WHEN the metaphorical night enfolds, and fear unfolds, the heart yearns for light. Life becomes a story of storms, and peace a story of dreams.
Mat felt this many times in his long life. It defined his tale from childhood, from the turbulent days in the island of Singapore to the restless waters of the Straits of Malacca, and from the thrilling bars and music halls of the peninsula to the merciless iron bars of the land’s prisons.
We are in a small restaurant in a once-quiet town. We face one another as we wait for the satay to arrive. He is a small, wiry man with an angular face. His dark-brown eyes look dreamy, and his long but thinning hair, tied in a pony-tail, testifies to his rockish past.
He tells me about his journey to drug addiction.
“I ran away when I was 10 because my father beat me up a lot. I would be sitting at the table, looking at my schoolbook. He would come over and give me a whacking. It came to a point where I couldn’t take it any more.”
Why did Dad act so cruelly, wringing life and love out of the child?
“Honestly, I didn’t know why, and I still don’t know. What did I do wrong. I was a child, for God’s sake.
“One day, I made up my mind to leave the house. I begged for money at a bus station, got on a bus and headed for my grandparents’ place in Malacca.”
At that time Singapore was a key actor in the federation, hence it was not a problem getting across the Causeway.
“Your grandparents didn’t make any attempt to send you home?” I ask.
He shakes his head lightly. “They understood my situation. They let me live with them.
“My grandfather was a fisherman. Every day, very early in the morning, he would go out to sea. He took me along, and I helped as best as I could.
Mat’s grandad had a small boat. Mat was afraid of the sea at first, the unknown depths and the utter loneliness. But he was in awe of grandad’s perseverance, and would have described him as Hemmingway did Santiago in the Old Man and The Sea. “Fish, I'll stay with you until I am dead.”
He never got back to school. But he picked up music, a nod to his Dutch heritage. He composed songs and wrote the lyrics, misspelling words here and there but always getting it right in the end.
“I started playing in bars and clubs. It was one place after another. Life was fun, at least most of the time.
“But I got into drugs. You know, we used to get very pure stuff then, not like what they have today. I found myself becoming dependent on these things.
“With them, I had the energy and inspiration to perform. Without them, I was nothing. Empty. Just like when Dad beat me.”
So it was that misfortune began to sink its claws deeper into Mat’s life, reawakening the scars left by Dad, and carving out new ones.
Mat’s friends tried to help him. He found God, but repentance from the lips was challenged in an unceasing war by “people with prejudice” and “my weak heart”.
“Many people are kind and want to give me a second chance, but I think they have little understanding of my struggles.”
“I need to be among sober and faithful people. It gives me courage and strength, But this not possible most of the time. The loneliness is terrible, and I find myself thinking about the drugs again.”
“Do you want to say anything to anyone out there with a drug addiction,” I ask.
“What can I say… I tell you, the world will not see the end of these cases…the numbers will just keep growing.
“The addiction pursues you. You always have to run. Once you stop running, it catches you.”
Does he ever think he will return to prison?
He does not want to go back, but it holds no terror for him.
“I have been in and out so many times. The fear is gone, but my greatest regret is causing so much pain to my mother.
“She cried a lot and prayed for me while I was in prison. For her and for God, I will try to stay clean,” he says as he rubs his glistening eyes, yet managing a weak smile.
The satay is done, but Mat’s story remains unfinished. For him and millions of others in Malaysia and the US, the sea is still restless and the storms raging.
Eyes heavy, body trembling, heart weary, they await the passing of night, and the birth of the pale horizon of the promised land.
David Christy is NST production editor. He can reached via davidchristy@mediaprima. com.my