MOHE Relaxes Disciplinary Actions, But the Laws of Control Remain Intact

 This article was first published in Aliran on 28 August 2026 here  https://m.aliran.com/thinking-allowed-online/mohe-relaxes-discipline-but-the-laws-of-control-remain-intact

The Ministry of Higher Education (MOHE) announced today (28 August 2026) that it has begun implementing immediate measures to strengthen students’ freedom of speech and freedom of association, in line with the statement made by the Prime Minister, during the Forum Ilmuwan Malaysia MADANI (FIM) Series 13 on the abolition of the Universities and University Colleges Act 1971 [Act 30] (AUKU).

The statement is a welcome acknowledgement of the Prime Minister’s direction that Malaysian universities must move towards a position where student rights, academic freedom, and institutional autonomy are treated as constitutional norms rather than administrative privileges.

The announcement of an immediate suspension of disciplinary proceedings related to student speech and peaceful assembly is significant: it recognises that the existing enforcement culture has long been inconsistent with democratic principles.

However, the statement contains a fundamental contradiction that must be addressed if reform or even the interim measures are to be credible.

MOHE declares that it is “committed to ensuring that improvements to student rights are implemented without waiting for the full legislative process to conclude.” It lists the freedoms of association, organising activities, expression, communication, publication as rights that can be acted upon immediately.

Yet the same statement concludes by asserting that these freedoms “must be exercised responsibly and in accordance with the law.”

This is precisely the problem.

The phrase “in accordance with the law” refers to the very legal and regulatory framework — including Act 605, university statutes, and disciplinary rules — that has historically restricted student freedoms. And critically, AUKU is not the only legislation that controls student expression and association. Students and academics remain subject to nearly 20 other laws, including:

• The Sedition Act 1948
• The Printing Presses and Publications Act 1984
• The Communications and Multimedia Act 1948
• Various public order, assembly, and security laws and regulations

Unless there is a blanket immunity for students and academics in the exercise of academic freedom, the repeal of AUKU will only address a small portion of the restrictive legal environment. The machinery of control remains intact. A moratorium on disciplinary proceedings, even if this can legally be implemented, does not dismantle the underlying framework that enables overreach; it merely pauses one part of it. The offender may still be charged in a court of law.

Thus, MOHE simultaneously expands rights and reinscribes the conditions that limit those rights. This internal contradiction weakens the force of the announcement and explains why students, academics, and civil society have consistently argued that abolishing AUKU alone is insufficient. Without structural reform of the broader legal ecosystem, “responsible freedom” risks becoming a euphemism for continued administrative discretion.

The Prime Minister has articulated a rights‑driven vision for higher education. To implement that vision, MOHE must move beyond symbolic gestures and confront the deeper governance and legal structures that have constrained academic freedom for decades. Anything less will reproduce the same culture of control under a different name.

Of Hungry Ghosts and Odysseus in the Underworld

 This is the month of the hungry ghosts.

The gates of the other worlds, heaven and hell, swing open. Those who have departed this world return to their former abodes. Out of longing for this world, to see how those they left behind are faring, it is a coming back to the place that was once their home.

The Hungry Ghosts are those who have no living family to care for them, or who died unjustly, violently, or with unfinished business. They are released because they have been suffering in the underworld and need a chance to receive the merits of a full life: the food, the wealth, and the emotions not resolved. It is an attempt to complete a life that was not fully lived.

And those who are still here welcome them. On the streets of Kuala Lumpur or any of the suburbs, joss sticks burn all night. Beside their glow, you see offerings of food specially prepared for the visitors. No one disturbs the offerings, not even the hungriest dogs. It's a month of collective apology and pacification, a way to resolve old grudges from the spirit world so the living may have peace.

There is a whole protocol of taboos to bring order to this homecoming. The living alter their steps to accommodate the unseen. We do not step over the ash on the pavement, nor do we kick the small piles of fruit, for that would be akin to stepping on a guest’s plate.

During this period, there are special getai operas to entertain the spirits. Performed on covered stages built on streets closed for the occasion, they continue into the small hours of the morning. The entire front row of plastic chairs is left completely empty. No living person will sit there, saving the best view for the souls who have travelled so far.

We are warned not to stay out too late, not to whistle into the midnight air, and to stay away from dark waters, lest we accidentally tether ourselves to a passing shade. These are not merely superstitions born of fear; they are acts of deep courtesy; the rules of hospitality extended to those who no longer have a home.

We often walk past these roadside displays barely looking, not realising they are the physical manifestations of one of the most agonisingly human needs: to say the words left unsaid, to fulfil the obligations left uncompleted, and to find the closures never achieved in life.

This is not a need unique to the here and now of this region. It is a universal ache that echoes across time and geography.

In another world, in another time, in Homer’s Odyssey, the war-weary Odysseus descends into the underworld to find the spirit of Tiresias, the prophet, to guide him home. He digs a trench in the dark earth and pours out libations—milk, honey, sweet wine, and the dark blood of a sacrifice. The ghosts of the underworld have no voice until they are fed. They are shadows, drifting in hunger, waiting for the living to reach across the divide and give them the sustenance required to speak. By chance, Odysseus sees the ghost of his mother, Anticleia. He tries to throw his arms around her. Three times he reaches out, and three times she slips through his fingers like smoke from a candle.

That ancient, heartbreaking ache in the Greek underworld is precisely what is burning on the pavements of Kuala Lumpur during this month.

The "Hungry Ghosts" we feed are not monsters to be feared. In the local tongue, they are referred to as the Hao Xiong Di—the "Good Brothers." They are the forgotten souls, the ones who died without family, the ones whose names have faded from living memory. By laying out crackers, pouring thimbles of Chinese wine onto the tarmac, and burning paper replicas of cars, televisions, and other luxuries of our time, the living are acting just as Odysseus did. We are digging a trench in the concrete. We are giving the forgotten a momentary voice, a brief seat at the table, and a reassurance that they are still tethered to the kindness of those who are still living.

Whether it is an ancient Greek king, lost and pining for his mother on a desolate Mediterranean shore, a Londoner quietly wishing they could make one last phone call to a departed parent, or a Malaysian shopkeeper bowing before a plate of fruit on a humid night, the impulse is identical.

The veil between the living and the dead is terrifyingly thin, yet impossibly wide. We cannot march into the underworld to drag our loved ones back. And so, we do the next best thing. We leave a light on for them on the pavement. We stage operas. We burn a stick of incense to guide them home. We whisper into the smoke, hoping that whatever is drifting in the dark can hear us, can forgive us, and can finally find some peace.

Two Lizards, My Companions

 

We live among people, family, friends, yet often in isolation. We seldom share our uncertainties and doubts but try to resolve them in our minds. Yet, this solitary isolation is gently pierced every day in my workspace at home by two hidden lizards who are seldom seen but seem to know my thoughts. One is always in my study; the other hides within the leaves of the rambutan tree at the edge of the veranda. They have become my companions. When the weight of my unuttered hesitations becomes too heavy, their timely chirps break through the silence to validate the thought in my mind. Their chirping has become a reassuring sound that steadies my thoughts and gives me confidence.

They are beings of stillness and shadow, rarely seen but deeply felt. They do not demand attention, yet they engage in a silent dialogue with my thoughts. As I sit in contemplation, wrestling with the formless weight of an abstract idea, a sudden, sharp chirp breaks the silence. This chik, chik, chik punctuation is never arbitrary; it arrives uncannily at the precise moment when a question is posed in my mind. Not always, but only with some thoughts that they seem to confirm. To experience this is to realize that our minds do not think in isolation. Instead, my thoughts seem to ripple outward, meeting an immediate, living affirmation from the environment itself.

This phenomenon forces us to reconsider our relationship with the living world. It is the very essence of Palli Sastram, an ancient framework that views the movements and sounds of these creatures not as random noise, but as meaningful signs intimately bound to our lives. When these hidden companions chirp in response to a breakthrough in my mind, they disrupt the artificial boundary between us and nature. They remind us of what these timeless traditions have long held: that we are woven into an interconnected stream of existence where everything listens, everything responds, and everything vibrates in a shared rhythm. In the quiet echo of their call, the universe feels a little less empty, and the act of thinking becomes a communal act of being.