I've always wanted to join the army.  Maybe it was initially a boys-with-guns thing or, later, a higher calling to serve the nation.  There are soldiers in my extended family.  Cousins who were generals – one who was Chief of the Armed Forces.  That heightened the appeal.  I remember telling my parents when I was a teenager that I wanted to be a soldier.  They said get a degree first, then decide.  After diving into active politics shortly after graduating my GI Joe dreams were put on the back burner and eventually I settled with the thought that maybe I would live my commando fantasies through my sons when they are older.

Then a few months ago, I met a distinguished looking gentleman, a one-star general with a headful of gravitas-exuding grey hair.  General Shahrom, Commander of the 508 Regiment of the Malaysian Territorial Army or Rejimen Askar Wataniah, had heard that I was interested in serving in the army and wanted to get me involved in his regiment based in Negeri Sembilan.  It would be the typical public figure endorsement of a program that would hopefully attract more participation especially from the youth. I wouldn't have to do much beyond the occasional visit to the camp for a quick meet and greet with the recruits and instill them with some much-needed public figure semangat.



In return, I would be bestowed an honorary commission, either a Lieutenant Colonel or a Major, receive the accompanying accoutrements of an officer and saluted to as a military gentleman by proper soldiers albeit with lower ranks.  In our society obsessed with titles, ranks and all the bells and whistles that come with it, an honorary military commission is another grace awarded to public figures that, mostly, don't deserve it let alone know how to execute a crisp and proper salute.

So, faced with this offer and not wanting to offend the commander, I simply asked, "Sir, if, God forbid, we were ever at war, would the army mobilise their honorary officers?" The answer was, of course, "No."  I then said, "In which case I don't deserve to wear the uniform that you're offering me."  

I then asked him whether I could join the reserves as an ordinary recruit and gradually move up the ranks just like anyone else.  First, I would go through basic military training before progressing to the potential officers' course if I make it through the former.  He said they've never had a sitting MP join as an ordinary recruit let alone one with my ‘profile’.  I convinced him there is a first time for everything.

My application went in and General Shahrom skilfully convinced an initially skeptical army top-brass that the MP in question had agreed unequivocally to be accorded no privileges and was ready to be treated like any other recruit.  And so it was that on 26 April, I reported to the 508 Regiment headquarters in Rasah as 6210405 – my military number sans any YB-ness.

For the next one-month, 87 of us were broken down daily through a series of physical and mental challenges carefully designed to make us soldiers.  For regular recruits, basic training lasts six months.  For reservists this is condensed into four weeks and while we miss out on a fair bit of what the regulars are exposed to, the intensity of the training is multiplied because of the shorter period.

As with any military boot camp around the world, the first week is all about the parade square.  From the crack of dawn until sunset, we are put through drills that centre around marching in formation.  Every soldier knows that the most fundamental lessons are learnt on the parade square – especially discipline and working as a unit.  If just one person steps out of line or gets his or her formation sequence wrong, then the entire recruit squad will have to repeat the drill or get down for 20 knuckle push-ups on the boiling, tar surface.  Drill sergeants don’t care about the midday sun beating down as you sweat every ounce of fluid decked in your thick, suffocating army-issue camouflage and woolen beret.  They keep going even though one by one, recruits fall like dominoes, some genuinely fainting, others simulating a blackout because they just can’t hack it any longer (for the record, I did neither).  If we get a break, it’s a mere five minutes to run to the cookhouse where the only drink available is boiling water.

Unsurprisingly, the first week also sees the most dropouts.  We lost around 10 recruits.  One came back to camp a day after quitting.  We later found out he came back because his army father gave him a beating worse than anything he would experience in the barracks.

After taking our stamina to the brink during the first week, other modules were progressively introduced.  Classes on handling weapons, military tactics and army laws and regulations were taught.  And everything is tested.  I hadn’t crammed and sat for written exams in over a decade.  Having to switch from extreme physical exertion to using your mind and memory to answer exam questions within a few hours was annoying and challenging in equal measure.  After all, its easier to swot it or jock it.  Doing both ain’t fun.

Punishments were also meted out generously.  From the vomit-inducing side rolls across the width of the parade square to more subtle but ultimately torturous ‘fines’ we were made to pay for the slightest breach in discipline.  One night we were subjected to the notorious ‘change parade’ which required us running up and down from the parade square to our dorms and changing outfits no less than seven times.  The first two changes seemed fun but when we were on our seventh outfit – full battle dress unit camouflage – past midnight, the urge to just break ranks and quit was overwhelming.  

I also had the added misfortune of being, perhaps for the first time in recent memory, the oldest member of a group.  Being 34 in politics is embryonic.  As an army recruit its proper geriatric.  The problem was not the academic and tactical aspect of the training but the physical modules.  I had to keep up with largely 18-year-old kids at the prime of their growth spurt.  I had anticipated as much in the run-up to reporting for camp so started training a few weeks before to avoid being humiliated by recruits who were younger and fitter than me.  I dropped five kilograms before going in (and another five in camp) and that early preparation allowed me to keep up with the strongest guys and get the best out of the course.  

By the time we entered our final week which involved field exercises in the jungle, our transformation into soldiers was coming along nicely.  I no longer needed an alarm to wake up at 4.30am every morning in order to be the first to mandi since there was only four bathing cubicles for all of us.  We became immune to mosquitoes and their bites.  The absence of air-conditioning and iced beverages didn’t bother us anymore.

Everything up to that point was to prepare us for our field exercise involving among other fun and games, a 30 kilometer advance, digging a six-feet deep trench in the middle of the day and carrying a backpack full of battle ration weighing almost 30 kilograms in addition to our M-16s which we carried at all times - accompanying us to the jungle toilet and caressed as a surrogate spouse at night.  We were paired off with field ‘buddies’ with whom we would share a trench or tent.  I was paired with the 19-year old Rajasekar a happy-go-lucky odd job worker from Semenyih.  By day, the boy worked like an ox with boundless energy.  By night, he was the converse with his snores making it clear he wasn’t built for sentry duty.  As is the case with relationships forged in relatively challenging circumstances, we continue to be friends.


On the day we passed out as Privates, I looked back at the month with obvious relief.  No more drills and parades, forced marches and trench digging, memorizing weapons specifications and cleaning a disassembled M-16.  But I also looked back with satisfaction that a physical and mental threshold has been crossed.  I now look forward to the next phase, whether the officers’ training or the airborne paratrooper course that I have applied to.  More than the personal challenge that the army presents me, it is the fraternity borne of a rigorous, regimented environment and sense of service to the nation that excites all of us in the reserves.

I understand why Malaysia has no compulsory military service.  Any attempt to build a public consensus to introduce it today would be near impossible.  Besides, as attracted as I am to the virtues of military training, I still believe that the decision to enlist or volunteer is an extremely personal one with moral consequence.  But having gone through boot camp and served a few years back on the council overseeing our national service program, I now have a clearer understanding about the efficacy and usefulness (or not) of Program Latihan Khidmat Negara compared to the real deal and based on how much we spend on and get out of the three-month post-SPM pseudo boot camp.



Joining the reserves is clearly not for everyone.  And I don’t mean that as a reflection on someone’s physical ability, mental resilience or patriotic sense of duty.  Those virtues, especially the last, can be manifested in many different and equally meaningful ways.  But for me, personally, the reservist experience tested my raw abilities and stretched the boundaries of my mind and body in service to this country.  In the increasingly cynical world of postmodern Malaysian politics, honour is a diminishing virtue on both sides of the divide.  In the army, honour - in particular the soul-stirring honour of serving your nation - permeates in abundance.  To me, that's the only reason I need to keep reporting back as 6210405.