The joys of being held captive - by the imagination

When I first heard it, my most immediate reaction was; there but for the grace of God, go I.

Why? I was just as enamoured with the legend of Che and the exploits of Stalin in the battle against the Nazis in their stout defence of Stalingrad during the Second World War. In my youth I saved money to pay for two prized t-shirts with Guevara’s unruly mane in distinct black outline. A tattered copy of Readers’ Digest from 1977 in its Book Section relived the Battle for Stalingrad is among my prized possession.

At the same time, I still want to believe in the tooth fairy and that men actually landed on the moon (yes, don’t laugh, I am in that group of non-believers, serious!).

Just like Siti Aishah, I went to London to continue my education after completing my Fifth Form studies. She went to TKC (Tunku Kursiah College), I went to the guy’s version of her famous alma mater.

Just like Siti Aishah, my sympathies lay with the underdog.

Just like Siti Aishah, I was so taken in by the unfettered freedom of association, the flowering of political ideas and the room to express ideas. Much like an ant landing on a mountain of molasses, I devoured as much left wing literature (Worksop Guardian) and right wing gutter press (Daily Mail, OK, mea culpa – The Sun) as my measly student stipend would allow.

I scoured the streets of Bloomsbury and Shaftsbury Avenue noted for the proliferation of book shops with a pronounced leftist bent. Revolutionary thought was then brushed aside once I looked up the shop signs and found myself amongst the bright lights of Soho – ‘nuff said!

Unlike Siti Aishah, I came home after gaining my degree – shuussh…in Quantity Surveying! (blush blush..)

Unlike Siti Aishah, I ditched Marx, Mao and Max (that’s a different story which I shall not share for now, suffice to say it has canine qualities) before I came back to Malaysia, armed with a degree hungry to join the rat race – and maybe pay my dues perhaps to tanah tumpah darah ku (the land of my birth)?

Throughout my stay in the UK, never was I kept captive against my will. I pride myself in having a strong constitution, will-power and independent streak that leave no space for the assortment of mind-benders and new-age cultists from getting a look in. I met my fair share of Jehovah’s Witnesses; I even shared digs with a Moonie and sat next to a pot-forever-in-pocket Rastafarian in class. I never developed a moon walker’s gait, surrendered all my monthly pay into Kim’s kitty nor took to wearing a rainbow-coloured woolly hat even in the heat of summer. (‘Buffalo Soldier’ and ‘No Woman No Cry’ remain my top two Bob Marley hits though). There were many fellow Malaysians who invited me to spend my summers, staying for week-long ‘motivational’ courses in Birmingham’s main mosque. I also lugged a backpack with me to Blackburn and Dewsbury at the invitation of a Doctoral Candidate from Sheffield (he hails from Teluk Intan, brought his two wives and six kids to Sheffield and could translate religious texts in the original Arabic with great accuracy into English and Bahasa.) I marvelled at his ability to juggle worldly pursuits on the one hand and his religious zeal on the other then, and still do now.

Having been there, done that and tasted what it must have been like for Talibanesque austerity and asceticism, I decided that was not the life for me. Instead, I discharged all my raging summer testosterones towards working long hours at the first ever McDonalds in Woolwich. I got paid a princely sum of just under three sterling pounds an hour, stashed the lot (as food was free) and had enough saved to give myself a skiing holiday in Andorra.

After completing my A-Levels, I devoted all my energy in the three years as an undergraduate towards acquiring. My 36-months of toil paled in significance compared to the 30 years of slavish devotion Siti Aishah directed to her veneration of Chairman Mao and the communist cause.

Were it not for the decision of one of their number to reach out upon the realisation that perhaps all’s not well with their cloistered existence, then perhaps this “prison-without-walls” within which they voluntarily confined themselves would not have been uncovered for another 30 more years.

The treatment of the news originating from London created waves in Malaysia the moment it was revealed that Siti Aishah was one of us.

The local media could only sit on their hands waiting for any news from both Wisma Putra and the Malaysian police. The stock answer given to our queries was: “We have not received any communication from London.”

Then the floodgates opened when a lone Daily Telegraph journalist revealed that he had paid a visit to the home of Siti Aishah’s sister in Jelebu, Negeri Sembilan. In the best tradition of British sensationalist journalism, they pursued their quarry, enlisted the help of Malaysia’s best known rebel rouser and kept a cordon sanitaire – not unlike the trap Siti Aishah found herself in – round their prized Page 1 possession.

What happened next I will leave to my colleague Zan Azlee Zainal Abidin who was given mere hours to hop on a Malaysia Airlines A380 bound for London when it was found out that his auntie was embarking on a mission to bring Siti Aishah – his long-lost auntie – home.

I may at times have a vivid imagination, but I certainly could not have scripted this saga, even in my wildest dreams.