Of bus stop protests and beers...

It is that time of the year again.

Where you don your black outfits and yellow ribbons.

The last time we were in such a scenario was when The Sun ran into controversy eight years ago. We stood at Jalan 225, lighting candles and chatting away into the night.

The Candlelight Vigil for our fellow journalist and former ISA detainee was short, and sweet.

Despite the grumblings for the lack of numbers, many still showed up (and dispersed several times), and stayed while the police observed with exasperation.

Our dear colleague was released more than eight hours before the vigil - but yet we stood together. Well, yes, the tone was less serious and it turned out to be a good reunion of sorts - but nevertheless, I was proud to be part of the crew.

Even when the police gave stern orders to disperse, we did not budge, well, maybe a couple more feet in the opposite direction of the loud hailers and riot police (that too is newsworthy - what could journalists do, stab people with their pens?)




Anyhow, jokes aside, it did mark a rather tense period for the country - at least from my view. What scares me most is a small majority of shallow minded (or power hungry and overly ambitious individuals) exercise clout in the few words they say.

While the rest of us can watch, shake our heads, and let out sighs of frustrations.

Someone also joked about the lameness of a bunch of Malaysian journalists - likening us to softies compared with our Asian neighbours during protest rallies.

The South Koreans use steel pipes to clash with police, the Indonesians show their aggression with their numbers and even the Thais made a big chicken rice feast in the weeks outside Government house.

I digress.

I just feel that as much as you don't want to care anymore, you do. And you go to bed thinking (or maybe it IS me) if the political situation will fix itself or if it needs to undergo an ugly phase before the dust settles.

I'm keeping my running shoes by the door..


(pictures courtesy of Stania)