Relying on East Malaysian support

The role of East Malaysian parties shows this clearly. Sabah and Sarawak have long held strategic importance in federal politics, often described as crucial to maintaining parliamentary majorities.

This was evident in earlier coalition arrangements as well as more recent government formations, where East Malaysian support has often been decisive in maintaining stability.

Their influence did not emerge after 2018; it has long been part of coalition politics. The phrase “fixed deposit” is not new. What has changed is visibility and negotiating flexibility.

Clearly, coalition complexity did not begin after 2018. Constraint has always been part of the system. What has changed is how fragmented and unstable it has become.

What looks like instability should not be mistaken for loss of authority.

The idea that leadership today is only about survival is overstated. Negotiation has always been part of Malaysian governance. The PM still appoints and dismisses ministers, sets priorities, and leads the executive branch, as seen in periodic cabinet reshuffles across different administrations.

These powers have not been reduced. What has changed is the political cost of using them.

The idea of a leader who simply “commands” also assumes earlier prime ministers operated with near-absolute control. That was never the case.

Even in the strongest period of BN dominance, prime ministers had to manage coalition partners such as MCA and MIC, balance Sabah and Sarawak interests, and navigate internal factional pressures within Umno itself.

Even at the height of Dr Mahathir Mohamad’s authority, the internal Team A and Team B split could not simply be commanded away. Leadership has always depended on maintaining support, not overriding it. In that sense, “command versus survival” is a false binary.

The power to award positions

Restraint should not be mistaken for incapacity. A leader who does not act quickly is not necessarily unable to act. In a more fragmented environment, decisions require more careful balancing. This does not remove authority; it changes how it is used.

The PM still has the authority to appoint, dismiss, and restructure the cabinet, but every use of that power comes with consequences that must be weighed carefully.

Removing a senior figure in a governing party, for example, is not a simple administrative step. It can trigger internal divisions, strain coalition relationships, and weaken broader policy goals. In such situations, restraint reflects calculation, not weakness.

At the same time, complexity cannot become an excuse for inaction.

Reform does not sit only with the executive. It must pass through Parliament, where debate, procedure, and politics decide whether policy becomes law. Leadership is not just about making decisions, but about ensuring they survive the process needed to implement them.

These pressures are made worse by economic conditions. Rising living costs, subsidy burdens, and global uncertainty leave little space for hesitation. Leadership must balance caution with direction, and negotiation with delivery.

See how accountability works. There is a recurring pattern where investigations begin under strong public pressure, but over time, lose visibility. Updates become less frequent, conclusions remain unclear, and outcomes are not always clearly communicated.

Cases such as MACC chief Azam Baki’s share ownership controversy illustrate how initial urgency can fade, leaving the public uncertain about the final resolution.

Institutions such as the MACC show how prolonged uncertainty can affect trust. When processes are delayed or outcomes unclear, the issue goes beyond individual cases and becomes a question of consistency and transparency.

Malaysia has not entered an era of powerless leadership. What it has entered is an era where power is more visible, more contested, and more demanding to exercise.

The system has not become less powerful; it has become harder to ignore.

The PM has not lost power; we have mistaken complexity for weakness, and the greater danger is a public too ready to believe that he has.

Respect for the law and common decency isn’t just about entertainment - it’s about those who make the laws and follow them. Until then, forgive me if I take Zahid’s call with a truckload of salt.

At the end of the day, the real confusion isn’t in kebayas, hot dogs, or water festivals -it’s in the selective morality of politicians who preach virtue while defending vice.

They clutch pearls over Oktoberfest and Bon Odori, yet clutch wallets when billions vanish from the state coffers. They warn of “limits” and “harmony”, but their own conduct has been limitless in hypocrisy and discord.

Zahid’s sermon on cultural values and religious sensitivities might sound noble, but it collapses under the weight of his party’s record.

Where was this moral compass when opponents were demonised before GE15? Where was this respect for law when leaders fought to protect a convicted thief? It is not festivals that erode harmony - it is the erosion of trust when leaders bend rules for themselves while tightening them for everyone else.

Behind the curtain

Politicians love to wrap themselves in religion and culture when it suits them. It’s a convenient cloak, shielding them from scrutiny while they dictate what ordinary Malaysians can watch, eat, or celebrate.

Yet, behind the curtain, the same guardians of morality are busy enriching themselves, trampling the very values they claim to defend.

If Zahid truly believes in “limits”, perhaps he should start by limiting corruption. If he truly believes in “harmony”, perhaps he should harmonise his party’s actions with the laws they claim to uphold.

Until then, every lecture on festivals and concerts is nothing more than theatre - a morality play staged by actors who long ago abandoned the script of integrity.

Respect for law and decency isn’t about banning kebayas or renaming Oktoberfest. It’s about lawmakers living by the standards they impose.

Until that happens, forgive me if I say that right-minded citizens will take Zahid’s sermon not just with a pinch of salt, but with a truckload.

The next time politicians warn us about “confusion”, we should remind them: the greatest confusion lies not in symbols or celebrations, but in leaders who mistake hypocrisy for values and propaganda for principle.

The panel found that the video in question was produced with the intention of informing residents about the status of a police report and urging faster action from the authorities, rather than to insult or provoke.

“The purpose of the communication was legitimate and cannot be equated with an intention to annoy or offend,” she said, adding that the context of the message must be considered as a whole.

“In this case, the evidence, particularly from the seventh prosecution witness, showed that the primary purpose of the appellant’s communication was to inform residents about the progress of a police report and to request that the investigation be expedited.

“The purpose of the communication was legitimate and cannot be equated with an intent to annoy or offend,” she said.

Rare crack in armour

When break-ins echo unanswered, but a neighbour’s plea is prosecuted, the law itself becomes the crime scene.

Section 233 is not a shield for citizens; it is a gag for dissent. Its elastic language - “grossly offensive”, “intent to annoy” - is less about justice than about convenience for those in power.

Shahril’s acquittal is a rare crack in that armour, a reminder that intent matters, evidence matters, and legitimacy cannot be criminalised. Yet the larger truth remains: in Malaysia, it is easier to punish a camera than to protect a community.

The police can ignore shattered windows, but the state will not ignore a video that shatters its image.

The law does not ask whether citizens are safe; it asks whether officials are annoyed.

It does not measure the failure of institutions; it measures the discomfort of those who run them. And in that transposal, justice is not blind; it becomes blinkered.

Shahril’s case should have been a turning point, a moment to admit that laws written to muzzle trolls are now muzzling citizens.

Instead, it exposed the deeper rot: a system where “grossly offensive” is whatever the authorities say it is, and “intent to annoy” is whatever they feel it to be. That is not law; that is discretion masquerading as justice.

The acquittal offers hope, but hope tempered by reality. For every Shahril who fights back, countless others will not risk the weight of the state. Fear settles in like a second shadow, and silence becomes the third.

Until institutions learn to protect citizens rather than themselves, Malaysia will remain a country where crime is tolerated, but criticism is punished. And that is the real offence - an offence against the very idea of justice.

And believe me, there was nothing lost in translation in the speech he gave, decrying that he was sidelined by the royal institution when he had the necessary votes to be in the driver’s seat of Putrajaya. But all this is not new.

Remember when a former prime minister blamed a certain person for Pakatan Harapan’s pulling out of the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (Icerd)?

Who could forget this juicy tidbit from his press statement: “Jadi kita punya keputusan kabinet (our cabinet’s decision) this morning is that we will withdraw our ratification of the Statute of Rome kerana (because of) confusion, bukan kerana (not because) we believe it is going to be bad for us but because of the confusion created by one particular person who wants to be free to beat up people and things like that.

“And if he beats up people again, I will send the police to arrest him, I don’t care who he is.”

Keep in mind that Muhyiddin publicly declared that he rejected the Agong’s suggestion that his coalition form a unity government with Pakatan Harapan:

“Since the beginning, we already discussed that we will not cooperate with Harapan. No matter what the purpose is, we will not agree to it. So when I was asked to sign the offer letter, I signed ‘disagreed’.”

Royalty and political reality

Where was PAS during all of this? This horse manure about defending the royal institution is the kind of political skullduggery that PAS especially excels in.

The party is playing a deeper, sinister game. Theocrats around the world do not share power in the conventional sense. They allow certain legacy institutions to endure so long as those institutions give credibility and legitimacy to the religious party in control.

Keep in mind that religious extremists have always threatened the traditional institutions of power in various Muslim-majority countries.

The legacy institutions of power in this country understand that they are vulnerable to the political and religious malfeasance of religious political parties, which is why these institutions are caught between a rock and a hard place when it comes to their constitutional powers and theocratic impulses.

Sacred cows need to be slain by religious politicians because this will demonstrate not only the superiority of religion but also the faith of religious leaders.

This is not about whether you support the royal institution or not. This is about how these defenders of race and religion, in reality, have no respect for the institutions they claim to champion.

These are the same people who would use the royal institution as a hammer to whack recalcitrant Malays, and whack non-Malays whom they claim are disrespecting the royal institution, the Malays, and Islam.

Has a non-Malay politician ever done any of this to the royal institution? The threat to the royal institution has always come from the Malay uber alles crowd.

Former prime minister Dr Mahathir Mohamad used the royal institution when it suited his purposes, which was to bash the non-Malays, but then decried how giving too much power to the institutions resulted in the degradation of the democratic system and lamented the feudalistic nature of the dynamic in the majoritarian community.

In 2019, he spelt this out clearly, which is ironic because it is in a similar context to what Muhyiddin is fighting against now:

“Are we willing for this to continue? The rakyat is afraid of not serving the rulers, and when the rulers act beyond the Constitution, it is the rakyat who become the victims.

“This is the problem we have now. If we are willing to lose democracy and the parliamentary system, then let’s stop having elections.”

One could make the argument that this is exactly what the Seri Kembangan rep is doing. Upholding the tenets of democracy and the parliamentary system.

However, the wider ecosystem of welfare-related fundraising, including NGOs, charitable intermediaries, and mixed donation channels, can be far more complex and less uniformly regulated.

When funds pass through multiple organisations before reaching recipients, each layer possibly operates under different levels of oversight. Without strong and consistent monitoring, transparency may weaken.

This creates a structural reality that is often overlooked.

It is not always about one system failing, but about multiple systems interacting with different levels of transparency and control.

So, when large sums are involved, such as RM230 million, the question naturally arises. How do funds of this scale move through welfare-linked structures without earlier detection or intervention?

This is not simply about wrongdoing. It is about system design.

Not a marginal figure

RM230 million is not a marginal figure. It is an amount that, under normal financial and governance expectations, should trigger multiple safeguards, like bank-level monitoring, organisational audits, regulatory scrutiny, and internal compliance mechanisms.

If gaps exist in that chain, then the concern is not only about misconduct, but about oversight fragmentation.

Zakat itself remains one of the most important instruments of social justice within Muslim communities.

It is a structured obligation designed to redistribute wealth, reduce inequality, and support those in need. When it functions effectively, it is stable, targeted, and quietly transformative.

However, the broader welfare ecosystem in which zakat, NGOs, and public donations co-exist is more complex.

Moreover, complexity without equivalent transparency creates vulnerability, not necessarily by intent, but it does result in oversight failure.

This is why the central issue is not classification. It is governance consistency.

The question is not whether zakat institutions are properly managed in isolation because they have stated frameworks and audit structures. It is about whether the entire ecosystem of welfare-linked giving is equally transparent, traceable, and resilient against misuse at every stage of fund movement.

When the system is fragmented, problems in one part can affect others through public perception and confusion. Once people begin to lose trust across different channels of giving, rebuilding that confidence becomes especially difficult.

This is why reform cannot be reactive or symbolic. It must be structural.

Firstly, transparency must be visible across the entire ecosystem, not just within individual institutions.

Second, fund flows must be traceable from collection to final distribution. Third, intermediary layers must be clearly regulated and audited.

Fourth, oversight must be independent, consistent, and publicly accountable.

Basic safeguards

These are not radical demands. They are basic safeguards for systems built on public trust and moral obligation.

Once trust begins to erode, recovery is slow and often incomplete.

In the meantime, those who are meant to benefit from these systems do not wait for clarification. They wait for assistance.

More importantly, the real question is no longer about one institution or one investigation. It is about whether welfare-linked and zakat-related systems are collectively designed to ensure that every ringgit reaches those it was meant for, without delay, diversion, or doubt.

If the answer is uncertain, then the responsibility is not only to investigate what has happened, but to strengthen the systems so that it cannot happen in fragmented form again.

Accountability is not criticism. It is protection. Thus, protecting zakat and the wider ecosystem of charitable trust is ultimately about protecting the people it exists to serve.

But four days later, Saifuddin let the cat out of the bag.

He said that if Putrajaya strictly enforced 3R laws, “leaders from PAS would make up most of those implicated.”

As he told Sinar Harian: “If I or the police enforced the Penal Code, the CMA or other laws, they would be among the most frequently penalised.”

So, was he confirming that PAS members are treated with velvet gloves? Is this why no action is taken against provocative 3R statements while others are arrested, charged, and sentenced within days?

Law as political sword

Selective prosecution is not a flaw in Malaysia’s enforcement regime - it is the regime itself. The law is wielded not as a neutral instrument of justice but as a political sword, cutting opponents while shielding certain people.

When racist vitriol and religious incitement are tolerated, yet criticism of governance is swiftly punished, the hypocrisy is laid bare.

ALSO READ: Rising racial and religious rhetoric in Parliament, report finds

Saifuddin’s candid admission that strict enforcement would implicate PAS leaders is not just a slip of the tongue; it is a confession of complicity.

This is why the public grows weary of “advisories” and “reminders” that never translate into equal application of the law.

Each silence in the face of racist abuse, each velvet-gloved treatment of political allies, and each heavy-handed prosecution of dissenters erodes trust in institutions.

The government insists there are no double standards, yet its own ministers concede otherwise. This contradiction is not a perception problem; it is a credibility crisis.

Malaysia cannot claim to be building a “Madani” society while tolerating selective justice. A nation that prosecutes criticism but excuses provocation is not protecting harmony; it is protecting power.

Until the law is applied evenly, without fear or favour, every promise of reform will remain hollow, every advisory will sound like theatre, and every silence from the authorities will echo as complicity.

The real scandal is not that selective prosecution exists - it is that leaders admit it, defend it, and expect us to accept it as normal.

Many left-wing Malay nationalists saw communism not as an end in itself but as a vehicle for independence and social transformation. To reduce their struggle to mere ideological subversion is to flatten the rich and complex motivations that drove anti-colonial resistance.

Within the MCP’s armed wing, the Malayan National Liberation Army (MNLA), Shamsiah rose to prominence in the 10th Regiment, the Malay guerrilla unit formed on May 21, 1949.

The 10th Regiment was not a marginal formation. Scholarly estimates suggest that it comprised several hundred members, drawn largely from Malay communities in states such as Pahang, Perak, Kelantan, and Terengganu.

Many Malays from Pahang, including Siti Norkiah, the Awas leader from Benta, joined the MCP in 1948. Others, such as Pak Saud and his wife Mak Tijah from Arau, Perlis, also became part of this movement.

Their participation decisively challenges the simplistic narrative that communism in Malaya was an exclusively Chinese phenomenon.

Staunch feminist

Shamsiah’s own motivations were deeply personal as well as political. As Mahani Musa notes in her article “Women in the Malayan Communist Party, 1942-89” (2013), Shamsiah was driven to join the nationalist struggle “by her own marital breakup and wish to free women from the bondage of feudalism, capitalism, imperialism, and masculine oppression”.

Divorced when she was eight months pregnant, she transformed personal adversity into political commitment.

Her own words in her memoir capture this dual struggle with remarkable clarity: “Aku hanya seorang pejuang wanita yang berjuang melawan British untuk kemerdekaan tanah air dan untuk emansipasi (kebebasan) wanita.” (I am only a woman fighter who fought against the British for the independence of the homeland and for the emancipation [freedom] of women).

This statement is not the voice of an ideologue, but of a nationalist and a feminist - one who saw independence as inseparable from the emancipation of women.

In 1991, the Malay magazine Dewan Masyarakat published a seven-part series of articles on Shamsiah written by Fatini Yaacob, reflecting sustained scholarly and public interest in her life.

Such engagement underscores an important point: Shamsiah is not an obscure or marginal figure, but one whose life story opens a window into the broader currents of Malayan history - anti-colonial struggle, ideological contestation, and the role of women in nation-building.

Who are we to judge?

To label her simply as a “communist insurgent” is therefore historically reductive and morally questionable.

Who are we to judge and condemn her without understanding the circumstances that shaped her choices? Was she not, in many respects, a freedom fighter who was compelled by circumstance to adopt a radical path in pursuit of national independence?

She was, arguably, a “victim of circumstances”, joining the MCP to avoid detention and to continue her struggle when all legal avenues had been closed.

Indeed, according to Aisyah AB Rahim in her Master’s thesis (2012), entitled “Shamsiah Fakeh (1924-2008): Kajian Terhadap Perjuangan Wanita Islam di Tanah Melayu”, Shamsiah was “seorang nasionalis sejati dan anti-British yang tegar” (a true nationalist and a staunch anti-British figure).

More fundamentally, her life challenges the dominant narrative that independence was achieved solely through moderate, elite-led politics.

While constitutional negotiations and diplomatic efforts were undoubtedly crucial, armed struggle, labour movements, and left-wing activism also played significant roles in weakening colonial rule and shaping the political consciousness of the masses.

To erase these contributions is to present a sanitised and incomplete version of history.

Propaganda is not knowledge

This brings us to the crux of the matter: the banning of these books is not merely an administrative act, but an assault on historical inquiry. There are several compelling reasons why such a ban is unjustified.

First, historical scholarship cannot be equated with ideological endorsement. The study of communism in Malaya does not promote communism any more than the study of colonialism endorses imperialism.

Academic and memoir works such as “Memoir Shamsiah Fakeh” are essential for understanding the past in its full complexity. To suppress them is to conflate knowledge with propaganda.

Second, the ban undermines intellectual freedom and the right of Malaysians to access diverse perspectives on their own history.

A mature nation does not fear its past; it confronts it, debates it, and learns from it. Shielding the public from “uncomfortable truths” only perpetuates ignorance and weakens critical thinking.

Third, the prohibition distorts the historical record. Hundreds of Malays did, in fact, join the communist insurgency.

This is not a matter of opinion but of documented history; to deny or obscure this reality is to falsify the past. A nation that selectively remembers its history risks building its identity on fragile foundations.

Fourth, the ban marginalises the contributions of left-wing nationalists who, despite their ideological affiliations, were part of the broader struggle for independence. Their sacrifices, motivations, and aspirations deserve to be studied and understood, not erased.

As Pierre Le Moyne, a 17th-century historical theorist, reminds us, “Truth is the very soul of history.” Hence, we must not marginalise the contributions of the left-wing nationalists and the communists in the struggle for national independence.

Where’s the line?

Finally, the banning of these works sets a troubling precedent. If historical narratives can be suppressed on the grounds of ideological sensitivity, where does one draw the line?

Today, it may be communism; tomorrow, it could be any interpretation that challenges the official narrative, such as that the Orang Asli are the truly indigenous people of Peninsular Malaysia or that Parameswara died a Hindu-Buddhist.

Such a trajectory is incompatible with a democratic and intellectually vibrant society.

Shamsiah’s importance lies not only in what she did, but in what her story reveals.

It reveals a Malaya in flux, where competing visions of independence coexisted and clashed. It reveals the agency of women in a patriarchal society. It reveals the moral ambiguities and difficult choices faced by those who lived under colonial rule.

Above all, it reveals that Malaysian history is far richer, more contested, and more inclusive than conventional narratives often suggest.

To understand Shamsiah is to understand that history is not a monolithic tale of heroes and villains, but a tapestry of human experiences shaped by context, conviction, and circumstance.

She was a nationalist, a freedom fighter, and a champion of women’s emancipation - albeit one who chose a path that remains controversial. But controversy is not a reason for erasure; it is a reason for deeper engagement.

As a nation, we must have the courage to accept history as it happened. This includes acknowledging that segments of the Malay population participated in the communist insurgency, not out of blind ideological zeal, but out of a desire to end colonial domination and transform society.

It also means recognising that the road to independence was neither linear nor uniform, but marked by multiple trajectories and competing visions.

In the final analysis, the banning of “Memoir Shamsiah Fakeh” and “Komrad Asi (Rejimen 10)” does a disservice not only to the individuals concerned but also to Malaysia itself.

It deprives Malaysians of the opportunity to engage critically with their past and to appreciate the diversity of experiences that have shaped the nation.

History must never be something we fear - it must be something we confront with honesty and courage.

It should be rigorously studied, openly debated, and deeply understood in all its complexity. For it is only when history is told truthfully and inclusively that it can fulfil its highest purpose: to unite a nation.

Keep in mind how successive regimes have defined the tendency and harm to the community.

In 2014, Perkasa president Ibrahim Ali’s threats to burn Bibles were not sanctioned by the state  because, in the words of the attorney-general, “This is not a sentiment or intention to cause religious disharmony, but this is defending the sanctity of Islam that is clearly defined in laws.”

Indeed, the Attorney-General’s Chambers, when touching on the Bible-burning issue, said, as reported by The Edge - “As decided by the court, before a statement is said to have seditious tendencies, the statement must be viewed in the context it was made... When studied in its entire context, Ibrahim’s statement is not categorised as having seditious tendencies.”

“It was clear Ibrahim had no intention to create religious tensions but was only defending the purity of Islam.”

So rational Malaysians have to ask, what exactly was seditious about the speech of this housewife? How exactly is criticising the prime minister by a housewife rising to the level of sedition?

Just a few years ago, Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim said, “Criticism against the prime minister or leaders is necessary, and leaders should not be alarmed or have fear (of media criticising them).

“I am saying this now because I am confident with what we are doing, and I am ready to fight with facts. And if indeed there are shortcomings on our side, then we are ready to apologise and make the necessary changes.

So what happened to being ready to fight with facts and confidence about what Madani is doing?

Harapan’s lie

Going after minorities for causing disruptions within mainstream politics is normal, but what the state fears is when folks from the majority community cause disruptions.

Under Pakatan Harapan, a women’s march was investigated under sedition laws, then there was the independent preacher Wan Ji Wan Hussin, and of course, who could forget the persecution of activist Fadiah Nadwa Fikri.

The Harapan state was also considering laws that would make news portals responsible for readers’ comments, which would take stifling freedom of speech to a whole new level.

Syahredzan Johan, who is now a political operative in Madani, said in 2015: “We are saying that we have certain principles that we adhere to as a democracy. Freedom of speech and expression is part of our DNA, so we hold on to these values.

“If we don’t say something because we are afraid they will come after us, then we are saying that these values are not that important to us.

“Do we want to be the kind of society that allows the authorities to do as they please because we fear getting into trouble?”

Jorjet learned the hard way that this is not true.

Even within a controlled and tightly managed system like Singapore, there is still some responsiveness to criticism.

Singapore’s former prime minister, Lee Hsien Loong, may not have embraced criticism in the same open way as Ardern, but he acted with more subtlety by acknowledging policy pressures and recalibrating where necessary.

In major speeches and especially on National Day Rallies, he would openly address issues people were unhappy about, like rising HDB prices, migrant workers, rising living costs, and inequality.

The key point is that the issue was neither silenced nor denied, but there would be a response to the criticism and a possible policy recalibration.

Former United States president Barack Obama governed amid relentless criticism, but in the US, under him, criticism was not suppressed but institutionalised, and channelled through a free press, legislative scrutiny, and judicial review.

Democracy depends on criticism

The contrast is clear: criticism, when engaged with, strengthens legitimacy. When suppressed, it erodes it.

A functioning democracy does not merely tolerate criticism; it depends on it. It is a stress test of leadership, not an attack on it. Without it, governance becomes performance, and power becomes theatre.

Naturally, criticism can be crude, emotional, even unfair, especially in the age of social media, but the true test of leadership is not how it handles polite dissent. It is how it responds to the loud, messy, inconvenient kind.

Knowingly, democracy was never meant to be tidy.

There is, however, a familiar double standard. In the opposition, criticism is framed as accountability. In the government, the same criticism becomes “destabilising”.

Laws once condemned as repressive are repurposed as necessary. The Sedition Act does not change; only those wielding it do.

And here lies the uncomfortable truth: power changes perception. Criticism feels personal. Dissent looks like disloyalty. The line between protecting the state and protecting one’s image begins to blur.

A leader who cannot tolerate criticism is not strong, as he’s only shielded.

The price of silencing dissent

There seems to be an unwritten political rulebook whereby, when in the opposition, “The people must be heard.” Then the transition to being the rulers means that in government, “The people must be… managed.”

Some politicians tend to treat criticism like gym memberships, enthusiastically signing up when in the opposition, but quietly neglecting the gym when in power. Unlike a missed workout, the cost is not personal. It is public.

Will the Madani administration appreciate that criticism is not the enemy of governance? It is its safeguard. It is the early warning system that tells us when power drifts and promises fade.

Therefore, suppressing criticism is not just silencing dissent; it is weakening democracy itself, and that is a price no government can afford.

Why has there been no clear confirmation about what happened to “Jorjet Myla”?

To put in colloquial Malay, it’s “habuk pun tak ada!” (absolutely nothing, zero, not a single thing.)

Bleeding revenue

Nine months after the four councils had hurriedly (more reluctantly) signed the contracts, there seems to be disappointment, but those affected, including some councillors, have sealed their lips, fearing not being re-appointed.

So, where is the value-added service, which comes at a huge cost or, in the case of the councils, a huge loss of revenue?

This is not a parking policy - it is a masterclass in political accounting. The RM200 million “investment” is waved like a magic wand, yet the arithmetic shows councils bleeding revenue while concessionaires fatten their margins.

The promised infrastructure remains invisible, enforcement powers remain muddled, and the public is left wondering whether “smart” parking is just another euphemism for dumb governance.

The deeper rot lies in the governance model itself. Councils are stripped of autonomy, ratepayers are treated as captive wallets, and the state government positions itself as visionary while outsourcing accountability.

What was sold as efficiency is in fact denseness - a financial model where losses are trivialised, and profits privatised.

It is the bureaucratic sleight of hand that turns public accountability into private gain, dressing up opacity as innovation.

The councils are told they will “collect more revenue,” but the arithmetic shows otherwise: they are reduced to junior partners in their own jurisdictions, while concessionaires enjoy guaranteed returns.

This is not efficiency. It is a distortion. Losses to councils are brushed aside as inconsequential, borne silently by ratepayers, while profits are ring-fenced for private actors under the banner of “smart governance.”

Dense, opaque model

In reality, the model is neither smart nor efficient - it is dense, opaque, and structurally tilted against public interest.

Until Selangor can demonstrate tangible infrastructure, transparent accounts, and genuine accountability, the SIP scheme remains a cautionary tale: a system where efficiency is weaponised as rhetoric, denseness is institutionalised as policy, and the public is left subsidising illusions.

This experiment risks becoming a parable of modern Malaysian governance - where slogans of digitalisation and innovation mask the same old patronage politics.

The question is not whether more revenue will be collected, but whether the people will ever see it, or whether it will vanish into the black box of concessionaire contracts.

Until the state can show tangible results - cameras installed, enforcement clarified, transparent accounts published - this remains less a “smart” system than a costly illusion.

And illusions, unlike parking bays, cannot be monetised forever.

From claiming the fix is in when it comes to this election for the second-highest post, from the various snubbings of party pow-wows to claiming bots are used, much like Umno does to amplify messaging on social media.

Where does Rafizi stand?

Rafizi was all over the place in painting why the rakyat should not vote for PKR.

He was right to draw attention to personality politics, but his big ideas depend on the political support from his party and comrades, which has changed with the ascension of Madani.

You need a strong personality to do that, especially since you have a generation of young leaders who want to “inherit” from their elders instead of taking over and establishing a political agenda of their own.

Rafizi’s supporters have told me that by sticking with his MP gig, he can continue to build on the momentum he created, and this would be a tactical advantage when defending his seat. He needs to be the rakyat’s eyes and ears, they tell me.

In his posting about his return to active political life, Rafizi made it clear he wants to stake out the multiethnic middle ground.

What this means remains to be seen, especially since the various parties in Madani adhere to the old Umno/BN formula, which Harapan (especially the DAP) always downplays with the Bangsa Malaysia kool-aid.

The fact is that what Rafizi offers obviously does not resonate with PKR’s grassroots, and this says more about what the party has become rather than his ideas, which, for the most part, are utilitarian in nature and would benefit the bumiputera community.

Rafizi talks about a culture of luxury seeping into PKR. He talks about how new members are only there for the positions and perks.

The way Rafizi paints it, who needs Umno when there is PKR? 

Folks these days are struggling with issues, and they have very little time for the internal politics of PKR. Anwar knows this, and he is correct in focusing on the economic storm coming our way.

All this makes the drama that Rafizi is creating seem self-serving, which is what the narratives of Madani and their cyber warriors are peddling.

Rafizi claims that moves are being made in his Pandan seat to oust him from the halls of Putrajaya.

As he said, “We can’t really be surprised if they go ahead and do it anyway, even though there shouldn’t be a by-election - I mean, this is the Madani era.”

This is why he should roll the dice and quit PKR instead of being forced out in some underhanded manner, which would go unnoticed because Malaysians mudah lupa.

The only reckoning or repudiation Madani will understand is if Rafizi wins as an independent.

“All counter transactions, including the purchase of fuel, must be conducted personally by the actual MyKad owner,” Badrul said. (This one-line addition makes a lot of difference!)

Let that sink in. Under this interpretation, if your wife is sick, or tired, or waiting in the car with a sleeping child, you cannot simply walk into a petrol station and use your wife’s IC to fill up the family car.

You must drag her to the counter. Every single time. The law, apparently, does not recognise the concept of “helping your spouse”.

This is not about subsidy leakage. This is not about syndicates smuggling or surreptitiously buying subsidised fuel. This is about a bureaucrat applying a regulation so literally that it becomes absurd.

So, I must conclude: the law is an ass.

Before anyone accuses me of name-calling, let me explain. In Charles Dickens’ “Oliver Twist”, Mr Bumble is told that “the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction.”

He replies: “If the law supposes that, the law is an ass - an idiot.”

I am not calling the Lord Master of our births, deaths, and citizenship an idiot. That would be rude. This is a figure of speech. But I am saying that any law which criminalises a husband buying petrol for his wife’s car has lost sight of its purpose.

The purpose of the subsidy rule is to prevent abuse by non-eligible foreigners or commercial misusers. Not to police family kindness.

The enforcement problem

And this brings me to a deeper point. When a law is so widely ignored that most people do not even know it exists, the problem is not the people. The problem is the law. Or the way it is being enforced. Or, in this case, the person doing the enforcing.

Let’s talk about Badrul. Isn’t this the same man who signed a false statutory declaration attesting that he had issued birth certificates based on “secondary evidence” to seven foreigners born a century ago?

Wasn’t his bluff called by the International Federation of Association Football (Fifa), which produced original birth documents contradicting Malaysia’s allegedly doctored submissions?

Didn’t he issue MyKads and citizenship certificates to seven foreign footballers who couldn’t even speak Bahasa Malaysia - a prerequisite for citizenship?

Let me repeat that. A prerequisite for citizenship.

And yet, somehow, these players passed. Somehow, the NRD verified their Malaysian heritage. And when questioned, Badrul promised to answer after a conclusive report.

That report has been out for two months. Where is his answer? Silence.

So here is the irony. The same man who cannot explain how seven foreign footballers obtained Malaysian identity documents is now lecturing ordinary Malaysians about the proper use of a MyKad.

The same man who signed a questionable statutory declaration wants to quote Regulation 25 as if it were holy scripture.

You cannot have it both ways. Either the law is a precise instrument, in which case, explain the footballers. Or the law has some flexibility - in which case, show some compassion to a husband buying petrol for his wife.

Most Malaysians understand the difference between real abuse and everyday life. We know syndicates are using foreign nationals to drain subsidised fuel. We support action against them.

But going after a senior citizen using his wife’s IC at the neighbourhood station? That is not enforcement. That is harassment dressed up as diligence.

What the NRD chief is doing here is selective outrage. He picks an obscure clause, ignores decades of common practice, and threatens legal action against people who have never intended any harm.

Meanwhile, questions about his own department’s integrity go unanswered.

If the law supposes that a husband cannot help his wife buy petrol, Mr Bumble was right the first time.

And if the law supposes that the man who signed off on dubious citizenships gets to lecture the rest of us on proper documentation, then the law is not just an ass. It is a hypocrite.

The real problem

The irony is clear. Authorities encourage Bahasa Malaysia as the national language, yet when Malay-speaking Christians, like the Ibans, use it in worship, they are “confusing”.

They insist on strict halal observance and monitoring of meals, yet a simple gesture of hospitality is treated as a potential threat.

They claim to protect faith, but the real aim is to keep people in line, maintain social predictability, and protect political dominance.

True unity, tolerance, and understanding cannot be achieved through fear, restriction, or moral policing. They are nurtured when people are trusted to engage, reason, and coexist. If a shared meal, a word, a cross, or a greeting can “confuse” Malays, the problem is not the interaction itself.

The real problem lies in the persistent, patronising mindset of control that refuses to treat citizens as capable, informed adults.

As a child, my experience was that inter-ethnic life in schools was more organic. At break time, Malay, Chinese, Indian, and Eurasian students often shared food. There was a simple understanding of boundaries; pork was not offered to Muslim classmates, and beef was not shared with Hindu friends. Interaction was open and natural.

That environment required little regulation, and as children, we learned through everyday experience how to balance differences with respect. The resulting generation grew up broadly tolerant, adaptable, and comfortable with diversity.

Social cohesion

Today, those interactions that were once handled naturally through social understanding are increasingly subject to scrutiny and official control. What was once built through trust is now often conditioned by rules and oversight.

The issue is not whether sensitivities should be respected, because they always were, but whether replacing everyday trust with increasing control strengthens cohesion or slowly erodes it.

Malaysia cannot hope for genuine social cohesion while its leaders treat its majority population like children to be supervised at every step. The real danger is not cultural interaction, but a religious nanny state that masks power and control as concern and protection.

Until we confront this truth, walls will continue to rise, suspicion will deepen, and the very unity that authorities claim to protect will remain elusive.