It is not often that one gets invited to address a gathering or speak at a public forum. So when a teacher friend asked me to be the guest speaker at his school assembly, I was elated albeit, a little nervous. Nervous because I had never before stood in front of a school assembly to speak. The last time I stood before one was in 1964 when I was still a student. The occasion, however, had nothing to do with my oratory skills but to receive a sporting award from my principal, the venerated Mr. P. Subaramaniam.

Yes, I had chaired meetings, sat on forum panels and spoke on raised platforms but the subject matter had always been on making Ipoh a more livable city, one that would rival Singapore and Melbourne in stature. But to enlighten school children and instill in them adoring values is definitely not my plate of mee goreng. So it was with much trepidation that I accepted the invitation although I had cherished thoughts of declining, citing a mounting workload as an excuse. But, like everything else, it was difficult to refuse a good offer especially when expectations were riding high.

Peter Khiew, the acting supervisor of the evening section of St Michael Institution, Ipoh (SMI), had me on his radar screen for awhile already. I was identified as the school’s Tokoh Merdeka for 2009. It is customary of SMI to invite a renowned personality to speak during the month of August in conjunction with Hari Merdeka which falls on August 31 each year. Former students were the choice but this time around it was different - a departure from the norm. I was neither an ex-student nor was my school anywhere near Ipoh. When I asked why the sudden change of heart? Peter replied that being a former military man I fitted the bill. It seemed incredulous how the decision was reached. Should I question Peter’s wisdom? He had his reasons. Why rock the boat? I consider it an honour, one that is seldom accorded to old soldiers like me. Old soldiers? “Old soldiers never die they just fade away,” said Gen MacArthur. But I am not about to slip into obscurity for some sentimental reasons.

I reached the gates of SMI at the appointed time on Saturday, August 15, 2009. There to greet me was Peter and his school kompang group. The incessant beating of the kompang did much to lift my spirits. As we walked towards the basketball court to where the students were gathered, I could barely hide my excitement. The rousing welcome was like a homecoming party for a prodigious son, of which I am not.


It was late in the afternoon and the sun was bearing heavily on us. I could feel the students’ discomfort, as the heat was unbearable. After a brief introduction by Peter, I was invited to the podium to speak. I had jotted my talking points on a piece of paper and was ready to deliver. But the sight of the poor students cringing under the merciless sun pricked my conscience. “Can they concentrate?” I asked myself. Henceforth, I decided to do away with the notes and spoke off the cuff.

And this was what I told the 200-odd students and staff of SMI that Saturday afternoon in August.


"I was born in a small kampong a few miles away from Parit Buntar, the administrative capital of Krian District in northern Perak with its expansive rice fields. The village’s population consisted mainly of Malays who eked out a living toiling on their ancestral lands. The Chinese lived in the towns and the Indians in the rubber plantations. Before the advent of modern farming methods, paddy planting was an annual affair done manually during the rainy season. Once the fields were harvested they were left to idle and we would descend on the fields to play football on the sun-baked ground. Life was tough but we survived in spite of the many shortcomings. We got along fine with the Chinese and were never envious of their prosperity. After all, they worked hard for it, we reasoned. My father had always insisted that a good education would take us places. He enrolled his sons at the only mission school in Parit Buntar - Anglo-Chinese School (later renamed Methodist School).

The Malayan Emergency was still at its height. Voiced aircraft flew frequently in the sky with loudspeakers blaring imploring the terrorists to lay down their arms. Occasionally, leaflets, meant for the terrorists, were dropped but we would collect and keep them as souvenirs instead. Being children there were no barriers, real or imagined, dividing us. Regardless of races and beliefs we were one. Our youthful exuberance was played out in the open for all to see.

One source of entertainment which we looked forward to was the military band display at the town padang. It was a joy to watch the soldiers, in starched khaki uniforms, marching in unison while playing on their oversized musical instruments. This was what prompted me to make the army a career. Unfortunately, only two of us enlisted. I was commissioned into the Rangers. As an officer in an infantry battalion I had my share of jungle operations both in Sarawak and the Thai border. In a racially mixed outfit like the Rangers, we bonded easily with Malays, Chinese, Indians, Kadazans, Muruts, Ibans, Bidayus etc. No one felt excluded. We were colour-blind literally, a true reflection of the 1Malaysia concept so vigorously pursued by Prime Minister, Datuk Seri Najib Tun Razak, presently.


Maintaining peace and security in a newly independent nation like Malaysia came with a price. Some paid dearly - killed or maimed while keeping the enemy at bay. I lost several of my men and friends. We mourned their untimely demise but that was to be expected. You don’t join the army just for the heck of it."

My simple message to the students of SMI that afternoon was to understand the meaning of independence and freedom. The two are inter-related. Tolerance was the other factor they should cherish. They should jealously guard the freedom they enjoy and not allow others to ride roughshod over them.


The 1Malaysia I perceive, based on my youthful experience in Parit Buntar and in the Rangers, is so much different from the one portrayed on television and in songs and jingles. The official version seems so pretentious, superficial and in poor taste. You cannot bond by simply holding hands and singing Negara-Ku together or attending boot camp for three months!

This very well articulated piece was written by my former instructor and friend, Lt Col(Rtd) Fatholzaman Bukhari who actually knows what Malaysia is all about.