TWO weeks ago, I went for breakfast with my mum at a nondescript little coffee shop in Johor Baru.

One moment, I was walking along the side of an alley amid families ordering coffee and toast; the next, I was screaming as a young man on a speeding bike pulled at the handles of my handbag.

Then, I fell down, executed a half-roll in the middle of the road and ended up sprawled, face down.

By then, my handbag was snug under the arm of a pillion rider on a motorbike that was speeding off into the Saturday morning crowd.

The nightmare happened in what seemed like three seconds, too quickly for anyone to react. Yes, I was robbed.

Robbers, always a distant concept, had suddenly sprung to life.

Between January and early August last year, 551 snatch thefts were reported in Johor, and 178 people were arrested in connection with them.

It struck me that I had become part of statistics to be released next year. I wonder if my attackers will be among the arrests made.

They made away with my wallet, mobile phone, identity card and passport = the golden ticket to getting everything else replaced.

I was lucky to have been with my mum, a Malaysian who was fortunately unharmed and had the presence of mind and the money to get us to the nearest police station on a cab.

An entire day was spent driving around and speaking to various officials, including one who told me that there had been four cases of Singaporeans who had had their travel documents stolen by robbers in that past week alone.

Two days later, I was in the Malaysian Immigration office, engaged in a language battle with Malay-speaking officers. I needed a temporary travel document to enter Singapore.

I managed to get the necessary documents = probably because my time as a journalist, if nothing else, has schooled me well in dealing with People Who Try To Brush You Off.

But the process was tedious and frustrating. This week, I have to go back for a second round of haggling to get my official travel documents.

Not only had the robbers taken my valuables, they managed to steal what was even more important = my time.

When I finally got back to the newsroom, I had to explain my absence due to the "snatch theft I was involved in".

The words "snatch theft", however, do not even begin to describe the horror inflicted. To me, "snatch" conjures the idea of a minor fight, say, over the skipping rope between two kids in the playground, while a thief is a chap clad in black who takes off with your belongings when you are unaware.

A snatch theft should not cause screams ringing in your ears, nor the overwhelming sense of loss as you watch your day-to-day essentials zoom away while you are stuck behind, bleeding all over, rooted by the awful thought that they are really not coming back.

A snatch theft should not leave me with a new paranoia of bikes that are simply cruising on the roads, or a shuddering fear of being grabbed by force whenever a stranger steps a little too near.

But I am grateful for the small mercies. The necklace I had on - a gift from a loved one - was not ripped off, and my water bottle, from which a charm given by a friend who recently visited Nepal was dangling, was not in my bag that fateful morning.

I am glad that the only thing with sentimental value in my wallet was a polaroid photograph which, while irreplaceable, was taken with someone who is very much by my side.

I am thankful to the people who made concessions for me - family members who took time off work to help me settle tiresome paperwork, bosses who were understanding even though I missed deadlines, colleagues who welcomed me back with a surprise gift, and friends who flooded my Facebook wall with concerned messages and are helping me deal with the aftermath of the ordeal.

This incident made me see that people really do care, and that, to me, is much more valuable than my belongings.

myp@sph.com.sg

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