Review | Tewas: No Light at the End of the Tunnel [Theatre]

Written by Muthiah of Law & Disorder

I watched Tewas: No Light at the End of the Tunnel just a couple of months ago when it was staged at Kongsi KL, and from the very first moment, it was clear this play did not come to soothe or console. With Sabrina, my partner in Law & Disorder, away on a short holiday, I was grateful to witness this phenomenon with a close friend, and grateful still for what it left behind: discomfort, reflection, and a lingering heaviness.

Even before the show began, the actors were already caged — literally — squeezed into metal bars, motionless, like prisoners suspended in time. That opening image alone forced the audience to confront the suffocating brutality that was about to unfold.

A collaboration with USM Penang, Tewas is a raw, unflinching exploration of bullying in Malaysia. It exposes cruelty, helplessness, and the fatal consequences of silence. I feel proud that Law & Disorder played a small role in promoting this project and helping bring its message to a wider audience.

It was also a pleasure to meet Sidhart Joe Dev, the force behind JDEV Productions, along with the cast whose dedication turned the performance into something deeply personal and profoundly affecting.

The actors performed in Malay, English, Mandarin, and Tamil, with translations projected behind them. This multilingual approach underscored that bullying is not a problem confined to any one race or community; it is a national epidemic. Hearing pain, fear, and anger echoed across languages made the suffering universal, immediate, and impossible to look away from.

And then there was the cage, more than a prop, almost a character in itself. Actors stepped in and out of it according to their stories, each entrance and exit weighed down with emotion. The sound design amplified the terror: every slam, scrape, and clatter reverberated violently through the hall. I felt the vibrations run through my chest, each metallic crash a physical echo of the victims’ suffering. It wasn’t just sound, it was sensation.

Harsh, unforgiving lighting stripped the stage of comfort. Every trembling hand, every fearful glance, every cracked voice was exposed. There were no shadows to hide in; the audience was forced to witness everything in raw, unfiltered reality.

One vignette showed a victim buying a roadside burger, an immediate and painful reminder of T. Nhaveen. The parallel lodged in my throat like a stone. It was a stark reminder that these are not fictional stories; real Malaysian teenagers have died from the very violence depicted on stage.

Another scene followed a young girl seeking validation online, only to have strangers vote for her to end her own life. Sitting in the audience, watching that helplessness unfold, I wished I could intervene. That moment, the cruelty of strangers, the paralysis of bystanders, stayed with me long after the lights dimmed.

The vignette inspired by Zulfarhan Osman Zulkarnain was equally devastating. Even without graphic scenes, the mere retelling; a young man tortured by peers while systems failed him, landed like a punch to the gut. The cage, the metallic slams, the haunting multilingual chorus made the horror feel suffocatingly real.

Every moment on stage, every crash, every cry, every tremor, forced me to reflect on the utter powerlessness of victims, especially in the final moments before their lives were stolen from them.

As I watched, I couldn’t help but think of cases I have handled as a criminal lawyer. Memories of real victims, real families, real grief intertwined with the stories unfolding before me. The parallels to Nhaveen, to Zulfarhan, to so many nameless others created a complex knot of anger, sorrow, guilt, and helplessness that is almost impossible to articulate.

After the show, I spoke to one of the actors who was familiar with one of the cases I had in mind. Sharing that emotional weight with someone who understood brought an unexpected catharsis; a reminder that connection, even in the midst of darkness, can be a form of healing.

Tewas is not entertainment. It is confrontation.

It forces Malaysians to face the violence we normalize, the victims we overlook, the tragedies we dismiss as “unfortunate incidents,” and the lives lost because we choose silence.

Walking into that hall, seeing the actors frozen in cages, feeling the vibrations of metal rattle through my body, hearing the cries in multiple languages, recalling real cases and real victims, it was a visceral, haunting reminder that bullying is not harmless. It is suffocating. It is traumatic. It can be deadly.

Strengthened by its collaboration with School of The Arts, Universiti Sains Malaysia, and brought to wider attention through Law & Disorder amongst others, Tewas is unflinching, necessary, and unforgettable.

It does not leave you with comfort.

It leaves you with discomfort, grief, anger

and responsibility.

from left:

[Standing] Wei Ting, Beh, Ashley, Haizam Azman, Aziz, Muha Mesri, Desmond Ngooi, Pavin, Joey, Fariz, Hong

[Sitting] Fahim Fuad, Mohd. Firdaus, Sidhart Joe Dev, Hilyati Ramli, Izzardzafli Padzil, Mohd. Saidi, Mohd. Faidzal

Muthiah & Sabrina are simply two lawyers with plenty of thoughts to share. Nothing here is meant to offend. Only to invite reflection and conversation.

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