Daddy Dearest
I watched it all from inside the palace. And said nothing.
An honest biography.
Chapter 3: “Daddy Dearest”
You can’t break the system if you live in the penthouse.
He built the system.
I softened it. He ruled with iron fists.
I tweeted with silk gloves. They feared him.
They forgave me.
They called him a dictator.
I called him “Daddy.”
Tun Dr. Mahathir Mohamad.
Two-time Prime Minister.
The man who redesigned Malaysia in his own image. He turned fear into legislation.
He turned race into policy.
He turned political enemies into prisoners,
journalists into suspects,
and dissent into sedition.
I watched it all from inside the palace.
And said nothing.
I called myself a reformer.
But my last name was a firewall.
A shield.
A privilege I never questioned — only inherited.
“I didn’t just benefit from the regime.
I was born in its control room.”
He broke the judiciary in the 1980s.
Let go of Lord President Salleh Abas.
Replaced independent judges with obedient ones.
What did I say? Nothing. I was in London.
Studying.
Writing quotes about justice.
He kept the ISA alive,
used it on writers, students, union leaders. What did I do? I praised “stability.”
Posted about “peace.”
Wrote an op-ed about “balancing freedom with order.”
He weaponised the New Economic Policy (NEP)
then warped it into a necessity.
Malay supremacy became statecraft.
Chinese and Indians became convenient scapegoats. What did I say? I said: “It’s complex.”
Because calling racism racism would have made things uncomfortable.
That’s the theme of my life:
I traded truth for comfort.
Justice for branding.
Dignity for dinner invites.
When Anwar Ibrahim was jailed in 1998,
beaten, black-eyed, humiliated,
I said: “It’s political.” But I never condemned my father. Not once.
And when the world questioned his cruelty?
When the UN raised red flags?
When Amnesty International documented violations? I offered silence.
Or deflection.
Or said, “He’s from another generation.”
But he wasn't from another time.
He created this one.
My father didn’t just lead Malaysia.
He engineered it. He designed the systems.
Broke the courts.
Compromised the press.
Empowered moral police.
Gave JAKIM its billions.
Let PAS grow like cancer until it became part of the body politic. And I? I became the human face of all of it. The soft landing.
The English-speaking buffer.
The moderate Mahathir,
For liberals who wanted a conscience, but not a confrontation.
“Feminism means confronting patriarchy.
But what happens when your father is the patriarchy?”
I never had to choose between activism and safety.
Because my safety was guaranteed by blood.
I could condemn PAS.
But I didn’t.
Because my father needed them.
And I needed him.
You can’t serve tea at the same table where laws are drafted
and then act surprised when those laws choke the people. But I did. Again and again.
People begged me:
“Marina, please speak up.
Call him out.
Use your voice.”But my voice was sponsored.
Protected.
Curated.
“I wasn’t trapped.
I was comfortable.
And comfort breeds complicity.”
I wrote about rape culture.
While my father defended child marriage. I spoke on stage about women’s rights.
While his party empowered misogynists and moral gatekeepers. I called myself a human rights advocate.
While the same government that shielded me,
imprisoned whistleblowers,
deported activists,
and protected predators.
They said:
“You’re brave.”I knew I was lucky. There’s a difference.
When he returned in 2018,
dragged from retirement to become the “saviour of Malaysia”
I clapped.
Like the rest of you. Because I missed the power too.
We all did.
But it wasn’t reform.
It was rebranding.The same machine.
Just a new paint job.
He brought back cronies.
Empowered new monsters.
Backtracked on press freedom.
Abandoned the child marriage ban. And I? I smiled for the cameras.
“He broke the country with surgical precision.
And I watched quietly from the operating room.”
I wasn’t neutral.
I was inherited power wrapped in progressive packaging.
People say:
“You shouldn’t blame children for their parents’ sins.” But I’m not a child.
I was his mouthpiece.
His buffer.
His alibi.
“You don’t get to call yourself an activist
if you never bled for the truth.”
And I never did. Because I knew the cost.
And I wasn’t willing to pay it.