The War Dividend That Should Make Brunei Uneasy

 

A war in the Gulf may look far away from Brunei.

But when oil prices rise, LNG demand strengthens, shipping routes tighten, and food-import costs begin to move, distance becomes an illusion.

Reuters may be right that Brunei is not necessarily a loser when global energy prices climb. But that is only half the story.

The other half may be sitting quietly in our grocery baskets, restaurant kitchens, shipping bills, construction costs and household budgets.

If Brunei earns more from exporting energy but pays more to import food and essentials, are we really winning — or are we simply being reminded of how exposed we still are?

A war dividend is not the same as national resilience.

And perhaps the most uncomfortable question is this:

Should a country have to wait for conflict elsewhere to feel economically reassured?

Read the next Geopolitik KopiTalk.

The world, read from where we stand.

#Geopolitik #GeopolitikBN #KopiTalkMHO #BruneiPerspective #FoodForThought

When global conflict lifts export earnings but raises the cost of living at home

Geopolitik KopiTalk

A KopiTalk Column by Malai Hassan Othman

The world, read from where we stand.

It is not often that Brunei appears in a Reuters global commodities column as one of the countries that may benefit from a war.

So when the headline appeared — “Not everybody is a loser from the Iran war. Just ask Brunei” — it was difficult to scroll past.

On the surface, it sounded like good news. Higher oil prices. Stronger LNG demand. More refined-product exports. A small energy-producing nation quietly gaining while larger economies struggled with higher fuel costs and disrupted supply chains.

But the longer one sits with it, the more uncomfortable the question becomes.

What does it say about us if war elsewhere makes our economy look better?

And more importantly, who in Brunei really benefits, and who quietly pays?

Reuters’ argument is straightforward. The Iran war and what it described as the effective closure of the Strait of Hormuz have pushed up crude oil, natural gas and refined fuel prices.

Countries that export energy, especially those outside the disruption zone, may enjoy higher earnings. Brunei, Reuters noted, is one of them — through crude oil, refined products and LNG.

Citing commodity analysts Kpler, Reuters reported that Brunei’s crude oil exports reached 2.74 million barrels in April, up 51 percent from April 2025. It also estimated that Brunei’s refined-product shipments could reach 4.16 million barrels in May, the highest since July last year.

For a country still deeply tied to hydrocarbon revenues, this is not a surprising observation.

But it is only half the story.

The other half sits not at the export terminal, but in the supermarket, the restaurant kitchen, the construction site, the small kedai runcit and the household budget.

Because Brunei does not only export into the world.

Brunei also imports from the world.

A rise in global energy prices may improve government revenue and the financial performance of certain industries. But the same global shock can also raise the price of imported food, fertiliser, shipping, machinery and consumer goods.

Brunei may gain at the top of the export ledger while pressure builds quietly at the bottom of the household budget.

That is not a simple win.

That is a contradiction.

For years, Bruneians have heard the language of diversification. We speak of moving beyond oil and gas, strengthening food security, building a dynamic private sector and preparing for Wawasan 2035.

Some progress has been made, especially in downstream oil and gas.

But the Reuters article should give us pause.

Brunei’s downstream industry may be classified separately from traditional extraction, but it remains closely linked to hydrocarbon feedstock, petrochemical demand and global fuel prices.

When conflict raises prices, the sector may benefit — but that benefit is still tied to the same energy cycle Brunei has long depended on.

The question is not whether downstream development matters.

It does.

The question is whether Brunei has truly diversified away from vulnerability, or merely moved further along the same vulnerable chain.

A country can earn more from exporting fuel and still pay more to import food.

That is the Brunei paradox.

We are an energy exporter with a small domestic agricultural base. Whether one uses the popular shorthand that Brunei imports around 90 percent of its food, or the more cautious official estimate of around 80 percent of food items, the message is the same: our food basket is highly exposed to the outside world.

This means a conflict in the Gulf is not only an energy story.

It can become a food story.

A cost-of-living story.

A business-survival story.

If diesel becomes more expensive globally, transport costs rise. If fertiliser prices climb, food-producing countries may pass higher input costs on. If shipping routes are disrupted, import costs can follow. And when small businesses cannot absorb the increase, the cost eventually reaches ordinary people.

That is why the question “Is Brunei a winner?” is too simple.

The better question is: which Brunei?

The export side of Brunei may benefit.

The fiscal side may breathe easier.

But the consuming Brunei — the households, the pensioners, the low-income workers, the small food operators, the contractors, the parents managing school expenses — may face the other side of the same global event.

This is where geopolitics becomes personal.

A conflict thousands of kilometres away does not need to arrive at our shores with soldiers or missiles.

Sometimes it arrives through a higher grocery bill. A more expensive shipment. A smaller restaurant margin. A farmer paying more for feed.

That is the modern face of vulnerability.

It does not always look dramatic.

It looks ordinary.

It looks like prices moving a little at a time until people start asking why their money does not stretch as far as before.

Yes, higher energy prices may help our national accounts.

Yes, it is better to be an energy exporter than a fully import-dependent consumer when global fuel prices rise.

But national resilience cannot be measured only by export receipts.

True resilience must ask whether the people are protected, whether food supply is secure enough, whether local production is serious enough, and whether the private sector can survive global shocks without constantly passing pain downwards.

A war dividend is not the same as resilience.

It may provide temporary relief.

But it should not make us comfortable.

If anything, it should make us more honest.

For decades, Brunei has had the advantage of natural resources. Oil and gas gave the country stability, revenue, infrastructure, welfare and a standard of living many nations would envy.

But the same history has also produced a dangerous habit: waiting for global energy cycles to ease the pressure that long-term policy should have reduced much earlier.

When prices rise, pressure eases.

When prices fall, warnings return.

The cycle has been with us for too long.

And every time global conflict creates an energy windfall, the temptation is to see it as relief rather than warning.

Food security cannot remain a ceremonial phrase in policy documents and speeches.

Agriculture cannot remain a small sentimental sector admired during expos and official visits.

Fisheries, poultry, livestock, vegetables, aquaculture, cold-chain logistics and local food processing cannot be approached as side activities.

They are strategic buffers.

The same applies to SMEs.

When global shocks raise costs, small businesses are often the first to feel the squeeze and the last to receive relief. They absorb cost increases, keep prices reasonable, pay workers and survive delayed payments.

That is not resilience.

That is endurance.

And endurance should not be mistaken for strength.

If higher energy prices bring additional revenue, where should the benefit go?

Into food security investment?

Into supply-chain resilience?

Into supporting SMEs facing higher input costs?

Into building the local production capacity we have been promising since before Wawasan 2035 was written?

Or will it simply pass through the economy as another momentary comfort before the next downturn?

Reuters may be right that Brunei is not necessarily a loser from the Iran war.

But that is not the end of the story.

There is a moral discomfort in being named among the countries that benefit from conflict. No country should feel too settled when its good fortune is counted against someone else’s destruction.

But the more pressing discomfort is strategic.

A country should not have to wait for war in the Gulf to feel economically reassured.

If our strongest moments still depend heavily on global conflict and fuel disruptions, then the question is not what we gained.

The question is what we have failed to outgrow.

A mature country does not waste a windfall.

It converts it into resilience.

It uses temporary strength to build permanent capacity.

It treats good export news not as an excuse to relax, but as an opportunity to fix the parts of the economy still too exposed to the outside world.

So yes, Brunei may not be a loser this time.

But between what the export ledger gains and what the household budget absorbs, the full balance sheet of this moment is still being written.

And we would do well to read it carefully.

The Formula That Followed Borrowers Home

KOPITALK WITH MHO

As Malaysia abolishes the Rule of 78, Brunei may need to ask what became of the people who were trapped before banking rules became clearer.

By Malai Hassan Othman

Not long ago, a short video made its rounds in one of the WhatsApp chat groups that most Bruneians belong to. It explained something called the Rule of 78. A lending formula. Most people scrolling past it would not have stopped.

But many did. And many forwarded it.

That is usually how you know something has touched a nerve.

The video was about Malaysia. About changes coming to how hire-purchase loans are calculated. About a formula that allocates more interest at the beginning of a loan — quietly, mathematically, in ways most borrowers never notice until the day they try to settle early. About why Malaysia had decided this was no longer acceptable.

But the people forwarding it were in Brunei.

I watched it, and I found myself asking a question the video did not answer. Not about Malaysia. About here. About whether that formula, or something close to it, had ever sat inside the loan agreements that many Bruneians signed without fully understanding what they were agreeing to. And about what happened to those who discovered the answer too late.

From 1 June 2026, Malaysia’s hire-purchase financing system will begin moving away from the Rule of 78 and flat-rate calculation. New hire-purchase financing will move towards the reducing balance method, with the Effective Interest Rate clearly stated to show the real cost of borrowing.

For many people, this may sound technical.

It is not.

It is about money. It is about fairness. It is about what happens when a borrower thinks he is reducing his debt, only to discover that the loan calculation has allocated a large share of the interest upfront.

In plain language, the Rule of 78 front-loads interest. The monthly instalment may look equal from the outside, but inside the calculation, a disproportionate share of the interest is allocated during the early months. That may matter little to someone who pays faithfully until the final instalment.

The pain comes when a borrower wants to settle early.

He may think: I have paid for three years. Surely I have reduced a good portion of my debt. Under a front-loaded system, the answer can be sobering. Much of what he paid may have gone to interest, not principal. The outstanding balance remains higher than expected. Early settlement does not feel like a reward for discipline. It feels like a penalty for trying.

That is why Malaysia’s reform matters beyond Malaysia.

It gives Brunei a reason to look back.

Not because Brunei is in the same position today. Brunei has since built a much stronger financial regulatory framework. There is the Brunei Darussalam Central Bank. There are Effective Interest Rate and Annualised Profit Rate disclosures. There is a Total Debt Service Ratio framework. There are limits on unsecured personal credit. There is a stronger Islamic finance sector. There are clearer rules than before.

But this is where the harder question begins.

When the rules improve, what happens to those who were trapped before the rules improved?

For many Bruneians — especially those who borrowed during the older era of easy credit, flat-rate lending, salary-assigned loans and aggressive credit card culture — the question is not academic.

Some people are still living with the consequences.

Some lost their financial standing. Some became bankrupt. Some were blacklisted. Some may have found their access to financing restricted. Some had salaries or pensions deducted for years. Some carried silent shame inside their families. Some children grew up inside households where every month began not with planning, but with deduction.

This is the human side of banking mathematics.

A formula may look clean on paper. But when it enters a household, it can decide whether a family breathes or suffocates.

Brunei’s current Hire-Purchase Act contains a statutory rebate formula for early completion of a hire-purchase agreement. The formula is based on the sum of whole numbers over the remaining months and total months of the agreement — in simple terms, belonging to the same mathematical family as the sum-of-digits approach associated with the Rule of 78.

That does not automatically mean the current law is abusive. It does not mean every present financing contract is unfair. The law gives the hirer certain rights. It requires written statements. It requires disclosure of key information. It allows early completion by paying the net balance after deducting statutory rebates.

But it does raise a legitimate public-interest question.

If Malaysia has decided that the Rule of 78 and flat-rate hire-purchase structure should be abolished for the sake of fairness and transparency, should Brunei also review whether its own statutory rebate mechanism remains suitable for today’s consumer protection standards?

This is not an attack on banks.

It is a policy question. It is also a justice question.

Because the old borrowing culture in Brunei cannot be separated from the country’s bankruptcy history.

According to figures cited in the Chief Justice’s speech at the Opening of the Legal Year 2023, bankruptcy notices filed at the commencement of proceedings rose from 260 in 2021 to 348 in 2022. Rescission orders to discharge debtors also increased, from 146 in 2021 to 219 in 2022. Creditors’ meetings rose from 3,074 to 3,587 in the same period. From January to October 2022 alone, payments of composition and dividends were declared in 438 cases, totalling more than BND22.8 million.

Those are not small numbers.

Other reported court statistics showed 243 receiving orders and 51 adjudication orders in 2021, compared with 235 receiving orders and 118 adjudication orders in 2022. Bankruptcy notices stood at 344 in 2023 and 350 in 2024. In 2025, reported bankruptcy and insolvency notices decreased to 289, but 293 receiving orders were still made, with three adjudication orders filed.

These figures do not prove that the Rule of 78 caused the bankruptcies. That would be too simplistic and unfair.

People fall into bankruptcy for many reasons. Business failure. Job loss. Over-borrowing. Poor financial discipline. Medical hardship. Family obligations. Failed guarantees. Credit card misuse. Economic slowdown. Sometimes, simply bad luck.

But the figures show something important.

Bankruptcy is not a marginal issue in Brunei. It is a living issue.

And if even a portion of those cases came from older lending practices — front-loaded interest, refinancing traps, salary-assigned borrowing, unclear early settlement calculations — then Brunei has a moral and policy reason to ask deeper questions.

How many bankrupts were originally trapped by consumer debt — old car loans, personal loans or credit cards?

How many were civil servants or pensioners, people who entered the system with steady incomes and still could not get out?

How many paid for years without ever clearly understanding how their outstanding balance was being calculated?

And how many are still carrying that weight today, from an older lending environment that Brunei has since tightened?

This is where the country needs more than general statements about financial literacy.

Financial literacy matters. Borrowers must act responsibly, live within their means and understand what they sign.

But fairness cannot be placed only on the borrower.

If a borrower does not understand the formula, while the lender understands it fully, the relationship is already unequal. If the product is marketed using a flat rate that looks small while the true cost is higher, the disclosure may be technically present but morally weak. If early settlement does not give a borrower a fair reduction, the system may be rewarding debt continuation more than debt discipline.

And if old debts continue to follow people into retirement, the question becomes even more serious.

A bankrupt person is not just a legal file. He is a father, mother, husband, wife, son or daughter. He may be a former civil servant. He may be a retired worker. He may be someone who made one bad financial decision decades ago and never fully escaped from it.

In Brunei, where shame often silences families, many do not speak openly about bankruptcy. They suffer quietly. Their names may be searched. Their access to credit may be restricted. Their financial dignity may be reduced to a record.

Some may have paid far more than they originally borrowed. Others may still not know whether the debt, charges, interest, legal costs and deductions were properly explained to them — or what rights they have to review, rescind, discharge or regularise their status.

This is why the issue deserves investigation.

Not to embarrass banks, accuse regulators or blame the courts, but to understand whether an old system created a long shadow that may still darken the lives of ordinary Bruneians.

Malaysia’s reform gives Brunei a timely opportunity to review its own framework in three areas.

The statutory rebate formula under the Hire-Purchase Act should be examined openly. If it remains fair by modern standards, explain it clearly to the public. If it is outdated, review it.

The government and relevant agencies should consider publishing clearer bankruptcy data — not merely total notices and receiving orders, but categories of debt where possible: consumer loans, hire-purchase, credit cards, business debt, guarantees. Without this breakdown, the country cannot fully understand what kind of debt is damaging households.

There should be a humane review pathway for legacy borrowers. Not a blanket debt forgiveness scheme. Not a reward for reckless borrowing. But a structured review for old cases where a borrower has paid for many years, where the original debt has become unclear, or where continued bankruptcy may no longer serve any clear public purpose.

A modern economy should not keep people permanently outside the financial system if there is a fair and responsible way to bring them back.

Brunei has done many things right in recent years. The TDSR framework helped prevent over-borrowing. Limits on unsecured personal credit reduced the risk of reckless lending. EIR and APR disclosures made borrowing more transparent. Islamic finance shifted much of the market away from conventional interest-based structures.

But reform should not only protect future borrowers.

It should also account for those caught under the older system.

Because public trust is not built only by saying the system is better now. Public trust is built when a country is willing to look honestly at the damage done before the system became better.

The Rule of 78 is not just a formula.

It is a reminder that numbers can be legal but still feel unfair. They can be disclosed but still not understood. They can be written into contracts but still leave ordinary people powerless.

Malaysia has decided to move on from it.

Brunei may have moved earlier in many areas of banking regulation. But the bigger question is not whether Brunei has moved on.

The bigger question is whether everyone was allowed to move on.

For those still carrying old debts, old bankruptcy records, old shame and old deductions, the past is not past.

It still arrives every month.

And that is why this issue deserves to be opened — carefully, fairly and honestly.

A country can modernise its rules faster than it heals the people who were hurt before the rules changed.

That may be the real story behind the Rule of 78.

Not the mathematics.

The memory.

— Malai Hassan Othman writes KopiTalk with MHO, published on Substack and LinkedIn.

Pencen Tua Was Born in a Different Brunei

Brunei’s pension debate has exposed three Bruneis living under one support system — the old-age insecure, the young-age insecure, and the comfortable. A welfare model that treats all three the same may still look generous. But it may no longer be just. — KopiTalk with MHO

Pencen tua was born in a different Brunei.

Introduced in 1955, it came at a time when the country was smaller, the population was younger, the cost of living was simpler, and the state was beginning to build the foundations of social protection.

It was not created as a luxury.

It was not meant to make anyone rich.

It was a modest promise of dignity — that old age should not leave a person completely exposed, forgotten or dependent only on the mercy of family.

That promise still matters.

But Brunei has changed.

The country is no longer the small society it once was. The cost of living is no longer what it used to be. The elderly population is growing. Young people are struggling to find stable, decent-paying work. And the government is no longer enjoying the same comfort of oil and gas revenue that once allowed broad support to be spread generously across society.

So the question is not whether pencen tua was a good idea.

Of course it was.

The harder question is whether the welfare model built around it still protects the right people in the right way.

The debate over BND 500 has exposed something deeper than pension: three Bruneis living under one support system.

The first is the Brunei of old-age insecurity.

These are the senior citizens who receive only BND 250 a month, or around BND 500 when SPK is added, yet still find that the money does not stretch far enough. Some still have to support children who have not found stable work. Some still help grandchildren. Some still carry household expenses that should have ended by retirement age but did not.

When we see elderly people working as night guards, cleaners, kitchen helpers or in other physically demanding jobs, we should not rush to call them active retirees.

Some are not working because they want to keep busy.

Some are working because responsibility has not released them.

That is old-age insecurity.

The second is the Brunei of young-age insecurity.

This point came out strongly in public reactions to the earlier article. Readers asked a fair question: what about the young worker earning BND 500 a month? After TAP or SPK deductions, transport, food, rent, utilities and family obligations, how much is really left?

That question cannot be brushed aside.

A senior citizen receiving BND 500 may still be struggling. But a young worker earning BND 500 is not necessarily better off — especially when the actual take-home is lower after deductions and the cost of daily life keeps rising.

This is why the issue should not be framed as the elderly versus the young.

In many Bruneian homes, the elderly and the young are not competing groups. They are family members sitting at the same table, stretching the same money, worrying about the same bills, and quietly protecting each other from the same hardship.

The pension debate has therefore revealed a bigger household problem.

The elderly are not secure. The young are not secure. And often, both insecurities live under the same roof.

The third is the Brunei of the comfortable.

There are people who are already financially secure. They may have pensions, salaries, allowances, assets, business income, rental income or several sources of earnings. Many have worked hard, served the country and earned what they have.

But the question must still be asked.

Should the same broad subsidies continue to cushion the comfortable in the same way they cushion the vulnerable?

Fuel. Electricity. Water. Healthcare. Food. Housing support. Broad state provision has long helped keep the cost of living low for almost everyone. It has preserved social peace. It has been part of Brunei’s settled way of life.

But a universal subsidy system has one quiet flaw.

It treats the vulnerable and the comfortable as if they carry the same burden.

They do not.

The elderly widow living mainly on pencen tua does not stand in the same position as the financially comfortable retiree with a pension, private income and assets behind them. The young worker earning BND 500 a month does not stand in the same position as a household running on multiple income streams. The family struggling to buy groceries, pay fuel, pay electricity and support ageing parents does not stand in the same position as those who can absorb higher costs without losing dignity.

Yet under a broad subsidy model, everyone is cushioned almost the same way.

That may have worked when Brunei could afford to be broadly generous. It becomes harder to defend when the vulnerable remain exposed and the public purse is under growing pressure.

The numbers show why this matters.

By 2025, Brunei Darussalam Key Indicators recorded 46,186 old-age pension recipients. At BND 250 a month, that implies an annual pencen tua commitment of about BND 138.6 million, before disability allowances, caregiver support and related welfare programmes are counted.

That is not a small obligation.

And it will not become smaller as Brunei ages.

This is where Maqasid Syariah offers a useful moral lens.

At its heart, Maqasid Syariah is about protecting what allows human life to remain dignified and just — life, faith, intellect, family and wealth. In the welfare debate, two principles stand out clearly: the protection of life and the protection of wealth.

But protection does not mean cushioning everyone equally regardless of need. A just society begins by protecting those most exposed.

The elderly person with no other income. The informal worker who never built a retirement account. The low-wage young worker who cannot save. The family carrying parents, children and grandchildren at the same time. The disabled. The unemployed. The underemployed. The widow. The caregiver.

These are the people who must stand first in the line of protection.

Maqasid Syariah also reminds those who are comfortable that wealth is not only a private achievement. It carries responsibility. Those who are secure carry a moral responsibility to help preserve the dignity of those who are not.

That is not cruelty.

That is fairness.

There is another dimension to this conversation that is rarely raised directly.

Unlike most countries, Brunei does not collect personal income tax. In societies where citizens pay income tax, the accountability reflex is direct: how is my money being spent?

In Brunei, the psychology is different.

The state provides, and daily life is cushioned by subsidies and public services. Over time, many Bruneians have grown up not as taxpayers demanding answers, but as citizens living within a system of provision.

That system has produced real stability.

But it has also created a kind of hesitation.

Many feel uncomfortable asking hard questions about public spending, partly because they know the government is already subsidising so much of daily life. It can feel almost improper to press too hard when the state is already keeping fuel, electricity, water and healthcare affordable.

But this is where the public conversation must mature.

The absence of personal income tax should not mean the absence of public accountability.

The money may not come directly from monthly salary deductions, but it still comes from the national household — from shared natural resources, from wealth that belongs to the country’s future as much as to its present. The rakyat have a legitimate interest in asking whether that money is being spent fairly, wisely and precisely.

This is not about confrontation.

It is about stewardship.

If revenue is no longer as strong as before, if the population is ageing, if the pension bill is rising year by year, if young workers cannot yet build security, and if broad subsidies continue to benefit the vulnerable and the comfortable in equal measure — then the country must answer an honest question.

Can Brunei still afford a welfare model that is generous but imprecise?

The answer is not to dismantle what has been built. That would be damaging and unjust.

The answer is to make it work better.

Pencen tua must remain the dignity floor it was always meant to be. But the support built on top of it must become more deliberate. Those with no other income, those outside SPK, those carrying genuine hardship — they should receive stronger, more focused protection. Not the same amount spread equally, but more where it is truly needed.

At the same time, broad subsidies should be reviewed gradually and carefully. Those who are financially comfortable should, over time, carry more of the real cost of living.

Not suddenly.

Not harshly.

Not without explanation.

But clearly, honestly and with purpose.

This also requires the government to invest seriously in the tools that make precision possible. The National Welfare System was a right step. But knowing who is genuinely vulnerable, who holds multiple income streams, and who is quietly falling through the cracks requires real data, real coordination across agencies, and real willingness to act on what the data reveals.

Without that foundation, targeted welfare remains a good intention rather than a working reality.

And any reform not explained well will be misread. People must understand that the purpose is not to take from them, but to redirect care toward those who need it most. In a society where the relationship between the state and the people is built on trust, that distinction matters deeply.

If it is explained well and done with care, people may begin to understand that the goal is not less generosity.

It is more justice.

Pencen tua was born in a different Brunei.

It was born when the country was smaller, expectations were different, and the state could afford to spread support widely.

Today, the moral purpose of pencen tua remains.

The vulnerable elderly need protection. The insecure young need a future. The comfortable need to play their part. And the state needs a welfare system precise enough to know the difference.

For a long time, Brunei measured care by how widely support could be spread.

The next measure must be different.

Not how widely the help is given.

But whether it reaches those who cannot survive without it.

Because when the vulnerable and the comfortable are treated exactly the same, the system may still look generous.

But it may no longer be just.

―

Source note: Figures on old-age pension recipients are based on Brunei Darussalam Key Indicators 2025. Historical reference to pencen tua is based on Brunei’s old-age pension framework introduced in 1955.

Journey of the Heart: The Path We Ask For

KOPITALK JIWA

Every day we recite Ihdinas Siratal Mustaqim — guide us to the straight path. But are we willing to be straightened? A reflection on what Al-Fatihah really asks of the heart, and why guidance rarely arrives dressed in comfort. 

What Al-Fatihah Teaches Us About Guidance, Ego and the Road Home

Malai Hassan Othman

There is one memory of my late brother, Malai Haji Abdullah, the founder of SMARTER Brunei, that came back to me as I continued reflecting on Surah Al-Fatihah.

He was speaking to a group of young people under Program Khidmat Bakti Negara (PKBN), Brunei’s voluntary national service programme for youth citizens.

It was not a formal religious lecture. He never claimed to be an ustaz or a qualified religious scholar. He was speaking in his own way — simple, direct and practical — trying to make young people think about life, discipline and the meaning of the words many of us recite every day.

He spoke about Surah Al-Fatihah.

The surah we recite in our prayers.

The surah we recite when beginning meetings.

The surah we recite at formal gatherings, family occasions, moments of remembrance, and many other openings in life.

It is so familiar to us that sometimes the tongue moves faster than the heart.

And inside that surah, we ask Allah for something very serious.

Ihdinas Siratal Mustaqim.

Guide us to the straight path.

My late brother raised a simple point.

Every day, we ask Allah to guide us to the right path. But when someone tells us that something is not quite right, we often feel offended.

When someone says our proposal needs to be improved, we become defensive.

When someone points out a mistake, we feel embarrassed.

When someone reminds us to do things properly, we may take it personally.

Yet is that not one possible form of guidance?

That thought stayed with me. Because it is painfully human.

We ask for guidance, but sometimes we only want guidance that feels pleasant. We want guidance that confirms us, comforts us, agrees with us, and makes us feel good.

But guidance does not always arrive that way.

Sometimes it comes as advice. Sometimes as correction. Sometimes as a painful lesson. Sometimes as a delay. Sometimes as a closed door. Sometimes as a person brave enough to tell us what we do not want to hear.

This does not mean every criticism is right. It does not mean every person who corrects us is sincere. It does not mean every harsh word should be accepted as truth.

But it does mean we should be careful before rejecting guidance simply because it hurts the ego.

That, to me, is one of the quiet lessons of Al-Fatihah.

It does not only comforts the tired heart.

It also disciplines the proud one.

A few days ago, in a taddabur class on Surah Al-Fatihah, this reflection became wider.

We were discussing the meaning of Siratal Mustaqim, the straight path. Not just as a phrase we recite, but as a direction for life.

The straight path is not merely a road that looks straight from the outside. It is a path that leads to the right destination. It is the path of those blessed by Allah — the Prophets, the truthful, the righteous, the people who walked with faith, humility and obedience.

But the class also reminded me of something practical.

A path is not meaningful only because we are moving. We must also ask where we are moving towards.

In life, a person may be busy, disciplined, organised and consistent, yet still be heading in the wrong direction.

A department may have procedures. A business may have targets. A leader may have confidence. A student may have ambition. A family may have plans.

But the deeper question remains: are we moving towards what is right?

The taddabur class touched on the idea of reliability and validity.

A thing may be reliable because it is consistent. It keeps producing the same result. But is it valid? Does it reach the right target?

That simple idea stayed with me. Because in life, many people are reliable in doing the same thing again and again. The question is whether what they are doing is truly right.

A compass may be steady, but if it points in the wrong direction, steadiness alone will not save the traveller.

A car may run smoothly, but if the destination entered into the GPS is wrong, the journey will still end in the wrong place.

A person may work very hard, but if the purpose is confused, the effort may only carry him further away.

Perhaps this is why we ask Allah not only to make us active, productive, clever or successful.

We ask Him to guide us.

Because not every movement is progress. Not every confidence is wisdom. Not every achievement means we are on the straight path.

This is where Al-Fatihah becomes deeply personal.

When we say Ihdinas Siratal Mustaqim, we are admitting that we do not fully know the way by ourselves.

We may have knowledge, but still need guidance.

We may have experience, but still need correction.

We may have status, but still need humility.

We may have good intentions, but still need Allah to straighten our steps.

That is not a weakness. That is honesty.

The human heart is easily distracted. Sometimes by fear. Sometimes by anger.

Sometimes by pride. Sometimes by desire. Sometimes by the need to look right in front of others.

And sometimes, the hardest thing is not to know the truth, but to accept it when it exposes something in us.

This is why my late brother’s reminder to the youths was powerful. He was not asking them to become religious speakers. He was asking them to understand the meaning of what they already recite.

If we ask Allah for the straight path, then we must be willing to be straightened.

That is not always comfortable.

A crooked line does not become straight without adjustment. A wrong habit does not become right without correction. A mistaken view does not improve unless we are willing to listen. A proud heart does not soften unless it learns to pause before defending itself.

In families, workplaces, organisations and public life, we see this often.

People say they want improvement, but resist feedback. They say they want the right way, but treat honest advice as an insult.

It happens to all of us in different ways. Sometimes we are the one giving advice. Sometimes we are the one receiving it. Sometimes we do both badly.

That is why Al-Fatihah is not merely a recitation of the tongue. It is a training of the heart.

The class also discussed how hidayah, or guidance, may come in different ways.

Sometimes guidance comes through explanation — through learning, listening, reading, reflecting and being taught.

Sometimes it comes through life itself — through mistakes, hardship, disappointment, illness, loss, or a moment that forces us to stop and rethink.

Sometimes it comes through the teachings of the Prophets and Messengers, and through the Qur’an that keeps bringing the heart back to what is true.

Not all guidance feels like light at first.

Some guidance feels like being stopped. Some feel like being humbled. Some feel like being redirected from something we wanted badly. Some feel like losing, only to realise later that we were being protected.

This is why we should not rush to judge every discomfort as punishment, or every delay as failure.

Sometimes what feels like an obstacle is actually a signpost.

Sometimes what feels like rejection is actually redirection.

Sometimes what feels like embarrassment is Allah saving us from a greater mistake.

The heart does not always understand this immediately. It takes time, and sabr, and the humility to remain open even when the lesson arrives in a form we resisted.

The taddabur class also reminded us that the people we walk with affect the path we take.

A good companion may not always entertain us. Sometimes a good companion reminds us. Sometimes he tells us the truth gently. Sometimes he pulls us back from something harmful.

A bad companion may flatter us all the way to the wrong road.

That is one of life’s quiet dangers.

Not everyone who praises us is helping us. Not everyone who corrects us is against us.

The straight path is not walked alone. We are shaped by voices around us — the people we sit with, the friends we trust, the leaders we follow, the advice we accept, and the reminders we ignore.

This is why guidance is not only about direction. It is also about environment.

A heart that wants the straight path must also be careful about the company that makes crookedness feel normal.

The final verses of Al-Fatihah remind us that there are different directions a person can take.

There is the path of those who are blessed — the ones who walk with faith, humility and obedience, and are guided by Allah’s favour.

There is the path of those who know, but resist. Not ignorance. Not open defiance. Just the quiet drift of a person who understands what is right, but finds it easier not to change.

There is the path of those who are lost because they do not see, or do not seek, or drift without light.

The middle path may be the most familiar of the three. Many of us will recognise it — not in others, but in moments of our own life. The moments when we knew, but hesitated. When we understood, but delayed. When the truth was available, but convenience was closer.

For me, the most useful way to sit with this is not to point fingers at others. It is to look inward.

Where am I in this?

Do I ask for guidance but resist correction?

Do I know something is right, but avoid it because it is inconvenient?

Do I know something is wrong, but excuse it because it benefits me?

Do I drift because I have stopped reflecting?

Do I surround myself with voices that only confirm what I already want to hear?

These are uncomfortable questions.

But perhaps Al-Fatihah is meant to make us honest before Allah. Not to crush us. Not to shame us. But to bring us back.

Because the straight path is not only about belief in the abstract. It is also about conduct.

How we respond when corrected.

How we behave when no one is watching.

How we treat people when we have power.

How we listen when we are challenged.

How we admit mistakes.

How we choose friends.

How we receive truth when it arrives in a form that bruises the ego.

That is where religion becomes life.

Not only in ceremonies. Not only in openings of meetings. Not only in the beautiful sound of recitation.

But in the small moment when someone says, “Maybe this is not the right way,” and the heart chooses not to explode.

In the moment when pride wants to defend, but humility asks, “Is there something for me to learn?”

In the moment when we realise that being guided is more important than being seen as right.

Perhaps that is why we recite Al-Fatihah again and again.

Because we forget again and again.

We forget that guidance must be asked for.

We forget that guidance must be recognised.

We forget that guidance must be accepted.

We forget that guidance must be lived.

We walked into childhood examination halls with Al-Fatihah on our lips, hoping Allah would help us answer the questions on paper.

Now, as adults, we walk into other examination halls.

Meetings. Families. Responsibilities. Public life. Workplaces. Old age. Illness. Loss. Success. Power. Comfort. Disappointment.

Each comes with its own paper. Each tests something different in the heart.

And still, the prayer remains the same.

Ihdinas Siratal Mustaqim.

Guide us to the straight path.

Not only the path that is easy. Not only the path that protects our pride.

But the path that is true — the path that teaches us to be grateful when blessed, patient when tested, humble when corrected, and honest when shown the truth.

My late brother never claimed to know all of this. He was simply a man who thought carefully about the words we use, and what they ask of us.

His message to the youths was simple. And simple things often stay because they carry truth.

Do not recite words without asking what they are doing to your life.

Do not ask Allah for the straight path, then become angry when something tries to straighten you.

Because guidance does not always arrive dressed in comfort.

Sometimes it arrives as a reminder. Sometimes as a mistake. Sometimes as a sentence that hurts at first, but heals later.

And sometimes — quietly, in a taddabur class after Subuh, through the memory of a voice we can no longer hear — as an old ayat finally touching an old place in the heart.

Perhaps that is what Al-Fatihah has been teaching us all along.

Not just how to begin a prayer.

But how to walk through life.

— KopiTalk Jiwa