I Was Stabbed and Left For Dead

Much of what I write today is influenced by Raja Petra. In fact, it is he who taught me objectivity and rationality since 2009, in a manner of putting it.

Raggie Jessy

Well composed and constructive sentences mean a great deal to me when writing just about anything other than short text messages. Everything has to be in a proper and conceivable order. But then, there remain remnants of an extremely bitter and angry young man in me, which is why some of my articles take hours, and at times, days to complete. If a story is to be told, it has to be told right. And if that means grappling with my conscience as I contemplate a valid instrument of approach, then so be it.

And that was pretty much the drill last Friday when I sat contemplating the finer nuances to my choice of words. It was a political article I was at, to be sure. Then, along came in Din, a friend I hadn’t seen since Sally met Sam. As a point in contention, I haven’t the faintest idea who Sally or Sam is. But it had been ages since I last met Din, so none of us probably remembered the names of all the people we used to hang around with. Now that should give you a fairly good idea how long I hadn’t met this guy.

Din registered his displeasure over articles I had written these past four years. According to Din, they appeared to be eccentric and moving in all directions, back and forth. “You’re seeking popularity and fame. It’s not going to work. Politics isn’t your thing, and you’re going to get hurt badly,” he said. Din added that politicians would leave me in the lurch once they feel that I’ve overstayed my welcome.

Actually, Din was right. I’m referring to the last point, of course. Politicians do leave you in the lurch, perhaps even making sure that you never regain your composure, once they feel that you’re more of a burden than a boon. I’ve experienced that first hand, so I’m sure.

But Din assumed that I had worked for politicians when he met me. He assumed that I was UMNO’s instrument of destruction insofar as the opposition was concerned. You see, Din appeared to have me figured out, just like the better half of Pakatan Rakyat cybertroopers who take a dump on my articles.

So I was left with one of two choices; either to keep silent, or to stick up for myself. I did the most honourable thing one on the horns of a dilemma could do. I stayed silent. I chose to do so because I saw no reason to be on the offensive over comments by someone who had made up his mind about me.

There was that, and of course, the quaint whisper from a darker past that told me the second most honourable thing to do; to write this article. You see, if I were seeking fame, I wouldn’t have written what you’re about to read henceforth. But here I am, telling everyone why I am what I am. And this is my story.

1. The cave

When I was 19, I had secretly written a book which is as yet unpublished, and probably will never be. The language used was pretty abominable, because I was a very angry young man. I was angry for a myriad of reasons I’m not at liberty to divulge. I had grown so comfortable with being angry that I couldn’t remember feeling any other way back then.

In my book, I described the world to be a wondrous place in a universe ‘with treasures to satiate the desires of mankind, both subtle and gross’. Mind you, that wasn’t original; I had picked it up from something I read in passing. But it sure made a lot of sense to me then as it does now. I foresaw a utopian society I had read much about, where people lived in harmony and with a clear purpose. In this society, people weren’t subjugated by a debauched capitalistic aristocracy or a corrupt government.

But how did I get to this point?

You see, there was a time in my life, when I was confronted with circumstances that pervaded my sense of right and wrong. And when such circumstances presented themselves as a cave without exit doors, I pulled back and became imprisoned in my own realm. And in this realm, my capacity to discern right from wrong meant absolutely nothing, because those around me really didn’t want to listen to me. So all I had were walls of a cave that shackled my conscience.

And when I reminisce, I can’t help thinking how Plato could have come up with his allegory of the cave. In the allegory, Plato imagined a gathering of people who faced the blank wall of a cave. These people were chained to this cave all their lives. Plato likens philosophers to these cave dwelling prisoners, who he suddenly frees from their shackles. According to Plato, these prisoners begin to comprehend realities and discern right from wrong. They begin to learn that shadows they presumed to be real people were merely dark regions made by objects that blocked light.

Back when I was 16, the allegory seemed so wrong. Perhaps Plato himself never got chained to the wall of a cave, I thought. I concluded that Plato was obsessed with material determinants insofar as his allegory was concerned. He failed to contemplate the obscurities that had to do with higher consciousness of persons who were imprisoned mentally.

So at 16 years of age, I was battling demons many twice my age probably never encountered. I grew increasingly reclusive and subdued by my thoughts day in day out. The emotional stress was overwhelming. But then, there were the occasional split second intervals where I’d begin to open up to possibilities I never thought possible.

In due time, these split second intervals progressed into hours and hours of contemplation, where I’d be consumed with thoughts of impartiality, justice and equity. And all the while, I was a bitter and angry young man.

2. In science I saw politics

When I was 19, I enrolled into the university and became acquainted with someone I thought to be as reclusive as I was. We became the best of friends, virtually clinging on to each other over a span of 14 years. For the most part, things were pretty good, as some of his better qualities rubbed off on me. You see, I was quick to learn and appreciate new and positive traits from those around me.

Most of my anger got translated into a deep sense of compassion for the oppressed and those destitute of opportunities. This was never communicated with those around me. You see, I was never accustomed to opening up over matters I held dearly, particularly those that concerned the question of justice. So when everyone else was asleep, I would wander off into my cave and begin writing.

Over the years, I never did stop writing, though nobody had a glimmer of an idea what I did when I snuck off in the wee hours of the morning to some cafe in town with my notebook. And once I was done writing a piece, there would be immense satisfaction, although none of those pieces made it anywhere beyond my notebook. To me, it was written. And that was that.

In the year 2000, I went on to write a series of articles that touched on malefaction. In these articles, I harped on Plato’s Republic. I argued how Plato had ill-defined justice by not recognizing the capacity for society to damage a man. I postulated that ‘one who may be in possession of his or her mental faculties may as yet be innocent even after having committed a heinous crime, for society has a clear and distinct role in the cognitive construct of humans, and may be to blame for one’s demeanour, however poised.’ I dedicated 60 over pages to this argument, although, I have a somewhat different view today.

In the same year, I began reading the works of Sir Isaac Newton. In particular, I began studying Principia Mathematica, a book through which Newton presented to the world the principles of calculus. You see, there are those who doubt that the findings in this book are those of Newton’s. Much of the scientific community, mostly atheists, blame Newton for exerting political pressure on scientists of his era, whose work he has since been accused of plagiarizing.

So I got down to re-examining the laws of motion. That is to say, I began where I presumed Newton had begun; the definition of mass. Six months and some 50 pages later, I arrived at the Principle of Momentum Conservation, which led me to Newton’s laws of motion. It then occurred to me, that if I could do it in six months, so could the better half of the scientific community, to which I now belong.

Anyway, I began asking myself something of an issue many others had already played up; should Newton’s laws be renamed as ‘Plank’s Laws’ or say, ‘Sullivan’s Laws’? I perceived this to be an issue of consequence, as tons of literature on the subject would require emendation. And really, the question had to do with what was right as opposed to what really mattered.

I opined that the name ‘Newton’ be consigned to the laws and not in recognition of the man himself. The question of justice concerned me to the nth degree on this issue, that so much so, I wrote a letter to the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences and the International Council for Science in the year 2001 to express my thoughts. Of course, I never anticipated a reply, although I did get one.

Be that as it may, I began to realise that scientists had thrust their aspirations on Newton’s flagpole over the span of generations. They conformed to a community that accepted these laws on an as is basis. And these scientists had but a majority representation. Hence the conclusion; it mattered to me, that the greater good of the many outweigh that of the few. And sometimes, this is right.

In a manner of speaking, science had just become very political to me.

3. Religious influence

Over the next few years, I spent hours at a time ruminating on the question of equity and justice. Along the way, I began to question the existence of a god. Was there a god? Is He but a figment of our own imagination, or perhaps, the inevitable consequence of age old fears that had to do with a colossally incredible universe? If he really did exist, then, why was there so much suffering?

One thing led to another, and before you knew it, I began to take religion as discipline through which human ancestors manoeuvred their way around their fears. They evoked the vision of a God who helped them personify the unknown. Thus, religion became nothing more than a way of life hinged on a God. These beliefs were bequeathed upon us by human ancestors through a convoluted sense of reasoning.

Put differently, I believed that our ancestors lacked the degree of intelligence required of persons who could explore the unknown without subscribing to mythology or non-scientific reasoning. In a manner of speaking, religion to me became nothing more than a way of life, which in many societies, is dominated by a faith in a God.

But over time, my convictions changed. I began to realise that one would have to make quite a leap of faith should one choose to believe in God. I concluded that I may never be able to tell if a God did or did not exist. You see, although I lacked scientific proof of His existence, I was not ready to dismiss the most elementary and valuable statement in science, the beginning of wisdom: “I do not know.” And I did not know for a fact if our ancestors had a substantively scientific means to validate His existence, one that got obscured by the passage of time.

So I had a choice to make, and I made one. I became a Buddhist for reasons best known to me, and remain one to this day. At times though, I contemplate on other theological doctrines, Islam included, because I refuse to submit to an arbitrary sense of pessimism by communal groups over each other’s religion. As a matter of fact, I despise arbitrary authority of any form.

It goes without saying, that much of what I write today is significantly influenced by an agnostic form of Buddhism.

4. The weeping in the alley

The question of human suffering began to occupy my thoughts for reasons that were not immediately obvious to me, but probably had to do with my faith in Buddhism. In 2002, I spent the wee hours of my mornings paying homage to a community many were quick to factor out from their rendition of life’s quotient. Based in Penang, I would spend time with homeless persons sleeping along the five-foot walkways at Komtar, giving them food and discussing life.

It became distressing to know that our society is structured on nothing but capitalistic and materialistic values, and that the homeless were often scorned by the man on the street for not having a place to call home.

For years, I ventured into dark alleys around town, particularly along Lebuh Chulia and proximal territories. Occasionally, I would meet drug addicts high on substance and sprawled all over a stairway or a nook. They barely knew I was beside them, while those who did would tell me tales of a life so wretched that I’d just sit there and listen. And that’s all I did. Listen. You see, I did not want them to be shackled by their own conscience like I once was. I would be immensely contented when my mere presence seemed to take the world off their chests.

Sometimes, I would venture along Campbell Street or Lorong Gaharu. There, I would ask the ‘bohsia’ or ‘pondan’ how much they made an hour. Usually, they would tell me that an hour was worth RM100. And every now and then, I would pay the bohsia or pondan RM100 and proceed to take them for a decent meal at Kayu Nasi Kandar, which was not too far off Lebuh Campbell. I would sit and listen to grim tales of rape or abuse that took place in their early years. Before departing, I would leave them each a packet of condoms. Back then, you would find many boxes of condoms in the glove compartment of my car.

There was a particular instance where I met a middle aged Chinese chap up by a doorway at Komtar. It was three in the morning, and this guy had gently tucked himself to sleep under a ragged blanket, using a bag filled with documents as a pillow. My presence woke him up, and before long, we had engaged in a very consuming conversation. His command of the language was notches beyond par, that so much so, he would cut me off occasionally to correct my grammar. I soon learnt that he was a Masters graduate from a very distinguished university abroad, a fact he corroborated with scrolls plucked from his bag. It was depression that led him to alcoholism, a disease he claimed he wasn’t able to conquer. I just sat there crying right in front of him.

On the streets, I confronted demons spawned off the very debauched and capitalistic government I spoke of earlier. I have my reasons for linking capitalism and corruption to the sufferings I witnessed over the years. Withal, what I saw pissed me off.

5. I was stabbed and left for dead

Everything began to change in 2003. I felt that the time was about right to share my views with a people. But I was not ready to expose myself as a writer just yet. So I began to write political articles under various pseudonyms.

I wrote hundreds of short articles under those pseudonyms over the span of eight years. For the most part, these articles would end up in blogs run by others, sometimes under their names. And every now and then, a certain blogger from abroad would pick some of my articles up, particularly those on constitutions of capitalism and debauched democracies.

I began concerning myself with Anwar and DAP. I started a shadow movement known as ‘Justice for All’, which deliberated on the opposition pact whenever we met. To cut a long story short, we prognosticated the downfall of Barisan Nasional in the fullness of time should Mahathir relinquish his Premiership and Anwar be liberated.

You see, I knew that UMNO’s goose would get cooked one way or the other as I anticipated Anwar’s eventual release under Abdullah’s leadership. As far as I was concerned, UMNO was the last legion left standing for the Malays, who would succumb under DAP’s chauvinist and communally egocentric ways. It was plain obvious to me that DAP lingered right under MCA’s nose in sheep clothing. But then, MCA had too much of a bloodied nose to give a hoot about Kit Siang.

Hence I started a campaign to raise awareness among the Malays of an impending split should they ignore the perils of an Opposition pact (then Barisan Alternative, which was disbanded in 2004) with DAP in it and Anwar in the driver’s seat. Members of ‘Justice for All’ would help distribute short articles I wrote to grassroots at PKR and PAS gatherings. Not just in Penang, but in Perak, Selangor and Kedah as well. Just for the record, my articles were writen in Malay and there were just seven of us.

One night around Island Glades in Penang, I was stabbed in a surprise attack along a row of shop lots. The area was open, well lit and moderately populated. The assailant appeared to be a Malay youth, who took aim at my neck with a knife that was about six inches long. The whole six inches impaled my hand between the index and middle fingers as I held it out reflexively. Now, I knew that the knife had severed an artery near the wrist, and began to feel faint as blood just gushed out and formed a pool right where I stood. And then, I collapsed.

I managed to crawl into my car and head for a friend’s house, which was just around the corner. I felt the life being drained out of me as I was rushed to Penang’s Island Hospital. A microsurgery was performed on me the same night, while a police report was lodged at the Balai Polis in Jelutong the next day. I was told that I may never get to use the hand again.

Now, in no way am I implying a connection between the attack and the anti-Anwar campaign. It could well be a coincidence, and isn’t the object of my article. That said, the assailant was never apprehended, although, I’m pretty sure he knew who I was. You see, just before he walked away as I lay sprawled on the road, I could have sworn that he called out my name by the pseudonym I had used. But perhaps, it was just a figment of my imagination. You see, when death stares you in the face, your mind is bound to play tricks on you. I’m well aware of that.

That said, all I intended to do was to prevent a split among the Malays, who I felt were being lured into a cave both Anwar and Kit Siang seemed to be waiting in with chains. You might find this hard to believe, but it’s the truth.

6. The years after

The writing never stopped.

In 2008, I wrote a series of articles on ‘the streets of Penang’ that were never published. In these articles, I expanded on my experience with the Penang gay scene, with particular emphasis on counselling sessions I organised for gays who felt depressed and forsaken.

In the same year, I wrote a series of scathing articles against the late Karpal Singh, one of them being “The Wandering Tiger of Jelutong”. I stand by every word I wrote to this day. Yet, I regretted writing the article so much, that when Karpal died, I walked straight up to Gobind during the wake and apologized for having written against his dad. I told Gobind that my political slant should not necessarily translate into my deportment as a fellow human, or something to that effect. And all Gobind did was hold my hand with great warmth and tell me that all was forgiven.

Writing wasn’t just a means of expression for me, but an instrument towards redemption and vindication. Actually, it was pretty much how I communicated with my inner self. That said, much of what I write today is influenced by Raja Petra. In fact, it is he who taught me objectivity and rationality since 2009, in a manner of putting it.

I spent most of my life writing under the very nostrils of those who were close to me. Yet, they knew nothing of it, because what I write is never communicated with another in person. In fact, it pisses me off when people try and discuss my articles with me, give and take a select few. But as you can see, I have been political in every sense of the word since I was 16.

But then, we have self acclaimed pundits like Din who think they have me figured out. So Din, here I am, doing the next most honourable thing, which is to tell you this: “Go f*** yourself.”