I SENSE GOD everywhere, in every single thing I contemplate. I don’t have questions. I am not in search of answers. I don’t have to understand a thing anymore. Deadly cancer. Early discovery. A friend reaches out of nowhere. A top surgeon in town makes room for me. I am saved from death by fever. I am again saved from death by organ failure. I get diagnosed with Diabetes Type-1, and I leave it behind completely. Surgery gives me a 5-star shot at recovery and a long, rich life. It’s easy when you don’t need answers. I am nothing, shaved of ego, and I feel strong. I neither measure myself against any particular standard or expectation, nor do I feel I should. I am nothing except a human being on a rough ride, and I am riding well.
It could be worse. Out there, it’s worse for millions of people, and they don’t have the luxury to feel depressed. The Indian farmer who wakes up on his coconut-leaf woven mat, who does not know how or if he will feed his five children and their mother on this day, has no time for depression.
The spirit is awake. This is what it must mean, to feel “spiritual” — warm light, warm wind, in the soul, the hand of God on your back. I see the spirit in me, the human-ness and the omnipotence. I surrender all over again. The fact of my surrender is manifest in every waking hour. I am not in charge anymore. This is not my production. I simply sense an over-riding control.
I wake up one morning with the immediate thought that I have to go to QBD, the discount bookstore in the Westfield shopping centre in Hurstville. I must find a book that very morning. I have breakfast, wash up and drive myself to the centre. I don’t wait for Helen, neither do I ask her to come with me. I have a sense that she needs a break from the caring, that I don’t want to be needy. And the first thing I see when I enter QBD is Proof of Heaven, a personal accounting by neurosurgeon Eben Alexander, in the wake of an ultra-rare brain fever that can either kill him, or leave him a vegetable, in the wake of his after-life. The fact I have found such a book is startling at first. Then I know it shouldn’t be.
Ever so slowly, I find little meaning anymore in words like coincidence, incredible, unbelievable, lucky. I am shocked and humbled in knowing this, and comforted and strengthened at the same time. There is purpose and design behind everything. It keeps rolling out ahead of me, the new journey of life for the new person I have become.
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| May 13, 2018: From left, my cousin, Shireen, Bersih chair Ambiga Sreenavasan and I. |
I remember commentaries I have written, published in Malaysiakini. Two in particular stand out. “Why I must come home to vote” and “Setting a world benchmark in reclaiming democracy”. The first is written before the 13th general election, when thousands, like Helen and I, fly home to vote for the Opposition. We come tantalisingly close to winning that one, and some of us have begun celebrating in Kalimullah Hassan’s continental restaurant in Damansara. Then we begin hearing about boxes and boxes of pro-government ballots suddenly finding their way to counting centres. The second piece is about how Malaysians finally usher in a new government, bringing an end to 62 years of racism, corruption, cronyism that threatens financial collapse, the weaponising of Islam. Not a drop of blood is shed. Both pieces are simply straight from the heart, the result of writing without pondering too much, just doing it because I feel I have something to say, believing that the distance from Sydney helps me see a Malaysia that is better than the one my friends and family have to endure every day, living in my home-country. They have come to me easily, and both pieces touch people deeply, going by the comments of readers, in ways I do not imagine. Sensitive being my middle-name, their words come to me like the sweetest thing. And I wonder, Where did it come from? How did I just write like that? Why was I so sure I should do them? How did they flow like that? I did not write to impress, or to move anyone. I simply wrote to put certain things on the public record. I don't wonder anymore. I am servant and instrument. Only the errors and omissions are by human hand.
As Helen and I go places, visiting friends, eating out, shopping for groceries, I find myself withdrawing into myself, trying to arrive at some sort of understanding of something that is almost unfathomable. Some days I get so lost in my thoughts that I find myself having arrived somewhere with no memory of how I have got there.
I realise I have been touched, inspired to move, to write. I understand I have been saved before, again and again. Just so I would arrive at this point in my life, to marvel at heavenly guidance, to know, to walk what has already been charted for me, to simply take direction from a sense of knowing something. One step at a time. One day at a time. Sweet Jesus. Those people from the Assembly of God days, in my teens, they had nothing on this. I am bearing witness. As I live.
I remember…
A long, tired drive home from Genting Highlands, where my brother Errol and I have performed at the opening ceremony of an ice-skating rink. Too many beers later, the buzz of a good performance disallows any chance of sleep. For the first time, I have played electric lead guitar, making up simple solos on the spot, jamming with Errol on Chuck Berry’s Johnny B. Goode, Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower, America’s Sandman. All are extended versions because I am playing lead guitar for the first time. We have a drum machine, Errol turns up the bass tones on his acoustic pick-up, the crowd loves it. They are skating and dancing. Management is beaming. Back in the complimentary hotel room, of course I cannot sleep from the adrenalin high. About 3pm, I decide I will drive back.
The early morning roads are so fogged up you can barely see five metres ahead, Errol is asleep in the passenger seat. He does not yet have a driver’s licence. Just when you don’t need it, a powerful urge to sleep builds as the adrenalin fades. I have to top several times, cut the engine and walk out to see through the fog, look for the edge of the road, beyond which is a fall down a cliff side that will surely kill us.
Still I drive on. Once I reach the highway, I think, OK, the worst is over, I’m safe. Twice, I fall into micro-sleep, jolting awake just in time to see the back wheels of a timber lorry just a metre from my front bumper. Drive on. And on. After that, it’s the back of a school bus. Jam the brakes again. Shocked into a foggy wakefulness. Next thing I know, I am parked in front of our family home in Sentul, thinking of the bowl of laksa in the wet market down the road. I have no recollection of the journey home after that second instance of sleeping at the wheel.
I do stop for the laksa at the market and drive to Helen, in Sri Hartamas, where we are living in the first home we have bought together. I don’t tell her about anything, other than what a great night it was. I simply cannot find the words.
*****
I remember… going back, one year earlier. Being assaulted in the grounds of St Joseph’s Church, by half a dozen Indians who are nothing if not jealous of the few of us who have been part of the youth choir that goes carolling in the dark and deep corners of Sentul Pasar, where families welcome us with big smiles and warm hearts because we are bring something special to them, and they don’t have to pay for it. Before this Sunday of my baptism, three others in our choir have been assaulted by the same gang, beaten up on some backstreet. Today, when I see them form a ring around another choir member, I go up and try to play the big guy. They laugh at my attempt to stop it, simply by saying, as loud as I can, “What is this man? Can we all stop this?” Someone pulls the spectacles off my face and before I can react, I take two punches, from left and right, then I take it in the ribs and my stomach, and someone kicks the back of my knees and I fall. My head is reeling in pain, I am hurting all over, scared to ice and I’m wondering where this will end, because 10 more guys have suddenly turned up, motorcycles revving like nothing else in the church car park. They crowd around me, as I lie there. “Think you’re very big ah?” one says. Something tells me, don’t hit back, and this same ‘something’, a sense of something I have never felt before, makes me get to my knees slowly. Just as slow, I pick up my motorcycle helmet, stand, dust off my pants, walk slowly to the double-story building that is both the church office and the priest’s living quarters. I am shaking as I walk and I know they are following me. I am terrified they will pounce on me again in the building, and it will be really bad this time because they will know no one can see. I know Father Thomas has left and there are no volunteers around. I make the three steps into the reception area, where there is a living room set of three armchairs and a big sofa. I take the armchair that faces the street, Jalan Sentul, and they all crowd round me again. Outside, I can see all their motorcycles, parked haphazardly, like they are all in a rush at the same time. A couple more riders come through the church gates. I have not said a word and there has been only silence since “Think you’re big ah?” It’s a very loud silence until someone says, “So, what are you going to do now ah?” It feels like an age before I answer. “Nothing.” There is no comeback from them. They’ve thrown a few punches, there’re about 15 of them in the church hall, more outside, I have nowhere to run. All I can do is follow what I think is my instinct, which is to stand up, very slowly, get my helmet, walk straight to my blue and black Suzuki 100. I get more scared because I realise it’s more expensive than any of theirs, and it’s cleaner. As I climb on, I know they are still behind me. Don’t look. Start the bike and go home. As I gently gun the bike and begin moving, a couple of them have started their bikes and they’re crossing in front of me, trying to get me to lose balance. I make it past the gates and take a right, crossing the road to the other side. There are 15 guys. They came down hard on me, the other guys who had also been targets fled. I did not fight back. The only word that passed my lips was ‘nothing’. I walked out of there without another scratch. I thought I was following a good instinct. I look back now, and I know instinct, if not pride, would have led me to fight. And that would have been it, as they say. No. It wasn’t instinct. I was protected.
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| One year before we married, Helen helped me pay for my first guitar, an Ibanez "Jumbo" Concord. |
On several successive Sundays in church, I see this Mat Salleh, this white man, sitting on a pew at the very front, just a few feet from where the Reverend Father Anthony Thomas celebrates mass. He seems to always be kneeling, his head bowed in prayer. He looks more pious than anyone else in church. He obviously doesn’t fit, but he wants to belong. After mass one Sunday, I go up to him, introduce myself and ask him who he is, what’s his story. Strong European accent. “I am Guy Pastors,” he says. When I repeat his name, he corrects me because it is pronounced ‘Gooi’ Pastors. “I am from Germany and I am looking for a country that will let me stay forever.” He does not have a strong command of English, but takes the trouble to speak correctly.
I’m a journalist. You can’t walk away when someone says, “Stay forever”. I keep probing. I find out that Guy has a very rare blood disorder. In winter, his blood thickens, like oil coagulates in the fridge. The heart is strained, the blood-flow slows because the heart can only push so much. Dizziness sets in and you black out. You can fall into “Wintersleep” any time like this, and the condition is capable of accelerating very fast, starving a person’s brain of oxygen to the point of death. If you’re alone when you suffer a blackout, you can just die. So far, he tells me, he has been aware of the onset, and has managed to reach the hospital in time for help and eventual recovery. Two years before he arrived in Malaysia, doctors in Germany told him his heart would not be able to withstand another Wintersleep.
Meanwhile, Guy tells me he has nowhere to stay. I am a Catholic, I am in church and I am the leader of the youth choir. I can’t just hear this and walk away, so I take him home with me, not stopping to ask where he’s stayed all this time, because it doesn’t matter. Mum immediately agrees we can let him stay until he finds work and is able to make his own way. I can tell Dadda is incredulous at the story, but he is proud his Catholic grandson is showing a sense of Christian charity. At the same time, I can imagine everyone in the family thinking, “A white man is coming to us for help.” Nobody says he’s another mouth to feed.
Monsignor Anthony Thomas
passed away in November 2017.
Guy is very strong, doesn’t smoke or take alcohol, maybe only the tiniest bit of wine at Christmas. Guy can swim 20 laps. “I’m a good ocean swimmer.” He has been to India, Thailand and Indonesia in search of a special residential permit from a country where it never gets as cold as the mildest European winter. He is now in Malaysia and he is losing hope. “I don’t know what to do if I cannot stay here,” he says. “I’ll probably have to go back to Germany. They can look after me. I am a German citizen.” When I say, “But you could die there,” he just looks at me, shrugs.
I don’t make any promises to Guy, but I tell him, “I’ll see what I can do.” I am a journalist. This is Malaysia. We are better than Thailand, India and Indonesia and we’ll do the right thing. The next day at work, I take the tale to Chua Huck Cheng, editor of The Malay Mail. Chua is not so sceptical that he can’t sniff a potentially good story. His professional instinct leads us to “see if his story checks out” before we even think of running it in the paper. Chua arranges for Guy to be seen and examined by a well known heart specialist, whose clinic happens to be a mile or two from home. The appointment is made and I take Guy to the clinic. Once I establish with the doctor that he is very much part of any story that we will publish, that I will be notified as soon as any tests results are in, whenever a firm medical opinion has been arrived at, I take my leave and head back to the office. Guy knows this part of town well enough to take himself back to the Kovil Hilir family home.
Two days later, I get a call from the doctor, who says his secretary has a copy of the report from the medical examination for me to collect. I ride over on my Suzuki, collect the report, take it to Guy, and get his permission to show it to my editor. On Monday the following week, The Malay Mail leads the back page with Guy’s story, under a brilliant headline: “Follow the sun”. All caps. Two lines across the tabloid page, a small head-and-shoulders of Guy, and my byline in 14 point. The specialist has confirmed everything Guy has told me, and agrees that another European winter could be fatal. He will also make an official appeal for permanent residency on medical grounds.
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| First post-op birthday in mid-2019: Clockwise from left are Helen, Ben, Sara and I. |
It does not take long for Aunty Floby to find paid work for Guy, and he stays with us. He decides to paint the house and build a low stone wall to one side of our compound, about two-feet high, and proceeds to turn the area contained within the wall into a flourishing raised garden. Dadda is even more impressed and happy when Guy decides to give the walls of the corridor that lead to the old man’s room an extra coat of clear gloss. The walls have been stained because Dadda stretches out both hands to help him walk alone from the living room to his bedroom. The clear gloss coating means we will be able to wipe it clean every few days. He sweeps, mops, washes the bathroom down before and after he has his shower. He also eats huge portions that make Aunty Floby smile because he takes to her cooking very well. “Don’t worry, Guy,” she tells him, “we’ll find a nice girl for you to marry.” Everything is fine and Guy’s short stay with our family becomes a tenancy. His rent, by his choosing, is a little bit of money, and all the work he can think of doing to make our home prettier and cleaner. At his first Christmas with the Emmanuels, he sings Oh Tannenbaum — in German, of course — sounding like he has learnt his chops at the Vienna Boys Choir.
Then Guy turns. He withdraws into himself. He eats less. In equatorial Malaysia, he wears a white t-shirt underneath a long-sleeve top, buttoned all the way to the collar. The portrait of teenage music star Leif Garrett hanging in the house — which Guy himself has bought — is always turned to face against the wall. I know Guy keeps doing it. He takes to attending mass on Saturday evening and Sunday morning. He sweats profusely but he keeps wearing two layers on top. Every time he goes to church, he takes a Good Morning towel with him. The fear and worry on his face cannot go unnoticed. I get really worried when I see him kneel at the altar rail all through mass, sitting only during the homily, and standing only to receive Holy Communion.
Guy doesn’t want to say anything when I first ask him. He is unusually evasive and tight-lipped. But I have the upper hand. “Guy,” I say, “you’re living in this family home because I brought you here and I asked my grandparents and everybody else to let you stay. I need to know if you’re in any trouble, if you’re sick.” My tone tells him it’s non-negotiable, but I let things slide for a while, giving him time to find the words. But the waiting is over when he tells me he wants to put a door-latch and lock on the outside of the back room, which has been his bedroom for a while now. “When I go to sleep at night, I want you to lock the door from the outside. Here is the key.” My immediate response is, “Of course not.” I return the key to him and tell him if he really wants his privacy he can attach the latch and lock on the inside of the door.
“Then you must tie me up before I sleep. You must tie me in chains.” By this time, I think Guy is just losing his mind. This is something the heart specialist has not envisioned. Then, Guy spills everything. “I am fighting the devil. I see him every where. His face is like an X-ray, just outside the living room window. I see the Devil in the Leif Garrett portrait. That’s why I turn it to the wall. I can’t look at his eyes. He looks like the devil. I feel cold every day, but I am sweating.”
I take Guy to Vijay Klinik, the doctor across the street. I tell Dr Vijay, who has become the family physician, what Guy has told me. Dr Vijay takes one look at Guy, and I can see that he is scared. He doesn’t want to touch him, though he doesn’t actually say that. It looks as if Dr Vijay actually believes the devil is in Guy. Finally, I ask: “Can we at least sedate him? Maybe if he calms down a bit, it will all go away.” The doctor seems to think it’s a good idea and puts a package together for me — two syringes, two vials. He shows me how to administer it to Guy at night, after dinner. Dr Vijay still will not touch Guy. Just before I leave the clinic with the package, I turn cold. I return the package to the doctor. It suddenly occurs to me that, if Guy is to fight whatever is on his mind, he cannot be sedated, because he might then not be able to fend off whatever it is that is haunting him. Or, he might not be able to restrain himself. It could be dangerous for the rest of us at home — he is very, very strong, very, very fit. I am shocked the doctor has not thought of this, especially if he believes Guy is haunted by the devil. The doctor is visibly shaken, pale from our visit.
Back home, Guy retreats to his bedroom. About two hours later, he basically tells me that, as far as he is concerned, it’s do-or-die time. “The devil will fight with me over three days. On the third day, either I will win or I will die. It will begin tonight at midnight.” I look at Guy and realise it does not matter if I believe that the devil is in him. Guy believes it is. And he is terrified, lost, pleading for help. This guy believes enough in our friendship to tell me the most unbelievable thing, because I have taken him home and helped him find temporary shelter, both in the Emmanuel household and in Malaysia. The Catholic in me thinks, Linda Blair, Max von Sydow, possession, Exorcist.
I have heard somewhere that Fr Thomas, the parish priest the choir boys all love and trust and share Guinness Stout with every Sunday night, is sanctioned by the Vatican to perform exorcisms. I telephone Fr Thomas, who knows me well. The kindred spirit is strong between us — we can talk choir harmonies, guitars, choice of hymns, politics, racial injustice, the suppression of religions other than Islam, celibacy, the Vatican, his calling, just about anything. He’s even allowed me to introduce Kris Kristofferson spirituals into the choir repertoire. When the choir’s choice of hymn for the sacrament of communion runs longer than the time it actually takes for people to line up, receive Holy Communion from his fingers and return to their pews, Fr Thomas stands at the altar, patiently waiting for the young people in the choir to finish singing, and for us to march up to the altar to receive our sacrament. Fr Thomas’s birthday is one day after my Mum’s, and he always joins us for her birthday dinner on October 23. Other times, Fr Thomas has Sunday lunch with us very often, and stays to have his last tea about 5 o’clock, before dashing off to lead the 6pm mass at St Joseph’s. He loves to hear Errol and I harmonise, and sometimes picks up Errol’s guitar and plucks his way through a classical piece written for the “Spanish” guitar. He is always nervous, his fingers tremble just that little bit, the man wary of looking like he is showing off, humble as anything. We are close, the two of us. When I am assigned to write my first article for a Malay Mail Christmas advertising supplement, on “the meaning of Christmas”, I go to Fr Thomas for some direction. Without hesitating, he says: “Hai say, man, why don’t you write a piece on the fact that December 25, Christmas Day, is not the day Jesus Christ was born?” An interview with Fr Thomas on the subject becomes the essence of the advertising supplement I write. Imagine that. I am a Catholic in a staunchly Catholic district of Kuala Lumpur, and I write a story about how Jesus Christ is not born on Christmas day. It is published during the Christmas season.
We have conspired before, and I know Fr Thomas will not laugh when I tell him my story. “I’ll be there tonight,” he says, and I can hear the silent sigh on the other end of the line. “Tell Guy not to worry, ah. Everything will be fine. Tell him to trust in Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“That’s why lah,” Father goes on. “I was wondering what this guy is doing, coming to church so often and kneeling in front of me all the time. Hai say, man!”
I call Gilbert Almeida, from the choir. I tell him the story and ask him to round up a couple more choir members who are willing to come to our home that night. I know I need my Catholic friends with me tonight, more than anybody else. Then I break the news to Mum and Aunty Floby. We agree not to tell Dadda or Amma. Nobody is the least bit disbelieving of my story. Every one of us believes that Guy’s big fight begins tonight, and we’re all in his corner.
*****
It’s 11pm at No 20. Gilbert, his brother Herman, Cletus Pereira, all choirboys, turn up within minutes of each other. Gilbert’s and Cletus’s motorcycles are parked in the compound, next to mine. The minutes tick by, agonisingly slow. Fr Thomas’s car pulls up by the side of the house. I am at the front door, looking through the darkness, making out the priest in his driver’s seat. He is just sitting there. I walk out to his side of the car. Gently open the door. “Father, thanks for coming.” I just wait. Father slowly, almost thoughtfully, removes the key from the ignition, sighs, takes a deep breath, takes hold of the handle of a small bag, the type some of us use to carry our school books. You don’t see these bags anymore. They look like rectangular luggage bags, except they are as small as a briefcase. They are made of hard cardboard and the corners are reinforced with little triangular caps that are affixed with round-head metal clasps to all eight edges. This is the “exorcist’s bag”. I’ve seen the movie. I imagine what’s inside: holy water, a bible, a crucifix, the holy sash that is used like a scarf. “Where’s our friend?” Father says, knowing Guy is in the house. He chuckles. He’s hiding the deep unease we all feel, the unease we don’t yet want to recognise as fear.
Inside, Father places his bag on the table we have set up in front of our permanent altar, which is attached to the wall that faces the entrance, and further out, the street. When he opens the bag, I can see what I had expected. There is also a rosary, in a case, along with three or four hymnals. “I’m going to get him,” I say to Father. I lead Guy from the back room, putting my forefinger to my lips as we pass my grandparents’ bedroom. It’s nearly midnight and I can hear Dadda snore. Guy is as cold as ice, but he is sweating. He is wearing a long-sleeve, round-collar light cotton jumper. For the rest of us, it’s humid enough to be walking around without a top, or trying to sleep, no blanket. When we get to the living room, Fr Thomas and Guy look at each other, one like a child, deflated, trusting, quietly putting himself in the hands of people who will look after him, protect him, the other looking like he’s here to do a deadly serious job. I look at Fr Thomas, and come to see another facet of this thing he refers to as “the calling”, even as I don’t fully comprehend it, what it must mean to someone like Father, who is a man bigger than he’s ever been in my eyes, at this moment.
Father lines up the bottle of Holy Water, the Bible, his rosary, on the table. He directs us to place one of the bamboo armchairs so it faces the altar. He gently places his hand on Guy’s shoulder, tells him, “You sit here, OK.” Mum, Aunty Floby and Uncle Gilly have joined us. Guy takes his place in the chair as the rest of us stand around him, wondering what on earth is going to happen now. I simply cannot fathom the ease with which we all slip into our roles, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Father puts on the holy sash, the rosary clasped in his left hand, the bottle of holy water in the other. He looks at everybody with the kindest, most tired eyes ever and says, “Shall we sing something, ah. God of Mercy.” We all know this hymn by heart, we don’t have to open the hymnals that Father has distributed. By the time we are into the second chorus, Dadda asks, in Malayalam, “What’s all this about, singing in the middle of the night?” Aunty Floby tells him we are practising for the Christmas season. And of course Dadda replies that Christmas is six months away.
Father begins his prayer, calling on God to cast out the demon. He actually says these words. We continue singing. Guy starts to stiffen, begs me to draw the curtains close. I imagine he’s seeing that X-ray image of a face, looking in. Gilbert, Herman, Cletus and I stand around Guy — two of us just behind Guy, our hands resting on his shoulders, the other two standing by, one on either side of his legs. Then, cold terror grips me. Guy has stiffened. His hands are clasped to the arms of the chair, his body seems to be pushing against us, raising itself up. Gilbert and I look at one another, unbelieving, yet knowing we have to hold him down. I call out to the others, “Grab his legs.” Guy is lifting off the chair, in a trance, his mouth is hanging open, the fighter within has abandoned him, but the physical body is so strong it resists the efforts of four grown men to keep him seated. His body is as straight as a plank and we are pushing him down. I have never felt this fear and I have never prayed so intently, silently, as I fight to resist whatever it is that is trying to overcome me. This is what cold terror means. Father’s incantation gets louder as he splashes Holy Water on Guy and around the living room, on all of us, the choir of three sings louder, we push down harder.
Suddenly, Guy collapses, like he’s fainted. He is askew, on the chair, the life has gone out of him, he is dribbling. Then he gasps, looks at us, tears in his eyes. It is over. Only, it’s not. This is only Round One. We go through the same rituals the next night, with Father leading us, and the torment is even greater, the presence of this horrible thing is stronger, palpable. The fear grips me like ice-cold hands grabbing at my insides. Again, the episode closes with Guy collapsing on the chair, an inflated mannequin that has had half the air taken out.
On the third day, there is a resolve as we gather, simply to accept whatever it is that may come our way, whatever may happen to Guy. That night, we have all knelt to say the Holy Rosary more fervently than ever. The boys have come early. We have a late dinner, go for a long walk with our smokes. The fight begins anew. We pray and pray and pray and sing. Dadda is used to this already. Not a word of reproach comes from his room. I feel like I must squeeze my eyes shut to keep the fear at bay. It’s the most horrible feeling ever. There is an evil force swirling around me. We keep repeating The Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary time and time again.
Then… then… unbelievable at first, but undeniably true the very next second, I feel the most comforting, warm breeze blow within our living room. I actually feel it. It is not something I sense. Maybe it does not blow through my hair, but a warm wind embraces me and the fear just dissipates, drains out of me. Guy has collapsed again. There is a comforting silence. Outside, it is still, but the curtains billow gently. This is what it means when we hear, “Your faith has been rewarded.” We have prayed and prayed and cried out for help, and God has sent his only begotten Son into our living room to protect us, to cast out the demon. No one asks another, “Did you feel that?” I only give words to it a few days later. I felt the Wind. I have felt the presence. Nothing else matters.
Father puts his hands on Guy’s shoulder, and says, “Are you OK, my friend?” Guys takes Father’s hands in his own, bows and raises Father’s hands to his forehead. This is how we bless ourselves with the hands of a holy man, a priest. In a few minutes, Aunty Floby has brought out mugs of hot Milo and we sit around the living room, chatting about everything else. No one wants to relive the experience we have all gone through these past three nights. I walk Father to the car. He is almost ashen, exhausted, as he says “goodnight” and then drives off. About 20 minutes later, Father telephones us. “How is he? Is he calm? Is he OK?” Then, Father says, “Hai say, man, can one of you come and be with me, ah? I’m all alone here. I’m scared. I don’t want to be alone.” Gilbert, Herman, riding pillion, and Cletus dutifully head to church, to spend time with Father, at least until night gives way to dawn.
Back in our home, everybody has gone to sleep. Guy has been given my single bed in the front room. We don’t want him alone at the back. Someone has to watch over him. I am the watchman. I carry my mattress from its place under the staircase, unroll it on the living room floor, check to see the door to Guy’s room is not locked, say my prayers one more time, close my eyes. Every few minutes, I get up and check to see if Guy is OK. On my third visit to his bedside, Guy’s eyes suddenly snap open and a twisted, dangerous person stares out at me, more threatening than ever because there is only he and I in the bedroom. He starts to raise himself from the bed, trying to sit up. As naturally as breathing, I return the stare, know what I must do. I reach into my pocket, take out my rosary and, holding the crucifix between thumb and forefinger, I hit his forehead with it, push down hard. “Leave,” I say, drawing that word out, commanding. I am afraid, but I have power. I have faith. I believe. I hit his forehead again. And again. And he collapses back on the bed. His eyes are closed. He looks like a baby. There is the faintest smile on his lips. I stand by his bed, the rosary in my hand, praying silently. After a while, I gently rest my palm on his forehead, push back his hair like I would with a child, feel his sweat. “OK?” I say to him, smiling myself, knowing the answer. He nods. Guy is at peace.
That night, when I feel the warm wind blow through our Sentul living room, freeing me from the terror of what I have seen, will come to remain the immutable foundation of my belief in the existence of God. Nothing else will ever bring me closer to Catholicism and being Christian than this moment. Nothing, that is, until I very nearly die at 60.
Years later, a day after I lose Mum, become the last man standing in my own family, I recall this story to my brother-in-law, Goh Keat Peng, who is married to Helen’s sister, Grace. KP, as I often call him, is a trained counsellor, recognised as an elder in his Christian (not Catholic) community and often addresses the people at Sunday worship. He tells me he envies me. He believes because he has faith. It is a faith that has been taught to him, and which he has come to know and hold close to his heart. “But you,” he says, almost shouting, “William, you have the presence of our Father in Heaven. Many of us cannot even imagine what you have gone through, but we cry out for that experience, some real sign that will seal our faith. You have actually felt it. Do you know how precious that is? My friend…” and he looks away into the distance, not needing to finish a sentence. KP turns back to me, and laughs.
*****
There have been other times, near accidents, mad times behind the wheel, getting squeezed between a Sri Jaya public bus going one way and a timber-laden lorry going the other way, on my Suzuki, with not inches to spare… falling 100 ft down a sand hill in a deserted tin mine, while doing wheel-spins on my motorcycle, knocked unconscious, awakened by a Chinese woman and her baby daughter. “Haiyoh, nasib baik, tada mati,” she says, meaning, Man, you’re lucky you didn’t die.
All I know is, here I am. Saved, saved and saved again. Saved when I didn’t even know I was being saved. I pray. I call for help. I don’t know what a man like me could ask for. I surrender. Here I am. Again.
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| Guy Pastors now with his family: Guy stands at right with wife Helena; grandson Ethan is with daughter Michelle, and Helena's dad, Victor David, 93. Son-in-law Isaac completes the picture. |
POSTSCRIPT
Guy Pastors married Helena David, a Sentul lass he came to know at St Joseph's Church, in 1984. Guy now lives in Lumut, near the naval base, and teaches swimming on a casual basis to navy personnel. The couple's children, Andrew and Michelle, are Lumut-born.
Andrew is a lawyer and practises in KL. Michelle works at the Methodist College in Brickfields.
Michelle married a Pakistani national, Isaac, in Pakistan in 2017. Guy's entire family attended the wedding there. He says: “It was December, and winter in Pakistan. I almost had another Wintersleep. I went back early with Helena to Malaysia.”
Helena lives with Andrew in KL, looking after their two-year-old grandson, Ethan. Due to Covid-19 travel restrictions, Guy lives alone in Lumut and, for the time being, skypes with his wife almost every day.
“I will be 70 on 31 March, and I am healthy.”
Guy has bought a "small apartment in Teluk Batik Resort, near the beach". He also has a house "directly on the beach". As The Malay Mail headline read in 1978, “Follow the sun”.
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