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Malay Mail
17-05-2025
- Politics
- Malay Mail
Whispers and walls: The danger of anonymous slander in institutions we love — Nahrizul Adib Kadri
MAY 17 — In 1986, I was just a boy, crouched beside my siblings under the shade of a stairwell, trying not to fidget while our Abah attended his convocation at Dewan Tunku Canselor. He was receiving his Islamic Studies degree from UM that day. The whole family came along from Johor. We couldn't go inside the great hall, so we waited — across the road, across the field — in front of a building I barely noticed. Years later, as an engineering undergraduate, I realised that very building — with its scent of oil, sun-warmed cement, and metal — was part of my own faculty. The place where I had once waited for my father to graduate would become the place where I learned, taught, and stayed. First as a student. Then as a lecturer. It's funny how places circle back into our lives, like chapters written before we could read them. That memory — a child waiting for his father, not knowing that one day he'd belong to the same institution — comes to me often. It reminds me that for some of us, UM isn't just a workplace. It isn't just a university. It's a timeline. A legacy. A second home that helped shape our first. Which is why it pains me to write what comes next. Over the past month or so, a series of unsigned newsletters have been quietly circulating within our university community. Bold in tone, dramatic in presentation — complete with diagrams and accusations — they name names. They map networks. They point fingers at senior leadership, alleging nepotism, mismanagement, and more. They are anonymous. Now let me be clear: I'm not here to defend individuals. The people named are capable, experienced, and, if necessary, answerable. That's not my role. But I am deeply concerned about what this whisper culture is doing to us. Not just as an institution, but as a community. Critique, when done right, is not only useful — it's essential. Universities should welcome challenge, debate, transparency. No one, regardless of title, should be above question. But criticism loses its moral weight when it hides behind shadows. When it dodges accountability. When it forgets that even truth, delivered without ownership, can become a weapon. Because what we risk losing here isn't image. It's trust. When walls start to whisper, people stop talking. Dialogue turns to doubt. And fear replaces clarity. We've seen this play out elsewhere around us, offline and online. The same pattern: a faceless claim, a breakdown in morale, and then, silence. But a university, of all places, should be better. We are not built on silence. We are built on speech. On arguments that stand because they are signed. On inquiry that doesn't retreat behind anonymity. So we must ask ourselves, honestly: what kind of culture are we building here? Do we want to be a place where people tear others down through unsigned PDFs? Or do we want to be a space where we raise concerns directly, openly, and with the courage to own our views? I have spent most of my adult life at UM. I've been a student here. A researcher. A principal of residential colleges. A director of communications. I've walked these corridors wearing many different badges. And in all that time, one truth has held steady for me: that UM is not just Universiti Malaya. To me, it has always been 'Untukmu Malaysia'. It's a gift. From the nation to its people — and from its people back to the nation. It's ours to protect. And protection doesn't always mean defence. Sometimes, it means asking the hard questions. Sometimes, it means holding each other accountable — but with integrity, not insinuation. One day, perhaps ten years from now, I may offer myself to help lead this institution. If that time comes, I hope to do so not through alliances formed in corners, but through trust earned in daylight. But until then, I will continue to serve the way I know how. And I will speak — especially when the silence threatens to undo the very things I love most about this place. To those who write in the shadows: if your cause is just, bring it into the light. Sign your name. Make your case. Join the conversation. Because only then do we become more than critics. Only then do we become builders. * Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at [email protected] ** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
Malay Mail
16-05-2025
- General
- Malay Mail
The ‘cikgu' who never stood in front of a classroom — Zuraini Md Ali
MAY 16 — Each year on May 16, Teacher's Day is marked by heartfelt celebrations — flowers, cards, and touching tributes to honour educators. But for me, it's not just about those in schools or lecture halls. It's also about someone once called cikgu, though he never stood at a blackboard or wore formal attire. That someone was my father — a former Malay Regiment soldier with a dream of becoming a teacher. I remember it clearly. During a trip back to our hometown, my father and I were at the market when a neatly dressed man, about his age, greeted him warmly. 'Cikgu Ali! Lama tak jumpa... apa khabar?' They hugged and laughed like old friends. I stood by, confused — my father was never a teacher. He had worked as a soldier, then as a driver and transporter of plantation workers. On the way home, I asked, 'Abah, kenapa kawan abah panggil abah 'cikgu'?' He was quiet for a moment. Then, staring out the window, he began to tell a story that changed how I understood what it means to teach. Growing up in a poor village in Teluk Intan during the pre-independence years, my father had few resources but a deep love for learning. His friends often came over after school, and he would patiently guide them through lessons. They began calling him cikgu — not for any title he held, but for the way he taught with sincerity. Each year on May 16, Teacher's Day is marked by heartfelt celebrations — flowers, cards, and touching tributes to honour educators. — Picture by Sayuti Zainudin He once dreamed of studying at Sultan Idris Teachers' Training College (SITC) in Tanjung Malim — a prestigious institution that produced many Malay educators and thinkers. He passed Standard Six and was offered a place. But as the only surviving son among seven siblings, financial hardship forced him to choose duty over dreams. He joined the army to support his family. Yet, the name cikgu stayed with him. His friends never forgot the one who helped them when they were close to giving up. One of them — the man at the market — did go on to SITC and became a headmaster. But he still called my father his first teacher. I was deeply moved by his story. Suddenly, I understood why my father was so insistent about education. Though he never stepped into a teacher training college, he instilled in us the values of a true educator — discipline, sincerity, and a love for knowledge. Five of his eight children went to university. Three decades ago, when I became a lecturer, even though I wasn't a schoolteacher, he was proud. I once found an old school essay of mine that he had kept, in which I wrote: 'Being a lecturer suits a woman. I can also give my services to the public through education.' It's been ten years since he passed. But every time I pass through Tanjung Malim, I think of him — of his unrealised dream and the legacy he left behind. To me, Teacher's Day isn't only for those in classrooms. It's for anyone who brings light to others' lives, with or without a title. I'm reminded of a saying of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him): 'The best of people are those who are most beneficial to others.' (Hadith reported by al-Tabarani in al-Mu'jam al-Awsat) My father may never have held a certificate or faced a class, but he taught through kindness, sacrifice, and wisdom. That, to me, is the essence of being an educator. Happy Teacher's Day to all who teach, guide, and uplift — especially those like my father, Cikgu Ali, remembered not for titles, but for the lives they touched. May Allah grant him a place in paradise among the righteous. * Zuraini Md Ali is an Associate Professor at the Department of Building Surveying, Faculty of Built Environment, University of Malaya. ** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
