And so the Negeri Sembilan political crisis that grabbed headlines and threatened the position of menteri besar Aminuddin Harun has fizzled out.
All 14 Umno assemblymen in Negeri Sembilan withdrew support for Aminuddin on April 27 citing alleged interference in an ongoing royal dispute where the undangs, or chieftains, are pushing to depose the state’s ruler.
On April 30, Umno secretary-general Asyraf Wajdi Dusuki said the party would continue backing the unity government in Negeri Sembilan “to ensure political stability and the well-being of its people”.
I wonder whether the word “crisis” is still appropriate, or if we should simply call it another episode in the wayang kulit of Malaysian politics. Alliance breakups, realignments and patch-ups have become so routine that they feel less like shocking betrayals and more like seasonal entertainment.
Last December, a political crisis in Perlis saw PAS’s Shukri Ramli being replaced by Bersatu’s Abu Bakar Hamzah as menteri besar after eight Perikatan Nasional assemblymen, including five from Bersatu, reportedly submitted statutory declarations to the ruler withdrawing support for Shukri.
Not long ago, the federal government of Dr Mahathir Mohamad collapsed when the majority of his own Bersatu MPs withdrew support for him and teamed up with political opponents.
The faces at the table may change, but the script remains stubbornly familiar.
We’ll have to wait and see how the Negeri Sembilan episode plays out in the larger scheme of things because Umno and Pakatan Harapan are partners in the unity government. Will the unity hold?
I’ve always wondered why partnerships that begin with grand declarations of unity so often collapse in acrimony. Is it the raw thirst for power, the inevitable clash of egos, or are the main actors being skilfully manipulated from the wings?
Fortunately, William Shakespeare, whose birthday on April 23 is still fondly marked by literature lovers, offers some answers.
In Julius Caesar, a group of senators, including Brutus—Caesar’s close friend—conspire to assassinate him, fearing he is becoming a tyrant.
One by one, they stab him. They then proudly announce that they did it “to save the Republic”.
Malaysians have heard this refrain many times. Every major political manoeuvre seems to come wrapped in noble intentions: “We are doing this to save the nation,” “to save our race,” or “to save our religion.”
We saw it during Perikatan Nasional’s “Save Malaysia” rally in September 2023, and again in June 2025 when Mahathir launched his “Big Umbrella” initiative to “save the Malays”.
The crown jewel of such moves remains the 2020 Sheraton Move, when Mahathir’s Bersatu withdrew support for his Pakatan Harapan government, triggering its collapse.
What followed was a chaotic carousel: Muhyiddin Yassin lasted 17 months as prime minister, Ismail Sabri’s administration proved equally short-lived, an election resulted in a hung Parliament, and eventually a unity government under Anwar Ibrahim was cobbled together.
Just as Caesar’s death accelerated the end of the Roman Republic, that dramatic collapse fractured Malaysian politics like never before.
Shakespeare also understood the importance of political theatre. Caesar’s famous triple refusal of the crown before the cheering crowd was a masterclass in feigned humility. Malaysian leaders have delivered, and continue to deliver, such performances, appearing reluctant to grasp power even as they manoeuvre tirelessly for it.
In Macbeth, we see the perils of unchecked ambition. A capable man is undone by prophetic whispers and his own “vaulting ambition,” spiralling into paranoia and self-destruction.
In today’s politics, physical daggers are rarely needed. Rivals are dispatched more elegantly through leaks, media campaigns, TikTok videos, and strategic manoeuvres.
Macbeth believed the whisperings of the three witches. I wonder how much our leaders listen to their modern-day versions—the enablers, propagandists and sycophants.
King Lear provides another uncomfortable mirror. The ageing king demands flattery, banishes honest counsel, and surrounds himself with courtiers who tell him only what he wants to hear. The result is fatal blindness to reality.
We continue to see Malaysian leaders equating criticism with disloyalty – much like Lear – not realising they risk creating the same dangerous echo chamber.
Worse, ordinary citizens who voice criticism are deemed a danger to the nation and are quickly hauled up for questioning.
And then there is Iago from Othello — the quiet master of manipulation. He does not need grand lies. A well-placed whisper here, a subtle hint there, and he lets his victim’s own jealousy and insecurity complete the work. In the fluid world of coalitions, such Iagos are not in short supply.
Shakespeare reminds us that politics is, above all, a very human drama. Ambition, pride, fear of losing power, and the seductive comfort of illusion have always driven the plot — whether in ancient Rome or contemporary Malaysia.
The costumes and slogans may have been updated for the 21st century, but the underlying script has changed remarkably little.
Perhaps the greatest value in revisiting these old plays is not merely to understand our politicians better, but to see ourselves more clearly as citizens.
Because in Malaysian politics, the show must go on.
The only question is whether we the audience will demand a better script — or continue enjoying the familiar tragedy with mild amusement and quiet resignation.
The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.