“Warp Speed, Tok Hwa”

We drove around Georgetown to check out the enchanting and fascinating Penang street arts and wall paintings by Lithuanian artist Ernest Zacharevic. One of my favourites, the one which captivated me most was the “Little Children on a Bicycle” at Armenian Street.

The bicycle reminded me of our Black Beauty, and the two kids my late brother, Tok Hwa, and I. The expressions of the boy, both excited and scared, were the very feelings I experienced and Tok Hwa as confident each time we rode our Black Beauty, “Warp speed”. Fond memories, and one painful, very painful one would flood back each time I gazed upon that drawing.

Tok Hwa will always be in my heart even after going into the night some four decades ago. He was the gentlest of souls in my life. We grew up together. We did many things together. We shared many mischievous adventures together. We laughed and cried together. We were never separated, inseparable. And, he never raised his voice in anger at me, never.

We shared the same pet cockerel, a mighty fearsome beast indeed. It wandered freely in our home coffeeshop, Chip Seng, amongst the tables and chairs, and feet of customers, pecking on any exposed toes as grubs, and occasionally even cats as intruders. Whilst others reared pet dogs we were happy with our pet guard cockerel, and alarm clock.

How could I forget our first “Harley” tricycle. We pedalled everywhere together. Tok Hwa provided the pedal power from the back seat while I piloted. We would weave around pedestrians and shoppers, honking and screaming frantically for our right of way along the 5-foot way of Jalan Dewa Highway.  We were as swift and as noisy as any true blue “Harleys”. We were a damn cool looking pair even without leather jackets and boots.

Only at nightfall with no traffic on the road were we were allowed ride on the real road, Jalan Petri, our highway, only in the quiet of night, and always under the watchful eyes of mum. We were still very young then, and knew not and cared not for any dangers lurking on the road. We were as carefree and born free as any younglings. We lived only to play. O what thrill, what excitement, such unforgettable fun we enjoyed together.

I owed Tok Hwa my life. His calm resolute countenance saved me from the watery night at Kapitol Theatre when I almost drowned in one of the foundation pits that fateful day. Yes, I still remembered his face vividly till today, the face that saved me, and gave me a second chance to life. Superstitious ones claimed that I was saved from the malevolent water spirit, still prowling unsatisfied till today.

We went to the same school, St. Theresa Primary whilst the rest of our brothers Ibrahim Primary. We travelled by trishaw until we were old enough to buy our very own 2^nd hand bicycle. He cycled whilst I was only passenger and bags bearer. We had to save our pocket money just to buy that bicycle. We painted her mighty black, Black Beauty, we fondly named her. We cleaned her, shined her, polished her, oiled her and kept the tyres fully inflated. Black Beauty was our pride and joy. We rode to school mighty proud indeed.

One fateful morning, we woke up late for school. He complained that he was still feverish. I could not wait, so I walked to school. He said he will catch up in a bit. Unbeknown, that morning would be the last morning, and those words would be last I would ever hear from him. I would not have a chance to say goodbye. He did not turned up at school. I searched for him during recess. I was frantic and worried.

I rushed home after school quick time. I was still panting, adrenaline charged, when I reached home. I saw Mum’s troubled and worried countenance. I immediately knew something dreadful had happened to my brother. I asked for his where about for I did not see him at school. I received only a silent teary reply. Tears began to swell in my eyes. I held Mum’s hands. They were trembling and cold.

I pled for an answer. I could see Mum was trying hard to control herself but her eyes were welling over. She bent down and hugged me tightly, and whispered haltingly that she would fetch me to the hospital later that evening. I was horrified at the mention of hospital. My brother was quite fine in the morning when I left him. All he needed was a Panadol or two. Why was he in the hospital? My mind was confused, my emotion amok-ed. Then I understood my mum’s grief.

Barely audible, Mum whispered that they found Tok Hwa lying unconscious next to our overturned Black Beauty. He was already in uniform with his school bag. How long he was unconscious, no one knew. They quickly sent him to the hospital. He was in fits, in seizures, unconscious delirium by the time he was warded into the hospital. His prognosis was bleak. I was to find out some years later it was that wretched Meningitis that took my brother away. I was in shock.

I cried that evening when I saw Tok Hwa from outside the ward. I was still not of age to be allowed into the ward. I wished I could go in, to be with him, to hold him, to hug him, to share his pain and to whisper to him not to give up. I just want to be near him. I still had so many things to say and share. I could only hold my mum’s hand ever so tightly as I cried my heart out silently. I was desperate. I wanted a miracle. I wanted my brother back.

Heaven was ominously silent that day. My brother went into the night the following dawn. I was awoken that morn into grief and sorrow. My heart almost stopped when I heard of his passing. So sudden, so fast, I had not said my goodbye yet. I closed my eyes tight and tried to wish the nightmare away. The wailings that morning jolted me, and my nightmare was not a bad dream, and heaven was indeed silent.

We hurried to the hospital to fetch my brother home, or so I hoped. However, traditions dictated that he should not be allowed to come home for fear that his soul might linger on and not leave. So cruel, so cold and so heartless were the traditions.

I managed to wriggle myself beside my brother’s body as they were dressing him up. I wiped away a streak of tears from his eye. I bade farewell. I tried to pry open his already cold and rigid fingers. I wanted to hold him. I willed him to open his eyes. I wished for him to wake up and come home, a miracle. “O please God, where are you?”

We were asked to turn our backs to him as they encoffined him. Again, traditions dictated so that he would not be encouraged to follow us home, again so cruel so cold and so heartless. He was to be immediately buried, no fuss, no wake, no in case he miraculously wakes up. Again, that damned cruel, cold and heartless traditions, and my parents were not allowed to say their final goodbye. Damn those traditions.

I was inconsolable for almost two weeks. I cried each time I thought of him for I missed him dearly. Mum’s grief was worse and deeper. Part of her died that day. Time, only time, began to heal our grieving hearts, and we slowly picked up our lives. In a blink, four decades had gone by, and I still vividly remember those fond memories of my “bestest” and dearest brother, and still feel the pain of his sudden passing, too early, too young.

Memories of Love

“Memories of Love” is indeed a tribute to a mother…or my mother….or rather my supermum, and a testament of her labour of love. Mum was married to dad at a tender age of 17 into a life of hardship, being the “tar sow” in my dad’s extended family and soon her own large family.

She experienced motherhood early with the arrival of her firstborn a year later. Other than bringing us up, i.e. nurturing, admonishing, cooking, washing (mind you, hand wash no washing machine then), sewing etc, mum had to take care of the coffee shop (Chip Seng, Tai Teong & Lam Seng) daily from 6 am-12am without annual leave or medical leave, and yes no salary too, always digging deep to find inner strength and resolve to face the following day.

Many would have given up, no shame in that, but not mum. Never once had I heard her complained, not to mention attempted to escape through divorce to pursue her own interest, further attesting to her tenacity, giving special meaning to the phrase “action speaks louder than words”. Mum had remained steadfast and strived daily to provide to her best ability for her 10 children regardless of her personal needs.

Not a mum with many words, she was a mum overflowing with love through actions, making sure that we, her children, were well-clothed & well-fed like any Foochow princes & princesses. Our present size sums it all. Who we are today is the proud fruit of her lifelong labour of love.

Mum was the iron chef of all iron chefs. Iron chefs needed the freshest ingredients and best cooking utensils, whilst mum could whip up a feast for her fussy brood using only leftovers and her ever faithful rice cooker (yes, you can cook even curry using one). One of our favourites would be “nasi tomato with mutton kurma left overnight” and of course, the ever versatile Foochow “ang chow” not “eng cheow”.

Always the last to eat, and most of the time eating leftovers that would need a miracle of biblical proportion even for iron chefs, sadly had taken their toll on her health after all the years.

If my memory served me correctly, mum’s saddest moment would be the loss of her son, Tok Hwa, my older brother & best friend (we went to ST.Theresa whilst the rest of the boys Ibrahim) in 1974, the same year my youngest brother, Eng Cheow, was born. I must say her happiest moment would have to be the few months she spent in Australia, only time she travelled overseas, for my eldest brother’s graduation, and of course, my richest childhood experience, literally as I kept all the rental income after household expenses.

Mum’s most recent joy would be the birth of her 20th grandchild, Annabelle, one day before her heaven bound journey. Mum also made sure her youngest daughter, Grace, had a chance to say goodbye 1 hour before deciding to go home to the Lord. Mum’s only failing would have to be her failure to push her children hard enough to converse in Foochow, whilst her finest hour was when she invited Jesus to be her Lord & Saviour, and the joy of worshipping Him regularly at Sg Petani Lighthouse and Kota Bharu Revival City Church.

If I can hear her whisper today, I believe it would be her hope and desire to meet her children, her sons & daughters-in-law, and her children’s children, and relatives and friends in heaven one day.

If I can sum up mum’s legacy, it would be Faith, Family, and of course, good Food. Thanks mum, and till we meet again, we love you.

(As eulogized by Tok How on 14 May 2007)

I did not go into the watery night…

We gathered at our usual playground which was a construction site for the new “Kapitol” cinema. Back then in the late 60s, designated playgrounds were unheard of. We made do with whatever available within 50m radius of our homes, our world, our universe then. We led a carefree life. We played as if there was no tomorrow or until the growls in our stomach were unbearable or when summoned by our parents waving the cane at dusk.

Play was the only agenda on our young innocent minds. Pre-schooling was an unknown concept. We lived to play! We ran around neighbourhood, climbed trees and jumped from scaffoldings with an agility of macaques. Cuts, scratches and abrasions were common, earning some bragging rights the next day as battle scars when salved over with the purplish Gentian Violet war paint. For the more serious injuries, just apply the infamous white “Lark Kow Sar” or 693 in Hokkien powder, now banned for containing the poisonous arsenic.

We fashioned tools & weapons of war from the mud excavated, built sand castles on the sand mound, played “police & thieves” and even dared one another to jump off the 2^nd floor onto the sand or aggregate mound below. Yes, we were already stuntmen before Jackie Chan. The record set with no injury was a jump from the 3^rd floor. I may be brave but not that dumb to attempt such feat.  At times, we mischievously threw pebbles onto the neighbouring townhouses and ran for cover once hollering started.

One of the more memorable games was defending our imaginary castle. We defended our castle with our lives. Spare no quarters, expect none. Sticks served as swords and halberds, and mud balls as stone missiles against imaginary attacks by imaginary foes. Our vocal cords provided the sound effect of fearsome battles. Bravery & cowardice, death & injuries, shouts & screams, victories & yes always victories were as real as epic battles of old. Victories were always on our side since we were the authors of our imaginary battles.

No celebrations for hard battles fought and won even imaginary ones. Images of victory quickly receded and faded on time, every time, at dinner time. We were usually welcomed and honoured with 2-3 stripes on our buttocks for muddying our pants & cloths, which we took in great stride as battle scars. Our thoughts were already on another epic battle tomorrow.

Our castle was always protected by moats filled with water. Pits excavated for foundation which were perpetually filled with water due to high ground table, served as moats around our imaginary castle. Quite an imagination for pre-schoolers, I must admit.

During the heat of the final battle, I slipped and fell into one of the moats when avoiding an imaginary arrow aimed straight at my heart. I however splashed into not an imaginary pit filled with muddy water. I did not know how to float much less swim. My feet could not touch the bottom. I struggled and splashed about to stay afloat. I was in trouble. I was gasping for air and had drunk a lot of mud water, I was drowning. I was fast fading into the dark watery night.

It was at that moment, as if by some divine providence that I saw the face of my brother amongst our petrified and helpless friends, his face calm and resolute pleading me not to give up.  As if fortified by his will, I propelled myself one last time. I managed to grab onto a protruding reinforcement bar. I summoned every last ounce of my fast receding strength to pull myself out of the watery pit. The air never tasted so fresh, so alive.

I survived but fell feverishly sick for weeks. Western medicine proved ineffective. Some ritual prayers and burnt offerings at the pit by my grandma to appease some watery spirits broke my fever. Thereafter, we abruptly abandoned our imaginary castle to ruin. Actually, all the pits were refilled after the foundations were constructed and the floor slab was cast over them. We were warned not to provoke the malevolent spirits still prowling there unsatisfied after I escaped from their deathly grip. The place was haunted, and so I was told.

My family moved the following year, and my near death experience was soon a distant memory. I did not fell into a cesspool as rumoured by many but a foundation pit. Anyway, over 44 years have gone by, Kapitol had seen her glory days and still stands today not as a cinema though. I can still remember vividly the calm and resolute face of my late brother that fateful day. He saved me. Did he save me to give up his a few years later, I wondered? He gave me a second lease to live, I guessed. I pondered why?

Those fond memories flooded back recently when I stood in Merdeka Stadium on 12 Jan 2013 together with 60,000 of my fellow Malaysians. I chuckled but momentarily turned solemn. We were no longer making an imaginary stand or imaginary fight against imaginary foes. We were making our stand to fight for real freedom, justice and equality for our beloved “Tanah Air”, Malaysia. Now, I understood why I did not go into the night that fateful day. I had an appointment with destiny.

Operation Vespa

 

 

Unbeknownst, the occupying force had established a beachhead. They immediately set out to fortifying their position and living of the fats of the land. The defence perimeter was completed in no time. Foraging parties were sent out constantly to feed the growing force. Storage rooms and bunks were enlarged. They operated below the radar for so long.

The buzz of activities around the fortification could not go on unnoticed indefinitely. No sooner than expected, their buzz attracted attention which trailed back to their almost completed fortification. What an impregnable sight to behold. Further, they were armed to the teeth and were under strict orders to defend the fortification till the last man standing. Spare no quarters and expect none. There was a sense of invincibility in the air.

The clarion call to arms was sounded throughout the kingdom. An assault plan was immediately conceived to evict the occupying force. “Know your enemy, know yourself. A thousand battles, a thousand victories”, were the advice of a sage of long ago. No frontal assault with overwhelming force. The potential damage and casualties were unacceptable.

Guerrilla tactic of “hit and run” to soften and weaken the occupying force was wisely adopted. No shame. No heroic. Only total annihilation of the enemy mattered. Victory, yes only victory not at all cost but at minimal or no cost. The victory shall be celebrated to posterity.

Scaling ladders, incendiaries and brave men-of-war were assembled. Strike in the dead of night when attacks were least expected and when enemy was sound asleep. Strike hard like fire, retreat like the wind and disappear like ghost. Let not the enemy savour any kills. Strike and strike relentlessly until the enemy lived in fear of their own shadows, and lose their will to fight to even consider desertion an option. To stir up their primal urge to live even at the penalty of death upon discovery or capture.

When the remnants cowered behind the safety of their walls, strike hard with all weapons available and retreat as fast to let them to perish from injuries, fear and disease. One final assault when none could be mustered to defend. Take no prisoners and spare none, even the wounded. Consider it mercy to end their sufferings and misery.

Destroy their fortification. Leave their dead to the scavengers. Leave no traces of their defilement. Cleanse our land, our home. Make safe our home for our family. Lesser banded hornets be forewarned for such fate awaits all intruders.

Why I Chose Not To Attend Black 505

All Blacks, I meant New Zealand All Blacks may be my favourite team of my favourite game, rugby, but Black 505 is surely not my theme. Don’t get me wrong. Before some of you go ballistic and scream blue murder, let me say I am a rugby player and fan, I am also pro-Rakyat, and at this juncture pro-PR, and I was passionately involved in rugby during my younger days as now in both PACA and Bersih Pemantau. I walked the talk, and so earned my right to talk, and know what to talk, so can now talk.

When the clarion call to gather at Kelana Jaya Stadium was resounded deafeningly, many asked me whether I was going to pack my Bersih Kit (salt, water & towel), tie my bandana and jump onto the next available bus en route to Kelana Jaya. To jump into the fray one more time as they were very eager to attend and make the stand, and most were hoping for some action and experience being tear-gassed, I guessed.

Yes, it would definitely be exciting, electrifying and exhilarating to stand together with thousands, hundreds of thousands, for a noble cause. I was there at Bersih 3.0 or 428 when we faced off tyranny. And we were tear-gassed by the very people who swore an oath to protect us.  I was there too at HKR112. However, this time around my heart just said no. Ergo, to their surprise, I said no, not this time, and please allow me to explain. No, I was no coward.

Politics, like any adversarial and competitive arenas in life like sports, litigations, businesses and even battles, have a certain set of rules of engagement that must be observed by all contestants. Victory would only be honourably sweet and gloriously celebrated if contestants played by the rules, and win. Otherwise, the victory would ring hollow, debased. Malaysia’s GE13 was no exception.

Now, you know why I preferred rugby to the most popular soccer. Rugby no doubt is a very physical and violent sport, a hooligan’s sport many would say, but it is always played by gentlemen and always by the rules. Victory hard won is more exhilarating and surely more honourable and glorious, and injuries, if any, are few and far between. Rugby men are civilised gentlemen.

GE13 results have been officially announced, and the incumbent BN has been declared the victor, winning 133 out of 222 Parliamentary seats on the back of 47.38% popular votes. In reality, BN actually lost much ground by the number of seats and popular votes. But for the “mis-apportionment of constituencies” or gerrymandering, under the one man one vote proportional representation system, BN should have been relegated as the opposition whilst PR declared the victor by securing 50.87% of the popular votes. The much anticipated “UBAH” victory was just the bridge too far.

BN’s victory, albeit rather bitter and hollow, was still a victory no doubt. Gerrymandering however unfair and inequitable is not fraud. It is part of the rules of engagements which cuts both ways for both candidates. Clearly, PR, more specifically PKR and PAS, have failed to win in those smaller constituencies. By crying electoral fraud, PR has lost the moral high ground, and was seen as a sore loser. I may be too idealistic for there may be no moral high ground in politics, in the first place. Sigh. Anyhow, accusing the Chinese for the “Tsunami”, more like a ripple, BN on the other hand was seen as a sore winner. Again, I may be too idealistic for Najib was just looking for a convenient bogeyman, political misdirection, uttered for UMNO’s gallery. Sigh.

Bersih stands for a clean, fair and free election. Bersih fights to stir the conscience of the populace. Bersih champions her noble cause to awaken and empower the populace. Bersih battles to convince the hearts and minds of the populace. Bersih is not politics but about the rules of engagement in politics.

Hence, allegations of electoral fraud should be channelled through the appropriate institutions, i.e. Courts of Law. However, tainted they may be or perceived to be such, those institutions are all we have at the moment. Street rallies or demonstrations, even in a stadium, albeit have been Bersih’s ways but not the way to go this time around.

Strategically, such rallies are doomed to fail, as momentum fizzles out quickly, message lost, incurring only public condemnations at the end. Once again, I may be too idealistic about Bersih or innocently too trusting on system to work. Anyhow, that was basically why I decided not to attend Black 505 at Kelana Jaya Stadium. We are better men, aren’t we?

We have fought a good fight, almost. We did indeed fight passionately for the hearts and minds of our fellow Malaysians. We fought despite overwhelming onslaught. We fought hard on all fronts. We fought feverishly against temptations of mammon. We fought steadfastly for a cause, a noble one. We fought for a better Malaysia, for all Malaysians regardless of race, religion, language or status. We fought against corruption, racism and bigotry. We did send BN endorsed Perkasa infamous racist and bigot twin candidates into the foul abyss of political oblivion. We did echo a resounding no to money politics and Penang Pesta Galore did come to a nought.

We have finished the race, almost. We have been awakened. We have been empowered. We came home and out in droves to vote, over 84% mind you. We have already sent the message to those who walk on the corridors of power, deafeningly loud and crystal clear. Not “Chinese Tsunami” or “Malay Greed” or DAP’s lie, bollocks. Neither sorcery nor boggarts, but just plain money politics and gerrymandering. BN’s victory was neither ethically right nor morally sweet. And please spare us your stupid racial misdirection, for we are no longer stupid, no longer fearful, we are truly Malaysians.

We have kept our faith, almost. We have got to keep our faith in the sanctity of Constitution. We have got to keep our faith in the reformation of the System of Government, the reinstatement of the checks and balance amongst the four pillars of Government, the Agong, the Executive, the Parliament and the Judiciary. We have got to keep our faith that our angry song will not be silenced, anymore. Our angry song will be heeded, surely.

We have not wavered. We must not waver. We will overcome. We will most definitely prevail one day. GE13 is already over. Politics should be put on the backburner. It is time for our country to move on, our nation to heal, to reconcile, to unite and to forge ahead, and together to build a better future for all Malaysians.

Viva Malaysians. Viva Malaysia.

My GE13 PACA Experience

Well, my country’s 13^th General Election is over, and the results have been officially announced. The incumbent BN coalition won 133 Parliamentary seats on 5.2m votes or 47.38% of votes against PR 89 seats on 5.6m votes or 50.87%. State wise, BN won 270 seats against PR 230.

I thought PR have done remarkably well, adding 7 Parliamentary Seats and 71 State Seats, albeit losing the State of Kedah marginally. I could understand the disappointment but could not accept the angry cry of fraud. It was not fraud, or even “Chinese Tsunami”, bollocks. It was just gerrymandering.  It has been the rule of the game so to say. Remember, gerrymandering cut both ways. PR, specifically PKR and PAS, just failed to prevail in those small constituencies. That’s all.

Immediate uproar, accusations of electoral fraud, vote buying and phantom voters or blackouts or last minute discovery of ballot boxes and rumour mills firing all pistons, so on and so forth were again bollocks. I find them hard to believe, and I will explain why.

Prior to the onset of election, I made it a point to attend as many PACABA (Polling Agent, Counting Agent & Barong Agent) trainings as possible. In fact, I attended six. I even attended three Bersih Pemantau briefings on the same matter. I guessed I was either too thick to understand or the trainings/briefings were too confusing for a layman like me or maybe the trainers were just excitedly confused. Anyway, I asked many questions to clarify, admittedly some direct and some confrontational, as I find many of the “horror” experiences shared were highly unbelievable, mere hearsays and nothing personal, and sounded more like coffeeshop talks.

Anyhow, I signed up as a Bersih Pemantau and also a PACA despite the confusion, for the first hand experience, and to walk the talk so to say.

The final briefing the night before election added only to the confusion. We were advised on designated our Polling Station (Saluran), handed our authorisation tags including appointment & secrecy letters and PACA kit (electoral voters list, forms, rules & regulations, pen, pencils, rulers, eraser and torchlight, yes torchlight in case of blackout). Ready or not, we were given the necessary equipment and pointed to the right direction, and off we went, bewildered. I slept restlessly that night in bated breath and anticipation.

Somehow, I managed to arrive early to report at our Barung outside the Polling Station, at my primary school (SK St Theresa) and I was the only one there. I could not wait, and I took a deep breath to calm the butterfly in my stomach, put on a brave front & confident face and set forth into the Polling Station. It felt like home coming onto familiar ground, a bit overcrowded though with concrete structures after almost 4 decades.

I was not too early for the Presiding Officer was already busy making preparations, setting out the polling room, recording the serial numbers of the ballot papers, filling out the various forms (Form 13 in particular). I politely made the introduction, and handed in my appointment & secrecy letters. I verified my copy of the voters list with his official copy. I requested for a sample of the official stamp. I recorded the serial numbers of the ballot papers on the Form 13.

The Presiding Officer then sealed the transparent and empty ballot boxes in my presence, and I countersigned on the seals. He handed the voters list with a ruler and pencil to Clerk 1, indelible ink to Clerk 2, ballot papers & official stamp to Clerk 3 and a ruler to Clerk 4. The ritual was part of the control procedures, and we were ready. The PACA for the other candidate turned up just before the Polling Station was opened. And yes, we had to make sure the Polling Station was free of any Party logo or signs.

At 8 am sharp, voters began to stream in the earnest. Clerk 1 would check that the voter’s finger had not been marked with the indelible ink, check the identification card against the voters list, read aloud the voter’s number for PA to record to track the voters’ turnout. She would then read aloud the voter’s I/C number and name for PA to verify before cancelling the name from her voters list, and likewise PA from their voters list.

The PA for the other candidate, there were two of them, one for recording on a booklet and one for cancelling voters on the voters list, and I had to feverishly multitask. One of them joked that I looked like I was working for Airasia. They were shocked when I replied that at least Airasia pays, whilst I was out of pocket just to volunteer. They were on the other hand paid RM$70 allowance each.

I was gratefully to be relieved at 10am by my PA2. I had to hand over a copy of the voters’ turnout to our Barung for tracking and record. Even I needed to cast my vote, right.

My missus and my eldest son came to fetch me, and we went to our Polling Station mighty proud. We were voting for the 1^st time. We went back to my old school (SMK Ibrahim), and queued to verify our voting status at that EC Barung. Lo & behold, we were duly informed by the EC Barung clerk that we were in the wrong Polling Station. We were supposed to be in the primary school (SK Ibrahim) next door. Sigh, it was a hot and humid afternoon.

While I was grumbling silently to myself for such a silly mistake, an Indian lady asked the EC clerk where she could claim for transport. She was asked to approach the BN Barung outside the Polling Station. I met a fellow Bersih Pemantau outside and told him to check the incident out.

We walked over to our Polling Station, checked our names against the voters list, issued a Saluran ticket, had our left index finger inked indelibly and voted. It was swift for we had made up our mind long ago. I bumped into another fellow Bersih Pemantau and informed him about the earlier incident. Apparently, he had already followed up and found the whereabout to make such claims, i.e. at UMNO Building (Cawangan Merbok) along Jalan Ibrahim. He was from another town, and I offered to fetch him there to witness and record the whole affair.

I advised him to remove his Pemantau vest for he would stand out like a magnet for trouble in such volatile situations. I must say, he was quite fearless but a bit foolish, to wade immediately into the long crowded queue to observe, record and interview. I took some photographs from across the road.

I lost the sight of him for awhile. I went to look for him, to extract him in necessary. Thankfully, nothing untoward happened. So it was true that money were paid disguised as transport claims. Some would scream vote buying. Anyway, we sent him back to his post at the Polling Station, and I went home to rest. I tried to file my report online at PRU13.INFO but to no avail, so I just pasted instead on my FB. I bathed and the indelible ink was indelible no more. Sigh, so much hype for the 7-day indelible ink.

After a short power nap, I went back to relieve my fellow PA at 4pm. She was very relieved to see me. Morning voters’ torrent was now a trickle, only 6 voters during the last hour. The Presiding Officer closed the Polling Station at 5pm sharp. He immediately sealed the ballot boxes, and we countersigned on the seal. He then collected back all unused ballot papers and stationery from his Clerks. We counted and recorded the number of ballot papers issued, used and balance unused on the Form 13. Once our tally was in order we countersigned the Form 13. For the record, 439 turned up to vote from 626 on the voters list. He gave each of us a copy of Form 13 for record.

We procedurally left the ballot boxes in the locked Polling Station for 30 minutes. I stood guard outside like a hawk leaving no rooms for any misadventure or magic, just in case those “horror” stories were true. I did not even go for my toilet break. Luckily, my bladder was voluminous enough. A slight digression, the oldest voter who actually turned up to vote was 99 years old. The oldest person listed on the voters list was 101. I was told he died some 30 years ago in India. No wonder Bersih wanted EC to clean the electoral roll.

The Presiding Officer opened the Station at 5.40pm. We changed our PA tags for CA tags for we were now Counting Agents. EC staff immediately set about some housekeeping to set the room for counting. We discussed and agreed that smudges on the ballot papers from the indelible ink should be discounted and not quickly deemed as spoilt votes for there were many senior citizens and the ink did not dry up as fast.

The ballot box for State was opened first. The ballot papers were initially bundled in tens, then in hundreds for easy preliminary tally count. Legacy procedure when calculators were rocket science. We would record and verify against the figure on Form 13. Once nothing was amiss, or all ballot papers accounted for, the Clerk would open each ballot paper, read aloud the party voted and place the paper into the respective party’s tray, always under the watchful eyes of the CAs. In the event of doubt, the ballot concerned would be placed into the “Ragu” tray for later determination. Spoilt votes were placed into the “Rosak” tray. We would tally each vote as they were being read and placed into the respective tray.

Once the sorting process was done, we would determine the doubtful votes using the EC Guidelines, and placed them into the appropriate trays. Once completed, the Clerks would start bundling again in tens, then in hundreds for each party’s tray. We would check the count against our tally. Once agreed, the Presiding Officer would record the votes tally against each candidate/party (in the same order as they appear on the ballot paper) including spoilt votes on Form 14. We, CAs, would countersign on this very important and crucial Form 14. We were given a copy for record.

The counting process would then be repeated for ballot papers for Parliament. The process was intentionally protracted and tediously slow with checks at various stages to ensure all ballot papers and votes were accounted for, no sudden or magical or mystical phantom votes. Well, it took us almost 3 hours just to verify, sort and count 439 votes each for State and Parliament.

We would start to SMS the results to our Party’s Central Office to keep tab on the vote tally as the counting progressed. Expectations waxed and waned, sentiments flared usually due to misconstrued trend from early unofficial tally figures. Remember, voters are as parochial and national as Democracy is divisive.

Once counting for State and Parliament were completed, Form 14 properly signed, the Presiding Officer would keep and seal all documents, ballot papers, stationery etc into envelopes and place them into the ballot boxes. The boxes were then secured and bagged for transport to the Central Counting Station for safekeeping. Here again, many have misunderstood them as postal votes, and setting rumour mills afire. Stopping cars with ballot bags to stop fraud from phantom or postal votes would sound rather simplistic. Why bother when EC could easily and malevolently forged Form 14, right. Blackouts at Central Counting Station would serve no magical purpose.

We, CAs, were each given a copy of the Form 14 which I immediately handed to our Party’s office together with the PACA kit, and my small participation in GE13 done. Did I say our Party? My apologies, I am no Party member, it is my friend’s Party and I was merely helping a candidate friend. Nevertheless, I have earned my bragging rights.

In closing, I wish to register my sincerest appreciation and gratitude to Mr Jaafar bin Othman (the Presiding Officer) and his team at SK St Theresa Polling Station for a job well done. They were very helpful, cordial and professional.