From Boston's Charles River Bridge to Merdeka

It was the summer of 1980.

I was in Cambridge, Boston, and found myself among a crowd gathered along the Charles River to watch the American Independence Day fireworks. I remember being struck by something that, at the time, I could not quite explain. The celebration seemed surprisingly subdued.

America had celebrated its Bicentennial just four years earlier, in 1976. Two hundred years of independence should surely have been an occasion of extraordinary national celebration. Yet here I was, in Boston, one of the most historically significant cities in the American Revolution, watching thousands of people gather along the Charles River.

But the atmosphere was different from what I had experienced in Malaysia during Merdeka celebrations.

There was little of the intense patriotic fervour that I associated with August 31 in Malaysia. The newspapers did not appear to devote the kind of elaborate special features to Independence Day that Malaysian newspapers traditionally did around Merdeka. There were no endless reminders of the sacrifices of independence fighters, no overwhelming national narrative repeated over and over again.

And when the fireworks began, people simply watched. They admired the lights, took photographs, talked to one another and enjoyed the spectacle. The fireworks were the event. The meaning behind the fireworks seemed almost secondary.

I found this rather curious. This was Boston — the city of the Boston Tea Party, where resistance to British taxation became one of the iconic episodes leading to the American Revolution. This was a city whose intellectual life was shaped by some of America's greatest universities and colleges.

Boston is not merely a college town. It is almost a college city — surrounded by institutions of higher learning that have produced generations of scientists, entrepreneurs, thinkers, politicians and leaders. Yet its Independence Day seemed almost ordinary.

That evening, standing on Charles River Bridge, I began to wonder whether this was what eventually happens to independence. Perhaps the first generation celebrates freedom because they remember what it cost. The second generation remembers because their parents told them. The third generation inherits it. And the fourth generation simply assumes it.

Will Merdeka become something we merely inherit?

That thought stayed with me for decades. Malaysia was very different then.

Merdeka was not simply a public holiday. It was a national ritual. The newspapers, radio and television would revive the stories of independence. Schoolchildren were immersed in patriotic songs and histories. Flags appeared everywhere. The speeches were earnest. The sacrifices of the generation before us were repeatedly brought back into public consciousness.

There was a sense that Merdeka belonged to all of us.

But I began to wonder whether that spirit would inevitably fade as the country became more prosperous, more urban, more liberal and more individualistic.

I saw glimpses of it during my own younger days. During my early working life — and particularly my go-go bujang years — Merdeka celebrations were sometimes more social than patriotic. I remember attending celebrations in discos where the music would stop briefly, everyone would shout “Merdeka!” at midnight, and then the dancing would resume until the early hours.

While working overseas, a Merdeka dinner could be reduced to little more than a wine toast to Malaysia. There was nothing necessarily wrong with that. Perhaps this was simply how patriotism evolves. But I could not help remembering that evening on Charles River Bridge.

Was this the future of Merdeka? Would our descendants eventually gather in huge crowds to watch spectacular fireworks, drone formations and light shows, while the historical meaning of Merdeka slowly receded into the background?

Would patriotism eventually become a commercial experience — flags, merchandise, concerts, tourism, corporate sponsorship, television ratings and spectacular productions — while the deeper question of what independence was supposed to achieve became less important?

I was wrong about the younger generation — but perhaps right about my own

There is another part of my reflection that deserves admission.

Like many people of my generation, I could easily have become one of those older Malaysians who complain that “budak-budak sekarang tak macam kita dulu.” But I never quite believed that. In fact, I became more cynical about my own generation.

The environment in which many of us grew up was not necessarily conducive to political consciousness. The restrictions associated with the Universities and University Colleges Act, particularly on student political activity, contributed to an environment in which many young Malaysians learned to keep their heads down.

Study. Get a job. Build a career. Buy a house. Get married. Raise children. Pay the bills. That became the respectable trajectory. Public affairs could wait.

For many, political and national consciousness arrived only much later — perhaps around the age of 50, when careers had stabilised and children had grown up.

Interestingly, I eventually found myself befriending people about 15 years younger than me. They were different. They were much more willing to question government policies, challenge conventional wisdom and discuss politics and nation-building.

Then came Gen Z. Their political consciousness has been even more visible. They may not express patriotism in the language of previous generations. They may not respond to national symbols in the same way. But many are deeply concerned about something equally fundamental: 

Can I afford to live decently in this country? Can I get a good job? Can I own a home? Will my education lead somewhere? Do I have a voice? Does the country have a future for me?

That too is nation-building. Perhaps patriotism has not disappeared. And, perhaps its vocabulary has changed.

And the digital-native Generation Alpha will be even more interesting. They will grow up knowing no world without smartphones, artificial intelligence, global entertainment, international education and instantaneous communication. Their Malaysia will inevitably be more liberal, more diverse and more connected to the rest of the world.

That should not frighten us. But it should make us think seriously about what binds Malaysians together.

Freedom brought us here — but freedom also exposes our divisions

There is an irony in Malaysia's evolution. The greater political freedom that emerged after the abolition of the Internal Security Act and the ending of the long-standing emergency framework opened political space that previous generations did not enjoy. That opening has helped accelerate generational change. 

And, social media has simultaneously created another problem. We have become extraordinarily vocal — and extraordinarily suspicious of one another. Race has become a political weapon. Religion has become a shield for some and a sword against others. Every difference is magnified. Every disagreement can be turned into a communal dispute. Every issue can be mined for political advantage.

The Malaysia that many of us grew up with — complicated, imperfect, multiracial, multireligious and multicultural, but held together by a remarkable degree of tolerance and peaceful coexistence — sometimes feels as though it is slowly being eroded.

Not necessarily because Malaysians have become less tolerant. But because division has become politically profitable. 

And that is perhaps more dangerous. The tragedy would be if Merdeka gives us the freedom to disagree, but we eventually lose the wisdom to disagree without destroying one another.

And then there is another unfinished Merdeka

There is also the question of Sabah and Sarawak. The continuing discussion over the Malaysia Agreement 1963 is, at its heart, another conversation about independence, sovereignty, dignity and self-determination.

For Sabah and Sarawak, Merdeka cannot simply be understood through the historical narrative of August 31, 1957. Their relationship with the Federation has its own constitutional history and its own expectations.

The demand for greater recognition of their rights, control over resources and fulfilment of the promises associated with MA63 should therefore not automatically be interpreted as separatism.

It can equally be understood as a demand to make the Federation work as it was intended. Perhaps this is another dimension of what Merdeka means today: not merely freedom from colonial rule, but the freedom to have a meaningful stake in one's own destiny.

What happens when our best young people leave?

Then there is the economic dimension. For a young Malaysian today, patriotism competes with a very practical question:

“What future does Malaysia offer me?”

When employment opportunities are inadequate, wages do not keep pace with aspirations and career progression appears more attractive elsewhere, young Malaysians will naturally look overseas.

There is nothing wrong with Malaysians becoming global citizens. The danger is different.

If Malaysia spends years investing in their education, training and development, only to see the best and most ambitious leave because the domestic economy cannot provide opportunities commensurate with their capabilities, then the country is effectively subsidising the human capital of other economies.

Over time, that can become a nation-building problem. And it can produce an unusual form of diversity — Malaysians increasingly living, working and building families elsewhere while their emotional and cultural connections to Malaysia gradually weaken.

Unity is not created by telling people to love the country. It is created by giving them a country worth building their lives in. So what will Merdeka look like in another generation?

I return my mind to that evening on the Charles River in 1980. Perhaps I misunderstood what I saw. Perhaps the Americans were not less patriotic. And, perhaps they simply did not need to constantly demonstrate their patriotism.

Or perhaps independence really does become less emotionally charged when the people who fought for it are gone.

America has now reached its 250th anniversary. Two and a half centuries after the revolution, the United States is wrestling with its own questions about national purpose, social cohesion, inequality, political polarisation and its place in the world.

The fireworks remain spectacular. But fireworks cannot answer those questions. And neither can ours.

Malaysia too will eventually reach a point where Merdeka is no longer remembered through living memories of colonialism, Japanese occupation, the Emergency or the struggle for independence. For today's young Malaysians, 1957 is already history. And, for Generation Alpha, it will be even more distant.

That is not necessarily a bad thing. A nation cannot remain psychologically imprisoned in its founding moment. Malaysia must evolve.

We could become more liberal without becoming less Malaysian; more progressive without becoming less rooted; more diverse without becoming more divided; more globally connected without becoming economically hollowed out.

And perhaps most importantly, we must find a new meaning for patriotism. Patriotism cannot merely be flying a flag. It cannot merely be shouting “Merdeka!” at midnight. It cannot merely be watching fireworks, drone displays and spectacular light shows. It cannot be measured by how loudly somebody sings the national anthem.

Perhaps modern patriotism is much less theatrical. It is paying taxes honestly. Doing one's work well. Building businesses that create jobs. Educating children to think rather than merely obey. Respecting someone whose religion or ethnicity is different from ours. Defending another Malaysian's right to disagree. Demanding good governance. Protecting public institutions. Ensuring Sabah and Sarawak receive what the Federation promised. Creating opportunities so our young people do not have to leave to find dignity. And, above all, believing that this complicated country is still worth building.

Perhaps that is the real test of Merdeka. Not whether the fireworks are bigger than last year. But whether, when the fireworks are over, we still want to build the country together.

Forty-six years ago, I stood on Boston's Charles River and wondered whether Malaysia would one day celebrate Merdeka in the same way — with a spectacular show, a huge crowd, a few photographs and perhaps little reflection about what independence means.

Today, I am less certain. The younger generations have surprised me. They are noisier, more demanding and sometimes more impatient. But perhaps that is precisely what a living democracy requires.

They are asking what previous generations sometimes took for granted: What is Malaysia for? What does Merdeka mean to me? What kind of country will I inherit?

Perhaps those questions are not signs that the spirit of Merdeka is dying. And, perhaps they are signs that it is being reborn.

The real danger is not that Malaysians stop shouting “Merdeka!” The real danger is that they stop believing that Malaysia is worth fighting for — not with weapons, but with ideas, enterprise, integrity, tolerance and the hard work of nation-building.

So, as we watch another Merdeka celebration, perhaps we should look beyond the fireworks. For one night, let us enjoy the spectacle. But when the lights disappear and the smoke clears, perhaps we should ask ourselves a more difficult question:

Will the Malaysia we leave behind be a country that the next generation still wants to call home?

Something for thought. Demi Malaysia.