National politics has lost the plot

 Watching Kee Thuan Chye’s play Once Upon a Malaysian Dream triggers a deeper reflection on national politics, which increasingly mirrors a masterclass in theatrical misdirection.

I came away from Kee Thuan Chye’s latest play, Once Upon a Malaysian Dream, feeling entertained, even as a quiet tension lingered regarding the title and its focus.

Before the play opened, playwright Kee had stated his intent clearly: to tell the story of a man struggling to realise a dream for a united, prosperous Malaysia where all citizens share a sense of belonging, regardless of race or religion.

Along the way, Kee told me, this protagonist would face relentless, divisive forces, but would soldier on. It is a timeless premise, prompting the eternal question: Is it an impossible dream? Will it ever come true?

Naturally, based on that title, I had expected a narrative centred on the collective, everyday struggles of ordinary Malaysians.

Instead, the curtain rose on the trials and tribulations of Lim Kit Siang, the former opposition and DAP leader, detailing the anguish his family endured when he and his son, Guan Eng, were incarcerated under the Internal Security Act.

Kee, who directed the play, and the actors must be commended for putting up a good show. The production was well paced, with minimal props that worked seamlessly, carrying a three-hour runtime without a single drag.

Yet, about 20 minutes in, I felt a slight unease. The play was undeniably painting Kit Siang in a heroic light, leaning close to a personal tribute rather than an ensemble national story.

However, the clever Kee had anticipated how some of his audience might process this focus and soon introduced an interloper—a modern-day Greek chorus. Stepping into the light, this on-stage critic remarks: “This looks like hero worship. This looks like propaganda.”

The narrator on stage (representing Kee himself) responds, in effect: “It is my version, my perspective, my play. Others may have other versions. I respect them.” It was a fair and disarming defence.

As I was leaving the Dewan Sivik in Petaling Jaya with two ex-journalist friends, one of them observed: “Kee has just turned his book on Kit Siang into a play.”

I didn’t feel shortchanged so much as nudged to appreciate the evening as a well-crafted homage to one man’s lifelong crusade.

Still, a gentle dissonance, an unease, remained: the title had promised a broad national canvas, but the delivered canvas was deeply personal.

Had Kee titled it Lim Kit Siang: The Dream That Would Not Die or Lim Kit Siang’s Malaysian Dream, my expectations would have effortlessly aligned from the start.

Was it my fault for not reading between the lines? Was it a misleading title? Or was it simply a mismatch of expectations? I guess it was all of that.

This theatrical experience triggered a deeper reflection on national politics, which increasingly mirrors a masterclass in theatrical misdirection.

Since 2018, Malaysian politics has played out like a three-act drama that every voter thought they wrote. The script began in the language of hope: “We will deliver the Dream—a Malaysia where race and religion do not divide us, where meritocracy is real, and every citizen’s potential is realised.”

The actors—both old and new parties—delivered their lines with practiced charm: “Vote for me, and I will make your life better.” Millions bought tickets, signed up as the audience, and sat back to watch a tragedy unfold in real time.

Act One (2018): The script was revolutionary. Pakatan Harapan promised a Malaysia beyond identity politics. Anwar Ibrahim and the DAP allied with their former nemesis Mahathir Mohamad to “save Malaysia.” Exhausted by decades of one-party dominance and a nation increasingly divided by race and religion, voters gave the performance a standing ovation. For a brief moment, the nation believed the playwright had finally delivered.

Act Two (2022): The script sharpened. Parties proclaimed ideal promises: zero tolerance for graft, two-term limits for prime ministers, and stronger minority rights while protecting Malay rights. Anwar returned to centre stage as prime minister, flanked by the same old actors. He assured voters he had learned, partnering with Umno at the federal level while keeping the Dream alive. The coalition held, and hope flickered on.

Act Three (the present): This has become a script no one wrote. The actors meant to perform the national Dream are now rewriting pages mid-performance. In state elections, former bitter rivals forge tactical marriages of convenience. At the federal level, unity partners smile for cameras while state-level backstage machinations whisper a different directive: Fight. Sabotage. Win.

The ordinary citizen realises the script is being altered without permission. The lovely promises of Act One have dissolved into small-print contracts. Turnout in recent polls has plummeted as a weary audience murmurs, “Why bother? The actors keep changing the ending.”

It is a tragi-comedy in its purest form. The actors still perform with conviction—the handshakes, the photo-ops, the solemn vows to protect our future.

The tragedy is that our future is bartered away in closed rooms while the public watches helplessly. The comedy is the sheer absurdity of it all: bitter enemies sharing space – even laughter and jokes – in the Cabinet, while undermining each other in the shadows, reducing the Dream to a footnote.

And we, the voters, are left bemused in the dark. We recognise the actors and remember their lines from prior acts. We gave them our trust, only to watch them argue over “stability” versus “betrayal”.

The Dream remains buried somewhere in the script, but it is no longer the main character; it is a missing person in a play that refuses to anchor its own ending.

The actors return to the stage, smiling and convincing, while the voter is left holding the programme booklet, asking that eternal question: Is it our fault for expecting the play to match the title, or are we simply trapped in a theatre where the director has forgotten the plot and the promise declared on the promotion poster? - FMT

The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of MMKtT.