I THINK I have lived long enough to see both progress and heartbreak in this country. And I am still here. Still holding the same red passport, still standing up when Negaraku plays – wherever and whenever – and still quietly hopeful even when things don’t go the way I wish they would.
Loving Malaysia, for me, has never been about idealism; it is about presence – about showing up even when the mood isn’t festive, when the headlines disappoint you or even when your voice feels small.
The truth is, this country is still in the middle of becoming, and so are we.
We often talk about nation-building like it is a clear before-and-after story: Merdeka, then unity; reform, then renewal. As if independence is a destination and everything after that will unfold neatly. But anyone who has spent time in the middle of anything – a relationship, career or personal change – knows that the middle is the hardest part; it is where things get messy.
There are days when I feel proud, days when I walk through a pasar malam and hear four languages blending into one conversation, days when I see students standing up to ask hard questions or days when I see someone quietly picking up a flag from the ground and folding it with care.
And then there are days when it all feels heavy – when the news wears you down, when unity feels fragile, when you wonder if anything you are doing is making a difference. That tension between pride and pain, between what is and what could be, is exactly the reality of loving something in the middle of its story.
There is a kind of myth we have absorbed – maybe from films or books or polished speeches – that loving your country means defending everything about it. That if you speak about what is broken, you are being disloyal. But I don’t believe that.
You can love something and want it to grow. You can love your country and call it out when it needs to do better. That is what real love is about: not blind praise but honest care.
Sometimes, that care means going back to your hometown to vote, whether on a weekday or weekend. Sometimes, it is volunteering in your community, whether in your neighbourhood or the Orang Asli community in Sungai Koyan. Sometimes, it can be just staying here – staying in the ring even when you are tired, staying when it would be easier to check out and move on to greener pastures.
I have had friends leave – some with heavy hearts and some with relief – and I don’t blame them. This is not always an easy place to stay. But for those of us still here – whether building, teaching, fixing or dreaming – there is something worth holding on to.
Because the middle, as messy as it is, also holds possibilities. It is in the middle where policies are tested; where relationships across race, status and belief are built; and where people begin to reimagine what fairness, integrity and dignity can look like – not just in law or history books – but in our everyday, noisy lives.
So if you are feeling disillusioned, I understand. But don’t give up yet, don’t check out just because the work ahead is hard. Nation-building is not a spectator sport; it needs your voice, your vote, your version of what this place could be.
There is a saying: “You can’t eat the fruit the same day you plant the seed.” And that is true of countries, too. What we plant today – in how we treat each other, how we vote and how we speak up or stay kind – may take years to grow but that does not mean the work is wasted; it means the roots are taking hold.
This Merdeka, I don’t have a grand speech to offer, just this simple letter to say I’m still here. Still trying. Still loving this country. Not because it is perfect but because it is mine. Because I truly believe that loving something in the middle of its growth is the most human thing we can do.
Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya. Comments: letters@theundaily.com