THE journey to the Tibabar village was an endurance test in itself. The road was a gruelling stretch of bumpy, loose gravel and jagged stones that shook the vehicle and our modern sensibilities long before we reached the destination.
I looked at the speedometer of my vehicle. The gravel road alone clocked 8km. With every mile deeper into the interior, our mobile phone signals flickered, weakened and finally died. We were slipping off the grid, crossing an invisible line where urban convenience ended and isolation began.
We had arrived to set up a mobile court, a temporary lifeline at Kg Tibabar, located in the district of Ranau, Sabah.
Inside the community hall, tables for various government agencies, coordinated under the Judiciary’s initiative, were hastily arranged, including, among others, the National Registration Department, Attorney General’s Chambers, Legal Aid Department and Social Welfare Department, bringing vital assistance directly to the doorstep of people who rarely see it.
But amid the bustle of folding tables, forms and officials, what struck me most was not the logistics; it was the people. Villagers arrived clutching worn books and thick files of documents, holding onto these tattered papers like lifelines.
Sitting on rows of plastic chairs and waiting patiently in the heat were families, large households of children and elders bearing the quiet, weathered faces of those hardened by the obstacles of daily survival.
As the day unfolded, the gravity of their reality set in. Here were people navigating life without stable internet, reliable infrastructure or the basic amenities we take for granted.
At the front row sat a young mother trying to soothe a restless, crying toddler in her arms. She looked exhausted, her posture slumped under the weight of hardship, yet she maintained a gentle, patient focus on her child.
Beside her, an elderly lady stood balanced on a single wooden crutch, having lost one leg, yet she had made her way to the hall regardless, unwilling to let it stand between her and the help she came for.
It was a poignant juxtaposition: the official machinery of the state trying to regulate lives through paperwork, sitting just feet away from a mother simply trying to comfort her child with the only warmth she had left and an elderly woman whose quiet determination spoke louder than words.
The bureaucratic hurdles were heart-breakingly stark. Among the most pressing issues was something as fundamental as the registration of births. Families grappled with the absence of official paperwork, documents that anchor a person to society, granting them access to education, healthcare and legal identity.
Without a birth certificate, a child is practically invisible to the system, locked out before their life has even truly begun.
Present in the event were the court magistrates, dedicating their weekend for the community, to carry out duties that would otherwise require a trip to the courthouse.
These included endorsing late registration of births, handling matters relating to statutory declarations and signing as Commissioner for Oaths.
For many rural or underserved communities, these are services that had remained out of reach, not due to unwillingness, but due to the practical barriers of distance, cost and unfamiliarity with formal processes.
The nearest court or government office may be hours away, and the cost of travel, time off work or navigating bureaucratic processes can be enough to permanently deter people from resolving even simple legal matters.
The endorsement of late birth registration carried particular significance. Once settled on the spot, individuals could proceed immediately to the National Registration Department to apply for their MyKad, a document essential for accessing healthcare, education, employment and virtually every other form of civic participation.
For those who had gone years, sometimes decades, without formal identification, this single day’s proceedings could resolve a barrier that had followed them their entire lives.
A magistrate after carefully reviewing and considering the testimony and documentations before them may reject the application if it is found to be unsatisfactory, be it due to insufficient documentation, unreliable witnesses brought to attest to the applicant’s identity, parentage or date of birth and blatant inconsistencies which are not satisfactorily explained by the applicant.
In such cases, applicants are allowed to gather further evidence or produce more credible witnesses before the matter can be reconsidered.
By stepping outside the courtroom and into the community, the Judiciary demonstrated that access to justice is not merely about the existence of laws and institutions but also about ensuring people can actually reach them.
Standing there, watching the contrast between the sharp, efficient tools of the mobile court and the deep-seated vulnerability of the villagers, a heavy question crept into my mind: What the future holds for them?
Later, as we visited the village school – SK Tibabar, part of the MyC2C (dari mahkamah ke bilik darjah) programme’s outreach, the heavy cloud of sorrow lifted just enough to let the light through.
In true rasa tamu fashion, the students’ dance performance turned strangers into honoured guests, wrapping us in a welcome as vivid as it was heartfelt. Their bright eyes and eagerness to learn offered a powerful counterweight to the day’s hardships.
As our visit came to a close, the school choir gathered to send us off, singing Lambai. Their voices carried the vibrant, rhythmic warmth of Sabah, lingering in the air and filling the room with a profound sense of grace.
What unfolded that day was a reversal of how justice is typically delivered. Far removed from the grandeur of the Palace of Justice in Putrajaya, it went looking for the people, instead of waiting for them to come find it.
Access to justice is not an abstract ideal reserved for courtrooms and legal texts; it is measured in birth certificates issued, MyKads made possible and lives no longer left unrecognised by the state.
Justice that waits is justice denied. It must go to them. We will go to them.
Tun Wan Ahmad Farid Wan Salleh is the chief justice of Malaysia. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
