From Vision to Delivery: Reading the 2026 Titah Through Wawasan 2035 and RKN 12

We have visions. We have plans. We have KPIs. But do we have velocity? The 2026 Titah reads less like encouragement and more like a polite performance review of a system that has learned to manage indicators better than outcomes. This is a reflection on why delivery, not direction, is now Brunei’s real test.

By Malai Hassan Othman — KopiTalk with MHO

In my earlier essay, Between Stability and Stagnation, I suggested that the New Year 2026 Titah should be read less as a celebration and more as a quiet reminder: stability is not the same as momentum. The more difficult question, I argued, is whether we are moving with the seriousness our promises require.

Once that question is asked honestly, another follows almost immediately.

If we are not moving fast enough, where are we in our national journey?

I don't mean in speeches, slides, or beautifully formatted progress reports, but in the real, sometimes untidy, architecture of delivery.

Brunei does not lack plans. We have Wawasan 2035, our long-term national vision, and RKN 12, the current development plan meant to translate that vision into outcomes. Now, we have a Titah that, while calm in tone, is unusually explicit in its signals about execution, speed, and reform.

Read together, these three form a quiet but serious national conversation.

And like most serious conversations, it is not entirely comfortable.

Wawasan 2035 promises three great things: a high quality of life, a dynamic and sustainable economy, and well-educated, highly skilled people. 

RKN 12 is supposed to be one of the main vehicles to carry us there, through diversification, private sector growth, productivity, digital transformation, and institutional reform.

In other words, we are long past defining what we want. We are now in the far more demanding stage of proving that our systems can actually produce it.

That is why the 2026 Titah should be read not merely as a New Year message, but as a mid-course signal.

Consider the economic picture it paints. It is honest and carefully balanced. Growth has slowed. Buffers remain. We are not in crisis.

But neither are we in lift-off.

This is, in many ways, the most dangerous position a system can be in. When things are clearly broken, urgency is unavoidable. When things are comfortable, urgency has to compete with habits, routines, and well-practised explanations.

The Titah's repeated call to "double efforts", to strengthen competitiveness, and to accelerate across sectors, is not the language of panic, but of impatience with slow machinery.

We hear again about investment, jobs, exports, Halal, and the business environment—exactly as Wawasan 2035 and RKN 12 require. Yet the fact that we are still speaking about these with such insistence suggests something quietly sobering: diversification is still more a project than a condition.

If it were already an engine, we would be discussing its momentum. Instead, we are still discussing how to make it start.

This does not mean nothing has been done, but that, in scale and speed, what remains to be done still outweighs what has already been achieved.

The same pattern appears in governance and service delivery.

The announcement of Brunei-ID and the corporatisation of the Postal Department into PosBru are not just technical updates, but structural signals, suggesting that the state itself is being asked to change how it works, not merely what it does.

The use of the term customer-centric is especially revealing. This is not the natural language of a procedure-driven system, but of an organisation that has begun to realise that compliance is not the same as impact.

Read in the context of Wawasan 2035, this implies something serious: delivery is no longer a back-office matter, but a strategic constraint.

In plain terms, how the system moves is now as important as what the system intends.

Many citizens and businesses already know this from experience. The greatest friction today is rarely about whether something is allowed, but about how long it takes, how many desks it visits, how many times it is "not rejected but not approved", and how much quiet energy is lost along the way.

 

A small contractor once described how a straightforward payment, already certified and completed, traveled for months from desk to desk "for checking". By the time it arrived, bank limits were stretched, workers had to be juggled, and the next job had quietly slipped away. Nobody had rejected the work. Nobody had made a mistake. 

 

The system had simply taken longer than the business could afford.

 

And here we touch a sensitive, but unavoidable, nerve.

 

Somewhere along the way, parts of the system became very good at managing indicators, surviving audits, and producing slides—but far less good at producing visible change at speed.

 

Activity is abundant, but outcomes are more selective.

 

This is what "inertia masked as activity" looks like in real life.

 

It is not refusal, but ritual.

 

If we place this against RKN 12, a gentle but firm question arises. We are already well into the life of this plan. At this stage, progress should not require so much explanation; it should be increasingly difficult not to notice.

 

At some point, a development plan must be judged not by how carefully it is written, but by how stubbornly it insists on being felt in daily life.

 

The Titah's repeated emphasis on speed, responsiveness, and transformation suggests that this threshold has not yet been crossed.

 

That does not mean the direction is wrong, but that traction remains the central problem.

 

The Titah's attention to youth, entrepreneurs, farmers, and breeders points to something deeper. These are not ceremonial mentions, but reflect an understanding that future resilience and growth cannot be delivered by administration alone, and require mobilization.

 

Food security, in particular, is no longer framed merely as efficiency, but clearly about resilience and sovereignty.

 

This marks a quiet but important shift in national thinking—from optimization to robustness.

 

But again, understanding is not the bottleneck. Translation is.

 

Notice, too, what the Titah does not say.

 

There is no mention of slow approvals, overlapping mandates, siloed institutions, or duplicated processes.

 

And yet, the repeated emphasis on transformation, responsiveness, and customer-centricity only makes sense if these are precisely the areas where the system still struggles.

 

In this sense, the Titah reads less like a celebration and more like a performance review.

 

Not a scolding,

 

But certainly not an endorsement of "business as usual".

 

This is where a crucial distinction must be made—one that insiders will recognize immediately.

 

A Titah can be used in two ways: as a compass for decisions yet to be made, or as a citation to decorate decisions already taken.

 

When it becomes mainly the latter, its authority is honored in form, but not in function.

 

And when procedures are followed more faithfully than purposes, the system becomes very safe, very polite—and very slow.

 

To be fair, no system chooses this deliberately. It evolves this way because it is rewarded for avoiding mistakes more than for producing breakthroughs, and for protecting equilibrium more than for testing limits.

 

But Wawasan 2035 is not a promise of equilibrium, but of transformation.

 

If Between Stability and Stagnation argued that comfort is the enemy of momentum, then reading the 2026 Titah through Wawasan 2035 and RKN 12 suggests something even more precise: the risk is not that we are going in the wrong direction, but that we are moving too slowly in the right one.

 

In development, that can be just as expensive.

 

To leaders and decision-makers, the implication is quiet but firm. The era in which elegant policy language was enough is ending. Legitimacy will increasingly be measured by how quickly real life changes, not by how neatly plans are defended.

 

To the public service, the implication is even more direct. In a system that aspires to be customer-centric, every queue, every delay, every "please wait" becomes part of the national story—not an administrative footnote.

 

And to the rest of us—businesses, youth, citizens—the message is equally demanding. Space is being opened, but space does not create motion. Capability, judgment, and persistence do.

 

Ultimately, Wawasan 2035 will not succeed or fail in a single dramatic moment, but quietly, cumulatively, and almost invisibly—in how many small frictions we remove, how many small decisions we accelerate, and how many small excuses we finally retire.

 

The 2026 Titah, read carefully, sounds less like a New Year greeting and more like a progress check.

 

Not a warning,

 

Not a threat,

 

But a reminder that the clock is no longer generous.

 

We are no longer in the phase of defining ambition, but in the phase of proving systems.

 

And history is rarely unkind to those who tried and failed — but it is unforgiving to those who were simply very good at explaining why tomorrow had to wait. (MHO/01/2026)

Episode 10 — Tatfīf: When We Take More Than We Give

We thought tatfīf was about wet markets and weighing scales.
Then one day we realised… it was about us.
Full salary. Short work.
Full rights. Short responsibility.
Episode 10 — Tatfīf: When We Take More Than We Give
A reflection on the small dishonesties that quietly hollow out our workplaces.

☕ KopiTalk with MHO | MIB Management 101

"Woe to those who give less [than due]..." — Surah al-Mutaffifīn

I recently attended an interesting class where the ustaz was doing tadabbur on Surah al-Mutaffifīn. To be honest, I went in thinking I already knew what it was about.

Tatfīf (defrauder), I thought, was about cheating in weights and measurements, about dishonest traders, wet markets, and vegetable sellers who tweak the scale a little.

Then the ustaz began to speak.

And slowly, uncomfortably, I realised something.

This surah wasn't really about them.

It was about us.

I must admit openly: I am not innocent of this sin.

In my younger days, there were many occasions when we did things we thought were just "a little naughty": going home earlier than we should, taking longer coffee breaks, spending too much time smoking and chatting during office hours, coming late, and leaving early—but still expecting full pay, full recognition, full entitlement.

At that time, we didn't really feel it was wrong. Everyone did it; it felt normal enough.

We thought tatfīf was about cheating money.

We never thought it could be about cheating time, effort, and trust.

That was when something shifted in me.

Tatfīf, I learned, is not only about scales. It is about moral scales.

It is about wanting full measure for ourselves, but giving short measure to others:

Full salary, short work.

Full rights, short responsibility.

Full respect, short sincerity.

That is tatfīf.

And the frightening part is this: it is often invisible, hiding inside routines, inside office culture, inside that quiet phrase, "that's how things are done."

No one feels like a criminal. No one feels like a thief.

But something is being taken.

Over time, I began to notice how this spirit quietly lives in many workplaces.

We demand efficiency from others, but give excuses for ourselves.

We complain about lazy staff, but quietly cut corners.

We get angry at systems, but also learn how to exploit them.

We want promotions, but not always improvement.

We want trust, but not always accountability.

And we rarely call this what it really is.

We call it pandai bawa diri.

Sometimes we excuse it by saying, "jangan luan rajin, inda jua kana puji, gaji pun inda jua labih."

And in the end we shrug and say, "asal kerja siap."

But in the language of the Qur'an, this is giving less than what is due. In our own Malay idiom, we call it curi tulang.

Tatfīf is not a scandal; it is a culture.

And that is why it is dangerous.

Because when an organisation lives like this, nothing collapses dramatically. Everything just becomes... hollow.

People still come to work, but they stop giving their best.

They still follow procedures, but they stop caring about meaning.

They still collect salaries, but something inside them slowly switches off.

And then one day, we wonder why productivity is low, why morale is poor, why trust is thin, why cynicism hangs in the air.

We rarely trace it back to this:

We have been short-changing each other for years.

In a Negara Zikir, this should make us pause and feel very uncomfortable.

Because this is not just a management problem; it is a spiritual problem.

Islam does not only care about whether you steal money. It cares about whether you steal time, energy, and sincerity.

The Prophet ﷺ taught that ihsan is to work as if Allah sees you.

Because He does.

Tatfīf is living as if no one sees.

It is doing the minimum when you could have done better.

It is hiding behind the excuse of "good enough."

It is slowly training your soul to accept mediocrity.

And what is most frightening is this: once you become comfortable giving less, you slowly become comfortable receiving more than you deserve.

That is how amanah dies quietly.

That is how adil becomes selective.

That is how ihsan becomes a slogan instead of a way of life.

I am not writing this to accuse anyone.

I am writing this because I recognise myself in it.

And maybe, if we are honest, many of us will too.

Perhaps the real question Surah al-Mutaffifīn is asking us today is not this:

Do you cheat in weights and measures?

But:

Do you give your work the weight it deserves?

Do you give your responsibilities their full measure?

Or are you quietly living on short measures, hoping no one notices?

Because in the end, even if people don't see...
Allah does.

KopiTalk with MHO — reflections brewed gently, with honesty and heart.

Between Stability and Stagnation: What the 2026 Titah Is Really Asking of Us

 I read the New Year 2026 Titah as a calm and reassuring message — but also as a quiet reminder that stability is not the same as momentum. We are blessed with peace and resilience, yet many of us know how red tape, slow approvals, and slow payments quietly drain energy from good intentions, especially among small businesses. This essay is not a criticism of anyone, and certainly not a political argument. It is a reflection on what is said — and what is gently implied — about delivery, service reform, competitiveness, and our shrinking runway to Wawasan 2035. The Titah does not scold us. It trusts us. And that trust invites a simple, honest question for all of us — leaders, civil servants, youth, and citizens alike: are we finally ready to move with the seriousness we have long promised?

 
By Malai Hassan Othman | KopiTalk with MHO

A young businessman once told me that running a small business in Brunei is tough, not because of finding customers or money, but because of learning to wait.

He spent ages waiting for forms, approvals, and sometimes payments. By the time the cash arrived, salaries were due, suppliers were growing impatient, and his excitement had begun to wane.

In Brunei, a lot of small businesses don't fail because there's no work; they fail because they run out of cash. Delays choke cash flow, while bills keep piling up on time.

"The country is peaceful," he said, almost apologetically, "but sometimes it feels like that peace makes us move really slowly."

That chat popped into my mind when I read the New Year 2026 titah.

At first glance, it seems calm and reassuring. It thanks God for stability and notes that even with global chaos, climate issues, and economic challenges, Brunei is still steady, orderly, and resilient.

There's no alarmist tone, no drama, and no sense of panic. But that's exactly why we need to pay more attention to the message.

Underneath its chill vibe, the main point is clear: we can't keep moving at the same speed as before, even if that felt comfy and safe.

For the first time in a while, the titah isn't just about hopes and dreams. It's about actions, timelines, and real changes, which is how serious reform often sneaks in.

Starting January 2026, we'll have a national digital identity, Brunei-ID. The Postal Department is becoming PosBru. The phrase "customer-centric" service is popping up, not just as a catchy slogan, but as something we should actually expect.

These aren't just nice announcements. They signal that Brunei's current challenge isn't about vision, but about getting things done, coordinating efforts, and picking up the pace.

The economic outlook is honest and balanced. It acknowledges a 1.1 per cent contraction in the first half of 2025, while also noting trade surpluses and a welcome drop in inflation.

So, we're not in a crisis, but we can't afford to chill either. We're stable, but stability alone doesn't create momentum or build confidence.

Stability, at best, just buys us time. And as we approach 2035, time is becoming more precious and harder to come by.

The repeated calls to step up efforts, boost competitiveness, and speed things up in key sectors aren't just casual talk. They reflect a leadership that knows we can't afford to delay.

Wawasan 2035 isn't some far-off goal we can approach leisurely. It's a target that requires us to measure not just our direction, but how fast we're moving.

It's also notable who gets a shout-out in the titah. Youth groups, young entrepreneurs, farmers, and breeders are highlighted because they represent where real productivity and resilience will come from.

Food security isn't just an economic goal anymore. In a more uncertain world, it's about national resilience and serious strategy.

The focus on service reform and customer-centric delivery is also significant. This kind of language isn't typically linked to bureaucracy, and its inclusion here is intentional.

The corporatisation of PosBru isn't just a one-off experiment. It sets a quiet standard for how other public services might be expected to change.

What's left unsaid in the titah is just as crucial as what is said.

There's no talk about slow processes, siloed thinking, or institutional inertia. There's no public finger-pointing or blame.

But when transformation, responsiveness, and delivery are emphasized repeatedly, it's clear our current approach isn't cutting it.

There's also no outright admission that we're behind schedule on Wawasan 2035. But when urgency starts replacing celebration in national messaging, we don't need footnotes to get the picture.

The real bottleneck, as many quietly know, isn't about policy design. It's about execution, coordination, and the everyday friction that drains energy from good intentions.

This is where the titah reflects on all of us.

For those in leadership and decision-making roles, the message is gentle but firm: the time for comfortable policies without urgent action is coming to an end.

For civil servants on the ground, the message is crystal clear. You're not just administrators anymore; you're the living face of national reform and public trust.

Every counter, every approval, and every response time is no longer a minor detail. It's part of how we judge the nation's commitment to change.

To the youth, this encouragement comes with responsibility. You're not just the future; you're part of the present solution and need to help build what you want to inherit.

And for the public, maybe the quiet reminder is this: Brunei is safe, stable, and blessed, but stability without movement can turn into stagnation without us even realizing it.

In the end, Wawasan 2035 isn't just a document, a slogan, or a date on a calendar. It's about how we behave daily, reflected in how quickly we decide and how faithfully we keep our promises.

It lives in how much hassle we remove for others and how much unnecessary friction we're willing to break down in our own systems.

A system can stay polite, orderly, and calm - and still slowly fail the people it's meant to serve.

Stability is a blessing. However, stability without urgency can slowly turn into stagnation, and stagnation, in a changing world, is merely decline that hasn't yet learned to introduce itself.

The titah doesn't scold us. It does something more demanding. It trusts us - and quietly asks if we're finally ready to move as seriously as we've promised. (MHO/01/026)

 

 

Episode 9 — Amanah: When Systems Forget People

 
A boy lost twenty dollars.
A family lost their certainty.
A system said, “This is the record.”
But somewhere between procedure and people, something else was lost.

A reflection on trust, power, and the quiet weight of decisions.



☕ KopiTalk with MHO | MIB Management 101

 I heard a little story recently that stuck with me longer than I thought it would.

A 16-year-old kid just landed his first part-time job. It wasn't anything fancy - fast food, long hours on his feet, figuring out how to show up on time, and learning the ropes of working life for the first time. At the end of one week, he noticed something strange with his pay. Twenty dollars were missing.

He went back to ask about it. The company said the system didn't show he had clocked in on one of the days. The kid insisted he did. In fact, he mentioned he often clocked out later than he was supposed to. A friend of his lost a day of pay, too. Clearly, something was off with the system.

But the answer he got was pretty straightforward: the record is the record.

So, he quit.

It wasn't really about twenty bucks. It was about something deeper. In Islam, we call this amanah - a trust. Not just with money or data, but with people's time, effort, and dignity. Once you see it that way, you realise this story isn't just about a system glitch. It's about a broken trust.

It wasn't really about twenty bucks. It was about something heavier. It was a first lesson that sometimes, in the working world, truth can take a backseat to procedure. And when that happens, it's not just money that gets lost. Something inside a young person goes missing too.

I thought about that kid for days. About how easily we accept systems as neutral, as if they can't be wrong. About how convenient it is to hide behind screens and policies when the human story in front of us is messy.

Then, I couldn't help but think about bigger issues.

Not long ago, a corporate decision was made somewhere - neat, technical, probably well-justified on paper - to review a housing allowance policy. 

On spreadsheets, it seemed like a smart move. A cost adjustment. A rationalisation. But on the ground, it turned into something else entirely.

For some families, especially those living on a single income, it meant sudden panic. A recalculation of monthly survival. A quiet anxiety that doesn't show up in boardroom presentations.

No one meant to hurt anyone. I truly believe that. However, that's how many injustices occur - not from malice, but from a lack of awareness or distance.

From decisions made far away from the lives they end up affecting.

From what some people call decisions made from the menara gading.

In both stories - the boy and the allowance - the pattern is all too familiar. A system speaks. A human voice gets pushed aside.

And when systems get too loud, people learn something dangerous: that fairness is optional, and being right matters more than being just.

In our last chat, we talked about adil and ihsan - about justice and compassion, not just as buzzwords, but as real values. This is where they stop being concepts and start becoming uncomfortable.

Because adil isn't just about rules. It's about whether those rules still serve the truth.
And ihsan isn't just about kindness. It's about whether we still see the person in front of us, not just the paperwork in our hands.

A system that can't question itself will eventually let someone down. Sometimes it's a kid. Sometimes it's a family. Sometimes it's a whole generation of workers who quietly learn that effort and honesty don't always count.

And the saddest part is this: none of this looks dramatic. There are no raised voices. No scandals. Just a slow, quiet erosion of trust.

People stop arguing. They start adjusting. They learn to keep their heads down. They tell themselves, "That's just how it is."

Until one day, they stop believing that work is also about dignity.

In a Negara Zikir, this should make us uneasy.

Not because every policy has to be flawless, but because every policy needs to remember it's affecting real lives.

A young kid's first job.

A family's monthly budget.

A worker needs to feel recognised.

Adil and ihsan don't require us to ditch systems. They ask that we never worship them.

They challenge us to stay human, even when managing structures.

And maybe that's the quiet question we should sit with today:
When a decision is technically right but humanly tough, do we still take the time to ask who's bearing burden?

Because in the end, organisations don't fail only when they lose money.

Adil and ihsan guide our actions. But amanah is what holds us accountable. Without amanah, systems turn into excuses, and power creates distance.

They fail when people stop believing that fairness is still alive there. (MHO/01/2026)

PART 10 — The Myth of “Opposition” in Brunei

In Brunei, the word “opposition” has long been treated with caution.

It is often associated with conflict, instability, and division.

Yet our own political and moral traditions teach us something more subtle:
that loyalty is strengthened by sincerity, and governance is strengthened by counsel.

This essay is not about confrontation.

It is about understanding the difference between opposition and conscience.

If Brunei does not practise adversarial politics, then a deeper question remains:
What, in our system, replaces it?

 

The Myth of “Opposition” in Brunei
When Conscience Is Mistaken for Conflict

KopiTalk with MHO

If there's one word in Brunei’s political chat that makes people squirm, it’s “opposition.” For many, it feels confrontational, foreign, even a bit scary - like just disagreeing is a sign of disloyalty. But that discomfort reveals a lot about our political vibe and the work that still needs to be done to grow it.

In Brunei, stability has always been linked with harmony, unity, and respect for authority. These aren’t weaknesses; they’re strengths grounded in our Malay-Islamic values and the MIB perspective. But when harmony is seen as no questions asked, and unity as no differing opinions, a tricky issue starts to brew: conscience gets confused with conflict.

This is where the myth of “opposition” kicks in.

At a recent party meeting, members were asking again: What does it really mean for NDP to say it’s a strategic partner to His Majesty’s Government?

This isn’t a new topic. It’s been part of the party's journey since it started nearly twenty years ago. The fact that it keeps coming up says something important about the political reality we’re facing.

Some members spoke openly. They pointed out that while the party’s ideals might be solid, society hasn’t quite caught up. They think most people still view any political party through a single lens - opposition. Not conscience. Not a partnership. Just plain opposition.

And because that perception is so deeply ingrained, any effort to show a political party as a constructive partner often gets brushed off as unrealistic or out of touch.

During the meeting, the rules around the Majlis Perundingan Mukim dan Kampung came up - as they often do - as proof. The ban on political party involvement at the grassroots level is seen as a sign that politics, especially party politics, should be kept at arm’s length. For many, this feeds into a bigger belief: that political parties don’t really fit into our civic landscape.

But this is where the real unease lies.

This social understanding doesn’t always mesh well with the aspirations His Majesty the Sultan has repeatedly shared - goals that emphasize consultation, participation, unity between ruler and rakyat, and shared responsibility in nation-building. When participation is encouraged in theory but limited in practice, confusion is bound to follow.

So, the debate that morning wasn’t really about NDP at all. It was about whether Brunei’s political culture has figured out how to balance loyalty with participation, stability with conscience, and governance with civic engagement.

Until we clearly get that balance - not just in policy papers, but in our everyday lives - the word “opposition” will keep carrying more fear than meaning.

Let’s be clear, Brunei isn’t a place built on adversarial politics. We don’t need the noise, hostility, or division that plagues other systems. But Brunei also isn’t built on silence. Our political tradition, both Malay and Islamic, is rich in ethics like counsel, advice, and moral reminders - speaking with respect, but speaking nonetheless.

In traditional Malay political thought, loyalty to the ruler doesn’t mean blind obedience. It’s about sincerity, honesty, and having the guts to speak when it’s needed. In Islamic governance, nasihat isn’t an act of rebellion; it’s a duty of conscience. A ruler is honoured not by the absence of voices, but by the presence of principled ones.

Here’s the key point often overlooked in today’s discussions: opposition isn’t the same as conscience.

Opposition, in the adversarial sense, aims to defeat, replace, or overthrow. Conscience aims to correct, strengthen, and protect. One is about power; the other is about responsibility.

In Brunei’s context, what replaces “opposition” isn’t hostility, but moral participation.

This is also where many misunderstandings about political parties come from. A political party doesn’t automatically exist to oppose. It can be about organizing ideas, training citizens in civic responsibility, serving communities, and providing structured feedback in the national conversation. But when “politics” is seen as dangerous, any organized civic activity starts to look suspicious.

Over time, this leads to a culture where disagreement is whispered instead of discussed; concerns are shared privately rather than publicly refined; and silence is mistaken for stability.

But stability that isn’t nourished by conscience slowly becomes fragile.

We also need to be real about the institutional signals society picks up. When community structures must stay strictly apolitical, the message - even if unintended - is that politics is something to be avoided, not understood. The result isn’t neutrality, but distance. And distance breeds unfamiliarity, which in turn breeds fear.

That’s why the myth of “opposition” sticks around. Not because people want conflict, but because the language of participation hasn’t fully replaced the language of suspicion.

In earlier episodes of this series, we’ve talked about political literacy, fear, soft influence, and civic maturity. All of these come together here. A politically mature society doesn’t shout. It thinks, questions, and contributes without feeling like it’s crossing a forbidden line.

Under MIB, loyalty isn’t fragile. It’s strong enough to embrace sincerity. Respect isn’t weakened by honest advice. Unity isn’t shattered by thoughtful differences.
If anything, they’re strengthened by them.

Maybe the real question isn’t whether Brunei needs an “opposition.” It’s whether Brunei is ready to fully embrace conscience as part of governance.

Because a society without conscience doesn’t become obedient, it becomes quiet. And a quiet society isn’t always a healthy one.

KopiTalk wraps up this episode with a gentle reminder: loyalty and conscience aren’t enemies. They’re partners. In a political culture shaped by respect, wisdom, and MIB values, sincere disagreement isn’t a threat. It’s a form of care. (MHO/01/2026)

When Policy Meets the Quiet Household

 As the new year begins, some families carry worries that never make it to meetings or memos - only into late-night calculations at home.

 

KopiTalk with MHO

The new year is here. Life has settled back into routine - work has resumed, school bags are unpacked, and most families are trying to ease into the year with quiet hope that things will be a little better, or at least a little more stable.

But not everyone begins the year that way.

For some households, the turn of the calendar brings a weight that is hard to explain and even harder to discuss. It is not the kind of worry that sparks protest or public complaint; it sits quietly in the background - in monthly budgets, late-night conversations, and calculations made over cups of tea after the children are asleep.

This quiet unease, felt behind closed doors, is what this reflection addresses.

In parts of the local labour market, especially in structured and policy-driven environments, some employees are adjusting to changes in workplace benefits that have long been part of their lives. On paper, these changes are lawful. They follow procedures and tick the right boxes.

Yet inside the home, the effects can be deeply personal.

Consider a single-income household - a familiar arrangement for many families. The husband works and supports the family on one salary, while the wife does not work outside the home. Her days are spent caring for children, managing the household, and holding everything together quietly in the background.

When she was fortunate enough to receive a house under a government housing scheme - a citizen entitlement - the family believed it would bring some stability. Instead, it brought an unexpected adjustment. 

Because the household was now considered to have access to housing, the husband’s employment-based housing allowance was reviewed and withdrawn.

Nothing else changed. There was no second income, no reduction in daily expenses - just less cash coming in each month. The family adapted quietly, as many do, continuing to live on a single income but with less room to breathe.

Now consider another household, just as common: a husband and wife both working in separate organisations. Years ago, when they applied for a housing loan, their combined income - including housing allowances - formed the basis of the bank’s approval. Confident in the stability of their employment terms, they committed to long-term repayments.

Years later, benefit structures changed. Salaries stayed the same, but an allowance disappeared. The loan repayments, however, did not. What was once a carefully balanced household budget suddenly needed reworking. Savings were depleted, daily spending was trimmed, and anxiety crept in - quietly.

What links these households is not resistance, but silence.

Employees rarely speak openly in such situations, not because the impact is small, but because the space to question is narrow. Where job security, contract renewal, and professional reputation are closely tied, silence becomes a form of self-preservation.

What makes this difficult is not the existence of policy. Rules are necessary; governance needs structure. However, uniform rules can sometimes produce uneven outcomes. A household may appear supported on paper, yet struggle in practice when a long-standing benefit is adjusted or withdrawn.

This is where reflection matters.

In Brunei’s understanding of governance - as a Negara Zikir - policy decisions are more than administrative acts; they are moral responsibilities carried in trust. Discipline and consistency matter, but so does hikmah - the wisdom to weigh human circumstances alongside rules.

Within the MIB tradition, justice is not about treating everyone the same; it is about balance and proportionality. Adl is realised when outcomes do not impose undue hardship, especially on families whose livelihoods depend on a single source of income. Viewed through a Maqasid Syariah lens, policy outcomes are often evaluated in terms of well-being, economic stability, and family resilience - even when the procedures themselves are sound.

None of these calls for defiance or questions the legitimacy of the decision-making process. What it does call for is care - in transition, in mitigation, and in communication. Where changes are necessary, thoughtful buffers and compassionate engagement can help families adjust without unnecessary distress.

It is also worth remembering that silence does not mean the absence of impact.

In many workplaces, affected employees continue to show up, do their jobs, and carry their worries quietly. In a Negara Zikir framework, that quiet endurance is itself a signal - one that deserves reflection, not assumption.

As the year unfolds, these reflections remain relevant - not as criticism or resistance, but as a gentle reminder that responsible governance is ultimately judged not only by compliance and efficiency but by how policies shape the everyday lives of families who seldom speak yet live with the consequences of decisions made above them.

In that delicate balance - between rule and reality, authority and empathy – lies the true strength of governance guided by values, wisdom, and care. (MHO/01/2026)

 

As the New Year Approaches, a School Community Braces for Uncertainty

As the new year approaches, teachers, parents and students at a long-serving village school are quietly facing uncertainty about what lies ahead.

KopiTalk with MHO

As everyone gears up to kick off the new year with hopes for fresh starts, a small school in a Brunei village is dealing with a totally different vibe — one filled with uncertainty, anxiety, and the fear of losing jobs.

This private Chinese school, which has been a part of the community for 76 years, just got the word that they need to pack up and move out in 21 days due to a safety assessment. Now, teachers are left wondering if they’ll still have jobs in 2026, and parents are stressed about where their little ones will go to school next.

For the teachers, this couldn’t have come at a worse time. With the year coming to an end, many are facing the tough possibility of being out of work next year until new facilities are ready. Some have been with the school for ages and have built their lives around it. While others are making plans for the new year, they’re bracing for a hit to their income and a lot of uncertainty.

Parents are on the hunt for other options. Finding spots in kindergartens and primary schools at the last minute is tough, and many families are worried about uprooting kids who’ve just settled into their routines and made friends. This uncertainty is really taking a toll, especially on families who don’t have many nearby options.

The school’s situation is rooted in a long, complicated history. About 20 years ago, the main building was damaged by a landslide, which made it unsafe. With the Land Department’s okay, the school moved temporarily to some nearby state land and set up eight container units as classrooms. This was approved by the relevant authorities back then, considering safety.

What was supposed to be a short-term fix turned into a long-term solution. For the last 15 years, the school has been running out of those container classrooms while waiting for a new permanent building to be built nearby. Financial issues delayed the project for years, but recently, the school finally got the funds to move forward.

The school’s management says they’re still working on getting the green light from the Authority for Building and Construction Industry (ABCi). While dealing with all that paperwork, the school kept running as usual, with no major changes to the setup.

The closure order, which came after a recent inspection, has left parents and teachers feeling worried and unsure. The school says there have been talks about the condition and future of the premises with the relevant authorities for a while, but the decision to shut down operations temporarily caught many off guard. It’s hard for them to understand how facilities that had been used for over a decade are now suddenly deemed unsafe.

Those affected are mostly worried about the lack of clear interim plans. The directive doesn’t really explain what will happen next for the students or how teachers will be supported if they suddenly find themselves without jobs.

For a school that’s been part of the community for more than 70 years — educating generations and weathering social and economic changes — the thought of closure is heart-wrenching. Teachers talk about sleepless nights and rising anxiety, while parents struggle to explain the uncertainty to young kids who don’t really get why their school might close.

As the new year approaches, the vibe in the school community is pretty sombre. While they’re still working to get approvals for a new building, the immediate worry is how families and staff will manage in the meantime.

This isn’t a story about defiance or resistance. It highlights the human cost that comes with operational changes happening quickly, emphasising the need to balance safety with maintaining education and livelihoods.

As families, teachers, and students wait for answers, everyone hopes for a solution that prioritises safety while also ensuring care, continuity, and understanding during this transition. (MHO/12/2025)

Episode 9 — Political Literacy as National Security

 A message came through WhatsApp.
No words. Just a screenshot.
One line circled in red:
“Refrain from engaging in political activities.”
It made sense.
It was fair.
And yet… it said more than it intended.
This episode isn’t about breaking rules.
It’s about understanding what happens after we stop asking questions.


KopiTalk with MHO

One morning, a friend forwarded me an image on WhatsApp. 
No caption.
No comment.
Just a screenshot.

It was a list of conditions for government scholarship recipients. Most were familiar and expected: obey the law, respect customs, follow university rules. One line, however, was clearly circled in red:
“Refrain from engaging in political activities.”

I understood immediately what my friend was trying to highlight.

I replied calmly, explaining that the rule was fair. Students under government scholarships have a responsibility to focus on their studies. They are representatives of the country, and discipline matters. In many parts of the world, similar conditions exist. There was nothing unreasonable about it.

I added one clarification.

That regulation applies while they are students. It does not automatically extend beyond graduation unless they enter the public sector. Once they return as working adults and citizens, their civic role changes. Participation, awareness, and contribution should not be confused with misconduct.

There was no reply.
Not disagreement.
Not correction.
Just silence.

That silence said everything.

It was not about the regulation itself. It was about how such rules are often interpreted beyond their literal meaning, and how caution quietly stretches from one phase of life into another. A guideline meant for students becomes, in the collective imagination, a warning for youth. A condition attached to a scholarship becomes a signal about politics itself.

This is how political fear is inherited — not through force, but through interpretation.
Not long after that exchange, I encountered a similar silence — this time in a different setting.

I had written about a foreign war vessel sighted lingering near Brunei’s Exclusive Economic Zone. The article was not alarmist. It did not accuse, speculate wildly, or call for confrontation. It simply highlighted presence, explained the strategic context, and encouraged awareness of sovereignty and security in an era of quiet geopolitics.

The reaction was revealing.

On Reddit, some mocked the piece as ignorant. Others narrowed the discussion to technicalities — freedom of navigation, legal definitions, maritime jargon — as if acknowledging presence was the same as misunderstanding international law. What was dismissed was not the legality of the situation, but the act of paying attention itself.

The discomfort was palpable.

In today’s strategic environment, geopolitics rarely announces itself through conflict. It works through normalisation — repeated presence, quiet signalling, and grey-zone activities that shift expectations without crossing red lines. These are not military provocations. They are political messages delivered softly.
Yet even a measured discussion of these realities triggered ridicule rather than engagement.

This, too, is political phobia at work.

Not fear of war, but fear of talking about power. Not resistance to aggression, but resistance to awareness. The instinct is to downplay, dismiss, or mock — as if silence itself were proof of sophistication.

But sovereignty is not protected by silence. It is protected by understanding.

Brunei is often described as an “apolitical” nation — calm, orderly, and free from the turbulence commonly associated with partisan competition. Politics rarely enters daily conversation, and many grow up believing it is something distant, unnecessary, or even dangerous. Yet beneath that calm surface, a quieter truth exists: the world does not treat Brunei as apolitical.

In today’s geopolitical landscape, politics is no longer confined to elections, parties, or public rallies. It operates through influence, resources, narratives, and networks. It flows via capacity-building programs, academic partnerships, foreign-funded NGOs, economic footholds, digital narratives, and youth engagement platforms. Modern politics often arrives without labels — wearing the language of development, cooperation, and empowerment.

For small nations, awareness is not optional.

Brunei occupies strategic ground — economically, morally, and geopolitically. Our hydrocarbon resources, our stability, and our standing within the Malay-Islamic world make us visible, whether we seek attention or not. In such an environment, neutrality without understanding is not protection. It is exposure.
This is where political literacy matters.

Political literacy does not mean agitation, opposition, or partisan rivalry. It means understanding how power moves, how influence is exercised, and how narratives shape choices. It means recognizing that even without elections, politics still happens — externally, structurally, and culturally.

Several observers have noted that while Brunei does not operate a competitive party system, a de facto governing structure exists — a network of institutions unified under national leadership and guided by MIB principles. This is not unusual for small states. But it carries an important implication: if political structures exist, even without electoral contestation, then political understanding among the rakyat remains necessary for maturity and resilience.

A politically literate society does not seek confrontation. It seeks comprehension.
Yet internally, unease persists. Political conversations are often avoided. Families caution their children, “Jangan tah ikut-ikut bepolitik.” In some workplaces, political involvement is viewed as a liability. Community leaders are required to remain visibly apolitical, reinforcing the idea that politics is something to be kept at a distance.

Decades under Emergency Laws have also left a psychological imprint. Caution has become instinctive — internalized rather than enforced. Fear persists not because of direct prohibition, but because of inherited memory.

This is where the idea of miskin politik becomes relevant.

Political poverty does not mean a lack of intelligence, loyalty, or patriotism. It means limited exposure, weak confidence, and a narrow understanding of politics as something dangerous rather than constructive. A society may be economically secure and socially orderly, yet politically unsure of its role.

When people do not understand politics, they still live with its consequences — only passively.

Here, the Malay-Islamic concept of fikir dan zikir offers guidance. Politics without zikir becomes ego and ambition without restraint. Zikir without fikir becomes passivity — devotion without discernment. Together, they shape a balanced civic character: thoughtful, disciplined, morally grounded, and aware.

Fikir sharpens awareness. Zikir anchors intention. In an age of soft power and subtle influence, awareness protects against manipulation, while spiritual grounding preserves integrity.

This balance was never foreign to Brunei’s political imagination. Even Al-Marhum Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddien III, through his Syair Perlembagaan, reminded us that governance is not merely about authority, but responsibility — a shared amanah between ruler and rakyat.

Political literacy under MIB is therefore not an imported idea. It is a rediscovery.
Brunei does not need partisan chaos. It does not need adversarial politics. What it needs is a confident citizenry — able to distinguish between toxic politics and moral participation, between influence and intrusion, between loyalty and blind silence.

The younger generation, especially Gen Y and Z, live in a world where narratives travel faster than policies and influence crosses borders effortlessly. Shielding them from political understanding does not protect them; it leaves them unprepared.

A society that does not understand politics will still be shaped by it — unknowingly.

Political literacy, then, becomes a form of national security. Not the security of fences and force, but the security of awareness, confidence, and cultural clarity. A politically literate Brunei does not panic, does not overreact, and does not unknowingly surrender its values. It observes, evaluates, and responds with calm conviction rooted in identity.

In an era where influence arrives quietly and power cloaks itself in polite language, silence is no longer a neutral stance. It is an unguarded space.

KopiTalk closes this episode with one reflection:
A nation grounded in zikir must also be strengthened by fikir. Only then can Brunei remain peaceful without being passive, stable without being unaware, and sovereign not only in form, but in understanding. (MHO/12/2025)