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I was 22 when I entered journalism in 1984. Malaysia was 27 years old.
Now, at 64, I sometimes wonder what Merdeka means to someone who has spent most of her adult life reporting on the country — watching its politics unfold, its institutions evolve, its people prosper and struggle, and its history being made in real time.
Merdeka is no longer simply a date on the calendar. It is memory and experience. It is the accumulation of newsrooms, deadlines, interviews, elections, crises, triumphs and disappointments.
When I began, the country seemed politically settled. Governments changed little. The newsroom was very different from today. There were no smartphones, social media or instant updates. News travelled through reporters, telephones, telexes and fax machines.
Yet Malaysia was changing, and journalism gave me a front-row seat.
Over the years, I covered elections and political transitions. I watched leaders rise to extraordinary power and later leave the stage. I saw economic crises shake public confidence. I reported on social tensions and the emergence of reform movements. I witnessed the political earthquake of 2018 and the instability that followed.
I watched governments change and institutions come under pressure.
But the most important lesson was that a country's story is never as straightforward as it appears in hindsight.
Malaysia has advanced, stumbled, adapted and sometimes retraced its steps. It has experienced periods of remarkable growth alongside moments of uncertainty. The country remains, as all nations are, a work in progress.
That has changed the way I understand Merdeka.
When I was younger, Merdeka was primarily about remembering how our forefathers secured independence and how a nation was born.
Today, I see it as something more demanding.
Independence is not simply freedom from colonial rule. It is the continuing ability — and responsibility — to determine our own future.
It means having institutions strong enough to withstand pressure, citizens confident enough to ask questions and leaders willing to be held accountable.
Journalism taught me that asking those questions is not necessarily an act of disloyalty. Sometimes, it is an act of faith in the country.
For more than four decades, my profession has required me to record what happened, often before anyone knew whether an event would become historically significant.
A headline that seemed ordinary on the day could become part of the country's historical record years later.
That is both the privilege and responsibility of journalism. We record because memory is fragile. Leaders leave office. Governments change. Policies are forgotten. Promises are made and sometimes broken.
Those who witnessed important events eventually grow old, and future generations depend on the records left behind to understand how their country arrived at where it is.
I am increasingly conscious of that responsibility.
I also understand Merdeka differently because I now belong to a generation that is beginning to hand the country over.
I have spent almost two-thirds of my life in an independent Malaysia.
The country I entered in 1984 is not the Malaysia I know today. Technology has transformed how Malaysians live and communicate. Political expectations have changed. Younger Malaysians question institutions and authority in ways that would have been unfamiliar to many of us when we started our careers.
They are also inheriting challenges that belong to their time.
Our generation cannot dictate what Merdeka should mean to them.
But we can give them something equally important: an understanding of where they came from.
Independence is not only a story of 1957. It is also the story of everything that followed — the choices made, the compromises reached, the mistakes committed, the institutions built and the struggles that shaped the Malaysia we know.
At this stage of my life, I do not see Merdeka simply as a celebration of how far we have travelled.
I see it as a moment to take stock. Have we protected what matters? Have we strengthened the institutions entrusted with protecting our democracy? Have we remained true to the idea that a diverse nation can belong equally to all its citizens? And, perhaps most importantly, what are we leaving behind?
After 42 years in journalism, I have learned not to expect a country to be perfect.
But I remain hopeful because I have seen Malaysia change before. I have seen it overcome crises, adapt to new realities and find its way forward when the path seemed uncertain.
That, to me, is the enduring meaning of Merdeka.
The work of nation-building did not end in 1957. It became ours to continue.
Every generation inherits Malaysia. Every generation leaves its mark.
Mine has had the extraordinary privilege of watching, recording and helping to tell its story.
Now, as I look towards the next chapter, I hope the generation that follows us will not simply inherit the Malaysia we leave behind.
I hope they will have the courage to make it better.
That, perhaps, is the most meaningful way to honour Merdeka.