A Doctor in The House: A Memoir of Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad (4 page)

My mother had a small plot of land on which she grew mostly jasmine and roses. We collected the jasmine flowers and strung them on finely-split, dried long grass stems called 
menerong
. An Indian flowerseller would then come to collect the strings of flowers and sell them to women who wore them around their hair buns. In our neighbourhood, my mother was also well-known for the 
celak
, or kohl which she made. It was tedious work—she used a porcelain mortar and pestle to crush the kohl to a very fine powder. In addition, she made 
bedak sejuk
 by dropping liquid rice flour through a banana leaf cone onto a piece of white muslin. When dried it would be stored in bottles in pellet form. In those days women dissolved the solidified paste in water and applied it to their faces to help cool the skin. My mother also made 
minyak angin
, a kind of coconut-oil-based liniment that helped to relieve muscle aches and sprained ankles.

I suppose we would have been considered lower-middle class, but my parents were in no way stingy. If my school pocket money was reduced from four sen to two sen it was because my father’s pension was now a third of his last-drawn salary of RM270. I knew they loved me, though my father was distant and was not good at showing his affection. I knew that, more than anything, my mother wanted me to be a good and upright man. As a career, there were only two things she didn’t want me to become: a police inspector or, ironically, a doctor. Either, she said, would mean that I would never get any sleep. But when I did go on to study medicine, she didn’t object.

We had only two iron four-poster beds at home, one for my parents and the other for any newly-married member of the family. The rest of us slept on thin mattresses laid out on the floor, under mosquito nets hung from nails driven into the wooden pillars. In the morning the nets were taken down and the mattresses rolled up and stacked against the wall with the pillows. When I was Prime Minister and visited Japan frequently, I was amused when the Japanese carefully explained to me their custom of sleeping on the floor because it was no different from my own experience growing up.

Manners were given great emphasis in our home. Malays eat with their fingers but they do not grab food and soil the palm. Food is to be handled with the right hand only. Serving spoons are managed with the left hand so that the handle remains clean. It may sound difficult but I became very skilled, even at getting the meat out of prawns and crabs with my right hand only. Today I wince when I see Malay children using both hands to eat. In my family, which I would call orthodox Malay Muslim, all the women, except for my mother, used to eat after the men had eaten. We had our meals sitting on the floor and did not talk while eating. After the men, including even young boys like myself, had eaten, the food was taken to the kitchen area which was at a lower level, where my sisters ate.

It was my father who taught me to sit at the table and use a fork and spoon to eat. Since we usually sat on the floor for meals, he bought a small wooden table to teach me. But I was not inclined to use forks and spoons until I injured my right hand when I was about eight. I was trying to stop a bench from falling over, but it landed on the middle finger of my right hand, splitting the tip. After that I had to use a fork and spoon most of the time. Now I hardly ever eat with my hands. Indeed, I am now more adept at getting the meat out of prawns and crabs using the fork and spoon than most people are with their fingers. I often shell crabs for Hasmah, and I taught my children the best way to get the meat out. I regard table manners, whether Malay or English, as a measure of one’s upbringing, so I am horrified when I see Malaysians—even diplomats—holding forks in their fists as if wanting to stab someone.

My sisters and brothers also played a role in my upbringing. I was the youngest of six children in my mother’s
[3]
 family and naturally I was pampered. My three sisters, Rafeah, Habsah and Johara corrected my manners—they would smack my hand if I handled food wrongly—and instructed me about proper deference to the elderly and to family friends who were senior members of the Kedah government service. Apart from these siblings, I had two half-brothers and one half-sister. Aishah, my half-sister, was also close to me, though she married when I was still a small boy and lived with her husband in a house further down the Seberang Perak road. The eldest of my sisters Rafeah was with me the longest. She moved from Alor Star to live with me in Kuala Lumpur and I was always happy and deeply nostalgic when she was around. She passed away on 1 September 2009.
 

Through teaching me to be modest, my mother also handed down the values of tolerance and respect. When I became Deputy Prime Minister and Prime Minister I never transferred any member of my staff for bad work, as was usually the practice. Instead, I tried to get them to do what I expected of them by gaining their loyalty. They were usually able to improve and raise their performance to a satisfactory level. Many members of my staff are still with me, after decades of service. I strongly believe that it is the boss’ responsibility to get on with the staff and get the best out of them. Faults will always be there. Changing staff does not guarantee that the new employees will be any better. I am keenly aware that perfect people simply do not exist. As much as I might have been annoyed with staff members, they must have also been irritated with me quite often. All this early guidance from my family served me well during my tenure as Deputy Prime Minister and Prime Minister. Though I did not agree with some of Tun Hussein’s policies and ideas, for example, he was the boss and I respected him.

Observing my parents as I was growing up also taught me to value the concept of the family. My parents were very close. At night my father would sit on the floor, stretch his legs and lean against the main pillar of the house to talk to my mother. The pillar was his favourite spot and it was worn smooth over the years because he leaned against it so often. He would smoke cheroot cigars and she would chew betel leaves. I do not know what they discussed but they were good companions and seemed to have something to talk about all the time. They did not demonstrate their affection for each other as it was unbecoming to do so, but I know they loved each other very much.

As he grew old and his heart began to fail him, my father refused to go anywhere. I think he feared dying away from home. I was already a medical officer by then and was staying in government quarters, but I visited my parents every day. Eventually the time came when he refused to take the medicine prescribed for him, and he began to fade away. He passed away quietly in 1962. After my father died, my mother no longer had the desire to live. She withdrew from all of us. She did not eat well or talk much. After some time, she just lay down listlessly on a mattress on the floor. She pulled up her legs and did not seem to want to get up. Eventually, her legs froze in that position. When she died, we could not straighten them. I already had a private medical practice at the time and every day, after treating my last patient, I would go home to see her. I would try to cheer her up but it was difficult and frustrating. Three years after my father’s death, she too passed away.

I cannot imagine what growing up in a polygamous family would have been like. Surely in such a situation, bitterness would eat at the heart of the household. Life could not be peaceful for the husband. Among my brothers, only the eldest, Murad, from my father’s first marriage, had two wives. Being brought up in a family that was largely monogamous has helped me keep to the straight and narrow. My father-in-law Haji Mohd Ali also had only one wife. Hasmah and I feel blessed that we come from such a family background.

People often fall back on the argument that Islam allows a man to have four wives at one time, but there is a clause that is always ignored. The Quran says that you 
may
 marry two, three or even four women, but if you cannot be just to them all, then marry just one. And later in the same chapter, it says that you will never be able to achieve this level of fairness to women. The implication is clear: the Quran advocates one wife, not four. Undoubtedly, there are sometimes unusual circumstances—such as war—in which the number of women exceeds the number of men. To ensure that someone takes care of war widows, Muslim men are allowed to marry more than one wife. Islam is not merely a system of beliefs and rituals. It guides the community in all the daily activities of life, even in areas such as punctuality, personal cleanliness and protecting the environment.

By shaping our way of life, Islam maintains balance and a well-ordered society. Yet, ironically, it is those who claim to be religiously educated who tend to marry more than one woman. Generally communities are made up of roughly equal numbers of men and women. I have often argued that if a man takes more than one wife, then it would presumably deprive others of spouses. It hits at the heart of society’s equilibrium.

By no means am I saying that monogamous marriages are perfect. In practice, disagreements cannot be avoided but they should not cause any break-up in husband-wife relations. For example, I am a stickler for time. In the stories I read as a boy, punctuality seemed a good quality to have, so I developed it. Hasmah, however, is always late, inevitably having something to sort out just before we have to leave. At first this difference caused a lot of friction. But over the years I learnt to accommodate this habit, as she has had to do with many of mine. Now I make jokes about her tardiness and make exaggerated efforts at helping to find what she is looking for. I irritate her by following her around the room. I lie and say we have to leave at 8pm when we actually have to leave later. Still, she is incorrigible. Now I stay in the dressing room until she is finished. I have learnt the hard way that if I were to go downstairs first, she will never emerge. Mutual regard and good humour, as this small example shows, can preserve a marriage. I would never dream of taking another wife and causing Hasmah and my children anguish and pain. To be happy, one must learn to make compromises with grace.

From my mother I also learnt the importance of the extended family. We were very attached to ours, even our relatives by marriage. My maternal grandmother lived with us until she died. Her name was Hawa, and by the time I was born she was already grey-haired. What I remember most about her is that she kept her money in a round cigarette tin, and at night she would sleep using the tin as a pillow. Recently, I watched a television show in which a Malay couple decided to send their aged father, who had had a stroke, to an old folks home. It is an idea that is alien to me. In Malay culture, you cherish and revere your elderly relatives. You do not send them to die alone among strangers. I am horrified at the change in the Malay value system and I mourn the passage of good values of the sort handed down by my parents.

Yet family ties and high office are not always a comfortable combination. When I was Prime Minister, many members of my extended family did not understand that I could not use my authority to get whatever I (or they) wanted. Some expected me to favour them with contracts, licences and the like. They came to my home armed with their brown envelopes containing all kinds of proposals, but the most I could do was play postman and pass the envelopes to the officers concerned. Sometimes I would write, “Please See” on the envelopes. Some say this was enough to influence the officers to give what was asked for, but I also know that most of my relatives and friends got nothing. If they received a positive response, it was because in the opinion of the respective officers, their proposals were sound.

Some of my relatives who failed to get anything are still not on speaking terms with me. In one case, my nephew Ahmad Mustapha, a journalist, attempted to go into business. He tried to persuade me to buy what he said was the Sukhoi 35 aircraft, and I told him any decision to purchase would depend on how good the aircraft was. When I made enquiries from a Russian, he said there was no Sukhoi 35, only the 30 which India had. The mark 35 version has yet to be produced to this day. I even asked Russian President Vladimir Putin about it since I wanted the best for our air force. But he confirmed they did not have the 35, so our Government decided to buy the Sukhoi 30. Mustapha thought I had personally frustrated him and until today, he doesn’t talk to me. These are the hazards of public office, and my relatives’ displeasure must be endured.

My own children knew my views and they did not bother me. I did not even allow them to bid for positions in UMNO or to become candidates for elections. I firmly believed that my family had no role to play in government. I was the Prime Minister of the people, not of my family. There were occasions when my sons received company shares and Approved Permits, or APs, to import cars. Mirzan, my eldest son, received shares because as a director of the company, that was his entitlement. Mokhzani, my second son, received APs because he was running a legitimate business importing cars and selling them. However, there were many others who received APs to sell them, and not to bring in cars through a genuine business.

After my retirement I felt it was no longer fair for me to deprive my children of playing a role in politics if that was what they wanted. They did not directly benefit from my years as Prime Minister, and although it could not be helped if people connected them to my name, my children built their lives and careers on their own.

Just as I drew moral instruction from my father and mother, my children have also drawn moral guidance from me. Or so I hope. Of all the lessons I hope they have learnt, the most important is not to abuse their position. In the case of my own family most of the public focus is on Mirzan because he sold his company to MISC, which belongs to PETRONAS, which in turn is under the Government’s control. But my children did not rely on me to solve their problems. Mirzan handled his himself, as I will relate in a later chapter.

My vision for Malaysia and the policies my administration created were for everybody, not just for a politically-connected elite or a small circle of my own family and friends. I never even gave my children one cent of capital—all I gave them was a good education, a chance to develop and make something of themselves in life. They never asked me for anything and didn’t even tell me about the business that they did. We did not discuss business or politics with each other. Politics and public policy was not for them to know. It was always clearly understood among us all: that I was busy with the country and their troubles were their own.