When a Warning Sounds Like Noise

Food security is one of those issues that everyone agrees is important.

Yet after nearly two decades, we are still discussing many of the same questions: irrigation, idle sawah, farmer survival, youth participation, infrastructure and execution.

Perhaps the problem is not that Brunei lacks plans.

Perhaps the problem is that warnings often take too long to be heard.

In 2008, a warning was given:

“...Negara Brunei Darussalam tidak dapat lagi semata-mata bergantung kepada ‘ihsan alam’ luar negara untuk mendapatkan beras…”

Today, that warning feels more relevant than ever.

If rice is a national security issue, why are so many of those carrying that burden still small farmers, kampong people and ageing pesawah struggling against an incomplete ecosystem?

Maybe the real question is not whether Brunei understands food security.

Maybe the real question is whether we are ready to do what food security actually requires.

Because when the same concern keeps returning through different voices, across many years, it may no longer be noise.

It may be an alarm.

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KOPITALK WITH MHO

Brunei has heard the food security warning before. The question is whether we have ever truly listened.

By Malai Hassan Othman

2 June 2026

Sometimes a country does not suffer because no one warned it.

Sometimes it suffers because the warning was heard too late.

Not because the warning was wrong.

But because the warning came from a place people were not comfortable listening to.

That thought returned to me after following a recent private discussion among concerned Bruneians about food security, padi land, idle sawah, irrigation, farming infrastructure, youth participation and Wawasan 2035.

The discussion was noisy, as many informal discussions are.

There were strong views, jokes, memories, frustrations, policy suggestions and practical observations.

But beneath the noise, one question kept coming back.

Why are we still talking about the same food security issues after so many years?

That is the uncomfortable part.

Because this conversation did not begin yesterday.

It did not begin in a WhatsApp group.

It did not begin because some people suddenly discovered the importance of rice, farmers and agriculture.

The warning was already there.

In 2008, during the global food crisis, His Majesty Sultan Haji Hassanal Bolkiah gave a reminder that still feels current today:

“…Negara Brunei Darussalam tidak dapat lagi semata-mata bergantung kepada ‘ihsan alam’ luar negara untuk mendapatkan beras, walaupun kita mampu mengadakan peruntukan untuk itu. Sikap semata-mata bergantung kepada wang ringgit untuk mengisi perut sudah tidak relevan lagi dengan terjadinya krisis makanan ini.”

— Titah sempena Keputeraan KDYMM 2008

That was not party politics.

That was national foresight.

It was a warning about dependency, and about the danger of assuming that money alone can always buy food.

It was also a reminder that rice is not just another imported item to be secured through budget allocation.

Rice sits on the table of almost every Bruneian household.

When rice feels secure, people feel secure.

When rice becomes uncertain, even a wealthy country can feel exposed.

Years later, that warning still feels unfinished.

This is where the issue becomes sensitive.

The National Development Party had raised food security as one of its major concerns since its early years.

In its 2010 presidential policy speech, NDP discussed national food security as part of Brunei’s development priorities.

It referred to the need to develop the food sector so that Brunei would not continue depending on other countries.

It also referred to efforts to increase rice production and expand padi areas across the four districts.

But NDP is a political party.

And in Brunei, the moment an issue is linked to a political party, the issue itself can become uncomfortable.

The message becomes secondary.

The messenger becomes the problem.

The substance becomes trapped inside the label.

This essay is not about proving that NDP was right.

That would be too small.

Food security is bigger than any party.

The more important question is whether Brunei has sometimes lost valuable time because useful warnings were filtered through political discomfort before their substance was properly heard.

That is not only a political question.

It is a question of national maturity.

It is a question of whether we can separate the warning from the label attached to the person or organisation giving the warning.

In a mature society, an idea should be tested by its truth, not only by its source.

When an issue is raised by a ministry, it may be treated as policy.

When it is raised by a consultant, it may be treated as expertise.

When it is raised by ordinary people, it may be treated as complaint.

But when it is raised by a political party, it can too easily be treated as politics — even when the issue is rice, irrigation, farmers, drainage, machinery, youth and national preparedness.

This is one of the quiet problems in Brunei’s public conversation.

We avoid political language.

We avoid difficult questions.

We avoid asking who benefits when the system does not change.

Then years later, the same issues return in another form, raised by different voices, through different platforms, with the same frustrations.

By then, the cost of delay may already have been paid by farmers, by youth, by consumers and by the country itself.

That cost need not be paid in the form of crisis to be real.

It is paid quietly, in fields that stayed idle, in youth who did not come, in land that held potential but never yielded.

One of the clearest reminders is Lot Sengkuang in Labi.

Lot Sengkuang was not some small forgotten patch of land.

It was recognised as an important padi-growing area in Belait, seen as having strong potential to contribute to national rice self-sufficiency.

The land was there.

The farmers were there.

The national need was there.

But potential alone does not feed a country.

For years, the concerns around Lot Sengkuang sounded familiar: water supply, irrigation, drainage, infrastructure, machinery, skilled manpower and farmer survival.

These are not small issues.

They are the difference between a productive padi field and an abandoned one.

They are the difference between a farmer staying and a farmer giving up.

It is easy to blame farmers from a distance.

It is easy to say young people are not interested.

But the harder truth is this: farmers operate inside a system.

If the system is incomplete, even hardworking farmers can lose heart.

If land has no proper access, no reliable water, no working drainage, no machinery support, no market certainty and no fair return, then agriculture becomes a burden dressed up as opportunity.

That is why food security cannot be treated as land allocation alone.

It must be treated as an ecosystem — one that includes land, water, drainage, roads, seeds, machinery, research, technology, financing, storage, processing, transport, markets, procurement, youth participation and farmer income.

Remove one part, and the whole chain weakens.

This is what many ordinary people are beginning to understand.

They may not use academic language.

They may not say “ecosystem integration.”

But they know when something does not work.

They know when a field has no water, when a road is poor, when a farmer cannot sell consistently, when young people see no future in agriculture, when a project looks good on paper but does not survive on the ground.

This is why informal public discussion should not be dismissed too quickly.

Yes, it can be noisy.

Yes, not every claim is verified.

But public noise can sometimes carry public truth.

In the middle of chatter, people may be describing what official reports cannot fully capture: frustration, fatigue, lost confidence, repeated promises and the feeling that the same problems keep returning under different names.

This is not necessarily opposition.

It may simply be national muhasabah.

There is a difference between politicising an issue and discussing a national issue that has policy implications.

If every serious national discussion is quickly viewed as political, then our public conversation becomes smaller, more fearful and less useful.

A country cannot become mature by avoiding difficult conversations.

It becomes mature by learning how to have them with adab, evidence, fairness and national intention.

The 2023 Agriculture and Agrifood Statistics show that Brunei has made progress.

The gross output value of the agriculture and agrifood sector rose from BND431.22 million in 2019 to BND554.51 million in 2023.

Livestock remained the largest contributor, followed by agrifood processing and crops.

This progress should be acknowledged.

There are farmers, entrepreneurs, officers, investors and businesses who have worked hard.

But the same statistics also show the harder side of the story.

Crop output remains much smaller than livestock and agrifood processing.

Agriculture’s contribution to GDP remains small.

Rice self-sufficiency remains low.

The contrast within the agriculture sector itself is revealing.

Livestock is clearly the strongest performer.

That should not surprise us.

Livestock is more attractive to larger and more organised investors.

It can be developed through bigger farms, controlled systems, imported technology, structured feed supply, biosecurity, processing and more predictable commercial planning.

In other words, livestock has the kind of ecosystem that capital understands.

But padi and much of crop agriculture are different.

They are still largely carried by small and medium farmers, kampong people, older pesawah, and family-based operators working with limited land, limited machinery, uncertain water supply and weaker market power.

When big investors enter livestock, the system tends to organise itself because capital requires roads, electricity, logistics, technical support, market access, scale and certainty.

But when small farmers carry padi, they are often expected to survive with patience, subsidies, seasonal support and patriotic language.

That is not enough.

If rice is a national security concern, then padi farmers cannot be treated as small players carrying a small issue.

They are small players carrying a national burden.

This is where food security becomes a fairness issue.

Brunei cannot expect kampong farmers to carry national resilience while the full ecosystem of capital, infrastructure, technology, procurement and market certainty is available more easily to bigger players elsewhere in the sector.

If the country wants padi to matter, then the padi ecosystem must be made investable, workable and liveable — not only for big companies, but also for small farmers, youth, cooperatives and village producers who are willing to work the land if the system allows them to survive.

Beyond the visible problems of land, irrigation, machinery and manpower, have the incentives within the agriculture sector always supported the national interest?

This is a sensitive question.

But it is a necessary one.

Agriculture does not fail only because farmers are weak or youth are uninterested.

Sometimes sectors fail because the incentives around them are not properly aligned.

If imports are easier than production, local farming will struggle.

If land can remain idle without consequence, productive farmers may be kept outside.

If supply chains are controlled by too few players, small producers may never grow.

If policy becomes too cautious around established arrangements, national food security may remain slow.

This is not an accusation against any person or institution.

It is a governance question.

Does the system truly reward those who produce?

Or does it quietly protect those who benefit from things remaining as they are?

Brunei needs serious investors, capable companies, strong private sector players — people with capital, technology, networks and discipline.

But food security cannot be left only to those who already have access.

It must also create space for genuine farmers, youth, cooperatives, village enterprises, small producers and new agropreneurs.

Otherwise, agriculture becomes another sector where opportunity exists on paper but participation remains difficult on the ground.

This is where the idea of Ease of Economic Participation becomes important.

It is not enough to say land is available, or that youth should farm, or that locals should be more enterprising.

The real question is whether the system allows them to enter, survive, grow and sustain their participation.

Can they access land, finance, machinery, water, markets, government procurement?

Can they sell consistently, manage risk, earn enough to stay?

If the answer is no, then agriculture will remain a slogan of food security, not an engine of it.

His Majesty’s 2008 warning remains relevant because the world today is even more uncertain.

Supply chains can be disrupted.

Climate can affect harvests.

Conflicts can raise shipping costs.

Exporting countries can protect their own people first.

What feels available today may not be available tomorrow on the same terms.

This does not mean Brunei must produce everything locally.

That is not realistic.

But Brunei must know which basic foods matter most, which vulnerabilities are too dangerous, which farmers need stronger support, which lands must be made productive, and which parts of the food chain must be strengthened before crisis arrives.

Perhaps one reason Brunei sometimes feels slow is not because people lack ideas.

It may be because ideas move through too many filters.

Who said it?

Which group said it?

Is it sensitive?

Will it offend someone?

Is it better to keep quiet?

By the time the system becomes comfortable enough to discuss the issue openly, years may have passed.

Farmers may have left.

Youth may have lost interest.

Land may have become idle.

The world may have changed.

A mature nation should not be afraid of ideas.

It should test them, verify them, improve them, reject what is weak and act on what is sound.

The source of an idea should not matter more than the truth of the problem.

Political maturity means the ability to discuss national issues without panic.

It means understanding that policy criticism is not automatically disloyalty.

It means accepting that a concern can be raised by a party, a farmer, a villager, a retired officer, a professional, a youth or a businessperson — and still deserve to be examined on merit.

We do not throw away the message simply because we are uncomfortable with the messenger.

The practical question now is simple.

What do we do?

Perhaps we do not need another grand slogan.

Perhaps we need one serious pilot area where the whole food ecosystem is made to work properly from end to end.

Choose one padi area.

Fix the irrigation.

Fix the drainage.

Fix the access road.

Provide machinery support.

Bring in youth.

Create a fair joint-production model for idle or underused sawah.

Link farmers to guaranteed markets.

Use government procurement to support local production.

Measure the yield, farmer income and youth participation.

Publish the results.

Learn from the failures.

Scale what works.

That would be more meaningful than another beautiful plan that does not reach the field.

This is the real meaning of “buat tia” — not reckless action, not emotional action, but disciplined action.

Measurable.

Accountable.

Action that learns and improves.

Action that brings the country closer to food resilience.

For too long, food security has lived between speeches, plans, targets and repeated concern.

It is time for it to live in the field.

In the water channels.

In the farm roads.

In the machinery sheds.

In the procurement system.

In the village economy.

In the rice bowl of ordinary families.

In the end, this essay is not about NDP.

It is not about any private discussion.

It is not about who deserves credit.

It is about whether Brunei can learn to separate policy substance from political discomfort — and whether Wawasan 2035 can become a living national effort, not merely a document we admire.

Food security was never just politics.

It was never just padi.

It was never just farmers.

It was a warning about dependency, about execution, about national resilience.

When the same concern keeps returning from different corners, across many years, through different voices, it may no longer be noise.

It may be the sound of a country being asked to wake up.

Journey of the Heart: The Mirror of Al-Baqarah

KOPITALK JIWA

Reflections from Surah Al-Baqarah, Ayat 1–6

Someone once described the Qur’an to me as a mirror.

I thought I understood what that meant.

I did not, fully, until a recent taddabur class on the opening six verses of Surah Al-Baqarah.

We were not there merely to collect facts or tick off tafsir notes. We were there to sit with the verses. To let them speak. And what they said, quietly but unmistakably, was something I did not entirely expect.

These six ayahs were not just introducing a book.

They were describing me.

—  —  —

The surah opens with three letters.

Alif Lam Meem.

Simple enough to pronounce. Impossible to fully explain.

Scholars across generations have reflected on them. They have offered possibilities. They have offered wisdom. But in the end, the honest position remains the same:

Allah knows best.

Perhaps that itself is already the first lesson.

We live in a world that wants quick answers. Full explanations. Total control over meaning.

Alif Lam Meem quietly pushes back on that.

It reminds us, before anything else, that knowledge begins with humility. There are things we know. Things we are still learning. And things only Allah knows fully.

A heart that wants guidance must first accept that it is not the owner of all answers.

It is a seeker.

Then comes the second verse.

Dhalikal Kitabu la rayba fih. Hudal lil muttaqin.

This is the Book in which there is no doubt. Guidance for those who have taqwa.

The Qur’an does not introduce itself as a decoration for the shelf.

It introduces itself as guidance.

A Book that points, corrects, reminds and brings the heart back when it begins to wander.

But guidance is not received by the eyes alone.

It is received by the state of the heart.

That is what taqwa means here — not a religious grade, not a badge of superiority, but a heart that remains awake before Allah.

A heart that still cares whether something is right or wrong.

A heart that feels uneasy when it crosses a line.

A heart that wants to return, even after drifting.

That kind of heart is ready to be guided.

—  —  —

Then the verses describe the people of taqwa.

Those who believe in the unseen.

Those who establish prayer.

Those who give from what Allah has provided.

Those who believe in what was revealed to the Prophet ﷺ and what was revealed before him.

Those who are certain of the Hereafter.

I had read these before.

Many times.

But in the taddabur class, they landed differently.

Because these are not five separate qualities to admire from a distance.

They form a portrait.

And when we look carefully, that portrait seems to echo the six Rukun Iman in lived form.

Belief in the unseen — Allah, beyond sight. The angels, beyond sight. Faith in what cannot be measured, photographed or held in the hand.

Belief in what was revealed — the Books, across time. The Messengers, across generations. A chain of truth that did not begin with us and does not end with us.

Certainty of the Hereafter — not merely acknowledged, but certain. That is a different weight entirely.

And underneath all of it, threaded through the journey of faith, is qadar — the understanding that Allah knows the surface and the hidden. That what He permits and decrees is not outside His knowledge. That provision, delay, protection and loss all return to Him.

The six Rukun Iman.

The opening six ayahs.

One mirror for the heart.

—  —  —

The question the class left me with was not comfortable.

Can I see myself in it?

Not whether I can recite the six tenets. Every Muslim who sat in sekolah agama can probably do that.

The question is whether they have moved from memory into the heart, and from the heart into the day.

Do I truly believe in the unseen — or only in what I can see, measure and control?

Do I establish prayer — or merely perform it?

Do I give from what Allah has provided — or do I live as if I earned everything on my own?

Am I certain of the Hereafter — or do I quietly live as if this world is the whole story?

These are not questions designed to make us feel small in despair.

They are meant to bring us back.

To remind us of who we are.

Of what we were made to carry.

Because jati diri for a believer is not just language, culture, ancestry or where we were born.

It is these foundations of faith, alive in the chest.

That is the identity the Qur’an begins to shape before it describes anything else.

—  —  —

The surah then turns to those whose hearts have closed.

Whether warned or not warned, they do not receive.

That passage should not be read only as something about others.

It is also a warning for all of us.

A heart does not become sealed in one day.

It closes slowly.

Each time a reminder is brushed aside.

Each time, arrogance is fed a little more.

Each time truth is heard but not acted upon.

Each time wrongdoing is justified.

Each time the heart says, “I know,” but refuses to change.

That is the danger.

The mirror does not disappear.

We simply stop standing in front of it.

—  —  —

The taddabur class reminded me that these six verses are not merely a preamble.

They are a portrait.

A portrait of the believer the Qur’an is addressing.

A portrait of the jati diri we were given the moment we said — or when someone said on our behalf — La ilaha illallah.

The Qur’an is not waiting for a perfect heart.

It is waiting for a willing one.

A heart humble enough to stand in front of the mirror.

Honest enough to look.

Soft enough to say:

Ya Allah, what I see is not yet what I should be.

But I am still here.

Still looking.

Still learning.

Still returning.

That, perhaps, is where the journey of the heart continues.

Not when we have become the portrait.

But when we are willing to face it.

— KopiTalk Jiwa

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.

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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.