SOUL SCRIBBLES

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...

I write this not knowing if I’ll survive the ordeal. No Wi-Fi. No cell signal. And — most devastating of all — no electricity.  The cell signal was the first to go, thanks to a forgotten phone bill. That one’s on me. Then, as if the universe had a personal vendetta, the condo management decided it was the perfect time for “preventive maintenance” on the electrical system. Just like that, the power was cut. And with it, the Wi-Fi — our last fragile link to modern civilization — blinked out. I was officially off the grid. No Facebook. No Instagram. No TikTok. No Netflix. Not even a sneaky WhatsApp message could get through. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, which — thanks to the outage — was also taking a break. For 30 minutes, I contemplated life. My choices. And how long I could survive without memes. Then I heard it — the soft whisper of the wind squeezing through the closed window like a polite ghost. I got up and opened it. Fresh air. Nature. I was beginning to rem...

Yes, I’ve performed the Hajj. Alhamdulillah. I’ve stood on the scorching plains of Arafah, walked the sacred paths of Mina, and done more walking in five days than I usually do in five months. I’ve circled the Kaaba shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who instantly felt like family. I’ve cried in front of the House of Allah, not just from emotion, but also from realising how much I still need to work on myself. But despite all this, I don’t use the title Hajjah. Now, before anyone gets offended on my behalf, let me be clear: I have the deepest respect for the title and for those who carry it. It’s an honorable reminder of an incredible act of worship—one that takes planning, physical stamina, spiritual readiness, and in many cases, a surprising level of patience for Immigration clearance, unexpected ground transport changes, and the occasional "spiritual test" involving lost slippers. So why don’t I add “Hajjah” before my name like a proud badge of achievement? Well, for one,...

Ask any Malaysian where to eat and nine times out of 10, the answer will be: “Jom, mamak.” It’s the magical phrase that solves everything from midnight hunger pangs to post-football heartbreak. Where else can you order roti canai, nasi lemak, mee goreng, maggi goreng, nasi kandar, teh tarik, and even Milo dinosaur?  At the mamak, food variety is so wide, you could already finished that glass of Teh Tarik while your friend was still ordering his food “Err… roti kosong or roti telur… ah wait, got roti cheese also ah?” You can eat like a king for the price of a small coffee at a hipster café that serves “deconstructed toast.” No one judges your third roti canai or your decision to dip fries in curry. Most places shut down by 10 p.m. The mamak? Open when you’re hungry, heartbroken, or just bored. Breakup at midnight? Go mamak. Finished studying at 3 a.m.? Go mamak. Existential crisis at 5am? Roti telur helps.  If your life is a mess, the mamak is the 24-hour therapist that serves ...