When home minister Saifuddin Nasution admitted he used his “discretionary powers” to grant citizenship to seven “heritage” footballers, he did more than bend bureaucracy.

He bent the Constitution’s intent.

In a country where thousands born and raised here are still waiting for citizenship, this decision lands like a slap.

It tells Malaysians that the queue moves faster if you can score goals.

Saifuddin’s defence in Parliament was bold, but troubling. He claimed the constitutional term “residency” could include time spent outside Malaysia.

By that logic, even absence counts as belonging. If that interpretation stands, the residency rule — a cornerstone safeguard — collapses.

What then stops any foreign national from claiming “heritage” and getting a Malaysian passport?

Article 20(1)(e) of the Federal Constitution grants the minister discretion, not immunity.

It is meant for exceptional cases, guided by fairness and fact.

Not for exceptions made famous by a football match.

The opacity of this process raises red flags.

What were the players’ actual arrival and application dates? How was their Malay language proficiency assessed — or was it simply waived?

And why issue birth certificates when even the national registration department says it holds no ancestral records?

These are not minor clerical doubts. They are constitutional ones.

Fifa’s own findings contradict the government’s claim of Malaysian heritage.

The players’ grandparents were reportedly born in Brazil, Argentina, and Spain. That should have ended the discussion.

Instead, the ministry chose to rewrite the definition of belonging.

Citizenship is not a medal. It is a legal status that carries rights, responsibilities, and national identity.

When given out in haste or secrecy, it loses its moral and legal weight.

And this is where the moral inconsistency deepens.

Two years ago, Hannah Yeoh asked if stateless Malaysian children needed to play football to earn citizenship.

She called it unjust that athletes could be fast-tracked while real children of this soil were left waiting.

Today, as the youth and sports minister, she calls those who remind her of those words “cybertroopers” who lack a “critical mind.”

But a critical mind remembers. And it remembers what was said about fairness, especially when those words now sound inconvenient.

Public memory is not an attack; it is accountability.

Yeoh says the facts are different today.

Perhaps.

But principles are not supposed to change with political seasons.

If compassion was her argument then, why defend selective privilege now?

Between Saifuddin’s discretion and Yeoh’s deflection lies a deeper problem — the ease with which ministers treat consistency as optional.

Discretion is not a blank cheque. It is trust held in temporary custody.

Once misused, it poisons the well for all future holders.

The irony is painful.

Tens of thousands of stateless people, many born in Malaysian hospitals, still wait decades for citizenship.

Their only failing? They were born without fame, without a club, without a minister willing to waive the rules.

The “heritage” footballers now carry Malaysian passports, maybe even dual citizenship.

But what legacy does this leave behind?

That rules are flexible for the talented, and rigid for the forgotten?

That the Constitution can be stretched for convenience, while others are told to wait their turn?

This is not about football. It is about fairness.

It is about the integrity of citizenship — and the credibility of those who wield discretion like power, not duty.

The government cannot ask for public trust while playing by two sets of rules.

If citizenship can be earned by scoring goals, then what is the worth of being born Malaysian?

Ministers may delete posts or redefine discretion. But the record — and the principle — remains.

The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.