What matters isn’t their race—it’s whether they serve the country with integrity

A Malaysian Chinese military officer was recently promoted to the rank of lieutenant-general—a three-star general position that marks the uppermost tier of command in the country’s armed forces. The news made headlines and social media rounds, not just because of its rarity, but because of what it symbolized: a visible crack in the long-standing perception that only Malays can occupy the highest ranks of national power and protection.

This shouldn’t be news. But in Malaysia, it still is. The officer’s promotion was both welcomed and questioned. Some celebrated it as a milestone for diversity. Others saw it as a cause for concern, even going so far as to ask whether this meant a Chinese Malaysian could someday be prime minister. It’s not the first time that a non-Malay has reached a senior leadership post, but it has become so uncommon that many younger Malaysians were surprised it could happen at all.

That surprise says more about Malaysia than it does about the man who earned the promotion. And it’s a sobering reminder of how race continues to dominate our understanding of power, loyalty, and identity in national life.

Once upon a time, Malaysia’s leadership—military and civil—reflected more clearly the nation’s multiracial makeup. The first chief of the Royal Malaysian Navy was a Malaysian Indian. There were Chinese officers, Indian administrators, Eurasian diplomats. While never perfectly representative, the early decades after independence saw a wider spread of participation among ethnic communities.

But over time, the center narrowed. Public service, including the armed forces, became heavily Malay-dominated. Structural incentives, recruitment patterns, and unofficial but entrenched practices reinforced this trend. Minority candidates were not overtly banned, but they also weren’t encouraged. Many quietly opted out, discouraged by limited prospects or a sense that they would always be outsiders in the system.

So when a non-Malay rises to the top today, it draws attention. Not necessarily because of who they are, but because of how rare they are. In most democracies, the idea that someone’s ethnicity would affect their ability to serve in the military—or become prime minister—would be unacceptable. In Malaysia, it’s still up for debate. That’s the heart of the problem.

In his column, the writer jokingly described himself as a "registered Malaysian coward"—someone who wouldn't personally enlist to fight, but is deeply grateful that others will. And, he added, he doesn’t care what race those protectors come from. What matters is loyalty to Malaysia, not bloodlines or background.

This is not a radical view. In fact, it's the view enshrined in Malaysia's Rukun Negara, the national philosophy adopted in the aftermath of the 1969 racial riots. It calls for belief in God, loyalty to the king and country, the supremacy of the constitution, rule of law, and good behavior and morality. Nowhere does it say that only one ethnic group has a monopoly on patriotism or public service.

Other countries already understand this. The United States and the United Kingdom have long recruited non-citizens into their militaries. France’s Foreign Legion is a historic example. Nepalese Gurkhas have fought valiantly for the British. What they all share is not ethnicity, but commitment—sworn loyalty to the nations they serve.

Malaysia is no different. We’ve had Gurkhas guarding our institutions. We’ve entrusted our safety to outsiders because they’ve pledged allegiance to the country. Yet within our own borders, many Malaysians still hesitate to fully accept non-Malays as equal stewards of national interest. That hesitance is neither rational nor sustainable.

Of course, the general’s promotion didn’t exist in a vacuum. It triggered the usual online speculation, often framed as a half-joke: “What’s next? A Chinese prime minister?” The joke masks a fear—one rooted in a deep-seated belief that political power in Malaysia must always be tied to Malay identity. This is the unspoken logic behind much of our national discourse. The fear isn’t that a non-Malay can’t govern well, but that their leadership might threaten the status quo.

Yet how many Malaysians would genuinely care about a leader’s race if that leader swore to uphold the constitution, governed transparently, and didn’t steal? As the columnist noted, the only requirement for any public official—military or political—should be loyalty to the nation and a commitment not to amass wealth for seven future generations. That’s not a high bar. And yet we rarely see it met, even by leaders of the “right” race or religion.

What’s truly troubling isn’t the idea of a non-Malay PM. It’s that we’ve been conditioned to view such a possibility with suspicion, not interest.

In the U.S., an African-born Muslim of Indian descent recently won the Democratic primary to run for mayor of New York. His name is Zohran Kwame Mamdani. His face, name, and faith are not what traditionalists expect from American leadership—and yet he’s gaining support across ethnic and political lines. Many Americans are shocked. So are many Malaysians.

But the real story is not about Mamdani—it’s about the young people supporting him. Across race, gender, and background, they’re choosing someone they believe in, even if he doesn’t look like the traditional image of leadership. They’re not voting based on fear. They’re voting based on hope.

Malaysia has its own young generation. They’re more global, more connected, more skeptical of old dogmas. But are they angry enough to make a different kind of choice—one their parents might not dare to make? That’s unclear. Decades of ethnonationalist education have made it harder, not easier, to imagine a unified political future. And the cost of pushing back remains high.

Still, life is getting harder for everyone. The economy is unforgiving. Social mobility has stalled. Unlike their parents, many young Malaysians cannot assume that they will live better lives. In that shared struggle may lie the seeds of a new political logic—one where race politics simply cannot deliver anymore.

It would be naive to believe Malaysia is on the brink of a post-racial breakthrough. For every gesture of progress, there is often a greater pushback. The columnist himself admits he likely won’t live to see a Mamdani-like moment here. In fact, he’s not even confident we’re crawling toward it. There’s reason for that pessimism. The forces against progress are powerful and well-entrenched. They include politicians who have built entire careers by fanning ethnic fear, bureaucrats who benefit from status quo appointments, and media ecosystems that amplify divisiveness.

The biggest barrier, however, may be psychological. Malays, as the dominant ethnic group, have not fully shaken off a deeply internalized sense of insecurity. This isn’t because they lack ability—it’s because they’ve been taught to see power-sharing as a threat rather than a strength.

Until that changes, real independence remains out of reach. Political freedom isn’t just about who governs—it’s about who feels safe enough to lead, and who feels secure enough to be led by someone different.

It’s not enough to wait for representation to improve naturally. Malaysians must actively change how they judge leadership. Race should not be a qualification or disqualification. What matters is whether a leader serves the people and protects their rights. That standard would disqualify many current politicians, regardless of race. Corruption, incompetence, and self-dealing are not ethnic traits. They are systemic failures. If anything, blind loyalty to “our own kind” has enabled these failures by lowering the bar.

To protect Malaysia’s future, voters must raise their expectations. They must demand leaders who are competent, honest, and forward-looking—regardless of race or religion. Until that becomes the norm, we will keep mistaking the exceptional for the impossible.

The general’s promotion may seem like a small gesture. It’s just one man, in one institution. But it matters, precisely because it shows what is possible. It reminds us that merit can still win out, that institutions are capable of recognizing excellence across race lines, even if only occasionally. The bigger challenge is to make such moments routine. Not because we want to celebrate diversity for its own sake, but because Malaysia cannot afford to keep sidelining talent. A shrinking pool of leadership—defined narrowly by race or religion—leaves the country weaker, not stronger.

It also makes us more vulnerable to the very politicians who thrive on division. When voters stop caring about substance and only care about symbols, democracy suffers. And so does the economy, public trust, and the social fabric.

When a Malaysian Chinese general no longer makes headlines, that’s when we’ll know things have changed. When a non-Malay prime minister can be discussed without jokes or panic, we’ll know we’ve matured. And when voters finally start asking what a politician will do for them—not what race they belong to—we’ll know we’ve grown up.

Until then, this promotion is more than a rank. It’s a test: not of the man who earned it, but of the society that received the news. How we react says everything about who we are—and who we might still become.