My very brief (I think) affair with Special Branch

MAY 26 — There was this one time when I worked for a political personality, and the Special Branch (SB) and I became quite acquainted with each other.

It all started when a colleague asked why there was a Malay man eating and sitting on a kerb, in the hot sun, facing our office. He sat there and just looked at our office as he enjoyed his lunch. We thought it was odd but didn’t dwell on it. KL is full of crazies. Every city has its fair share.

A few weeks later I went to visit my then-boyfriend at his plush office building. By the side of one of the many lifts was another Malay man (or was it the same man?), pleasantly plump, munching on some snacks. I went up and when we came down, he was still there. The next few times I went to “paktoh,” the same man was there. Munching.

It occurred to me late one night that he could be a stalker. Or that I was the most recent victim of Malaysian espionage: All journalists, activists and politicians had Special Branch files. All we ate, read, bought, shagged, divorced, married have all been recorded by Malaysia’s Big Brother. But not all Malaysians are so honoured. Only People Like Us were.

Here’s the thing. The little I heard from my friends, it would seem that each target is assigned his or her own SB officer. How else to explain the same rotund man appearing at the same events my friends attended?

“Every time, all the time, he’s there. The same white shirt, and black pants.”

These men don’t do anything. All they do is just watch your every move.

I suppose this is why, among my friends, the Blackberry has become the tool of communication. The Blackberry Messenger’s server is reputedly based in the US, and no one, not even a Klingon, would be able to decipher our texts to each other.

Our SMSes, however... Celcom, Maxis, Digi, you name it, were not safe from the eyes of SB.

I can only swoon at the thought of SB tracking my SMSes. Oh God.  From texts on jamus, sales, er... incriminating texts to the boyfriend, and doas and zikirs from my mother and aunts, they probably thought I was absolutely stark raving bonkers.

Now here’s the thing about me: I like my friends to be friends with each other.  And sometimes I befriend my readers. At one point in my life, I kept being asked out to dinners by a group of very mature men. They have become friends, and a few know my father, so it’s all kosher.

So for these dinners with the Old Men, I drag friends like Art Harun, the lawyer, and Hazman Hamid of the Merdeka Center along.  That was when things started getting a bit too crazy. One day, Hazman texted me to say he thought that a certain member of the Kelab Lelaki Tua was with Special Branch. Esh I said, no la, he is very sweet. Fine, fine, Hazman said.

Then, one night Hazman called and texted me in a state of panic. “Dina, the Old Man texted me that we were being watched and within seconds the Merdeka Center website was hacked!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee,” I screamed from my bed.

“D, macam mana ni?”

“OMIGOD our SMSes could be tapped, H!”

“Alamak! I hope SB gets AIDS! I hope SB gets cancer!”

“HAZMAN DON’T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT YOU WILL GET INTO TROUBLE! NANTI ISA YOU CAKAP SB DAPAT AIDS! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.”

Malam tu, mak tidur dengan lampu pasang. Meloncat bil api bulan tu, you.

My romance with SB ended when I appeared as a guest for the Northeast Forum, which was held at the Star newspaper’s studio. I came with a friend and his daughter and after the talk, he pointed out to me my SB boyfriend, and there he was, eating KFC.

I ended my employment with the political personality after developing an ovarian cyst, and so far, no plump men with a dinner plate of KFC have appeared in my life. If they are monitoring me today, I think they would be appalled by my ping-pong texts with my youngest sister on the virtues of Brazilian waxes.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.