David McCoy:

  It was in the fire of wartime that some key lessons of safeguarding were forged for life:

  Safeguard the family: Ronnie helped his father as an apprentice draftsman at the old Federated Engineers (renamed and abbreviated TSDKK in Japanese). Their work at the TSDKK bagged them extra gantangs of rice, plus cigarettes that they flogged on the black market.

  It's difficult to give a eulogy for someone with so many facets and qualities, and thankfully I will be assisted by the various tributes that will follow. But I'm going to try and give some measure of the man by talking about seven things that I think he excelled at.

  I want to begin with the way he excelled at being a Malaysian.

  Born in the town of Seremban in 1930 and brought up in Kuala Lumpur, other than two years in England training to be an obstetrician and gynaecologist, Dad spent his entire life here as a proud Malaysian.

  He was fifteen when the Japanese surrendered their occupation of Malaya and 27 when Tunku Abdul Rahman declared Malayan independence. But he loved his country not as a conventional nationalist.

  His love of Malaysia was tied to its people and, in particular, their different backgrounds, cultures and religions. You see this in many of his own writings about his childhood.

  Of the Pasar Road neighbourhood in which he grew up, he wrote:

  "There was a real sense of community. A random list of family names, still fresh in my memory, will give you a sense of its diversity - Mohd Ali, Rajendran, Schubert, Lam, Foo, Montgomery, Harding, Samuel, Yusof, Baharuddin, Gomes, Leong, Lim, Rajaratnam, and so on ...

  "My Mat Salleh name must have stood out, but it made no difference. As a result, diversity has become the most natural thing in the world for me. I believe that tolerating diversity is not enough. We must celebrate diversity."

  I think this childhood background in 1930s and 1940s Malaysia laid the foundations for a secular humanism where Dad defined people not by their race, religion or nationality, but by their qualities as human beings.

  Whether they are honest or dishonest, generous or greedy, selfless or self-serving, brotherly or war-mongering.

  His love of the people of Malaysia and his secular humanism were often manifested in the second of the qualities I want to highlight which was his excellence at speaking his mind.

  He desperately wanted Malaysia to be the best possible version of itself, and that meant a fair and just Malaysia. Among the many topics he spoke and wrote about in letters to the press were: free and fair elections, an independent judiciary and the importance of honest journalism. He railed against the unacceptably high number of unexplained custodial deaths in police lock-ups, prisons, and detention centres; and he wrote, too, about his right to wear a yellow T-shirt.

  He was a democrat by instinct, in the true sense of the word. He loathed corruption which he called "a metastatic cancer" in society and would think nothing of including "influence-peddling politicians, money-seeking bureaucrats, bribe-dispensing business people, and bribe-collecting law enforcement officers" into a single sentence.

  It wasn't just domestic politics that would get him riled up. As a child, one of my more vivid childhood memories was of him getting into arguments in public, often with complete strangers, about the "bloody Americans" and their war in Vietnam.

  But he would speak his mind on many things in many circumstances. Another childhood memory is of occasions when he would require a driver to stop by the side of the road so that he could be helped out of his car and be given, shall we say, a lecture about dangerous driving.

  A third thing that Dad excelled at was medicine.

  He described medicine as "a blend of science and art" and explained that "a doctor only becomes a healer if knowledge is combined with professionalism, ethics and compassion".

  His caesarean section rate was about 10% - a very low rate for private practice and one that can only be associated with good maternal and perinatal outcomes if scientifically sound clinical care is combined with good social and personal care.

  Here is one passage about the practice of obstetrics that he wrote:

  "There is a crying need to improve the doctor-patient relationship in so-called modern medicine. Obstetrics provides a great opportunity to dialogue with the patient, explain the occasional lack of control and unpredictability of events surrounding labour, and the need for a flexible plan, but all the time reassuring her. Obstetrics is very much a family-oriented discipline and lends itself to forming a close relationship with the patient and her family, based on a strong bond of caring, mutual respect and trust."

  Dad also saw medicine as a vocation. Again, in his own words:

  "It is not a nine-to-five job, nor a trade or a business that brings in a respectable income to provide a comfortable lifestyle. Medicine is essentially a calling, imbued with 'a sense of social responsibility'".

  Paradoxically, it was this vocational ethos that led Dad to enter private practice. When he and others ended up criticising the Ministry of Health for, I quote, "the deplorable conditions of the General Hospital", the Ministry of Health decided to punitively transfer him out of KL. Dad resigned from government service.

  Later on he explained that "patient care and safety trump all other considerations, least of all saving the 'face' of offending government ministries".

  In private practice, he worked mainly in Assunta and Chinese Maternity Hospital before helping to set up Pantai Medical Centre - a hospital owned and run by doctors.

  Private practice, however, did not mean commercial practice. He expected every doctor, whether in private or public to be governed by a set of ethical and professional rules and standards.

  Eventually, as is happening all over the world today, Pantai Medical Centre got bought up by investors and became Pantai Hospital KL. Some years later, the new corporatised PHKL decided to create a wall of fame in its front lobby, consisting of photos of the founding doctors of PHKL including those who founded the original PMC.

  Here is an extract from a letter that Dad wrote to the management of PHKL:

  "The point I'm getting at is that, in my opinion, the ethos and management of Pantai Hospital Kuala Lumpur do not in any way resemble the different ethos and management then practised in Pantai Medical Centre. As the vocation of medicine is the antithesis of the business objective of maximising profitability, I cannot see the continuity between the two different concepts of Pantai Medical Centre and Pantai Hospital Kuala Lumpur. The two hospitals are distinctly separate institutions. I therefore cannot accept that I am a founding member of PHKL. I would be embarrassed, if not offended, to find my name and photograph displayed on a so-called Wall of Fame, another concept that is more in keeping with the culture of the corporate world. I cannot speak for other 'founding members', dead or alive, but I would ask you to remove my photograph and name which is now on display in the hospital."

  I don't know about you, but this is a paragraph that I will always be able to go to when I need a chuckle.

  As everyone knows, when Dad retired from clinical practice, he threw himself into IPPNW - the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War - and the struggle to rid the world of nuclear weapons. Some say that this represented a second career, but I would say it was more a shift in focus within the broad practice of medicine. Obstetricians help bring new life into the world; but a complete obstetrician would also seek to make that world safe and peaceful for those new lives.

  I actually worked for the UK affiliate of IPPNW for a few years, and therefore got to know many of the issues and people that dad worked with in IPPNW and ICAN. And the quality of Dad's that I want to highlight from this phase of his working life was his ability to excel as a colleague, a comrade, a team player.

  Whatever Dad accomplished in this part of his career was because of his willingness and ability to work collectively with other similarly minded individuals, working together for the greater good. And I think Dad was especially good at this because he was generally unassuming, friendly, humble, and un-egotistical.

  Over the past few months, I've been reading through Dad's correspondence with his various comrades and colleagues - in IPPNW and ICAN, but also in the MMA and many other local organisations. And it really struck me that Dad also gained immensely himself from being in the company of so many good people and friends throughout his life

  There is a well-known South African phrase originating from KwaZulu which translates into English as "a person is only a person through other people." It expresses the idea that a person's humanity is shared and connected through others; an idea that I think was present in many aspects of dad's life.

  The fifth thing that Dad excelled at which I want to highlight, requires a brief anecdote about the one occasion when we crossed paths clinically.

  It happened when my parents visited me at the hospital I was working in in South Africa. They only spent two days there - but during that short time, one of the other doctors was performing a caesarean section and was having difficulty closing the uterus because of uterine fibroids. And so a nurse was dispatched to my house to ask me to come to the OT to help out. You can work out what happened next.

  I took Dad to the OT where he scrubbed up and I went back to my house to finish tea with mum. I expected him to return within an hour. An hour and half came and went, and I started worrying. Eventually he returned.

  "Everything okay?"

  "Yes, all fine. Just a tricky uterus."

  "Okay."

  The next day I asked my colleague, 'How was it operating with my old man?'

  "It was great, but oh my god, your dad was so slow."

  This should be no surprise to those who know my dad well. Dad excelled at being slow.

  But by slow, what I mean is taking the time to be careful, precise, methodical and fastidious. Whether it was putting in two stitches to close an incision where one would do; or combing his hair, or filling in his diary, or simply stirring sugar into his cup of tea, everything would be done thoroughly and meticulously. Nothing would be rushed because he demanded the highest of standards from himself. Even when it came to preparing a cup of tea.

  But in his final weeks, he took this trait to an extreme. He took an extremely long time to take his final breath. He lived the last few months of life steadily deteriorating, gradually fading away, losing weight, and putting up with a lot of discomfort and pain. It was excruciating to see him become ever more diminished and eventually dependent on others for everything. It felt tragic. It felt wrong. It felt unfair.

  But this period also allowed for another of Dad's qualities to shine - his stoicism. He has always excelled at putting on a brave face and being cheerful in the face of adversity. Not just when his body gave way, but also for the many years after his brain and memory started failing him. So Dad, I really wanted you to have a quicker and easier death, but thanks for showing me something about the art of growing old and frail and dying with dignity and grace.

  Don't worry. I am not ending with Dad's death. I'm going to end with something about what Dad excelled at as a family man.

  Essentially, for all he did that was serious, Dad was also playful and witty. One of the things he was known for was writing poems to mark someone's birthday, especially his grandchildren's. There were many birthdays and poems.

  But I think he especially relished the opportunity to compose a poem for his only grandson's sixteenth birthday. He ended up composing six classic verses. Let me end by reciting the last two verses, in the style of Ronnie McCoy:

  Farewell, Dad. And say hi to Mum for all of us.

Ruth McCoy:

  "Fly me to the Moon" was my father's favourite song, and it captures much of his spirit: his charm, elegance, and devotion.

  As you've heard from the speakers before me, Ronald Stephen McCoy was many things. He was a brilliant student and sportsman; a devoted son and husband; a father and grandfather. He was a doctor and public health advocate, and a nuclear disarmament activist and peacebuilder. He was passionate about this country and a true patriot, believing in a Malaysia for all Malaysians.

  He was a great man. And we gather here to mourn his passing and the loss of a bright light.

  My family and I have heard from so many people who were touched by his warmth, generosity, and compassion. We are grateful to them, because they are grateful for him.

  To me, he was simply Dad. Today, I'd like to share some of my best memories and describe the unique attributes that made Dad who he was - his essence.

  Each year on my birthday, Dad would recall the moment of my birth: dancing down the corridor of the labour ward at Assunta Hospital, proudly telling the maternity staff, "It's a girl... It's a girl." After two sons, my arrival completed the family. I have to confess that he made me feel special - and I simply adored him.

   My father wasn't around much when I was growing up because of the demands of the labour ward - always needing to be near a phone and unable to fully commit to family outings. This meant the moments he was at home were precious. I remember playing in the garden after school each evening, just to listen out for the roar of his Volvo sports car as it turned into Jalan Tanjong. I would rush to the front door to greet him and join him for tea by the pool - a sacred ritual in the McCoy household, as many of you may know.

  Despite the pressures on his time, Dad tried to fit in family activities as much as he could. We played ping pong on the terrace, and he enjoyed taking us to movies at the old Odeon, Rex, or Cathay cinemas. And of course, he taught me how to drive. It started in my early teens, with him letting me change the gears while I sat in the passenger seat next to him. When I turned sixteen, he let me get behind the wheel, and we would do endless circuits around the university campus. That was typical of Dad: to bend, or even ignore, the rules on occasion.

  Dad was a man of simple tastes. He loved goreng pisang, char kway teow, rice and curry. He was also a creature of habit and, despite his modest needs, had firm views about the way things should be done - from the way the table was laid for meals, to the fresh handkerchief in his trouser pocket, to his perfectly groomed silver hair, combed through with a dash of Brylcreem. And he was fastidious about grammar and punctuation - no doubt an outcome of the excellent education he received at the VI.

  Dad didn't care to buy things for himself. His only indulgence was to buy Malaysian paintings and sculptures - not simply to build a personal collection, but to help nurture and support the Malaysian arts community. It was both a priority and a pleasure for my parents to attend as many art exhibitions and theatre productions in KL as possible.

  Like many privileged Malaysians of my generation, my brothers and I were sent abroad to continue our education at an early age. This rupture in family life was tough for both my parents, as it was for me - a common experience and reality for so many dislocated families today. On reflection, I like to think that being away from home for so many years enabled me to see my parents in a different light and deepened my understanding of them as individuals and as a couple.

  First, what I learned early on was that my parents were defined by their love and devotion to each other, and by their investment in friendship and community. It wasn't always rosy - they were both equally stubborn and had their differences - and yet they made a great team, rooted in their instinctive understanding and respect for each other. The love of my father for my mother was fierce and strong. She was his anchor and greatest supporter. Over the past few difficult months, I have often thought it was not a coincidence that Dad's health declined precipitously when Mum passed away.

  Second, it took me a while to understand that Dad was a man of contrasts, and to reconcile the different aspects of his character. He was often reserved, almost defensive; a man of few words, which masked enormous kindness and deep affection for his family and friends. And while he had deep wells of patience, he could lose his temper easily once his limit was reached, and even explode on occasion. I think this was because he felt so deeply and passionately about people and the state of the world. I'm happy to say that Dad mellowed as he got older, most of all when he became a grandfather.

  Third, despite considerable hardship during his childhood and early adulthood, my father's approach to life was one of unwavering, almost stubborn optimism. He preferred to consider what could be done to generate positive change for the future, rather than to criticise or litigate the past. His determination, resilience, and relentless focus on doing the right thing were the reason he made such an enormous contribution to the international campaign to abolish nuclear weapons.

  Finally, Dad was not a man of faith, but he had great faith in humanity and in the human spirit. How blessed I am to have had a father whose unique gift was his faith in humanity's potential. He believed fervently that even one person, acting alone, could have a significant positive influence and accomplish remarkable things if given the chance.

  I admired and loved my father for all these things. I admired and loved his decency, his integrity, and his joy for life.

  Dearest Dad, your long journey has finally ended. It was a privilege to be by your side during your final months.

  We love you and we will miss you. May your wisdom and compassion continue to guide us, no matter where we are.

Lara

  Good morning everyone. I'm Lara.

  As I couldn't be present for my Grandmother's passing last year, I would like to pay tribute to both my Grandparents today. After all, what is a great man without "his manager"?

  My Grandparents were a powerful duo with a bond underpinned by shared, sacred elements which constitute a full life.

  They shared a steadfast conviction that a more peaceful and humane world was possible, and an unwavering motivation to realise it in their own ways, supporting each other's ambition in the process.

  They shared a home which welcomed loved ones, activists and even stray four-legged friends. It was a refuge for the elderly, and a golden setting for their many extravagant gatherings, where the gate never shut even when the party was over.

  But, most crucially, they shared a love for each other which was gentle and quiet. They were like two young sweethearts, courting for the first time, even when they were in the evening of their lives. They shared many looks between each other which were shy and sweet. My Grandpa would playfully tease my Grandma, even when she was hard of hearing.

  Yet, my Grandma's calm, and sometimes coy attitude towards his teasing only brought out the charm of his younger self - a man I did not know but got to meet momentarily through their interactions.

  My Grandma cared for him in ways which allowed him to show up for the things he cared about most. She would pack him tea and sandwiches - with the crusts left off as he prescribed - when he went to protests. She would carefully dictate the important life events of their dear friends so that he could inscribe them in his diary. And she would always keep a healthy stock of sugar and gin in the pantry.

  They were tide and shore: steady, endless and balanced, welcoming each other every day. He spent much of his remaining months looking at a photo of her in the living room, perhaps reminiscing on the great life they built together.

  As we hold them both in our hearts, I hope we can leave our gates open to nurture the elements which make our lives meaningful, just as they did.

Miraya

  Hello everyone. I'm Miraya. I'm sure I may speak for all of us grandchildren when I say, that ever since I can remember, Grandpa has been, in that most simple and childish way, my favourite person in - the world. As a small girl, he was the ultimate object of excitement and affection.

  It's not hard to understand why - right up until the end of his life, any moment you gave grandpa a smile, a laugh, a hug, a joke, he would triple it, and send it right back, in a game of infinitely growing love. His low lilting voice, twinkling eyes and goofy movements were able to fill even the most well-worn of phrases with a fresh zing: I love you to the moon and back sounded like a whole new idea when he said it. Like grandma, grandpa had the ability to make you feel so thoroughly at ease, so accepted, so open to joy.

  I can only imagine that by the time the four of us came along to meet him, the jaw-dropping quantities of sugar that he spooned into his tea everyday had settled down into his very bones.

  Especially in recent years I'm lucky to have spent long holidays soaking up stories from, Pasar Road days to Tan Tok Seng hostel, Assunta Hospital to the Canberra Commission.

  All these memories were shared in the presence of the amazing Malaysian art that fills my grandparents' home, by painters like Latiff Mohidin, Syed Thajudeen and Cheong Lai Tong. And when I hold in my mind the shape of who Ronnie McCoy was, beyond just my grandfather - the essence he so generously shared with the world, it's the bold, confident lines, movement, and blazing colours of those paintings that come to mind - a spirit of independence - a blend of east and west - an ability to remake the world anew.

  His conviction that to be a doctor is to care for the whole of humanity; that to care about art is to care about politics; that to be a patriotic citizen is also to be a critic - has inspired everyone in this room. The mix of these qualities: an unending reserve of love, and an uncompromising spirit, is also what made him the most brilliant grandfather, and us the most lucky of grandchildren.

Sacha

  Hello, my name is Sacha McCoy Griffiths. I'm the grandson of the incredible person we are all here for today. To me, my grandfather was multidimensional, one part doctor, one part activist, and one part Grandpa. I had always known and appreciated the gravity of his life's work and its impact on others, but I simply saw him as the person whose arms I'd run into on arrival in KLIA. He wasn't Datuk, ICAN founder or the humanitarian O and G to me, that wasn't because I was unaware, rather the care and humanity he exhibited came so naturally to him that it was simply a part of who he was in my eyes.

  Grandpa would make jokes about hiding our passports so we couldn't leave, frankly, now I wish he did. I truly cherish the time I had with him, listening to stories of his life, watching sports together or simply being in each other's company. His presence was calming and he would disarm you with a smile, he would take such deep interest in others and make them feel like family. That is why it is such an honour that I can say I was family.

  It is hard to talk about grandpa, without mentioning my grandma. They were two halves of the same coin. Her passion for the environment was matched by his fierce activism against nuclear weapons. Together, they instilled in all of us, the belief that we should be fighting for a better world and that caring for one another is paramount.

  As I grew older, these lessons became more apparent to me through my experiences with them. While that side of my grandparents was widely known, my sister, cousins and I got to see a more personal side. They would playfully bicker about small things, both constantly and repeatedly tell you: "no walking in the house with socks or wet feet". They would always take the time to talk and listen to us. Whenever there was a question around the house that grandpa couldn't answer, his response would always be, "talk to my manager", as if he was some kind of touring rockstar. To us, that's who our grandparents were.

  Grandpa will always be with me, and all of us. I was simply lucky enough to see a unique and private side to him. While he referred to me as his "one and only grandson", He truly was my "one and only" grandpa.

Hannah

The doctor from Pasar Road who wanted Malaysians (and everybody else) to be safe from nuclear war

Praba Ganesan

  Farewell to the real McCoy. The doctor who never stopped worrying about the bomb and kept detesting it.

  Ronald McCoy's extraordinary journey ended on September 1, 2026. He did many things, among them founded with global colleagues an organisation which won the Nobel Peace Prize a decade ago.

  He was 96-years-old, epitomised service and love for humanity. As a former schoolboy cricketer, he'd be quite delighted to declare it an inning.

  The life of this doctor who delivered so many of my countrymen is a Malaysian story. Both the journey and his thinking.

  My own experiences with Dr McCoy were limited but three stand out. Coffee and chat while preparing his citation in 2004, the actual night to honour him and the brief encounter at a city motel reception area.

  I did not realise the coffee was over 20 years ago.

  The Victoria Institution Old Boys' Association committee asked me to meet the man selected as Victorian of the Year in 2004, to prep his citation.

  I had seen Dr McCoy at alumni events but sitting down and talking to the man about his life was an honour.

  He was like the first recipient, Siew Nim Chee in 2002, who kept links to the school and its alumni even after their schooling days were over. (Siew, the first Malaysian Cornell University graduate contributed a portion of his salary to the school throughout his working years)

  Calmly, he retraced his years in Pasar Road and how the war interrupted his adolescence.

  From student he turned into a 13-year-old who worked for the Federated Engineering Company. The factory is now where Fraser's Business Park is situated, just behind the Chan Sow Lin LRT station.

  He worked side by side with his father during the war, and since the plant made noodles, his mom would give them curry in a flask, so that they could have curry mee.

  The war ended, but his regret about the atomic bombs used to accelerate Japan's surrender was a preoccupation which never gave way.

  In secondary school he stayed true to the school ethos, to show character on the field, in the classroom and stay a gentleman. He was School Captain at the VI.

  His headmaster Frederick Daniel read out on August 5, 1949, this about McCoy. "In the history of the VI, no other boy had ever been School Captain and Rodger Scholar in the same year or had combined successfully academic study and other school activities."

  Ronald McCoy was 74, when old boys from all years, gathered in Hilton Petaling Jaya to honour him in 2004.

  McCoy addressed the boys as he would have more than half a century ago as head boy.

  It was a forthright manner of speaking he possessed, filled with purpose always. It was what he was championing rather than about himself. His self-effacing exterior always makes people ask, who is that man?

  Neither politician nor billionaire. But a man born to serve.

  In Universiti Malaya he studied medicine on a university scholarship and government bursary. He repaid that debt and some more.

  In the obstetrics and gynaecology department at KL Hospital, Assunta and Pantai Medical Centre for 40 years. He retired in 1996 after making 20,000 deliveries.

  This is plenty but his natural tendency to want to do more benefitted Malaysia and the world further. A past president of the Malaysian Medical Association, he desired universal coverage and equitable access for all through various committees for decades.

  He served on various non-medical NGOs to champion transparency, free speech and art.

  Which moves us to his participation in the quest to free mankind from the horrors of nuclear annihilation.

  He founded the local chapter of International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War in 1987; the organisation won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1985 and he went on to become its co-president.

  Now, all of these were part of the tribute to be read at the dinner in 2004. The post and telegraph department draughtsman's son was 74 then.

  These events are supposed to be tail ends turned into tall tales in retiree gardens.

  He wrote new chapters thereafter. There's ageing well, and ageing gracefully, and the McCoy option of doing it magnificently.

  Our lad founded The International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN) in 2007. He tirelessly contributed to it and with 470 organisations signed up to it, and in 2017 it was given the Nobel Peace Prize.

  There is trouble when the CV is too prodigious or celebrated. The man gets lost in the text.

  On July 11, 2011, I found myself, with tens of people somewhat trapped inside one of the many cheap hotels on Jalan Pudu facing the bus terminal. There were no check-ins, everyone was fleeing police firing tear gas at protesters.

  It was Bersih 2.0 and people were running helter-skelter. Dr McCoy was standing amidst the people with a handkerchief covering his mouth.

  He was not too internationalised to forget that he was with his people.

  The fights to get things right are small and big, and no one is too big for a fight, is what I think when I think about Ronald McCoy.

  He always attended alumni dinners, I remember the last one I attended. There is a tradition to mark the generations attending the event.

  The emcee begins with calling out all the students of the VI from the 1940s. Only Dr McCoy stood up, to heartfelt ovations from those present.

  In every sense, he's never stopped being School Captain, only that the campus grew larger, and larger, without him forgetting that we are all individuals equally loved.

  He was not only delivering babies nor stopped doing so in 1996. Malaysians, whether we know it or not, stand on the shoulders of giants.

  This Malaysian focussed on doing rather than fretting about identity. And for that, all of us are wiser.

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