446: Chapter 446 Tearing Up the Old, Treasonous Agreement in Public

But at this moment, what appeared on the mobile phone screens across Malaysia was not just the sea. There was also sound.

Zhang Cheng's voice came from the speakers of every mobile phone playing that footage—he had added a voiceover. The audio track was recorded by him into a microphone in his office in Naypyidaw, lasting only one minute and four seconds. There was no background music, no subtitles, only his own voice, kept very low, as if reading the final paragraph of a verdict that needed to be pronounced in open court:

"In December 1950, you were driven ashore from your own fishing grounds by the British military. Your fathers and grandfathers had their ribs broken by military police with rifle butts. Your fishing boats were towed outside Penang Port and scuttled. You asked the British why. The British pointed to that blue expanse of water on the map and said—'This sea now belongs to Her Majesty the Queen.'"

"You want to ask, why."

"But the British didn't tell you—the reason they were able to declare jurisdiction over this sea area was because in 1948, your government signed the paper. Your government's representative, in an office at the Colonial Office in Whitehall, used a Parker pen to write—'Agreed'—on the 'Strait of Malacca Navigation Rights Agreement'."

"Have you ever asked your government? You gained independence in 1957, why didn't you take that agreement back? You established Malaysia in 1963, why didn't you abolish it? The British left, and the Americans came. The Americans sailed their warships into the Huangshi sea area, and your government acted as their pilot."

"Have you ever thought about it—your grandfather's fishing boat was rammed and sunk by a warship that was guided in by your government's pilot lights."

"Today, this agreement is in the archives of the Longcheng Base. The original copy. The blue seal on the cover is from the Strait Settlements Governor's Office. The signature on it is from the Malayan Federation representative a year before your independence. Your parliament has never reviewed it. Your supreme court has never interpreted it. Your constitution has never mentioned a single word about it—but it is still in effect today. Your country has been independent for seventy years, yet your ocean still belongs to someone else."

"No longer. The 'Strait of Malacca Navigation and Management Rights Agreement' signed by the Governor of the Strait Settlements on April 1, 1948—is, from this moment on, legally abolished by the Federation of Myanmar. Additional provision: Any foreign government or military force claiming to inherit the rights of this agreement must apply for permission in accordance with the 'Longcheng Strait Act' when their vessels pass through the Strait of Malacca, and must pass under the supervision of the Federation of Myanmar South China Sea Fleet; otherwise, they will be intercepted, expelled, and no appeals will be entertained."

At the forty-ninth second, the video inserted a previously unreleased audio clip—it was Zhang Cheng's voice, reciting that final question in Hokkien:

"When will your ocean be yours?"

The question remained on the screen, unanswered. It paused for a full five seconds, then closed automatically.

Malaysia, Penang, Jelutong Fishing Village.

By the time the video finished playing, the last fishing boat to return to port was unloading its cargo by the pier. The boat owner, Chen Shunfa, squatted on the gunwale with his phone in his hand. As the screen went dark, he only saw his own face reflected in the black glass—wrinkles curving from the corners of his eyes into his temples, perfectly overlapping with his father's face from fifty years ago, etched with the same lines by the sea breeze.

"Ah Fa!" someone shouted from the other end of the pier. It was Old Huang from the same village, running over while holding up his phone. "Did you see it? That Myanmar president—he said—that batch of our boats that were rammed and sunk—"

"I saw it." Chen Shunfa stuffed his phone into his pocket, jumped down from the gunwale, and squatted beside a bollard. He didn't look up at Old Huang, just kept his head down, rubbing the hemp rope in his hands. The hemp rope twisted tight in his palm, loosened, then twisted tight again.

"My dad's fishing boats—that batch from 1950—totaling eleven, all sank outside Penang Port. When he was fished out, three of his ribs were broken, and his lungs were half-filled with seawater. He lay in bed for three months, but didn't die. The first thing he did after getting out of bed—was to go to the Port Authority to renew his fishing boat license. The people at the Port Authority gave him an English form. He couldn't read, so he asked if there was a Chinese version. The other person said—no. He dipped his thumb in ink and pressed a red print onto that paper, not a single word of which he could understand. The English form stated—Operation Area noted: Non-protected area—no one told him what 'protected area' meant. The first time he sailed out, he was stopped by a British patrol boat, which claimed he had crossed the boundary and seized his boat."

Chen Shunfa stood up and threw the hemp rope in his hand into the cabin. The rope landed on the bottom of the cabin, making a dry thud.

"The second time he renewed his license, the form had changed to Malay. By then, Malaya had gained independence. He waited at the pier for a whole day, waiting for a Chinese immigration officer willing to help him fill out the form. None. In the end, the one who helped him fill it out was a Tamil man who managed the warehouse at the pier. The Tamil man said to him—you are just like me. This sea is not yours, and it is not mine."

Old Huang didn't speak, but sat down on the other end of the bollard.

"I am sixty-eight years old this year." Chen Shunfa wiped his hands on his pants twice, took out his phone, and reopened the video. The screen froze on that Hokkien question—'When will your ocean be yours?'

He stared at the screen and said, word by word:

"I only know the answer today. It wasn't 1957. It wasn't 1963. It is this afternoon. It is 6:45 PM."

Kuala Lumpur, Parliament House.

The emergency debate lasted from 8:00 PM until the early hours of the next morning. The Speaker's gavel struck no fewer than twenty times, but the opposition MPs simply didn't buy it—UMNO MPs pounded the tables, demanding the government immediately launch joint maritime patrols with the United States, the United Kingdom, and Australia, while the PAS MPs watched coldly from the sidelines. The ethnic Chinese MP—Lim Guan Eng of the Democratic Action Party—stood up, held his phone above his head, and played that final Hokkien question from the video to the entire chamber.

He translated it himself into the national language:

"Laut kamu—bila—jadi laut kamu?"

The chamber was silent for four seconds. Then, someone in the back row of UMNO shouted, "Traitor!"—the direction was aimed at Lim Guan Eng, and also at the voice in the video.

The Speaker struck the gavel five times in a row, to no effect. The cameras in the press gallery captured it all, transmitting it in real-time through Shuguang Cloud's news broadcast signal to seventeen news platforms around the world.

The debate reached no conclusion. At 3:15 AM, the Prime Minister of Malaysia announced an adjournment and stated that a formal response to the Strait of Malacca joint management initiative would be given within a week. As he walked out of the chamber, a reporter in the corridor asked him if he had already spoken with Washington. He did not answer.

Washington.