Dr Rasuawahi from Juburti – Chapter 8: The Call from Home

 Three days passed without a word from Dr Rasuawahi.

Three peaceful, blessed days where I did not have to listen to philosophies about “destiny”, “narratives”, or why the masses supposedly despise thinking.

I almost convinced myself that our strange association had ended.

Then, as I stepped out of court one evening, a young hotel staff approached me with surprising familiarity.

“Sir, Dr Rasuawahi wants to see you. Urgently.”

Urgently? My instinct to run and my instinct to comply wrestled briefly, and—unfortunately—compliance won.

In his suite, I found him pacing like a man preparing to reclaim a throne rather than a deposed leader in exile.

“Lawyer!” he exclaimed. “It has begun.”

“What has begun, Sir?”

He thrust his phone into my hands.

The screen displayed a Juburtian news portal with headlines screaming crisis:

ECONOMY IN COLLAPSE
FOOD RIOTS IN MAJOR CITIES
GOVERNING PARTY FRACTURED
MILITARY LOYALTY IN DOUBT
SUPPORTERS OF EX-PRESIDENT RALLY IN CAPITAL

I scrolled further and my eyebrows lifted involuntarily.

There were photographs of crowds holding banners—many with Rasuawahi’s face.

One read:
“BRING BACK THE MAN WHO SAVED US.”

Another:
“WE WANT DR RASUWAHI.”

I looked at him.
He pretended to be humble. Pretended.

“The people miss me,” he said softly, like a man accepting a national award.

I resisted saying, Or someone paid for those banners.

---

“Is it truly that bad in Juburti?” I asked.

“Bad?” he replied. “Juburti is falling apart. Inflation at 37%. Bread lines kilometres long. Ministers stealing openly. The President has lost control of the military. People are desperate. Angry. Full of fear.”

He paused, then added with satisfaction:

“And desperation always resurrects old heroes.”

I wanted to ask why people would forget the reasons they rejected him in the first place. But he anticipated my thought—again.

“You are confused,” he said.

“I am,” I admitted. “I cannot understand why people have such short memories. Why they are so fickle. Why they run back to leaders they removed.”

He smiled the way a teacher smiles before revealing a formula nobody wants to accept.

“Because remembering requires thinking,” he said. “And thinking requires courage. Most people are frightened of both.”

He continued, pacing slowly.

“The masses remember corruption only when their stomach is full.
But when their stomach is empty, they remember only hunger.
Hunger erases history far more efficiently than propaganda.”

He held up a finger.

“This is why failed leaders come back. The pain of today always feels heavier than the betrayal of yesterday.”

It was terrifying how accurate that sounded—not just for Juburti, but for many nations I knew.

Including my own.

---

“Sir,” I said, “don’t people learn?”

He laughed softly.

“People do not learn. They survive. They choose whatever gives immediate relief. Familiar leaders feel safer than unfamiliar solutions. A failed leader is still a leader they already know. The unknown terrifies them more than past betrayal.”

He leaned closer.

“And do not underestimate pride. To remember why they rejected me, they must admit they were fooled. The masses would rather forget than admit they made a mistake.”

A painful truth.
A universal truth.

---

Then his phone vibrated.

A video call.
Three elderly citizens appeared on screen, looking exhausted and tearful.

They spoke in Juburtian.
I could not understand the words, but I understood the emotion.

Rasuawahi translated:

“They are asking me to return. They say the nation needs me. They say only I can restore order.”

The woman on the screen nodded vigorously, wiping her tears.

“And what will you tell them?” I asked.

He placed a hand dramatically on his chest.

“I will consider.”

The relief on their faces was heartbreaking.
Or frightening.
I wasn’t sure which anymore.

When the call ended, he turned to me, eyes gleaming.

“Do you see? The call has begun. Destiny calls softly at first… then loudly.”

---

I hesitated before asking the next question.

“Sir… if you return… will anything change? Will corruption end? Will nepotism be reduced? Will people live better lives?”

He looked genuinely puzzled, even amused.

“My dear lawyer,” he said gently, “corruption is simply the lubrication of governance. Without it, nothing moves. Nepotism? That is loyalty with blood ties. The people understand this. In fact, they expect it.”

“And their suffering?” I pressed.

He waved his hand lightly.

“People always suffer. The difference is whether they believe their suffering is meaningful. When I return, I will give them meaning again. They will clap as they always clapped. They will forget as they always forgot.”

He smiled.

“That is the nature of the masses. And the masses are the same everywhere.”

---

As I left his suite, I felt something heavy in my chest.

Not fear.

Recognition.

For the first time, I realised something unsettling:

People are not fickle.
They are predictable.
They run back to familiar chains because unfamiliar freedom frightens them.

And leaders like Dr Rasuawahi return not because they deserve to.

But because the people themselves open the door.

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Next: Chapter 9 – The Delegation Arrives

Dr Rasuawahi from Juburti – Chapter 7: The People’s Love (and Other Useful Illusions)

 Sleep did not come easily that night. My mind kept replaying Dr Rasuawahi’s declarations about “destiny”, “narrative”, and “public perception”, each phrase sounding uncomfortably familiar to anyone who has lived long enough in a democracy that behaves like a theatre troupe.

The next evening, I found myself knocking on his suite door again. It opened instantly, as though he had been standing behind it waiting—not for me specifically, but for an audience.

“Come, my friend,” he said warmly. “Tonight we talk about the most important asset any leader must control.”

“What asset is that?” I asked.

He smiled.
“The people’s love.”

He said it the way someone might speak of a private bank account.

He handed me a glossy magazine filled with photos of himself:

• hugging children,

• comforting villagers,

• inaugurating bridges,

• waving regally from balconies.

Each photograph was clearly staged, yet strangely convincing.

“You took these for your autobiography?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “These were taken to give the people what they need—an image. They must see you as their hero before they can believe you are their hero.”

He tapped the page showing him embracing a crying woman.

“Look at her,” he said. “She wasn’t crying because she was sad. A stage light fell on her foot. But the photo went viral with headlines like ‘President Comforts Grieving Widow’. That image alone increased my approval rating by twelve percent.”

“Twelve percent? From one photo?” I asked. People cannot be that gullible, or can they?

“People don’t follow policies,” he said. “They follow feelings. The quickest way to manipulate a nation is not through laws or speeches—it is through emotions.”

He paused, then added:

“And emotions are much easier to manufacture than reason.”

I felt a knot forming in my stomach.
He continued talking as if reading my thoughts.

“You Malaysians are familiar with this. Your leaders hug flood victims only when cameras are present. They kiss babies but never read a policy paper. They resign dramatically, then reappear as special advisors. A scandal erupts, people scream for a week, then everyone forgets because a concert, controversy, or celebrity distracts them.”

He chuckled at my expression.

“Do not look so shocked. This is not a Malaysian problem. It is a human problem. Juburti, Malaysia, America—people everywhere are addicted to political theatre.”

I wanted to argue, but I knew he had a point.

He leaned forward.

“Let me explain what the masses really want,” he said.

I braced myself.

“First, they want to feel safe. Not be safe—feel safe. There’s a difference.

Second, they want entertainment. Give them concerts, scandals, dramas, handouts, social media fights—anything that makes their small lives feel momentarily large.

Third, they want someone to blame. A villain. A traitor. A scapegoat.”

“And what about truth?” I asked.

“Truth?” he laughed. “Truth is the least popular product in politics. It doesn’t sell. It doesn’t excite. It doesn’t comfort. People reject truth the moment truth demands courage.”

I pressed him further.
“But don’t people realise they are being manipulated?”

He gave me a sympathetic look, as though explaining adulthood to a child.

“My dear lawyer, the masses don’t want to rule. They don’t want responsibility. They want leaders who make decisions for them so they can blame those leaders later if things go wrong. That is the secret pact between people and power.”

He sipped his coffee and continued.

“Democracy only works when citizens think. Most prefer to feel. Feeling requires no sacrifice.”

He pointed to the magazine again.

“You see these crowds waving flags? Half of them were paid. The other half came because they were afraid to look disloyal. And everyone else came because it was easier than thinking about why their lives never improve.”

“And this,” he said, lowering his voice,
“is why I will be called back soon.”

“Called back?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Back to Juburti. The economy is collapsing again. Factions are at war. People are hungry, angry, disillusioned. When suffering grows, nostalgia grows with it. They will remember me—not as I was, but as they need me to have been.”

He smiled with satisfaction.

“The people create their saviour out of desperation. I only need to appear.”

“And when you return?” I asked.

“Oh, when I return, there will be cheering, crying, fireworks, declarations of hope. They will forget my flaws. They will forget their pain. They will worship the illusion they have created.”

He leaned in until I could smell the Havana cigar on his breath.

“And the corruption, nepotism, oppression? It will all return too. But they will clap anyway.”

As I left his hotel that night, I felt a strange heaviness.
Not from fear, but from recognition.

Why do people cheer so loudly for leaders who ruin them?
Why do citizens willingly surrender their power?
Why do the masses prefer spectacle to substance?
Why do they choose comfort over dignity, illusion over truth?

I realised something painful:

Leaders like Dr Rasuawahi thrive not because they are exceptional,
but because the people allow them to be.

And perhaps worse—

the people often prefer it that way. And that reminded me why I did not want to join politics.

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Next: Chapter 8 – The Call from Juburti

Dr Rasuawahi from Juburti – Chapter 6: Writing Destiny

 I am trying to continue the Story of Rasuawahi from the State of Juburti from now as time permits. 😀. Since it has been so long you may want to reread the last  chapter 5  (click) . Or you may want to read all the short five chapters first to get a feel if you are new to this - click here:  https://jahaberdeen.blogspot.com/search?q=rasuawahi . 

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Dr Rasuawahi from Juburti – Chapter 6: Writing Destiny

I did not realise I had spoken my thought aloud.

“Eliminating the enemy?” I had muttered under my breath, more to myself than to him.

His eyes, sharp as a hunting bird’s, immediately locked onto mine.

“What did you say, my friend?” he asked, with that dangerous calm I was beginning to recognise.

“Nothing, Sir. Just… thinking aloud,” I replied quickly, cursing my tongue and whatever part of my brain that had decided to bypass the usual filter.

He leaned back, studying me as if I were one of his economic reports.

“Thinking can be dangerous,” he said slowly. “Especially when done aloud. In Juburti, people have disappeared for less.” 

He smiled after saying that, as if it was a joke.

It wasn’t.  I wondered if that was a threat or a show of power.

I looked down at the newspaper cutting again, pretending to be absorbed in the badly written article about the “failed assassination attempt”. The photograph showed a young, handsome Lepaki in handcuffs, his face turned away from the camera. The caption underneath read:

“TRAITOR SON SAVED BY PRESIDENT-IN-WAITING”

What a convenient headline, I thought.

“Sir,” I said after a while, “do you ever… miss them? Your wife. Lepaki. Even the President.”

He took a deep breath. It was the kind of deep breath politicians take just before a campaign speech, not before an honest confession.

“Of course I miss them,” he said. “I am human, you know. I am not a machine, though many would prefer their leaders to be machines… efficient, emotionless, obedient.” 

He paused, then added in a quieter tone, “I visited my wife every week for seven years. Every Sunday. 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. The media was there for the first six months. Then they got bored. That’s the problem with the media. Compassion has a very short shelf life with them.”

“Does she… respond?” I asked gently.

“No. She breathes. That is all,” he replied. “Her job now is to breathe. My job is to carry the burden of her breathing.”

I did not know whether to feel sorry for him or suspicious of him.

Both felt unsafe.

---

“Sir,” I ventured, “there are people who say that the entire episode—the bomb, the attack on your house, the trial—was… orchestrated. That the President was cornered emotionally and politically. His son condemned, his daughter in a coma, public outrage, no room for mercy.”

I forced myself to maintain eye contact.

He stared at me for a long time and then did something unexpected.

He laughed.

Not the mocking laughter I had seen before. Not the arrogant laughter. This time, it was a tired, amused, almost philosophical laugh.

“Let me ask you something, lawyer,” he said. “When a man is drowning, do you ask whether the rope you throw him is from a halal factory or a non-halal factory?”

I blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“That is precisely the problem with people like you,” he said. “You want moral purity in an immoral reality. You want democracy without blood. You want stability without sacrifice. You want clean hands while standing in mud.”

“That’s not what I—”

He raised his hand. “Let me finish.” That sent a chill down my spine !

He got up from his chair and walked to the window. From the 30th floor, the city lights of Kuala Lumpur stretched out like a motherboard of capitalism, pulsing and blinking without conscience.

“In 1999,” he began, “Juburti was collapsing. The economy was broken, the people were angry, the military was restless, foreign powers were circling like vultures. The President was weak, his son was unstable, his cronies were greedy. Do you understand? There was no centre. A State without a centre is a corpse waiting to be eaten.”

He turned to face me.

“Someone had to decide whether Juburti lives or dies.”

“And that someone was you,” I said.

“Who else?” he replied, without a trace of modesty.

“Did you plant the bomb, Sir?” I asked suddenly.

The question surprised even me. Apparently my mouth had resigned from its post and was working freelance.

He did not answer immediately.

Instead, he walked back, sat down opposite me, crossed his legs, and lit another Havana cigar. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke form a kind of curtain between us.

“In politics,” he said at last, “there are three kinds of truths. Truth as it happened. Truth as people remember it. And truth as it is written.”

He pointed at the newspaper cutting in my hand.

“That,” he said, “is truth as written.”

“So it may not be truth as it happened?” I pressed.

He shrugged. “Does it matter? The people believe there was an assassination attempt. They believe Lepaki betrayed his father. They believe I saved the country. That belief is more powerful than what really happened in the dark of that night.”

“That’s dangerous,” I said.

He smiled. “That is power.” 

“I still don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “If you loved the President like a father, and his son like your son, how could you allow this to happen? How could you not… stop it?”

“Who says I did not try?” he replied quickly. “I pardoned Lepaki, did I not? I kept him alive. I could have let him hang and the people would have cheered. But I sent him to Sweden instead. I kept him far away from Juburti’s poison.”

“And from your throne,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

He looked annoyed now. His patience with my middle-class conscience was wearing thin.

“You Malaysians,” he said abruptly, “you are too sentimental about politics. You think it is an extension of your family values. It is not. It is an extension of war by other means. Power must be held by those who can carry it, not by those who inherit it like a piece of jewellery.”

“But did the people choose you?” I asked.

He laughed softly. “My friend, the people choose what they are given to choose. You of all people should know that. You have elections, yes. You also have stage-managed choices.”

That stung.

“Tell me something honestly, Sir,” I said. “If the President had not tried to remove you… would you have still become President?”

He thought for a moment.

“No,” he said simply. “He would never have let go.”

“Then the crisis was… necessary?” I asked.

“It was inevitable,” he corrected. “I merely… accelerated destiny.”

I wrote that down. Accelerated destiny. That’s one for the textbooks on political euphemisms.

There was a silence between us, filled only by the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the traffic far below.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I finally asked. “Why me? I am just a lawyer. I can’t restore you to power in Juburti.”

He smiled, a slow, measured smile.

“You listen,” he said. “Most people talk. You ask questions, but you still listen. And your mind is… conflicted. I like conflicted minds. They are useful. They understand complexity but still want to believe in morality. That makes them dangerous to me but also… entertaining.”

“I didn’t know I was enrolled for entertainment,” I replied dryly.

“Also,” he added as if it were an afterthought, “I might need legal advice soon. Exile is a messy business. Assets to manage. Enemies to neutralise. Stories to control.”

“Stories?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you think power is about guns and money alone? No. Power is about narrative. The one who tells the story, rules the memory. The President ruled while he controlled the story of Juburti’s independence. Now, I rule as long as I control the story of Juburti’s survival.”

“And Lepaki?” I asked softly. “What story does he get?”

“He gets to be the tragic prince,” Dr Rasuawahi said. “It is a noble role. Many will sympathise with him. But no one will follow him. Sympathy without power is… harmless.”

" People love the opportunity to sympathise. It makes them feel good", he continued. 

My head was spinning.

I had come thinking this might be a straightforward case of illegal removal of a president by “subversives of the State”. Now I was not even sure who the subversive was.

“Sir,” I said, “if I were to represent you… what exactly is it you want?”

He smiled, leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“I want,” he said, “my legitimacy restored. Not in Juburti. That will come later. First, in the eyes of the world. I want to be seen not as a dictator thrown out, but as a statesman betrayed. That is why I am here. That is why I talk to you. Lawyers are good with words. Words are good with the world.”

“And in the meantime?” I asked.

“In the meantime,” he said, “I invest. I move money. I build alliances. I support certain politicians. I undermine others. I keep my options open. A man like me is never truly out of power. He is only… off-stage.”

The way he said “off-stage” reminded me of his early days as a theatre actor.

Perhaps he had never left the stage at all. 

As I got up to leave, he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Take your time to decide whether you want to act for me,” he said. “But remember this: in every country, there are people like me. Some are better actors, some worse. I am at least honest enough to tell you that I play the game. In the interest of Juburti of course.”

“Honest?” I almost choked on the word but managed a polite smile.

“And lawyer,” he added, “if you do decide to work with me… your life will never be the same again. You will see how power really works. Not the version you read in your law books.”

I didn’t doubt that.

As I walked out of the hotel, the night air felt heavier somehow. My mind was heavier too.

Was I, an ordinary lawyer, about to be pulled into the orbit of a man who believed he had the right to “accelerate destiny” – even if entire nations pay the price?

And worse, a small part of me – the part that fantasised earlier about being “Chief Legal Advisor to the President” – was disturbingly… tempted.

The devil in my mind whispered: History is written by scoundrels… with the help of lawyers.

I prayed I would not become one of them.

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Next: Chapter 7 – The People’s Love (and Other Useful Illusions)

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Politics Should Never Be the Source of Our Moral Values

By Dr Jahaberdeen Mohamed Yunoos

 

Politics should never be the source of moral values, national unity, or genuine human compassion. If anything, politics is often the art of division disguised as governance. The sooner we realise this truth, the sooner we can begin the serious task of building a society rooted in empathy, justice, and human dignity—values that transcend race, religion, and the pursuit of power.

We must reject the naïve expectation that political actors will lead the moral or spiritual direction of a nation. Their primary motivation is not the cultivation of a just and humane society—it is the acquisition and retention of power. Power brings influence, wealth, and control. That is the core pursuit of politics, and moral integrity is rarely its compass.

Populism over Principles

Politicians, especially in democracies, do not govern by principle. They govern by numbers. This means they will always prioritise populist narratives that appeal to the majority, even if it marginalises the minority or undermines long-term societal well-being. Principles of justice, compassion, and equality are often sacrificed at the altar of electoral gain.

In Malaysia, political rhetoric continues to revolve around cmunal identity—race and religion are the favourite themes. “Defending race and religion” becomes a repeated slogan, not a deeply held conviction. It is used to invoke fear, provoke insecurity, and consolidate support among one’s perceived political base. Instead of challenging racial and religious bigotry, many politicians exploit it. They do not unite the people; they divide and conquer.

Disturbingly, we are now seeing younger politicians emulate and perpetuate these same divisive and opportunistic political behaviours. Many of them, rather than becoming reformers, are merely more eloquent versions of the past. They adopt the same playbook—emotionally charged slogans, racial pandering, manufactured outrage, and short-term symbolism over genuine substance. The same toxic cycle continues, just with younger faces.

Race and Religion as Political Tools

True leadership uplifts, educates, and unites. But political survival in Malaysia often depends on the opposite—on creating imagined enemies and defending imagined threats. Race and religion are weaponised to maintain political roles and secure voter loyalty. When Malaysians are divided, there is always room for a politician to present themselves as a “protector” of their group.

This strategy has devastating consequences for national unity. Our institutions, policies, and even educational content are often influenced more by racial arithmetic than by universal ethics. Policies are frequently crafted to appease communal insecurities rather than to promote justice across the board. The language of equality is rarely spoken in Parliament unless it is politically safe.

In schools, children are subtly segregated by language streams and cultural framing. Many grow up with limited exposure to other communities. By the time they are adults, this lack of socialisation becomes fertile ground for suspicion and prejudice—ready to be exploited by politicians.

Toxic Values Reinforced by Political Convenience

Politics in Malaysia not only fails to challenge regressive values—it reinforces them. The blind obedience to authority, the culture of silence in the face of wrongdoing, patriarchal structures, homophobia, and the fear of difference are often defended as “tradition” or “Asian values.” These are not values; they are chains.

Survivors of domestic abuse are often urged to stay silent “for the family.” Religious dissenters are demonised. Victims of racism are told not to “question the system.” And politicians, ever pragmatic, rarely challenge these oppressive norms. Why would they? These norms help preserve the status quo. These norms help win elections.

Instead of guiding citizens toward more ethical and compassionate thinking, politicians fuel the very toxicities that keep people divided, fearful, and emotionally reactive. The more divided and reactive the population, the easier it is to control.

The Illusion of Reform

We hear much about “national reform,” especially when new coalitions come to power. But reform is not merely changing faces or renaming institutions. True reform requires educating the citizenry, fostering critical thinking, and promoting a culture of compassion and civic responsibility. This is exactly what most politicians fear.

A thinking, compassionate, and morally upright population is difficult to manipulate. It demands answers. It sees through empty slogans. It refuses to be ruled by fear. This is why we rarely see political platforms that genuinely promote critical education, interfaith understanding, or deep institutional reform. Those who try are often sidelined.

Even judicial independence, media freedom, and anti-corruption efforts are often used selectively—highlighted when politically convenient and buried when they threaten vested interests. The lack of consistency itself is a form of moral decay.

Where Then Do We Learn Our Values?

If politics cannot teach us values, where do we learn them? The answer must be: from ourselves, from our families, our teachers, our communities, and our own personal reflection. We must reclaim the responsibility of nurturing our own moral compass.

Movements like Rapera—which stand for nurturing thinking and compassionate citizens—recognise this need. They aim to raise a generation that transcends the limits of race and religion, that sees humanity first before ethnicity, and that values justice over blind loyalty. The future of our nation depends on such citizens—not on career politicians.

We must begin asking ourselves the right questions: Are our leaders making us better human beings? Are they encouraging unity, or division? Are they fostering strength of character, or fear and dependency? Do they want us to think—or merely to follow?

Conclusion

The time has come for us to stop expecting politicians to be our moral guides. They were never meant to be. They were meant to govern within frameworks created by a society with moral clarity—not to define those morals for us.

We must build a moral foundation that is citizen-led, not politician-driven. National unity, human dignity, and compassion must not be the slogans of political campaigns—they must be the lived values of our daily lives.

Politics should never be the source of our values. Our humanity should be.

END.

Politics and Business should not mix !

 The fusion of political power with business interests is a lived reality that poses serious risks to our democracy, economy, and social fabric. This isn’t about pointing fingers but about understanding the dangers and reminding ourselves why we need to keep these spheres distinct.

In a healthy democracy, the government should first serve the people, not corporations or elites. When business interests influence politics, democracy is compromised, and policies benefit a few well-connected individuals rather than the rakyat.

This is particularly risky for Malaysia, where democratic institutions are still maturing and vulnerable to such influence.

A democracy influenced by business interests is a democracy weakened, and preserving its integrity means keeping these lines clear.

Governments are meant to be facilitators, creating conditions to allow businesses to flourish. This means ensuring a fair and transparent regulatory framework, investing in infrastructure, and fostering innovation. However, when governments start working for specific business interests, they stray from their primary duty of serving the rakyat.

After 65 years of independence haven’t we heard all the stories. 

High-profile corruption cases that make headlines, for instance, revealing the ugly nexus between politics and business. It’s a pattern that repeats itself, and unless we remain vigilant, it will continue.

Corruption doesn’t just rob us of money – it robs us of trust in our leaders and institutions.

When public funds are siphoned off due to corrupt practices, who suffers? It’s the everyday Malaysian. Resources that should go to schools, hospitals, and infrastructure instead line the pockets of the powerful. This isn’t just a cautionary tale; it’s our reality, and we need to demand better.

The market is distorted. We must remind ourselves of the damage done to our economy when politics meddles in business. In a fair market, competition should drive innovation and growth. But when businesses secure government favouritism through political connections, it stifles competition. This is something we see far too often in Malaysia, with politically linked companies getting the lion’s share of contracts and benefits.

What happens then? Smaller businesses – especially the small and medium-sized enterprises that are the backbone of our economy – are left to struggle. Innovation stalls, prices rise, and ultimately, we, the consumers, bear the brunt. If we want a thriving economy, we need markets that are free from political interference.

Trust is the cornerstone of any functioning society. Yet, the mixing of politics and business erodes this trust. When Malaysians see leaders prioritising corporate interests over public welfare, it breeds cynicism and apathy.

We’ve all felt it – the frustration of seeing decisions being made that seem to be more about lining someone’s pockets than serving the people. This erosion of trust can lead to something even more dangerous: social unrest.

In Malaysia, where economic and social divides already exist, the perception of a corrupt elite can spark discontent. We’ve seen movements and protests arise from this very frustration. To avoid further disillusionment and unrest, we need transparency and accountability in both politics and business.

We also need to talk about the growing gap between the rich and the poor – a gap that’s often widened when politics and business get too cosy.

We can’t ignore the fact that political favouritism has contributed to this inequality. When policies favour a select few, the majority are left behind, struggling to make ends meet.

It is about real lives – about families who can’t afford proper education for their children or adequate healthcare. When business elites and politicians collaborate to serve their own interests, they perpetuate cycles of poverty and limit

opportunities for many Malaysians. We must remember that true progress is inclusive – it leaves no one behind.

So let’s talk about ethics. When politics and business mix, ethical standards often erode – politicians may seek personal gain, and businesses may ignore regulations for profit. This decline in ethics affects every-one.

In Malaysia, we’ve seen how environmental and labour rights can take a back seat when profits are on the line, which isn’t sustainable. Whether it’s in politics or business, our leaders must act with integrity and prioritise the rakyat’s best interests. The entrenched blend of politics and business makes it hard for new governments to implement reforms. Even with leadership changes, the old guard often holds sway through longstanding business networks, acting as a “shadow government” that resists economic, bureaucratic, and political reforms.

Efforts to dismantle monopolies, ensure transparent procurement, or reform public institutions often face pushback from these interests. True reform requires not only political will but also breaking down these deep-rooted power networks.

What can we do about this then?

It starts with us – the people. We need to stay informed, hold our leaders accountable, and demand transparency.

Campaign finance reform, stronger regulations, and independent oversight are all critical. But perhaps most importantly, we must keep reminding ourselves and others of the importance of separating politics from business.

Malaysia’s future depends on it. Let’s not wait for the next scandal or crisis to wake us up. Instead, let’s stay vigilant and proactive, ensuring that our democracy and economy serve the people, not the powerful few.

This is our country, our future, and it’s up to us to protect it.

Senior lawyer Datuk Seri Dr Jahaberdeen Mohamed Yunoos is the founder of Rapera, a movement which encourages thinking and compassion among Malaysians. The views expressed here are entirely his own.