By Nahrizul Adib Kadri
It’s that time of year again: flags go up, hashtags come out, and we get a sudden urge to look patriotic. Suddenly everyone’s an expert in Pantone colour tones, flag and bunting display etiquette, and how to fold a Jalur Gemilang without creasing the crescent moon.
And like clockwork, the same social media ritual returns: someone spots a faded, tattered flag hanging from an old car or a sagging balcony. They take a photo, post it online with a snarky caption, something along the lines of: “Kalau tak tahu jaga, jangan pasang!”, and of course the subsequent public shaming. That flag, they say, is an insult.
But I don’t know. I’ve always felt a little uncomfortable with that.
Because you see, for every ‘bendera buruk’ I’ve seen out there — sun-bleached, slightly torn on the edges, maybe half-heartedly tied to a PVC pipe or an old flag post— I’ve always wondered: who put it up? And why?
Was it a schoolkid who begged their dad to let them hang it off the old Myvi? A retired couple living alone, doing the best they can with what they have? A hawker too busy frying char kuey teow to notice that the edges have frayed?
Don’t get me wrong; flags should be treated with dignity. And I’m not defending negligence. But there’s something odd about how quickly we assume the worst. As if a weathered flag automatically reflects a weathered spirit.
But what if it doesn’t?
You know, what if flags age too, like us? What if that ragged piece of cloth was put up with care, but time and rain did what time and rain always do? And the person who hung it still meant well, still loved this country, but maybe, just maybe, didn’t have the money or mobility to replace it?
We love our patriotism to look polished. Uniformed school kids marching in sync. A sea of fresh flags in HD. Fireworks on the night of 31st captured perfectly in vertical video. But love for country isn’t always symmetrical, or photogenic, or Instagrammable, or TikTokable. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it flaps awkwardly in the wind.
I once passed a lorry with a tiny Jalur Gemilang on its antenna — it was torn halfway, fluttering like a wounded bird. But the lorry was crawling uphill under the blazing sun, and I swear the abang driving it had the proudest grin on his face. That flag wasn’t an insult. It was a companion.
We live at a time where optics matter more than ever. Appearances get judged before intentions. But perhaps this Merdeka season, we can pause before pointing fingers. Before we snap that photo of a sad little flag and post it with a clever caption, maybe we can ask ourselves: do we know the story behind it? Is it really the best thing for everyone for it to get posted?
Maybe the person who hung it can’t afford a new one. Maybe they just didn’t notice. Or maybe, and this one’s a bit painful, maybe they do notice, but can’t bring themselves to take it down, because it reminds them of something better. A time when things made more sense.
We all carry our flags in different ways. Some wear it on their chest. Some fly it on their porch. And some, perhaps unknowingly, carry it in their daily effort to survive in a country that doesn’t always make it easy.
There’s a philosophy I’ve come to appreciate over the years: assume goodwill. Not blindly. Not foolishly. But generously. Not every frayed edge is a sign of disrespect. Sometimes it’s just a sign of real life.
So if you see a faded Jalur Gemilang this month, please don’t rush to judge. Maybe offer them a new one, if you have the means. Or just smile, and move on. Not everything needs to be a public display of perfection.
Let’s honour the spirit, not just the symbol. Let’s celebrate the heart, not just the optics.
Because ‘bendera buruk’ doesn’t always mean ‘hati yang buruk’. And sometimes, a quiet, faded flag means more than a hundred pristine ones raised just for show.
Have a kind one this time, shall we?
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. He may be reached at nahrizuladib@um.edu.my