True grit: Malaysia's first Indian policewoman during the Emergency

New Straits Times

2 days ago

HER wrinkled hands hover uncertainly over the organ keys before pressing a chord. There are faltering starts, a few wrong notes, but memory works in curious ways. Though her mind may be clouded, muscle memory guides her fingers to familiar places. From the tangle of discordant notes, a song slowly knits itself together in Malayalam.
Her voice — still melodious after all these years — carries echoes of her Carnatic training. She once played the harmonium, and the discipline lingers. Glancing up from the keys, she says softly: "It means… 'How great is God's love'."
It's the translation of the old Malayalam hymn she'd just sung. Then, she turns back to the organ, playing a few more notes, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration as she searches her memory for hymns from long ago.
Emily Koshy, who turns 91 this October and was once among the first seven policewomen in Malaya, may be slower to recall names, dates or even musical notes — but her focus remains steady. Age has brought hesitation, not taken away her resolve. At the organ, she sits quietly, piecing together the music of her past.
We're not related, despite sharing the same surname. But years ago, when my late father met her during her posting in Melaka, he was struck by her presence and professionalism. So much so that when his youngest daughter (my sister) was born, he named her Emily Koshy. That's how the name found its way into our family.
She smiles when I share the story. She doesn't need help walking from the organ to the couch. The three-footed walking aid is there, just in case, but Koshy refuses to use it. Now seated beside me, she falls into a thoughtful silence, her gaze distant as she reaches for fragments of a life lived long ago.
Her story is a familiar one, occasionally retold in the news — and for good reason. With a sterling career behind her, it's no surprise that Koshy still draws attention. After all, being a policewoman at a time when few women served — and even fewer in roles demanding grit and courage — is a story worth telling, again and again.
"They scolded him!" she exclaims with a chuckle. By "him," she meant her father — the man who had made the bold, unconventional decision to encourage her to join the police force. "Friends and family were worried. They told him he was making a mistake by sending his only daughter out there!"
But her father wasn't worried. "It was a job," she explains simply, with a shrug. "He believed I could do it. He knew my character."
And he had every reason to. As a student, the young Koshy was active and driven — head girl at Sultan Abu Bakar Girls' School in Muar, a debater and an athlete who played both hockey and netball. She was also impressively multilingual, speaking eight languages: English, Malay, Tamil, Malayalam, Punjabi, Hindi, Hokkien and Cantonese.
"She likes to go. Let her go and see whether she can manage," her father told the naysayers, unmoved by their concern. But did she even want to be a policewoman?
She shakes her head. "I actually wanted to continue my studies… go to university and all that. But that meant more money, or I'd have to get a scholarship. My father was getting old and retiring that year. I didn't want to trouble him — he was a teacher, after all."
The recruitment couldn't have come at a more improbable — or dangerous — time.
She leans forward, eyes sharp with memory. "There were so many 'hot' spots around the country, you know!" she says, then repeats, more firmly: "Very hot! Communism was strong in many places — curfews everywhere…"
It was the height of the Malayan Emergency; a turbulent period between 1948 and 1960 marked by armed conflict between Commonwealth forces and communist insurgents.
Police officers stood on the frontlines, grappling not just with everyday criminal cases, but with guerrilla warfare, sabotage and an ever-present atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.
For a young woman just starting out, it was anything but an ordinary job — certainly not something most girls growing up aspired to become.
Born in Johor Baru and raised in Segamat, she admits she had no real ambition as a child. If not for that advertisement, she says, she would likely have followed her father and brother into the teaching profession.
The recruitment ad in The Straits Times called for women aged between 18 and 35, with a "Cambridge School Certificate" — the equivalent of today's Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia. Applicants also needed to have normal eyesight (no glasses) and stand at least 147 centimetres tall.
"Why don't you apply?" her father had asked. "You don't have to spend anything, and the future is good. If you do well, you can rise." At the time, Koshy was in the middle of preparing for her Higher School Certificate at Melaka High School. "I left that halfway to attend the interview," she recalls.
Koshy boarded a bus from Melaka to Kuala Lumpur, her mind racing with uncertainty. She'd left her studies midway to attend the interview — a gamble, but one she was willing to take. The oral interview was held at the Federal Police Depot on Jalan Gurney, now known as Jalan Semarak.
"I couldn't believe how many girls were there," she recalls, adding: "The place was packed. I was shocked to see just how many wanted the job!"
Back then, the depot was a major hub for police operations, overseen by British officers — a colonial-era compound where recruits were trained and deployed across the country.
For many, it marked the beginning of a tough, disciplined life in service. For Koshy, it was the first step into an unknown future — one she hadn't planned for, but would come to embrace.
Around 600, maybe even 700, had turned up for the interview — a number that left the young girl both nervous and amazed. But to her surprise, the response came swiftly. "I got a call within the week," she says, pride evident in her voice. "I was one of the seven selected."
Alongside three Malay and three Chinese recruits, Koshy officially joined the police on Oct 8, 1955. As one of the seven selected, she was provided with free room and board, along with a monthly allowance of 200 dollars — a generous sum for the time.
Training lasted six months and followed a strict routine. Recruits were up by 7am for an hour of exercise or marching drills. From 9am to 1pm, they attended classroom sessions on criminal law, court procedures and police investigation techniques.
Afternoons were reserved for more physical training, such as weapons handling and target practice — with the pistol being the standard issue sidearm.
"How did you enjoy handling weapons?" I ask, curious.
She bursts into laughter and replies blithely: "I had a pistol at home. But, of course, I've sold it since." She quickly adds: "We were all treated equally. The female recruits weren't given any special treatment. We trained just like the men."
In fact, before the standard six-month training began, Koshy's batch of seven underwent an additional three months of specialised instruction focused on investigating and prosecuting cases involving women and children. The course was led by a visiting specialist from London — Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) Barbara Wentworth, an expert in handling sensitive cases.
STERLING CAREER
Two years after her recruitment, Koshy was given an extraordinary honour — she led the platoon of female police officers in the historic Merdeka parade on Aug 31, 1957, marking the birth of an independent Malaya.
Under the proud gaze of the nation's first prime minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra al-Haj, and dignitaries from across the world, Koshy marched down the field at Stadium Merdeka, representing not just the police force, but a new era for the country and for women in uniform.
"I was very proud," she says softly in recollection.
Having joined the police force at the tail-end of the Malayan Emergency, which lasted from 1948 to 1960, Koshy said she and her fellow women recruits weren't sent to deal with the communists.
"We weren't sent to guard the borders or face off with the communists," she says, adding: "That was handled by the Home Guards and other special units."
Instead, her work took a different path — one that demanded just as much grit. She was assigned to handle criminal investigations, particularly those involving vulnerable groups.
She shares: "My focus was on cases affecting women and children. Assault, rape, domestic violence — those were the kinds of cases that landed on my desk." A pause, and she murmurs: "Some of the cases were quite pitiful. Children being abused and all that…"
She was known for her strict, no-nonsense approach — the kind that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to cross the line.
"If they lied to me, especially those who'd raped women, I'd give them two tight slaps," she recalls matter-of-factly, then adds with a dry chuckle: "They'd come into the interrogation room already shivering."
"Tell one more lie and I'll give you a tight slap!" she'd warn them, unflinching. Says Koshy: "I was very strict with them. I didn't like men who were bullies."
Though age has softened her pace, there's still a quiet steel in her voice and in the way she remembers. But discipline wasn't her only defining trait. She was also fiercely principled — clean, incorruptible and firm in her refusal to take bribes.
It was this unwavering honesty that earned Koshy a promotion to deputy superintendent of police (DSP), a rare achievement for a woman in the force during that era.
While building her career in the police force, Koshy's personal life took an unexpected turn during a visit home to Muar. It was there that she met her future husband — a teacher introduced to her through her parents.
"Muar is a small place," she says, before adding with a chuckle: "He was very friendly with my parents — he liked me. I wasn't so keen at first!" But love eventually caught up. In 1957, she married Koshy Kunju and took on his surname, tying the knot at the age of 23.
Her late husband, she insists, was her greatest support. While she devoted herself to a demanding career with long hours and heavy responsibilities, he was the one who held the fort at home — raising their two sons and daughter with quiet strength and unwavering patience.
"He managed them so well. He took the children out for walks, spent time with them, especially when I was on night shifts," she recalls fondly, adding: "It was such a blessing to have a supportive spouse. For this kind of work, you really need that. It's a tough job. When you're single, it's fine, but once you're married, you need someone strong enough to stand by you and help carry the load."
Over the decades, her journey through the police force took her from small-town stations in Muar and Melaka to the central command at Bukit Aman in Kuala Lumpur. She rose steadily in a field once seen as out of bounds for women, eventually retiring at 55 as a DSP. After leaving the force, Koshy continued to serve the nation, spending seven years with the Film Censorship Board.
In recognition of her dedication and integrity, she was honoured with several national awards, including the Ahli Mangku Negara and the Pingat Jasa Pahlawan Negara.
As she sits in her home in Petaling Jaya, Koshy smiles while recounting the days gone by. The exact dates and names sometimes escape her, but the memories linger. She flips through yellowing photo albums, pausing at pictures of a younger version of herself — in uniform, smiling, eyes full of purpose.
Are you proud of what you've achieved? I finally ask her.
"Not just proud," she replies without hesitation. "I'm very proud." She pauses, then adds with quiet conviction: "With my strength and determination, I can still manage."
Looking me squarely in the eye, the grandmother-of-six continues: "If they need any special help, even today, they can call me. I'm ready." Even at her age, Koshy's sense of duty hasn't faded. She's still willing to serve — a quiet reminder that for some, commitment doesn't end with retirement.
My sister, Emily Koshy, grew into the name with grit of her own. It was our late father who chose it — a decision shaped by a moment, an impression and perhaps a deep respect that never left him.
That may be the real legacy. Not just of a woman in uniform, but of a life that left its mark — and a name that still carries weight after all these years.