A Doctor in The House: A Memoir of Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad (33 page)

The international Press wrote Malaysia off. Foreign observers had repeatedly predicted that the Chinese and Malays would not be able to live together. The Malays, they now declared, would seize power and rule the country without any democratic practices or pretences.

The Tunku was in tears. He could not understand how this could have happened. He blamed instigators, generally the communists, because in those days they were the main bogeyman. After he called for a state of emergency, Parliament was suspended and a special body called the National Operations Council (NOC) was set up under Tun Razak. There was to be a Cabinet under the Tunku, but for all intents and purposes, Tun Razak was to run the country. The Tunku had never been involved in actual administration, preferring to focus on policy. Tun Dr Ismail, who had left the Government in 1967, agreed to return as Minister in the Cabinet and as the number two man in the NOC.

By and large, the political parties that had indulged in racist rhetoric also came quickly to their senses. They denied being the cause of the riots but were all willing to help reduce the tensions. While in Kuala Lumpur I met Tun Musa Hitam, Sulaiman Alias, Abdullah Ahmad and the other young Turks, and discussed the political situation. We believed that the Tunku was to blame, that he had been so taken up with euphoria over the creation of Malaysia, he had failed to see what was happening on the ground.

While the Tunku was setting up the new Cabinet, Tun Tan Siew Sin made a public statement that the MCA would not join the Cabinet and the Government but would remain in the Alliance. Tun Tan felt that, having failed the Alliance, the MCA did not now deserve to be in the Government. This triggered heated discussion in the Press, especially the Malay papers, and among the Malay public. Asked to give my opinion when I was interviewed by telephone, I did not mince words. I said unequivocally that the MCA should not be in the Government. It had not supported the Alliance and its members (as in Kota Star Selatan) had even voted for the Opposition, including PAS.

I knew I was not helping matters but my anger at the MCA was strong and personal. They, I felt, were the reason I had lost the election. The bitterness of defeat, the knowledge that someone you regarded as your supporter had let you down, coloured my words. So I thought it only right that the MCA leave the Government.

It was this statement that drew the attention of the Tunku and made him decide to write to me. In a letter dated 6 June 1969, he said that I was not being helpful. My statement had made matters worse at a time of extreme tension when the country had not yet recovered from the riots of May. The trouble, he wrote, had spread to Sarawak and might recur in the Peninsula. He urged me to be patient and not to do anything until conditions were settled in the country.

I wrote back to him on 17 June, some 10 days after receiving his letter. When I read it now, I see that I was most intemperate in my language. It was not as if I was replying in the heat of the moment as I had deliberately given myself time to cool down. But I must have been fuming over my losing the election and the role played by the MCA and the Chinese in my defeat. The Tunku’s request that I be patient and avoid doing anything that might worsen the situation only angered me more. If the partners of the Alliance were not ready to be honest with each other, I thought, we might as well do away with the coalition.

In my letter, I accused the Tunku of being the cause of the racial riots—and effectively of a coalition and even regime crisis—because he had been too soft with the Chinese. In particular, I wrote to him about commuting the death sentence of 11 Chinese men who had been found guilty of treason. I blamed him for listening only to the sycophants around him. In that letter, I wanted to tell him what people really thought of him. The Malays, I wrote, had been so insulted by the Chinese and Indians during the Opposition’s “victory” celebration that they lost control of themselves and started to riot and kill people. Others may have been incited, but the culpability for their frustration rested with their leaders who failed to appreciate the feelings of the Malays.

To hurt him even more, I told the Tunku that Malays, whether from PAS or UMNO, hated him. I accused him of playing poker with his Chinese friends at the height of the crisis, when the Emergency was declared. The Chinese, I said, considered him naïve and of low calibre. The Civil Service, police and armed forces no longer supported the Government and now leaned instead towards PAS. I hinted that he might well lose control over the armed forces and once this happened, it would be near impossible to regain their respect. The people, I told the Tunku, thought it was time for him to step down.

In addressing the Tunku in this way, I knew I was courting arrest and detention. I mentioned in the letter the fate of Aziz Ishak, the former Minister of Agriculture, who had been sacked from the Cabinet and detained under the ISA for doing less than I had. But I also stated outright that I was prepared to go to jail for my views. Finally, I insisted that my statement on the MCA’s not joining the Government was made in all sincerity. If the Tunku allowed the humiliation of the Malays to continue, there would be a worse price to pay.

It was my fervent hope that the Tunku would read my letter through and see the truth, no matter how bitter it may have been. I had given this letter in confidence to two of my friends. I needed their support and understanding so that, if I was indeed arrested, they would know why.

On hindsight, I was unforgiving and deliberately provocative in my letter. I could have been milder, but I wanted to hurt the Tunku, to shock him into realising all that he had been avoiding. I wanted him to know that he was the cause of all our nation’s troubles. I now regret my harsh tone very much.

Yet I found it odd that the Tunku simply could not understand how racial tension could have arisen. When I knew of him in his younger days, when he was in the Kedah State Civil Service, he had always shown great concern about the Malays. But after he became Prime Minister and head of the multiracial Alliance, his views seemed to flatten and become one-dimensional.

Unkind as my letter may have been, I do not think I could have handled the situation differently, so great was my anger at that time. I had lost the election and was not in a position to influence the Government. While I was still a member of the UMNO Supreme Council, it was inactive. I was simply responding to the tumultuous Malay sentiments of that time. So many people were very angry with the Tunku, but none dared to do anything. I, on the other hand, felt the need to act. As far back as the Malayan Union crisis of 1946, when I moved a small group of schoolboys into public action, I had felt the same way: one may grumble endlessly, but it is action that can make a real difference, that can change the course of history.

Very quickly, the letter was reproduced and circulated throughout the country. I was in two minds about the letter being made public. On the one hand, it was good for people to know what I had written. On the other, there was the possibility that it would reflect badly on me, and might even cause action to be taken against me. I soon found out that there was considerable support for what I said and many people contacted me to express their agreement. But the letter’s wide circulation caused great consternation among Tunku loyalists.

I received a phone call from Tan Sri Senu Abdul Rahman, who was at that time the Secretary-General of UMNO. He roundly told me off for writing such a letter and strongly suggested that I withdraw it. I told him I could not, as I had meant every word I had written. Besides, these were not just my views; what I said was the general view of the Malays and the Tunku needed to know what was happening on the ground, especially with regard to the Malays.

Senu said I had hurt the Tunku’s feelings. He himself was angry because he, Khir and the Tunku were very close and had been friends since their time together in the early Kedah Malay nationalist group Saberkas in the 1940s. Apparently, at the time of my writing the letter, the Tunku was unwell and in hospital. My 17 June letter was handed to him only after he was discharged. On 30 June, he replied. In a seven-page typewritten missive, he pointed out that his letter to me had been couched in civil language but my reply had raised numerous issues with the intention of smearing his good name. He said I was wrong in thinking that he did not know what was being said about him. He “knew” of my activities with friends to overthrow him. He prayed and hoped I would realise the error of my ways.

He questioned my claim that I knew the views of the 
rakyat
 and said that no one had given me a mandate to speak on their behalf. He pointed out that he had intervened in the case of the 11 Chinese individuals because of world opinion. As to playing poker, that was his way to relax.

He referred to his service to UMNO and the Malay people, how he had resuscitated the party and restored our country’s honour and independence. All was fine so long as the party was doing well, but the moment it faltered all manner of accusations were directed at him.

I was disloyal to the top leadership, he again said, and he knew of my plotting against him. But he still held power as head of the party and unless I withdrew from the Council, he would bring this matter up with its members.

I could have left it at that. But I was still angry. I still felt the Tunku’s leadership had failed to alleviate the economic plight of the Malays, and even the Indians were doing better (although many of them were still among the poorest in Malaysia, there were also many in the professions—in medicine, law and engineering). I decided I should reply to explain why I had written my letter.

I apologised for my harshness, but there was no way to put things clearly without sounding harsh. I said I appreciated his service to UMNO. But had Dato’ Onn not united the Malays from the various states, I pointed out, the demand for Malayan Independence might have come from non-Malays. They, not the Malays, would have led the movement and claimed the prize. Yet despite his immense service to UMNO and the Malays, Dato’ Onn still had to leave the party when majority opinion so decided. Past service did not make a leader immune to the consequences of subsequent bad decisions.

While I acknowledged all the good services the Tunku had rendered to UMNO, it was time, I reiterated, for him to step down. It had to be that way, since nobody of stature would challenge him openly. Anyone who disagreed with him would find himself dismissed from the Cabinet, sent abroad, or even detained as Aziz had been. Had there been no fear of punitive action, I said, he would have been challenged long ago.

A meeting of the Supreme Council had already been scheduled for 12 July and my case would now be on the agenda. I told the Tunku that I knew of the meeting, and that I expected to be expelled from the council because no one would dare go against him and speak up for me.

On 11 July I went to Kuala Lumpur and met many of my supporters, including Professor Zainal Abidin Wahid, who was then a member of the academic staff of the University of Malaya. He and his friends within and outside the university believed that they could influence the Supreme Council through a signature campaign. In the last General Election, Zainal had campaigned for PAS because he believed the Tunku had betrayed the Malays. Suddenly realising the possibility that PAS might win in my constituency, I had appealed to him in the midst of the campaign to intercede with PAS on my behalf. It was a futile and desperate measure. Zainal did not have much influence over PAS, but he had always been close to me, especially when pushing his Malay agenda.

Though he was able to get about 6,000 signatures, I did not believe that the campaign would change anything. But I accepted the massive document he gave me for submission to the Supreme Council. I arrived early on 12 July at Sri Taman, Tun Razak’s residence, where the meeting was to be held. Some other members were already there. They advised me to withdraw my letter and apologise to the Tunku, but I reserved comment. Nearly all the Council members attended the meeting, and they included UMNO Ministers, 
Menteri Besar
 and Chief Ministers. The Tunku himself did not attend so in his absence, his deputy, Tun Razak, would chair the meeting. I appreciated the Tunku’s choice not to be present to avoid any appearance of seeking to influence the decision of the Council. But in truth, I did not think his physical absence would have any bearing on the outcome. The Tunku was the President of the Council—anyone taking my side would effectively be stating a vote of no confidence in his leadership.

The police expected some trouble from some of my sympathisers so security was tight. Police personnel surrounded the residence and the roads leading to it were closed, except to members of the Supreme Council. The Press was kept away and there were no photographers present. I went in with the others when the meeting was called. The usual preliminaries were cut short and the subject of my sending my letter to the Tunku and circulating it to the public was then brought up. I was asked by Tun Razak whether I was prepared to withdraw the letter and apologise to the Tunku. I briefly explained the background of the exchange but made it clear that I was not prepared to withdraw my letter or to apologise. I was then asked to wait in the sitting room.

To this day I still do not know exactly what ensued at the meeting. Some members felt that expulsion from the Council was too drastic. I believe Datuk Harun Idris was among those who cautioned the Council against dropping me. I had the weight of Malay opinion behind me, they said. The meeting lasted almost two hours. Outside in the lounge, I was restless. I knew I would be expelled, but I had already decided that if asked to recant, I would hold my ground. Doing otherwise would diminish my hard-won credibility, and anything I might ever say after that would be ridiculed. That I could not afford.

Before the meeting ended, Tun Dr Ismail came out to me in the sitting room. He asked me again whether I would be prepared to withdraw my letters and apologise to the Tunku. I confirmed my stand and he returned to the meeting. Shortly after, the meeting was adjourned and I was told that a public announcement would be made that afternoon. I believe they wanted to inform the Tunku of their decision first.