Village idiots

Yesterday, the great paragon of virtue Mohamed Ali Rustam, the Chief Minister of Malacca, “suggested” that the Federal Government revoke the citizenship of Bersih chairman Ambiga Sreenevasan because, in his view, she clearly intends to cause “chaos in the country” with the forthcoming Bersih rally on the 9th inst. and that it is therefore “better to lose one person than lose a lot of lives.” (Here is the Malay version of the story—it differs somewhat from the subscription-only English report, but never mind.)

Never mind the questionable logic and notwithstanding Ali Rustam’s admission that the source of violence lies within his own band of primitive imbeciles (“I worry that Pesaka [his troop of warmongers] will not be able to control the emotions of its members. In the meeting just now, I can see that our members are also on fire already. If anything happens to anyone, we should not be blamed. Ambiga has to bear all responsibility”), the problem with Ali Rustam and those like him is that for some bizarre reason they believe that every Malaysian citizen who is not an ethnic Malay or not otherwise a “native”—to wit, they are Chinese, Indian, European, or whatever—derive their citizenship by virtue of jus soli.

To be sure, the instrument of Federation, i.e. the Constitution, provides for precisely that derivation at the time the country was established (1963, not 1957); but if any of these idiots had bothered to read the damned thing and our laws of citizenship they would discover that:

a) subsequent to Malaysia Day, citizenship is granted automatically by the application of lex sanguinis—that is to say, blood. A child of a Malaysian is a Malaysian if born in the country. If born outside the country, the right of blood is patrilineal, and so on. Jus soli is applied automatically only in cases where a child born in Malaysia would otherwise be stateless (this, incidentally, happens quite frequently and the right is frequently ignored); and

b) you may revoke citizenship granted only by naturalisation, and even then under very specific conditions.

And if they were to read a little more they would discover that you may not render a person stateless, nor can you revoke citizenship gained by jus sanguinis unless that person becomes a citizen of another country (since we enforce the single-citizenship rule). If you were crafty, you might try to revoke the citizenship of someone’s pre-Merdeka ancestor in order to effect what you imagine to be the de facto denaturalisation of that person, but to do this you must dig up the ancestor and put the corpse on trial for treason.

I have posted previously that I will not take part in Bersih 2.0. This does not mean that I am in support of the Government, Perkasa, the Police, the Home Minister, and so on. But I do wish to point out, again, that like begets like. If the reasons for Bersih 2.0 were clear—for example, to present a petition to the King requesting that something be done to clean up the electoral rolls and to make the election process transparent and accountable; or even to prevent gerrymandering—then that would have my full marching support as it did in 2007.

But when the “demands” of the “People” become cries for a return to the glorious days of Malaysia’s wealth of natural resources and talent, or that the Barisan Government is evil and should be brought down, then no, I will not support it. This, if I am unclear, doesn’t mean that I support an evil and corrupt regime (I do of course, but it’d have to be my own regime, not someone else’s)—it means merely that I support free and fair elections, and a process whereby, should the Barisan Nasional win, there would be no question of electoral victory. This would apply equally to the Pakatan Rakyat, or Parti Islam, or the Communist Party of Malaysia which is apparently still alive and kicking.

Moreover the kind of blind adherence to the anti-Government position that the Bersih march has inspired is fundamentally dangerous. Why? Because it is the same blind adherence that put the Barisan in power in the first place and kept it there for over half a century.

“If you are not with Bersih, you are against free and fair elections.”

Does that kind of thinking not worry you?


Why I cannot support Bersih 2.0

I was at the first Bersih march in 2007, and I was at the lawyer’s march before it and Hindraf after, where I was shot at with tear gas and hosed down together with a great mass of 60-year-old “threats to national security” who were simply fed up with they way they had been treated.

Hindraf was an odd thing. The protestors were by and large Indian, dark-skinned, polytheists (that is, Hindu for ye who have not a clue what I am talking about), and certainly not middle class. Did anyone give a crap about them? Well, not really, but that needn’t detain us now I suppose. It certainly didn’t detain us then.

I appreciate the demands of Bersih 2.0. They are my demands. Most of them. I think indelible ink to be silly if the process itself can be guaranteed to be fair. I also think that “Stop Corruption” and “End Dirty Politics” (items 7 and 8 respectively) are journeys, possibly painful journeys, that we must undertake. The whole bloody thing will cost us dearly and we must be prepared to pay the price.

I am. I’m sure you are too.

But it doesn’t consist in merely handing over a memo and claiming moral victory, or going to gaol and claiming martyrdom. Handing a memorandum to the Palace alone achieves nothing other than the satisfaction of having shown your strength. This is the same satisfaction UMNO and Perkasa seek. Claiming that if you are not with Bersih, then you are against free and fair elections is the same as saying if you don’t subscribe to Ketuanan Melayu, you can fuck off. Saying “March in July or emigrate” is the same as saying “Juden heraus!”

Not everyone thinks the way you do, and that, unfortunately, is a fundamental principle of democratic engagement.

What exactly does Bersih stand for? Its original eight demands? Or the demands of the Pakatan Rakyat? Is it a political protest led by Anwar Ibrahim, who possesses the power to call off the march if that pink-lipped idiot in Putrajaya accedes to Bersih’s demands? What the hell kind of “engagement” is that? Or is it a protest to which Sdr Lim Kit Siang can invite all to join? Whose protest is it? I thought it was the peoples’. Not the politicians’.

And as for that ridiculous arse-wipe Khary Jamaluddin [no last name], for God’s sake have the courage to be in the country when the shit hits the fan.

Pandora’s Box

Pandora, by D.G. Rossetti. The inscription on the happy meal box is "Ultima Manet Spes" = Hope remains last.

According to the story, Pandora opened her box (i.e. a pithos, or large jar—the thing that Diogenes lived in) and all the evils of the world flew out, to wit, every “burdensome toil and sickness that brings death to men”. I don’t know who translated this (I found it on Wikipedia), but the idea is clear: Pandora oughtn’t have opened the box. By the time she got round to closing the lid, only one thing was left inside: hope.

Have you ever stopped to ask what was hope doing in there in the first place?

“Zeus wollte nämlich, dass der Mensch, auch noch so sehr durch die anderen Uebel gequält, doch das Leben nicht wegwerfe, sondern fortfahre, sich immer von Neuem quälen zu lassen. Dazu giebt er dem Menschen die Hoffnung: sie ist in Wahrheit das übelste der Uebel, weil sie die Qual der Menschen verlängert.”

That is, Zeus wanted that people should not throw away their lives despite being tortured so much by all the other evils, but to keep being tormented forever, over and over again, to which end he gave them Hope: she is really the most evil of evils, for she prolongs the agony of humanity. (Fried. Nietzsche, Menschliches, Allzumenschliches, 71—loose translation by my dictionary, but you can also get it from any edition of Human, All Too Human.)

Many scholars have found this idea unacceptable and have sought refuge in interpreting the original word elpis (the whole thing is from a story by Hesiod), which is usually translated as “hope”. Instead, they look to “expectation”, and posit “expectation of bad” (as opposed to “good” or “Flying Spaghetti Monster”) as the answer most relevant to the discussion.

The thing then degenerates into what Hesiod intended to say. I have no idea if he was a grim bugger like the rest of us, but it is clear to me that, on the principle of Occam’s Razor, Nietzsche’s argument makes better sense. Besides, anyone can demonstrate the fallacy of the “expectation of bad” argument by expecting the worst. Zeus did not shield me from dates that I knew would go straight to hell. Nor any ancient Greek, for that matter. Therefore, “expectation of bad” cannot still be in the jar, can it?

But Nietzsche can’t be right either, can he? however romantic the idea might sound. If Hope is still in the jar, how can she go about her nasty business? And yet, she does; and the expectation of good daily torments more people than I count, including myself. We hope for a better government, and are presented with a centuries-long stream of idiots (one or two exceptions merely prove the rule). We hope for the unity of quantum physics and general relativity. We hope for the love of those whom we love. We hope for happiness, peace and security. We hope to understand what the hell David Lynch meant with all those embryos.

Hesiod got it wrong. Hope escaped. All that remains in the jar is nothing or Gimbleyboop.

I vow to thee my country

I have been insulted, spat on, threatened with arrest for sedition and for breaching the Official Secrets Act and the ISA, tear-gassed, chased down the road by the police in armoured trucks armed with water cannons, reprimanded, censored, and blackballed for what I have said, done, and believed. This is a great lark and the cops know it and I know it, so all’s fair in love and war. We know the terms of engagement and we do what we can when we can to satisfy our respective masters, yes?

Lately, however, I have been guaranteed hell-fire for my blasphemous behaviour by people who have not met me. To be sure, I am an intolerant, self-serving bounder (there’s a word you haven’t heard in a while) and I deserve most of what I get. I am an elitist bigot who believes that wilfully stupid people ought to be exterminated or put to work for the greater good of the community until they learn that their petty and ignorant points of view are utterly disgraceful. I believe that people who deliberately degrade the environment are criminals. I believe that those who are able to lead have a duty to do so; but also that they have no damned idea what “duty” means. So and and so forth.

I am unIslamic, unChristian, and am definitely not kosher even though I do not eat various kinds of meat. I am, in short, a Nazi. Or a Malaysian liberal, which is much the same thing, except I am a traitor and I am not a vegetarian.

I have passed the point where I can physically give a crap about what Harussani Zakariah says, or Ib Ali, or Chua Soi Lek, Waythamoorthy, Lim Kit Siang, Najib Razak, Tony Pua, the White-Haired Raja, Anwar Ibrahim, Liow Tiong Lai, Jeff Pairin, Muhyiddin Yassin, Ridhuan Tee, Khalid Ibrahim, Lim Guan Eng, Bung Mokhtar Radin, or any other bloody politician, religious authority, or Malaysiakini correspondent except Mariam Mokhtar and two or three other journalists.

Did you ever wonder that all these assholes thrive on public support?

The Malaysian Experiment is a dark and dangerous one. It is an homunculus bred from dangerous alchemy that feeds on human blood and dreams. It can kill us all at any point, or save us. It whispers nasty things in our ears: our worst fears and most cherished hopes, which are often the same thing. But it is ineffable and sadly we have given up trying to understand it. It is almost as if it doesn’t matter to us any more because we are resigned to the idea that whatever will happen will happen inevitably, whether we like it or not.

We expect the worst. When someone cocks up, like a headmistress who mouths off rather clever racist witticisms, we say that “we expected it all along”. We live hand-to-mouth, day to day. But even this is not a revelation. The child in the Kuala Lumpur krash pad or Petrina Chee’s school knows it to be true, and has since before 1957, or 1963 for that matter, but so does the fat cat on the ninth floor of the Bukit Bintang corporate office or any other lardy Hilton-dining pig whose “national service” involves “payment” from an allegedly grateful nation. The fact that I don’t have to spell out any names should tell you enough. Any bloody fool in downtown Kuala Lumpur knows it.

Some people who are not Malay make an issue of the fact that they habitually wear the baju kurung and speak Malay as a matter of course. Good for them, I think. I admire the strength of their convictions, their dedication and their patriotism. But I deplore the fact that they have to make an issue of it in the first place because this leads us nowhere but back into the unending spiral of suspicion, disappointment and hatred that we all seek to avoid regardless of what any race-champion, alim, or journalist tells us. Right?

I hope so. “I got nothing but affection for those who sail with me,” Bob Dylan said in a song that Sheryl Crow sang.

You could be my enemy. But I should very much prefer it if you would be my friend.

Death wish

I want to go to Krakatoa,” said the sibling the other day. “You just want another excuse to go to Java Banana.”

Sibling doing her thing at the edge of Bromo, what remains of the still-active volcano (the top has blown off completely) within the larger Tengger caldera.

This is not entirely true. I have a mind to go to Krakatoa also, and, besides, there isn’t much point setting foot in the same place twice without firm purpose no matter how impressive the landscape or hotel facilities.

That said, we reached the Tengger caldera and the Sea of Sand (more like the Desolation of Smaug) after about a week running helter-skelter through the Java interior by rail, road, becak, foot, taxi, horse, getting on the wrong overnight train to Surabaya and somehow managing to stay on it, etc. And unlike the flat sprawl of urban Jakarta or the sunburnt northern coast near Cirebon, the south of the island is wet, green, and can be freezing cold especially when you haven’t yet learnt how to operate the hot-water machine.

The Indian Ocean, from Pantai Karang Bolong.

One evening we found ourselves on  an empty and very alien beach looking out to the Indian Ocean. These are places of a power more ancient than the coming of the major religions to the island, than imperialism and democracy, than physics and the laws of nature as we now understand them.

That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange aeons even death may die.

It is entirely up to you whether you want to see it as the domain of the Old Ones or as a remnant that somehow escaped the rationalisation of the Lebenswelt, or whatever suits your fancy. I should certainly employ my time more constructively by working for one of the Agencies or the ICRC, but that is not the point and it strikes me as foolish, self-serving and delusional to dress up my foolish self-serving delusions as anything other than what they are: all I know is that I am periodically seized by a fey attitude and will be compelled to go and stand at the edge for no damned reason.

Some years ago I flew down to Singapore for the afternoon to talk to Ian Rankin, the Scottish crime writer, who was on a tour to promote his latest book. We sat by the pool of the Goodwood Hotel and talked about evil (we also talked about Iain Banks’ then-current research into distilleries, but that is a story for another time). Rankin believed that there was no capital-E Evil so much as each of us possessed the potential for the small-e type—indeed we each often had the desire for it and it is only through our failure to act that we have so far preserved the Order.

And then last night I tried to persuade a good Catholic of the existence, omnipotence and all-encompassing amorality of the Demiurge whose claim to Singularity was disputed by his own mother: “Thou art mistaken, Samael”. This is an old story that few people remember and I have no idea why I brought it up and argued it so vehemently the way the liberals in my country rely on arguments for racial superiority when trying to promote equitable access. “The Magisterium has been peddling lies,” I remember saying, though I can’t quite remember precisely why or how this fit with my views.

“It is like the old days in Florence all over again,” I told the sibling. “That fellow Savonarola. There will always be crazy people in every generation.” They might be good or evil, but invariably they will set things on fire and be killed.

None of this makes much sense to me any more, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference to anything.

State of fear

I think it is utterly disgraceful that we should openly talk about the fact that, on encountering a policeman, our first reaction should be fear. “Most people associate the police with punishing us for doing something wrong (although we haven’t),” said a clinical psychologist in the Sunday Star on July 18.

No one even bothers to say what the correct response is any more (reassurance, in case you’ve forgotten), and a few paragraphs later in the story Michael Chong says that people are rightly perplexed because of all the bogus cops out there: “If they stop [because they are told to by someone appearing to be a policeman], they might get robbed but if they don’t, they might get shot.”

Robbery by a false cop, or shot by a real one. These are your choices. Be robbed then, if you value your life, for clearly the Royal Malaysian Police does not. I am obviously not making this up (it’s in The Star, so it has to be true, right?)

Unlike these chaps, however, my first reaction on seeing any policeman is contempt. Yes they are armed with idiot-proof Glocks or Sig Sauers, but that does not earn respect. It provokes the same kind of sensation as when I come across a rabid animal (this used to happen daily when I worked from Parliament).

Now some idiot social commentators advise us to demand and pay close attention to the authority cards (i.e. warrant cards) the police must produce when they detain us.  Two questions: have you ever seen such a card prior to being detained by a cop? If not, how they hell are you supposed to tell if it is in fact a warrant and not, for example, a local library card? Secondly: if the thug is about to rob/rape/shoot you, don’t you think asking for an authority card is on par with assaulting a tank with a bouquet of carnations?

This reminds me of  a 2007 case  in which a film producer was was gaoled and fined (one day, RM100) for yelling at a traffic cop and showing him the finger because he was apparently making a cataclysm of the already messy traffic situation at the Hang Tuah-Imbi intersection. I used to work in that part of town and know that junction well. I have in fact done the same thing a number of times. Read the court report, if you like, but I want to quote a section of it anyway:

Prosecuting officer C/Insp R. Rukumar asked that she be fined and jailed for the offence, saying she had insulted a government official.
He said something bad could have happened had the traffic policeman concerned lost his patience.
When asked by Magistrate Aizatul Akmal Maharani what he meant by that, C/Insp Rukumar said the traffic policeman could have lost his cool and took out his firearm.
Fortunately, he did not do that and only arrested the accused. After sentencing Koh, Aizatul Akmal reminded her not to repeat the act.
“Even I have to show respect to policemen,” he said.

My immediate reaction was: what the fuck is wrong with the magistrate? I insult government officials all the damned time in the newspaper, on the street, at the coffee-shop, to other government officials, to the government official him or herself, etc. I do not remember a law or an order by gazette anywhere suggesting that I exempt public servants from public contempt.

So I wrote a letter in response, which The Star ran, but I have since lost the link to it:

I am appalled to learn that I might be shot by a policeman for no other reason than that he has lost his patience (“Filmmaker jailed for insulting policeman,” April 28).

Surely there are clear procedures establishing precisely under what conditions an armed uniformed policeman is permitted to unholster his revolver, and I cannot believe that showing him my middle finger qualifies as any kind of threat to life or property.

The primary duty of the police is to protect, and this country will have truly gone to the dogs if public safety can be threatened by a simple gesture, however vulgar.

Sadly, this episode admits that a person without sufficient maturity or clarity of mind can be recruited into the force and entrusted to carry a loaded firearm.

If, as the prosecuting chief inspector said, “the traffic policeman could have lost his cool and took out his firearm” for no greater reason than being shown the finger, what more can we expect of the same policeman in a high-risk situation demanding accurate threat assessment and split-second judgement?

It disappoints me that the sitting magistrate did not require further comment on this matter.

U-En Ng, Kuala Lumpur

To this day the Inspector-General insists on making a state secret of his Standing Orders regarding the use of weapons. And now we even have the gall to ask: “oh yes, people are confused. Should they stop and be robbed, or flee and be shot?”

Whose fault is that?

Neno (17 January 1930 – 2 July 2010)


Toh Puan Norashikin Mohd Seth

Doc Ismail and Neno at Heathrow, 1969. Pix: NST, in Ooi Kee Beng's "Reluctant Politician" ISEAS, 2006.

Toh Puan Norashikin Mohd Seth, who died on July 2, 2010, aged 80, was the wife of the late Tun Dr Ismail Abdul Rahman, and her unwavering strength and support for her husband did more to help the nation navigate its way through crisis and independence than has hitherto been acknowledged.

Her husband famously did not suffer fools gladly (even the Prime Minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman, once attempted to escape his wrath by climbing out of a second-floor window), and she herself was warm if taciturn, maintaining throughout her long life a devotion to public service that brooked neither reward nor recognition.

She and Ismail were introduced to each other by their parents and married in January of 1950. Life, according to her family, may have resembled that of Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins in Shaw’s Pygmalion: a mere 21 years old, she had completed her schooling but was very much a young Malayan woman of her times, whereas her husband was already an urbane pipe-smoking medical graduate of Queen’s College in the University of Melbourne.

Doc Ismail, Neno and Henry Cabot Lodge Jr. at the UN, October 1958. Pix by Robert W. Kelley for LIFE Magazine

She took quickly to her husband’s national-service mission, however, and, on his appointment as Ambassador to the United States and Malaysia’s first permanent representative to the United Nations, learnt swiftly to manage not only his welfare but that of the entire Embassy as well.

This work was made all the more onerous by Malaya’s fresh independence and Ismail’s near-fanatical devotion to duty. Only after she fainted for half an hour at a diplomatic dinner did her husband resolve, unless he received “instructions to the contrary”, to allow her the “pleasant duty” of accompanying him on official tours. Still, she grew to become a fair bridge player and mastered the dark arts of Johor cuisine—the couple rarely dined out on their own, always preferring to entertain visiting dignitaries with Norashikin’s own cooking at home.

The character of both husband and wife, such that both took a dim view of any unofficial “reward” no matter how supremely merited (Ismail frequently threatened to gaol anyone who offered him such) is now little more than a vestige of the past, and it is perhaps the mark of that era that, when ill health forced Ismail to retire from the Cabinet in 1967, the family found itself without any money.

Ismail had exhausted his savings on a house in Kuala Lumpur and was now obliged to get a job despite his cancer, but Norashikin, likewise frugal with domestic expenditure, counted this a small price to pay for the improvement of her husband’s health through a complete break from government.

The exercise was to have been curative, and indeed might well have been but for the fateful day when Norashikin ran into Puan Sri Catherine Lim in a Kuala Lumpur street, and thereby learnt that the latter’s husband, Finance Minister Tan Sri Tan Siew Sin (as he then was), intended to withdraw his party from the Alliance that very afternoon of May 13, 1969.

Ismail attempted to put a halt to it, sensing correctly that the resulting upheaval would cause a bloodletting, but by then it was already too late and the events of that evening have since been the blackest in Malaysian history.

Again Norashikin put her country above herself and her family and reluctantly agreed to her husband’s rejoining the Government. Despite support from her father-in-law, the Senate President Dato’ Abdul Rahman Yassin (who wrote a terse letter to his son admonishing him for breaking his promise to his family to leave politics), this would prove to be a terrible sacrifice.

Four years later, Norashikin discovered she was pregnant with the couple’s seventh child. Ismail had suffered three serious heart-attacks by then, but felt duty-bound to remain in office as long as the health of the Prime Minister, Tun Razak Hussein, (who had leukaemia) remained unclear. Fearing he would not survive and worried that his family would be destitute since his re-entry to the Government put paid to any hopes he entertained at holding down a City job, Ismail asked that his wife terminate her pregnancy.

She was still recovering in hospital when he suffered his final heart attack on the evening of Aug 2, 1973. Ismail was acting Prime Minister at the time of his death, and news of his passing was delivered to his wife only at 5.30 the following morning when she recovered from sedation.

Norashikin thereafter maintained a dignified retirement, dedicating much of her time to the Puteri Islam Movement, which she helped co-found in 1969 with Dato’ Lily Majeed and Datin Rahmah Osman to foster moderate Muslim values in the young. She stood down in 1995 and was succeeded by Datin Seri Wan Azizah Wan Ismail.

Very much in keeping with her attitude towards public service, Norashikin offered only the barest acknowledgement of any praise for her husband’s legacy or her own achievements. When, in 2009, the Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre staged a musical commemorating her husband’s last days alive, she merely enquired why all the women-characters were so terribly weak-willed.

Norashikin Mohd Seth, or “Neno” as she was known, was born on January 17, 1930, in Johor Baru and grew up in an independently-minded family that had a strong commitment to duty. Her father, Dato’ Mohamed Seth Mohd Said was the State Secretary of Johor from 1953 to 1956 (in which capacity he was involved posthumously in a territorial dispute with Singapore), and, as Deputy Menteri Besar, represented the Johor executive at Independence talks in London.

Sultan Ibrahim Iskandar Al-Masyhur ibni Abu Bakar was an Anglophile, but also a nationalist. Pix from HMSO.

Sultan Ibrahim of Johor, fearing greater British meddling in an independent Federation, publicly called for Johor’s secession and instructed Mohamed Seth to reject the Tunku’s proposals in London. The Deputy Menteri Besar, however, defied his ruler and committed the state to the Merdeka project, earning both the wrath of the Sultan and his banishment from the state.

Norashikin then married into another prominent and rebellious Johorean family—Ismail’s father Abdul Rahman Yassin having led a rebellion against Sultan Ibrahim in February 1946 by criticising the latter’s quick accession to the Sir Harold MacMichael’s Treaty establishing the Malayan Union as a British Colony. Abdul Rahman and his six fellow-agitators, including his son Suleiman (later High Commissioner to Australia), and son-in-law Dr Awang Hassan (later Tun, and Governor of Penang) were summarily ejected from government service. (Abdul Rahman would be re-established only in 1959 with his appointment to the presidency of the Senate.)

Dato’ Sir Onn Jaafar, the founder of the United Malays National Organisation, with whom her husband would on occasion clash in Parliament, was a distant relative, and her brother General Tan Sri Mohd Ghazali Seth, later Chief of Armed Forces, commanded an infantry battalion during the Konfrontasi and directed the Rajang Security Command against communists operating in Sarawak.

Norashikin is survived by her daughters Zailah and Badariah, and her sons the former Member of Parliament for Sungei Benut Mohd Tawfik, Mohamed Tarmizi, Zamakhshari, and Mohamed Ariff. She was accorded a state funeral on Saturday, 3rd July 2010, and was buried at the Warrior’s Mausoleum in the National Mosque, close to the grave of her beloved husband.

Norashikin Mohd Seth died very much the way she lived: with humour, courage, and dedication and without reward or honours of her own.


I wrote this at the request of Tawfik Ismail and with his help.

UPDATE 1: Seth’s tribute to his grandmother appeared in the New Straits Times, July 6, 2010. Here is the link.

UPDATE 2: This obituary appeared in theSun, also on July 6, 2010. Here is a copy: