Author: anonymousmedia_tal70o

When Susanna Liew stepped in front of the TV cameras at Kuala Lumpur’s High Court last month, she called the moment a “historic and emotional milestone”.

“Today… the High Court has delivered a judgment of what we have long believed: that Pastor Raymond Koh was a victim of a grave injustice,” the 69-year-old said in a shaky voice that evening.

It was a hard-won but stunning legal victory in a case that became one of Malaysia’s biggest mysteries.

Nearly nine years earlier, her husband had been snatched by masked men in broad daylight. The abduction was captured on CCTV and gripped the nation for years.

The high court ruled that the elite Special Branch of the police had taken Raymond Koh, and held both the police and the Malaysian government responsible for the country’s first-ever enforced disappearance case to be heard in a court.

For years Ms Liew fought to find out what happened to her husband, transforming from an ordinary pastor’s wife to a fierce campaigner.

She may never know for sure why her husband was taken, but two independent official investigations found that the police saw the pastor as a threat to Islam, Malaysia’s majority religion.

Speaking to the BBC shortly after her court victory, Ms Liew said she was driven to pursue justice.

“A voice [inside me] said… ‘So they took him in secret – I will let the whole world know’.”

On 13 February 2017, shortly after 10am, Mr Koh left his family home to meet friends.

As the 63-year-old drove out of his house in a quiet Kuala Lumpur suburb, a convoy of SUVs and motorcycles roared up to his vehicle.

Masked men in black clothing sprang out. Glass shards flew everywhere as they smashed a window of Mr Koh’s car and dragged out the pastor. They bundled him into one of their vehicles and drove off, taking his car with them.

The abduction took place in seconds. It was so dramatic that one eyewitness driving behind Mr Koh later testified that he thought it was a movie shoot.

In the following days Mr Koh’s children went door to door looking for clues to their father’s disappearance – and discovered that two homes’ CCTV cameras had captured the entire incident.

Watching the footage, the family realised it was no ordinary abduction. It was meticulous and well-co-ordinated. They had also not received any ransom note or been contacted by kidnappers.

A few months before, in November 2016, an activist named Amri Che Mat from the northern state of Perlis had been abducted in almost exactly the same way.

Mr Koh’s family went to the media, and the CCTV footage instantly went viral when it was published online by a local newspaper.

The public demanded answers, and Malaysia’s human rights commission – an independent body set up by parliament – launched an investigation. Later, there was also a separate investigation by the government.

Many speculated that the Special Branch was responsible. But the police denied involvement, its chief telling the public to “please shut up” so they could investigate the disappearance in peace.

Months later, after conducting their investigations, the police claimed a drug trafficking ring had taken Mr Koh. Separately, they arrested an Uber driver for kidnapping him – a charge that was eventually dropped. Both these leads were later ruled as not credible by the rights commission in the final report of their investigation.

Meanwhile, Mr Koh’s disappearance took a toll on his family.

Ms Liew sold handcrafted jewellery to make ends meet, while relying on her savings and donations to put her youngest daughter through university.

She said she had expected sympathy from the police. Instead, on the night she reported her husband’s disappearance, she said she was questioned for five hours about whether Mr Koh had tried to convert Muslims to Christianity. “I was very traumatised.”

Her interrogator later testified during the rights commission’s investigation hearing that he had been instructed by his supervisors to pursue this line of inquiry because Mr Koh was a pastor.

In 2011 Mr Koh had been accused of apostasy – a crime in Muslim-majority Malaysia – when he organised a party at a church which some Muslims also attended. He was investigated by Islamic authorities but no action was taken. He and his family have always denied that he was trying to convert Muslims.

In the years after Mr Koh’s disappearance, Ms Liew said, she felt that “the police were not forthcoming with their investigation and even, at times, they were hindering us from finding out the truth and produced red herrings”.

The family has long maintained the police’s theories were attempts to cover up their role in his abduction.

The BBC has asked the Malaysian police for a response to these allegations. They have yet to reply.

As the search for answers dragged on, everyone in the family began experiencing depression, Ms Liew said. She still suffers from panic attacks and post-traumatic stress disorder.

But then, there was a breakthrough.

Late one night in May 2018, a man showed up at the house of Norhayati, the wife of Amri Che Mat, the activist who had been abducted in 2016.

Identifying himself as a police sergeant, he delivered shocking information: the Special Branch had indeed kidnapped her husband and Raymond Koh.

The police believed Mr Koh was trying to convert Muslims to Christianity, he said, and that Amri Che Mat was spreading Shia Islam, which is banned in Sunni-dominant Malaysia.

The police sergeant said he wanted to tell Ms Norhayati what happened, as he felt what the Special Branch did was wrong.

Ms Norhayati’s account of this confession was investigated by the human rights commission and eventually ruled as credible. While the sergeant later denied he made the confession, the commission found his denial to be full of inconsistencies.

Then, there was the gold-coloured car.

A witness to Mr Koh’s abduction recalled seeing a gold-coloured Toyota Vios – a similar car was spotted near Amri Che Mat’s house prior to his disappearance. The police sergeant also mentioned a gold-coloured car’s presence in both abductions.

Investigators for the rights commission traced that car to a man in Kuala Lumpur who worked for the Special Branch.

In April 2019, the commission concluded the Special Branch was responsible for the abductions of Raymond Koh and Amri Che Mat. It said the two men were “targeted by religious authorities and the police over allegations that they were involved in matters against Islam in Malaysia”.

The report stunned the Malaysian public, with some demanding accountability. Months later, the government launched its own investigation, which was made public only after Ms Liew and Ms Norhayati sued for access.

The government’s investigation came to a similar conclusion, blaming “irresponsible rogue cops”.

Its report also named a “main person of interest” – a senior Special Branch official, Awaludin bin Jadid, who headed the unit tackling social extremism. It noted he had “extreme views” against Shia Islam and Christianity and, in public speeches, portrayed them as threats to Islam.

The BBC has attempted to contact Mr Awaludin, who is now retired, for his response to these findings. We have yet to receive a reply.

Mr Awaludin previously denied he had anything to do with Amri Che Mat’s disappearance, and also alleged the government task force that produced the report was “biased” against him.

In 2020, Ms Liew launched a civil lawsuit on behalf of herself and her missing husband against several top police officers, the Royal Malaysian Police and the Malaysian government.

She held them responsible for the forcible disappearance of Mr Koh – which is the abduction and concealment of his whereabouts – and demanded they reveal his location.

Last month, a High Court judge found that among the named police officials and the Royal Malaysian Police, “one or more” of them were responsible for Raymond Koh’s abduction and a “conspiracy resulting in harm”.

Since these were public officials acting under the state’s authority, “the government must answer for the resulting harm” and thus was “vicariously liable”, the judge said.

Besides awarding several million ringgit to Ms Liew for emotional distress, the judge ordered that 10,000 ringgit (£1,830; $2,385) be paid to a trust for each day of Mr Koh’s disappearance until his whereabouts are disclosed.

To date this sum has surpassed 32m ringgit, and the final figure is expected to be the largest payout in Malaysian history. The trust’s money, which will be paid out only once Mr Koh’s whereabouts are disclosed, will likely go to Ms Liew and her children.

Ms Norhayati, who also launched a lawsuit, won her case and received several million ringgit in compensation.

But the government is appealing against these verdicts, arguing there are “issues related to financial obligations” and that it needs to “uphold the principle of universal justice”.

It has also said the police are continuing to investigate the abductions.

The BBC has asked the police for comment on the verdict. They have yet to reply.

Ms Liew hopes the government will drop the appeal. “I would feel very tired if I have to do this all over again,” she told the BBC.

The family is already worn down from “the uncertainty of not knowing where Pastor Raymond is… it’s like we are frozen in grief and we can’t move on”.

“If we know that he’s dead and have his body, at least we can bury him and we can move on. But right now, we are in a limbo. We don’t know – is he dead or alive? – and this takes a toll on us.”

Ms Liew choked up at the thought that her husband may be dead. “It’s going to be very hard to accept that,” she said, adding she “wants to hope” that her husband is alive.

But time is helping the family to heal. Inspired by counsellors who helped her through her depression, Ms Liew has been training to become one herself.

Telling her story has also been a “catharsis”, she said. Over the years, as she travelled the world to raise awareness of her husband’s case, she became an outspoken critic of enforced disappearances. In 2020 the US awarded her an International Women of Courage medal.

“I never expected that I would be at this place. Eight years ago, I was just a housewife and a quiet person,” she said.

Ms Liew has also reached a turning point on a more personal level – she has forgiven the men whom she believes took her husband.

During the trial, as she watched the lawsuit’s defendants take the stand, at first “I felt like squeezing their necks. I was angry with them”.

“But I noticed that when I came face to face with the main suspect – I felt no hatred… I want to be really right and pure before God, and not have any shadow or darkness in my life.”

Forgiveness, however, does not mean she will stop her pursuit of justice.

She is now calling for the authorities to set up a disciplinary body to monitor police conduct, as well as a commission of inquiry and a task force to track down every single person involved in her husband’s abduction.

Until now, none of the police officials named in her lawsuit have been arrested or punished. One of them has been promoted.

“What we really want is for the truth and justice to prevail, for the perpetrators to be brought to justice, and for us to have good closure,” she said.

“That means, we want to know where Pastor Raymond is.”

In some ways, Gigi is like any other young social media influencer.

With perfect hair and makeup, she logs on and talks to her fans. She shares clips: eating, doing skin care, putting on lipstick. She even has a cute baby who appears in some videos.

But after a few seconds, something may seem a little off.

She can munch on pizza made out of molten lava, or apply snowflakes and cotton candy as lip gloss. Her hands sometimes pass through what she’s holding.

That’s because Gigi isn’t real. She’s the AI creation of University of Illinois student Simone Mckenzie – who needed to make some money over the summer.

Ms Mckenzie, 21, is part of a fast-growing cohort of digital creators who churn out a stream of videos by entering simple prompts into AI chatbots, like Google Veo 3. Experts say this genre, dubbed “AI slop” by some critics and begrudging viewers, is taking over social media feeds.

And its creators are finding considerable success.

“One video made me $1,600 [£1,185] in just four days,” Ms Mckenzie said. “I was like, okay, let me keep doing this.”

After two months, Gigi had millions of views, making Ms Mckenzie thousands through TikTok’s creator fund, a programme that pays creators based on how many views they get. But she’s far from the only person using AI to reach easy virality, experts said.

“It’s surging right now and it’s probably going to continue,” said Jessa Lingel, associate professor and digital culture expert at the University of Pennsylvania.

Its progenitors – who now can generate videos of literally anything in just a few minutes – have the potential to disrupt the lucrative influencer economy.

But while some say AI is ruining social media, others see its potential to democratise who gains fame online, Lingel said. Those who don’t have the money or time for a fancy background, camera setup or video editing tools can now go viral, too.

Social media influencing only recently became a legitimate career path. But in just a few years, the industry has grown to be worth over $250bn, according to investment firm Goldman Sachs. Online creators often use their own lives – their vacations, their pets, their makeup routines – to make content and attract a following.

AI creators who can make the same thing – only faster, cheaper and without the constraints of reality.

“It certainly has the potential to upset the creator space,” said Brooke Duffy, a digital and social media scholar at Cornell University.

Ms Mckenzie, creator of Gigi, said videos take her only a few minutes to generate and she sometimes posts three per day.

That’s not feasible for human influencers like Kaaviya Sambasivam, 26, who has around 1.3 million followers across multiple platforms.

Depending on the kind of video she’s making – whether it’s a recipe, a day-in-my life vlog, or a makeup tutorial – it may take anywhere from a few hours to a few days to fully produce. She has to shop, plan, set up her background and lighting, shoot and then edit.

AI creators can skip nearly all of those steps.

“It bears the question: is this going to be something that we can out compete? Because I am a human. My output is limited,” Ms Sambasivam, based in North Carolina, said. “There are months where I will be down in the dumps, and I’ll post just the bare minimum. I can’t compete with robots.”

She started building her channel while living with her parents during the Covid pandemic. Without a set-up, she said she duct-taped her phone to the wall to film. Eventually, she spent money she made as an influencer buying tripods, lighting, makeup and food for her videos. It took years to build her following.

Ms Mckenzie said she considered being a more traditional influencer, but didn’t have the money, time or setup. That’s why she created Gigi.

“My desk at home has a lot of books and stuff,” she said. “It’s not the most visually appealing. It definitely makes it easier that you can just pick whatever background you want with AI.”

When Ms Mckenzie started, she turned to Google’s Veo 3 chatbot, asking it to generate a woman – someone to stand in as her.

Gigi is her age, 21, with tanned skin, green eyes, freckles, winged eyeliner and long black hair. She then asked the chatbot to make Gigi talk. Gigi now starts each video chiding commentators who accuse her of being AI. Then, mockingly proving them right, she eats a bedazzled avocado or a cookie made of slime.

Ms Duffy said digital alterations aren’t new. First, there were programs like Photoshop, used for image editing. Next, apps like FaceTune made it easier for users to change their faces for social media. But she said the main precursor to today’s hyper-realistic AI videos were celebrity deepfakes, emerging in the late 2010s.

But they now look much, much more real, Ms Duffy said, and they can spread faster.

AI videos run the gamut from the absurd – a cartoon of a cat working at McDonald’s – to the hyper-realistic, like fake doorbell camera footage. They represent every genre – horror, comedy, culinary. But none of it is real.

“It’s become, in some ways, a form of meme culture,” Ms Duffy said.

One 31-year-old American woman living in South Korea has a TikTok page dedicated to an AI-generated puppy, Gamja, who wears headphones, cooks and curls his hair. She’s received millions of views as well as partnerships from companies who want to be featured in her videos.

“I wanted to blend things that people love, which include food and puppies, in a way that hadn’t been done before,” she said.

One of the biggest AI content creators on TikTok is 27-year-old Daniel Riley. He has an audience of millions, but they have never seen his face. Rather, his “time travel” videos have earned him nearly 600,000 subscribers and tens of millions of views.

“POV: you wake up in Pompeii on eruption day” and “POV: you wake up as Queen Cleopatra” are some of his most popular titles, taking viewers through a 30-second-long fictionalised day in ancient history.

“I realised I could tell stories that would normally cost millions to produce and give people a look into different eras through their phone,” he said.

And he’s developed another stream of income – a bootcamp to teach others how to make similar AI videos for a monthly fee.

“Stop calling me AI,” Gigi says at the beginning of each TikTok. She’s arguing with sceptics’ – but some audience members unquestioningly believe she’s real.

On one hand, AI videos that are almost indistinguishable from reality pose a real problem, Ms Lingel said, especially for young kids who don’t yet have media literacy.

“I think it’ll be almost impossible for an ordinary human to tell the difference soon,” she said. “You’re going to see a rise in misinformation, you’re going to see a rise in scams, you’re going to see a rise in content that’s just…crappy.”

On the other, AI videos can be mesmerising, experts said, offering cartoonish, exaggerated material.

“It’s those images and posts that seem to toe the line between reality and duplicity that capture our attention and encourage us to share,” Ms Duffy said.

A Harvard University study indicated that among AI users between the ages of 14-22, many say they use it to generate things like images and music.

Still, she said, the question is if human discernment can keep up with rapidly improving technology.

Almost every day, the creator of Gamja said she hears from people online, worried about her AI-generated puppy: they think he’s eating foods that are unhealthy, they say – because they think they’re watching a real dog.