Penang Museum reopening

Anyone visiting the newly reopened Penang State Museum could be forgiven for thinking that it is, in part at least, a museum devoted to Penang Free School. 

That was certainly my first impression when I finally ventured beyond the curtain at the entrance. During the official reopening by the Penang Governor last Thursday evening, I never actually got that far. I had made a beeline for the marble plaque listing the donors to the building fund in 1895-96, then somehow got sidetracked into conversation with someone and never saw the rest of the museum. 

So on Sunday, I returned with Saw See for a proper visit. We headed upstairs and found ourselves in a corridor paying tribute to Penang's historic schools. Along one wall stood four child-sized mannequins dressed in the familiar white uniform of Penang Free School, complete with school ties and crest badges. One even wore the dark navy-blue blazer of a School Prefect. A video projection showed Free School boys and prefects running down the corridor, as though eagerly hurrying off to class. 

Following their lead, we arrived at the room at the far end of the corridor. It turned out to be entirely dedicated to Penang Free School. And why not?

After all, the museum building itself was once the school's home, built specifically for that purpose. Constructed in two stages, the first wing adjoining the Church of the Assumption was completed in 1896, while the second wing, extending towards St George's Church, was added in 1906. During the Allied bombing campaign of 1944 and 1945, carried out by the RAF and the US Army Air Forces to weaken the Japanese occupation of Penang, much of the later wing was destroyed. It was one of many colonial-era buildings that suffered damage in the raids. The surviving half eventually became the Penang State Museum in 1965: a history made even more tangible today by the excavated foundations of the lost wing, now preserved as an outdoor exhibit.

The recreated classroom is laid out with rows of old-fashioned desks facing a blackboard. Greeting visitors is the school's motto, Fortis Atque Fidelis. The walls are lined with displays tracing the school's more than two centuries of history, alongside a bust of Tunku Abdul Rahman, arguably the most distinguished Old Free of them all. There are also photographs of many other prominent Old Frees who have made their mark over the years.

It was here that I experienced a sense of satisfaction. Much of the historical information displayed in the room was adapted from my book, Let the Aisles Proclaim, which I wrote for the school's bicentenary in 2016. I had also supplied the museum with an updated summary of the school's history, leaving it entirely to the curators to decide how best to present the material. I can only hope I didn't overlook anything that some eagle-eyed visitor will one day point out.

Lest I give the wrong impression, the Free School exhibits occupy only a small corner of the museum. The rest explores Penang's history in all its facets through almost 1,200 artefacts, supported by multimedia and interactive presentations. Interesting though they are, I must admit I was rather biased. As an Old Free, I naturally spent more time in the galleries devoted to my alma mater. 

That changed, however, when I wandered into one of the ground-floor galleries devoted to Penang's legislative and judicial history. Looking down from the wall were portraits of Hussein Abdoolcader, James Ambrose, Alfred Winslow and Wee Chong Jin. Hussein Abdoolcader was one of Penang's most distinguished lawyers and also served on the Straits Settlements Legislative Council. Ambrose, Winslow and Wee later moved to Singapore, where they rose through the judiciary to become Federal Court judges, with Wee Chong Jin eventually serving as Singapore's Chief Justice. Apart from the fact that they were from the legal profession, all four were also Old Frees. Goes to show that Penang Free School has had rather more than its fair share of producing lawyers and judges.

Before leaving, there was one final stop to the newly opened archaeological exhibit which I mentioned earlier. Here were the foundations of the bombed-out 1906 wing which had been excavated and preserved. Standing there and looking at what remained of the original structure brought the story full circle. Almost a century after Penang Free School left these premises, my alma mater had, in a sense, come home again.

My old ancestor, Oh Cheng Chan

I attended the reopening of the Penang State Museum last Thursday evening. It was a grand affair graced by the presence of the Penang Governor, Ramli Ngah Talib, Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow, members of the State Exco and a host of invited guests. I was also happy to bump into quite a number of familiar faces among the crowd and even made a few new friends along the way.

After the speeches and a rather late dinner, which didn't begin until well after nine o'clock, we were finally invited into the museum. But I didn't get very far.

Just inside the entrance, my attention was drawn to a marble plaque mounted on one of the walls. I already knew what I wanted to see. It had been on my mind for years, and I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with it. My eyes quickly worked their way down the list of donors until they finally rested on a familiar name.

OH CHENG CHAN ESQR

There he was. This gentleman from the past, who contributed Straits Dollars One Hundred towards the building fund in either 1895 or 1896, was my great-great-grandfather on my mother's side of the family.

Seeing his name there again gave me happiness and a sense of pride. Suddenly, this wasn't just another heritage building with an interesting history. My own family had played a small part in making it possible. Quickly, I asked someone to take photos of me pointing to the name.

As far as I know, that makes me at least the fifth generation of my family in Penang. I say "at least" because I have never been able to trace Oh Cheng Chan's birthplace or date of birth. If he had come from China, then he would have been the first generation here. But if he had actually been born in Penang, then I would already be the sixth generation. Unfortunately, history has remained silent on that point.

His donation of Straits Dollars One Hundred may not sound like much today, but at the turn of the 20th century it was a substantial sum. In terms of purchasing power, it would probably be comparable to somewhere between RM15,000 and RM20,000 today. He was one of several public-spirited Penangites who contributed towards the construction of this magnificent building, leaving behind a legacy that has endured for well over a century.

The building itself has witnessed more than its fair share of history. Construction began in 1896, with the western wing completed first so that Penang Free School could move into its new premises in 1897. The eastern wing was completed in 1906 and occupied the following year. It was in this very building that Penang Free School celebrated its centenary in 1916.

Twelve years later, the upper forms moved to the school's present Green Lane campus, leaving behind the lower forms to become Hutchings School, a name chosen by The Old Frees' Association in honour of Robert Sparke Hutchings, the founder of Penang Free School.

The building suffered its first taste of war in December 1941 when Japanese bombs landed nearby. One exploded within the compound of the St George's Church, and the blast damaged the building's doors and windows. It fared much worse in February 1945 when Allied bombing scored a direct hit on the eastern wing, reducing much of it to rubble. Hutchings School returned to the surviving portion in 1947 and remained there until their new school buildings were completed in 1960.

After that, the old building stood empty for a while and even came close to being demolished. Thankfully, Tunku Abdul Rahman stepped in and decided that it should instead become the Penang State Museum. Whether he was motivated purely by its historical significance or by fond memories of his own schooldays here as a Penang Free School pupil, we can only speculate. Whatever the reason, Penang owes him a tremendous debt of gratitude for preserving one of the state's most important heritage buildings.

So there I was, looking at the plaque and finding myself thinking about my great-great-grandfather. More than 130 years ago, he and many others contributed to a public building that would go on to educate generations of Penangites before eventually becoming the State Museum. I doubt he could ever have imagined that one of his descendants would one day return, stand before that very plaque and quietly read his name once again. History isn't just something we read about in books. Sometimes, it stares back at us from a wall.

Back to Farquhar Street

This Thursday is a date I've been looking forward to for quite some time. After almost ten years behind hoardings and scaffolding, the Penang State Museum on Farquhar Street is finally reopening its doors. Like many Penangites, I'm curious to see how the old building has been restored. But unlike most visitors, the first thing I'll be looking for won't be the new galleries or exhibits.

I'll be making a beeline for the marble plaques mounted on the walls. Most people probably walk past them without a second glance. To me, they are among the most important artefacts in the whole building.

Many people don't realise that the building was never intended to be a museum. It was built for the Penang Free School after the school's original premises at Church Square had become hopelessly overcrowded. The first wing was completed in 1896, while the second followed in 1907.

Building a new school in those days was no small undertaking. To finance the project, the people of Penang rallied behind the cause. Individuals, families, businesses and community organisations donated generously because they believed in supporting education. To honour their generosity, marble plaques bearing the names of all the contributors were mounted on the walls of the new school building.

Many years later, while studying those names, I made an unexpected discovery. One of the donors was my own great-great-grandfather. Ever since then, whenever I visit the building, I make it a point to look for his name. It gives me a strange but satisfying feeling to know that someone from my family helped, however modestly, to build what would eventually become one of Penang's most historic buildings.

When Penang Free School moved to its Green Lane campus in 1927, the school ensured that the names of those benefactors would not be forgotten. A wooden honours board bearing the same list of donors was produced and mounted above the entrance to the Pinhorn Hall, where it still hangs today. Generations of Old Frees have probably walked beneath it without realising the story behind those names.

This Thursday, however, I'll have another reason for visiting. Some time ago, while restoration work was still in progress, the Penang State Museum contacted me with an unexpected request. The introduction came through the school's then headmaster, Syed Sultan Shaik Oothuman. Knowing of my work on the history of Penang Free School, he suggested that the museum approach me to write a concise history of the school for its new displays.

I was only too happy to help. Much of what I wrote was based on the extensive research and investigation that eventually culminated in Let the Aisles Proclaim in 2016. While researching that book, I discovered that a surprising number of accepted accounts of the school's early history were inaccurate. The same mistakes had been copied from one publication to another over the decades until they became accepted as historical fact.

Going back to original documents, newspapers and official records allowed me to verify dates, correct errors and, in some cases, completely rewrite parts of the school's early history. Besides writing the historical account, I also supplied some old photographs. They were only small contributions, but I was glad to assist. Whether the museum acknowledges my contribution is entirely up to them. That isn't why I did it.

For me, I'm happy enough knowing that I was able to contribute in a small way to preserve the history of a building that occupies such an important place in Penang's educational and cultural heritage.

This Thursday, I'll almost certainly pause in front of those marble plaques and again look for the name of my great-great-grandfather who helped build the school more than a century ago. Beyond those plaques are galleries that now also contain a little of my own work. History has a wonderful way of coming full circle.

George Town's world heritage day

It is gratifying to see some of our state assemblypersons coming out on facebook to acknowledge and celebrate George Town's World Heritage Day on the seventh of July this year. Have I missed out on anyone's poster? I hope not! There were also public acknowledgements from several agencies and businesses but I shall not show the businesses here as they were too numerous.

(Buletin Mutiara)

Penang240

I saw this posting on Ng Wei Aik's facebook account. He is a Penang-based politician who served as Tanjong MP (2013–2018) and Komtar state assemblyman (2008–2013), and was formerly a political secretary before being dropped as a GE14 candidate. On his facebook, he had asked a very interesting question: is the Penang Government doing anything to commemorate the 240th anniversary -- an anniversary which I would call by the Latin name bicentiquadragenary -- of the founding of Penang by Captain Francis Light? Here's what he wrote on the sixth of July:

Captain Francis Light landed in Penang on 11 August 1786. This coming 11 August marks the 240th anniversary of his landing, as well as the 240th anniversary of the founding of modern Penang.

Yet the authorities have remained completely silent. To date, no official celebrations have been planned, no commemorative ceremonies announced, as though this chapter of history never existed.

This inevitably raises an important question: when politicians constantly proclaim that they are defending Penang’s sovereignty, are they truly defending its history, or merely exploiting it for political purposes?

In recent times, whenever Penang’s status is discussed, politicians are quick to declare that they must “defend Penang’s sovereignty.” Yet when confronted with a significant historical milestone that embodies Penang’s identity and reinforces its historical consciousness, they have all fallen conspicuously silent.

To defend a place, one must first understand it.

Penang, as the state, international port, and modern city we know today, has an
undeniable historical beginning. 

Commemorating the 240th anniversary of Francis Light’s landing is not about glorifying colonial rule, nor is it about celebrating British imperialism. It is about acknowledging the historical fact of Penang’s founding.

A mature society does not erase history simply because it is complicated, nor does it rewrite or delete history in the name of political correctness.

True sovereignty is never built on slogans. It rests upon historical identity, cultural confidence, and institutional continuity.

A society that dares not commemorate its own founding anniversary, yet loudly proclaims its determination to defend its sovereignty every day, is displaying not conviction but emptiness; not confidence but insecurity.

If we can simply ignore the 240th anniversary of Penang’s founding, then when others question Penang’s historical status, on what basis can we expect the next generation to stand up and defend it?

Defending Penang’s sovereignty should never be reduced to a slogan repeated at press conferences, nor should it become another performance staged on social media.

Real defence begins with respecting history, confronting history honestly, and passing history on to future generations.

Otherwise, the rhetoric of “defending Penang’s sovereignty” will ultimately amount to nothing more than a political slogan—one that may sound thunderous, but cannot withstand the judgment of history.

Now, this is certainly an interesting topic. After all, 240 years is no small milestone. We readily celebrate centenaries, bicentenaries and other significant anniversaries. Penang itself has never been shy about commemorating important dates in its history. The state's bicentenary in 1986 was marked by numerous events, while George Town's inscription as a UNESCO World Heritage Site continues to be celebrated every year on the seventh of July.

Yet this 240th anniversary appears to have attracted little public attention. Of course, the issue is not as straightforward as it might seem. Any commemoration of Captain Francis Light inevitably raises the larger question of what exactly is being celebrated. Is it the arrival of a British trader? The beginning of British colonial rule? Or the birth of modern Penang as we know it today?

Historians have long pointed out that Penang did not suddenly come into existence on 11 August 1786. The island had been known for centuries to traders and seafarers and formed part of the Kedah Sultanate. But it is equally true that Francis Light's arrival altered the island's destiny forever. What had been a lightly populated island soon developed into one of the busiest free ports in Southeast Asia, attracting settlers from China, India, the Malay Archipelago, Europe and elsewhere. The foundations of modern Penang were laid during those formative years.

Whether one regards Francis Light as founder, coloniser or simply an important historical figure depends largely on one's perspective. History is seldom black and white. What cannot be denied, however, is that his arrival changed the course of Penang's history.

In recent years, we have periodically heard renewed claims from Kedah over Penang. Such statements invariably generate headlines and emotional reactions before quietly fading away until the next round of rhetoric. Yet they serve as a reminder that history often becomes a subject of attention when it suits the moment. Understanding how Penang came to be what it is today is therefore not merely an academic exercise; it is part of understanding the state's identity, its historical development and its constitutional place within Malaysia.

Commemorating the landing of Francis Light need not be interpreted as glorifying colonialism. Nor should it be seen simply as a rebuttal of Kedah's periodic claims over Penang. Rather, it can be viewed as acknowledging a turning point in history: the moment that eventually gave rise to the cosmopolitan Penang we know today. Mature societies are capable of recognising significant historical events without necessarily endorsing every aspect of the individuals involved or the circumstances surrounding them.

There is another interesting perspective. This year's 240th anniversary comes at the same time as the United States celebrating the 250th anniversary, or semiquincentenary, of its own founding on the fourth of July, just a few days ago. The Americans marked that milestone with nationwide events, exhibitions and educational programmes, not because every chapter of their early history was beyond criticism, but because understanding one's origins is part of understanding one's nation.

Perhaps Penang, too, could consider whether such milestones deserve greater recognition. Not necessarily through elaborate celebrations, but through meaningful public commemorations that encourage people to reflect on the island's long and fascinating journey over the past 240 years. It has been a journey shaped by indigenous roots, colonial encounters, migration, trade and the many communities that have made Penang what it is today.

Fantastic cultural initiative

Penang has taken what may well be its most meaningful cultural preservation step since the UNESCO recognition of George Town’s heritage zone in 2008 by officially gazetting 50 heritage items covering historical sites, cultural traditions and some of the state’s most beloved local food.

State tourism and creative economy committee chairman Wong Hon Wai described the move as a major milestone in protecting and sustaining Penang’s cultural heritage. Under the Penang State Heritage Enactment 2011, the state has now gazetted 15 heritage sites, seven intangible cultural heritage elements and 28 heritage food items.

What struck me most was the fact that although the enactment was passed back in 2011, no official state-level cultural heritage gazettement had actually taken place over the past 15 years. This year, however, the Penang government finally turned legislation into concrete action by formally recognising these cultural treasures and laying down a stronger institutional foundation for their preservation.

Among the heritage sites gazetted are Fort Cornwallis, Kapitan Keling Mosque, Penang Free School, St George’s Church, Penang State Museum building, Acheen Street Malay Mosque and Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi. On the mainland, the gazetted sites include the Cherok Tok Kun Inscription Stone, the Guar Kepah Archaeological Site and Leng Eng Seah Association. There should be many more to add into this list later but this can be considered a good start for the moment.

The intangible cultural heritage list includes nasi kandar culture, kopitiam culture, the Thaipusam and Chingay processions, the St Anne’s feast in Bukit Mertajam and the Penang Tanjong dialect.

As for food, some of Penang’s most iconic dishes have now been formally recognised as heritage items, including asam laksa, char koay teow, nasi kandar, chendol, roti chanai, putu mayam and pasembor. (See the full list below.)

To me, this is about far more than tourism or branding. It is about memory, identity and continuity. Penang’s multicultural heritage did not emerge overnight. It was shaped slowly over generations by different communities, faiths and traditions living side by side and influencing one another.

I also appreciated Wong’s point that cultural heritage can act as a bridge for national unity. When people see their languages, celebrations, food traditions and places of worship respected and protected, it deepens mutual understanding and strengthens the sense that these shared histories matter.

There is also the wider international dimension. Some of these intangible heritage elements could eventually be nominated for UNESCO recognition, allowing Penang’s cultural treasures to gain wider appreciation on the global stage. More importantly, formal recognition helps establish and protect historical and cultural ownership more clearly at a time when regional food cultures are increasingly commercialised and occasionally appropriated by neighbouring countries as part of their own national identity. Penang, perhaps more than most places, has reason to be sensitive about such matters.

In the end, preserving heritage is not about being possessive. It is about acknowledging origins, respecting authenticity and ensuring that future generations still know where these traditions came from and why they mattered.

------------------------

The full list of Penang's heritage food items gazetted by the Penang government: char koay kak, kerabu bihun, hokkien mee, mee jawa, mee sotong, mee udang, nasi kandar, roti benggali, pasembor, oh chien, air batu campur (ABC), ais kepal, chapati, chendol, char koay teow, kari kapitan, keema, asam laksa, martabak, masalodeh, mee goreng mamak, muruku, penderam, putu mayam, roti chanai, teh tarik, tosai and yong tau foo.

Gladstone Road

Gladstone Road was one of the roads that disappeared during the massive urban redevelopment that created KOMTAR in the 1970s and early 1980s. The road once ran straight from the Magazine Circus towards Carnarvon Circus, cutting across an area that later became part of the KOMTAR complex.

The road was named after William Ewart Gladstone, the famous British Liberal politician who served four terms as Prime Minister of Britain between 1868 and 1894. He was one of the dominant political figures of Victorian Britain and was known for administrative reforms and parliamentary politics.

Historically, Gladstone Road emerged during the period when George Town was expanding southwards beyond the old Prangin Canal in the late 19th century. At that time, the areas across the canal were gradually transformed from attap-house settlements into rows of brick shop houses and more organised urban streets.

A 1914 map of George Town

Gladstone Road was also associated with Penang’s old tram system. In the early decades of the 20th century, tram tracks ran through this part of George Town and older Chin
ese residents even referred to parts of the area as Hoay Chiah Lor in Penang Hokkien. Penang once had one of the earliest tram systems in Malaya. The lines connected Weld Quay in George Town with areas such as Ayer Itam and the Waterfall Gardens, intersecting at what would later become Goh Par Teng or the Magazine Circus in the busy commercial heart of town. 

1969 - one of the last times that Gladstone Road
appeared on a map of George Town

By the mid-20th century, Gladstone Road had become part of the busy commercial and transport district around Prangin Road, Penang Road and Magazine Circus. Older Penangites would remember the area for its shops, businesses and proximity to the old Prangin Road bus terminal. I remember eating at a compact open-air hawker centre right smack where Gladstone Road and Magazine Road converged at the Magazine Circus.

Then came the KOMTAR redevelopment project in the 1970s. The plans might have been futuristic, looking forward to modernising George Town for the future, the next 50 to a hundred years, but large sections of the old neighbourhood around Prangin had to make way for this ambitious urban renewal plan. Gladstone Road was effectively erased from the map during this redevelopment, along with Carnarvon Circus and many adjoining pre-war buildings.

George Town paid a very heavy price for this modernisation drive. To make way for KOMTAR, hundreds of old buildings disappeared. Historical records mention that 769 homes, 304 shops, four cinemas, three schools, an amusement park, even a fire station and post office were demolished. Because the project was planted directly in the heart of George Town, entire streetscapes and long-familiar landmarks vanished almost overnight.

Today, no trace of Gladstone Road survives except for maps like these. Its disappearance is part of a much larger story involving the transformation of old George Town during the KOMTAR era, when entire streetscapes, canals, bus terminals and neighbourhoods gave way to modern concrete redevelopment. For many older Penangites, roads like Gladstone Road survive mainly through memory rather than geography.

Pagar Tras

In February last year, I had attended a workshop on the history and heritage of Pagar Tras organised by the Centre for Global Archaeological Research at Universiti Sains Malaysia. As part of the programme, the participants were taken on a field trip to visit the ruins of the abandoned Sacred Heart Catholic Church, once a spiritual centre of the old Pagar Tras community, as well as the Catholic church in Kulim where many of the salvaged artefacts eventually found a new home.

I still remember walking through the remains of the old church site. There was a quietness about the place that photographs alone could never quite capture. One could sense that this had once been a living community with its own rhythms, prayers and gatherings.

Fast forward to the present, and about a week ago I received a message from USM informing me that my copy of History and Heritage of Pagar Tras was ready for collection. Naturally, I wasted little time getting hold of it. After reading through the book over several sittings, I came away impressed by the amount of information packed into its 124 pages.

Written by Stephen Chia, Francis Chen and Clement Liang, the book pieces together the story of Pagar Tras. It traces how French missionaries arrived in the 19th century to spread Catholicism among the local Chinese community, and how the Sacred Heart Church gradually became the focal point of village life.

The story also reflects the upheavals that shaped Malaya during the mid-20th century. Following the Japanese Occupation and later during the Malayan Emergency, the Pagar Tras community was forcibly relocated to the new villages on the mainland. Once the villagers left, the old church was effectively abandoned, and nature slowly reclaimed the site.

Reading the book brought back memories of that field trip last year. What at first ap
peared to be little more than old ruins in the jungle gradually took on a deeper meaning. Behind the broken walls and silence was the story of an uprooted community and a forgotten chapter of local history that could easily have disappeared altogether if nobody bothers to document it.

Second heritage listing

I came across a bit of news the other day. It was one of those routine-looking reports that one almost scrolls past. And then, I did a bit of a double take when I saw Penang Free School listed among the sites proposed for gazettement as state heritage.

Now, wait a minute. Hasn’t the school already been recognised at the national level? I had it in my head that this had been settled some years ago, and sure enough, it had, in 2018. So for a moment it felt like one of those small bureaucratic curiosities. Why do the same thing twice?

The news report itself was straightforward. Fifteen sites across Penang, on the island and mainland, a mixture of religious buildings, institutions and places with some historical weight behind them. Familiar names cropped up such as Fort Cornwallis, St George’s Church, Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi. These are the usual landmarks that one automatically associates with the island’s past. Seen in that company, Penang Free School didn’t look out of place at all. If anything, the school belongs in that same conversation.

Still, the question needs to be answered. Why look at Penang Free School twice? If it’s already a national heritage site, what’s the point of a second listing?

I don’t have a definitive answer, but I suspect it comes down to control. National recognition marks Penang Free School as something important to the country as a whole. But the day-to-day realities of land, planning and enforcement tend to sit closer to home. By bringing the school under the Penang State Heritage Enactment 2011, I suspect the state government is making sure that if anything needs to be preserved, altered or protected, the school doesn’t have to look too far for the authority to do so.

It’s a bit of a belt and braces approach. The first layer of protection is already there, and this simply adds another. Both layers complementing each other. A place like Penang Free School isn’t a monument in the usual sense. It is a living institution with classrooms, students, repairs to be made and the occasional need to adapt. And that's where, I suspect, the state recognition comes in to provide a faster response where national intervention may take time, if it comes at all. Preservation is one thing; standing still is another.

What I found more interesting, though, was the fact that this wasn’t a one-off move. The school is part of a wider sweep. There are 15 sites in all, stretching from the island to the mainland, which suggests a certain intent to draw a clearer boundary around what Penang considers worth keeping, not just for visitors or for show, but for itself. 

In the end, maybe it comes down to instinct. Places like this have been around long enough to outlast fashions and policies, but not necessarily neglect or indifference. If putting an extra layer of protection helps to guard against that, then so be it. And with something like Penang Free School, you can see why no one is inclined to take chances.

Demolition accident

In 2021 when I was working on 10,000 Prosperities, the book on Ban Hin Lee Bank, there was one minor incident I felt unnecessary to include at the time. It seemed a diversion from the main story. Looking at it again now, I think it fits rather well as an addendum to the bank’s history.

By the middle of 1936, Beach Street was changing. Numbers 41 to 47, old shophouses that had long done unremarkable business along that stretch of road, were coming down to make way for something newer and larger: a purpose-built home for Ban Hin Lee Bank. The land belonged to Yeap Chor Ee. The bank itself was operating just a few metres up the road, from a modest building at the junction of Beach Street and Market Street, which he also owned. For a newly incorporated bank seeking recognition in a colonial port city, modesty was no longer enough.

What Yeap wanted was an imposing building that rivalled European-owned buildings and, just as importantly, assure his Chinese customers of merchants and traders that his was a bank that was strong, dependable and reliable. Perhaps he had in mind the Chartered Bank or the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank buildings further down the road. In any case, he envisaged a structure built along classical lines, one that would place Ban Hin Lee visually among the established pillars of finance on Beach Street.

Demolition began sometime in June. Red flags were strung along drains and five-footways, the old and familiar signals that had long served as warnings to passers-by. What were missing, at least at first, were proper hoardings to separate the site from the street and, more importantly, a licence from the municipal authorities permitting the buildings to be taken down. On 29 June, those omissions turned fatal.

That afternoon, Sikandar, a 12-year-old Indian boy, was carrying coffee from a shop in China Street to a money-changer who operated from the five-footway along Beach Street. It was something he did regularly. This time, he never returned. As part of No. 47 collapsed, bricks and tiles fell into the public way. Sikandar was struck and badly injured. By the time help arrived, it was too late.

His death set off a chain of proceedings that stretched over several months. In August, the coroner, HAL Luckham, found that the boy’s death was an accident involving contributory negligence on several sides. A workman might have acted negligently, but there was no definite evidence. The contractor, Anamalai Chettiar, should be prosecuted. The liability of the owner was less clear. He also noted that the money-changer had remained under a building he knew was being demolished.

The contractor’s case was heard first. Anamalai Chettiar was charged with failing to take proper precautions to protect human life. Witnesses testified that rubble had been falling onto the road, that the old houses were already unsafe and that demolition had begun without either a licence or protective hoardings. He was eventually found guilty and fined $25.

Running alongside this was a trickier question: who was actually responsible for the site? Yeap Chor Ee had sold the materials from the old houses to the contractor under a written agreement. The contractor was to provide the labour, insure his own workers and clear the site within a month. From Yeap’s point of view, this was a simple sale. Once the agreement was signed, the buildings, and the risks that came with them, were no longer his concern.

The Municipality disagreed and summonses were issued for failing to put up proper hoardings and starting demolition without a licence. The case drifted back and forth in the Police Court, often stalled by technical legal arguments that seemed to sideline the fact that a boy had been crushed to death on Beach Street.

When the matter finally came fully before the court in November, everything came down to how the law defined a few seemingly simple words. Under the Ordinance, who counted as the “owner”? Did responsibility rest on legal ownership, physical control or intention? And could someone be prosecuted for failing to put up hoardings when, without a licence, he was not legally allowed to erect them in the first place?

The Municipality’s lawyer argued that Yeap Chor Ee had intended the buildings to be demolished, that he ultimately remained in control and that duties meant to protect the public could not simply be passed on by contract. The defence replied that this was not an employment arrangement but a sale of materials, that the contractor was in possession and that where the law meant to impose responsibility on owners, it said so clearly.

When judgment was delivered just before the end of the year, it found that Yeap Chor Ee was guilty of commencing demolition without first obtaining a licence, and he was fined $200. An application for a stay pending appeal was granted, but the point had been made.

Here, my account ends as I could find no further details of the accident or the subsequent court proceedings. After Ban Hin Lee Bank relocated to its new premises some time in 1937, registered as 43 Beach Street, the final act came in January 1940 when Yeap Chor Ee transferred ownership of the property to the bank for the sum of Straits Dollars $55,000.

Sources for this story:
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 10 September 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 30 October 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 19 November 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 20 November 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 30 December 1936

#banhinlee #bhlbank #bhlb #yeapchoree

Children on a bicycle

The day after the Social Evening of the ASEAN+ age-group chess championships, Berik, Hamid and I visited Ernest Zacharevic at his studio on Malay Street. I had originally planned to go after the tournament wrapped up, but when I heard that Berik had already been invited, I thought I’d tag along.

The studio is currently hosting a weekend exhibition that's running until the end of August. It's deeply personal to Ernest. It’s his response to a corporate dispute with AirAsia, who had used his Children on a Bicycle mural in their airplane livery without his permission. The matter has yet to be resolved. Although legal action is still on the table, Ernest hasn’t brought the case to court just yet. In the meantime, this exhibition is his way of saying that this wasn’t right. It’s a mix of outrage, frustration and quiet defiance.

What’s troubling is how common this sort of thing has become. A large business appropriates a well-loved piece of public art, confident that the artist, often an individual with far fewer resources, won’t be able to push back. That imbalance is glaring. In Ernest’s case, this wasn’t just a mural. It was part of a larger vision to inject creativity into George Town’s heritage core, back when the idea of street art hadn’t yet caught fire. The work took root. People came to see it. It became iconic. And now, others want to profit from it without so much as a courtesy call. On the other hand, we, the organisers of the championships, went out of our way to seek permission from him to use the artwork as the backdrop of the chess event. That's the difference between responsibility and irresponsibility.

His studio itself feels like a creative haven. Downstairs and upstairs, a small team of collaborators was at work, immersed in various projects. And tucked in a corner, I spotted a collection of vinyl records and naturally, I gravitated toward it straightaway.

In conversation, Ernest shared how he first arrived in Penang in 2012, largely unknown. He approached the GTWHI or the MPPP with a proposal to add some life to the heritage zone through wall art. But the idea met resistance. Many property owners were hesitant to grant permission for something so new, so untested. Eventually, the Cheah Kongsi took a chance on him. They let him paint on an otherwise unremarkable wall along Armenian Street. One that, Ernest was told, would be demolished within six months. He poured himself into the mural anyway. More than a decade later, that wall still stands, and so does his Children on a Bicycle—although it had a fresh repaint not long ago.

Before we left, I gave him one of the tunics specially made for the officials and Malaysian players in the chess championship. I hope he liked it.

Looking back, what struck me most wasn't just the mural, or even the exhibition. It was the reminder that boldness often begins quietly. A single idea, a stroke of paint on a wall once thought temporary, can outlast every doubt, resistance, vandalism and threat of erasure. Sometimes, the most lasting change is the one no one sees coming.