Institutional Autonomy and Government Control in Malaysian Higher Education: A Policy Critique of Blueprint Shift 5

 Introduction

Higher education is not often the subject of a country's constitution. It does not hold the formal status of the three pillars—the Legislature, the Executive, or the Judiciary—nor even the status of the Press, which is regarded as the Fourth Estate. Yet, the independence of higher education, if not of all education, is of the same foundational importance, especially since education is now recognised in this country as a constitutional right under Article 5 of the Federal Constitution.

This need to protect independence is not unique to Malaysia; globally, we are witnessing a trend where executive powers seek to bypass institutional autonomy in favour of political alignment.

In the United States, for instance, the Trump administration pursued a policy of "cut, coerce, and control," using federal funding as a lever to force universities to adopt a specific ideological agenda. Through the “Compact for Academic Excellence,” universities were pressured to align curricula with state-defined "merit" in exchange for federal benefits.

Education must be free from such government control so that it is not manipulated into a tool for staying in power by reducing scholarship to propaganda. Without this independence, control inevitably results in censorship, prohibiting subjects adverse to the state.

The Statutory Bodies (Discipline and Surcharge) Act 2000 (Act 605) is a chilling local example; its disciplinary rules prohibit criticism of the government or the university, effectively stifling the very inquiry education is meant to foster. For the constitutional right to education to be meaningful, the governance of higher education must be liberated from executive overreach.

Malaysia’s Higher Learning Institutions (HLIs) are central to nation-building. They nurture talent, drive innovation, and contribute to social and economic progress. The Malaysia Higher Education Blueprint 2025–2035 (MHEB), under Shift 5: Agile and Resilient Governance, acknowledges this role and proposes reforms to strengthen governance. Yet while the Blueprint speaks of autonomy, accountability, and innovation, its proposals, particularly the establishment of the Malaysia Education Council (MEC) chaired by the Prime Minister, indicate a decisive move toward centralisation. This risks undermining the independence universities need to thrive.

Current Governance Framework

At present, universities are governed by their establishing Acts, such as the Universities and University Colleges Act 1971 (AUKU). The Minister of Higher Education may issue directions of a general nature, but these are limited by statute. The Ministry plays a monitoring role, approving institutions and courses, while the Malaysian Qualifications Agency (MQA) serves as the sole authority for accreditation. Private Higher Educational Institutions (PHEIs) are regulated under the Private Higher Educational Institutions Act 1996 (Act 555), but they are also companies under the Companies Act 2016, with directors bound by fiduciary duties. This framework, though fragmented across eleven Acts, preserves a balance between autonomy and oversight.

The Malaysian Education Council (MEC)

Shift 5 proposes the MEC as the apex body for education governance. The Blueprint states:

“The Malaysia Education Council (MEC) will be chaired by the Prime Minister. The primary purpose of the MEC is to serve as a unifying entity that ensures alignment of policies, strategies, and initiatives across the whole education landscape. Among its key roles is streamlining decision-making and strengthening policy coordination across ministries that affect education in Malaysia. The council will monitor and evaluate the performance of the MOE, MOHE, and HLIs, initiate intervention measures, evaluate proposals for strategic initiatives, and action plans.”

This remit goes far beyond the Minister’s current statutory powers. By monitoring universities directly, initiating interventions, and evaluating proposals, the MEC consolidates control at the political apex. Autonomy is promised, but only within boundaries set by government priorities.

PHEIs and the Blueprint’s Legal Blind Spot

The Blueprint’s proposal for a One Higher Education Act (OHEA) seeks to unify AUKU and Act 555 into a single framework. While this may simplify regulation, it disregards the unique legal status of PHEIs. These institutions are companies under the Companies Act, and their directors are legally obliged to act in good faith, exercise care and diligence, and avoid conflicts of interest.

By treating PHEIs as if they were statutory bodies, the Blueprint risks creating legal incoherence. Directors could be compelled to follow MEC directives that prioritise government policy, even where such directives conflict with fiduciary duties under company law. This undermines autonomy, exposes directors to liability, and discourages private investment in higher education. Instead of harmonising governance, the Blueprint collapses diversity into a centralised model that ignores the pluralism of Malaysia’s higher education sector.

Autonomy and Accountability

Shift 5 emphasises “comprehensive autonomy” for HLIs, enabling them to make independent decisions on governance, curriculum, and resources. Yet this autonomy is consistently paired with accountability mechanisms overseen by MEC and the Ministry. Initiatives such as performance-based funding, leadership evaluations, and check-and-balance ecosystems tie autonomy to compliance with national policy objectives. Autonomy here is conditional, not genuine. This creates a paternalistic "check-and-balance" where the Executive retains the ultimate power to revoke freedom. In a constitutional sense, a right that can be withdrawn for failing to meet administrative targets is not a right—it is a conditional license that keeps the university subservient to the state’s whims.

A Constructive Alternative

Malaysia has long recognised the need for governance insulated from politicisation. The Rahman Talib Report of 1961 considered establishing an independent Education Commission to provide impartiality, continuity, and long-term vision. Reviving this idea would offer a more coherent path forward. An independent commission could provide the strategic direction and accountability the Blueprint seeks, but without sacrificing institutional autonomy or creating conflicts with company law.

Conclusion

The Blueprint’s mechanism for "streamlining" this governance is the MEC. By placing the Prime Minister as the Chair, the Blueprint effectively absorbs the university into the Second Estate (The Executive).

When a university’s strategic direction is monitored through monthly delivery reports to the head of government, the institution ceases to be an independent forum for ideas. Instead, it becomes a delivery unit for the state's immediate economic and political agenda. This centralisation mirrors the logic of propaganda; it ensures that the "impact" of higher education is measured solely by its alignment with the government’s vision, leaving no room for the dissenting or "adverse" subjects that a healthy democracy requires.

A better path forward lies in reviving the idea of an independent Education Commission. Such a body would balance autonomy with accountability, respect the legal frameworks governing both public and private institutions, and shield higher education from politicisation. This approach would honour Malaysia’s historical vision while positioning its universities to meet the challenges of a global knowledge economy.

The Silence of Chinese New Year

 Chinese New Year is perhaps one of the only few days when the city rests. Shops close, streets empty, and the familiar bustle of commerce vanishes. For a moment in the year, silence descends, a rare pause in urban life, as if the city has decided to sleep late.

But the quiet has its many sounds that reign over the silence. The New Year arrives, but not quietly.

Firecrackers erupt across neighbourhoods, their crackle and boom echoing into the early hours. Lion dance troupes take to the streets, their drums pounding in hypnotic cadence, cymbals clashing in precise bursts.

Inside homes, besides the ancestral altar, other sounds, as families reunite around tables laden with food cooked only for the New Year. The spread is a deliberate arrangement of fortune: a steamed whole fish is served to ensure a surplus of wealth, while gold-tinted dumplings and spring rolls are piled high to invite prosperity.

Long, uncut longevity noodles are carefully coiled into bowls to safeguard the family’s health, and sweet plates of nian gao and tangyuan sit ready to symbolise growth and unbreakable unity. 

Voices rise in laughter, a thousand occurrences of the past year recounted, a few rebukes, not spoken but shown in silent frowns louder than words. Then there is the Yee Sang, before the main meal - tossed high for prosperity with the chorus of “Loh, loh, loh!”

But in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, the city's silence at rest is replaced by another human sound, of a different reunion. With the closure of the city’s main sections, thousands of foreign workers emerge into the quiet of a few streets where the shops supply their particular needs. For them, the pause is a chance to reclaim fragments of home. A few hours to live, briefly, the life they left behind in pursuit of work.

It is an incomplete gathering, a reunion held in the absence of the very families they work to sustain. There is, for them, nostalgia in the city as it rests. For a few hours, the chatter of familiar tongues and the smells from the shops take these guests from afar back to the places they come from. Their presence fills the silence with a different kind of bustle, one rarely acknowledged in the city’s narrative.

Chinese New Year is thus a festival of silence and noise. It begins with silence but quickly fills with sound: the chaos of firecrackers, the rhythm of drums, the warmth of family voices, and the overlooked bustle of migrant communities. These contradictions remind us that silence and noise coexist not only in festivals but in governance. Silence can conceal injustice, while noise, the voices of citizens and workers alike, pushes for accountability and recognition.

Renewal, whether of a city or a nation, cannot come from silence alone. It requires the courage to break it, to hear the voices of the unseen, and to act. Just as firecrackers shatter the night, so too must we shatter complacency. Renewal requires rhythm, voice, and justice, the true soundscape of a society that values all its people.

 

18/2/26

Chinese New Year – Another of Our Rich Heritage

 

Learning Unity in Diversity

Growing up in the government quarters on Imbi Road, my world was defined by Malay, Chinese, Eurasian, and Indian families living side by side. With a child’s eye, I saw differences—languages, foods, festivals—but I also saw unity. Walking to school, sharing classrooms and playing fields, borrowing sugar and salt from neighbours, watching wives gather in a common place after the office buses had returned—all these moments taught me that our needs were the same, whatever our complexion or what we cooked in our kitchens. Joy and tears were shared, and in those exchanges, our differences dissolved into humanity.

More than anything else, it was the festivals that joined us. Trays of food and fruit from one house would be shared with neighbours. Everyone wore their best attire, even if it was not their festival. In those moments, difference became celebration, and celebration became unity.

A Festival Seen from Afar

In the 19th century, Chinese New Year was often described by outsiders as something exotic and distant. A British traveller in Hong Kong, 1867, called it “a riot of sound and colour, with crackers exploding incessantly and the streets filled with strange rites of the Celestials.”

An 1880s Singapore newspaper noted: “Days of feasting and gambling, when the Chinese close their shops and indulge in their peculiar customs.”

These voices reveal how the festival was once seen as a foreign spectacle—something “to indulge”, belonging to “others,” not yet embraced as part of a shared civic life.

Chinese New Year 2026

Today is Chinese New Year. The doorbell rang early, and our neighbours arrived with cakes and the traditional oranges. My wife placed a small red packet on their tray, and in that simple exchange, the Lunar New Year began for us all.

Now, the world celebrates too. In London’s Trafalgar Square, the Lunar New Year draws hundreds of thousands of people of every background. In Sydney, the Harbour Bridge glows red. In San Francisco, the parade is a civic highlight. What was once seen as peculiar or distant has become a global festival of renewal, prosperity, and family.

Children of the Monsoons

We are a lucky country. Situated on a peninsula where civilisations met, traded, and departed with the great monsoons, we have inherited not just cultures, languages, and food—oh, what food!—but civilisations themselves. Our neighbours enrich us. True, there are voices that would exploit differences to divide us, but they will wither away, shrinking against the vastness of our shared humanity.

As a former Minister of Education once reminded us, education must take note of our fortuitous position at the intersection of civilizations.

We must learn that we are children of the monsoons: the wind and rain birthed us, and the produce of this land, which is more than food, continues to nourish us. To celebrate Chinese New Year is to celebrate ourselves, our fortune, and our humanity.

A Call to Rejoice

So let us rejoice. Let us celebrate every festival as our own, for in doing so we affirm that unity is not the absence of difference but the embrace of differences.

To all of us - Happy New Year. KONG HEE FATT CHOY. Celebrate.

 

The Monolith vs. The Mosaic: A Critique of the Malaysian Higher Education Blueprint (2026–2035)

 

The recently unveiled Malaysia Higher Education Blueprint 2026–2035 (the Blueprint) is the second Blueprint on higher education published by the Ministry of Higher Education in the last ten years. The first covered the period from 2015 to 2025.

The new Blueprint sets out a broad new focus (page 10, the Blueprint) that outlines a ‘transformative shift’ in the higher education system to align it with future demands and challenges. It promises a shift from rigid, structured learning toward the unbundling of education that supports lifelong and life-wide pathways, while reframing graduates not only as job seekers but also as job creators equipped with entrepreneurial and innovative skills. Talent development is recast from output-driven to values-internalised and impact-driven, grounded in ethics and purpose, while leadership is envisioned as intrapreneurial and systems-thinking. Institutions are to be harmonised into collaborative ecosystems, competencies broadened into STEAM-enabled skills, and Malaysia’s ambition expanded from regional hub to global education centre that is competitive and prepared to meet the challenges of an evolving world.

The Blueprint’s new focus is undeniably ambitious, promising lifelong learning, entrepreneurial graduates, and sustainability-led leadership. Yet these shifts, like intrapreneurial, remain aspirational slogans rather than actionable reforms. The new document, as with the previous Blueprint (2015-2025), outlines what higher education should look like in an ideal future but provides no clear mechanisms, benchmarks, or evaluative tools to measure whether these transformations will succeed. Without a framework for accountability, the rhetoric of “unbundling education” and “values-internalised talent” risks becoming little more than fanciful branding, detached from the entrenched problems of access, equity, and community engagement that continue to define Malaysia’s higher education sector.

This absence of measurable pathways points to a deeper flaw: the Blueprint’s reliance on a top-down approach. By favouring ministerial vision over community realities, it assumes reform can be engineered from above without first engaging the diverse constituencies it seeks to serve. Instead of beginning with a rigorous audit of lived experiences—geographic, socioeconomic, and cultural—the Blueprint imposes a standardized model of progress.

The Fallacy of the Top-Down Reform
The Blueprint’s primary error is the assumption that reform can be engineered from the Ministry downwards without first conducting a system-wide audit of the "lived reality" of access. A proposal for reform should have begun with an assessment of the geographic, socioeconomic, and cultural factors that limit participation across our diverse regions. Instead, the document imposes a standardized vision of progress. To borrow from Paulo Freire, this approach mirrors the "banking model" of education: the state "deposits" a singular vision of the future into the system, treating the diverse societies of Malaysia as passive recipients rather than active participants in their own development.

A Nation of 50,000 Years: Diversity Beyond the Present
The "diversity" the Blueprint fails to recognize is not merely a matter of geography or economics; it is an epistemological and ontological pluralism. Malaysia is built on a mosaic of worldviews that define the "good life" in radically different ways. We are a nation of competing cosmologies, diverse social fabrics, and varied ways of knowing. Yet, instead of celebrating that unique diversity, we have voices in power that would abolish that diversity and place education, curriculum and all in a single Act of Parliament.

The most harrowing failure of a standardized "monolithic" plan is its inability to account for the Aboriginal and Indigenous peoples of this land. For the Orang Asli, whose presence in this region spans 50,000 years, education should be a bridge to the future that respects the sanctity of a rich and deep, localized past. When we impose a singular "Higher Education" model, we risk an act of epistemicide—the systematic destruction of alternative cultures. True education for a 50,000-year-old culture is not about assimilation into a globalized, urban-centric workforce; it is about recognizing that their understanding of the world is a "higher education" in its own right. As Freire argued, to impose a world on another is an act of violence.

The "One Act" vs. The Pluralistic Law
This monolithic thinking culminates in the proposed "One Higher Education Act" (OHEA). While "harmonization" sounds efficient, it often acts as a tool for homogenization. A more progressive approach—as envisioned in the Maszlee Committee's draft—would have been a two-part framework:

1. The Universal Soul: A section codifying the "Idea of the University," protecting non-negotiable attributes like academic freedom, institutional autonomy, and the fundamental rights of students and staff.
2. The Contextual Body: A section that preserves the unique policy objectives of diverse institutions. Rather than forcing every university into a standardized regulatory mould, the law should provide the flexibility for institutions like UiTM or local polytechnics, including a university or institution dedicated to indigenous studies to fulfil their specific social contracts without the pressure of fixed KPIs that may be irrelevant to their mission.

Conclusion
Higher education must be a practice of freedom, not a mechanism of conformity. The purpose of education is not to standardize to such an extent that it destroys the very cultures it claims to empower. To truly reform Malaysian higher education, we must move away from the top-down directive and return to a system designed from the individual and the community outwards. We do not need a "One Act" that makes us the same; we need a framework that guarantees our universal rights while protecting our 50,000-year-old diversities.

Chan Ah Thong, Brickfields – A State of Mind

 The places we live in bring us together regardless of race, religion or language. One such place was Chan Ah Tong in Brickfields. Chan Ah Tong was not simply the name of a road in Brickfields, but the state of mind of a people from different origins living together,

For those who grew up in the period after WW2 and Independence in 1957, it was a part of the embryo of the multiracial country being formed at that time. 

I don’t know about the adults who lived there, but the boys we met from Chan Ah Tong, regardless of race, spoke in a common idiom; they grouped together, shared a common loyalty and even formed football and cricket teams. 

"Dei", a Tamil word, was a commonly used term to call someone or as an interjection or filler to keep the speech flowing. This single, percussive syllable acted as the heartbeat of their interactions—a linguistic bridge that rendered the distinctions of their parents' origins irrelevant.

In this embryonic Malaysia, identity was forged on the sunken playing field bordered by the houses and the main road. It must have been formed after the red earth was dug out to make the bricks that rebuilt Kuala Lumpur after the great fire at the end of the 19th century. 

If the place was the embryo of a nation in making, Chan Ah Tong boys were the early births from that embryo. 

To those who today seek to divide Malaysian society along communal lines, the memory of Chan Ah Tong offers a sharp rebuke. It proves that ethnic identities are not monoliths but fabric that can be woven together. When the Vivekananda Ashram, the Sam Kow Tong Temple, the Madrasathul Gouthiyyah Surau and the local churches all stood within the same square mile, they didn't compete for dominance; they provided a collective spiritual canopy for a community that saw itself as a single unit.

Today, the field is a car park, and the quarters have been demolished to make way for new structures. But the lesson of the Chan Ah Tong culture remains: unity is not something that needs to be engineered through policy if it is first allowed to bloom through proximity. Those who preach division would do well to remember that for decades, in a small corner of Brickfields, Malaysians had already figured out how to live together—not by ignoring their differences, but by playing, eating, and dreaming right in the middle of them.

To look back at that era is to remember its lesson that the "Malaysian identity" was never a complex puzzle to be solved by politicians. It was already there, loud and unforced, in the shout of a Chinese boy calling "Dei" across a Brickfields field, standing as living proof that we were always meant to be one.

Welcome to "Learning About Today" – A New Chapter

 Welcome to "Learning About Today" – A New Chapter

For a long time, this space was known as Private Education Malaysia. It served as a record of mainly the private sector of education and my career as an educator in that sector. But as the world around us shifts—becoming louder, more complex, and increasingly fragmented—I have felt the need for this blog to shift along with it.

Today, I am officially renaming this site Learning About Today.

Why the Change?

My life’s work has been dedicated to education, but I have come to realise that "learning" does not end at the school gates. We are currently living through a period of profound digital noise. The traditional media "gatekeepers" are fading, replaced by a "many-to-many" landscape of podcasts, social media influencers, and independent blogs.

While this shift has democratized information, it has also created a crisis of truth. We are no longer just students of subjects; we are students of survival in an age of misinformation, "rage-bait" algorithms, and charismatic broadcasters who often prioritise engagement over objectivity.

What to Expect

Learning for Today will continue to feature my reflections on education, but the lens will be broader. I will be exploring the intersection of media, power, and the institutions of democracy.

We will look at:

• Media Literacy: How to deconstruct the "digital noise" and spot the tactics of modern authoritarianism.
• Democratic Advocacy: Why the plethora of new media can lead to confusion and withdrawal, and how we can stay engaged.
• The Educator’s Perspective: Why learning to navigate the news must become a fundamental part of our national curriculum.

Our First Lesson: The Drowning of Democracy

To kick off this new chapter, I am publishing an essay that touches on the very heart of why I am making this change: "Hiding in Plain Sight: How Digital Noise is Paving the Road to Autocracy."

In it, I discuss how the "colossal failure" of traditional media (most recently seen in the reporting on the genocide in Palestine) has pushed us toward a decentralized media world that—while liberating—is fraught with new dangers.

Join the Conversation

I am grateful to those who have followed my writing here and through my contributions to Aliran. I hope you will stay with me for this new journey. Democracy is not a spectator sport; it requires a public that is willing to keep learning, every single day.

Welcome to the classroom. Let’s start learning.

Thaipusam – A Personal Reflection

 

Thaipusam is an annual celebration dedicated to Lord Murugan, one of the main Hindu deities.

Thaipusam

To Hindus, Thaipusam is a day of profound spiritual cleansing and victory. It honours Lord Murugan, the deity of youth and power, receiving the Vel or the divine spear of wisdom to defeat the forces of darkness. It is a celebration of the triumph of the human spirit over its own limitations, expressed through grand processions and acts of deep penance.

Worshippers carry the kavadis, which are a symbolic burden of atonement or repentance on their shoulders as they climb the hundred of steps to the temple, as in Batu Caves in Kuala Lumpur or walk long distances to the temple. Kavadis come in many shapes and forms, often in the shape of an arched wooden or steel frame decorated with flowers, peacock feathers (the peacock is Lord Murugan's mount), and images of deities.

The procession of the chariot

In the main temples in Malaysia, where Thaipusam is celebrated, the celebration starts a day earlier when the deity's statue is carried in chariots from the temple of his abode to the one where the rituals are held.

The Rhythm of the Streets

Until a few years ago, when my left knee began to act up, I walked in the procession from the Sri Mahamariamman Temple on High Street to Baru Caves, ten miles away on the old road leading to Ipoh and the North.

To walk with the chariot is an experience one never forgets. You don’t walk alone but with a throng of people keeping pace with the chariot.

The air is filled with the smell of jasmine and incense, vibrating with the primal thrum of the urumi drums and trumpets. But look closely at the crowd, and you see the true miracle of our nation. It is a long, winding river of humanity where Indian, Chinese, and Malay faces blend into a single moving entity.

A Shared Journey

Shop owners along the route, regardless of their faith, offer fruits and flowers as the chariot passes. In those moments, the deep but obvious message of Thaipusam reveals itself: religion need not be a barrier that divides, but a bridge that connects. That is the Vel of wisdom.

The Lion and the Chariot

Nowhere is this unity more enchanting than in the greeting of the lion dancers. This tradition emerged spontaneously in our urban centres as a beautiful gesture of respect from the Chinese community toward their Hindu neighbours. To see the vibrant, coloured lions bow and dance before the silver chariot is to witness a sight that speaks to the heart. Two different sounds from two ancient civilisations meeting on a Malaysian street.

Forged by the Winds

Malaysia is one of the few places on earth where the great monsoons meet. For centuries, the winds brought travellers, traders, and seekers from every corner of the globe to these shores. In this crucible, the cultures and religions of the world were forged together, not by force, but by the necessity of coexistence.

This, I believe, is the first lesson of being Malaysian. We are remarkably different, yet we are united by the mysterious ways of history. We are a people woven together by a narrative much larger than ourselves—a tikar mengkuang (a traditional mat woven from palm leaves) created by the long, overlapping shadows of our ancestors.

I am made of these memories. Though my knee may no longer allow me to keep pace with the chariot, the spirit of that walk remains within me. It reminds me that we are a country where the sacred and the secular, the ancient and the modern, and the lion and the deity, all walk the same path. We are different. Yes. But we are bound by a shared history that has taught us how to move as one, even if it is to different rhythms.

In my younger days, as a clerk with the National Electricity Board, my union was one of the movers of the Batu Caves celebrations, together with those of the Telecoms and PWD. I remember the weight of those two nights spent as a volunteer. Chopping vegetables, boiling the dhal and cooking mountains of rice, all under a tent in the heat of a dozen wood-burning stoves.  This was followed the next day by the sheer joy of serving the food and drinks for the thousands who arrived in waves. It was service in its purest form, fuelled by the same mysterious history that brought us all to this land.

Today, 1 February 2026, marks a rare and auspicious alignment in Malaysia as we celebrate both Thaipusam and Federal Territory Day. For Hindus, this sacred day commemorates Lord Murugan receiving the Vel (divine spear) from his mother, Goddess Parvati, to vanquish the demon Soorapadman—a powerful symbol of wisdom overcoming ignorance. 

University Ranking - Must this be our Game?

Global university rankings have grown into a powerful industry since their emergence in 2003, shaping public perception and institutional behaviour far beyond what their methodologies justify. 

In Malaysia, as in many Asian countries, rankings have become an obsession among university leaders, driving questionable practices and diverting scarce resources into gaming the system rather than strengthening teaching, research, or student support. Governments, the media, and the public often use rankings to praise or condemn institutions without understanding what these metrics actually measure.

Malaysia’s higher-education landscape highlights the limitations of global rankings especially clearly. Public universities operate under ethnic‑based admissions quotas and national policy objectives designed to address historical inequalities. Private universities, by contrast, function as fee‑dependent businesses whose survival depends on enrolment rather than research intensity or global visibility. These structural differences mean that institutions are not competing on equal terms, nor are they pursuing the same mission. Yet global rankings treat them as if they are identical, producing distorted comparisons that penalise universities fulfilling national responsibilities and reward those optimising metrics irrelevant to local needs.

A further omission in global ranking criteria is academic freedom, an essential attribute of any true university. Ranking systems do not measure whether scholars are free to teach, research, and publish without interference. In Malaysia, statutory laws such as the Statutory Bodies (Discipline and Surcharge) Act, along with policy and administrative restrictions, place significant limits on academic expression and institutional autonomy. These constraints challenge the very definition of what a university is meant to be, yet rankings remain silent on this foundational issue. A system that cannot measure academic freedom cannot claim to measure academic quality.

To counterbalance the distortions of global rankings, the Ministry of Higher Education has developed domestic evaluation systems such as SETARA and MyQUEST. These instruments assess teaching, learning, governance, and programme quality — dimensions far more aligned with Malaysia’s educational priorities than international rankings. However, despite their strengths, public discourse continues to prefer global league tables, often to the detriment of institutional integrity and long‑term development.

Across Malaysian academia, scepticism toward rankings is growing. University governors and academics warn that rankings encourage superficial strategies, inflate marketing budgets, and shift attention away from widening access, improving pedagogy, and supporting first‑generation learners. 

Students and parents, meanwhile, often misinterpret rankings as indicators of teaching quality or programme suitability, unaware of how little these metrics reveal about the actual student experience.

If higher education is to serve its essential purpose — expanding opportunity, cultivating knowledge, and strengthening society — Malaysia must prioritise rigorous accreditation, academic freedom, and context‑sensitive evaluation over global prestige contests. The real measure of a university lies not in its position on a commercial list, but in its commitment to its students, its mission, and the nation it serves.

When the World Turns Imperial Again, the Individual Vanishes — As Always

I have been thinking a great deal about the origins of government, not as an abstract academic exercise but as a way of making sense of the world I inhabit today. My concerns have deepened as I watch, from afar, how democratic institutions in the United States—long held up as a global model—are dismantled by those seeking to consolidate power. This unravelling has forced me to revisit the classical theories of governance, not to admire their elegance, but to understand how easily structures we assume to be stable can be hollowed out from within. The more I reflect on these theories, the more I find myself returning to a troubling conclusion: that governments, with few exceptions, have evolved into systems for extracting wealth and controlling populations for the benefit of a small elite.

The illusion begins with law. We are taught that laws maintain order and protect rights, that civil and criminal codes form the backbone of a just society. But the more I observe how laws are applied and interpreted, the more I see how they function as instruments of control rather than guardians of justice. Rights are loudly proclaimed yet unevenly protected. The powerful navigate the legal system with impunity, while ordinary citizens are reminded constantly of the consequences of disobedience.

The illusion deepens through elections. We are told that the ballot box expresses the will of the people, that governments derive legitimacy from the majority. But elections often serve as symbolic performances rather than genuine transfers of authority. They rotate faces, not structures. Choices are narrow, managed, and shaped by the same interests that dominate the economy. The result is a political system that appears participatory but remains insulated from the people it claims to represent.

The consequences are visible everywhere. Wealth is concentrated in the hands of a tiny minority, often less than ten percent controlling most national resources. This is not an accident or a quirk of capitalism; it is the logical outcome of a system designed to legitimise extraction. The law protects property more fiercely than people. Policies preserve the interests of those who already hold power. And when the system is challenged, the state responds with the full force of its machinery—legal, economic, and sometimes violent. The events unfolding in the US is a stark example of this.

Closer to home, the pattern is unmistakable. The withdrawal of prosecutions through mechanisms such as the DNAA has become a stark reminder of how the legal system bends to accommodate those in positions of influence. When individuals with political or economic power are shielded from accountability, the message is unmistakable: the law is not neutral but pliable, adjustable when the stakes are high enough. These episodes erode public trust not because they shock us, but because they confirm what many have long suspected—that the system protects itself and its beneficiaries, not the people it claims to serve.

Another method by which power sustains itself in this country is through the deliberate manipulation of ethnic and religious divisions. Instead of nurturing a shared national identity, those in authority often emphasise difference, suspicion, and historical grievance. Communities are encouraged to see one another as threats rather than partners in a common future. Policies and rhetoric reinforce the idea that each group must cling to its protectors or risk losing its place. A divided population is easier to manage, easier to distract, and easier to mobilise selectively when political survival is at stake. These divisions are not organic; they are cultivated. And once internalised, they become self‑perpetuating, making it even harder to imagine a politics grounded in solidarity.

In moments like these, I find myself asking whether there is any way out of this cycle. History offers examples of mass movements that have attempted to challenge entrenched power, but most have been crushed or co‑opted. The state’s monopoly on force, its control of information, and its ability to criminalise dissent make collective action extraordinarily difficult. Even when movements achieve temporary victories, the structures of power often reconstitute themselves in new forms.

And yet, we live in a time when new technologies—social media and artificial intelligence—have transformed how individuals communicate and understand the world. For a brief moment, social media seemed to democratize information, allowing ordinary people to bypass traditional gatekeepers. But it also revealed how easily these platforms could be manipulated, surveilled, and weaponised. Algorithms amplify division and shape public perception in ways that are largely invisible. The same tools that empower can also entrap.

Artificial intelligence presents an even deeper paradox. It can expand knowledge and democratize expertise, but it can also be centralised and used to reinforce existing hierarchies. If data and digital infrastructure remain in the hands of the same small group that controls wealth and political institutions, AI may become the most efficient instrument of domination in human history. The danger is not the technology itself, but the structures into which it is absorbed.

So I am left with a difficult question: are we witnessing tools that can break the cycle of exploitation, or simply new instruments for the same old pattern? History suggests that every new technology begins with a democratic promise before being captured by entrenched interests.

And yet, I resist despair. For all the ways power manipulates law, divides communities, and captures institutions, there remains one space that has not been fully colonised: the human mind. As an educationist, I have always believed that genuine transformation begins with the ability to see clearly. If the illusion of government is sustained by ignorance, fear, and manufactured division, then the antidote must be an education that cultivates critical thought, historical awareness, and moral courage.

This requires more than teaching facts. It demands a curriculum that exposes the mechanisms of power, that teaches young people how narratives are constructed, how laws can both protect and oppress, and how fear is used to divide communities that might otherwise stand together. If we can reshape education in this way, perhaps the next generation will be less easily divided, less easily controlled, and less easily persuaded that the structures around them are natural or inevitable.

I do not pretend that education alone can overturn centuries of entrenched power. But I have seen how a single classroom discussion can shift a young person’s understanding of the world. If there is a way out of the cycles that have defined human history, it may begin with the simple act of teaching people to think for themselves. My hope rests in education—honest, critical, and humane—as the seed from which a different future might yet grow.