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By Mihar Dias April 2025
There he stood—frail in stature but still commanding in presence—Malaysia’s fourth and seventh Prime Minister, Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad, reopening a time capsule he buried 28 years ago under the shadow of Menara Kuala Lumpur. https://newswav.com/A2504_s2mW3t?s=A_xXnlica&language=en
It was meant to be a moment steeped in nostalgia and hope. A gathering of memories from 1996, when Wawasan 2020 was more than a slogan—it was a national mission. And Tun, true to form, was visibly emotional. https://newswav.com/A2504_s2mW3t?s=A_xXnlica&language=en
After all, how many of us get to live long enough to revisit the dreams we once buried with the conviction of youth?
And yet, as Tun Mahathir opened that capsule, Malaysians watching couldn’t help but feel that some things had aged better than others.
The RM2 note inside? Still worth RM2. The identity card? A relic of a simpler, if not less bureaucratic, time. The phone? Probably a Nokia. But the vision of a united, prosperous, and equitable Malaysia by 2020?
That dream, like many government blueprints, has yellowed with age and weathered in the face of political myopia.
We applaud Tun’s remarkable longevity—not just in years but in relevance. Here’s a man who outlasted many of his successors, political alliances, and most astonishingly, even some of his own legacies.
He’s buried and dug up more than just capsules in his lifetime: he’s buried political opponents, only to resurrect them in new coalitions; buried ideals, only to dig them up when it suited the moment.
So yes, hats off to Tun for living long enough to reopen his own time capsule. Few Malaysians can claim to have seen their own history, contradictions and all, come full circle. But that’s precisely where the applause ends and the cynicism begins.
Because while Tun has survived—remarkably so—the more uncomfortable truths of our national discourse have remained buried.
Vision 2020 spoke of unity, a Bangsa Malaysia, the end of race-based politics. And yet, here we are: still arguing over ketuanan Melayu, still watching government-linked entities mysteriously change hands (KL Tower, anyone?), and still debating ownership and rights as if we’re stuck in a political Groundhog Day.
It is poetic, then, that the ceremony was held at Menara Kuala Lumpur—a symbol of aspiration but also recently of controversy. Sold quietly, transferred questionably, defended loudly. One might say it represents exactly what the capsule didn’t: a Malaysia where aspirations are not only delayed, but sometimes deliberately diverted.
Dr Mahathir once said, “Melayu mudah lupa”—Malays forget easily. But perhaps it’s not forgetfulness that afflicts us. Perhaps it’s a sort of selective memory, aided by those in power, designed to preserve the myths and erase the mess. And Tun, more than most, has both benefitted from and battled against that machinery.
So yes, we honour Tun Mahathir for having the health and the heart to witness this moment. But we also can’t help but wonder: What good is opening a time capsule if we haven't changed the story?
Because if the vision of 2020 is now merely a curated exhibition of faded items and forgotten hopes, then perhaps the capsule should’ve remained buried. Not to preserve the past—but to spare us the hypocrisy of pretending we’ve honoured it.
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