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

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

KopiTalk with MHO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Episode 9 — Political Literacy as National Security

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


KopiTalk with MHO

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

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

I understood immediately what my friend was trying to highlight.

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

I added one clarification.

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

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

That silence said everything.

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

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

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

The reaction was revealing.

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

The discomfort was palpable.

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

This, too, is political phobia at work.

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

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

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

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

For small nations, awareness is not optional.

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

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

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

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

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

This is where the idea of miskin politik becomes relevant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes on a Tree, Thoughts in Passing

 A decorated tree, a few handwritten notes, and a quiet collection of hopes left behind by strangers. Not about celebration, belief, or culture — just a brief glimpse of what people choose to write when given a moment, a pen, and no expectations.

KopiTalk with MHO

I wasn't planning to stop. It was just another decorated tree in a nearby town—lights blinking casually, ribbons looping where they usually do, ornaments doing their usual thing. 

Then I spotted the notes. Small cards tied with thin strings, handwritten, all over the place, and deeply personal. The tree, it seemed, had taken on a second role. Not just decoration, but a listener.

This isn’t about the festival, though. It’s about what people choose to write when they get a little piece of paper and some anonymity.

The handwriting told its own story. Some letters were neat and rounded, almost practised. 

Others were rushed, squeezed into the space as if the writer feared the thought would slip away before the pen could catch up. There was no uniform style. No single tone. Just a mix of wishes hanging out together, like a collage of lives passing by.

The wishes themselves were surprisingly ordinary. People wished for passing school exams more than once, reminding us that academic anxiety doesn’t care about the holidays. No matter how festive it gets, results day still looms with the same seriousness. A tree might sparkle, but an exam timetable never does.

Money came up too - not in a greedy way, just a quiet hope for “better” and “enough.” No grand dreams of sudden wealth. Just the kind of wish folks make when life feels tight, and the calendar rushes ahead of their bank balance.

Many of the notes had a youthful vibe. The handwriting, the spelling, the honesty - all pointed to younger voices. Gen Z, maybe even Gen Alpha. 

They seem less interested in polish and more focused on saying what’s on their minds before the moment passes. This generation is comfortable expressing their thoughts in public spaces, even temporary ones, without making a big deal about it.

One note had a polite greeting, followed by a self-aware boundary—cheerful, courteous, and a bit cheeky all at once. It felt like something said with a smile and raised eyebrows, acknowledging differences without turning it into a debate. It wasn’t defiance or mockery; it was just someone being themselves, honestly and lightly.

Another note shared a brief declaration of faith, signed off with a place name—quiet “from here,” rather than a loud “listen to me.” It didn’t explain or argue; it just existed. In borrowed spaces, people sometimes leave small markers of who they are, not as statements, but as footprints.

What struck me most was what wasn’t there. No preaching. No persuasion. No attempts to correct or convince. Just sentences written as they came, imperfect grammar included, because sincerity rarely waits for proofreading.

Then there was a note that changed the mood completely. It wished for a better parent and a little more comfort in life. No humour. No decorations in the words. Just a simple line that felt heavier than the rest. In a season known for cheer, that note quietly reminded me that not every wish is festive. Some are survival notes, left in public spaces because private ones have nowhere left to go.

That’s when it hit me what the tree had really become. Not a symbol or a statement, but a temporary noticeboard of human honesty.

Festive seasons have a way of loosening people up. They create pauses—moments when routine breaks just enough for reflection to slip through. In those pauses, people write what they might not say out loud. Sometimes it’s light, sometimes funny, and sometimes unexpectedly raw.

What hung from that tree wasn’t a single message, but many. They contradicted each other, sitting side by side without conflict. Faith beside humour. Exams besides money. Playful notes beside painful ones. And somehow, none of them cancelled each other out.

Maybe that’s the quiet continuity worth noticing. Different generations use different words, tones, even spellings—but the wishes themselves don’t change much. To pass. To cope. To be understood. To have things turn out a little better than they are now. The handwriting might evolve, the medium might shift, but the human instinct to leave a small hope behind stays the same.

Not everything hung on a festive tree is about the festival. Some are just reminders that, across ages and seasons, people continue to do what they’ve always done—finding a moment, finding a surface, and leaving behind a piece of themselves before moving on. 

As we step into 2026, we may all carry some version of these small hopes with us, written or unwritten, into the year ahead. (MHO/12/2026)

Episode 8 — Adl & Ihsan: When Fairness Forgets People

Adl and Ihsan are often spoken of together.

But what happens when fairness is applied without compassion, and policies are correct, yet heavy to live with?

In Episode 8 of MIB Management 101, I reflect on Adl & Ihsan — and why justice, in a Negara Zikir, must always remember the people beneath the policy.

☕ KopiTalk with MHO | MIB Management 101

“Ad-dāʾimūna al-muḥsinūna bi-l-hudā — Always render service with God’s guidance.”

When Decisions Are Announced Calmly but Land Heavily

I have learned that not all injustices arrive loudly.

Some arrive quietly — through a circular, through an email,
through a calmly and professionally explained policy update.

The language is polite.

The tone is measured.

The justification sounds reasonable.

And yet, when it reaches those affected, it lands heavily.

Not because the decision is cruel, but because it arrives without transition.
Without pause.

Without room for human reality.

Everyone is told they are being treated “fairly.”

But fairness, I have learned, can still hurt when it forgets context.

When Fairness Is Reduced to Arithmetic

In management, we often hear this phrase:

“We are applying the policy equally.”

On paper, that sounds just.
In spreadsheets, it looks neat.

But lived reality is rarely symmetrical.

Some households rely on a single income.

Some commitments were made based on previous assurances.

Some families built their lives around what was promised, not what might change.

When fairness becomes uniformity,

When equality becomes indifference, Adl quietly slips away.

Justice is not merely about treating everyone the same.

Justice is about not burdening some more heavily than others simply because it is convenient.

Over time, I have noticed that some decisions are made far removed from the ground.

They are carefully calculated, financially sound, and aligned with organisational goals.

Yet the further a decision is made from lived reality, the easier it becomes to forget how it feels when it finally reaches those affected.

The Difference Between Adl and Ihsan

This is where Adl and Ihsan part ways — and where leadership is tested.

Adl asks:
Is this decision defensible?

Ihsan asks:
Who will carry the weight of this decision?

I have sat in rooms where leaders spoke sincerely about the difficulty of a policy.

They acknowledged its impact.

They expressed empathy.

But the outcome did not change.

The policy moved forward.

And the burden settled where it always does — on those least able to absorb it.

That was when I realised something uncomfortable:

Ihsan is not what we feel.

It is what we are willing to protect.

When Sabar Is Expected Only From Below

In many organisations, patience is praised — but only when it is practised by those with the least power.

Employees are told to be understanding.

To manage emotions.

To be professional.

Leaders speak of constraints.

Of procedures.

Of instructions from above.

And so sabar is demanded, but ihsan is postponed.

Yet patience, when demanded without fairness, becomes exhaustion.

And endurance, when unsupported, slowly turns into quiet withdrawal.

People do not rebel.

They do not protest.

They simply stop hoping.

Adl Without Ihsan Creates Cold Systems

Islam does not teach justice without mercy.

The Qur’an commands justice, but it also elevates excellence.

Not just doing what is required — but doing what is right, even when it costs something.

A system may be legally correct, procedurally sound, and administratively efficient — yet still fail the test of ihsan.

Because ihsan lives in the spaces that policies do not cover:

transition periods,

special circumstances,

unexpected consequences,

and quiet human vulnerability.

A Negara Zikir Is Measured by How Power Is Felt Below

In a Negara Zikir, values are not measured by slogans or documents.

They are measured by how ordinary people experience decisions.

When justice is felt as protection

When leadership feels present rather than distant,

When power bends gently instead of pressing downward — that is when Adl and Ihsan come alive.

Not as ideals.

But as lived reality.

Closing Reflection: Justice That Remembers People

Over the years, I have come to believe this:

Most harm in organisations is not caused by bad people.

It is caused by good people choosing convenience over conscience.

Adl keeps us fair.

Ihsan keeps us human.

And a Negara Zikir is sustained not by perfect systems, but by leaders who remember that behind every policy is a life already in motion.

Perhaps the real question is not:

“Is this fair on paper?”

But rather:

“Will this still feel just to those who must live with it?”

Because when fairness remembers people, justice softens power, and ihsan becomes the quiet guardian of our institutions.

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

Where Accountability Quietly Ends

A project approved in principle. Costs paid in good faith. Months of waiting. No rejection, no wrongdoing — just silence. This is a familiar story in the business community, and it raises an uncomfortable question: when no one is at fault, who carries the loss?

Doing everything right, and still losing

KopiTalk with MHO

Every small business owner here knows this phase. You’ve signed the documents. You’ve paid the consultants. The land is ready. You’re told the approvals are “in process.” You’re not approved, not rejected — just waiting. And while you wait, time quietly works against you.

At first, the waiting feels normal. Development takes time, people tell you. Committees meet. Papers move around. Someone still needs to sign. You send a follow-up email, then another, careful not to sound impatient. You’re told, politely, that things are still being reviewed. No one says no. No one says yes. And because nothing sounds wrong, you keep going. You pay the architect. You settle the valuation. You clear the legal bill — just one more, you tell yourself — because that’s what commitment usually looks like.

From the outside, everything seems orderly enough. There’s a scheme. There are rules. There’s a process. From the inside, it feels fragile. Progress depends on approvals you don’t control and timelines you don’t manage. Still, you trust the system. After all, this is meant to be a development initiative. It’s supposed to help projects like yours move forward.

Then something subtly changes. Meetings become harder to arrange. Replies take longer than before. The officer you used to speak to is no longer there. You’re told the matter is being “transitioned.” No one tells you to stop. No one tells you to proceed. You’re left hanging somewhere between intention and execution.

This is where the real risk begins — not financial, but structural.

In many development schemes, responsibility is spread out. One body assesses. Another administers. Another releases funds. Each stays within its role, and each can honestly say it followed the rules. But when approvals stall or institutions change, there’s no single owner of the outcome. Things slow down. Accountability thins out. Silence becomes the default.

For the entrepreneur, that silence costs money. You keep making decisions in good faith. Bills still need to be paid. Commitments are still honoured. All the while, the clock keeps moving. Deadlines don’t announce themselves. They just arrive, expire, and only show their impact when it’s already too late.

When clarity finally comes, it often comes in the form of a formal letter. The facility has lapsed. The scheme has changed. A fresh application is required. What the letter doesn’t talk about are the months spent waiting, the money already sunk, or the reasonable belief that the system would say something if things were going wrong.

When situations like this reach the courts, the outcome is usually predictable. Contracts are read. Timelines are enforced. No breach is found. Legally, the decision makes sense. The law does what it’s meant to do. But development isn’t built on legal certainty alone. It’s built on confidence — the belief that systems respond, that processes conclude, and that silence doesn’t carry hidden penalties.

The quieter effect of these experiences is rarely talked about. Entrepreneurs don’t protest. They don’t issue statements. They simply pull back. Next time, they hesitate before putting money upfront. Next time, they scale down their ambitions. Next time, they wait a little longer before taking the first step. Over time, development schemes remain well-intentioned and well-documented — but slowly, quietly, less trusted.

There’s a difference between legal closure and institutional responsibility. One ends a case. The other sustains confidence. When systems don’t have clear ownership for continuity, the cost isn’t measured in court decisions, but in opportunities that never get pursued.

The hardest truth is this: sometimes no one is legally wrong, yet someone still loses. And when that happens often enough, the business community doesn’t get angry. It gets cautious. That quiet caution — unseen, uncounted, and rarely discussed — may be the most expensive outcome of all. (MHO/12/2025)

 

PART 8 — From Fear to Confidence: Reimagining Civic Maturity under MIB

What if Brunei’s answer to political fear was written long ago — in poetry, not protest?

In Syair Perlembagaan, Al-Marhum Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddien spoke of governance as amanah, balance, and shared responsibility — not silence, fear, or withdrawal.

This latest episode of Understanding Brunei’s Political System through MIB asks a quiet but urgent question:

Have we mistaken restraint for maturity… and fear for loyalty?

From zikir to fikir, from obedience to understanding, this essay revisits an old wisdom to rethink civic confidence today — especially for a younger generation growing up in a complex, globalised world.

After seven episodes exploring Brunei’s political system and culture through the lens of Melayu Islam Beraja, one truth becomes increasingly difficult to ignore: the challenge before us is no longer about ideology. It is about maturity.

Brunei’s political culture has long been shaped by calmness, order, and restraint.

These are virtues, not weaknesses. Yet over time, restraint has quietly shifted into hesitation, and caution into fear. 

Politics, once understood as amanah and service, has gradually become something many prefer to avoid — whispered about, misunderstood, or dismissed altogether.

This did not happen overnight. It is the product of history, structure, and habit.

Decades of governance under Emergency Laws have left a deep psychological imprint on society. 

Even where no explicit prohibition exists, the instinct to “stay away” remains strong. 

Families advise their children not to get involved. Employers quietly discourage political association. Community leaders are bound by rules requiring strict political neutrality. 

The result is not oppression, but self-regulation — driven by fear of consequences that may never materialise, yet feel real enough to shape behaviour.

This is the context in which political phobia took root.

Yet fear is not a principle of MIB. Silence is not a virtue in Islam. And passivity is not what the founders of Brunei’s governance tradition envisioned.

Long before modern political theory entered our region, Al-Marhum Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddien articulated a deeply moral view of governance — one in which power is inseparable from responsibility, and leadership is sustained not by force, but by trust. 

In his reflections on constitutional governance, the relationship between ruler and rakyat is portrayed not as a distant hierarchy, but as shared amanah. 

The ruler governs with justice and ihsan; the people respond with loyalty grounded in conscience, not fear.

What is striking in the Syair Perlembagaan is not its legal form, but its moral tone. 

Governance is repeatedly framed as a trust that must be carried with wisdom, balance, and restraint. 

The people are not imagined as silent subjects, but as moral participants whose well-being, dignity, and harmony are central to the purpose of rule. 

Read in this light, the syair quietly points toward civic maturity — a society that understands its role, respects authority, and participates with adab rather than fear.

Implicit in this worldview is participation — not noisy politics, but aware citizenship.

Civic maturity under MIB does not demand confrontation or adversarial postures. It demands understanding. 

It calls on the rakyat to think, to care, and to engage within the bounds of adab and loyalty. 

Participation here is moral before it is political. It is expressed through ideas, service, responsibility, and maturity.

The problem today is that fear has crowded out confidence.

When politics is seen only as a danger, the rakyat withdraw. 

When withdrawal becomes normal, awareness declines. And when awareness declines, society becomes vulnerable — not to internal instability, but to external influence and internal stagnation.

This is where the conversation must shift.

Brunei does not need mass mobilisation or partisan rivalry. 

What it needs is civic confidence — a society comfortable discussing national issues without suspicion, a youth population able to distinguish between reckless politics and responsible participation, and institutions that recognise awareness as a strength rather than a threat.

Political literacy is not about choosing sides. It is about understanding how power works, how decisions are made, and how values are protected. 

A politically literate society is not a noisy society; it is a resilient one.

The Malay world has long warned against miskin politik — a condition where people are rich in culture and faith, yet poor in political understanding. 

Such poverty does not serve the nation. It weakens society’s ability to protect its own interests and undermines the very stability it seeks to preserve.

Here, the balance of fikir dan zikir becomes crucial. Zikir without fikir produces obedience without understanding. 

Fikir without zikir produces cleverness without conscience. MIB demands both — a thinking society guided by remembrance, and a faithful society capable of discernment.

From this perspective, civic participation is not an imported concept. It is embedded in our own intellectual and spiritual tradition. The challenge is not compatibility, but confidence.

We must therefore ask a more honest question: are we afraid because politics is dangerous, or because we have forgotten how to practise it with adab?

Civic maturity means recognising that loyalty and awareness are not opposites. It means understanding that loving the nation includes caring enough to think clearly.

It means accepting that silence may preserve comfort, but awareness preserves dignity.

As Brunei moves forward in an increasingly complex world, the greatest risk is not political awakening — it is political sleepwalking.

A confident rakyat strengthens the state.

An aware youth safeguards the future.

And a mature political culture honours the true spirit of MIB.

KopiTalk Reflection

Fear once helped preserve stability. But confidence is what will now preserve relevance.

The task ahead is not to politicise society, but to mature it. Not to challenge authority, but to deepen trust. Not to import foreign models, but to rediscover our own foundations.

From fear to confidence — that is the journey of civic maturity under MIB.
And it is a journey Brunei must be ready to take. (MHO/12/2025)

Episode 7 — Sabar & Istiqamah: Leading When Change Is Slow

Not everyone who gives up is wrong.
Some grow tired of doing the right thing alone.

In Episode 7 of MIB Management 101, I reflect on sabar and istiqamah — what it truly means to remain steadfast when change is slow, resistance is subtle, and integrity feels isolated.

 

☕ KopiTalk with MHO | MIB Management 101

 

“Ad-dāʾimūna al-muḥsinūna bi-l-hudā — Always render service with God’s guidance.”

 

When Doing the Right Thing Starts to Feel Heavy

I once watched a capable, well-intentioned officer quietly give up.

Not because he was wrong.

Not because he was lazy.

Not because he lacked ideas.

He gave up because doing the right thing took too long.

Looking back, many of these moments only began to make sense later when I started to see work not merely as output, but as a service guided by something higher.

He entered the organisation with energy and hope. He asked questions others avoided. He suggested improvements that others postponed. He tried to solve problems that people had learned to live with.

At first, he was tolerated.

Then he was labelled belabih.

After that, he was slowly ignored.

Eventually, he stopped pushing.

He still came to work.

He still did what was required.

But something had dimmed.

That moment stayed with me because it reminded me of this:

Not all failures come from bad intentions. Some come from patience slowly wearing thin.

 

The Quiet Struggle of Those Who Want Change

Most people don’t enter the workplace wanting to cut corners.

They want to contribute.

They want to improve things.

They want to believe their efforts matter.

But over time, resistance appears — not always loudly, not always openly.

Sometimes it comes as:

• endless delays

• polite deflections

• reminders to ikut cara lama

• warnings not to disturb the balance

Change does not always fail through confrontation. More often, it fades through fatigue.

People don’t abandon principles because they stop believing in them. They abandon them because standing alone is tiring.

Over the years, I have come to realise that these quiet struggles are not unknown at the highest level. 

His Majesty has repeatedly reminded leaders that their duty is not merely to hold office, but to care, guide, and show concern for those under their charge. 

Leadership, in this understanding, is not about looking down from above, but about staying close enough to notice when people are struggling.

In a Negara Zikir, patience is not weakness. It is how conscience survives pressure.

 

Sabar Is Not Silence

Sabar is often misunderstood.

It is not about keeping quiet at all costs.

It is not about accepting everything.

It is not about pretending nothing hurts.

Sabar, to me, is emotional discipline.

It is feeling frustrated — and choosing not to become bitter.

It is feeling disappointment — and choosing not to give up on yourself.

The Qur’an reminds us:

“Indeed, Allah is with those who are patient.” (Al-Baqarah 2:153)

Not those who shut down.

Not those who pretend.

But those who stay steady without losing their values.

 

Istiqamah Is Not About Being Hard-Headed

Istiqamah, too, is often misunderstood.

It is not about pushing endlessly.

It is not about winning arguments.

And it is not about forcing change.

Istiqamah is about moral consistency.

It means staying upright when shortcuts are tempting.

It means remaining honest when dishonesty seems rewarded.

It means doing what is right even when no one notices.

The Qur’an says:

“So remain steadfast as you have been commanded.” (Hud 11:112)

Not as long as it feels comfortable.

Not as long as applause comes.

But as you have been guided.

 
When ‘Belabih’ Becomes a Label for Integrity

In some workplaces, people who remain consistent are not encouraged.

They are labelled.

Too idealistic.

Too vocal.

Too ambitious.

Too different.

Sometimes, istiqamah is mistaken for defiance.

Sometimes, sincerity makes others uncomfortable.

I have seen capable people sidelined — not because they were wrong, but because they refused to bend quietly.

This is where many start asking themselves:

“Is it worth it?”

This is where sabar and istiqamah begin to need each other.

Sabar keeps the heart steady.

Istiqamah keeps the direction clear.

 

Knowing When to Pause Without Giving Up

One difficult lesson I have learned is this:

Sabar does not always mean pushing forward.

Sometimes it means slowing down.

Istiqamah does not always mean staying loud.

Sometimes it means staying clean.

There are moments when reform is not about winning today — but about planting seeds quietly.

Not every sincere effort bears fruit in our lifetime.

But every sincere effort still counts.

And sometimes, that has to be enough.

 
Closing Reflection: Staying Upright When the Path Is Crooked

Leadership, especially principled leadership, is not a sprint.

Systems change slowly.

Mindsets change more slowly.

Egos change the slowest of all.

Along the way, many good people grow tired — not because they lack faith, but because they feel alone.

I am reminded of moments when welfare concerns were raised by rank-and-file officers, and His Majesty chose to listen rather than dismiss. 

He did not side with position or rank, but with fairness. That matters because it tells those who try to remain upright that patience is not invisible, and consistency is not pointless.

Sabar reminds us not to abandon ourselves.

Istiqamah reminds us not to abandon what is right.

And perhaps the question is not:

“Why is change taking so long?”

But this:

“Can I remain honest, kind, and principled — even while waiting?”

Perhaps this is what it means to keep rendering service with guidance — not perfectly, but sincerely.

Because sometimes, the real test of leadership is not how much we change the system…

…but how well we remain ourselves while living within it.

 

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