A speech to be remembered: Echoes of the past

 Sultan Abdullah’s birthday address was not merely a speech of the present, but an echo of the Hukum Kanun Pahang’s enduring lessons on power, justice and public trust.

From the Tengku Ampuan of Pahang, Tunku Azizah Aminah Maimunah Iskandariah

On the morning of 1 August 2026, as I listened to His Royal Highness Al-Sultan Abdullah Ri’ayatuddin Al-Mustafa Billah Shah deliver his Royal Address on the occasion of his sixty-seventh birthday, I felt an unexpected sense of recognition.

His Royal Highness spoke of justice, integrity, the dignity of public office, the protection of the land, the preservation of the forests, the responsibility owed to future generations, and the principle that no person, regardless of title, influence, rank, or family connection, stands above the law. He reminded those who hold office that titles are not privileges, but trusts demanding loyalty, integrity, and obedience to law. He spoke of the Orang Besar as pillars of sovereignty and custodians of the enduring relationship between the ruler and the people.

The words were contemporary, but the philosophy was ancient. For the past two years, I have lived almost daily with the Hukum Kanun Pahang. I have translated its passages, studied its language, examined its laws, and searched beneath its regulations for the constitutional philosophy that gave them meaning. Almost every new discovery inevitably found its way into my conversations with my husband. His Royal Highness has listened patiently as I spoke of Sultan Abdul Ghaffar Muhyiddin Shah, of the constitutional inheritance of Melaka and Pahang, of the duties of the Bendahara, Temenggong, Hulubalang, Syahbandar, judges, ministers, and royal servants, and of the ethical understanding of kingship preserved within the manuscript.

His Royal Highness has never himself sat down to read the Hukum Kanun Pahang from beginning to end. Yet as I listened to his speech that morning, it seemed to me that the manuscript was speaking again. Perhaps my many conversations about the HKP had left an impression. But I believe that the echoes ran far deeper than that.

Kingship is inherited not only through blood or title. Its duties, disciplines, instincts, and moral burdens are also transmitted from one generation to another. A prince grows within an institution. He observes how his father reigns, how the people approach the throne, how grievances are heard, how loyalty is rewarded, how wrongdoing is restrained, and how the dignity of the state must be preserved. Long before he reads a formal legal text, he begins to learn the meaning of responsibility.

The Hukum Kanun Pahang placed that inherited understanding into writing. It did not merely explain the power of a ruler. It explained why a ruler exists. Kings, it declared, were appointed as vicegerents and guardians. The affairs of Allah’s servants were entrusted to them. The ruler was therefore required to follow the prophetic example: to guide the people, restrain wrongdoing, uphold justice, enjoin what is right, and forbid what is wrong. Authority was not understood as possession. It was understood as amanah.

The same principle ran through His Royal Highness’s address. Forests were described not simply as economic resources, but as a trust from Allah and an inheritance that must be preserved for generations yet unborn. The land of Pahang was not presented merely as territory, but as dignity, sovereignty, livelihood, and inherited responsibility. True progress, His Royal Highness declared, lies not in conquering nature, but in protecting it.

This brought to mind one of the most beautiful metaphors in the Hukum Kanun Pahang: the ruler as gardener. The manuscript likens the King to one who tends a great orchard. He surrounds it with protection, plants trees that bear fruit, provide shade, and offer healing, and removes those that bring neither nourishment nor benefit. Yet he does not leave the ground barren. New trees must be planted so that the garden may continue to flourish and bring health and happiness to all who live within it.

The metaphor is not simply about trees. The garden is the realm. The trees are its people, officers, institutions, laws, and policies. Their fruit is the welfare they produce. Their shade is the protection they provide. Their healing qualities represent justice, stability, and good administration. The gardener must therefore know what to preserve, what to nurture, what to correct, and what must be replaced for the good of the whole.

His Royal Highness’s words on forests and environmental stewardship were therefore more than a statement of conservation. Whether consciously or otherwise, they expressed the same constitutional principle: the ruler does not inherit the realm merely to enjoy it. He receives it in trust, cultivates it with care, and must pass it to the next generation in a condition better than, or at least equal to, that in which he received it.

The HKP also teaches that the strength of a kingdom does not depend upon the ruler alone. It appoints officers as the walls and pillars of the state. The King’s servants are described as his eyes and ears, entrusted according to their rank and ability to bear the weight of government. Like the individual threads binding a woven mat, each must be correctly placed and must fulfil his particular duty so that the whole structure remains strong.

The manuscript then sets out, in remarkable detail, the qualities required of those entrusted with public responsibility. The Bendahara must uphold truth, protect those under his care, act fairly, avoid greed, guard the King’s dignity, manage the treasury with integrity, and resist the temptation of personal gain. The Temenggong must be vigilant, courageous, patient, and constantly mindful that the safety of those in his custody lies in his hands. He must never allow private interest to distract him from public duty. His judgments must be made through consultation with other officers, and their decisions must be brought into harmony. The Hulubalang must possess knowledge and discipline, but also gentleness towards those under his command. He is compared to a physician who must understand the sickness within his own body, discern the source of danger, and find its cure before weakness destroys the whole. The Syahbandar must work in harmony with the Bendahara, maintain good relations with merchants, safeguard trade, report immediately when any merchant is wronged, gather information from foreign lands, oversee all ships entering and leaving the harbour, and maintain firmness so that those who travel and trade may enjoy safety and order.

Royal attendants must remain watchful for anything that might harm the King or disturb the people. They must not conceal important information. They must reject jealousy, vanity, pride, and the intoxication of royal favour. They must possess the courage to appear before the King even when the truth they carry may provoke displeasure. These are not merely descriptions of old court offices. They are lessons in public administration.

The titles have changed. The institutions have evolved. Yet the ethical demands remain immediately recognisable. A modern minister, civil servant, judge, enforcement officer, military commander, adviser, or official faces the same temptations: greed, pride, rivalry, concealment, personal ambition, misuse of access, fear of speaking truth, and the belief that proximity to power places one beyond accountability. The HKP warned against all of them.

It reminded royal servants not to be deceived by favour or reward. Good service was not to be performed for personal glory. Confidential matters were to be protected as sacred trusts. Officers were to tell the ruler what he needed to hear, not merely what would please him. Knowledge without benefit was declared futile; leadership without listeners and followers was meaningless; and office without patience, discipline, and devotion was empty. Above all, the manuscript reminded every officer that public responsibility carried accountability before Allah.

“Every one of you is a guardian,” it declared, “and every one of you will be held accountable for those under your care.” The HKP therefore did not understand government merely as administration. It understood government as moral responsibility. A kingdom might possess a courageous, wise, and knowledgeable ruler, but if his ministers and people lacked understanding, there would still be no peace. The King and his ministers were compared to flame and light: distinct, but inseparable in purpose. If the roots were weak, the tree could not remain standing.

His Royal Highness’s speech expressed the same truth. The enforcement of law was not entrusted to the throne alone. His Majesty acknowledged the government, police, land offices, forestry authorities, anti-corruption agencies, local authorities, and other institutions whose integrity and courage are necessary to uphold the peace and dignity of the state. The ruler may embody sovereignty, but the welfare of the realm depends upon the ethical conduct of all who serve beneath him.

This is why the qualities of ministers and officers occupy such an important place in the Hukum Kanun Pahang. The manuscript recognised a truth that remains as relevant today as it was four centuries ago: bad government is not produced only by a bad ruler. It may also arise from weak ministers, dishonest judges, negligent officers, flattering advisers, corrupted officials, and servants who place personal advantage above public duty.

A ruler cannot govern well if those around him conceal the truth. He cannot deliver justice if judges accept gifts. He cannot preserve the state if officers use their position for private gain. He cannot protect the people if those charged with enforcement lack courage. The HKP was therefore not content to establish offices. It sought to form the character of those who occupied them.

This is most clearly seen in its rules concerning judges. A judge was forbidden to accept gifts from those whose cases came before him. His livelihood was to come from the treasury, so that his judgment would not be corrupted by obligation or favour. If he accepted a gift connected with a case, the integrity of his decision was destroyed. Justice also required more than an impartial verdict. A judge was required to listen attentively to the person seeking redress, examine the grievance fairly, and speak with kindness and gentleness. Harsh speech might frighten a complainant and prevent the truth from emerging. Gentleness was therefore not merely good manners. It was described as a condition of justice.

This is constitutional wisdom of the highest order. The HKP understood that justice can fail even when a court formally exists. It fails when judges are corrupted, when complainants are intimidated, when the poor cannot speak, when powerful men influence decisions, and when law is applied selectively.

His Royal Highness’s Royal Address gave modern expression to that same principle. The law, he declared, must not bend before pressure, private interest, influence, or wealth. Enforcement must proceed without fear, favour, or compromise. When the law begins to be applied selectively, justice loses its meaning; and when justice collapses, the dignity of the state collapses with it. This was perhaps the clearest echo of all.

The Hukum Kanun Pahang declared that the law applied throughout the realm, to towns, villages, tributary territories, nobles, officers, and ordinary subjects. Its purpose was to ensure that the weak were not oppressed by the strong, nor the poor by the wealthy. His Royal Highness stated the same constitutional truth in words suited to our own age:

“Dalam soal amanah dan integriti, tiada siapa yang mengatasi undang-undang.”

No title, influence, family relationship, or closeness to the throne could provide shelter from lawful accountability. The language was modern. The principle was ancient.

As I listened that morning, I did not hear His Royal Highness quoting the Hukum Kanun Pahang. I heard something more meaningful. I heard the spirit of the HKP uttered sincerely from the heart of a Sultan who understood, instinctively and through inheritance, the burdens of kingship. Whether he realised it or not, the echoes were there. They were present in his understanding of the ruler as guardian rather than owner. They were present in his insistence that law must be enforced without favour. They were present in his warning that titles are trusts rather than privileges.

They were present in his concern for the weak, the young, the land, the forests, the institutions of the state, and generations yet unborn. They were present in his recognition that sovereignty survives only when rulers, ministers, officers, and people each fulfil the duties entrusted to them. Perhaps this is how a constitutional tradition truly survives. Not only through manuscripts, enactments, or formal proclamations, but through institutional memory, upbringing, example, custom, language, and the values carried silently from one generation to the next.

The Hukum Kanun Pahang preserved these principles in writing. Yet its spirit was never meant to remain imprisoned within its pages. It was written to guide rulers, ministers, judges, officials, and subjects in the creation of a just and flourishing realm. For too long, the Hukum Kanun Melaka and the Hukum Kanun Pahang have been approached principally as ancient legal texts: valuable to historians, philologists, and scholars of Malay law, but distant from the practical concerns of the present.

We should read them again.

They contain not only offences and punishments, but a philosophy of ethical government. They teach that leadership begins with self-restraint; that knowledge must produce benefit; that office requires competence; that ministers must speak truth; that judges must reject gifts; that public servants must resist greed; that consultation strengthens decisions; that commerce prospers only when merchants are protected; that law must defend the weak; and that every person entrusted with authority will ultimately answer for that trust.

These are not obsolete lessons. They are urgently contemporary. May all who are appointed today as ministers, judges, civil servants, officers, advisers, commanders, and custodians of public responsibility be guided by the wisdom written in our own kanuns. May they remember that office is not personal honour, but public trust. May they recognise that proximity to power does not diminish accountability, but increases it. May they understand that the strength of a ruler depends upon the integrity of those who serve him, just as the strength of a tree depends upon the health of its roots.

And may they remember that laws written centuries ago still speak clearly to us today: Power is an amanah. Justice is a duty. Integrity is the foundation of government. And no kingdom can prosper when those entrusted with its welfare forget whom they serve and before Whom they must ultimately answer.

His Royal Highness’s sixty-seventh birthday address was indeed a speech to be remembered. For as I listened to my husband that morning, I was not merely hearing a Royal Address of the present.

I was hearing the echoes of the past. - FMT

The Tengku Ampuan of Pahang, Tunku Azizah Aminah Maimunah Iskandariah, is a master’s candidate at the International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation (ISTAC), International Islamic University Malaysia.