You Remember You Strong (Edisi Madani)

 

On 2 December 2022, the PM of the self-styled unity government, otherwise known as PMX, announced the appointment of Dato Seri Ahmad Zahid Hamidi as his Deputy Prime Minister. He then proceeded to announce the appointment of another Deputy Prime Minister. My daughter shrieked. She'd been rooting for Syed Saddiq.   

For the first time ever we've to live with two DPMs. Your cynical inner self will immediately question the necessity for two DPMs. For some countries, having two or many DPMs is a national sport. Singapore has two, one Chinese and another Chinese. China now has four DPMs, all Chinese. Cambodia has ten. I don't know exactly what  one DPM does, let alone 10. To me, if anybody needs a deputy it has to be the GrabFood rider. They're forever in need of somebody to hold and read those Google maps and messages so that they can concentrate on traffic lights and lady drivers.

I won't talk about the other DPM but Ahmad Zahid is already a living legend and an icon of sorts in our fast Malaysian political folklore. No discussions of Malaysian politics are complete without his name in the mix. His wily politics and high-octane strategy are proof enough that much of the celebrated Sun Tzu wisdom of flanking and flummoxing your enemies is all but glorified garbage. Ahmad Zahid wins his war by changing his enemies.

This is Ahmad Zahid's repeat gig as DPM, you already know this. He was made DPM for the first time in July 2015, at the height of the 1MDB blowout. It was a straightforward appointment, replacing the then DPM who'd been nosing about for clues on a mysterious Mongolian mine, at the time when anything related to Mongolia was a national taboo.

His ascent to the second most powerful person in Malaysia for the second time was nothing short of stunning. He'd swaggered into PRU tails up but scraped through with tail well between his legs. His coalition secured only 30 seats, probably enough to govern a mini democracy like Fiji. They needed another 82 seats to form an unstable government. With the cruel anti-hopping law in force, the only way out is to bring in seats from Sulu or somewhere. 

If that's not miserable enough, he's also facing 47 criminal charges for CBT, corruption and money laundering, with possible lengthy jail terms if he's ever found guilty. Sorry, I can't recall offhand what those charges are. All I can tell you is that they're all pretty serious with lots of cash, cheques and credit cards criss-crossing. His ex-boss and our ex-PM otherwise known as Bossku is now in jail for similar-sounding offences.  

But with some clever maneuver and a slice of luck, he rode out the legal road-blocks and the deafening catcalls to quit. He won his Bagan Datuk stronghold, beating a rank outsider by only 348 votes. This was, by any measure, a moral loss,  but the new PM otherwise known as PMX thought the numbers 348 and 47 were lucky enough for Ahmad Zahid to be his deputy. He's not in jail, PMX explained. And that was that. 

His exploits and impacts in and outside politics are worthy of our utmost respect and admiration. With a bona fide doctorate from UPM (nothing less), he has all the flexibility to use the prestigious title Dr without having to work in any hospital. It's not easy to become a DPM to begin with. Bung Mokhtar has been a boisterous MP for 20 over years  and he's not even close to a deputy minister. For 50 years Tengku Razaleigh has been all things except a DPM. Siti Nurhaliza is clever and popular but she's bought a house in Dubai. Messi wants to play until he's 50.  It's alright if you don't find these examples highly illustrative or inspiring.  But I've other examples if you're interested.        

I've nothing against Ahmad Zahid and why should I. I've never met or spoken to him in person or in spirit, but he's impressed me as crowd-pleasing and easygoing. There's a footage of him on a big bike grinning and waving jovially at his fans and fellow big bikers (all Malay). Somehow my wife thought he's good-looking, you know, that lush crop of real hair, sharp dress and all. She'd had me as her benchmark for some time now, so the standard was pretty low.

Ahmad Zahid and I were both born in early 1953. I was born in Kelantan and he in Bagan Datuk (or Bagan Datoh, at the time). Some people, including Ahmad Zahid himself, alleged that he was actually born in Ponorogo, Indonesia. But he's talented and I'm not. I mean, he speaks fluent Javanese and Malay, a fair amount of English and Arabic, and a smattering of broken Chinese he uses to woo unsuspecting Chinese voters. There's a widely circulated video of him practising alternative medicine to treat somebody, presumably an Umno supporter, down with something. I don't know whether the sick Umno man has fully recovered and I'm in no way suggesting that Umno members can be cured by alternative medicine.

Now back to 1953. Admittedly there's nothing special about being born in 1953, or any year for that matter. Millions of people were born in 1953, including our ex-PM Najib (now in jail, remember?). Hulk Hogan and Tony Blair were born in 1953. It's alright if you know Hulk Hogan but not Tony Blair.  

But Ahmad Zahid and I also share something else. We both attended schools at the old Tiger Lane in Ipoh. His school, Sekolah Izzuddin Shah Ipoh (Sisi), was just across the road, within a shouting distance (quite literally) from my school - Sekolah Tuanku Abdul Rahman (Star). Since we were born in the same year, it's safe to conclude that we were around Tiger Lane at about the same time, the hippie years of 1966 - 1971.

I'm not sure why, but it's like some kind of law that schools in the same neighbourhood must hate each other's guts. There's no love lost between my school and Sekolah Izzuddin. The resentment ran deep, I think, for three reasons:

1. My school and Sekolah Izzuddin were fully-residential and all-boys schools. So the students were a deprived and deranged lot. We were all accidents waiting to happen.

2. Sekolah Izzuddin was a state-run religious school, whereas my school was a federal-funded English-medium school. They learned Arabic and loved Takraw and Silat Cekak while we were into Rugby and Cricket. By inference, Izzuddin students were religious and we were, well, you know.

3. My school was physically about one hundred times bigger with lots of buildings and fields and trees. Not to mention wardens and cooks and prefects running around all-day pretending to be useful.

That "English medium and bigger buildings" bit was actually irrelevant because we were completely different types of schools, with different inputs and end-products. But the big heads among us took this as a subtle sign of superiority and the green light to run down our fair neighbour.

The rare black and white aerial photo above clearly shows how our school (the area inside the white polygon) overwhelmed our neighbour Sekolah Izzuddin (the small area marked 3). My school had eight hostel blocks, with two (Yellow House and White House) at the far end and closest to Sekolah Izzuddin. Incidentally these blocks housed more than their fair share of those elements that our busy prefects had, quite rightly, downgraded as basket-case. These guys needed only half a reason to fly off the handle, so to speak.

In the late afternoons they'd mill about the fence to trade insults with their opposite number across the road. I can't recall all the barbs and taunts, but the one that stands out until today was "Oi, dok baca kitab ka?" I suppose that verbal missile packed enough plutonium to leave the Sisi boys with no options but to bay for our blood.  

It had to be sooner rather than later. Both sets of students would descend on Ipoh town (now city, for some reason) on weekends and our paths simply had to cross because Ipoh at the time was only half the size of modern-day Gombak. We'd no choice but to share the same bus and bus driver. On the way, the bus would often stop to pick up girls from Sekolah Menengah Ugama Raja Perempuan Ta'ayah. Their brown uniforms were drab and moody but sexy enough to stir up the Izzudin boys. Even the Chinese bus driver could see that these girls actually had their eyes firmly set on the Yellow House crooks at the back.  

You can imagine the tension and emotion boiling up whenever the two groups converged at the bus station at Jalan Yang Kalsom, right in front of the now global phenomenon Restoran Nasi Ganja. There's plenty of provocative stares and eyeballing. If I'm honest, the Izzuddin guys always had the upper hand and we, the English-medium students, were constantly cowed. They looked good all day with broader shoulders and sharper ears probably because their cooks and caterers were more imaginative. Officially we had six-time-a-day meal plan but on most days we'd to contend with what tasted like tropical hardwood.  

Admittedly we were only good and strong in numbers and when we were well behind the fence. Outside the school the Yellow House cowboys walked and cowered like Tambun choir boys.

I myself had a memorable close encounter at the bus station. It was one fine Saturday in 1971. It's half a century ago, so I can't recall which month. Four of us (Hamid, Gohing, Bain, me) were at the bus station listening and humming along. The Hindustan hit "Tum Bin Jaon Kahan" was blaring loudly off the jukebox for the tenth time. We were feigning a brave front  in clear view of an Izzuddin mob at the far end. They read our ruse and threateningly gestured us to join their table for a heart-to-heart talk. Gohing volunteered and crossed over to the other side. He was back with us after about ten minutes with a "last warning" message from the Izzùddin chief. We quickly finished our ais kacang and jumped into our bus and were just happy to see the driver.

(Our gang of four bravely stood the test of time until Hamid, and then Bain, passed away a few years back. I can tell you getting over this loss wasn't easy).   

And to this day I'm still at a loss as to what was that "last warning" for. None of us were from Yellow House. We were a shy and peace-loving lot and we'd never offended the Izzuddin crowd in any specific way. It was a Hindustan song, not an Arabic song. We'd never talked or walked with any Ta'ayah girl if I remember well. In fact we'd never talked to any girl since we left home in January 1966.

To be fair the altercations had never escalated into all-out skirmishes or hand-to-hand combats. Deep down, we'd so much in common: Melayu, Islam, Budak Kampung, and broke as hell. Nevertheless making fun of Izzuddin school and Izzuddin boys continued to be the most popular sport in our school after rugby.

One cruel joke making the rounds was an Izzuddin-related misfortune befalling one of our boys. Walking all alone in Ipoh town, he was pulled over by an Izzuddin party and verbally warned, in broad daylight and in firm English language, "You remember you strong?". 

"It's like the whole world came crashing on me" he recalled. Shocked, shaken and brutally outnumbered, he just moved along, almost half-running and fearing for his life. Once out of sight, he paused to catch his breath and sit down to decipher the cryptic question. You remember you strong? "Awak ingat awak kuat!". 

In the Malay context and culture, this wasn't a casual question. It's a clear and severe warning. In no time, the Ipoh incident and "you remember you strong?" spread through our school corridors and classrooms and the high councils, and passed down to the later generations. The precious line has been retold and repeated a thousand times in our old boys exchanges to this very day.

Well I thought nothing of this "You remember you strong?" episode beyond its nudges of nostalgia until Ahmad Zahid was appointed our DPM. It's hard to tell whether he had any part in the bus station showdown or whether he was in any way responsible for coining the paranormal poser "you remember you strong?"

But with a bit of common sense I can conclude that he wasn't complicit in any way. He has a PhD, remember? So at Izzuddin he had to be the dull and serious and studious type, possibly a bookworm. He'd find classes, books, tajwid, exams and ustazahs all highly fascinating, and  he'd only venture beyond the school gates to buy more books. Picking a fight with the Yellow House boys was neither urgent nor important.

For us, boys from the big, English-medium school, it's time for some reflection and serious soul searching. Leaders lurk anywhere, shaped and made in the unlikeliest of places and under the sternest of circumstances. Like it or not, an Izzuddin alumnus is now the DPM or a DPM. Should anything happen to our new PM otherwise known as PMX, Ahmad Zahid is the best-placed to take over and become PMXI. He might even decide to close down our school for fun.

You'd recall that a few years ago he spoke on the Blue Ocean Strategy at the UN General Assembly, completely in English. Some people were unhappy with the way he pronounced  "ocean", but why should he care. What's more important and urgent is that he's ready to take on the world. And, boys from the big, English-medium school, eat your heart out. 

Today he's stronger than ever. His position as party president can't be contested until it can be contested, possibly in 2079 or even later. His rivals have all been purged and put out to pasture, leaving him to rule the party with fellow bookworms. The Izzuddin old boy will remain our  DPM for as long as he wants. Unless, of course, he goes to jail. If he goes to jail, PMX can no longer invoke the excuse "he's not in jail" because he's in jail.  

See the colour photo of Ahmad Zahid in full flight above. He was making a point or something, perhaps issuing a "last warning" to his rivals before he got rid of them. I'm not sure what exactly was he was saying and gesturing. Could it just be "You remember you strong?"