A Love Letter To The Messy Middle

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I THINK I’ve lived long enough to see both progress and heartbreak in this country. And I’m still here.
Still holding the same red passport. Still standing up when the Negaraku plays, wherever and whenever. Still quietly hopeful, even when things don’t go the way I wish they would.
Loving Malaysia, for me, has never been about idealism. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up, even when the mood isn’t festive. Even when the headlines disappoint you. Even when your voice feels small.
Because the truth is: this country is still in the middle of becoming. And so are we.
We often talk about nation-building like it’s a clear before-and-after story. Merdeka, then unity. Reform, then renewal.
As if independence was a destination, and everything after that would unfold neatly. But anyone who’s spent time in the middle of anything—a relationship, a career, a personal change—knows that the middle is the hardest part.
It’s where things get messy.
There are days when I feel proud. Days when I walk through a local pasar malam and hear four languages blending into one conversation.
Days when I see students standing up to ask hard questions. Days when I see someone quietly picking up a flag from the ground and folding it with care.
And then there are days when it all feels heavy. When the news wears you down. When unity feels fragile. When you wonder if anything you’re doing is making a difference.

That tension between pride and pain, between what is and what could be, is exactly the reality of loving something in the middle of its story.
There’s a kind of myth we’ve absorbed, maybe from films or books or polished speeches, that loving your country means defending everything about it. That if you speak about what’s broken, you’re being disloyal. I don’t believe that.
You can love something and want it to grow. You can love your country and call it out when it needs to do better. In fact, that’s what real love looks like: not blind praise, but honest care.
Sometimes that care looks like going back to your hometown to vote, on weekdays or the weekends. Sometimes it looks like volunteering in the community, in your neighborhood or the orang asli community in Sungai Koyan.
Sometimes it’s just staying here. Staying in the ring, even when you’re tired. Staying when it would be easier to check out, moving on to ‘greener’ pastures.
I’ve had friends leave. Some with heavy hearts, some with relief. And I don’t blame them. This place isn’t always easy to stay in. But for those of us still here, whether building, teaching, fixing, or dreaming, there is something worth holding on to.
Because the middle, as messy as it is, also holds possibilities.
It’s in the middle where policies are tested. Where relationships across race, status, and belief are built. Where people begin to reimagine what fairness, integrity, and dignity could look like. Not just in law or history books, but in our everyday, noisy, life.
So if you’re feeling disillusioned, I understand. But don’t give up yet. Don’t check out just because the work ahead is hard. Nation-building is not a spectator sport. It needs your voice, your vote, your version of what this place could be.
There’s a saying: “You can’t eat the fruit the same day you plant the seed.” And that’s true of countries, too.
What we plant today—in how we treat each other, how we vote, how we speak up or stay kind—may take years to grow. But that doesn’t mean the work is wasted. It means the roots are taking hold.
This Merdeka, I don’t have a grand speech to offer. Just this short letter, to say: I’m still here. Still trying. Still loving this country. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine.
And because loving something in the middle of its growth, I truly believe, is the most human thing we can do. 
Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya.
The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of  MMKtT.
- Focus Malaysia.

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