There may be a certain irony in writing about the love of Bahasa Melayu in English, but perhaps that is precisely the point. This article is written in English not because Bahasa Melayu is inadequate to speak for itself, but because its story deserves to travel beyond those who already speak, understand and cherish it. Celebrating one language need not diminish another; rather, English provides another bridge through which we may share with a wider audience why Bahasa Melayu matters to Malaysia — not merely as our national language, but as a common space where people of different roots, cultures and mother tongues can meet, understand one another, and ultimately find that deeply Malaysian sense of “us.”

By Nizal Mohammad

There was a question posed by Prof. Datuk Dr. Teo Kok Seong that made me pause for a moment.

“What does citizenship mean if one cannot speak Malay?”

At first glance, the question may sound rather stark.

We could respond with debate. We could speak of the Constitution, education, public policy, citizenship, rights and responsibilities. All of these have their rightful place.

But somehow, I found myself hearing the question from somewhere else.

From a place of feeling.

Because beneath the question of who can or cannot speak Malay lies, perhaps, something far more profound:

What does it mean to share a homeland if, increasingly, we are losing the language through which we can reach one another?

We stand upon the same soil.

We watch the same Jalur Gemilang flutter in the wind. We rise to the same Negaraku.

Our identity cards carry the same citizenship.

But imagine a day when two Malaysians, strangers to each other, meet — and no longer have a common language with which to begin the simplest of conversations:

Apa khabar? | How are you? Dah makan? | Have you eaten?

Dari mana? | Where are you from?

Mak sihat? | How’s your mother?

Such little words.

And yet, isn’t a nation also built upon millions of small greetings such as these?

According to the report by Utusan Malaysia on 23 September, Prof. Teo described proficiency in Bahasa Melayu as fundamental to citizenship because of its position not only as Malaysia’s national language, but also as the official language within the nation’s system of governance.

Indeed.

Article 152 of the Federal Constitution establishes Bahasa Melayu as the national language, while its official standing is further reinforced by the National Language Act 1967. At the same time, other languages continue to have their rightful place within the rich fabric of Malaysian life.

But I believe Bahasa Melayu means far too much for us to see it only through the provisions of law.

This language has a soul.

It has crossed ports and seas.

For centuries, it has brought together people arriving from different corners of the world.

Today, Malaysia’s Ministry of Higher Education estimates that there are around 300 million speakers of Malay across the language’s principal countries and Malay-speaking communities within the ASEAN region. Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka has also referred to Malay as one of the world’s major languages in terms of its number of speakers.

There is something deeply moving about that.

A language that we ourselves may sometimes hesitate to speak with pride has, in truth, travelled far beyond our own shores.

And there are moments when we find ourselves smiling upon hearing a foreign visitor — perhaps from Korea, Japan, Europe, Africa or the Middle East

— utter even a few simple words:

“Terima kasih.”

“Sedap.”

“Apa khabar?”

We smile not because the pronunciation is perfect. Often, the accent is unmistakable.

We smile because someone is trying to come closer to us through our

language.

Isn’t there something strangely poignant about that?

Someone who has travelled thousands of kilometres takes delight in learning a few words of our language, while some of us who were born here, grew up here, built our livelihoods here, raised our families here and found shelter upon this land we call our homeland may still not quite feel that this language belongs to all of us.

And yet, this is also where we must tread gently. Let the question not become an accusation.

In our eagerness to defend a language meant to unite us, let us not defend it in ways that make some among us feel excluded from it.

Bahasa Melayu does not belong to the Malays alone.

It belongs to Malaysia.

It belongs to the Malay child.

It belongs just as much to the Chinese child returning home to celebrate the Lunar New Year with family.

To the Indian child who still speaks Tamil with her grandmother. To the Iban and Bidayuh child.

To the Kadazan and Dusun child.

To Sikhs, Siamese Malaysians, Orang Asli communities and the countless faces that make up this extraordinary family we call Malaysia.

None of them needs to become less of who they are in order to become more Malaysian.

A Chinese Malaysian does not become less Chinese by speaking fluent Malay.

An Indian Malaysian does not need to leave Tamil behind in order to love the national language.

An Iban, Kadazan, Dusun or Bidayuh need not forget the language of their ancestors in order to feel that Bahasa Melayu belongs to them too.

We do not have to lose our roots to have a place where we can meet.

Keep speaking to your mother in the language closest to your heart. Teach your children the language of their grandparents.

Learn English. Mandarin. Tamil. Arabic. French. Japanese. Korean. Spanish. Learn as many languages of the world as your heart and mind can hold.

Every language opens another window through which we may see the world.

But let there be one language which, when we speak it, feels like coming home.

And on this land called Malaysia, that language is Bahasa Melayu.

The language that brings a Malay pak cik and a Chinese aunty together at the morning market.

The language in which a young Indian Malaysian can laugh with his Kadazan friend.

The language through which a fisherman in Terengganu can share a conversation with a university student from Sarawak.

The language that allows a taxi driver to speak with a professor, a hawker with a CEO, a village child with a minister.

Our stations in life may differ. Our faces may differ.

Our faiths may differ.

Our mother tongues may differ.

But for a moment, we inhabit the same space. We understand one another’s stories.

And almost without realising it, something begins to stir within us — a feeling difficult to translate into any other language:

“Ah… orang kita.”

One of us.

That is the power of language.

It does more than carry information.

It carries feeling.

And that is why we should approach those who are not yet fluent with kindness rather than impatience.

Those who struggle, encourage them.

Those who mispronounce a word, do not laugh. Those whose grammar is imperfect, help them. Those who are trying, celebrate them.

Perhaps what we need are fewer voices saying:

“You should already know this.”

And more hands reaching out to say:

“Come… let’s talk. This is our language.”

Because a language that is imposed may be obeyed.

But a language that is loved will be cherished.

And for those of us who are already fluent, perhaps the greater responsibility is ours.

Do not merely ask others to love Bahasa Melayu. Show them why this language is so beautiful to love. Use it well.

Speak it with grace.

Enrich its vocabulary and imagination.

Use it to speak of science, technology, economics, art, philosophy, business and the future.

Make beautiful films in it. Write great books through it.

Create digital content that makes a new generation proud to use it.

Take this language confidently into new worlds — not as a language afraid of changing times, but as one secure enough in its roots to walk alongside them.

Because we cannot ask a generation to love something that we ourselves take out of the cupboard only whenever controversy arises.

Bahasa Melayu should not be something we remember only when we feel the need to defend it.

We must breathe life into it every day because we love it.

All of us should dream of a day when a Malaysian child — whatever the colour of their skin, whatever their name, whatever their ancestry — no longer needs to be told that Bahasa Melayu is their national language.

They already feel it.

They speak Mandarin with their mother. Tamil with their grandmother.

Iban with their family.

English with the world.

But one day, somewhere in London, Tokyo, New York, Istanbul, or perhaps in an airport in some distant corner of the world, they encounter another Malaysian.

And suddenly they hear:

“Orang Malaysia ke?”

Malaysian?

And somehow, this enormous world becomes a little smaller. Two strangers smile.

They begin to talk.

About home.

About food.

About the afternoon rain. About the mamak.

About the kampung. About emak.

And in that moment, Bahasa Melayu is no longer merely a national language written into an official document.

It becomes the road home.

Perhaps that is what we should truly celebrate. Not uniformity.

Not the erasure of identity.

Not a contest over who is more Malaysian than another. But a shared sense of belonging.

Malaysia is far too beautiful to be reduced to our differences.

And Bahasa Melayu is far too precious to exist only as something we argue about.

Let us return it to where it belongs most dearly.

Among our hearts.

Let the generations after us master a thousand languages with which to explore the world.

Let them continue to cherish their mother tongues so they will always know where they came from.

But when they seek one another, may there always be a language waiting to welcome them home.

A language that does not ask us to become the same. A language that does not erase anyone’s colours.

A language that allows every root to continue growing. And yet, beneath its shade, we can sit together.

Tell stories. Laugh.

Disagree.

Find our way back to one another.

And finally utter one small word that may well be among the biggest words in the making of a nation:

US.

Because perhaps that is the truest meaning of a national language. Not merely a language that proves we are citizens of Malaysia.

But a language that, quietly and gently, teaches us what it feels like —

to be Malaysia. Together.