I consider myself rather fortunate to be among the few who are firmly grounded with the Class of 1972 at Penang Free School while maintaining ties with my original cohort, the Class of 1973. Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a post-New Year lunch with some old schoolmates from the latter class. It was a delightful gathering—a different circle of friends, bringing fresh ideas and diverse discussions to the table.
The very next day, 4th January, brought more devastating news. Another old schoolmate, Ang Seng Oo, passed away suddenly while on holiday in Busan, South Korea, less than three weeks after celebrating his 70th birthday. Seng Oo will be cremated in Busan, and his ashes will be brought home to Kuala Lumpur. The shock of losing two cherished friends—whom I had known since Standard Two at Westlands School—on consecutive days is indescribable. The sense of loss is profound, leaving me numb and grappling with the fragility of life.
These losses are not isolated. Over the past nine months, I have bid farewell to five school mates who had just crossed their 70th or 71st birthdays, Oon Hup and Seng Oo among them. Two were based in Penang and were OFA life members, while two others lived in Kuala Lumpur and one overseas in California. Each departure serves as a stark reminder of the significance of reaching 70—a milestone both physical and mental.
To all those still in your forties, fifties, or sixties, let me tell you this: cherish every moment of your life's journey. Reaching 70 is not just a number but a testament to resilience and fortune. And to those who have crossed this landmark age, treasure each day you have. We never know who among us might not see 71.
My dear friend Seng Oo, in particular, leaves behind a legacy of integrity and compassion. An accomplished accountant, he was deeply committed to issues of social justice, fairness and equality. He was never afraid to speak up against monopolies or political hegemony, often articulating his views with clarity and courage. His humour and camaraderie were equally memorable. It’s difficult to reconcile his untimely passing with the image of someone so vibrant and fit.
These losses weigh heavily, especially at the start of a new year. Yet, they also remind us of life’s impermanence and the need to cherish those around us. As we continue our journeys, let us remember to celebrate milestones, honour friendships and carry forward the legacies of those who have touched our lives.
Such is the progression of life and death—a poignant reminder that each day is a gift not to be taken for granted.
POSTSCRIPT:
The three other schoolmates who passed away in the past nine months were Lee Keat Heng, Wong Ban Pak, and Kam Wei Lin.
Keat Heng and I shared a classroom in Standard One at Westlands School, but our educational paths diverged from Standard Two onwards. While I moved to an express class that skipped to Standard Four, he remained in the regular stream, advancing to Standard Three. This divergence meant that he became a year my junior at both Westlands School and Penang Free School. Due to this gap, our paths only crossed again in the last decade or so, allowing us to reconnect. Tragically, in May last year, just three days after celebrating his 70th birthday, he collapsed while jogging.
I came to know both Ban Pak and Wei Lin in Form One at secondary school. Ban Pak was, sadly, a rather irritable character. Though I loosely describe him as a "friend," he was not someone many would have stayed in close contact with. However, we did share a unique connection—we travelled to school together in a hired car. In those days, there were no school buses, and most parents couldn’t afford cars or the time to ferry their children to school personally. Instead, families relied on "school taxis," hired private cars who picked up students and dropped them off. By coincidence, Ban Pak and I shared the same school taxi. Every morning, the driver would pick me up before stopping at Ban Pak’s house on Bawasah Road. Ban Pak had a sharp eye for electronics and pursued a career in the field, eventually finding work and settling down in the United States after graduating. He passed away in June last year, leaving behind memories of our shared rides and a glimpse into a different era of schooling in Penang.
Wei Lin, on the other hand, was someone whose path intertwined with mine beyond Free School. After completing our studies, we both attended Tunku Abdul Rahman College in Petaling Jaya. Following his graduation, he joined Malaysia Customs, with an office conveniently located near Ban Hin Lee Bank. As a result, we often bumped into each other during that time. Unfortunately, in September, Wei Lin succumbed to septicaemia, a condition that claimed him far too soon.
The $1.5 million prize fund, backed by NASDAQ-listed Freedom Holding, marked a new high for financial investment in chess. Selecting Wall Street as the venue was a strategic gamble meant to imbue the championships with prestige, aligning the intellectual rigour of chess with the financial world’s high-stakes allure. However, the symbolism was overshadowed by logistical failings and internal discord. While the glitzy location added flair, it underscored FIDE prioritising image over substance. The grandeur of Wall Street ultimately felt like a hollow attempt to mask deeper organisational weaknesses.
FIDE’s introduction of a two-stage knockout finale for the Blitz Championship was designed to inject excitement into the format. While this innovation added drama for spectators, it inadvertently diminished the importance of earlier rounds, undermining the tournament’s competitive integrity.
Carlsen’s subsequent withdrawal from the Rapid Championship and initial refusal to compete in the Blitz underscored his dissatisfaction. His eventual participation, though welcomed by fans, highlighted the disproportionate influence he wields within the chess world. FIDE’s inconsistent handling of the situation—from rigid enforcement to eventual accommodation—painted the organisation as weak and easily swayed by its star players.
The disparity in treatment between the men’s and women’s events compounded the issue. While the women’s Blitz Championship required tie-break games to determine a clear winner, the men were allowed to share the title. I don't believe that this glaring double standard exposed entrenched gender biases within FIDE, but the decision devalued the achievements and efforts of female players, and tarnished the organisation’s credibility further.
So who were the winners and losers? A hollow victory for whom?
Where FIDE was concerned, I would say Loser to them. FIDE’s reputation emerged battered and bruised. The handling of the dress code incident, followed by its capitulation to Carlsen’s demands, portrayed the organisation as inconsistent and ineffectual. The emphasis on image over substance and the selective application of rules left a sour taste among players and fans alike.
As for Magnus Carlsen, he was also a Loser in my eyes. While his actions exposed legitimate flaws in FIDE’s governance, his behaviour risked being perceived as self-serving and arrogant. Leveraging his star power to force changes may have achieved short-term gains but at the cost of appearing dismissive of the broader chess community and its principles.
Amidst the power struggles and questionable leadership, the real losers were the players and the sport itself. The championships, intended to showcase chess’s brilliance, became mired in controversy. Players’ achievements were overshadowed and the event failed to project the modern, inclusive image FIDE had sought to cultivate.
The decision-making failures reinforced negative stereotypes of chess as an elitist and insular pursuit. Rather than inspiring growth, the championships highlighted the deep divisions within the sport and the urgent need for reform.
There are lessons for the future. The 2024 World Rapid and Blitz Chess Championships were a case study in mismanagement. While FIDE demonstrated a willingness to innovate, these efforts were undermined by poor execution and wishy-washy leadership. Magnus Carlsen, for his part, acted as both a catalyst for change and a reminder of the dangers of unchecked influence in a sport built on fairness and intellectual rigour.
For chess to flourish in the modern era, FIDE must address its systemic issues, from updating outdated regulations to enforcing them consistently. Transparency, inclusivity and a focus on the sport’s integrity must take precedence over optics and star appeasement. Without these changes, chess risks losing its unique identity and becoming a mere spectacle of egos and excess.
I had known him since Standard Two in Westlands Primary School. He passed away this morning after an 11-month battle with cancer. Glioblastoma multiforme, I am told, is rather aggressive. After his operation, he recuperated at a nursing home in Ross Road while undergoing chemical and radiotherapy sessions. But by end of October, he had been taken off treatment as his body was already too frail. It was downhill after that. Every time that I visited him, I could see his condition worsening. He could barely whisper and the only way I could think of communicating with him was through music. I loaded my mobile phone with the music he loved, songs of the 1960s and 1970s, and I played them close to his ear. I shall cherish those remaining moments of interaction.
I shall miss you terribly, Oon Hup. I shall miss the annual telephone calls we made to one another on our birthdays, even when you were working overseas. I shall miss all that but most of all, i shall miss your intellectual presence and your forceful opinions.
Our last picture together, taken at a nursing home on 08 December 2024:
Obviously, Malaysia must have a world-class Train the Trainers programme. How else can we explain the paradox? We don’t have a single Grandmaster, yet we boast the fourth-highest number of FIDE-registered trainers in Asia!
