The Activist’s Bubble

An honest biography.

Chapter 2: “The Activist's bubble”

When you fight for rights but not reform.

I was always introduced with a soft drumroll:
“Activist. Writer. Daughter of the former Prime Minister.”
But no one asked the real question:

Whose rights did I fight for and whose wrath did I never dare face?

Let’s talk about the bubble.
Not the economic one — the social one.
The one where feminism fits nicely into conference schedules.
Where the dress code is smart-casual, the outrage is rehearsed, and the talking points are safe for media syndication.

I lived in that bubble.
I still do.The air there is clean.
The rage is filtered.
And the victims? They're just examples to be cited, not stood beside.

I spoke about gender equality but only in abstract.
I praised empowerment but never named the institutions doing the disempowering.
I talked about “change” but never said who needed to change.My panels were always civil.
My interviews, always diplomatic.
My feminism? Always branded but never bloodied.

“Feminism that fears power isn’t feminism.
It’s customer service.”

I called myself an activist.
But I never marched with the Sisters in Islam when they were demonised by state-backed clerics.
I never stood beside the stateless girl raised in a temple for over 20 years.
I never joined the cries for Indira Gandhi, whose daughter was abducted by her ex-husband with the protection of a system that treats conversion as custody. No.
Instead, I wrote essays about “interfaith harmony.”

When 12-year-olds were being married off under Syariah law, I issued soft concern.
When PAS and JAKIM defended it as “permissible”, I went silent.
Because naming names is not “elegant”. And elegance, in my world, is everything.

I spoke about women in leadership.
But not about the women in shelters.
I wrote about empowerment.
But not about Section 375 of the Penal Code, which still protects marital rape.
I celebrated girlboss politicians but not the mothers living in Lembah Subang who can't feed their kids without begging.

Let me explain how the activist bubble works:

1. Avoid confrontation.
2. Repackage oppression as a mindset issue.
3. Keep things vague.
4. Focus on words like “awareness”, “dialogue”, “intersectionality” — not law, accountability, or complicity.
5. Appear angry. But never threatening.

And above all.. never name your own side.

Because if you do?The doors close.
The sponsors withdraw.
The speaking invites dry up.
And worse — the system might actually notice you.

So I chose the safer route.And the system loved me for it.I became the “good Muslim feminist”.
One who could smile on BBC, quote Audre Lorde, and write for the New Straits Times without ever calling out the men who wrote the rape laws, or the institutions that upheld child marriage.

The truth?
I didn’t want reform.
I wanted relevance.

Real reform means risk.
Real solidarity means sacrifice.
But I wasn’t about to give up my place at the gala table for the girls sleeping in welfare homes.

“You can’t be the voice of the voiceless
if you’re afraid to lose your seat.”

People said: “But Marina speaks up sometimes.”Yes, I did.
When it was safe.
When it was fashionable.
When it was monetisable.

And when it wasn’t? I softened the language.
I avoided names.
I changed the subject.

Let me show you how this works in real life:

• PAS leaders insult rape victims? I say “we must educate, not shame.”
• My father empowers religious extremists? I say “he’s just old.”

That’s not activism.
That’s PR.
And I was very good at it.

In 2020, when the COVID-19 lockdown revealed how badly our welfare system had failed women and children, I didn’t demand structural reform. Instead, I tweeted articles.
Hosted webinars.
And continued speaking in echo chambers that looked progressive but never poked the beast.

“My feminism never bruised power.
It hugged it gently, then asked for donations.”

I never feared arrest.
Never got red-tagged.
Never faced syariah court interrogation.
Because I knew where the line was.
And I never crossed it. I called it diplomacy.
But deep down, I knew it was cowardice dressed in civility.

And so, the cycle continued:

• The poor marched.
• The brave were jailed.
• The marginalised were disappeared.
• The child brides cried behind closed doors.

And me? I was at a UN Women luncheon.
With a gift bag.
And no guilt.

So let me say this clearly:

I was never an activist.
I was an accessory.
To a system that applauded softly spoken dissent
and punished real rebellion.