Burning Question What Are The Boundaries Of Protest

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The recent protest at Universiti Malaysia Sabah (UMS), where student activists burned a caricature of Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim, did not only set fire to a banner.
It also ignited a national conversation on the boundaries of dissent, the fragility of political symbolism, and the state of democratic expression in Malaysia.
What began as a student-led rally against corruption and failing infrastructure in Sabah has evolved into a litmus test for how the nation negotiates protest, power, and political memory.
Held under the banner of Gempur Rasuah Sabah 2.0, the protest was explicitly framed as a response to alleged state-level corruption, prolonged water shortages on the UMS campus, and the perceived erosion of reformist ideals.
ADSThe burning of a caricature featuring Anwar and the tagline “Madani protector of Sabah corruption” was staged not as an act of vandalism, but as a symbol-laden expression of frustration.
Organisers claimed it was conducted safely and responsibly, with post-action cleanup and a clearly demarcated protest zone.
Swift institutional backlash
Yet the gesture, incendiary in more ways than one, quickly drew institutional condemnation and legal scrutiny.
UMS disavowed the protest, describing it as “uncivilised” and “immature”, and lodged a police report against the students. Sabah police promptly launched an investigation under the Sedition Act and the Penal Code.
Meanwhile, political figures from Gabungan Rakyat Sabah (GRS) and even youth leaders from Anwar’s own party, PKR, rushed to denounce the protest as inappropriate and inconsistent with Sabah’s political culture.
But what, precisely, made this act so threatening? Was it the imagery? The symbolism? Or was it the challenge it posed to the very architecture of authority in a country still grappling with the tensions between freedom and decorum?
At the heart of the protest lies a paradox.
In defending their actions, student spokesperson Fadhil Kasim invoked the memory of Anwar’s own activism in the 1970s, when he and his peers burned a book written by Malaysia’s first prime minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman, to protest elite complicity in structural inequality.
Anwar Ibrahim burning a book by Tunku Abdul Rahman during a protest, crica 1970That historical reference was more than a rhetorical flourish; it was a deliberate act of political mirroring.
If symbolic dissent was acceptable at that time, why should it now be criminalised when directed at a leader who once embodied that very spirit?
This provocation demands an honest reckoning with Malaysia’s political memory.
ADSWhat are the limits?
The invocation of Anwar’s activist past is not merely nostalgic; it is accusatory.
It suggests that the transition from rebel to ruler entails more than a shift in position; it often involves a shift in tolerance.
Reformists, once heralded for speaking truth to power, now police the methods by which truth is spoken.
Yet, context matters. Critics argue that comparing 1970s-era protests to today’s political conditions is disingenuous.
Back then, dissent arose in an era of state consolidation and economic disparity; today’s Malaysia operates within a semi-democratic framework where protest rights exist in theory but remain tightly constrained in practice.
Symbolic acts that challenge power, especially those perceived as personal or disrespectful, are quickly reinterpreted through the lens of sedition, defamation, or public disorder.
Symbolism in protest, however, has never been about comfort. Its purpose is to provoke, to dramatise grievances, and to pierce through public apathy.
The burning of a caricature is undeniably provocative, but to what extent should provocation be limited by political sensibilities or regional norms?
Strategically, the protest succeeded in drawing national attention. What might have been a routine student-led demonstration became headline news, but the very act that generated visibility also risked undermining credibility.
While some viewed it as courageous and justified, others dismissed it as juvenile theatre, questioning whether the form overshadowed the substance.
This tension is not new. Throughout history, protest movements have wrestled with the delicate balance between message and method.
When does spectacle amplify injustice, and when does it eclipse it?
Familiar knee-jerk
What is troubling is not merely the public backlash, but the institutional and legal response.
The moment the protest crossed into controversial symbolism, the state’s coercive apparatus was activated. The Sedition Act, already a relic of colonial repression, was once again summoned to suppress uncomfortable expression.
Such legal overreach is emblematic of Malaysia’s persistent ambiguity toward democratic freedoms: protest is permitted, but only within prescribed boundaries.
This pattern risks entrenching a culture of fear and self-censorship, particularly within academia.
When universities reflexively disown their students for engaging in political critique, however confrontational, it raises serious questions about the role of higher education in cultivating critical citizenship.
The university, after all, should be a space for contestation, not conformity.
To be clear, symbolic protest is not above critique. The methods chosen by the students may not resonate with everyone, but to reduce their action to mere provocation is to ignore the depth of their political disillusionment.
These are not apathetic youths; they are engaged, informed, and demanding accountability from the very figures who once inspired them.
This incident should be read not as a failure of decorum, but as a reflection of a deeper malaise: the widening gulf between Malaysia’s reformist rhetoric and its political realities.
If the Madani government wishes to claim moral and political legitimacy, it must demonstrate a willingness to engage with dissent, especially when it is uncomfortable.
True democratic leadership is not measured by how well it is praised, but by how constructively it responds to criticism.
In closing, the UMS protest presents Malaysia with a crucial test.
Will the state choose to criminalise expression in the name of respect? Or will it embrace dissent as a vital component of a healthy democracy?
As the flames of that banner subside, the more important question remains: can we withstand the heat of the questions it leaves behind? - Mkini
KHOO YING HOOI is an associate professor at Universiti Malaya.
The views expressed here are those of the author/contributor and do not necessarily represent the views of MMKtT.

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