SOUL SCRIBBLES

When the government announced in Budget 2026 that RM600 million would be spent to restore Carcosa Seri Negara , reactions were swift — admiration from some, disbelief from others. It’s easy to see why. The figure sounds hefty when many Malaysians are struggling with high living costs and public institutions are pleading for funds. Yet dismissing the plan outright risks overlooking what Carcosa represents — a piece of Malaysia’s history slowly fading from memory. So, is the project worth it? That depends on how we define value — and whether Khazanah Nasional , tasked with leading the project, can make the restoration of more than a vanity exercise. Done right, it could deliver more than nostalgia. Restored heritage sites elsewhere have become powerful economic and cultural engines. Singapore’s Raffles Hotel and Bangkok’s Mandarin Oriental attract visitors not just for luxury, but for legacy. Malaysia could do the same — blending heritage, commerce, and storytelling to create a dest...

As the state heads to the polls, Sabahans are asking a deeper question — will this election finally give them the dignity and autonomy they’ve long been promised? Every few years, Sabah becomes the darling of Malaysian politics. Suddenly, federal leaders descend on Kota Kinabalu with pledges of progress, promises of development, and talk of honouring the Malaysia Agreement 1963 (MA63). And every few years, after the ballots are counted, the attention fades. The roads remain uneven, rural schools still lack basic facilities, and the familiar feeling of neglect returns. This is the pattern Sabahans know all too well — a state rich in resources but poor in returns, abundant in political attention but short on sustained respect. But this coming state election feels different. Not because the names on the ballot are new, but because the political mood has changed. Younger Sabahans, in particular, are restless. They are better informed, more connected, and far less patient with empty rhetori...

  Reading has always been a quiet kind of magic in my life. Long before I understood its importance, books were already part of my childhood. My parents had a simple but thoughtful tradition — birthdays and special occasions often came wrapped not just in ribbons and paper, but in words and pictures. While some children unwrapped toys or gadgets, we often unwrapped books. Looking back, I realise just how deliberate and precious that was. The earliest gifts I remember were comics —  Beano  and  Dandy . Their cheeky characters, mischief, and slapstick humour filled our days with laughter. Each week’s issue was something to look forward to, and I would pore over the pages again and again until the corners curled and the colours faded. At Christmas and year’s end, the excitement was always doubled because of the annuals. Thick, colourful, and sturdy, they felt like treasure chests brimming with puzzles, stories, and illustrations. To me, those annuals were more than pres...

In Malaysia’s parliamentary system, we don’t vote directly for a prime minister — we vote for Members of Parliament. Then, the party or coalition with enough seats decides who gets the top job. That is why parties love to roll out their “prime minister candidate” before an election. A poster boy, if you will. In theory, it seems a smart move. Naming a PM candidate gives one, clarity where voters know exactly who they are    buying into; two, signals   unity where a single name shows the coalition can agree on something, which is no small feat these days; and three, creates a face for the campaign where a strong, popular candidate can carry the entire election. But let’s be honest: this is a gamble. A loved candidate can turn the tide but an unpopular one can drag the whole campaign down. Take GE14 in 2018. Pakatan Harapan’s masterstroke was naming Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad as their PM candidate — at 92! Risky? Sure. But it worked. His name reassured fence-sitters, gave PH a...

Every year, 16 September comes quietly. There are no fireworks as grand as Merdeka, no parades filling the streets. Yet Malaysia Day has a special weight — it is the day we truly became a nation. On this date in 1963, Malaya, Sabah, Sarawak, and Singapore came together to form Malaysia. It was not just a line on a calendar; it was a promise — that despite distance, culture, and history, we could build something together. Perhaps that is why Malaysia Day feels reflective. It asks us to pause and look beyond the surface — beyond flags and slogans — and ask what it really means to be Malaysian. It is in the laughter at open houses during festive seasons, in the morning queue at the roti canai stall, in the mix of languages at the pasar malam. It is in the quiet understanding that we share more than we realise. Malaysia Day reminds us that nationhood is not an event we commemorate once a year. It is a work-in-progress, built every time we choose cooperation over conflict, understanding ove...

When Indonesia makes headlines for rioting, protests, or political tension, we often feel the ripple effects — not just through news alerts, but through WhatsApp chats from friends and colleagues living there. And just recently, the Malaysian response isn’t just words of comfort. It’s food. Through Grabfood, Malaysians are ordering and paying for food for either the Grab delivery drivers (the riots inhibit them to get rides and deliveries) or asking these drivers to send the food to the needy in Jakarta, Surabaya, or wherever they are hunkered down. A meal can feel like a lifeline — or at least a reminder that someone across the sea is thinking of them. Food has always been Southeast Asia’s love language. In times of crisis, it becomes even more powerful. We may not be able to stop the chaos on Jakarta’s streets, but we can make sure that some Indonesians has food on their table. It’s a small, quiet act of solidarity — a way of saying,  “ Stay safe. Take care.” It’s also a statemen...

“You finally found your voice,” a friend remarked the other day.  He was referring to some of my recent postings, where I’ve begun speaking out and commenting on issues that matter to me.  For years, I wasn’t that person. I kept my thoughts to myself—whether out of politeness, fear of criticism, or the belief that my words didn’t matter. It felt easier to stay silent than to risk saying something that might stir disagreement. But lately, I’ve come to realise that silence is not always harmless. Sometimes silence means complicity. And if you see something wrong yet choose to keep quiet, you’re still part of the problem.  When I think about this shift in me, I cannot help but think of my late father. He was a man who never struggled to find his voice. In fact, he often spoke when others hesitated.  I remember how, at family gatherings, he would challenge relatives on their views if he felt they were wrong, even if it made the room uncomfortable.  At work, he was...

I was born just five years after independence.  As such, Merdeka is not a date I read in history books. It is not merely the parades on television or the flags fluttering in the wind every August.  Merdeka is a lived experience — a rhythm of life that has shaped me as much as it has shaped this nation. My childhood unfolded while Malaysia was still finding its footing as a young nation. I remember classrooms filled with children from all walks of life, our accents mixing, our friendships unburdened by politics.  Those early days carried the innocence of a country still learning what it meant to stand on its own.  As Malaysia grew, so did I. I entered my teenage years as the country entered its first flush of rapid development. I watched skyscrapers rise where old wooden shops once stood. I saw factories bring jobs, highways stretch across states, and the idea of progress become part of our daily vocabulary.  Alongside these triumphs, I also saw the struggles — ...

I’ve let go of the past — or at least, I’ve done my best to. I’ve chosen peace over bitterness, growth over grudges. But some memories still find their way back. They don’t knock; they just show up — in quiet moments, late at night, or in the middle of a perfectly normal day. And when they do, I still wonder:  What did I do to deserve what was done to me? I’ve replayed events in my mind more times than I can count, searching for clues, turning over every detail like puzzle pieces that just never quite fit. I ask myself, again and again:  Did I trigger it? Was there something I said, something I missed, something I didn’t see coming? I’ve received one apology. Just one. But he never explained why it all turned out the way it did. He never gave me the truth. Was someone else whispering behind the scenes, manipulating things? Was I caught in someone else's game? Or was I just guilty by association — collateral damage in a story that was never really mine? And then there’s the que...

Once upon a time, the average Malay man was known for his clean-cut appearance and pomade-slicked hair, parted with military precision—almost always sporting his parents’ silent (or very vocal) stamp of approval. Hair was more than just style; it was discipline. Growing up, my father had a simple, unwavering rule: his two sons were to keep their hair short while they were in school. It wasn't up for debate, nor was it a passing preference—it was a standard, one he believed reflected discipline, order, and a proper upbringing. Every month or so, like clockwork, my brothers were marched to the barber’s chair for their trims. At the time, short hair was just part of the routine—as natural and expected as wearing a school uniform. As we grew older, the haircuts never stopped. Long after our father stopped enforcing the rule, my brothers continued to keep their hair short. Not because they had to, but because they had come to prefer it that way. But in recent years, a quiet rebellion ha...

Books have the power to transport, teach, connect, and transform us. We turn to literature not only to entertain ourselves but also to deepen our understanding of people—fictional or real—and the world they inhabit. A book that truly resonates tends to feature evocative writing, compelling structure, memorable characters, fresh insights, and emotional depth. When all these elements align, the experience becomes deeply satisfying: we feel both seen and challenged, comforted and moved. And, there’s a particular kind of frustration that comes from reading a book that promises depth but delivers only gloss.  Ku Li: Memoir 205  is one of those books.  With a figure as complex, storied, and politically significant as Tengku Razaleigh Hamzah, the expectation is naturally high. His life intersects with nearly every major chapter of Malaysia’s political and economic history—finance, oil, UMNO schisms, royal lineage, near-premiership. The material is all there. But the memoir never...