the story that I found quite interesting, though. (And the NYT does have a reputation for having the inside track on some White House thinking). The newspaper said, "White House officials liken Malaysia to a "swing state" in Southeast Asia, falling somewhere between the free-wheeling democracy of the Philippines, and the rigid one party authoritarianism of Laos. Encouraging Malaysia's evolution into a more open society, could make the country a model for the rest of the region." Whoa! Now, this is making sense, and becoming scary. Is that why Obama thought it necessary to visit Malaysia?  Are these our choices: either become a shining democracy or a failed state, a rigid dictatorship? There is no need to guess which way the US will lean, but one can't help but wonder if they are underestimating Sauron's army again. It has a whiff, too, of the the domino theory all over. If we fail, will we destabilise the entire region? Will it become an excuse for China to try to fill the vacuum? Will Malaysia become the new US battleground for world democracy?

When I was in school in the sixties, I remember Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos being crowned the King and Queen of Asia by the western press. Philippines was the 'darling' country of the Asian continent, the sign of progress. It took only 20 years for it to be reduced to a basket case, surviving by exporting their women around the world to wash other peoples' dirty clothes. Is this a lesson? Yes, but one we're likely to avoid learning anything from. In Orhan Pamuk's My Name is Red, master miniaturists deliberately blind themselves with needles so as not to be influenced by change or reality that might affect their 'perfect' paintings. And certainly not by the truth or knowledge. Jose Saramago, too, used a similar metaphor of political vision control quite devastatingly in his novel, Blindness.

Well, things do change fast, and failures come quickly.

Karpal Singh: Champion of the invisibles (1940-2014)

(First a declaration. I am not a politician, and never have been one. I have no political affiliation, my friends come in all political stripes, and I am not a member or ever have been a member of any political party. I never knew Karpal, and never met him.)

I was on my usual early morning walk, when another regular stopped, hesitated and said, "Lawyer Karpal died in an accident ... last night ... this morning ... 1.30 ...". He was too emotional to continue, and shrugged and raised his palm to the heavens. "What? When ... where did you hear this ... did you read this?" I stammered avoiding the most important question, "Which Karpal?" I knew the answer to that, but I did not dare say it, hoping desperately to be wrong. (Just like when I heard John Lennon was shot three decades ago.)

Only a week ago, I was having a discussion with my friend-politician-former MP-lawyer, Yusmadi. We meandered from Vaclav Havel to Gandhi, took several twists and turns and arrived at Jokowi. "Impossible in Malaysia ..." he seemed to say. "How about Nik Aziz? Karpal?" I asked. We debated for a while and finally agree. These two were indeed giants who rose above the normal wrestling-in-the-filth politicians.

It feels as though Karpal has been in my political consciousness for ever, and he looms even larger in death. He was not everybody's idea of a cuddly teddy-bear type politician; he could bite, scratch and spit, and often. He was often infuriatingly bloody-minded; almost unforgiving in politics. But he was equally bloody-minded about justice and fair-play. He spoke up for the small people; the invisibles, the underdogs, and the underclass; those who are ignored when policies are discussed, when laws are passed, when the country is looted, when contracts are dished out, and right there when rights are trampled. He was relentless, and he went on in that vein for four decades. Like a Dobermann, he would never let go.

Karpal never wavered; he never looked for the easy solution, for expediency. It had to be done right, and it had to be the right thing. In a way, he was not a politician at all, and this is my highest compliment. He was too honourable; too much of an intellectual, too much of a lawyer. To misquote Albert Einstein: "Generations to come ... will scarce believe that such a man as this one ever in flesh and blood walked upon Malaysia." He gave us voice. He dared us to speak, and we spoke. He dared us to stand up and be counted. And we did. We became not so invisible any more. We may have disagreed intellectually sometimes, but never with his spirit.

Yang Berhormat Karpal Singh s/o Ram Singh, lawyer, politician and Member of Parliament, do rest in peace. You have done far more than your share. Thank you for showing us how it is done; we will take it from here.

(The op-ed piece below was written the day before Karpal's fatal accident. It would be dishonest of me to suggest that I wrote it for him, but he did loom large in my discussions with Yusmadi, and that sparked this article. And it just feels right to dedicate this piece to the 'champion of the invisibles'.)

Raman Krishnan
Silverfish Books


OP-ED: The invisibles

I don't know of anyone in the book industry who is not aware of the Penguin-Random House merger. A new conglomerate called Penguin Random House (or Penguin House) has been formed and the process of registering the company is (from all current knowledge) going on smoothly in all countries in the world, except Malaysia. When Penguin Books Malaysia tried to register the new company in Kuala Lumpur (they moved from PJ to KL last year) they were told that they could not use the name because they were not selling houses! They were apparently told that it was a rule that the company name must reflect their business. So instead of arguing with that ... that ... whatever ... behind the desk, they have retained the name Penguin Books Malaysia. Also, apparently, it would not have been a problem in Selangor. So, there you are.

Hilarious and ridiculous as it sound, I am not surprised. I can almost hear the dialogue: (Say this in a high-pitched nasal voice that irritates like hell), "No-oo, cannoo-oot. You canno'ot use the name. After, peoples thinks you jual rumah, kan?" Can you imagine Amazon Malaysia trying to registered a company here. Are you selling water?

We have all had these experiences at 'gomen' offices. The moment you step in, you'll feel like you have swallowed a dozen sleeping pills; time will slow to a crawl and gravity will fail. And when you manage to finally speak to someone who is not knitting, or at a Tupperware party, or having a cigarette in the lift lobby, or pegi minum (out for a drink), or on kursus (on a course), who is an actual intelligent life form, you will be so delirious with joy that your spouse will become suspicious that you've been smoking something. (Happened to me.) Kafka had nothing on these people, man!

Malaysia ta'boleh

It was not always like this, though. I joined the service in the early seventies, when it was still a privilege to work in the civil service, although snide remarks about chamblem (salary) and kimblem were already circulating. (Both Tamil words.) Promotions were based on seniority, and every thing seemed fair. Sometimes there were seeded players and favourites who went ahead. We tolerated that mostly, because there still was respect. Even if you worked under someone junior to you, there was mutual respect. To be fair, some deserved their out-of-turn promotions.

As we neared the eighties, talk of kulitfication (qualifications based on skin colour) became rampant. We resigned to being second class, and that we had to run three times faster simply to keep our place. Then it became worse. From second class, we became the invisibles. Nobody noticed us. It was as though we didn't exist. Running didn't help, no matter how fast.  By the start of the nineties,  it became so strange that we would talk about who was getting promoted and transferred where as if we ourselves didn't exist! Scary, huh? In Ralph Elison's novel, the Invisible Man, was the underclass, hiding from the world, living underground, and stealing electricity. But we were top professionals at our peak.

Inevitably, many with lower threshold for pain left; some sooner, others later. (Could this be deemed constructive dismissal?) Many went overseas. Those who remained in the service chose to grit their teeth, live in ignominy and humiliation, swallow any pride they had left for the tiny crumbs that fell off the table, and did just enough work to maintain a weak pulse before they retired. They chose a life of JM Coetzee's Disgrace. They were sometimes respected by their bosses, often decades their junior in seniority and experience. Often not. Sometimes, they were shouted at like schoolboys. (Have you seen a senior officer cry? I have.) After 20 years, it was time to leave. On rare occasions, there were the token promotions.

Half the population in now invisible (except when they want our money or votes). There was a report two years ago that one million Malaysians lived overseas, and that most were professionals. For the invisibles who are professionals, a job in the country is no longer an option, let alone one in the civil service. 50,000 students leave the country for tertiary education every year. Most don't come back. In the sixties, the best students attended the one local university. The rest went overseas. Today, the invisibles who can barely afford it would not  consider a place in a local university, even if awarded on a silver platter.

In the story Tash Aw wrote for The New York Times recently, he worried about world perceptions of Malaysia. That was washed down the drain years ago. At Silverfish Books, we often receive visitors from the US. Before they arrive they would read up about the country, including the glowing reports about 'the good Muslim nation' in the New York Times and the Washington Post. But it didn't take long after landing here for reality to sink in, and leave them shell-shocked.

The bomoh's act sort of summed up the MH370 debacle (of handling it, that is). Decades of lateral transfers, bypassed promotions, ignored seniority, solid bullet-proof glass ceilings and a million professionals overseas, has a price. The civil service is bloated with mediocrity and incompetence; a place for lifetime employment, a pension and no work. It's almost like rent-seeking. Despite everything, there are some good people still there (doing the work of ten others). But how much can they handle? The rest survive with a bodoh sombong (dumb arrogant) attitude, bullying and playing blame games. (When a school teacher can slap a deputy minister in public and get away with it, it says it all ...  you owe me a living!)

The emperor has lost all his clothes, and he stands stark naked. But will he learn anything? Unfortunately, that's not likely. After Merdeka, some ministers asked Malaysian professionals if they were ready to take over the administration. There was a resounding 'yes'. And they did a good job, too. What if we were asked that question again? Can you do the job?

Malaysia memang ta'boleh.

The invisibles (Malaysia ta'boleh)

I don't know of anyone in the book industry who is not aware of the Penguin-Random House merger. A new conglomerate called Penguin Random House (or Penguin House) has been formed and the process registering the company is (from all current knowledge) going on smoothly in all countries in the world, except Malaysia. When Penguin Books Malaysia tried to register the new company in Kuala Lumpur (they moved from PJ to KL last year) they were told that they could not use the name because they were not selling houses! They were apparently told that it was a rule that the company name must reflect their business. So instead of arguing with that ... that ... whatever ... behind the desk, they have retained the name Penguin Books Malaysia. Also, apparently, it would not have been a problem in Selangor. So, there you are.

Hilarious and ridiculous as it sound, I am not surprised. I can almost here the dialogue: (Say this in a high-pitched nasal voice that irritates like hell), "No-oo, cannoo-oot. You canno'ot use the name. After, peoples thinks you jual rumah, kan?" Can you imagine Amazon Malaysia trying to registered a company here. Are you selling water?

We have all had these experiences at 'gomen' offices. The moment you step in, you'll feel like you have swallowed a dozen sleeping pills; time will slow to a crawl and gravity will fail. And when you manage to finally speak to someone who is not knitting, or at a Tupperware party, or having a cigarette in the lift lobby, or pegi minum (out for a drink), or on kursus (on a course), who is an actual intelligent life form, you will be so delirious with joy that your spouse will become suspicious that you've been smoking something. (Happened to me.) Kafka had nothing on these people, man!

Malaysia ta'boleh

It was not always like this, though. I joined the service in the early seventies, when it was still a privilege to work in the civil service, although snide remarks about chamblem (salary) and kimblem were already circulating. (Both Tamil words.) Promotions were based on seniority, and everything seemed fair. Sometimes there were seeded players and favourites who went ahead. We tolerated that mostly. Even if you worked under someone junior to you, there was mutual respect. To be fair some deserved their out-of-turn promotions.

As we got nearer the eighties, talk of kulitfication (qualifications based on skin colour) became rampant. We resigned to being second class, and that we had to run three times faster simply to keep our place. Then it became worse. From second class, we became the invisibles. Nobody noticed us anymore. It was as though we didn't exist. Running didn't help, no matter how fast.  By the start of the nineties,  it became so strange that we would talk about who was getting promoted where as if we ourselves didn't exist! Scary, huh? In Ralph Elison's novel, the Invisible Man, was the underclass, hiding from the world, living underground, and stealing electricity. But we were top professionals at our peak.

Inevitably, many with a lower threshold for pain left; some sooner, others later. (Could this be deemed constructive dismissal?) Many went overseas. Those who remained in the service chose to grit their teeth, live in ignominy and humiliation, swallow any pride they had left for the tiny crumbs that fell off the table, and did just enough work to maintain a weak pulse before they retired. They chose a life of JM Coetzee's Disgrace. They were sometimes respected by their bosses, often decades their junior in seniority and experience. Often not. Sometimes, they were shouted at like schoolboys. (Have you seen a senior officer cry? I have.) After 20 years, it was time to leave. (On rare occasions, there were the token promotions.)

Half the population in now invisible (except when they want our money or votes). There was a report two years ago that one million Malaysians lived overseas, and that most were professionals. For the invisibles who are professionals, a job in the country is no longer an option, let alone one in the civil service. 50,000 students leave the country for tertiary education every year. Most don't come back. In the sixties, the best students attended the one local university. The rest went overseas. Today, the invisibles would not  consider a place in a local university, if awarded on a silver platter.

In the story Tash Aw wrote for The New York Times recently, he worried about world perceptions of Malaysia. That was washed down the drain years ago. At Silverfish Books, we often receive visitors from the US. Before they arrive they would read up about the country, including the glowing reports about the 'good Muslim nation' in the New York Times and the Washington Post. But it didn't take long after landing here for reality to sink in, and leave them shell-shocked.

The bomoh's act sort of summed up the MH370 debacle (of handling it, that is). Decades of lateral transfers, bypassed promotions, ignored seniority, solid bullet-proof glass ceilings and a million professionals overseas, has a price. The civil service is bloated with mediocrity and incompetence; a place for lifetime employment, a pension and no work. It's almost like rent seeking. Despite everything, there are some good people still there (doing the work of ten others). But how much can they handle? The rest survive with a bodoh sombong (dumb arrogant) attitude, bullying and playing blame games. (When a school teacher can slap a deputy minister in public and get away with it, it says it all ...  you owe me a living!)

The emperor has lost his all his clothes, and he stands stark naked. But will he learn anything? Unfortunately, that's not likely. After Merdeka, some ministers asked Malaysian professionals if they were ready to take over the administration. There was a resounding 'yes'. And they did a good job, too. What if they were asked that question again? Can you do the job?

Malaysia memang ta'boleh.

Green coconuts

We have a housekeeper (who in theory comes on designated days and times in a week, but in practice comes any time she likes) who has a 14-year-old boy and two younger children. The older boy declared to her recently, "Amma, I don't think I need to go to school any more, or study." (He is already making RM1200.00 a month tutoring younger children.) So what are you going to do, his father asked. "Give me two green coconuts and I'm good," he replied.

Hey, that's creative, I thought. And funny. March has been a horrible month with everything in it: arrogant, posturing politicians; self-promoting civil servants; gross incompetence; exhibitionism; Israeli plots; Chinese scientists' plots; Afghanistan; the wrath of God for alcohol served on board; the wrath of God for an unfair Appeal's Court verdict; birthday cakes; one-ringgit chicken, and comic relief with jugglers and clowns ... wow, like a Hollywood blockbuster, only real and better.

Malaysians are a creative lot and thank God for our sense of humour! Have you seen the spoofs and the conspiracy theories? Hilarious, aren't they? Oh by the way, reportedly, you can buy magic carpets, bamboo binoculars and fish traps for knock-down prices online, but the green coconuts are pricey. Is this a wonderful country, or what? Two coconuts, and not only do we find the missing aeroplane with its passengers (held by orang bunian, elven folk, by the way), we have also revived our sense of humour and creativity.

I can see how this could be particularly useful in writing. Of course, my magic, sugar-coated, two-a-day writing-pill business might be affected. But then again, maybe not. My prescription for a normal writing skill enhancement programme, is twenty tablets for ten days straight. (I wonder how many Shirley prescribes?) That's only for  a basic course, okay; if you want to write like Hemingway, you'll have to take eight a day and dance around like a deranged baboon under the moon for ten nights straight. (Sometimes, things can go wrong and you could end up becoming a rabid politician.)

Then again, come to think of it, two coconuts a day, for ten days, might be daunting for some people, especially if you have to swallow them whole without water. There is no scientific evidence that dancing around with two large green fruits and singing, is effective, either; although it could build muscles. From reports, I hear that these magic green coconuts are going for 1000 Ringgit each! That's quite a sum for the normal wannabe writer, but on the other hand if you want to write like Calvino ... hmm ... Certainly,     Android versions will soon come from China, flood the the market and bring down prices, although they may not be so effective and may have viruses.

Speaking of politicians, do you think it would be necessary to hoard coconuts before every general elections? Let's face it, old coconuts are formed when the green ones mature, and if the demand for the green ones go through the roof ...?! Again, thank God for China. I'm sure they will produce enough for the market, even if they have to make fake ones. Remember the synthetic eggs several years ago?

But we have to be careful about religious tensions, though. Temperatures of rhetoric could rise, particularly if party elections were to coincide with, say, Thaipusam. Who would have the first coconut option? Or, will politicians work out a new bumiputra quota, ala NEP? Then Chinese contractors will offer them to their na tuk kung, and attract long queues of horse-racing, four-digit, and one-armed bandit punters, and gamblers of all colours every Sunday. Tourists will come from all over the world to witness the offerings and ceremonies, and  pose in front of the alters for pictures. Visualise steel bunga mangga and kelapa muda poles along Jalan Palimen complete with blue festival lights. (Scary, huh?)

Two green coconuts when you're sick, when the television goes on the blink, when your computer crashes, when the plumbing leaks, when a bulb blows, when you're late for work, when you're caught in a traffic jam, when you're low on money, when you have to rob a bank, burgle a house, sleep with your neighbour's spouse ... okay, okay, I'm getting carried away.

I read a story in Wired recently about Google’s Grand Plan to Make Your Brain Irrelevant. Hey, we have already done that in Malaysia ! Can we have our Nobel Prize now, please, please, please. Our ego it at an all time low, and we need a boost.

(BTW, watch this video to see Jon Stewart rip apart CNN's coverage of MH370.)

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USA, here I come!

My visa interview was for 10.00am. I had picked that time slot to avoid the rush hour, which I did, but took  a wrong turn and went into KLCC instead. But my GPS guided me back. So it was  9.45 by the time I got to the guardhouse to the 'forbidden city', which is what most people I have asked consider the US Embassy on Jalan Tun Razak to be.

Before I could join a visible short queue, the guard on duty, Clement, asked, "What time is your interview, sir?"

"Ten."

"You can go to the counter with your documents, then," he smiled.

"Don't I have to queue?"

"For you special, sir," he grinned. I learned that the queue I saw from a distance was for entering the premises, which was after showing the guard my appointment letter.

It was a short wait before I was allowed in for security clearance: remove shoes, belt, wallet, empty pockets, etc, etc. But, again, the guards were all scrupulously polite. Then, I put them all back on and stepped into the empty courtyard of the Temple of Doom where there were chairs for me to sit on to tie my shoe laces.

I'm almost there! One more large door, and I saw another burly guard on the left, outside another door.

"Ambil nombor disini ke?" I asked redundantly to break the silence, seeing the queuematic machine.

"Ya, ya. Tekan butang merah," the guard smiled, before pointing me to the opposite side. "Ada tempat duduk disana. Sini sudah penuh." I opened the door to see a room full of people. I had seen more smiley faces at wakes and funerals!

What is it about the US Embassy that terrorises people so?! It was as if the people in the room, mostly Malaysians with a smattering of foreigners, were all uniformly afraid to even breathe in case they made too much noise and their visas were denied for that reason, or make eye contact with anyone. A man who was chatty while we were queuing outside the main gate, suddenly seemed to have turned to ice inside that room. It was the same look on all the faces, one of dread. Like in 1984, the Apple commercial. "Oh no, they're going to reject my application. They're going to reject my application." Come on people, you're going to America. Smile! Look happy!

I thought the application process was quite painless, with good instructions and a relatively easy to use website. Everyone seemed to be going out of the way to be polite and helpful, starting with Clement at the main gate. Well, almost everyone. When my number was called promptly at ten to present my documents at the main hall, the woman at the counter looked like she had had too many sour lemons for breakfast. But she was not rude, only unfriendly. Oh, people have their 'off' days, I thought to myself as I walked back to my first waiting lounge.

Not much of a lounge, actually. A large American flag behind a glass, a soundless television playing a western that nobody was watching, dull posters on the wall and a stack of magazines -- Newsweek, The Economist, The Circular, The Statesman, etc -- that were probably too old for a dentist's waiting room. I used the men's room, came back and found an empty seat. Why don't I write a story about this, I thought, and started to scribble. Then I looked up, suddenly. Do they have CCTV cameras in here? What if they ask me what I'm writing? Mild panic. Oh, what the hell.

My number was called again at a quarter to eleven for finger printing. The gentleman attending to me was sufficiently polite and professional, even if he didn't quite have the customary Malaysian friendliness we are used too. I found a seat and decide to wait in this second lounge with the, almost apologetic, framed photos of Obama, Biden and Kerry in a corner near the door, for my actual interview. Here again was the same nervousness. Everyone looked around very careful, turning slowly, making no sudden movements, not smiling, speaking in whispers -- I wanted to laugh. Oh no, what if they reject my visa?! I heard someone shush an over exuberant child behind me. "If we don't get our visa today, it will be your fault," I imagine the man scolding the boy.

My interview was at 11.15. Again it was painless, with even a small joke at the end. My visa was approved in less than two minutes, with a promise of delivery within two days to the address specified. I was smiling when I left. I saw Clement outside in the hall and we exchanged smiles. "You're here now," I said, again redundantly. "Yes, sir, no more queue outside."

Ordinarily, people like Clement would make all the difference to your experience at an new place. I have been to many embassies and high commissions, where some of the staff have been outright rude, but nowhere have I felt intimidated. The smiley security guard or the receptionist usually makes everything all right, anyway. Meet Americans outside on the streets, and they are perfectly friendly, sometimes annoyingly so, as if they feel they need to make up some perceived 'bad behaviour' by their  government. (Hey, we have heck of a lot more to apologise for our in own government, okay! We are a boob-a-day country.)

So why is the US Embassy so forbidding? I thought my visa application was sufficiently well handled. The people I met in person were professionally pleasant, a far cry from ten years ago. So why this anxiety? Is it us, or is it them? Do they know this is how the rest of us feel?

15 years of Silverfishing

"May you live in interesting times," goes the Chinese curse, and 2014 has certainly been anything but boring. The year opened with the raid by Jais on the Bible Society of Malaysia in Petaling Jaya who took off with 321 copies of the Alkitab, 10 copies of the Iban Bible -  Bup Kudus and 20 copies of Luke's Gospel in Malay, causing much indignance, belligerence and confusion in equal measure. Was this an act of high-handedness by a bunch of pocket Napoleons, or something much more sinister -- a well thought out political-chess play. Then, a deputy minister gets walloped in public. And forgives the assailant!

Then, on what I though was the bright side, the new year opened with three motorists stopping for me at a pedestrian crossing! This was in Bangsar Baru. And another lady driver let my car pass at the Maybank junction instead of creating a grid-lock. Wow, wow, wow! Then it all came to end quite abruptly when three barbarians tried to run me over at the zebra crossing 10 yards from the Bangsar Baru Police Station. (Where else?) In one case, I was already halfway across when a white car stopped and waved me on, when one of Attila the Hun's peasant sister in a red Myvi saw me crossing and immediately floored her gas peddle and sped past me! In the other two cases, too, I was already halfway across. It's no wonder that Singaporeans see us as a frontier country. (By the way, many of these barbarians are mat salleh, not just local.)

The real reason for this piece is that Silverfish Books will be celebrating our 15th anniversary this year in June. I knew it June last, of course, but it didn't hit me like a tsunami then. Approaching December it did, though. 15 years! WTF have I been doing for 15 years?!

When we opened our doors in Desa Seri Hartamas in 1999, it was probably at the worst time possible. It was just after the Asian currency crisis and the country was in deep recession. And, here I was concerned about books! I used to get my books from the UK through the Good Book Guide, or from Skoob Books. (MPH Bangsar Baru had a section labelled "For Mature Readers" -- one shelf of Penguin Popular Classics. That's how pathetic the book scene in KL was.)

Then, another tsunami struck: the mega-bookstore madness. Remember those days? There were more bookstore space in Klang Valley than in the whole of Singapore, a city of English readers with twice the population. It was a recipe for disaster. What were the bookshop owners thinking? What were the banks thinking? Only Kinokuniya played it sensibly. The rest is history.

Silverfish Books too would have been collateral damage, if we hadn't been quick on our feet. We moved into publishing, and focused our efforts on Malaysian titles in English (which, surprisingly, the chain stores  neglected). So, many of the decisions we made were based on circumstances. We were certainly affected business-wise. Like hell, we were, and we had to do some major ikat perut and managed to keep our heads above water.

In terms of retail we have a decent following of regulars (in the country and overseas -- amongst individuals, universities and libraries) for our Malaysian books in English. No other shop in the country has our collection (at least, not our back lists). Yes, we tend to be looked at as 'intellectual', but these are the people we want to engage anyway. In publishing, we dare say we're world class, with five of our books appearing on international short and long lists since 2009, and selling foreign language translation rights for a book we have not even published yet!

What happens now? We could carry on as we have in the past, plodding along. You know, after you ikat perut so long, your appetite lessens somewhat. But on the other hand, we have dreams. Our Malaysian English collection is nowhere near what we'd like to be, and we'd also like to add Malay, Chinese and Tamil books to it. So, one dream is for a truly Malaysian bookshop with a curated selection of books in all the major languages, which would attract knowledgeable customers and scholars from around the country and the world. (We are already doing that now, but it could be better organised. And probably move to a swanky shop-space.) Included in the collection would be books from other Southeast Asian countries (I prefer not to use ASEAN, because it really is a failure. All they have done so far it pose for group photographs in silly shirts.) And of course world books, meaning from Asia, Africa, Europe and the Americas.

All this means work. When you work 12 hours a day, and you are a shopkeeper-cum-publisher who translates, edits, critiques, writes, runs workshops, administers and manages a business, is the IT technician, the webmaster, and the plumber who fixes the toilets, time is often short. Still, I have never been afraid to dream. When I wanted to organise the first KL International Literary Festival in 2004, everyone else around me had palpitations, but not me. (It was scary how steely I was.) What do you have to lose from a dream, anyway? Besides the dream itself? Such journeys are always lonely, although sometimes when you meet a fantastic co-traveller, it would be like ... what? ... the Beatles at the Ed Sullivan Show?!

So, here's to, at least, another ten years of Silverfishing!!!