2026 FIFA World Cup - the Violation of the Playing Field

 

The violation of the playing field is not just a sporting scandal. It is a warning about the fragility of justice itself. When leaders impose their kingly whims, both sport and law begin to regress.

The sports arena, whether for tennis, sepak takraw, or football, is humanity’s most refined vision for resolving conflict without bloodshed.

In early medieval England, from where we draw our common law, disputes were settled through trial by combat. Victory in the combat fought with swords and lances was believed to reveal divine decision.

And long before that, in the Roman amphitheatre, the emperor’s thumb determined life or death. A single gesture could spare a gladiator or condemn him. The law was whatever the emperor felt in that moment. And emperors, then as now, could be mad.

The irony is that modern common law evolved precisely by rejecting this world of sovereign whim. As societies evolved, kings themselves began surrendering their personal fiat as arbiters of disputes. They allowed rules, evidence, juries, and procedure to take their place. When monarchs stepped back, law stepped forward.

The courtroom became the civilised successor to the arena, a space where justice was no longer determined by strength, luck, or the temper of a mad emperor, but by principles and rules that applied equally to all.

Sport mirrors this same civilizational evolution. Rather than killing or maiming opponents, societies developed mutually agreed-upon rules built on fairness. This transformation created a level playing field where conflict could remain fierce yet civil, forcing rivals to accept equality under the law and submit to the judgment of an impartial arbiter, the referee or umpire.

The playing field became a space where victory is dictated not by sovereign caprice, but by rules that bind everyone equally.

This is why the 2026 FIFA World Cup, hosted largely in the United States, has become such a troubling spectacle. The tournament has been overshadowed by imperial interference and discriminatory enforcement. These are not minor regulatory issues. They strike at the heart of what makes sport meaningful: the promise that within the painted lines, fairness will prevail.

One of the most widely reported controversies involved American striker Folarin Balogun, who received a straight red card in the Round of 32. Under FIFA’s rules, this carries an automatic one‑match ban. Yet after the incident, U.S. President Donald Trump personally phoned FIFA President Gianni Infantino to complain. FIFA then suspended the ban under Article 27, a move so unusual that European football bodies warned it set a dangerous precedent.

Regardless of one’s view of the incident, the principle is clear: the head of state, even if he imagines himself emperor, should not be allowed to influence the rules of play on the field. When political power intrudes into the referee’s domain, the playing field ceases to be a sanctuary and becomes an extension of imperial authority, as in the Roman amphitheatre. This is precisely what sport had transcended.

The erosion of fairness has not been confined to the pitch. Immigration enforcement has repeatedly disrupted the basic premise of a neutral ground for a global tournament. Accredited individuals have been detained, denied entry, or deported despite FIFA approval. Somali referee Omar Abdulkadir Artan was detained and deported. Iraqi striker Aymen Hussein was held for hours at O’Hare Airport. The Palestinian Football Association’s president, Jibril Rajoub, was refused a visa altogether. These incidents reveal how easily the neutrality of sport can be compromised when discriminatory politics intrude. When immigration officers, rather than referees, determine who participates, the playing field is no longer governed by the rules of the sport but by the prejudices of the host nation.

Actions surrounding the tournament have also affected fans and communities. Human Rights Watch and other observers have documented heightened risks for immigrant groups in cities hosting the tournament, including visa restrictions and targeted policing. The World Cup is meant to be a celebration of humanity’s diversity. Instead, many communities feel surveilled or excluded. Fairness is not only about the players; it is about the people who fill the stadiums and add that vital spirit to the game that only spectators can provide.

Press freedom, another pillar of fairness, has also come under strain in the host country. Journalists have faced arrests and deportations while covering events around the tournament. When press freedom is restricted, transparency suffers, and the moral authority of the playing field weakens.

Sport is more than entertainment. It is humanity’s most successful experiment in dealing with conflict. And here lies the deeper warning: if fairness can be violated in the rule-bound football field, then fairness can be violated in the courtroom, the far more complex arena upon which our entire justice system rests.

Kings once surrendered their personal power so that rules could govern disputes. We should worry when demented leaders begin to impose their kingly whims in settling disputes.

The playing field is sacred only for as long as we defend it.

 

Petaling Jaya

10 July 2026

Lecturer Challenges University’s KPI-Policies: The Judgment in Azlianor v Universiti Teknikal Melaka

 A Lecturer Challenges Unilateral KPI-Driven Policies

Azlianor v UTeM[1] is a rare instance of a university lecturer resorting to legal action to challenge a university’s exercise of its power over its academic staff.

The High Court, however, dismissed her application after the university amended and reissued the circulars, rendering the dispute “academic”[2]. Because of this, the judgment may not bind future cases in any strong way.

However, despite its limited precedential weight, the judgment reveals how Malaysian courts currently understand university autonomy, academic regulation, and the governance structures created by the Universities and University Colleges Act 1971 (UUCA). By treating the matter as an administrative dispute, the Court missed an opportunity to examine the special character of the UUCA university as a self‑governing academic community where decisions are made through collegial processes, unlike government departments or other statutory bodies.

The applicant, a senior lecturer at UTeM, applied for judicial review of the university’s decision to impose new KPI requirements, including mandatory publication in indexed journals such as Scopus and Web of Science.

She applied to the High Court for judicial review of the university’s decision on the long‑established grounds of irrationality, unreasonableness, and procedural impropriety, with the further allegation that the changes were introduced mid‑year for immediate implementation in that same year. As stated earlier, the High Court dismissed her application.

Historically, judicial review was only concerned with the decision‑making process where the impugned decision is flawed on the ground of procedural impropriety, i.e., the decision did not follow prescribed procedures. However, over the years, our courts have made inroads into this field of administrative law. The Federal Court in a landmark case[3], held that the decision of inferior tribunals, such as the authorities of a university may be reviewed on the grounds of “illegality”, “irrationality” and “proportionality”, not only on the decision-making process but also on the merits, thus allowing the courts to scrutinise a decision not only for process but also for substance. The upshot of this approach is that an application for judicial review can now examine both procedure and substance of an official decision‑making body or person.

Any person, such as the senior lecturer in this case, who is adversely affected by the decision, action, or omission in relation to the exercise of the public duty or function is entitled to apply for a judicial review.

Summary of the Applicant’s Case

The applicant argued that the two KPI circulars were procedurally improper because they bypassed the Majlis Bersama Jabatan (MBJ), the staff–management forum established under JPA’s 2020 service circular. She contended that the lack of engagement and consultation rendered the circulars invalid and further, that they contravened sections 8 and 26 of the UUCA and section 4(r) of the university’s Constitution.

Substantively, she argued that the mandatory Scopus publication requirement was unreasonable, ignored lecturers’ many other duties, and imposed a punitive score cap of 79.99%. She also highlighted procedural defects: the minutes approving PP 11/2024 were issued after the circular took effect, and PP 23/2024 was not approved by the University’s Board as required. Finally, she asserted that the circulars violated her constitutional rights and imposed an excessive workload, with an unrealistic nine‑month deadline to produce an indexed article.

Autonomy Is Not the Whole Story

The Court emphasised the autonomy of the university and the Vice‑Chancellor. Autonomy is indeed a core principle: it protects universities from political interference. But autonomy is not the only principle embedded in the UUCA. The Act’s Schedule Constitution distributes authority across a wide range of bodies, such as the Board, the Senate, faculties, centres, committees, reflecting a model of governance built on shared deliberation.

This is not accidental. A university is a community of scholars. Its academic policies are meant to emerge from discussion, critique, and collective judgment. Collegial decision-making is therefore not an abstract ideal; it underlies the manner in which Malaysian public universities are governed.

While the Court emphasized the autonomy of the university and the Vice-Chancellor, this external independence is only one facet of the UUCA framework. Autonomy is a foundational principle that shields universities from political interference, yet it does not grant unchecked administrative power, even to the Vice-Chancellor. The UUCA’s Scheduled Constitution explicitly distributes authority across a diverse matrix of statutory bodies—including the Board, the Senate, faculties, centres, and committees. This deliberate statutory design establishes a system of checks and balances, codifying a model of governance rooted in shared deliberation rather than top-down executive command.

This distribution of power is a clear recognition that a university is fundamentally a community of scholars. Academic and institutional policies are legally and structurally designed to emerge from rigorous peer discussion, critique, and collective judgment. Collegial decision-making underlies the lawful governance of Malaysian public universities, ensuring that institutional autonomy from external actors is matched by internal democracy and shared academic responsibility. The UUCA Schedule Constitution even provides for the resolution of disputes between the Authorities of the University (or between an officer and an Authority) regarding the scope of their powers, functions, or jurisdiction may be referred to the Minister, who may determine the matter or appoint an independent Dispute Resolution Panel.[4]

Azlianor’s complaint that the KPI circulars were issued without discussion goes to the heart of the collegial principle. Even if the Majlis Bersama Jabatan (MBJ) was not the correct forum, her grievance was fundamentally about the absence of collegial processes. KPI circulars that directly affect academic work — teaching, research, publication — should logically be deliberated by the Senate. The Court did not consider this. By treating the university as a hierarchical bureaucracy, the judgment ignored the collegial foundations of academic governance.

The Scopus Requirement: A Missed Opportunity for Substantive Review

The Court accepted UTeM’s justification that requiring publication in Scopus‑indexed journals would improve institutional performance. But it did so without asking a basic question: Does publication in Scopus truly measure academic quality or excellence?

Research from the National Higher Education Research Institute (IPPTN)[5] suggests otherwise. As its Issues Paper notes, citation‑based metrics are “simply a measure of visibility (not necessarily positive) and misleadingly used as a proxy for impact.” A paper may be widely cited because it is controversial or flawed; high‑quality work in niche fields may receive few citations. Scopus measures attention, not quality.

The IPPTN paper also warns that once a metric becomes a performance indicator, “it ceases to be a good measure.” Academics naturally shift their behaviour to maximise the metric rather than the underlying academic purpose. A mandatory Scopus requirement risks encouraging quantity over substance, salami‑slicing of publications, and choosing topics that are “publishable” rather than meaningful.

More troublingly, global indexing systems are owned by commercial entities such as Elsevier and Clarivate, which have “replaced the peer/expert colleagues in deciding what excellence is.” In other words, the KPI outsources the definition of academic excellence to private corporations, a move that sits uneasily with the university’s mission to advance knowledge for society.

Under the expanded scope of judicial review recognised by Malaysian courts, the High Court could have examined not only the procedure but also the substance of the KPI. It could have asked whether a one‑size‑fits‑all publication requirement is realistic across disciplines, or whether it distorts academic priorities. These questions were not explored.

What Makes a University a University

These omissions matter because they touch on the very nature of the university. A university is not merely a place that grants degrees or produces research outputs. It is a distinctive kind of institution built on shared inquiry, intellectual independence, and collective responsibility for the advancement of knowledge.

Its governance structures such as the Senate, academic boards, committees, exist to ensure that academic decisions are made through deliberation among scholars. When these structures are bypassed, the university begins to resemble a government department: efficient perhaps but stripped of the intellectual culture that defines its purpose.

A Narrow View of the University

In the end, the Court’s decision affirms autonomy but overlooks collegiality. It upholds managerial authority but ignores the academic community. It treats the university as a public agency rather than a self‑governing institution dedicated to knowledge.

If this trend continues, Malaysian universities risk losing the very qualities that make them universities.

The Azlianor case was an opportunity to reaffirm the principles of collegial governance. It was not taken. The responsibility now falls to academics, policymakers, and civil society to insist that our universities remain what they were meant to be: autonomous, yes, but autonomous in the service of a collegial, self‑governing pursuit of knowledge.

 

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[1] [2025] MLRHU 1902

[2] A court decides a case is academic when the underlying controversy has disappeared, the remedy sought is no longer meaningful, or the court’s intervention would be purely theoretical rather than resolving a live dispute.

[3] R Rama Chandran v. Industrial Court of Malaysia & Anor 1996] 1 MELR 71; 1996] 1 MLRA 725; 1997] 1 MLJ 145.

[4] See Universities and University Colleges Act 1971 (Act 30), First Schedule, section 33.

[5] https://ipptn.usm.my/images/issues_paper/05_IPPTN_Issues_Paper-Quality_Excellence_and_Impact.pdf

Listen: The Cosmos is Talking to You

The universe is not just out there. We are part of it. Learn to talk to the universe, and it will talk to you. 

Usually, we don't bother. We wake up in the morning, look out the window, and what we see simply tells us whether it is about to rain or it is going to be a hot day. We take these and other signs for granted. We treat the cosmos as if it were indifferent to our presence.

But when I was growing up in a remote village in India, there was a livelier conversation with the surroundings. I remember instances when I would see an uncle of mine setting out for the day, only to turn around and march quickly back into the house. "It is a bad day," he would announce with absolute certainty. He had seen a cow urinating outside the house, and that was simply not propitious. The universe had sent him a blunt, rather unglamorous message, and he was smart enough to heed it.

Yet, the universe doesn't only send stop signs. Nor are the signs so fixed that you can’t modify them. When my older sister got married, my mother deliberately took control of the dialogue. She arranged for a cow to be brought right to our front gate, ensuring its face was welcoming the newlyweds. To her, the cow was a sacred symbol of fertility and abundance, a joyful greeting from the cosmos for the newlywed woman. 

In Batang Berjuntai, a small town on the road to Kuala Selangor, businesses don’t start until a white cow with painted horns is brought to their doors.

In our world, a single cow could rewrite your entire day, depending entirely on which end of it you happened to encounter.

Years later, far from the familiar places of my childhood, I met a man from the rainforests of Sarawak who possessed this same cosmic literacy. He read the day’s bird calls and flights as effortlessly as a city-dweller reads the morning newspapers. He was listening to the Beburong, the traditional omen system of the Iban people. To him, the jungle wasn't just a wall of trees and noise; it was a daily gossip column from the gods. If the tiny Ketupong bird gave a sharp, single cry, it was a cosmic warning telling you to stop what you were doing. If the Beragai bird laughed brightly, the universe was giving you its blessing to move forward. Like my mother and my uncle, this man knew that nature was an alphabet, and the world was constantly typing out messages.

For generations, traditional fishermen in Kerala have faced the volatile Arabian Sea without satellite data, relying entirely on the universe to signal the arrival of the massive Southwest Monsoon. They read the subtext of the landscape long before the first raindrop falls. They watch columns of ants marching upward to deposit their eggs on higher ground, and observe low-swarming dragonflies blanket the coastline. To these seasoned mariners, the sea itself changes its scent, and the wind shifts its syntax. They are not just predicting the weather; they are listening to a vast ecosystem of living alarm clocks, coordinating their lives with a highly synchronised cosmic rhythm.

If we elevate our gaze from the sea to the night sky, we find the grandest version of this dialogue: astrology. Long before it was reduced to generalised newspaper horoscopes, true astrology was humanity's original method of decoding the sky. It was built on the understanding that the positions of stars and planets are not distant, meaningless rocks floating in a vacuum. Instead, the macrocosm above is intimately bound to the microcosm below. As above, so below. The cosmic alignment was read as a celestial map of active energy, broadcasting the emotional and physical tides of our collective reality.

If you explain all this to a modern, hyper-rational person, they will smile and call it whimsical superstition. If you explain it to a linguist, they will call it semiotics—the study of how we decode signs and symbols. They would say the cow, the bird, the ants, and the stars are merely "signifiers" onto which we paint our own meanings.

But if you ask Federico Faggin, the legendary physicist who invented the microprocessor, he might tell you that my village elders, the man from Sarawak, and the Kerala fishermen were actually practising advanced quantum mechanics.

For a long time, classical science told us the universe is a cold, dead machine made of separate pieces of matter bumping into each other. In that lonely view, an Iban bird, an Indian cow, or a planet millions of miles away has absolutely nothing to do with human destiny. But Faggin’s revolutionary work in quantum consciousness shatters that illusion. He proposes that consciousness isn't something confined inside our skulls; it is the very fabric of reality. The universe is a single, deeply interconnected whole, and physical matter—the trees, the birds, the cows, and our own bodies—is simply the "user interface" that consciousness uses to show us meaning.

At the deep, quantum level, we are completely entangled with everything around us. There is no "us" and an "external universe." We are parts of the same living organism.

When we realise this, the whimsy of my childhood village becomes a profound truth. My uncle turning back from the cow's posterior, my mother welcoming the bride, the Sarawak elder listening to the canopy, and the astrologers tracing the stars weren't engaging in silly folklore—they were experiencing the literal reality of quantum entanglement. Because we are connected to the whole, our internal paths, doubts, and fears are mirrored perfectly in the behaviour of the world around us.

The universe talks back to us because it is us, continuously writing its daily newspaper to help its parts remember how to stay in touch. So tomorrow morning, when you look out your window, don't just check the weather. Say hello. And pay attention to what clears your path. Or blocks it.

Academia-Industry Collaboration: Report on the PR Seminar and a Proposal for a Permanent Forum

The recent seminar, "Bridging Academia and Industry for the Future of Communications," organised by the Public Relations Practitioners Society of Malaysia, marks an important milestone in academia-industry collaboration.

The organisers deserve high praise for their timely initiative in establishing a platform for a dialogue that is critical to higher education in our times. Bringing together regulatory bodies, corporate agencies, and higher educational institutions created a forum for rare and much-needed discourse between the two sectors. However, the dialogue also brought to light deep-seated frustrations and misunderstandings on both sides. It was clear that to bridge the gap between higher education and the modern workplace, there has to be a clear analysis of these friction points and a need to move past mutual blame towards structured, shared solutions.

The Academic Dilemma: Digital Disruption and Structural Rigidities

During the panel discussions and the culminating Roundtable, educators spoke candidly about the shifting dynamics within higher education lecture halls. A primary frustration centred on a perceived decline in student engagement, with educators noting that many students lean toward shortcuts—particularly by utilising generative AI platforms to compile essays and term papers. Over-reliance on AI directly causes cognitive offloading, where students bypass the mental "struggle" necessary to build strong neural pathways for problem-solving and critical thinking. When students use AI to generate immediate answers rather than reasoning through a problem, they transition from active learners to passive consumers.

Furthermore, the seminar highlighted a consensus among academics that the traditional, multi-year university degree structure requires urgent modernisation. The closures of higher educational institutions brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic showed that quality education is no longer confined to physical campuses. To match this environment, many educators advocated for a regulated move towards flexible, career-focused micro-credentials. These short courses allow individuals to master specialised market skills dynamically.

However, academics rightly pointed out that their agility in designing courses is heavily hampered by the prevailing higher education regulatory structure. The rigid quality standards and lengthy approval timelines enforced by the Malaysian Qualifications Agency (MQA) mean that by the time a dynamic communication syllabus is officially accredited, the digital tools and industry realities it covers have already evolved. This regulatory lag forces courses into a uniform template, inadvertently limiting institutional innovation and worsening the challenge of maintaining industry relevance. Durability rather than relevance is the order of play.

The Industry Grievance: The "Discipline" and Work-Life Debate

On the other side of the divide, corporate representatives expressed ongoing frustration regarding the qualities of recent graduate recruits. A common, repeated grievance across the room was a perceived shift in professional commitment, with older executives noting that younger appointees increasingly prioritise a strict "work-life balance" over a total dedication to corporate hours. Within the seminar, this was frequently interpreted as a lack of fundamental workplace discipline—a deficit that many speakers emotionally attributed to changing family dynamics and a decline in traditional, authoritative parental discipline.

While these frustrations are understandable from an employer/management standpoint, the applause from a section of the audience for past authoritarian structures, including the use of the cane, reveals a profound intergenerational misunderstanding. Neither the modern university nor the contemporary corporate workplace fully grasps how the digital landscape has fundamentally altered human life and labour, or how work and the workplace are still rooted in the transitions triggered by the Industrial Revolution. These transitions are tied to physical presence, rigid hierarchy, and unquestioning compliance.

Insisting on a work-life balance is not a sign of laziness; it is a rational, highly adapted response to a hyper-connected economy. Unlike previous generations whose work permanently ended the moment they stepped out of the office, modern digital communication practitioners are tethered to their workplaces 24/7 via smartphones, Slack, and endless algorithmic notification loops. They are expected to monitor live viral feeds and manage reputational risks at any hour. Protecting personal boundaries is an act of cognitive survival, not a lack of discipline. Furthermore, in an era of zero job security and shifting corporate layouts, young professionals view career progression as a flexible network rather than a lifetime contract of blind obedience.

Issues Not Raised: Structural Blind spots and Student Agency

While the seminar dedicated significant time to the behaviour of the younger generation, it was mostly silent on the systemic crises actively reshaping the Malaysian media landscape. These critical matters were only raised briefly by a single participant from the floor, leaving a profound void in the agenda. Specifically, the seminar failed to address how the communications industry should handle volatile, identity-driven crises that have recently held major businesses hostage. The "Allah Socks" controversy, viral geopolitical boycotts targeting established franchises like McDonald's and Starbucks, and highly polarized disputes surrounding the display of the national flag were all accelerated through decentralised social media networks. These are not standard corporate public relations issues; they are explosive intersections of domestic ethnic politics and global sentiments where traditional corporate crisis management handbooks are entirely defenceless. By omitting these live-fire challenges, the seminar paradoxically avoided discussing the exact environments where future graduates will be tested.

The other glaring omission on the agenda was the complete absence of the student voice in resolving the industry-academia alignment gap. Throughout the day, students were talked about, but never talked with. They were treated purely as passive products of a pipeline rather than active stakeholders in their own education. Forward-thinking global institutions, such as the University of Cambridge, have long recognised that student-led governance and participatory curriculum design are essential for institutional resilience. Allowing students a structured, collaborative seat at the table ensures that curriculum updates reflect the lived digital realities of the younger generation. By systematically excluding student agency from the conversation, both academia and industry are ignoring the very insights needed to fix the alignment gap.

The Solution: A Permanent Forum for Industry-Academia Dialogue

If academia continues to blame students for using modern tools, and industry continues to blame families for a lack of corporate submission, both sectors will guarantee their own obsolescence. The solution cannot be resolved through once-a-year seminars or static, bureaucratic Industry Advisory Panels that simply tick an MQA compliance box.

What is needed is the establishment of a Permanent Forum for Industry-Academia Dialogue.

This proposed council, preferably with statutory authority, would function as a formal conduit operating outside rigid bureaucratic hierarchies. Crucially, the framework must allow either sector the autonomous right to call an immediate dialogue whenever a major market disruption occurs.

• When the Industry Identifies a Capability Gap: If corporate agencies find that graduates lack advanced data analytics skills, legal literacy regarding greenwashing, or real-time crisis management capabilities, they can instantly trigger a forum session to co-design micro-credentials with university deans.
• When Academia Identifies a Structural Bottleneck: If educators need to test an agile, unapproved course structure within the live-fire sandbox of a corporate agency, they can use the forum to establish credit-bearing, immediate internship pilots without waiting for years of external regulatory paperwork.
• When Student Agency Drives Innovation: Drawing inspiration from global academic benchmarks, the forum will establish a Student Advisory Council. This allows students to pitch directly to industry heads and university deans, turning the generation that natively understands technology trends from passive consumers into active co-designers of their own courses of study.

By establishing this continuous, balanced feedback loop, the education-to-employment continuum will be structurally enriched. Moving past mutual blame will allow both sectors to deeply comprehend each other's parameters, limitations, and operational realities. Ultimately, this framework challenges us to stop managing higher education as an outdated factory assembly line and start cultivating it as a highly adaptive, shared ecosystem.

The seminar was held on 18 June 2026 at the IACT College.

Car Slaves

 

Sitting in the middle of the recent Hari Raya traffic jam, I remember an old cartoon showing a Martian peering into a telescope directed at Earth. He says to his companion, 'The planet Earth is populated by beings that move on wheels. They breed little two-legged creatures to guard, clean and move them. These smaller creatures live their lives around the wheeled beings and are slaves to them.

Staring into a darkness lit with brake lights of different shapes, I started thinking how completely accurate the Martian description was. We have become slaves to the car which dictates our every move.  The car decides when to leave the house, how long to suffer on the road, which toll to avoid, and when to refill our Touch ’n Go cards. If we do not own a four-wheeled being, we summon one with a tap on a phone, as if cars have become a new species of domesticated household pet, obedient, responsive, and always on call.

But how did we get here?

Post-independent prosperity brought two magical facilities of modern life: the housing loan and the car loan. Together, they promised the Malaysian dream of owning a house and a car. The small repayments meant we quietly transferred our financial freedom to the banks for fifteen or more years. We thought we owned these amenities, when in truth, the banks owned us. The car in the porch was not merely a convenience. It was debt on wheels.

But before the banks claimed us, we first claimed the car as something almost sacred. A family’s new car was treated with the reverence reserved for a newborn child. Before it even reached home, it had to be blessed. Hindu owners took it to the temple for a special archanai, where holy water was sprinkled, sandalwood paste applied, and lemons sacrificed beneath the tyres. Catholic and Anglican families drove theirs to church for a prayer and a generous sprinkling of holy water. Malay Muslim families held a doa selamat at home or at the surau. Buddhist monks tied yellow strings to rear-view mirrors. Sikh families offered an ardaas at the gurdwara. Chinese families welcomed their new vehicle with incense, oranges, and auspicious rituals. An idol or symbol was a permanent occupant of the vehicle.

The car emerged spiritually fortified, followed by a ritual every morning, when it was washed and cleaned, if not by the owner, by the maid standing on a stool to reach the roof of the car.

And like any family member, the car had its rites of passage. First came the newborn blessings. Then the wedding years, when it was dressed up with ribbons, flowers, and a “Just Married” sign. After that came the school‑bus years, when the car became a mobile cafeteria, library, counselling centre, and a repository for lost toys and stationery. And finally, the last rite of passage: the funeral convoy, where the car that once carried us everywhere, now accompanies us on our final journey. The car quietly witnesses our entire life cycle, patiently waiting in the porch like a loyal family member who never quite learned to talk but always knew where we needed to go.

Early houses had no porches or garages. So, we invented the makeshift garage: four poles holding a roof of zinc sheets. By the 70s, housing developers surrendered and built proper car porches, even for the smallest terraced houses. These became social spaces that became places to read newspapers, dry clothes, play games, and occasionally park the car.

But today, the car connects us to something far less innocent. The petrol that keeps it alive comes from regions where wars are fought, and civilians live under drones and airstrikes. The quiet sedan sitting in the porch is linked by an invisible pipeline to deserts where people are bombed for the very resource that keeps its engines running. The car that once symbolised our independence now reminds us of our dependence on banks, on oil, on global markets, on conflicts we will never see but cannot escape.

And that is the final irony: in domesticating the car, we have allowed the car to completely colonise us. It rules our schedules, shapes our cities, empties our wallets, and ties us to distant wars.

And yet, as the jam finally begins to move, I realise the car is still our companion; flawed, demanding, and occasionally exasperating, but always ready to carry us home.

Clocks, Calendars and the Panchangam

 

There were clocks everywhere in the house, but none showed the correct time after the old man died. The clocks had been under his care. He wound those that needed winding and changed the batteries of the rest. Most hung within his reach, and for those he could not reach, he had a small stool on which, even when frail with age, he climbed to tend to them.

Time dictated the old man’s life. If the clocks reminded him of the hour, the Hindu calendar he bought every year from a shop in Scott Road in Brickfields, reminded him of time’s location in the day, the month and the year. The Panchangam, which arrived annually by post from India with a declaration it was cleared by Customs, informed him of cosmic time, mapped against the movements of stars and planets.

For him, a day was not just hours of light and darkness. Each hour was shaped by celestial movements visible only in the Panchangam. Its pages divided time according to its terrestrial influence. There were good periods and bad periods, and he managed the affairs of his family according to these times. He was the conductor of their collective movements. “Not now,” he would say, looking up from the curled pages of the almanac. “Wait until 10:30. The Kalam is not right.”

And his children, raised under his authority, waited. They accepted his injunctions not merely out of obedience but out of an understanding that forces existed beyond their knowledge. If they must not walk into the rain without an umbrella, there must also be reasons for not stepping out at a certain hour that their father understood. If he said the haircut must happen on a Tuesday or a journey must begin before the sun hit a certain angle, they adjusted their lives to fit the cosmic slot he identified.

But as time progressed, the Panchangam began to lose its grip. Life was no longer shaped by celestial rhythms but by the schedules imposed by the state—bus and train timetables, office hours, school bells, payment deadlines, and the fixed times of public events. Time was no longer something to be interpreted; it was something to be obeyed. When it came to knowledge, no one turned to the Panchangam anymore, nor to books or a teacher’s notes. It was everywhere now, scattered into the digital ether. Turn on a computer, type a few words, and a hundred responses appeared, maybe thousands.

The children of his children practised a form of polite resistance. They smiled and nodded when he warned them of an inauspicious hour, then quietly checked their wristwatches, calculating whether they could leave just early enough to beat the traffic but late enough to satisfy his ritual. They moved between two worlds: the ancient rhythms of the Panchangam and the frantic, linear demands of English‑medium schools, which started and ended on fixed times unaltered by anything the Panchangam said.

By the time the great‑grandchildren arrived, the resistance had turned into a scoff. To them, time was a digital print on a smartphone that was flat, soulless, indifferent. They were educated according to prescribed curricula that made no mention of the Panchangam and lived for holidays gazetted by the government and not decided by the phases of the moon. A “good time” was a Friday night at the mall, regardless of where the planets sat in the heavens.

As the years pressed on, the transformations in the lives of the old man’s family came not from changes predicted in the Panchangam but from the way life was ordered by employment, holidays and the mundane timetables of buses and trains. We are now untethered from time beyond the clock and calendar. Retirement, moving from government quarters to their own homes, the incessant need to renovate their abode, the upgrading of their cars and the pressure to educate the young through schools and universities ordered their lives. There was also the inevitable but quiet greying of the hair. These were changes dictated by biology and economics and not by any grander cosmic order. We were merely aging in a line, moving further away from the ancestral script.

Then came the cancer.

To the doctors, the tumour in the old man’s pancreas was not foretold by any almanac but revealed by blood tests and x‑rays showing cells that no longer obeyed the body’s script. They spoke of prognosis, malignancy and palliative care, mapping out a timeline of inevitable decline. They looked at their charts and saw a man running out of time.

But the old man was looking at a different map.

While the clocks ticked on the walls, he spent his final weeks on the edge of the bed, his frail fingers marking dates on the Panchangam. He drew a red circle around two dates, thirty-five days apart. As the family learnt after his death, the first was an inauspicious day, the day he was diagnosed with the disease. The other was the day he died, an auspicious day according to the Panchangam.

When the end came, it was a quiet rebellion against every medical textbook. There was no gasping for air, no thrashing against the predicted pain. He didn’t die according to the doctor’s timeline; he died according to his own. He had seen his location in the cosmos, found the right Tithi, and simply let go.

He left the family with a peace that made the doctor’s predictions irrelevant. While they were busy measuring time in seconds and minutes, he had been living in a version of time that foretold how he would live and die.

Now, with the old man gone, the clocks have surrendered. They no longer need to be wound because no one is worried about the “quality” of the hour. We are “educated,” we are “global,” and we are utterly lost. We know exactly what time it is, but we no longer have any idea where we are in the cosmos.

Marooned in a Digital Maze

 

When modern life collapses because two bills go unpaid and domestic peace hangs on a WiFi signal.

Woke up to a nightmare this morning. 

The Internet was not working. 

Tried using the very same Internet connection to find the problem. 

Bill not paid; service suspended. “Pay now through our website,” the message said. How to pay through the Internet when there was no Internet?

Never mind, I thought, I’ll use my handphone — different provider, different system. 

But here came the real nightmare: that line was barred too. Payment not made. 

A double fault. And one the family, still asleep, would never forgive, because their morning ablutions won’t work without a connected phone in their hand.

So off I went hunting for the nearest centre where I could make a payment. 

Ten kilometres away. No parking anywhere. A hundred restaurants packed with breakfast eaters. The only empty spaces were “Reserved” lots with Town Board warnings threatening locked wheels for anyone foolish enough to park there.

But a desperate man becomes creative. I parked in front of a restaurant which had a reserved parking lot, walked in, ordered a meal, and told them I’d be back shortly. 

Then I marched to the Internet provider, paid the bill, and returned to the restaurant. 

I almost walked away, but that would mean being a captive to technology and dishonest at the same time.

So, I sat down, ate the meal I had strategically ordered, and walked out feeling absurdly triumphant — as if I had outsmarted the entire system for one morning.

A Reflection on the Indian New Year - Ugadi, Vaisakhi, Puthandu, Vishu

 

The many cultures that make up this country teach us many things, including how different communities understand and measure time. Amartya Sen, who has written extensively on India’s many calendars, reminds us that time itself is plural. This becomes especially clear every mid‑April, when Indian communities in Malaysia celebrate New Year, but not on the same day. Different communities follow different calendars, and therefore mark the New Year on different dates.

In 2026, Vaisakhi (Punjab) falls on 13 April, Puthandu (Tamil Nadu) on 14 April, and Vishu (Kerala) on 15 April. Each festival marks the Sun’s entry into Mesha (Aries), yet each community follows a distinct astronomical tradition. The reason for these differing dates is explained below.

Why Mid‑April Is New Year for Many Indian Communities

Time, when left unmeasured, overwhelms human life. Early civilisations learned that time would slip beyond human control unless it was organised into cyclical, predictable patterns, such as the rhythms of the seasons, the arrival of the rains, planting, harvesting, and rituals. Calendars emerged as humanity’s way of domesticating time, making the cosmos legible, and aligning society’s agricultural, religious, and cultural life.

Across the world, three major systems evolved:

• Solar calendars — based on the Earth’s revolution around the Sun.
• Lunar calendars — based on the Moon’s phases.
• Lunisolar calendars — combining lunar months with solar corrections.

In Malaysia, the mid‑April Indian New Years such as Vaisakhi, Puthandu and Vishu, are solar. They mark the Sun’s entry into Mesha (Aries), which traditionally signals the agricultural and ritual new year.

Why the Dates Differ

All these New Year festivals—Vaisakhi, Puthandu, Vishu—are based on the same idea: the Sun entering Mesha (Aries) in mid‑April. However, the Sun's transition into Aries (Mesha Rashi) occurs at a precise mathematical moment. If this happens midday, after sunset, or at a certain time of night, different regional traditions may choose to celebrate the festival either on the current day or the following day. Because of these small differences, the New Year can fall one or two days apart. That is why in 2026. Vaisakhi is on 13 April, Puthandu on 14 April and Vishu on 15 April. Ugadi, which is the Telugu New Year, follows a luni-solar calendar. This is why it falls on a different date each year—typically in March or early April—based on the first new moon after the spring equinox.

In short, everyone is celebrating the same cosmic event, but each community measures it in its own traditional way.

A Reflection on Time and Human Community

These different dates reflect different approaches to time. Yet the passage of time itself is singular. The calendars may differ, but the human experience of hope, renewal, and beginning again is shared. As we observe these staggered New Years in Malaysia, we are reminded that we are diverse in our traditions, but united in our humanity—just as time is plural in its expression, yet singular in its flow. 

Each of us within a community or as individuals may be different, but our hopes, desires and expectations are the same.

Withdrawal as Resistance – A Recluse from News

 

Picture – Kings College, London

The world is bearing down on me. I can no longer endure the endless stream of news about wars and destruction, genocides and the killing of children—matters over which I have no control and can do nothing to stop. My health is being eroded; despair breeds depression.

What makes it worse is the way the media delivers these horrors. Headlines are crafted not to inform but to provoke. Death and destruction are narrated as sport with the same kind of commentary.

I refuse to be consumed by this. I have found a way of staying out of the world while still participating in its affairs. I shall not turn on the news from any source—radio, television, or the internet.

Or the continuous stream of forwarded messages.

I shall be a recluse. And I will not lose much, because what passes for “news” today is less about informing than about sensationalising.

Even when you ought to be alerted to something that truly matters—say, a meteor tearing down space onto your roof—the urgency gets buried beneath the carnival of exaggeration.

The alternative media, in particular, make a feast of every fragment: attractive, but empty of substance. Headlines are bait, analysis is shallow, and outrage is manufactured to keep us scrolling. The noise drowns out the signal.

So how shall I be involved with the world?

Fortunately, I have a daughter and young friends. I shall contract with them to inform me of any meteors, two-headed men, or other matters that demand attention.

They will advise me when I should sign a petition, add my name in protest, or lend my voice in agreement. In that way, I shall remain a recluse, but with trusted editors to filter the world and alert me only when conscience calls.

Iran War - The Burden of Knowing

 

The ravages of the illegal war against Iran are a heavy burden to live with while knowing our own species is capable of such profound barbarism. When we see the news of schoolgirls being murdered in their school, we aren't just worried about the price of oil or interruptions to international travel; we are questioning the very nature of who we are as a species and what kind of world we are leaving for our children.

We must also face the hard truth that we are not "outside" of this madness just because we are 6,000 miles away. Even within our own peaceful communities, there are those who believe that hate and violence against others are valid ways to build the society they envision. This toxicity knows no borders, for rather than find means to allow temples to be where they are, we choose to demolish them

Our duty as part of the human family is to prove that violence is not our only legacy. We change the species by refusing to become numb and by standing firm against the rhetoric of hate at home and abroad. We do it by teaching our children the tools of peace, demanding diplomacy over destruction, and practising radical empathy, dealing with our neighbours. Distance doesn't absolve us of responsibility; it gives us the stable ground to stand on and reach out. Every act of compassion is a vote for a different kind of humanity.

A thought for us all to consider:

In a world where conflicts can escalate so rapidly, how do we balance the pursuit of national security with the moral obligation to protect innocent lives across the globe? If the cycle of retaliation is left unchecked, what does that teach the next generation about the value of diplomacy and the possibility of lasting peace?

The Depravity of the War Against Iran

 As we listen to the celebratory explosions of fireworks for Chinese New Year, we hear those same explosives, honed to murderous perfection by the most powerful nation, being applied to obliterate another nation. There is no hesitation that children might die, deprived of the existence they were born to. No hesitation that it will destroy the people of their future if they do not rise against their leaders.

And the so‑called civilised world that had been for centuries doing the same, watch, cheering as spectators.

The war in Iran is not the act of a moral nation set out to restore the morals of another. It is not about nuclear weapons. We have heard all that before, of weapons of mass destruction (WMD).

They were all lies.

No, the war is stoked by two highly developed countries that have reached the apex of depravity – the US and Israel. And depravity has no limits. Neither man nor beast is safe from such depravity.

The Epstein papers reveal this depravity: men who create systems to seek pleasure in raping children, who see murder as an acceptable way to satisfy their greed for wealth, who wield power to control and expropriate the resources of nations.

This is not progress. This is descent. One per cent of humanity now controls over eighty per cent of global wealth, and those controlling it are not sated and cannot be stopped. We have lived under the illusion of democracy and other ideals, but these too have been corrupted, hollowed out, turned into instruments for greed.

Everywhere, man is born bound by chains. And those chains are not only political—they are economic, moral, and spiritual. Lives are shortened when those chains are broken, because the system is designed to punish resistance. What we are witnessing is not the failure of ideals, but their betrayal.

And the danger is not confined to one nation. It spreads across the world because depravity at the apex of power does not stop at borders. The same greed that fuels war also fuels exploitation, climate destruction, and the erosion of every principle that once claimed to protect humanity.

What is unleashed in Iran is a warning to all: when power is so depraved that it has developed a system to rape children, no one is safe. And yet, even in chains, humanity must resist. We curse the criminals, we expose their depravity, and we refuse to let despair be the final word. If they seek to shorten our lives, we will lengthen our defiance. If they seek to erase our future, we will write it anew. No matter how deep their depravity, we will live despite them.

Article – 28 February 2026

THE SHITHOUSE AND THE SINGULARITY: A Manifesto Against the Banality of Violence

 

As we witness the most powerful naval fleet in history move toward the entry onto the Persian Gulf to potentially obliterate Iran, we are faced with a chilling "banality of violence." While millions face destruction and Palestine endures unprecedented deprivation, our media remains obsessed with the faulty toilets on the USS Gerald R. Ford. We have become a population that finds more interest in the plumbing of the aggressor than the humanity of the victim

What we describe as civilization has become a thin veneer for a global decline into immorality. For centuries, we have mistaken the "balance of power" for peace, allowing mightier nations to use their strength to subjugate the weak for resources and markets. This systemic decay has reached a horrific zenith: today, the most powerful naval force in history—the U.S. Gerald R. Ford strike group—moves with clinical precision to potentially obliterate another nation. Yet, the world's media is not discussing the morality of mass murder. Instead, it is obsessed with the faulty toilets on the warship.

This is the banality of violence: the conversion of a machine of "obliteration" into a viral joke about a "shithouse." While we laugh at the clogged pipes of an $13 billion armada, we remain silent about the millions of lives it is poised to extinguish. We have become so inured to the deprivation in Palestine and the impending "first sin" of killing that we find more interest in the plumbing of the aggressor than the humanity of the victim.

The Epstein papers further reveal the depth of this rot, showing how a "moral elite"—including figures like Noam Chomsky and Deepak Chopra—can be captured and compromised by those with no restraints on their depravity. We are forced to ask: Are we a lost species?

The answer is no, but the way forward requires a radical shift in how we define our existence. In his latest work, Irreducible (2024), Federico Faggin provides the scientific key to our survival. He argues that we are not biological machines, but quantum beings whose consciousness is irreducible and inextricably connected via a universal field. To Faggin, any act of violence is an act against the self because it ignores the fundamental quantum entanglement of all life—man, beast, and trees.

This scientific singularity provides the modern foundation for Mahatma Gandhi’s Satyagraha (Truth-Force), Ahimsa (Non-violence) and Swaraj. Gandhi understood that if humanity is truly singular, then violence is an illogical attempt to solve a problem by attacking one's own body. Satyagraha (Truth-Force) explains that if you use violence to defeat an oppressor, you just become a new kind of oppressor. Truth (satya), is the weapon to defeat the oppressor. During the 1930 Salt March, he didn't use weapons; he used the truth that the British salt tax was an immoral "plunder" of a basic human right.

Ahimsa (non-violence), Gandhi taught, is the greatest force at the disposal of mankind. If we are all part of a singular humanity, then killing is a "suicidal act" that destroys the soul of the killer as much as the body of the victim.

Self-Rule (Swaraj): Gandhi’s ultimate goal was "Swaraj," which means self-governance. He argued that if you cannot control your own impulses toward greed and violence, you will always be a slave to an empire or an oligarch. Self-governance was what was absent in those named in the Epstein papers.

These very human principles show that we are not so depraved as a species as to not understand where we failed, nor so lost as to be without a map. By replacing the "balance of power" with a balance of consciousness, we reclaim our humanity from the oligarchs. We are the universe’s power; our evolution lies in the willingness to finally recognize that there is no "other."

In Malaysia as we are in the process of reviewing the trajectories of education, those involved in the process may want to consider adding a new subject on humanity based on the above at all levels of education.

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.