Author: Hafiz Noor Shams

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Books & printed materials Society

[3012] The contemporary relevance of Syed Hussein Alatas’s Intellectuals in Developing Societies

While reading Syed Hussein Alatas’s Intellectuals in Developing Societies recently, there was one question that kept popping in my head. Is the book still relevant to contemporary Malaysia?

Some rights reserved. By Hafiz Noor Shams.

Published in 1977 but written earlier, Syed Hussein Alatas asserted that developing countries such as Malaysia (and more generally, throughout Asia) did not have an intellectual class. There were a few intellectuals but they were so few and far between that they were powerless and could never function as a class that could exert influence on the elites and the society as a whole.

He attributed the lack of the intellectual class in Malaysia (really, his focus was Malaya/Peninsular Malaysia but the claim is also relevant to the Borneo states) to the massive colonial immigration. In his own words, “the population of Malaya was composed of immigrant groups, devoid of intellectual interest, many of them from the lower economic class in their country of origin.” Meanwhile, the colonial education system was designed by the British purely for vocational reasons and avoided the nurturing of intellectual interest. In short, the whole population was more concerned with economic and other immediate practical factors instead of intellectual pursuits.

The economic focus with limited intellectual development continued beyond the colonial period. Here, Syed Hussein Alatas blamed the Alliance/Barisan Nasional government for failing to create the intellectual class. He reasoned the peaceful nature of the country (relative to the more turbulent revolutionary history such as in Indonesia, the Philippines and Vietnam) had made governing a routine business. Such routines gave way to the rise of the managerial politicians and technocratic class where they functioned to keep the social machine running, instead of manufacturing new machines that intellectuals would do. The lack of need to create new machines meant the lack of need for intellectuals. Only crisis would demand intellectuals and Malaya and Malaysia had little, or so that was the claim.

While that might be true, surely there is an intellectual class in Malaysia today. Syed Hussein Alatas himself had influenced a whole school of thought that is alive and well in Malaysia. And there are other intellectuals of different persuasion who are thriving in the country now. In fact by the 1970s, it does appear to me there was an identifiable intellectual class with Syed Hussein Alatas himself a giant. Furthermore, the events of 1969 were a crisis for Malaysia and to follow his own logic, the times demanded intellectuals, which the society then did provide.

This counterpoint of mine shifted my mental mode. Instead of reading the book as something of contemporary relevance, I began to view it as a material giving insight to the 1950s-1970s society. After all, the author was fully engaged in the 1960s-1970s political debates, with commentaries/examples on less-than-inspiring results from government policy and policy implementation in Malaysia then. He reserved some venom for the Cabinet under the leadership of Tunku Abdul Rahman, which Syed Hussein Alatas described as lacking rationality and filled with unsuitable happy-go-lucky personalities. (There are several chapters on fools and bebalisma but I have a feeling this segment of the book was steam-blowing ranting against the then-government disguised as an model—essentially it is about calling other people stupid without actually doing so. Syed Hussein Alatas had a political career in opposition to Tunku Abdul Rahman and Tun Razak’s leadership.)

Perhaps, something does not change after all.

And perhaps, the existence of an intellectual class does not entirely remove the relevance of Intellectuals in Developing Societies to contemporary Malaysia.

Here, the lack of need for intellectuals during the early days of Malaysia had led to the education system focusing on developing technical expertise without inculcating a ‘philosophic spirit’, an idea borrowed from Egyptian intellectual Muhammad Abduh and a long line of other intellectuals. This gave rise to what Syed Hussein Alatas called the dualistic man where outwardly the person accepts, enjoys and wants the conveniences of science and technology but inwardly, believes in the supernatural in direct contradiction to the sciences. The person wants to be the consumer of science but the science behind the product can be magic for all he or she cares. This can easily describe our post-modern reality that might get worse with the proliferation of mindless artificial intelligence usage within our society.

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Books & printed materials Conflict & disaster History & heritage

[3011] Mornings in Jenin and Palestinian narrative in literature

There is a short author’s note near the end of Susan Abulhawa’s novel Mornings in Jenin. In the last paragraph, the author recounted the time she met Edward Said and how that influenced her. Abulhawa is a Palestinian American, just like Said. In that page, she mentioned that Said lamented how “the Palestinian narrative was lacking in literature.” After that conversation, she “incorporated his disappointment into [her] resolve.”

Reflecting on that, I think in some instances literature and art in general can be more effective in promoting a cause than academic or non-fiction pieces of work.

Over the past two years or so in response to the killings in Gaza as well as the constant illegal Israeli settlers’ violence in the West Bank, I have attempted to educate myself further about the Palestinian experience. Wikipedia has been a constant companion because it is the easiest access to a generally good source of information. But reading Wikipedia might be dissatisfying and it is easy to drown in a sea of dry hyperlinks and articles that are too long for the screen.

Rashid Khalidi’s The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine has been helpful in guiding me through the narrative and make sense of all the information on Wikipedia. The book is the best non-fiction work on Palestine I have read yet.

But non-fiction makes you work for it. This might not work for many who read for entertainment purposes instead of learning. And non-fiction can be dry. I think the reason The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine reads great is because Khalidi merges his personal stories to make sense of the facts, which makes the grand historical narrative spanning for more than a lifetime more human.

Here is where Mornings in Jenin excels. First published in 2006 under the more controversial original title The Scar of David, the novel for me is the most emotional book I have read in a long time. The characters are fictional but they live through real events described in The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine. There were multiple segments of the novel where I was on the verge of tearing up. Reading it was an emotional rollercoaster that makes one sympathizes with the Palestinian people even more. It adds an extra dimension that is hard for most non-fiction to tap into.

As it turns out, Mornings in Jenin is the first English literature that explores the Palestinian experience and so, fulfilling Abulhawa’s promise to herself to incorporate Palestine into modern literature. That makes Mornings in Jenin an important novel to read in order to understand the Palestinian sufferings better.

And so, I feel Edward Said is right about the importance of literature to the Palestinian experience.

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Books & printed materials Economics Politics & government Society

[3010] Reviewing Abundance and thinking about the abundance agenda

One of the central themes of The End of the Nineteen-Nineties (by yours truly) is that a robust and widely shared economic growth is a prerequisite to Malaysia’s civic nationalism that comes in the form of Bangsa Malaysia. I argue that the loss of growth momentum caused by the late 1990s Asian Financial Crisis is the primary reason behind why civic nationalism is struggling to have itself centered in Malaysian politics. If you sympathize with the argument, then it is natural to buy into the overall abundance agenda.

Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson are two champions that have popularized the idea of abundance through their recent 2025 book Abundance.

However, Abundance is a US-centric work. Some parts of the book sound like a boosterism for the Biden agenda: build, build, build. The support for the CHIPS Act is apparent throughout the book.

If you are living and working in Asia, problems raised by Klein and Thompson such as reluctance to build more housing, slow renewable energy progress and the general weakness in infrastructure spending might sound like an alien concept. In this part of the world, infrastructure spending is something we have learned to take for granted. Oversupply and overcapacity are more the buzzwords than scarcity is.

Nothing highlights this more by the differing reactions to a recent clip of the US President convoy driving along a Malaysian highway during the recently concluded Asean Summit in Kuala Lumpur: some US audience were amazed by various aspects of the highway while the Malaysian reactions included pride (thank you for noticing!), indifference (what’s the so special about the stretch road?) and smugness (welcome to the first world…). And this is just Malaysia, not China with its ultramodern out-of-this-world infrastructure and industrial might that is just hitting the ball out of the park.

Yet, the implications of Abundance have relevance to this part of the world too.

For one, policy priorities do change but change does not come easy. In fact, policy momentum often come in the way of new challenges. The authors go some length to explain why it is hard to build in the US: there was a time during the 1960s-1980s when development went too far that other concerns such as pollution, health and road safety were ignored. Since then, public pressures and court cases have put in place various legislations and bureaucracies to address these issues. These restrictions were relevant then, but they are now in the way of addressing new challenges. Example includes laws that used to restrict pollutions and preserve the environment are now preventing progress towards clean energy deployment that is necessary to combat climate change.

This can be true for Malaysia too in multiple areas. One area I can think of is Malaysia’s set of incentives, which a majority of them are geared towards the industries of the 1990s but not of the 2020s. Many of these incentives are now irrelevant but continued to be given by the government for various reasons, which is now taking resources for emerging concerns. Another policy is simply the petrol subsidy: we would like to push the country towards greater electrification but the subsidy is clearly in the way.

Another important lesson is that scarcity, oftentimes, is a choice. Sure, the physical world can only serves us so much but policies in many cases are the cause behind scarcity. Bringing the idea closer to home in Malaysia, our collective reluctance to raise taxes is the reason behind capacity and quality challenges we face in the health and education sectors. We choose the scarcity, and then we fight among ourselves to win stupid prize in that stupid games we created.

The greatest lesson perhaps is this: growth is not the only thing that matters but do not take it for granted. In fact, to put it more strongly, degrowth is not the way. This should be obvious with the various social pressures caused by deindustrialization faced by not just the US, but especially Europe. In Malaysia, for those still holding on to the idea of Bangsa Malaysia, growth is a must.

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Books & printed materials History & heritage Politics & government Science & technology Society

[3009] Reviewing The Peasant Robbers of Kedah 1900-1929 and then a modern thought

Central to Cheah Boon Kheng’s 1988 book The Peasant Robbers of Kedah 1900-1929: Historical and Folk Perceptions is the idea of theft as an informal wealth redistribution mechanism during a time of distress in rural Kedah. The thefts are framed as a guarantee for some kind of minimum welfare standard for the rural folks in general and in important specific cases, as a response by the weak against those in authority.

The result of 12 years of research and writing actively influenced by James C. Scott (the author of Weapons of the Weak), Cheah (who died in 2015) painted a picture of petty crimes being a constant concern in the 20th century rural Kedah. The historian reconstructed the conditions of Kedahan kampongs through interviews where written records failed. Written records are wholly inadequate because the Kedah Sultanate, both under first Siamese and later British influence, had limited effective control beyond major towns: the state elites had worries other than recording the lived experience of peasants, at least until they began to exert greater control throughout the state.

In that reconstructed picture, I get the idea that almost everybody engaged in petty crimes. Chickens reared regularly disappeared without a trace. The prevalence of theft however did not mean the lack of shame. In one page, the author wrote that the offending party would quickly slaughter the birds they had stolen, had it cooked immediately and then consumed as soon as possible so to not get caught. Proving such crime was next to impossible while reporting it to the authority was such a hassle that it was not worth the effort to do so. In a rural setting where the jungle was nearby, everybody was a suspect, policing was absent, the state was non-existent and the border was porous, the criminals might as well be a snake or a ghost with an appetite for white meat. The spread and frequency of petty crime worsened during difficult economic periods as distressed households resorted to pilfering for survival. Or as Cheah put it, it was a system of self-help.

Crucially, all this was an intraclass conflict. The rich lived far away from the kampongs in towns and protected by law and order. But the rural normality of crime set the stage for organized banditry at the state level and soon, interclass conflict.

The rising banditry was fueled by a weak state capacity, a changing power structure (from distributed native power to colonial centralized control) and general corruption among rural leaders.

Kedah then was more a mandala than the state we know today: strongest at the capital center but its influence dropped disproportionately fast the farther away a person traveled into the jungles. But even in that weak state structure, Kedah still had representatives in the form of village heads or similar positions. As the British expanded its bureaucratic reach outward beyond towns and centralized all authorities in the state capital Alor Setar, these local rural actors lost power and wealth.

To preserve their influence amid a feudal society, they resorted to criminal activities. They fought the erosion of their power by recruiting local thugs who carried out theft in a bigger way. In this way, the rural elites amassed muscles and capital.

But the local elites needed the local thugs as much as the latter needed the former. The thugs needed the local elites as a shield from Alor Setar, or at least some kind of legitimacy within a feudalist framework.

Here, the idea of wealth redistribution from the rich to the poor becomes tenuous as the local rich preyed upon the poor even as the rural elites did this in rebellion against growing colonial authority (and it should be mentioned, against the sultan too).

As events would have it, the alliance between the rural elites and the thugs employed and protected would not last. Quarrels happened for whatever reasons and the latter turned against the former, stealing for rural and urban elites alike. The victimized peasants celebrated this and this is what Eric Hobsbawm called social banditry: actions taken as illegal by the law but carried out by the oppressed groups as a form of resistance. Some in fact shared their spoiled with poor, making them as Cheah Boon Kheng called them as the Robin Hood of Malaya. Such appears to be the case with the peasant robber Panglima Nayan (and several others) who was eventually killed by the British-Kedah authorities.

But not all cases (in fact most cases) could be labelled cleanly as Robin Hood kind. Stories about these individuals are contradictory and there are forgotten aspects about their cruelty to their own, with their benevolence exaggerated. It is a complicated truth, unlike popular folk tales told in Kedah.

Cheah the historian understood this but still came out to defend his thesis: it does not matter what the truth is. What matters is the perception of the peasants. That perception and stories from the peasants told are their way of rebelling against the authorities. These stories are the weapons of the weak.

Cheah’s defense of the thesis is acceptable and solid in fact. But I am troubled with the brushing off facts in favor of perceptions, if we transport this lens to analyze contemporary issues. Here, I am referring to social media which has inundated everybody with information (regardless of truth) so much that everything become perceptions with increasingly no bearing to facts. Would the employment of perceptions regardless of truth by fringe extremist groups (by definition non-mainstream and so… ignored/oppressed/suppressed/disenfranchised?) qualify as weapons of the weak?

I have not read Weapons of the Weak and I will try to read it soon with that specific question in mind.

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Books & printed materials

[3008] About those coconut trees in Kam Raslan’s Malayan Spy

Travelling is a great way to learn about the world, but it is not the only one. Conversations, books, radio, television and the internet could teach us that too. The ease of access and richness of information today allow us to create accurate mental images of foreign places. Nothing beats being there but apps like Google Earth or simply image searches will show us how places like London or Nairobi or Lima look like. This is something we take for granted.

I am reminded so upon reading a striking paragraph in Kam Raslan’s Malayan Spy. The context: it is the early 1950s. The protagonist of the novel, Hamid, is a Malay student living in London and he is on his way to visit a friend in rural England. He has read about that version of England before but up to that point, he has only experienced the country as London the metropole and Malaya the colony. He has never seen the English kampongs. Not even a picture or a drawing it seems.

Malayan Spy by Kam Raslan

He has to rely on words to picture it in his mind. To create a mental image of English ruralness, he imports his home environs—tropical trees, Malayan motifs—into spaces left undescribed by proses written in pages of books he has read of England.

As the train leaves the city behind and enters a different England, Hamid is surprised to find that England does not look at all the way he had imagined it to be. He thought his had a good mental image to rely on, with had coconut trees swaying over meadows and farms, towering among oak trees.

Imagine expecting to see coconut trees in the cold and dreary rural England. It sounds ridiculous but the whole thing fits well into the general idea that Hamid is a silly Malay boy. Malayan Spy after all is a work of comedy.

But is it really silly of him to import Malayan motifs to imagine the English kampongs? In absence of information, we rely on things we know best. If we were in his shoes without the modern communication convenience and knowledge, I bet most modern Malaysians would do the same: imagining coconut trees swaying by an open field of lalangs.