As Negeri Sembilan dissolves its assembly, residents notice roads being fixed and campaign buntings appearing across the state.
I LIVE in Seremban. And if you want proof that an election is coming, don’t look for political announcements; look at the roads.
Within hours of Menteri Besar Datuk Seri Aminuddin Harun announcing the dissolution of the Negeri Sembilan state assembly on Thursday, I am convinced at least three things happened somewhere across the state.
A lorry loaded with campaign buntings quietly rolled out of a warehouse. A contractor received an urgent call about a road that has been damaged since 2023. And in kopitiams from Seremban to Nilai, someone put down their teh tarik and said with the weary confidence of a veteran observer: “Musim pilihan raya dah sampai.”
Election season is here. And Malaysians know exactly how this story goes.
Negeri Sembilan has become the second state to dissolve its assembly in less than a week, following Johor. All 36 state seats will be contested within the next 60 days.
Politicians will tell us this is about securing a fresh mandate, strengthening governance and serving the rakyat.
The rakyat, meanwhile, will quietly start taking stock of which drains have remained clogged since the last election, which streetlights have not worked for months and which potholes may finally receive attention now that candidates need votes. This is not cynicism; this is institutional memory.
My parents recognised the pattern. My grandparents recognised it. Even my 11-year-old son, who has absolutely no idea what a state assembly does, looked up from his tablet when the announcement appeared on television and asked: “Amma, what’s an election?”
I wasn’t quite sure where to begin. Maybe in a few years, mone. For now, it is enough to know that things are about to get colourful around here.
Malaysia’s election cycle has developed its own peculiar rhythm. Suddenly, tents appear on empty fields. Ceramah stages emerge overnight. Roads that have been ignored for years become urgent matters of public interest.
There will be calendars, keychains and reusable bags. There will be smiling candidates posing for photographs at markets they have never visited before. There will be politicians walking through housing estates with the enthusiasm of first-time tourists despite having represented the area for years.
There will be handshakes, nasi lemak and promises – about hospitals, schools, public transport, the cost of living – all delivered with great conviction and received with increasing caution, and then there are the potholes.
Every Malaysian driver has a pothole story. Mine is a stretch of road near my neighbourhood that has been discussed in our residents’ WhatsApp group for so many years that it has acquired its own nickname.
We have reported it, photographed it, complained about it and even watched workers patch it so many times that the surrounding tarmac now resembles a quilt stitched together from different decades.
Yet somehow, every election season, it receives immediate attention. The hole disappears and the road becomes smooth. And residents stand around admiring the fresh tar with the complicated emotions of people who are genuinely grateful but also mildly offended.
Because beneath all the jokes, memes and eye-rolls lies a more serious truth: we still vote. Despite the frustrations, despite the political fatigue, despite watching familiar faces rearrange themselves into unfamiliar coalitions, despite the fact that parties once bitterly opposed to each other now govern together; we still show up.
That matters. For all the complaints Malaysians make about politics, most of us have not given up on democracy. We may be sceptical but we are not indifferent. There is a difference.
A healthy democracy does not require blind faith. It requires citizens who are willing to participate while remaining critical. That is exactly what many Malaysians do.
We understand the system is imperfect. We know campaign promises are not always fulfilled. We recognise political theatre when we see it. Yet, we cast our ballots anyway because we still believe public accountability begins with participation.
That is not naivety; that is democratic maturity. So yes, the buntings will go up, the matching T-shirts will appear and the speeches will begin.
At some point, a politician standing outside a temple, mosque or community hall will say something genuinely moving about the people who live there and despite ourselves, we may even believe it. And the pothole near my house will almost certainly be repaired.
For a few weeks, Seremban will feel noticed, looked after and perhaps even loved.
We will enjoy every minute of it. Just don’t ask us what the road will look like after the election.
Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor at theSun. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
