Ever since the Urban Redevelopment Bill (URB) was tabled, it has stirred more heat than harmony – drawing criticism from all sides.

But before we dismiss it entirely, it’s worth zooming out.

The truth is, Malaysia’s urban transformation didn’t start with the proposed Urban Renewal Act – it’s been decades in the making.

In 1970, barely 28.4% of Malaysians lived in cities. Fast forward to today, and that number has jumped to 75.5%, according to the statistics department, and the Fourth National Physical Plan projects we’ll hit 85% urbanisation by 2040.

So while the URB has raised public concern, it has also reignited an important question: what does growth truly mean for Malaysia?

A total of 534 sites in Peninsular Malaysia have been earmarked for redevelopment, with 139 of them located in Kuala Lumpur alone.

The figure may sound alarming, but urban renewal isn’t new to us. For decades, land across Kuala Lumpur, Penang, and Johor Bahru has been acquired, cleared, and rebuilt under existing frameworks like the Land Acquisition Act 1960 and the Town and Country Planning Act 1976.

What the URB seeks to do is not to reinvent the wheel, but to formalise and accelerate a process that has long been carried out through state authorities and private-sector partnerships — a process that now demands closer scrutiny, clearer safeguards, and a fairer balance between progress and people.

Still, the question lingers: if the URB is passed, will it shift more power to the federal government?

Legally, land remains a state matter under the Federal Constitution’s Ninth Schedule – meaning only state authorities can approve acquisitions.

Yet, in practice, the URB could strengthen federal influence over urban planning and redevelopment priorities.

By setting national standards, controlling funding channels, and defining redevelopment zones, the federal government could begin to steer projects once decided locally. This quiet rebalancing of power, from states to Putrajaya, is precisely what makes the URB both promising and controversial.

The government’s strongest argument for the URB is that redevelopment is essential to upgrade living conditions and future-proof cities.

Malaysia’s buildings are becoming increasingly outdated in terms of sustainability, design, and technology.

Some even struggle to meet current safety and regulatory standards, making redevelopment a necessity. An example is the former Lucky Plaza Bandar Park that is slowly decaying in plain sight.

While comprehensive data on outdated housing stock isn’t readily available, we can draw parallels from the commercial sector.

A JLL report found that around 70% of office buildings constructed before 2015 are now considered outdated, lacking modern energy efficiency, ventilation, and digital infrastructure standards. The same reality applies to many residential areas, where aging structures, poor insulation, and inadequate green spaces reveal how quickly urban environments fall behind.

While the 30-year redevelopment cycle proposed under the URB might seem short at first glance, in today’s rapidly changing context, it’s increasingly justifiable.

With rising population density due to migration, pollution, and the accelerating impacts of climate change, the rate of building deterioration has sped up dramatically. These factors weren’t fully anticipated decades ago when many of these structures were first built, which justifies the need for the URB.

And this is where the URB falls short.

Under the Land Acquisition Act 1960, affected landowners are guaranteed “fair compensation” when their property is acquired for public use.

The URB, however, is notably silent on this principle. It outlines procedures for redevelopment, but offers little clarity on how affected residents or small property owners will be compensated, consulted, or protected.

That silence speaks volumes. For a law that claims to serve public interest, the absence of community voices in the URB framework is deeply troubling.

Redevelopment should be for the people — not done to them. If communities are excluded from decisions about their own neighbourhoods, then one must ask — who is this redevelopment really for, and what purpose does it serve?

Displacement is the most visible consequence, where low- and middle-income families are uprooted to make way for high-rise condominiums they can no longer afford. Kampung Sungai Baru in Kuala Lumpur, for example, shows how redevelopment can fracture community ties and heritage in the name of “modernisation.”

Proposed frameworks suggest that once 75% of owners in a redevelopment zone agree to sell, the remaining 25% could be compelled to comply. While this encourages efficiency, it also undermines property rights and community consent.

Transparency is another weak point. Decisions on land valuation, developer selection, and compensation are rarely open to public scrutiny. Without robust oversight, the system risks being exploited for political or commercial gain rather than genuine public benefit.

Urban redevelopment is not inherently bad — it is a tool. But a tool can either build or destroy, depending on how it’s used. If Malaysia wants to avoid the pitfalls of gentrification seen in other countries, it must embed stronger safeguards into its redevelopment framework.

This must include transparent valuation processes, mandatory public consultations, and mechanisms for long-term community participation. States should be empowered to negotiate terms that reflect local realities, not pressured into adopting one-size-fits-all redevelopment models.

Heritage zones and traditional villages, in particular, deserve special protection — development should enhance, not erase, our cultural identity.

We’ve already seen what happens when this balance is ignored. In Penang, Kampung Siam – a historic settlement home to Malaysians of Siamese and Burmese ancestry – was cleared to make way for new developments. What was lost was more than land, it was a living piece of Malaysia’s shared heritage.

Hence, this brings us back to the heart of the debate: what does growth truly mean for Malaysia? Is it measured by taller skylines and modern façades, or by how we treat the people and histories that built those cities in the first place?

Redevelopment shouldn’t be about clearing space for the new. It should be about building cities that are safer, fairer, and more liveable — for everyone. Because if our cities grow but our people are left behind, can we really call it growth?

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