When our children die

He died. No one spoke a word, and the whole school fell into silence.

Two days ago, our class teacher Ms Ooi walked in with a face pale as paper and asked: ‘Have any of you seen Ian?’

She held onto a wooden table to keep her balance, with a hand scratching gently underneath her black hair with strands faded to grey from stress and old age; her eyes worried and confused.

How could it be possible for our schoolmate Ian to be kidnapped right outside our school gate without anyone noticing? Ian was picked up hurriedly by a man in plain clothes into a dark-blue sedan at the busy after-school hour.

The school guard assumed the man was Ian’s relative; the teachers-in-charge thought of nothing suspicious; the bystanders were of the same mind. The ransom was non-negotiable: RM1 million or Ian dies.

The location to drop off the money was near the border of Selangor and Ian’s parents were warned against any police assistance. The transfer of money was to be seamless and swift.

Ian’s mother took a gamble and drove alone to the location with a bag filled with RM100 notes. She dropped the bag at the back of the designated vehicle and stretched her head to search for her son. ‘Where is my son!’ she yelled at a man whose body was covered in black.

Without answering, the man took the money and quickly drove off. Minutes, hours, and days passed since the money was transferred, Ian was still not sent home, and there was no more phone call from the man. The police decided to launch a thorough search in all relevant areas.

At the border of Selangor, the police were directed by the foul smell from the river. They followed their senses and found a luggage bag floating on the water. The policeman collected it and opened: Ian’s body. He was dead.

Weeks after, the man who killed the boy was found and prosecuted at once. He hung himself before the trial started.

A good boy

No one spoke a word at school, the whole school fell into silence. The clouds became darker that day and descended onto our shed roofs like a huge blanket. Sorrowful waters fell and hit our windows like a thousand broken dreams; the rain became the only audible sound.

Before starting class, Ms Ooi said in a small voice: “Ian was a good boy. Very kind, happy, and hardworking,’ she paused. Then she continued: “I remember he brought a toy hammer to class once and I thought he was up to no good so I confiscated it and told him to see me after class.

“When I asked him why he brought a hammer to class, he told me he wanted to be a judge as he saw on TV, and judges always had a small hammer with them.”

Ms Ooi’s eyes became moist and small lines of tears slid down her cheeks of pink and peach. She removed her glasses and wiped them with the edge of her blouse, shook her head slightly and mumbled to herself: “How pitiful, why would they take such a good boy away from us?”

We reminisced Ian’s life with anecdotes that captured the full personality of a boy who lived a mere eight years. Our minds imagined his round face that enlarges at every bright smile, a crew-cut that covers the top of his head, and ears that curve to plump S-shapes. Like a monk from a monastery, his smile gives everyone a generous sense of welcome and a blessed mix of peace and fun to everyone he meets.

After the school bell rung for the end of school, all teachers stood in front of the school gate as though to form a line of defence in a military warfare.

A teacher held onto my arm so tightly it hurt, and she told me to follow her closely while she finds my mother. When I picked up speed, the teacher’s grip tightened and she yelled at me: ‘Don’t run! Don’t you ever run! Don’t you know how painful it is if we lose you now?’ Her voice breaking, with a face of helplessness and fatigue.

When a child dies, sorrow belongs to everyone. Be it Ian, or the 23 tahfiz boys - one child’s death is a death too many.

Death most sorrowful

It is most sorrowful to see children die because they are the most innocent members of society. A child is born free of sins and any deviation from good is our fault as adults for not being there to guide them with love and supervision.

To see a child perish from this Earth is intensely disturbing because it is profoundly unjust to the natural order of things: the most innocent members of society do not deserve to die.

It is most sorrowful to see children die because they have the most to live for. They haven’t had the chance to indulge in aesthetical wonders of buildings, bridges, monuments; to experience unity and camaraderie in sports; to be amazed with mind-bending technological innovations and soul-wrenching arts and culture; to know the tragic blow of discrimination and the glorious revolution of justice; to have sleepovers, jokes, customs, habits, dreams...

Most of all, they haven’t had the chance to figure out for themselves what is right and wrong. Underlying this regret is our optimism and belief in the notion of chance: regardless of how our children will turn out, we have to at least give them a chance to explore. And when that energetic and happy child’s life is halted by a miserable death, our tears become heavier with guilt and grief.

When a child who is weak, vulnerable, and small looks to us, in eyes as vast as the ocean, and seek our protection, how can we fail them, how can we let them down? Are there words or justifications in this world that could neutralise our blame and make us feel better?

It is most sorrowful because we failed them. Children belong to all of society. Parents, schools, teachers, local authorities, government agencies - either through momentary neglect or deliberate mistreatment, we have failed our duty when a child dies.

Raising a child is by no means an easy feat. I see it through my parents and my late grandmother: the job demands a lifelong commitment to the point that your identity is thoroughly diluted or replaced.

And even when the best efforts have been put in to raise a child, other permutations outside your control may affect how your child eventually turns out. But I think it is reasonable for us to have some expectations on how we deal with our children. The bare minimum is: don’t let them die.

Ms Ooi has pinned Ian’s photo on her desk since the day of his death, with a line below reading: You left so soon it is such a waste, I am sorry for the cruelty of this place.

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JAMES CHAI works at a law firm. His voyage in life is made less lonely with a family of deep love, friends of good humour and teachers of selfless givings. This affirms his conviction in the common goodness of people: the better angels of our nature. He tweets at @JamesJSChai. - Mkini

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