The
Sultans’ Daulat Is A Myth
M.
Bakri Musa
(First
of Three Parts)
Book
Review: Ampun Tuanku. A Brief Guide to Constitutional Government. Zaid Ibrahim. ZI Publications, Petaling Jaya,
2012. ISBN 9 789675 266263 256 pp, RM
As
a youngster in 1960 I had secured for myself a commanding view high atop a
coconut tree to watch the funeral procession of the first King, Tuanku Abdul
Rahman. My smug demonstration of my
perched position drew the attention of the village elders below. They were none
too pleased and immediately ordered me down.
“Sultans have daulat,” they
admonished, “you cannot be above them.”
Apparently even dead sultans maintained their daulat. I did not dare
challenge my elders as to what would happen once the king was buried; then we
all would be above him.
To put things in perspective, this
attribution of special or divine powers to rulers is not unique to Malay
culture. The ancient Chinese Emperors
too had their Tianming, Mandate from
Heaven. That however, was not enough to
protect them.
Even though it has deep roots in
Malay society, this daulat thing is a
myth. The Japanese, despite their own
“Sun Goddess” tradition, had no difficulty disabusing Malay rajas and their
subjects of this myth. The surprise was
not how quickly the sultans lost their power and prestige, or how quickly they
adapted to their new plebian status during the Japanese Occupation, rather how
quickly the Malay masses accepted this new reality of their rajas being
ordinary mortals sans daulat.
Only days before the Japanese
landed, any Malay peasant who perchance made eye contact with his sultan, may
Allah have mercy on him for the sultan certainly would not. When the Japanese took over, those rajas had
to scramble with the other villagers for what few fish there were in the river
and what scarce mushrooms they could scrape in the jungle. Nobody was bothered with or took heed of the daulat thing. So much for it being deeply entrenched in our
culture!
To pursue my point, had the Malayan
Union succeeded, our sultans today would have been all tanjak (ceremonial weapon) and desta
(headgear); they would have as much status and power as the Sultan of
Sulu. Across the Strait of Malacca,
hitherto Malay sultans are now reduced to ordinary citizens. They and their society are none the worse for
that.
Today’s slightly better educated
Malay sultans and crown princes (there are no crown princesses, let it be
noted) would like us to believe in yet another myth, this time based not on our
culture but constitution. They believe
that it provides them with that extra “something” beyond their being mere
constitutional head.
This new myth, like all good
fiction, has just a tinge of reality to it.
The Reid Commission had envisaged the Conference of Rulers to be the
third House of Parliament, after the elected House of Representatives and the
appointed Senate. It would be a greatly
reduced House of Lords as it were, to provide much-needed “final thought” to
new legislations.
That assumption had considerable
merit, at least in theory. As membership
is hereditary, those rulers would be spared from having to pander to the masses
as those elected Members of Parliament, or please their political patrons as
with the senators. Additionally, this
third house would be non-partisan.
An expression of this “Third House
of Parliament” function is that all senior governmental including ministerial
appointments have to be ratified by the Conference of Rulers. However, unlike the transparent deliberations
of the “advice and consent” function of the United States Senates where senior
appointees are subjected to open confirmation hearings, the proceedings of the
Conference are secret. We know only those
who have been accepted, not those rejected or why.
Zaid Ibrahim’s Ampun Tuanku. A Brief Guide to Constitutional Government addresses
what should be in his view the proper role of sultans in the Malaysian brand of
constitutional monarchy, specifically whether they have this “something extra”
beyond what is explicitly stated in the constitution. As a lawyer Zaid is uniquely qualified to
write on the matter. He is no ordinary
lawyer, having once headed the country’s largest legal firm and served as the
nation’s de facto Law Minister.
The title notwithstanding, this
highly readable book is more persuasive than descriptive; more political
science treatise, less legal brief. The
expository flow is smooth, logical and highly convincing. It is refreshingly free of legal jargon or
references to court cases that typically pollute commentaries by lawyers. To Zaid, the constitution does indeed grant
Malay sultans that something extra, but not in their capacity as the titular
head of the government, rather as their being head of Islam and defender of the
faith.
Zaid explores the many wonderful
opportunities possible as a consequence of this second function without having
to invoke additional “special powers.” I
will pursue his novel ideas and wonderful suggestions later. At 40 pages, his chapter on this issue (“The
Rulers and Islamization”) is the longest, and deserves careful reading especially
by the royal class. He puts forth many
innovative ideas that if pursued would benefit not only Malays but also all
Malaysians.
With active and enlightened
engagement by the rulers and Agong, Islam would emancipate Malays just as it
did the ancient Bedouins, and in the process enhance race relations. That would be a pleasant if somewhat radical
departure from the current environment where Islam not only deeply polarizes
Malays but also sows much interfaith and interracial distrust.
In all other aspects the sultans and
Agong are bound by what is explicitly stated in the constitution. Malaysia is a constitutional
monarchy, Zaid stresses, and our sultans and Agong must abide by the wishes of
the rakyat as expressed through their elected representatives in the executive
branch. If citizens have made their
wishes clear through an election that they would prefer a certain party and
individuals to lead them or certain legislations enacted, the sultan must abide
by that decision regardless of where his personal sympathy lies.
In short, there are no penumbras of
rights and privileges emanating from those hallowed clauses of our
constitution. The matter is clear: Sultans are bound by the law. Sultans cannot claim a penumbra of power
based on daulat or divine mandate, as
the Sultan as well as the Raja Muda of Perak tried to argue recently. Daulat is
fiction.
This principle is central and must
be defended against any incursion or erosion.
Zaid is rightly distressed, for example, when the Sultan of Trengganu
(who was also the Agong at the time) prevailed in making his choice of Ahmad
Said as Chief Minister when the citizens had explicitly elected the state UMNO
leader Idris Jusoh. This erosion was
possible only because of the weak leadership of then Prime Minister Abdullah
Badawi. Similar incursion occurred in
Perak, this time on a much more blatant and ugly level.
The situation in Perak is
particularly instructive. Before
becoming sultan, Raja Azlan Shah once served as the country’s Chief
Justice. As Zaid reminds us in his book,
in that capacity Raja Azlan clearly articulated that the powers of the Agong
are well circumscribed by the constitution.
As sultan however, he claimed his “special powers.” That was his justification for imposing his
solution on the state’s political crisis during the post-2008 election crisis
to favor the Barisan coalition.
Such palace incursions and our acquiescence
undermine the very principle of our democracy.
On a more practical level, if that proves to be the new norm, our chief
and prime ministers would then be beholden to their Sultans and Agong, not the
rakyat. Our ministers (menteris) would then revert to their
role in feudal Malay society, as hired hands of the palace and not the people’s
chief executive.
In a democracy, daulat (sovereignty) resides with the people, not the rajas. Our constitution is clear on that point, as Zaid
repeatedly reminds us. We must
constantly defend this principle lest it be eroded.
Next: Part Two: Origin
of the Daulat Myth