The country is in mourning. The fires of indignation are banked. The grim determination to restore liberty is submerged. A simulacrum of firm control appears from the murky depths. The youthful lion lies lachrymose neath yonder tree. He pauses for a needed breath. There has been a concatenation of events.

First is the shame. That it was done, and done now. And how it was done. To give such a man a place of honour, where he can do more mischief. He has stood justice on its ear. He has excused the guilty. He has persecuted the innocent. He has injured most cruelly many honest and brave men. He has jailed the innocent. The law has been used to threaten and punish. Families have been torn asunder. Brutal police behaviour goes unpunished. Before the eyes of all, he, with his mix of midgets, has put priority on petty personal and party pleasures, while putting the public to the rotan.

The Bar Council is stunned mute. The new Chief Justice is made to look impotent. The Council of Rulers has lost all face recently gained. Every lawyer hangs his head. None, none, attempt to excuse or try to justify this act.

It cannot be explained away. Even the usually vocal law minister is mute. There is nothing he can say. He has enough now to answer for.

That it was done at this time threatens the thin and frail film of financial farce which makes a mockery of free enterprise protected by a strong judiciary. The contract is not honoured, and now the criminal laws are further fractured. It makes a farce of the judicial institution. There is a general feeling of national shame. It is the failing prime minister who is to blame.

Payback time

The shame is seen in the secrecy and the surprise. The persuasions took place in private. The agreements were made out of the public eye. The press was embargoed to silence until after the event. The obvious reason is its odiousness. The stench is more than the strongest stomach can contain. See the timing. The wait was until all were busy with holiday matters. It was presented as an accomplished fact, beyond redress. But everyone knows the reason and the source.

It is payoff for prior favour. A quid pro quo, a promise kept for years of loyal servility. A naked and neutered knighthood, nothing more. Naught else explains such murder of blind justice.

Now the horse is put to stud, though the pedigree be tainted and suspect. Half the law to be reviewed is due to his lone flawed hand, and he cannot sit to seal the sewage of seven years of servitude. One testicle was missing afore. The remaining one is withered. One hopes therefore no foal will carry forth the lineage of falsity and failure.

No humour leavens the shame; it yet remains the same. His sterile sitting a constant reminder of the foulness of the times. May he graze alone, in distant pastures filled with thorn, awaiting with scarred and down-turned lip and burning bowel, a more merciful history, a more forgetful hour.

Next is the police perfidy. First a permit strangely issued, as though a peaceful accord finally made. A hint of fairness was about before the event. Then the truth came glaring, another deceit. Traffic control was made a farce. The police followed foul orders from above. The home minister followed on his monitor. The sad truth returns. The people trudge again the hostile miles. All to a happy but hopeless venue. The truth is there for all to feel.

A kind of hush

There is to be no open air to discuss and dance. There is to be no open opposition. Assembly is only for the politically corrupt. Speech is for the faint of principle.

The hopes go back to hiding. There is no victory. And there is no truce. The stillness confirms a coming event.

Last there is the dainty unity dance of the Putrajaya Players. All are welcome, but the tune is scored by the Humno Hand, played by the Bee-Inn Band. Choreography by Cretin Council, with vocal support from the Chinese and Indian Chorus. The invitation is un-dated, an open event to be held here and there, with transportation provided, provender paid. There is an air of holiday making, and an ox to be slain by Islamic procedure. All await the ox with expectation. Thus the quiet. Some expect a mighty bull with healthy horns ... others fear the usual swift slitting of the throat. There is hush, and waiting.

But not for long. If there is no speedy resolution, all attention will shift to those who unequivocally take a sterner stand. There is no patience for political parley with putrefaction. No point is seen in playing purblind the poem of the spider and the fly. Strength comes from following the first guide we were given, to do good and to fight evil. The host is full of pranks.

The invitation is made with mirthful smirk. They are serious, so they say. They want unity. It is true. They are serious. The unity they need is in their gut. They are hungry. They need a feed. In the absence of guests, they will dine alone. In the absence of a lamb, they will eat each other. All under the amazed gaze of the faithful.

The curtain comes down between the acts, action directed by the stage manager. There is much more to come. The players are young and full of energy. The writers have material piled and piling. The scenery is changing, the lighting is new.

The audience has now returned to their seats. There is a low whisper of anticipation as the house lights dim.

Let the play continue. These are exciting times.

HARUN RASHID is a scientist avidly interested in the application of Islamic principles in international affairs. The promotion of goodwill through civilisational dialogue motivates his writing. His Worldview column is a personal analysis of Malaysian affairs from a global perspective.