Bersih 2.0: Arrested and sent to Pulapol

By CL Shue
Jul 14, 11 | MalaysiaKini

EYEWITNESS On July 8, 2011, my doctor friend SMS-ed me and said he was not sure whether he would be able to get into Kuala Lumpur by the next day. I was also not sure whether I would be able to get near Stadium Merdeka on July 9. But I had to go and see.

On July 9 after work in the morning, I drove to the Pavilion and parked my car there, and took a taxi to Petaling Street to meet my friend. He got into KL without any problems. He introduced two other people to me.

We went down Jalan Petaling at around 11am and came to a corner facing Central Market. There were trucks lined up, with rows of police and other blue-uniformed people in front of Central Market.

A helicopter flew overhead. I took some pictures and videos. There were few people, and no commotion.

A plainclothes police officer with a walkie talkie came up behind me together together with a policeman in uniform. He looked at me in a stern manner and asked me, “Why are you here?” “Oh! This is an important day,” I replied. “Why is it important?” he cocked his head and asked.

“This has never happened before. This is very important. This is a historical day!” There was no time to think, and it was without hesitation that I replied calmly and emphatically, straight from my heart.

He asked me for my identity card, and after taking my IC, he said, “Okay, be part of history,” and with a wave of his hand, he signalled for a uniformed police officer to escort me and my friend to the police truck.

As we walked towards the truck, there were plenty of photo-snapping by uniformed and non-uniformed people. “This is no good. These goons are going to have a file on me,” I thought. “But I’ve got to say what I’ve got to say!” and I was glad I did.

We got into one of the trucks and were joined by many ordinary folk, all cooperative, no noise or gestures of defiance or protests.
After the truck was filled, the doors were closed and padlocked from outside. Off we went in a convoy, at a fairly high speed and escorted by a traffic police car.

I looked, and all around were ordinary folks, 90 percent of whom were Malays: workers, students, elder citizens, some with white skullcaps, some with checkered turbans, and people that I don’t ordinarily see in the city.

But they all had warmth in their eyes. We shook hands and a bond was established. We might have had different backgrounds, but at that moment, I knew we were one people.

Trucked to Pulapol

We were brought into the Pusat Latihan Polis large compound known as Pulapol.

My friend and I phoned our family. My wife was a little excited even though she knew I was going to KL and to Bersih 2.0.

She supported me but still she could not contain her feelings, judging from the shrillness of her initial response. I reassured her “nothing will happen”.

She fell into calmness quickly. I knew she felt reassured. She has always trusted my judgement. In the days leading up to July 9th, we had already decided: “Arrest, arrest lah, how many can they arrest?”

At the camp, we peeked out of the truck and could see the trucks lined up one by one, about 10 at that time. The truck stopped at a large building to disgorge the detainees, one truck at a time. We waited for like an hour or so for our turn.

The waiting was interspersed with spirited shouts; tidy, resonating and in unison. Next to the large building was a large open air compound, part of it fenced up with barb wire and with police trainees standing behind the barb wire in a disorderly and slack manner.

The barb wire and the truck line up reminded me of Dachau just outside Munich, but without the chill and atmosphere of suspended doom.

The police trainees reacted to occasional jeers or mockery. But they were largely spared. They looked so young. It occurred to me while waiting, that the danger we were in was if the truck caught fire, we would most probably perished. There was no way we could have broken out of the double layered metal mesh construction of the truck.

That danger passed as we disembarked and took our seats in sections designated to hold us. One officer told us to switch off our handphones and we asked for a last call to our families.

Again we called our families and kept them updated. When our turn came, we took our seats in front of rows of individual tables behind which sat old policemen.

They took my name, IC number, and address. Then onto the next section. Again tables, but this time there were young police trainee girls seated behind the tables.

They were a little nervous and not stern or confident. Again they took my name, IC, my address, my wife’s name (told my wife later, may be she will get knocks on the door at night, but she said she was not scared), how many children I had, what my work was and where was I when I was arrested, and why I was where I was.

I told her I am a doctor and opened my back pack to show her gauze, rolls of bandages, plaster casts and bottles of water and said that I could help at the front line.

She was a little startled and told me she believed me. She asked whether I knew of the rally. I said yes the rally was to be at the stadium.

She wrote some words on the paper and did not ask me to sign. She then told me that was all and I was to join the rest in the fenced up area. We were able to phone, SMS, email our families and take video without any obstruction at all, as if what it were all meant for us to video to our hearts content.

By the thousands

My wife told me she had given our names to the lawyers. We had many people who came up to us to shake hands warmly.

We chit chatted with each other and shared our stories. Ordinary people, ordinary folks. I looked at their tan, their dress, their eyes and expressions. I wondered how much they would have to spend just to get to KL.

And here they were, by the thousands! Teachers, students, older people, women, traders, security guards,worker, politicians, religious teachers, wise men.

There were many more which I have no idea what they do. It was of no importance what their profession or work was. The thing that was of importance was we were all there for one reason.

We were one people. There were no barriers. It was a wonderful experience. It set me free. Free from fear. Free to feel the brotherhood, and the nationhood of brothers. Merdeka!

The long wait for the ICs were punctuated by few incidences. Often when a fresh batch of detainees arrived, there were rousing welcome shouts of the melodious ‘Allah al akbar’.

The ladies with tudung got one of the loudest welcomes. Faced with so many ordinary folks, the trainees appeared somewhat awkward and different from the hardened and seasoned old policemen.

Then there was this young but big size man who arrived in ambulance. Apparently emotional and perhaps traumatised, he seemed to be hyperventilating. Oxygen tension (sPo2) on room air was 100% and soon he settled down.

Some detainees arrived in hand cuffed behind their backs. Some had red marks on their wrists from the plastic handcuffs. Some had muddied shirts.

The only tense moment was when a police car brought a big man in red t shirt. O man! That was an absolutely crazy and stupid idea.

When people saw the red shirt, shouts rang out and the section of people who were aware got up from their seats or floor where they were sitting and started to move nearer the entrance and barb wires and the rows of policemen.

The atmosphere became tense. I feared for his life although I dislike red shirt guys. The policemen who brought him hesitated outside the camp and then bundled him back into the police car and sped off to the jeers and shouts of the detainees.

It was the proverbial waving of a red cloth in front of a raging bull.
With the red shirt man removed, the camp settled into calm again. Some food came. Fried ikan kembong, mixed vegetables, white rice, bottled water. I estimated the cost at about six ringgit market price.

Nice tents, nice chairs, fans, surau, portable toilets, four taps, makeshift Red Crescent tents. If you have flowers you could kahwin there too! It soon dawned on me that this was a publicity effort thought of by cunning crafty and sly people to project a pseudo-kind image.

Inefficient and slow

At various time, police officer with megaphone would come and stand here or there and calling out names and giving out the ICs.
The crowd just packed around the officer in a dense circle trying to hear whether their names were being called. Those answering the call had to fight their ways into the centre where the officer was standing to take their ICs.

I thought even a school teacher could do a better job to line up people in rows and to have walking lanes in between the rows. The process was inefficient and slow, as the officer had to call out the name twice with intervals in-between to allow response.

As the sky became dark, the crowd became restless. Then another officer with another megaphone appeared. He positioned himself about 20 metres away from the other officer and started to call out names.

The crowd was startled and turn 180 degrees to try to hear the name call. It was very comical to see the heads turning left when one megaphone called, and then right when the other megaphone called, like a yo-yo. It was so inefficient that it was soon abandoned.

After we got our ICs. we called our families. We were not sure when we were heading as there were initial rumours that we had to exit from Cheras police station.

Those who got their ICs were driven away in batches in luxurious coaches.

I thought to myself, luxurious coaches on a Saturday night would cost 1000 ringgit per bus per trip at least. Those with contracts to ferry detainees would make a bundle.

As we were driven out of Pulapol, there were family members and members from the public gathered outside.

They showed their solidarity by punching the air with fists and waving away, chanting, and displaying the warmest of smiles, seemingly proud of us, although we had not done anything except for just being there.

We were dropped off at Sentral. There were thundering shouts by people already at the station before us, as detainees disembarked from the buses.

We shook hands like alumni, war comrades and parted ways, exchanging deeply felt ‘bertemu lagi’. The expressions of our comrades were unforgettable. I felt my life enriched.

We shared a few hours, we didn’t even know each other’s name. But that was enough. In those hours, we had lived to the full.
We asked ourselves what we could do to help ourselves, and acted.

At 58, I will not run any more and I must turn to confront my destiny. What a day.