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On the steppes of central Asia the sons of fierce mongol warriors hone their ancient skills in the game of buskashi, in which horsemen in a golden horde compete to snatch a headless goat from the ground and defend it while circling distant goal posts five times.
The game lasts several days, the outcome shifting often before the climax. The winner happily displays his prize, waving the bedraggled carcass before the referees and spectators. The losers congratulate the winner in good sportsmanship, vowing to win next time, then retreat to tend their fires.
The tsunami, or tidal wave, begins with an earthquake, invisible beneath the open ocean. Initially only a small wave betrays events to come. As the wave approaches the continental shelf the shallower water propels the wave to ominous proportions. The decreasing depth depth onto the beach soon presents a wall of water that carries all before it for many meters inland. It is tragic, but it is also cleansing.
Even as Ling smiled in triumph, waving the sale and purchase papers of the beheaded Nanyang before the cameras, the MCA youth announced its opposition. It is a notice of things to come. The old guard, full of wiles, can command the carcass, but the youth control the fires of the future.
Ling calls for reconciliation and good sportsmanship. None expect him to forgive and forget. This matters naught for the longer run, as the dissident faction is not only right, they are the majority. Hardly visible now, in a short time the situation will reveal itself as the tidal wave of the future. The MCA youth voted overwhelmingly against the purchase, and the Chinese business community is resolved that they will observe the boycott by withdrawing advertising.
The two Nanayang papers have been beheaded with removal of the editors, and the life blood was drained away with the departing writers, who are principled people. The carcass is left for Ling to wave, and claim his win, but the Chinese community, supported by the youth of Malaysia, have withdrawn in an outward show of good sportsmanship. But they have not forgotten, and they may be seen here and there, tending their fires.
On the horizon one sees the approaching tsunami, denied by the oldsters defending their gains, afraid the waters of the coming waves will wash away their sand castles and pompus parades protected by platoons of poltroons in police paraphernalia. Let those who take comfort in the latest squeaky survival of the prime minister regale in the repression of the reformists and the torture of the ISA police prisoners.
Let the worshippers of public placidity pay the price of human rights; let them fall prey to the manipulation of the market shares. Let them espouse the false security of authoritarian stability. Let them find at their leisure that right is might. Let them suffer the horrible emptiness which comes with self-knowledge and belated admission that all the cruelty, insensitivity and craven corruption was made possible by their own unwillingness to take an active part in current events.
Let us draw near these fires of youth, for there is warmth of humanity to be shared. There to enjoy the smiles of comradeship, commingled with a sense of purpose. Let us relish the fight for justice; rejoice and take hope. These are revolutionary times. The carcass of today is the feast of tomorrow. There will be glory to share. There will be losses. May it be for every one who falls, ten step forward to fill the void.
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