Sukma rewards

The Penang government handed out RM553,200 in incentives yesterday to athletes, coaches, managers and sports associations for their contributions to the impressive medal haul at last month’s 24th Malaysia Games (Sukma) in Sarawak. The chess contingent alone earned a collective RM53,500 through their outstanding performance.

Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow praised Penang's overall success which surpassed expectations with a total of 41 Gold, 45 Silver and 53 Bronze medals. Athletes were further motivated by an increase in rewards, with Gold medallists now receiving RM6,000, an increase from RM4,000 previously. Meanwhile the Silver and Bronze winners still received RM2,500 and RM1,500, respectively.

One of the standout sports was the chess discipline. Penang's chess players made a significant impact by securing five Gold, four Silver and two Bronze medals, making the game a key contributor to Penang’s overall success. Chess stood proudly alongside judo (which won six Golds) as well as athletics and boxing (with five Golds each). It’s not every day that chess takes centre stage at a multi-sport event like Sukma, but this time, it truly deserved the spotlight! My earlier story on the medal winners can be read here.

MSNPP director Harry Chai Heng Hua described Penang’s participation in this year’s Sukma as the best in 38 years. He noted that the last time Penang came close to this achievement was in 2004 and 2006, with 38 Golds each time. This year’s target was 40 Golds, which was matched when the chess discipline delivered the 39th and 40th Gold medals through Poh Yu Tian and Chua Jia Tien in the Open and Women’s blitz chess events. The 41st Gold came from Wilson Yeoh in artistic gymnastics. But what truly thrilled me was that my niece, Melissa Chong, was one of the three athletes who broke Sukma records, winning Gold in the heptathlon!

As someone closely involved with chess, I couldn’t be prouder of our boys and girls for securing those five Gold medals and putting Penang’s name among the best in the country. I can only hope this success inspires even more young players to take up chess and aim for even greater achievements in the future!

Ooi Eow Jin (1938-2024)

It was with some sadness that I learnt that our legendary local pianist and composer, Ooi Eow Jin (Uncle Ooi or OEJ to some people), had passed away today (Wednesday) at the Kuala Lumpur Hospital at the age of 86. His wife, Elaine Khaw Lean Kee, shared that Eow Jin took his final breath around 3.30pm. DJ Dave, chairman of Yayasan Kebajikan Artis Tanah Air (YKAT), described Eow Jin as a "great musician, composer and icon" and added that his contributions to the Malaysian music scene over the past six decades had been nothing short of remarkable.

Ooi Eow Jin was an Old Free, having studied at Penang Free School, where he sat for his Senior Cambridge examinations in 1955 and passed with a Division II certificate. Like many boys attending Primary schools in Penang, he had also passed through Wellesley School and then Westlands School. While I have scant information about his early years as a musician, I know he worked as a temporary teacher after completing his secondary school education and then, a government clerk in the Survey Department, Penang. Music was in his blood and in his spare moments, he was a pianist at the Eastern & Oriental Hotel (E&O Hotel) on Farquhar Street. By the 1960s and 1970s, he was already a key figure in the RTM Orchestra — one of the giants among RTM music maestros, standing alongside other greats like the late Alfonso Soliano and Ahmad Nawab. Working with some of the country's most iconic singers, including P Ramlee and Sudirman Arshad, Eow Jin composed and wrote songs that became part of Malaysia’s musical history.

Later in life, in 2010, Eow Jin became the resident pianist at the Majestic Hotel in Kuala Lumpur, where he played for five years. Sadly, he had to call it a day in 2015 due to declining health, which was later diagnosed as Alzheimer’s disease, marking the end of his time on stage and in the limelight.

It was around that time that I became more aware of his personal struggles. He never received any government pension because his stints with the RTM Orchestra were on a contract basis. One reason he chose to continue working past retirement was to support his two ailing sons, one suffering from leukaemia and the other with a brain tumour. Having to retire from performing was a major blow for Eow Jin and he gradually withdrew into his shell. In an effort to ease his burden, friends rallied to organise a charity concert in Petaling Jaya. Held on 19 July 2015, the event raised close to RM100,000, with contributions from fellow Old Frees and the public alike. Likewise in 2017, my old classmate, Kee Thuan Chye, staged his play, Swordfish + Concubine, in Kuala Lumpur and raised more than RM30,000 for Eow Jin.

The warmth of two old friends meeting, despite protocol's constraints

In July 2015, I wrote to the Penang Chief Minister, highlighting Eow Jin’s plight and requesting the State Government to recognise his contributions to the nation with an award, even though the official deadline for nominations had long passed. I later learnt through one of the Chief Minister's personal aides that Eow Jin’s name was submitted to the Penang Governor, who instantly recognised him and agreed to an award. In September 2015, the newspapers reported that Eow Jin would receive the Darjah Setia Pangkuan Negeri (DSPN), which conferred the title of Dato’.

Things worsened in 2022 when Eow Jin, his wife and their surviving son, Raymond, contracted Covid-19. While Eow Jin and Elaine recovered, they tragically lost Raymond to complications from the virus. Despite his struggles, the Malaysian music community didn’t forget him. In 2018, YKAT stepped in to provide Eow Jin with a RM500 monthly pension, and I hope they will continue to extend the same payments to Elaine now.

Ooi Eow Jin’s passing feels like the closing of a significant chapter in Malaysian music history. His work shaped much of the local music scene, and his influence will be felt for years to come. As DJ Dave said, "Malaysia has lost a true icon." Eow Jin’s legacy as a composer and pianist will continue to resonate, with his melodies, collaborations and contributions leaving an indelible mark. Though his friends and fans mourn his loss, they also celebrate the incredible life and career of a man who gave so much to Malaysian music.

Malaysia chess festival 2024

Last Thursday, the wife and I headed down to Kuala Lumpur for a few days to spend some time with our daughter. While we were there, I also took the opportunity to check into the Cititel Midvalley to play in this year’s Merdeka Open team rapid chess tournament. I was part of one of the three teams entered by The Old Frees' Association. Now, let me tell you, my chess game has gone downhill so much that I reckoned the safest place for me was on the lowest fourth board of the third OFA team! Even then, I only managed to score four points out of eight games—a 50 percent score, nothing to shout about.

Like I said on Facebook, mistakes in chess are a given, just like in life, and last week’s Merdeka team chess event was no exception. Two games lost on time, one because I missed a pawn, which ended up costing me the game in a slow, painful endgame grind, and the final one was simply forgetting I had a hanging pawn! That’s how it goes — that’s chess, and that’s life. But don’t worry, I’ll keep plodding along. Got too many mates in the chess world continuing to cheer me on!

The Merdeka Open saw 70 teams in action, most of them local, but there were also a few ad hoc teams with players from different nationalities. The eventual champions had a rather quirky name: Nasi Lemak Laksa or Roti Canai, while the runners-up were Dasmarinas City. Since the Nasi Lemak team claimed the overall top prize, the best Malaysian team award went to Penang. Shah Alam Selected took second place, and our very own OFA Argonauts Penang snagged third place. Yes, our first team made it to the podium!

The challenge with having such a large group of players is trying to get everyone together for a group photo. There’s always someone missing, so we ended up taking several pictures at different times, hoping to capture everyone. Those pictures are included below.

The Merdeka team event was just one of nine tournaments under the Malaysia Chess Festival, now in its crucial 19th year. The festival’s main highlight is the Arthur Tan Malaysian Open, and for the first time ever, a Malaysian player is topping the rankings! With no players rated above 2450 on the FIDE rating list — I had people asking what has become of them, the 2500s and 2600s players that the festival could attract in the past, and I've no answer — Malaysia’s newest International Master, Poh Yu Tian, at 2430 finds himself in the unusual limelight of being the top seed in a senior tournament. As I write this, the fifth round has begun, and true to form, Yu Tian is leading the 72-player field, playing at the top table. As a fellow Penangite, I should give him a proper cheer and wish him all the best!

Wet wet wet

My wife and I came back from Kuala Lumpur last night to find that today's weather forecast is all wet, wet, wet from 6am today till past 9am tomorrow. Worse still, the forecast is rain, rain, rain every day until at least the 23rd of this month. So excuse me now as I go don my raincoat to waddle in the rain to the market.

Earliest memories, part 1

How far back can one’s memory really go? I’d say — and this is just my opinion — that a person’s earliest memories probably stretch back to around five or six years old. Anything earlier than that is a bit wonly, at least for me. Sure, photos from way back can stir up vague memories of childhood, but I wouldn’t count that as truly remembering those earliest years. 

You might look at a picture and think, "Was I one or three years old when that happened?" but that's probably the extent of it. Can anyone really recall those moments without the photos to jog their memory? I have pictures of myself at five months old, seven months old, and if I were to rely solely on those, I could say I remember the times when my parents rolled out the mats and baby mattresses on the open back terrace on the first floor of our home on Seang Teik Road. There I was, lying on my belly or sitting upright on the mattress, with those moments captured forever by my father's camera. Did all this happen when I was less than a year old? Yes, it did. But do I genuinely remember it? No, I don’t. So, that doesn’t really count as a memory.

My first real memories from childhood come much later, probably when I was around five or six years old. I was an only child then with no siblings close to my age, and I wasn’t allowed to play with the neighbourhood kids. The neighbours were tradesmen or hawkers and my parents had that concern that their children were perhaps uncouth, naughty and rough. Hey, I could have been easily influenced and turned into a ruffian or a hooligan of sorts if allowed to mix freely with them! So, I became a solitary precious little boy to them. I had to invent my own games within the confines of the house to keep myself entertained. 

One of those memories is of playing with marbles in the airwell of the house. I kept my marbles in a tin can — there must have been 30 or 40 of them in there. I’d shake the can vigorously, making a tremendous racket, only to be hushed by my mother. "Shhh, don’t wake your grandma. She’s asleep." I’d stop for a while, but the next time I brought out the tin, I’d give it another good shake and receive the same scolding. There was a small. shallow depression along one side of the airwell, which served as drainage for rainwater. Whenever it rained, the water would flow along this depression into a drain inside the house and then out to the larger drain in the back lane. I would block off one end of the airwell's drain and use it as a makeshift play area for my marbles. For a bit of variety, I’d also play with the old Nyonya granite mill which my grandmother used for grinding her rice. The circular depression in the mill provided endless hours of fun with my marbles — who would have thought!

Then there were the cigarette box trains. Back in those days, my father was a heavy smoker, so there were always plenty of empty cigarette boxes around the house. All the boxes, hundreds of them, would be collected, and when it was time to play, I’d line them up painstakingly in a snaky pattern on the floor — the longer, the better — winding under tables and chairs, from the front hall to the kitchen, and back. As long as the floor was level, the more twisted and complicated the design, the better. There was the occasional frustration when a cigarette box was accidentally toppled and it set off the train, the frantic efforts to rescue the remaining painstaking work, but by and large it was great fun setting off the train and watching the boxes tumble one after another along the path. Maybe an hour's work for a few minutes of pleasure. But it was worth it!

The flat, level floor from the front of the house to the kitchen was more than just a space to play cigarette box trains or walk across — it was also my personal cycling track. I’d start with my little tricycle, pedalling around the main table in the front hall, navigating tight corners and tearing down the corridor. As I grew older and more confident, my cycling became better controlled and my attempts to take corners sharper. I would weave in and out between the tables and chairs, challenging myself to avoid crashing into the furniture. The thrill was to see how close I could get without toppling over or banging into anything. Sometimes, I'd pretend it was a race track, imagining myself as a speed racer, and other times, it was an obstacle course, with tables and chairs forming exciting barriers to manoeuvre around. The track felt like it was all mine — a place where I could ride freely and test my limits.

Then there were my toys, which were stored upstairs in my parents' bedroom, packed away in a large kerosene tin. Whenever the rain poured outside, it was my cue to turn that tin upside down and pour out my collection. I had an assortment of toys, though the memories of them are a bit fuzzy now. I do distinctly remember the small plastic toy soldiers that warmed my heart. The same ones as in the Disney film, Toy Story, each character was frozen in a different pose — some crouched low, others aiming rifles and a few with binoculars as if scouting for an enemy. I’d set them up in all sorts of battle formations across the floor or on the bed, creating imaginary battlefields and missions, only to knock them over and start again. 

I also remember my board games, though with nobody to play with: Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Chinese Checkers and Draughts — but no Chess as this game came very much later to me — along with Happy Family, Donkey, Snap and Old Maid among other card games. I taught myself to play Snakes and Ladders, Ludo and Chinese Checkers alone — oh, poor me! These simple games were a welcome distraction on rainy afternoons, each one bringing its own bit of amusement to my solitary childhood days.

One of my most treasured toys was my Bayko construction set. It had all sorts of metal rods, baseplates and bakelite pieces that let me build miniature houses and buildings. The sense of accomplishment I felt after piecing together those structures was immeasurable — even if they were far from perfect. I could spend hours designing new layouts, trying out different combinations of windows, doors and roof shapes. It was like having my own little architectural playground. As I got older, my construction projects extended well into my primary school days. The Bayko set was always my go-to, especially on rainy afternoons when I could construct and immerse myself in my tiny world while the rain kept falling outside.

All in all, the house was more than just a home; it was a place of endless adventure and imagination, filled with the joy of simple games and cherished toys that made my childhood uniquely my own. 

As a postscript to all that I've written, I must add that the experience of being a precious little boy wasn’t unique to me; it was quite common in those days. One of my closest friends — we were at Westlands School together — had an overly protective grandmother, a prim and proper nyonya lady with a sanggul and dressed in baju kebaya and sarong, who came to the school by trishaw every single day before recess to bring him something nourishing from home. Oddly enough, she had other grandchildren, but this special treatment was reserved just for him, my close friend. Every recess, there she’d be in the canteen with a tiffin carrier. And after he’d eaten his fill, he wasn’t allowed to join the rest of us running around or playing games for fear of sweat ruining his school uniform. No, he had to stand quietly by the staircase until the bell rang and everyone had to rush back to the classroom. A precious little boy, indeed. At the time, he accepted it as he was required to, but now he looks back with some regret, frustrated that he wasn’t allowed to mix with the other boys during those precious recess moments.

Noisy fellas

We were creating ruckus at the restaurant but were pretty oblivious to the fact. When a bunch of old colleagues get together, regardless of whether it had only been two months since the last lunch meet-up or whether we continue to be in touch almost daily via social media, it is an occasion to be jolly and talk in person as if we haven't seen one another for years! So it was such when 18 of us from our Ban Hin Lee Bank days met for lunch at a restaurant in Chai Leng Park. 

We should have created enough din to bring an attap house down and luckily, the restaurant's was a sturdy brick house. Nevertheless, the noise we created in the establishment had their other diners looking uncomfortably in our direction as they finished their food as quickly as possible before disappearing. But we didn't care, of course. And neither did the restaurant's proprietor care. If fact, he even helped us to take our group picture at the end of the meal. Or maybe, he wanted to get rid of us as quickly as possible? Doesn't matter, we all had a spiffy good time....

Seated, left to right: Kay Liang, Hoing Wah, Yuen Chee, Heng Boo and Fook Chin; first row: Kok Hun, Siak Chin, Khye Wai, myself, Saw See and Kok Kheong; second row: Seong Lye, Hock Seng, Chong Chia, Soon Huat, Soo Chin, Pak Chun and Swee Piew

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Card interception

My wife had a recent harrowing experience with a credit card. She has one from OCBC Bank Malaysia and on Wednesday morning, she received an SMS message from the bank to inform her that a renewal card was on its way to replace her existing card which would be expiring soon. I should say that this is quite standard procedure for banks nowadays, to inform their customers that new credit cards are on their way to them.

But what set alarm bells ringing was a subsequent standard SMS message from the bank yesterday afternoon to alert her that an attempt had been made to use her new credit card. She contacted the bank immediately and was told that someone had tried to use the card for a Paypal transaction in US dollars. Her existing as well as the renewal card has since been cancelled.

Pretty alarming, right? What are the security measures over the whole matter? Where was the lapse? Within OCBC Bank itself? Or was the card intercepted outside the bank by a person or persons unknown? Which delivery company was used and what's their integrity and reputation? Did the courier company come to collect from the bank, or did the bank deliver directly to the courier company? Every person along this chain should be a suspect. Is the cancelled card still with the delivery company? Is the bank investigating?? 

It was a lucky thing that my wife spotted the SMS message immediately and straight away contacted the bank. I wonder how many hundreds or thousands of credit cards have already been intercepted in this way during delivery and contributed to fraudulent use. And whether those legitimate victims had found satisfactory recourse from the banks.

  

Jupiter's Galilean moons

I took this picture very early in the morning on the first of September, four days ago. I had stepped outside to catch a glimpse of the waning moon when I happened to look directly upwards at a bright spot of light. I thought it might be Jupiter, but I wasn't certain at the time. To confirm, I aimed my camera at it and took about 10 shots, all handheld, with nothing to brace against to steady my hands. To make matters trickier, I had to slow the shutter speed down to one-fifth of a second because of the darkness. Unsurprisingly, most of my attempts resulted in streaky lines going in every direction. Still, I managed to salvage one from the bunch. As they say, it was the best of a bad lot. There is still a bit of camera shake, but overall, Jupiter looks round enough to me. As for the Galilean moons, well, not so much. I suspect this was because the sun wasn't shining directly on Jupiter or its moons but rather at an angle, similar to how our own moon appears when it’s waxing or waning. That's just my theory, of course — I could be entirely wrong, and it might simply be down to… camera shake. From top left to bottom right, the Galilean moons are Callisto, Ganymede, Io, and Europa. That much, at least, I'm sure of.

Penang Free School: The war years

I've always been fascinated by what happened to Penang Free School during the Second World War. Unfortunately, I couldn't uncover much beyond what I had included in my 2016 book, Let the Aisles Proclaim. So, it's always exciting when a new narrative surfaces about the war years, especially when I'm able to connect it to Penang Free School. 

Recently, I was alerted by a friend, Roy Chai from The Old Frees' Association, to a story by Muskaan Ahmed in The Times of India, which I believe is a valuable addition to the limited knowledge we have about that dark period. The exclusive story, called The spy next door, can be read directly from The Times of India news portal (click here to read) but here is my own summary.

In 1942, during the Quit India movement, Penang Free School became an unexpected centre for covert training in a mission to overthrow British rule in India. When the Japanese occupied Malaya from December 1941, their military established an administrative base at the Free School by repurposing it from its original educational function to a strategic training ground for espionage. The Japanese saw the British presence in India as a threat to their ambitions in South-east Asia and sought to undermine it by converting disillusioned Indian soldiers in their cause. These soldiers were recruited into the Indian National Army (INA) by the founder, Mohan Singh, who persuaded them to join forces with the Japanese against the British.

Penang Free School played a pivotal role in this strategy. It was a training centre for the cadets who were prepared for guerrilla warfare and subversive activities. These cadets were trained in a range of espionage techniques, including deciphering coded messages, writing with invisible ink, identifying British aircraft and evading surveillance. The Japanese also provided training in reconnaissance missions, operating in hostile territories and propaganda to spread anti-British sentiment. Thus, the school became a vital base of operations for those seeking to weaken British influence in the region.

The Indian disillusionment with British colonial rule could be traced back to the First World War. Britain had promised dominion status for India in exchange for its support, prompting Indian leaders to encourage thousands of soldiers (jawans) to join the British forces. However, when Britain failed to honour its promise, many of these soldiers felt betrayed. Seeking new avenues to fight for Indian independence, they found themselves recruited for training at Penang Free School.

One such recruit was TP Kumaran Nair who had served with the Malabar Special Force, a British police unit established to suppress uprisings in India. Dissatisfied with British orders to disperse a group of women rallying for India’s freedom in Madras, Nair refused to comply and left for Singapore. There, he met KP Kesava Menon, a prominent activist who had led the Vaikom Satyagraha in 1924. Menon persuaded Nair to join the spy school where later, Nair became an instructor, passing on his paramilitary skills to the 34 cadets at the Free School.

The cadets, including 18-year-old Ramu Thevar from Ramanathapuram who was the youngest among them, were trained rigorously. According to Vijay Balan, Nair's grandnephew and author of Swaraj Spy, they were taught to navigate rubber boats to shorelines after submarine missions, handle firearms and endure the physical challenges of guerrilla warfare. The Japanese also trained them to cross British checkpoints on foot, using real-life scenarios to test their ability to evade detection. Out of the 34 cadets, only two, including Nair, managed to pass these tests successfully.

The training at Penang Free School also involved uncovering worker grievances in British-run factories in India and organising strikes to disrupt British economic interests and sow discontent. However, the mission faced significant setbacks. In 1942, Japanese Colonel Hideo Iwakuro deployed the cadets across India without consulting the INA, leading to operational failure. The Japanese had underestimated the complexity of India’s linguistic diversity: South Indian cadets were sent to the North and vice versa, which resulted in communication breakdowns. A double agent exposed the plan to the British, leading to the capture of all the cadets and a collapse in trust between the Japanese and their Indian allies.

Following this failure, the spy school at Penang Free School closed in 1942. Many of the cadets were arrested and executed under the Enemy Agent Act of 1943. Among them were Nair and young Ramu, who were hanged in 1944. Their sacrifice remained largely unrecognised until a recent commemoration event in Malaysia which was organised by the Death Railway Interest Group. This group had raised awareness of the contributions of these cadets who were buried in unmarked graves.

Penang Free School's transformation into a centre for espionage training highlights its unique role in the fight for Indian independence. While its cadets’ mission ultimately failed, the school remains a significant yet overlooked chapter in the complex history of wartime alliances in South-east Asia. The story of these cadets reflects both the global dimensions of India’s independence struggle and the little-known contributions of a colonial-era school in Penang to that cause.

Marvin

Before Calvin, there was Marvin. Calvin who? Marvin who? 

Before my favourite Calvin and Hobbes became the iconic comic strip we all know, Bill Watterson worked on a prototype featuring a character named Marvin who also had a stuffed tiger named Hobbes. This early prototype laid the groundwork for what would eventually become Calvin and Hobbes. For want of a better name, I shall call this strip Marvin and Hobbes.

Waterson had created Marvin and Hobbes as part of his initial attempts to break into the comic strip industry. Marvin, like Calvin, was a mischievous young boy with a vivid imagination. His companion, Hobbes, was a stuffed tiger who came to life through Marvin's imagination.

Watterson refined Marvin into the more dynamic and expressive Calvin and eventually gave him the iconic spiky hair and more distinct personality traits. On the other hand, Hobbes remained relatively unchanged and continued as the philosophical and playful tiger we know today.

Marvin and Hobbes was submitted to various syndicates but faced rejection. Nevertheless, the concept showed enough promise that encouraged Watterson to continue developing and refining it. Through this process, he transitioned from Marvin to Calvin, and ultimately created the famous duo.

While Marvin and Hobbes died out, it was an important part of Watterson’s artistic journey. Some sketches and drafts from the Marvin and Hobbes era have been shared by Watterson in interviews and retrospectives, providing fans like me with a glimpse into the early stages of his creative process.

Early minutes

Something intriguing happened recently. On the 29th of July, Stephen Yeap Leong Huat, grandson of the once-richest and most notable Penangite, Towkay Yeap Chor Ee,  presented his grandfather's private papers to the National University of Singapore (NUS). While I admired his decision, this choice puzzled me. Why donate them to an institution in Singapore and not Malaysia, where Yeap Chor Ee had built his business empire? Born in Fukien, China, in 1868, he emigrated to the nanyang in 1885. The Chop Ban Hin Lee that he set up in 1890 was the beginning of his empire, and the Ban Hin Lee (萬興利) nomenclature, meaning Ten Thousand Prosperities, carried him through the rest of his life. With Penang as his main base, he dealt in sugar initially. By the time he died in Penang in 1952, he was known chiefly as a banker. Not many individuals could claim to have owned a bank successfully, but he did. There is, therefore, no dispute that Yeap Chor Ee lived his life as a Malayan. So why are the Yeap Chor Ee private papers now in Singapore hands? Aren't Malaysian institutions committed to preserving our own history? Big question mark, indeed. 

On reflection, it was a clever and astute move by Stephen Yeap. Singaporean institutions have a stellar reputation for preserving and valuing historical documents. Unlike in Malaysia, where such treasures might not receive the same attention, Singapore ensures these records are meticulously cared for and made widely accessible to researchers and the general public. For instance, the National Library of Singapore has done an exemplary job of digitising old newspapers from the region, making them readily available online. So, it was likely that NUS would treat the Yeap Chor Ee private papers with the same level of dedication. Stephen Yeap’s decision, in hindsight, thus seemed perfectly sound. 

What was even more astonishing for me was the speed of subsequent developments. Just three weeks later, I learnt that NUS had already digitised the collection, making the entire set of Yeap Chor Ee private papers available online. This is impressive, considering the usual slow pace of such processes.

During the research for my book, Ten Thousand Prosperities, which documented the history of Ban Hin Lee Bank (萬興利銀行), I was given physical access to several boxes of old files and documents. I found a register recording Board meeting minutes from the late 1960s onwards but never came across anything from the earlier years. I suspected an early register once existed, but with no one then able to confirm its whereabouts, I had to let it go. So, I’m thrilled now that these early minutes have resurfaced and are now digitised for all to see. My only regret is that I was unable to see the early Board minutes sooner.

With these documents now online, I’ve been able to compare the actual minutes with the information I gathered elsewhere about the bank's early years. I’m pleased to say that about 95 to 98 percent of what I wrote was accurate enough. It’s a relief to know that my research efforts stood up so well. 

The book, Ten Thousand Prosperities, can be purchased online from this link. click here.

Note: As far as I know, the term towkay (pronounced as thhau-keh) is of Penang Hokkien origin, meaning "big boss" or "proprietor." It signified not only the person's wealth and success but also their status and influence in the community. A towkay was often seen as a leader or benefactor who provided employment, supported social causes and contributed to the overall development of the local Chinese community. Yeap Chor Ee certainly qualified as such.

#YeapChorEe #SingaporeArchives #PenangHistory #NUS #10000Prosperities #TenThousandProsperities #BanHinLeeBank

Crescent moon

I inexplicably woke up at 6:20 am today and couldn’t get back to sleep. Suddenly realised that the new Chinese eighth lunar month is just two days away. So, I grabbed my camera and headed outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the waning moon in the dawn light. With the recent rainy weather and thick clouds hanging around, it seemed a long shot. But luck was on my side—I spotted the thin crescent moon, only a mere 4.3 percent illuminated, hanging low in the brightening sky and peeking through the clouds. Only this shot, one of four I took, turned out sharp enough, though it was not the sharpest I wanted. Anyhow, it could have been worst, considering it was handheld at a shutter speed of one-fifth of a second.