‘Andor': A lesson in politics and hope

The Star

8 hours ago

I AM no die hard Star Wars fan, and it is no secret that the franchise has struggled to find its footing in recent years. The sequel trilogy ended on a whimper (and that is me being generous), while its television offerings on Disney+ have seen more misses than hits.
This is why Andor came as such a surprise. While I have always admired 2016's Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, the idea of building a series around one of its secondary characters initially seemed like an odd creative choice. What emerged, however, is a gripping and quietly profound piece of television.
Framed as a story of rebellion, Andor follows Cassian Andor's reluctant journey into the fight against the evil Galactic Empire. Spanning two seasons, the series begins with a search for his missing sister and gradually reveals how Cassian is pulled into something much larger than himself.
This story stands out against the franchise's other projects because it does not follow a story of heroes or chosen ones. Instead, it explores how oppression operates not through spectacle, but through ordinary means such as bureaucracy, fear, and apathy. There are no lightsabers or space wizards here, just people navigating the slow grind of a system built to keep them compliant.
As the series unfolds, it begins to feel unexpectedly familiar. The quiet control of the Empire and the divisiveness it sows among people mirrors very real events in the world.
Keen-eyed viewers were quick to draw parallels between actions of the Trump administration in the United States and the Empire's obsession with controlling information and attacking established institutions.
Andor is also the grittiest Disney offering I have seen in a while, which may not be the source of escapism expected from the brand. Particularly in season two, when an entire arc is dedicated to following how laws are used to silence dissent and punish communities for speaking out. As democratic backsliding is reported to be happening globally, it turns out that this galaxy far, far away isn't that far after all.
Malaysia is by no means an authoritarian regime. Yet the emotional and political textures of Andor – the institutional inertia, the disillusionment with leadership, the persistent waiting for change – resonate with many young Malaysians. We have followed elections, hung on to campaigns promising reform, and felt the slow frustration of watching meaningful change falter or fade.
What makes Andor so compelling is its honest depiction of how resistance begins. Cassian does not set out to fight for a cause. He is disinterested, even cynical. But over time, through personal losses and difficult encounters, he begins to shift. His transformation is not immediate or clean. It is gradual, shaped by relationships and exposure, and it reminds us that engagement often starts from a place of doubt.
For many young Malaysians, this kind of evolution feels familiar. We, too, grew up during moments of political hope amidst calls for reform and promises of a more inclusive future. Some of that belief still lingers.
At the same time, we have experienced political instability, unfulfilled promises, and the slow, uneven pace of institutional change. Andor reminds us that idealism needs more than passion. It also requires patience and the willingness to keep showing up even when the outcomes are uncertain.
Another standout character in the series is Mon Mothma. In the original films, she appears as a confident leader of the Rebellion.
In Andor, we see her as a politician trying to operate within a system that is slowly tightening around her. She cannot act openly, and so she learns to resist in quiet ways through negotiation, policy, and personal sacrifice.
Her arc serves as a reminder that political change does not only happen in the streets. Often, it happens in rooms where no one is watching, and where every choice carries real consequence.
What the series also captures well is how institutions operate. The Empire is not portrayed as a cartoonish villain but instead as a slow, indifferent machine. It relies on procedure, paperwork, and bureaucracy. This portrayal feels familiar. In our country, many young people are not frustrated by direct oppression, but by processes that feel unresponsive and systems that seem to preserve the status quo rather than challenge it. Andor does not offer a solution, but it does offer a perspective: systems don't shift on their own. People within them must choose to act, and often at great personal cost.
Amidst all this, the show also cautions against romanticising resistance. One of the most memorable lines for me comes from Luthen Rael, a rebel strategist who confesses, 'I burn my life to make a sunrise I know I'll never see'.
There is no glamour in that line, only realism. It reflects the emotional toll of long-term political work, especially when change feels out of reach. And yet, it is a reminder of leaders and activists who have paved the path for what we enjoy today. It offers clarity about what commitment can look like, even when rewards are not guaranteed.
Andor may not have all the answers, but it presents a compelling way to think about politics. Rather than treating it as a fixed ideology or destination, the show portrays it as an evolving process.
Political engagement becomes a movement from awareness to action, an understanding that disengagement is also a choice. In a climate where it is easy to grow tired or detached, the show suggests that participation, even in small or imperfect ways, still matters. Not because it solves everything, but because it is how things begin to shift.
Andor teaches us Malaysians that the most meaningful changes often start quietly. They begin not with grand statements but with small acts of reflection, difficult questions, and the decision to pay attention. And most importantly, by choosing to stay engaged even when it would be easier not to.
Student Jonathan Lee traces his writing roots to The Star's BRATs programme. He is now a Malaysian youth advocate.
The views expressed here are solely his own.