There was a promise, not once, but twice.

In 2018, Malaysians voted for reform. In 2022, that promise was renewed under the banner of Madani: A government that would be more open, more accountable, and more tolerant of dissent.

At the center of that promise stood Anwar Ibrahim, a leader forged in the struggle against repression, and one who publicly stated he welcomed criticism.

Today, that promise is being tested.

On April 14, the reported arrest and sedition probe of a woman over a TikTok rant criticizing the prime minister raised deep concerns about where the line is now drawn between legitimate criticism and criminal conduct.

Alarmingly, the warning by Suaram that half of the cases under the Sedition Act 1948 involved criticism of political leaders.

This is deeply worrying.

No mature democracy gets this wrong: criticizing a prime minister is not sedition. It is a basic democratic right.

Citizens are entitled to question leadership, express frustration, and even speak harshly about those in power. That space must remain protected, not because criticism is always fair, but because it is necessary.

We must hold our leaders accountable and if their actions are wrong, then we should speak out.

This was one of the promises which the then Opposition made and this was why we successfully ousted Umno-Baru at GE14 in 2018.

The main component parties of the then Opposition are now members of the current administration, but it appears the promises made in the run-up to both 2018 and 2022 have now been forgotten.

This is why the continued use of the Sedition Act 1948 is so troubling.

For years, the law has been criticized by legal experts, civil society groups, and reform advocates as overly broad and prone to abuse.

Successive reformist platforms, including those aligned with the current government, have promised to review, reform, or repeal it.

Yet it remains in force, and cases like this suggest it is still being applied in ways that risk undermining public confidence.

The government has previously indicated that the Sedition Act would be used sparingly, mostly for cases involving the monarchy or threats to national security.

If that position still stands, then the public deserves a clear explanation: how does a political rant about leadership performance meet that threshold?

This is not about defending any individual’s tone or content. It is about consistency.

A government cannot credibly say it welcomes criticism while actions on the ground create the impression that criticism may invite legal consequences.

Even if enforcement decisions are made in good faith, the perception of selective or disproportionate action can be equally damaging as the action itself.

More importantly, perception, in matters of civil liberty, is everything.

When people start to wonder whether speaking openly could expose them to investigation, something shifts.

The effect is subtle but powerful: fewer voices, more caution, less debate; and not because the law explicitly forbids speech, but because uncertainty quietly discourages it.

That is how self-censorship takes root.

If Malaysia is to move forward as a confident, democratic society, then the distinction between criticism and criminality must remain sharp and defensible.

Malaysia has seen this pattern before. It is not unique to any one administration.

Across political cycles, leaders who once championed freedom of expression in opposition have often struggled to uphold the same openness in government.

Is it because the pressures of office, like political stability, coalition management, public sentiment, can make criticism feel less like feedback and more like a threat?

If that is the case, then that is precisely why restraint matters most when in power.

The Madani government set a higher standard for itself. It positioned itself as a departure from past practices associated with more restrictive approaches to dissent.

That is why incidents like this resonate so strongly: they are judged not only on their legal basis, but against the expectations that were created.

To be clear, governments have a duty to maintain public order and address genuinely harmful speech, including incitement, threats, or actions that endanger institutions.

However, that duty must be exercised with precision, transparency, and proportionality.

When the boundaries are unclear, enforcement risks appearing arbitrary.

And when enforcement appears arbitrary, trust erodes.

If Malaysia is to move forward as a confident, democratic society, then the distinction between criticism and criminality must remain sharp and defensible.

Investigations should meet a clear, publicly understood threshold of harm, and not one that shifts depending on circumstance or subject.

This is a moment that calls for clarity, not ambiguity.

If the reported case does not meet that threshold, it should be reconsidered.

If it does, the justification must be explained in a way that withstands public scrutiny.

Either way, silence or inconsistency will only deepen concern.

Ultimately, this is not about one video or one individual. It is about whether Malaysians can speak openly about those who govern them, without fear, without uncertainty, and without crossing invisible lines that no one has clearly defined.

The question is no longer whether criticism is allowed.

The question is whether it still feels safe.

(Mariam Mokhtar is a Freelance Writer.)