(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.
