The mini controversy surrounding Nga Kor Ming’s use of the word “Alhamdulillah” in Parliament recently has made me reflect on my own relationship with religious language — particularly how and when I use the word “insyaallah.”
For context, the issue erupted after Nga was criticised by opposition MP Siti Zailah Yusoff for repeatedly using phrases such as “Alhamdulillah”, “sujud syukur”, and “bersyukur” during parliamentary proceedings. She argued that these expressions were inherently religious and should not be used lightly by a non-Muslim, warning that it could confuse or offend Muslims. Nga responded by saying that “Alhamdulillah” was an Arabic phrase expressing gratitude, and urged MPs not to politicise language in ways that could undermine unity. A government backbencher later defended him, noting that such terms are commonly used even by non-Muslims in Arab societies.
Looking at the kerfuffle, it made wonder about how I also have a tendency to say insyaallah at times.
The only context in which I regularly use insyaallah is with the Pakistani waiters at the nasi kandar I frequent. Over the years, we have developed a friendly rapport. They teach me simple Urdu phrases, such as how to ask what someone would like to drink or how to say it looks like it is going to rain. In return, I cobble together whatever Malay, English, Hindi, and broken Urdu I can manage, and we somehow try to have a conversation in the process.
Over time, we have developed a practise that before I leave, one of them will ask, “Are you coming tomorrow?” in Urdu, but since I do not know how to say “we will see” , I will simply reply, “insyaallah.”
I understand that the term is a religious term, but my context of using it is not religious posturing. It is not a political signal. It is not even theological. It is merely a bridge — a shared linguistic that extends the the limit of our ability to communicate which fits into the state of our informal relationship.
I don't believe that they are offended by what I say, although they are religious men.
Once, when I wished one of them “Happy New Year” on January 1, he gently explained that it was not his New Year according to his faith. Yet, when I say insyaallah, they do not perceive it as mockery, appropriation, or misuse. They understand it as part of the communicative dance we have developed — imperfect, improvised, but sincere.
But I suspect things would be very different if I were someone hostile to their identity — if I were a David Wood-type figure, openly antagonistic, ideologically combative, and seen as unfriendly to Islam, I were to suddenly deploy insyaallah in a conversation, even fluently and appropriately, I have no doubt that the gesture would be received coldly and with suspicion, rather than as being harmless.
Because context matters.
So does relationship.
So does intention.
This is precisely why the uproar over Nga Kor Ming’s use of “Alhamdulillah” feels both predictable and, in a deeper sense, tragic.
Nga’s critics accused him of belittling Islam. His defenders insisted that there is nothing wrong with a non-Muslim using an Arabic expression meaning gratitude. Both sides, in their own way, are correct — and yet both miss the larger point.
Language does not exist in a vacuum. Words carry not just meaning, but history, emotion, power, suspicion, and trust. The same word, spoken by different people, in different contexts, can convey respect — or provocation.
As a rule, when peace is fragile, distance matters — not just physical distance, but emotional and communicative distance too. When two groups do not trust each other, attempts to narrow that distance too quickly, too eagerly, or too symbolically often backfire. Instead of fostering harmony, they provoke defensiveness, resentment, and renewed conflict.
This is not because people hate peace.
It is because people are highly sensitive to perceived intention.
If they suspect you of ill will, even your most careful words will be heard as threats. If they trust your goodwill, even clumsy language will be forgiven.
Which brings us back to Nga Kor Ming.
He said “Alhamdulillah.” He was criticised. He and his supporters responded by asserting that there is nothing wrong with his usage. In a narrow sense, the argument ends there.
But in politics, nothing ever truly ends.
Those experienced in conflict understand that disputes are not resolved once and for all. They merely shift terrain. If one battlefield becomes unfavourable, the struggle moves to another — different terms, different timing, different circumstances.
So even if Nga’s camp has had the last word in this episode, it is unlikely to be the final word. The disagreement will resurface elsewhere, in another form, at a moment more opportune for his opponents.
Because what is really at stake is not vocabulary.
It is intention.
Intelligence, strategy, rhetoric — all of these serve intention, not the other way around. If the intention is for peace, intelligence will be deployed to preserve harmony. If the intention is for conflict, intelligence will be used to disguise it, delay it, or tactically repackage it — but never to eliminate it.
We often believe that cleverness can overcome hostility. In reality, intelligence merely postpones confrontation. Sometimes, that postponement makes the eventual explosion even more severe.
You can say all the right things in the world and still provoke conflict if your heart is set on quarrel.
And you can say the wrong things, stumble over words, commit minor cultural blunders — and still preserve peace, if your intention is sincere.
This is why I believe that peace is not a linguistic achievement. It is a moral and emotional one.
Words matter.
But intention matters more.
Which is why, after the Nga Kar Ming and his Alhamdullliah mini controversry, I think the next urdu phrase I should learn is simply how to say “maybe” in Urdu.
I am not learning it because Nga Kor Ming's little arabic kerfuffle is making me uncomfortable using a religiously tinged Arabic word ot my Urdu speaking pals, but because when your heart is set on peace, you will tend to be inclined to prevent an issue to occur before it even arises.
If people value something , but you don't, even if sometimes you used it, and they let you use it, because of certain limits, reasons or conditions, I think if you are a person who is inclined to peace and harmony, you will not make it a habit if using it,
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