Letter to Editor
YOU can find me almost everywhere: in shopping malls, cinema rest areas, MRT stations, indoor playgrounds, homes – I fit in whichever place you place me.
Oh, let me introduce myself. They call me by my brand name Gintell – I am a massage chair popular with the Malaysian crowd.
Many tired bones have sat on me and went away energised and ready to get down to work with clear mind and purpose.
Then one day a minister plonked on me, looking exhausted and grim. The burden of public office must have been heavy. He needed a massage to chase away the blues and I readily kneaded his tense muscles.
After an hour or so, the man was completely at ease. Then he spoke to himself: this chair is really good and I am going to recommend my government to order some of these chairs for the benefit of journalists during important public functions.
Rubbing shoulders with journos
Well, this is indeed good news. Normally, most people who come to me are those ordinary folks who just want to relax and then go home feeling refreshed.
But now I will be welcoming another category of people who call themselves the “Fourth Estate”. I understand they are very powerful and influential in society.
One particular day, there was a gathering of many members of a political party who came to hear some important speeches. My friends and I were placed in a corner outside a hall and the same minister directed the assembled members of the press to us.
It was only later that I found out the real reason we massage chairs were called to render public service. I was fuming mad. What? Using me as a tool to get journalists to become pally with the government of the day?
That minister might be making a joke but I took it seriously. We recliners don’t like to play politics. In our own way, we work hard to make society strong and healthy.
I understand journalists are seen as either friends or enemies of the state. I do have some knowledge about the way newshounds go about doing their job without fear or favour.
Most of the time, they stepped on the toes of the high and mighty and get reprimanded for uncovering the truth – or worse still – see the licence of their company revoked.
I don’t see how I am able to promote good relationship between the journalistic fraternity and the powers that be. Does the minister mean that by providing massage chairs to journalists, Putrajaya is on the side of press freedom?
Does it mean that journalists now need not fear a crackdown for reporting nothing but the truth? Does it truly signify that by just sitting on my leather skin, it is evidence that they are not being controlled by outside powers?
‘Being touted a traitor’
I don’t like the idea of being part of a propaganda machine that uses every mostly devious means to make those in power smell all fragrant and innocent. I understand that the Fourth Estate is one of the sturdy pillars of democracy that cannot be easily bullied into submission.
Anyway, to get back to my story. I duly started massaging the journalists on that particular day with the minister looking on with a big grin on his boyish face. He thought that he had accomplished a sterling job of making all these pen warriors Putrajaya-friendly.
Slowly and gently, I began reducing their stress and easing their tension and – more importantly – also massaging their mind to recharge their mental battery.
The VIP (or communication czar I heard he is called) must have reported to his No.1 boss that I was doing a terrific job because after a brief session, all the wordsmiths were showing him the thumbs-up and giving him friendly smiles.
In the minister’s mind, these warm gestures must surely mean they won’t be confrontational or aggressive in their treatment of officialdom anymore.
I know I had done a great service to the media fraternity because I came to know that they felt rejuvenated. Instead of cozying up to Putrajaya, they wrote biting articles highly critical of the captain of what many people believed to be a sinking ship.
But unfortunately, the minister didn’t take kindly to my national service, if I may say so. He thinks I work hand in gloves with the reporters, hence I have become an accomplice. He was furious with me.
So, he unplugged me and, deprived of power, I was shoved into a corner and left to gather dust.
To humiliate me, a banner headline was strung across my arm rests: “Out of Service”. I never saw the minister again. – Sept 4, 2026
Phlip Rodrigues is a retired journalist.
The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Focus Malaysia.
Main image credit: Gintell
