...thoughts during a thunderstorm.......

          I was awoken by a loud bang a few days ago. Thunder, to be precise. Really loud. The kind that gets my adrenalin flowing to the max. The very first thing I did was to look for Auni, my grandkid. She was at my PC when I dozed off. I was relieved not to see her there. And to notice the "signs" that she had left a long while ago.

          Then came another bang. A trail of fiery light at my doorstep! Froze me for a second. I kicked the door closed. I wanted to check on mum so badly but there was no way I could go down to the main house with all that thunder and lightning.

          This was no ordinary thunderstorm. Lightning was literally chasing the ground. Fire on the street. Bright orange. Scary! Coming every few seconds.

          I pulled all the plugs out of the sockets. And I made it just in time before another lighting strike caused a blackout. Crackling sounds....

          I saw the main house go dark. I thought of mum again. The kids. And the rest of my family. Then I remembered my brother. He had gone to the hills behind our home earlier to fix the water pipes. Our supply comes from a small spring there and something had happened the day before which had disrupted our water supply. My. brother. is. out. there. on. the. hills. in. the. midst. of. a. very. bad. thunderstorm. with. fiery. lightning. pyrotechnics! My blood chilled. Someone had died before on the hills on a day like this.

          I prayed. I felt so helpless. I couldn't check on anyone. I was too scared to use the phone. I couldn't leave my flat. I couldn't hear anything except the rain. I couldn't see much through my window except the bright orange fire coming from the sky....and the thick sheets of water. So, I prayed.

          Out of the blue I thought of the Palestinians. And wondered if they felt this scared every time the bombs rained on them. It must be worse for them I guess...bombs raining down form the sky. The bright orange colour of fire.....

          And I prayed for the Palestinians too. And the folks in Lahad Datu. I prayed for my family members and friends to be safely ensconced indoors.

          It was a long two hours. The minute the rain stopped, I jumped out of my flat, barefooted, and rushed to the main house. Checking on my nieces enroute. Only to find mum absolutely calm and comforting the terrified maid. In the dark. With loud crackling sounds coming from somewhere in the hall. 

          Relieved to see that my brother had gotten home safely. A tree had been hit back there and had toppled. A good thing he wasn't underneath it. His flat underneath mine suffered some damage - power sockets and lights burnt out. The choking smell of burning.

          Everyone was fine. The main house suffered some damage to its power outlets, airconditioners, lights, electrical connectors. But no fire. Alhamdulillah.....Many phone chargers "died" that day at No 30.......

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My 13 Mei........

          I was 9 and in school when it happened. School was Jln Kuantan 2 - smack in the middle of the city. A mere stone's throw from where it all started.....Pasar Chow Kit.
          I remember being let out of school early. Ruby and I waited by the front gate for our ride....which never came. Cikgu Mahat, my BM teacher, waited with us until it was almost dark. The road in front of the school was completely deserted - most unusual at that hour. I then decided to take the bus. Cikgu Mahat reluctantly let us walk to the bus stop about 150 meters away.
          When we got there, not a soul or vehicle was in sight. This normally busy and bustling stretch of Jln Pahang was like a road out of Twilight Zone! Ruby was getting scared by then - on the verge of tears. Being the "older" sister, I took her hand and we started walking home.....a 9-year old leading an 8-year old, along Jln Pahang toward Setapak. A long way from home.......
          Ruby was already crying when we reached Setapak. She was hungry, tired and thirsty. We had stopped at several pipe stands along the way to quench our thirst. I remember looking at the tightly closed shutters of the shophouses and thinking, "Where is everyone??". It was spooky to the max! But I couldn't let Ruby see my fear or she would start bawling her eyes out!
          So I egged her on to walk a little bit further, saying that we would stop at the Setapak police station and get them to call home. At one point, maybe 20 meters from the police station, Ruby rebelled and refused to walk a step further. I cajolled her and promised her everything under the sun to get her to move. Which she reluctantly did. It was at this point that I sighted a taxi turning into Jln Gombak! How relieved I felt!
          Before I could hail the taxi, it stopped, drove toward us and the pakcik driver eyed us suspiciously. When I asked, "Pakcik boleh hantar kami balik tak?", he looked at me ...and Ruby, incredulously! Rupa-rupanya dia ingat kami ini bukan orang Melayu! Ruby looked like a Hong Kong film star while I looked like a Bollywood wannabe at that age. As we were both tall for our age, the pakcik couldn't believe that we were both under 10. When he discovered that we were Malay, he jumped out of the taxi and gave us a hug, and quickly bundled us into his car. Ruby and I were perplexed at his antics but didn't say a word.
          There was a crowd in my neighbour's back yard when we reached home. Mak, maktok and the assorted makcik2, pakcik2, kakak2 and abang2 all gave us big hugs. Ruby and I just looked at them, and at each other...totally clueless as to why they were crying and rejoicing at the same time.
          It was then that I knew a major fight had taken place between the Malays and Chinese. Both were mercilessly slain just for being born into those ethnic communities. It was days later that I found out that Pak Lang was barricaded in the Utusan Malaysia building at Jln Chan Sow Lin. Surrounded by the Chinese who tried to clamber over Utusan's walls. Food supply was running low there.
          We hadn't heard from bapa. His office was at Batu Road then. On the fourth day, he came home. He told us that he was in a meeting which finished at around maghrib. After his prayers, he drove home using the Kg Baru route. He was stopped at Kg Baru, told to recite the syahadah by a group of youths in headbands and carrying sharpened bamboo shafts and parangs. They advised him that all roads to Ulu Kelang were not safe and that he should stay put in Kg Baru until the army arrived. Which he did. For three days. He was barely with us for 24 hours when he was called back into service.  
          The late 60s wasn't the internet era. Most homes didn't have phones. Heck, many homes didn't even have televisions. So news weren't easily available. Compound that with curfew and blackout hours and you have a breeding ground for all kinds of suppositions. Top that with low food supply and you have a very worried/anxious community.
          Young men in my kampung carried sharpened bamboo shafts, parangs, kerambit, knives, etc on their rounds. Now and then I could hear cries of "Allahuakbar!". There were numerous warnings of "invasions/attacks" when we had to scoot to our hiding places. And kept real quiet. Sometimes too scared to even breathe. Prayers going on inside our heads.
          The army brought Pak Lang home after almost a week. Bapa was still away. Came home just to wash  up and change into a fresh set of uniforms. Then bapa's army buddies started disappearing - they, too, were called back into service. School was out for a month.
          The 13 Mei fiasco was the aftermath of the election. It was bad. Much as I hate the thought, I could envisage this [or worse] being reenacted after PRU13. It would be really, really bad as civillians now have firearms, the internet, electronic media, cellular phones etc. Unlike 13 Mei, where the "war zone" was contained and confined to just Kuala Lumpur, the "war zone" this time around would most likely be nationwide.
          None of us would win. And all of us would take years to lick/heal our wounds. Some of us would not even be around to pick up the pieces......we would just be names on tombstones.