It is the year 2018 and Augustine Paul is a broken old man living alone.
Close to death, he spends much time mulling over the past.
I Watch the Sparrows Fly
Augustine Paul
One more day nearly over. I sit in my usual spot on the
verandah, gazing over the weedy patch of garden and into the trees where the
noisy sparrows come home to roost. There are great flocks of them, chattering
nineteen to the dozen, happily playing tag before bedtime. Do they ever notice
me sitting here, so still, so alone, always envious of their querulous
companionship?
Twilight, the saddest, bleakest part of the day,
with the light bleeding rapidly away; twilight brings back memories and
regrets. Oh, where is everyone? My wife, dead for many years, taken away by
cruel cancer; my children dying one by one before their time as though the sins
of the father must be visited upon his offspring in accidents and disease and
murder, all except one, the estranged one who is living far away across the
seas. I write him letters nearly every day: "Son, I am only an old man.
How can you not forgive me after twenty years? Son, you must understand, I was
only an obedient slave to the powers that were. They used me like an appliance
in the trial that shook the nation."
Letters that I write and then tear up because we
have been through this so many times before. Yet, each time I hold the pen in
my hand, I think I can write an explanation so striking, so convincing as to
deliver him the lightning flash of insight. But I know I cannot. So I sit and
watch the sparrows fly.
Strange that I can barely remember last week, but
the events of twenty years ago have sharpened to the polish of knives. That
packed courtroom, the public gallery all eye and ears, the reporters, the
gesticulating lawyer, the scared witness in the box with his downcast eyes and
low voice because we all knew that he was lying, and Anwar himself, so calm, so
collected as though he was already past caring. I think of him and the light of
my memory is as glaring as the noonday sun, not so much memory as shards of
glass to pierce the innards of my soul.
At the market, I ran into Ramasamy a few days ago.
He is the only one who will not turn his
eyes away from mine. He was kind enough to take me to a coffee-shop where we
chatted the afternoon away as old men are wont to. We talked of the most
mundane matters but, just before we parted, he made a most curious remark. He
said: "Augustine, whatever they say, I will always believe that you made
the right decision about Anwar." I
shook his hand but said nothing. Oh, What could I have said?
Ramasamy, you couldn’t have known. Of course it was
a travesty of justice. The whole purpose
of that show trial was to convince the nation of Anwar's imaginary crimes.
Ramasamy, you were only being kind. The prosecution dragged in the most ugly
evidences, but their witnesses were discredited one by one despite the fact
that I gave the defence so little room until, finally, there was no case at
all. Even the man in the street could tell, but I was the all powerful judge; I
did not throw it out. I still pronounced him guilty on eight of the ten
charges. That was what Mahathir wanted. It was necessary to let him off on a
couple so the world would think it an independent judicial decision. But I was
never free to act on my own. And then I sentenced him to twenty years.
It
was also what Mahathir wanted. Oh, what else could I have done? That cruel man,
that dictator: he was always invisibly there all the time, pulling my strings.
He stopped at nothing to satisfy his cruelty. It was nothing to him to use all
the apparatus of government to achieve his end, nothing to him to sacrifice
innocent lives like Anwar, Sukma and Munawar.
And, after Anwar's conviction, with the nation
convulsed in the most horrible manner, I
began to have my doubts. But in those days, I could sweep them all aside; I was
part and parcel of the corruption in the judiciary, the government, the ruling
party, and I shared in the tainted rewards. I was decorated with titles and promoted
to the Bench of the Federal Court. Rumours were circulating of my nomination
for the ultimate prize - the post of Chief Justice - when the broom came. Like
many, I chose to resign rather than face removal.
I sometimes dream that I acted very differently from
the expectations of the powers that were. I dreamt that I acquitted Anwar of
all charges in one blazing moment of truth and justice: the jubilation in the
streets, the worldwide applause, the consternation of the government who had
thought it could not lose. And Mahathir would have found some airy-fairy charge
to throw me into prison and possible torture, but I would have become a hero.
Mahathir would have fallen quickly after, and the nation would have escaped
great distress.
But these are only thin, insubstantial dreams. It's
easy to be brave in hindsight but you cannot turn back time and tide. Now, for
me, there is only the blackness and the sleepless nights. What happens after
death? An old man at death's door thinks too much of these things: God's
justice, lost souls, eternal torment in lakes of burning fire. I pray every day
and the Reverend Peters visits me once a week to assure me of God's
forgiveness. But can I ever forgive myself?
It's all dark now, the sparrows are quiet but the
mosquitoes are biting. I must go inside, turn on every lamp to dispel the
shadows - I have become like a child once more, afraid of the dark, but a child
without a mother - and perhaps try once more to write that letter. I hope God
will take me tonight in a small, quiet hour of sleep but, if not, I'll be here
again tomorrow to watch the sparrows fly.
Dream Weaver
Other great articles:
“An Augustine Event” in which judge Paul is flattered in an award ceremony befitting his obedient service.
“The Hell of Augustine Paul” in which judge Paul receives his just punishment in hell.
