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Archive for May 12th, 2019

Selling hatred, anger:

The Reuters, America media demonization template

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This is a repost

MEMORIAL

Genocide of the Chinese in Malaysia

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Fifty years later, the denial continues…

DAP politicians and Joseph Lim 林冠英 truncated:

We’re not Chinese. There are no Chinese in Malaysia. Therefore, no Chinese was murdered. There was no genocide.

https://aliran.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Unidentified-May-13-victims-tombstone.jpg

The tombstone above wasn’t Lim Guan Eng’s father and so it was easy for him, for DAP’s political expediency and agenda, and for a couple of Malay votes, to deny the thousands of Chinese dead were real.

Note that, typically, Chinese gravestones list the immediate family members, place of birth and day of death. This facilitates qingming visits. In the sign above — which was disrespectful, being engraved in English instead of hanzi 汉字 — the Chinese was nameless. Others were almost certainly buried in mass graves. Where are these?

All that demonstrated the cavalier attitude of the government, not bothering even to identify the dead, much less contact the relatives or pay compensation for the dereliction of duty to protect its citizens. Indeed, Mahathir Mohamad and his band of fascist Malays wanted the Chinese dead.

To further obfuscate the May 13 genocide, hospital authorities buried some of the Chinese victims among dead lepers in the Sungai Buloh Leprosy Settlement, below. Note that those are not Muslim gravestones.

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Compare the above to the much older Japanese WWII cemetery in KL, Loke Yew, below. In Malaysia, invaders (next two images further below) receive far better treatment than its Chinese citizens. In Mahathir’s Malaysia today, they are lifted onto pedestals as model humans.

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The acts above and below are, like the Chinese genocide of May 13, crimes against humanity by any standard. The photos were found from among the Japanese after Allied forces recaptured Malaya.

Under the Statute of Rome, May 13 would be a judicial offence, with Mahathir included in the dock because no government, during his time, or before or after, have acted on the law for mass murder.

Rais Hussin: Harapan follows the rule of law, did you say. Human rights? Really?

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Genocide UN Definition

“…any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such:

  • killing members of the group;
  • causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group;
  • deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; …”

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Above: The Faces of Anglophile Evil

They are today’s new fascist clique: Mahathir center, Joseph Lim seated on his right. Others not pictured: Lim Kit Siang, Saifuddin Abdullah, Rais Hussin, Steven Gan, Tony Pua, Charles Santiago, Hannah Yeoh, Jomo Sundram — without exception, all Anglophiles, all ideologues, all convinced about their individual self-righteousness.

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The two men — one for leading the Chinese to their deaths, and the other for directly instigating the Malays for the massacre of Chinese — are still alive and they run the country today, one from behind the throne.

Mahathir would have been age 43 at the time; the man most directly culpable in the Chinese genocide — and he continues advocating for it today. The blood in his hands? Take the official 300 Chinese bodies multiplied by 10 gives you the estimated number of dead.

They are natural allies, Mahathir and the Anglophile father-and-son pair of Lim Kit Siang and Joseph Lim.

Both are the racial products of English mission schools. Both very ideological. Both think the world of Anglo-American life and the superiority of Anglo-Saxon morality values. Both are Anglophiles, whose only idea of Chinese philosophical culture never extended beyond ‘Chinese New Year’, and who understand Confucian and Daoist traditions purely as voodoo rather than as rituals in human relationships.

Like Hirohito’s Japanese, Mahathir is, as he himself has acknowledged, a fascist to the bone, believing Jews and Chinese to be the same. The Lim family hated the Chinese; the father because he was raised among pigs, could barely read Chinese, and think of Chinese as a ‘backward’ class, useful only to function as a ladder in the grab for power. Mahathir, in the present life and during May 13, would use the Malays.

Consequently, the son Joseph Lim would proclaim himself to the world “not a Chinese,” not even in ethnicity — words that would have pleased Mahathir very well. If the man couldn’t rid Malaysia of all Chinese, he has at least gotten the Lim family of Fujian to denounce their forefathers and identities.

And so, it is clear why, therefore, Mahathir would change his mind about the Statute of Rome treaty and after which to pin the blame on Prince of Johor. In Mahathir’s verbatim words:

Jadi Statute of Rome ini hanya terkena pada kita kalau kita excessive.

Excessive bermakna katalah discrimination in favour of the Malays, carried out by seizing all properties of the Chinese and killing the Chinese. That would be excessive.

Given half a chance, Mahathir would have killed more Chinese. He has toyed with the idea of driving the Chinese into the Malacca Straits, the same extermination idea that hogs Anglo-American headlines about China and which finds favor among neo-liberal Anglophiles like Annie of the Valley, herself a half-Chinese, half-Malay.

Mahathir didn’t succeed with the killings, but he did very well with the second: In the past decades, more than a million Chinese have fled Malaysia. That’s 20 percent of the Chinese population who now live, work or study outside Malaysia (this author included). Having done that — decreasing the Chinese population in order to increase the Malay numbers — Mahathir would subsequently make sure not one Chinese ever step ashore, proceeding thus to undermine all China’s projects, especially the Forest City project in Johor.

Mahathir may not know how to lift the well-being of the Malay lot, but he knew how to make the Chinese life miserable especially by pitting Chinese against Chinese when Malays against Chinese don’t go very far.

This is Malaysia’s anti-Chinese pogrom 50 years on — continued by other means.

Meanwhile, the Anglophile English media, notably Steven Gan’s US-sponsored Malaysiakini, persists with the pretense this is a benign country, the pretense that the past is unimportant, let sleeping dogs lie, they say, while they pontificate the Anglo-America line that Malaysia is a country governed by the rule of law.

There will be no commemoration to the May 13, no Commission for Truth and Reconciliation so that even today the disappeared will remained disappeared, people are killed and won’t be found, the DAP’s cronies, Mahathir’s as well, will get their contracts, their journalists continue to churn independent fake news, children will be abducted and Mahathir will say these truths are just hearsay.

Save Malaysia? Don’t bother. The sooner it implodes the better.

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Below, in three days of a murder orgy, looting and arson, Malays killed more than 3,000 Chinese and today still not one person is held to account.

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An Anglophile demagogue, Lim Kit Siang (below) exploited Chinese sentiments for power. Once, he won the 1969 general elections, repeated in 2018, he instigated DAP (flag above) members to fight Malays and got other Chinese killed as a result.

Not once has he said ‘sorry’ that May 13 happened, nor did he do anything for the maimed, not even to comfort them or help bury the dead.

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Notice: not one policeman in sight.

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Immediately above, the Ta Kung Pao, 1969 May 16th issue.

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Petaling Street, circa 1970s. A decade later, as a child, I first visited the street with my parents to buy fruits but met Mahathir’s uniformed Malay fascist goons, also for the first time.

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1969 May 13 Diaries

I am a child born after the May 13 anti-Chinese pogrom. Yet 50 years after, the genocide feels real to me. Perhaps it is because of Mahathir Mohamad, Lim Kit Siang and the ideology they import from Anglo-America. Reflections below.

 

Reposting Article 1:

There was never a good reason to visit KL other than because my maternal grandparents live there.

Petaling Street in the late 1980s — I forget when it was exactly — had the smell and look of a butcher’s chicken market in a Chinese town in Malaysia. (Do they still call it a ‘wet market’?) Only years later, I understood why: Where there were Chinese, even if they had voted for the MCA, Mahathir Mohamad’s ministers, Sanusi Junid in particular, would spent as little as possible in the Chinese districts. It is as if the money belongs to them. The argument being, within finite financial resources, Malays in kampungs are more deserving. This is the idea that drives Mahathrism and Malay political hegemony: Malays being more deserving, Chinese are not true citizens. We are tolerated at best.

It was probably late that year when we arrived; late year because I remembered it rained everyday. The drizzle had long stopped and the sky cleared. We came to an apple and fruit cart mounted on a tricycle, its small, blue canopy still dripping. Mama wanted some oranges because, she complained, the night before at dinner in grandpa’s live-in shop there were neither desserts nor fruits. She was still grumbling at Papa at the fruit stand: How could he have forgotten on our way here? Anywhere along the way, we could have picked up something — anything. He said nothing.

The fruit seller handed her the plastic bags of oranges and grapes while Papa dug into his pockets for his wallet and money.

I was perhaps age about ten at the time. I could barely see above the flat base of the timber cart but I could hear coming from one end of the street the sounds of commotion and shouting: “来了! 来了!” — They’re here! They’re here!

Someone called to the fruit seller: “来了! 来了!快跑呀!Quick, run!

Two stalls away, the man selling trinkets, brooms, pots and pans hurriedly closed. With the sweep of a hand he flipped a tarpaulin over the entire load. It must have been used to shield his goods from the rain because it looked wet. With a jerk, the woman who had been with him pulled at one end of the cart. I heard a loud click that unlocked a brake and stabilizer contraption. The man started to push and heave. Some things felled off, but he didn’t pause to look back, or maybe he didn’t know. The cart shook and rattled as it rolled in the opposite direction from where a group of dark uniformed men came down the street at a trot.

Papa paid the fruit seller and said: “You better go now.”

没事 我们已经给了。” he replied. “It is nothing. We have already paid.

Mama handed the fruits to Papa, grabbed the palm of my hand, and said: “Let’s go.”

Evening two days later, we were at a unlit street corner of Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman where seated at a battered plywood table beneath a dark cloudy sky without stars, the neon-lit word ODEON provided the only source of light. It blinked non-stop from diagonally across the road.

Seated, fanning herself with the palm of her hand, she lit a cigarette with the other, put away the box of cigarettes, took out a makeup palette, looked at it a moment. She might had changed her mind because she dropped it back into her handbag that clamped with a click.

“The cinema is closed,” Mama said to Papa, staring at the neon.

“What are they going to do with it?”

“Don’t know. People say an office block, maybe.”

Father went, O! and turned to the cook who had stepped up in his soiled, greasy apron. Few paces away, a girl who looked my age peeled onions and garlic seated on a low stool. Next to her a woman, squatting beside a drain, washed bowls, plates and chopsticks in an enormous sized round tub. At a village where we pass by on the way home daily, I have seen parents used the tub to bath kids half my age.

Each time when we are out, especially when in KL, Mama is boss. She ordered: noodles, fried; fish and a plate of leafy vegetables, I forget what is it even. The quiet street looked misty from the rain earlier. Next to us, the only two tables remaining were empty. Dinner arrived quickly.

We were just starting to eat when three uniformed men turned up, like ghosts out of nowhere. They went straight to the cook. The woman rose; the young girl gazed up at them still peeling garlic. Papa and Mama also paused in their eating, shifted in their chairs so that they could see what was going on, but we could hear nothing. There was just low murmurs drowned by the soft roar of the kerosene stove under a table top with a hole cut at one end to contain the wok.

When the men left, the cook came over. He is sorry, he begun, he had to rush us to finish our food. He had to close up. “But why?” Mama asked.

Municipal instructions. No cooked food allowed here, he answered.

“Since when?” Papa interjected. “Hadn’t they been paid?”

For a second, the cook remained silent. Then he said: “Yes, we paid. Which is why they won’t seize our things. They will give us time to close up. Then they will come back.”

It was the year before I left for America when we returned to Jalan TAR after a visit to the US embassy. Confronted by memories of that night, I think about the girl who peeled onions and wondered where she might be, what had happened to her, and whether she still goes to school. I thought of her as pretty, her long hair tied in a pony tail. In another life, under another set of circumstances, we could have been friends. Even lovers. Perhaps.

Papa was away in another country for work, so Mama drove the car. She was still smoking. Winding down the window, she tossed the cigarette end out the door, went into gear, and waited awhile more. When the lights turned green, she drove across the ODEON intersection.

“Ma? You remember we ate here?” I pointed excitedly to the spot where, on a misty night, a Chinese couple and a child once ran a noodle stand. For a second, she turned to look then returned her concentration to the traffic. I didn’t wait for a reply. “There are two food stalls now. Same place.”

Both belonged evidently to Malays. It was still day but an ad board facing oncoming traffic was draped in blinking decorative lights people use for Christmas trees. In large hand-written colored letters, the board read ‘TOM YAM’. At the next stand, an overhead display reads ‘RAMLY BURGER’.

The Chinese are a super tolerant people. They asked for little and want nothing they can’t pay for. Which suggests why a district like Cheras is impenetrable so that the sins of Mahathir will remain in the collective consciousness as long as Chinese exist in Malaysia.

Looking from outside in, the Mahathir-DAP alliance might seem like a paradox for the Cheras constituents, simultaneously supporting DAP and tolerating the common enemy, Mahathir.

But, look at it another way: Mahathir’s contribution to Lim Kit Siang is that the former singularly annihilate MCA’s entire voter base then rocketed the entire lot to the DAP. That is, without Mahathir’s fascism, DAP would have no dissatisfaction upon which to build its base and to nurture its beginnings. It would have been a write-off a long time ago. This is as if the DAP and Umno are mutual creations, one dependent on the other for their separate existence. Or, to rephrase that, the greater is the success Umno has in ‘protecting’ Malays from the Chinese, the better off it is for the DAP, electorally and politically. The success of one offers gain to the other.

Clamped in between the two all along, MCA has had to pay for 50, 60 years Mahathir’s sin. Today, because of the Mahathir-DAP alliance, it has suddenly found a chance to wriggle away free. And which is to make DAP pay for Mahathir’s sins — rightfully so.

Penang is no comparison to KL or Selangor. There, for a generation or more, it had Gerakan Chinese protective rule so that if any Chinese suffered as a consequence of Umno racism it was from the hand of incompetence and stupidity more than Mahathirism.

There is no such protective luxury in Petaling Street and Bukit Bintang and Kepong. In those places, the Chinese were face to face with the Mahathir pogrom that, in the end, not only disenfranchise millions but systematically, step-by-step, drove them from their homes and broke up their lives.

When I was old enough, Mama told me that a gang of Malay youths had burnt down her father’s furniture shop. That is, my maternal grandfather. It was never rebuilt and the family is today scatttered into the four corners of the planet, with only memories for company. I chose China because, as my motherland, it is the safest in the world to be Chinese. We can stop running. China is me and I, her.

We share the same past: The history of China and of the Chinese is a history of sorrows.

Only Chinese resilience, propped up by a deep humanistic and familial culture, could have seen us through those dark decades. Even so, we know in our hearts we’ll triumph and we’ll be great again because we have both the capability and the diligence to go with those objectives.

I still wonder about the girl, where she might be. She is probably married, somewhere in Cheras maybe. Or, she could be like the woman in the market, confronting Heng Sinn Yee, bitter as well as hating the sins of Mahathir that had been transferred to the MCA and still borne by the party. ….

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One of Mama’s favorite singers.

“This is not our country. Leave,” she once said to me. I didn’t fully understand it then. “I’ll have to die here, or they’ll be nobody to visit your grandparents on qingming. But you go; go anywhere; just don’t stay.” Now, I understand.

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Reposting Article 2:

Mama never said anything about what happened on May 13. Was she there when the gang of Malay youths entered the furniture shop? Who else was there? Where had the Malays come from? What did they do before setting alight the place? How? Did they take anything? Hurt anyone? What were they like? How were they dressed? What did they say to one another, or to her family?

It never occurred to me to ask any of these questions then as if all that had taken place in a dream, and the dream wasn’t even mine. I wonder why.

But years later, on assignment, I did write a 3,500-word short story, imagining what might had happened that day.

There were other May 13 reminders, usually every five years from Mahathir Mohamad. You see it in the papers, full page, Chinese, English, and in color.

This is the queer part: Why does Mahathir want to remind the Chinese whom he had contributed to incite for their murder?

It can’t be me: what can I possibly know because a memory as tumultuous as May 13 requires an experience beforehand. Mama? But why? Was Mahathir responsible, in part, in one way or another? Was he threatening to burn down more Chinese homes because Mama’s family had another furniture shop then, only half the size of the one that’s gone but in a less vulnerable and an exclusively Chinese district. Even that was eventually sold which meant that nothing physical — other than memories — tie our families to the country and the land.

After DAP’s alliance with Mahathir there will be nothing left to remember. But then it is not their memories, not their mothers, and not their shops. Besides, they aren’t even Chinese — the Christians Hannah Yeoh and Lim Guan Eng said so, even tried to formalize it on paper. Why then should Anglophiles, Christians in particular, care for infidels, who they consider as believers of voodoo and the low class?

For the past decade, they had the Chinese in their pockets, especially those who live in Penang. Blame ourselves for being such fools.

But I shall leave their betrayal, the Wu Sangui 吳三桂 DAP, in my heart forever. I will take them with me, wherever, back to Jian, back to China, my home and, unlike Mama, I will tell everybody, Jian, our children, everybody. And the children will tell their children. Not even death will erase this memory. The betrayal, because it cuts deeper, is the greater of the two crimes.

For 50 years it had been Mahathir oppression, these days Anglophile deception. They do this by depositing all of Umno’s ills, all Malaysia’s actually, collected the past 60 years, particularly those Mahathir created, on one man — Najib Razak — even as they sleep with the main culprit. Duplicity is sooner or later found out. But, for now, they have Mahathir, a man as skilled as they are in the deception.

After America, I had spent the last decade in mainland China, Taiwan and Hong Kong (in that decreasing order of duration). Jian came into my life quite by accident and she permitted me to see a contrast not between Malaysia and China, but between who is Chinese and those in urban Malaysia. This is like they are two opposite worlds.

“But they are Malay!” she said when we talked about urban Chinese and Anglophiles. “And you are Chinese.”

I am nearly thrown off the chair because of its sheer veracity. If that is true, then all problems are solved.

Queer: there is relief after learning that the flight back to China is confirmed. Should Pakatan win, I challenge them to declare war on China so that we can settle this matter with Mahathir — finally.

Like in many national upheavals — think of the French revolution or, nearer home, the Indochina wars — May 13 was intended to settle matters. That these convulsions sometimes don’t, as in May 13, it is from the results of dynamics carried forward to the future.

That future is, of course, now — flowing out from 1969. Stated another way, we stare at the May 13 legacies, living it actually.

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We Chinese must return to our native Motherland, the world’s safest place to be Chinese: There, no mamak barbarians, no Mahathir, no fascists, no Joseph Lims, no Stevies or Joshies, no Anglophiles or Malays or Rais or Kadirs. We will get our justice from afar; that we swear on the graves of our forefathers.

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The Silk Roads: Past, Present, Future

The West is dying…

and Euro-centric Malaysia — this Anglophile country that believes the world of White people, values, technology, religion, ideas, money — is why it is also doomed

We Chinese will reclaim the history that was once ours

We’re the Middle Kingdom (below)

The ways of yesterday don’t explain the future. — Duke of Zhou, c.300BCE

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