Fadiah Nadwa Fikri
My phone was ringing. An unknown number was screaming for attention on a quiet sunny afternoon. I was back in my hometown. It must have been a public holiday. Curious as to who the caller was, I picked up the phone.
“Hello, mbak. Saya F. Masih ingat saya?”
(Hello, madam. I’m F. Do you still remember me?”)
***
My memory instantaneously took me to the gigantic national palace nesting majestically on Jalan Duta. Amid the inescapable mundane, I was pleasantly surprised to hear from him. It had been two years since we got involved in a case and spoke. In 2010, F and a thousand other migrants were working to build the national palace where they had been deprived of wages for months. He and his co-workers were forced to go hungry and limit their daily meals as they didn’t have enough money to buy food. There were babies on the construction site and their parents couldn’t afford to buy milk. The police would conduct regular raids and seize personal items such as foodstuffs, shampoo, and cigarettes. This case was exposed on the front page of The Star and it sent shock waves across the nation.
***
F told me he called to ask how I was doing. He said he was still in Malaysia, working on a new construction site and he was doing alright. We chatted a bit more and we then said our goodbyes.
***
A few days before One Two Jaga – a film directed by Nam Ron was going to be released, I became overly attached to the only online channel I knew – YouTube. I kept playing the trailer over and over again. The urge to dive into the film was ballooning in my chest. I was looking forward to immersing myself in it, knowing full well that it was not going to be an easy ride.
One Two Jaga is emotionally gripping because of its familiarity. It unapologetically depicts the inhumanity inflicted on migrant workers in Malaysia – one of the most oppressed and marginalized groups of people, struggling to live a dignified life in a world plagued by inequality. The word “illegal” we often hear from the media and politicians has normalized the violence against them. It has also stripped them of their dignity as human beings. In our eyes, by not possessing a piece of paper we call a passport or work permit, they have committed the most heinous crime that demands the heaviest of punishments and the strongest of condemnations.
The contempt stemming from the “illegality” of these migrant workers is evident in a character named Hussein, played by Zahiril Adzim. As a new police officer, Hussein was determined to hunt each and every one of them down. He would randomly stop migrants of color in the streets of Kuala Lumpur and on construction sites around the city to check if they possessed valid documents – a sight which is so common that it’s almost impossible for it to escape our conscious minds. A walk or a drive through the streets of Kuala Lumpur would bear testament to this reality. All we need to do is pay a little attention.
Hussein’s mission however was often interrupted by the gross exploitation by his partner and superiors of the migrants he unutterably despised. The agony in Hussein’s face couldn’t be suppressed as he was forced to battle with his conscience having had witnessed how powerful people in the police force extorted money from the undocumented migrants whose “crimes” he vowed to combat.
Possessed by simmering anger, Hussein abruptly stopped his car near Merdeka Hotel to prove to his partner that he was committed to completing his mission. Sumiyati, an Indonesian domestic worker who had run away from her exploitative employer happened to be in the area. She became the target of Hussein’s anger and unwavering determination to fight what to him was the most egregious crime one could ever commit – the crime of not possessing a piece of paper, the crime of being poor, the crime of struggling to survive.
Given that Sumiyati’s passport was withheld by her employer, just like countless other migrant workers in this country, Hussein proceeded to arrest her for being undocumented. She was then asked to squat and wait by the roadside. This particular scene reminds me of the humiliating treatment migrant workers are forced to endure during crackdowns. Being made to squat, handcuffed, chained like animals after arrests are effected is a common sight on TV news, newspaper pages, and at airports while the word “illegal” is screamed out to justify the dehumanizing treatment accorded to them.
***
In Malaysia, undocumented migrants convicted of not possessing valid documents are liable to imprisonment, whipping, and sometimes deportation. Whipping was made mandatory for a person found guilty of being in the country illegally following the amendment to the Immigration Act 1959/63 that was made in 2002. Whipping under criminal law is extremely gruesome. Amnesty International in its report on judicial whipping in Malaysia noted that:
“Across Malaysia, government officials regularly tear into the flesh of prisoners with rattan canes (rotan) travelling up to 160 kilometres per hour. The cane shreds the victim’s naked skin, turns the fatty tissue into pulp, and leaves permanent scars that extend all the way to muscle fibres. Blood and flesh splash off the victim’s body, often accompanied by urine and faeces. This gruesome spectacle is kept hidden from public view. The pain inflicted by caning is so severe that victims often lose consciousness as a result. Afterwards the suffering can last for weeks or even years, both in terms of physical disabilities and psychological trauma.”
One Two Jaga lays bare our lost humanity. It exposes how we through our contempt for poor migrants enable those in power to perpetuate unspeakable injustice in the name of national security with no end in sight. What causes such raging contempt to turbulently flow not only in Hussein’s veins but also ours? Why does the sight of them in poor areas in the city on weekends and public holidays infuriate us but not the sight of white migrants we call “expats” frequenting high-end places? There’s something unsettling about the fact that we love their labor but we loathe their bodies.
Every time there’s a government’s crackdown on undocumented migrants, dehumanizing, vile, racist, and xenophobic insults directed at them would fill the air. While this collective disdain continues to occupy our conversations, hundreds of thousands of Malaysians are crossing the Causeway daily to enter Singapore to work. This fact that is worth reminding, is proof that that we are not the only ones victimized by the unjust economic system and struggling to live a dignified life.
One Two Jaga takes us down the rabbit hole. It unflinchingly unveils the monsters planted deep within each and every one of us. The pain, dehumnization, and humiliation the migrants were subjected to leaves a myriad of emotions which are difficult to navigate. The film compels us to acknowledge our complicity. Instead of challenging and working to dismantle the system that empowers exploitation of labor, we choose to target those who are victimized by it. We choose to direct our anger at the oppressed instead of the oppressors that continue to exploit labor – theirs and ours.
***
This film tells us an old story that requires a new response. To reclaim our lost humanity, It is imperative that we create a new story – a story of love, dreams, solidarity. A story that is emancipatory. A story to save us, the world we share and live in. As James Baldwin aptly reminded us:
“For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”
As the film was drawing to a close, it was narrated that Sumiyati, Sugiman, and Adi managed to escape by boat bound for Indonesia but their whereabouts remained unknown.
What happened to them?
As Perindu by Laila’s Lounge was playing at the end of the film, my conversation with F on the phone six years ago sprang to mind. I was thinking to myself: how was F doing?