GURU ANWAR: WHEN THE CLASSROOM FOLLOWED HIM INTO CABINET—AND POLITICS WENT BACK TO SCHOOL
In Malaysia, a single word can travel remarkably far. It may begin inside an UMNO assembly hall, hitch a ride on TikTok, board a government aircraft, land at a BRICS Summit in New Delhi and, before the weekend is over, find itself singing an old Kishore Kumar song in a hotel.
The word, in this instance, was guru.
At the 2026 UMNO General Assembly, Deputy Prime Minister and UMNO president Datuk Seri Dr Ahmad Zahid Hamidi used it as a carefully sharpened political jibe against Prime Minister Datuk Seri Anwar Ibrahim. Yet the irony is that guru is not an entirely accidental description of Anwar. Long before it became a sarcastic catchphrase, it had quietly followed him through classrooms, youth movements, universities, ministries and national policy.
No, this is not another story about N. J. Ryan, Abdul Rahman Arshad, Abdul Aziz Ismail, Mr Nadarajah, Muzafar Tate or the many distinguished teachers who once taught Anwar. They were the Guru of his schooldays. This is about Anwar himself as a Guru—sometimes holding chalk, sometimes carrying a book, later armed with a Cabinet paper and eventually entrusted with a national budget.
This is neither a complete biography nor an official audit of achievements. It is simply what I remember, and memory, although occasionally absent-minded about dates, can be remarkably stubborn about the things that mattered.
While at Stowell School , Bukit Mertajam Anwar was already “teaching” his Chinese friends the fundamentals of speaking Bahasa Melayu properly. Even the awkward interval between finishing school and entering university somehow acquired a blackboard, because he spent it working as a temporary teacher at Sekolah Menengah Persendirian Jit Sin in Bukit Mertajam.
At MCKK, while other young men might have devoted their spare hours to football, rugby ,sleep or the noble Koleq tradition of doing absolutely nothing with magnificent seriousness, Anwar found time to visit Maahad Idrisiah in Bukit Chandan. There, he “taught” English to its students—not for ceremony, publicity or a photograph suitable for tomorrow’s newspaper, but because education, to him, was already something that should be passed from one person to another.
During the school holidays, he organised free classes for his younger brothers and sisters who were still studying. Members of Belia Teraju Negara (BETERA) and several school friends joined him, turning Cherok To’ Kun into a modest classroom without requiring a launch, a banner or three lengthy speeches explaining why the launch was historically significant.
Among those who frequently stopped by Cherok To’ Kun was Profesor Emeritus Dr Md. Tahir and Azhar, either before returning to Perlis or while travelling from Perlis towards Kuala Kangsar or Kuala Lumpur. Profesor Dr Tahir, a former Deputy Rector of UIAM, was Anwar’s junior from MCKK Class of 1966 and one of Koleq’s formidable debaters of that era—a man who could probably transform an ordinary roadside pause into a discussion on civilisation before the tea had time to cool.
Then came one of those crossroads at which a life could have chosen comfort, prestige and a respectable overseas address. Anwar declined Tun Abdul Razak’s proposal that he pursue Law in the United Kingdom and later work with the FAO of the Pertubuhan Bangsa-Bangsa Bersatu (PBB), based in Bangkok, Thailand.
Instead, he helped found ABIM to carry forward his Islamic idealism, became a leader of Majlis Belia Malaysia (MBM), and established Yayasan Anda Akademik. The institution offered free or minimally priced education, particularly to poor students and school dropouts who might otherwise have been quietly abandoned by the system and then loudly blamed by society for failing.
Anwar served as its Principal, assisted by many contemporaries from UM and junior undergraduates still studying there. Their salaries were certainly not designed to frighten any bank manager, and Anwar himself earned far less than he might have received as a civil servant. Yet he believed young Malaysians deserved the opportunity to complete at least eleven years of schooling, as young people in developed countries were already expected to do.
Many alumni of Yayasan Anda Akademik later succeeded as politicians, administrative and diplomatic officers, lecturers and professionals in numerous fields. That may be education’s quietest miracle: a classroom opens with very little money, and years later its former students appear in universities, government offices, embassies and public life.
At the same time, Anwar served as a tutor at the newly established Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia, itself a landmark in the struggle to elevate Bahasa Melayu within higher education. He tutored Islam Dalam Sejarah dan Kebudayaan Melayu, a course taught by the late Profesor Diraja Ulung Tan Sri Syed Muhammad Naquib al-Attas. It was education not merely as the collection of certificates, but as an inquiry into identity, history, culture and the meaning of civilisation itself.
Following the death of Tun Hussein Onn, Anwar became the second President of UIAM. Tun Dr Mahathir asked him to assume the position because he knew how earnestly Anwar had encouraged the establishment of UIAM and supported its development through his extensive relationships with ulama and Islamic movements throughout the world.
At UIAM, Anwar established the Institut Antarabangsa Pemikiran dan Ketamadunan Islam (ISTAC), then led by Profesor Dr Syed Muhammad Naquib al-Attas. He assisted ISTAC in many areas, particularly the construction of its campus and the acquisition of rare academic manuscripts and volumes. A university, after all, should possess more than imposing gates, ceremonial robes and parking disputes; it should also contain ideas capable of surviving their own generation.
His interest in civilisation and civilisational dialogue also led him to support the establishment of the Pusat Dialog Peradaban at Universiti Malaya. He later chaired the committee that introduced Tamadun Islam dan Tamadun Asia at IPTA, hoping that Malaysia’s diverse communities would learn to appreciate the contributions of different civilisations, borrow the best from one another and elevate interracial relations towards something more constructive than mutual suspicion conducted over teh tarik.
Anwar also initiated the establishment of Universiti Telekom, later known as Universiti Multimedia, after recognising the substantial profits Telekom was earning from its operations. Tenaga Nasional subsequently received similar encouragement to establish Universiti Tenaga Nasional (UNITEN). His principle was straightforward: corporate profit must not merely congratulate itself inside an annual report; it must also consider the social contribution required by the country that made such profit possible.
As Menteri Pendidikan from 1986 to 1991, Anwar’s most significant legacy, in my view, was the introduction of the Falsafah Pendidikan Negara, now known as the Falsafah Pendidikan Kebangsaan. It remains in use because it attempted to define education as something greater than examinations—a balanced undertaking involving intellect, character, spirituality and the formation of a complete human being.
That period also saw the introduction of the Kurikulum Bersepadu Sekolah Menengah (KBSM) and the Ujian Peperiksaan Sekolah Rendah (UPSR), which assessed the essential 3M skills of membaca, menulis dan mengira. Before education could aspire to produce philosophers, engineers and Cabinet Ministers, it first had to ensure that children could read, write and count without treating mathematics as an act of personal betrayal.
The Rancangan Makanan Tambahan (RMT) was expanded, together with the introduction of the Program Susu Sekolah to improve students’ nutrition. Today, RMT receives more than RM700 million annually, while its menu has expanded from 20 choices to over 30—an acknowledgement that an empty stomach is rarely impressed by an excellent syllabus.
The baju kurung and fully covering tudung were introduced for female students. Had this happened during the present age of instant commentary and professional outrage, Anwar might have been ridiculed as the Menteri Baju Kurung, just as Dr Maszlee was once labelled the Menteri Kasut Hitam. Malaysia has always possessed a special talent for reducing an entire ministerial portfolio to one memorable item of clothing.
He also removed the superstitious Mandi Safar syllabus from Islamic Studies, drawing a necessary distinction between religious education and inherited practices that had acquired legitimacy largely through being repeated for a very long time.
More than 100 new schools are now expected to be built through approvals under Belanjawan 2024–2026, while over 6,000 new classrooms will be constructed using IBS technology. There is also the Kolej Universiti Institut Jantung Negara (KUIJN), another reminder that education does not belong exclusively to one ministry, one age group or one conventional kind of campus.
Much more could be written if we included the many educational approvals Anwar granted while serving as Menteri Kewangan from 1991 to 1998. The classrooms had grown larger, the instruments had changed and the chalk had been replaced by policy—but the instinct of the Guru had never entirely disappeared.
All of which gives the recent “guru” jibe an irony richer than its TikTok origins.
During his presidential policy speech at the 2026 UMNO General Assembly, Ahmad Zahid criticised what he regarded as the government’s indecision over economic policy, particularly the changes involving the Budi95 petrol subsidy programme. The monthly subsidised quota had been reduced from 300 litres to 200 litres in April before being restored to 300 litres from September 1—a policy journey that appeared to leave the public travelling in circles while still paying for the petrol. It was reported that Zahid said the changes had caused confusion among the public.
Then came the phrase that escaped the assembly hall and ran gleefully across Malaysian social media: “Guru, hentikan, guru.”
Borrowed from a viral TikTok trend, the phrase roughly means, “Teacher, stop it, teacher.” In Zahid’s hands, however, it acquired the sharper edge of political sarcasm. He asked who had been responsible for the policy changes, supplied the answer “guru,” and urged the mysterious teacher to stop and listen to the grievances of ordinary citizens.
Zahid never mentioned Anwar by name, naturally. Malaysian political speeches often operate like kenduri gossip: nobody identifies the person, but everybody at the table somehow knows who has just been discussed. The “guru” was widely understood to be Anwar, while Zahid’s underlying message was that policies affecting ordinary people should not be repeatedly adjusted from above without sufficient attention to the anxieties being expressed below. CNA reported that Zahid’s speech contained several apparent swipes at Anwar.
The jibe was playful in vocabulary but serious in purpose. Zahid was not merely participating in a TikTok trend to prove that UMNO possessed Wi-Fi. He was signalling that the government’s economic decisions carried political consequences and that UMNO, although part of the administration, would not remain silent while public frustration simmered beside the petrol pump.
The moment also illuminated the delicate architecture of Malaysia’s unity government, where leaders cooperate in Cabinet while defending separate parties, constituencies and ambitions. Unity, in Malaysian politics, has never meant surrendering one’s elbows at the dining table. A coalition is not a monastery, and sharing power does not require everyone to share the same script, appetite or TikTok algorithm.
Anwar, however, was not about to leave the classroom unattended.
While travelling to New Delhi for the 18th BRICS Leaders’ Summit, the Prime Minister turned Zahid’s chosen metaphor neatly back upon him. Anwar announced through social media that the “guru” had arrived safely in India to represent Malaysia and advance the country’s diplomacy on the world stage. The intended target of the joke had calmly claimed the title, packed it into his diplomatic luggage and carried it to New Delhi, confirming that Anwar referred to himself as the “guru” while in India for the BRICS Summit.
He then raised the mischief by another delightful notch, expressing the hope that the “students” would observe how Madani Diplomacy was put into practice before signing off with the magnificently youthful declaration: “Slayyy.”
It was an extraordinary collision of statesmanship and Gen Z punctuation. One moment, Malaysia was discussing petrol subsidies and strains within the unity government; the next, the Prime Minister was in New Delhi conducting foreign affairs with three Ys and the serene confidence of someone who had just won an argument without removing his songkok.
The response neutralised the original jibe by embracing it. Zahid had offered “guru” as a criticism; Anwar wore it as a badge. If the Prime Minister was indeed the teacher, his reply suggested, perhaps the students might wish to observe the lesson—particularly now that the classroom had expanded from the UMNO assembly hall to the international stage.
Anwar was not finished with the joke. During his visit to India, he was recorded singing the evergreen Kishore Kumar number Khwab Ho Tum Ya Koi Haqeeqat at a Delhi hotel. He later shared the performance with the caption, “Guru mintak izin nyanyi kejap ok!” The teacher, apparently, was requesting permission to sing for a while.
By then, the exchange had travelled from a petrol-subsidy dispute to TikTok, from TikTok to BRICS diplomacy, and from BRICS diplomacy to Bollywood. Only in Malaysia could a quarrel over subsidised fuel end with the Prime Minister singing Kishore Kumar in New Delhi while continuing to tease his Deputy through the honorific guru.
Still, beneath the humour lies a serious political reality. Zahid needed to demonstrate to UMNO delegates that the party could question government policy even while remaining within the government. Anwar needed to show that he was unruffled, internationally engaged and entirely capable of returning a serve without disturbing the diplomatic crockery.
It was neither an outright declaration of political war nor harmless comedy without consequence. It was political signalling performed in the language of social media—part criticism, part counterattack, part theatre and perhaps part affectionate irritation between two men who understand that their partnership remains necessary even when their messages do not always arrive in harmony.
For the public, however, the true lesson should not disappear beneath the clever captions. Petrol quotas, economic policies and the cost of living affect real families. Diplomatic visibility matters, but so do policy consistency, clear communication and the daily burdens carried by ordinary Malaysians. A witty reply may win the afternoon, but sound administration must still survive the month.
And so Malaysia’s latest political lesson ended without anyone being sent to the headmaster. Zahid told the guru to stop; Anwar arrived in India, invited the “students” to observe, declared “Slayyy,” and then requested permission to sing.
Yet perhaps the word carried more truth than the jibe intended. Behind it stood the young man who taught his Chinese friends Bahasa Melayu, the temporary teacher at Jit Sin, the Koleq student who travelled to Maahad Idrisiah, the organiser of free holiday classes, the Principal of Yayasan Anda Akademik, the tutor at Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia, the President of UIAM, the founder of ISTAC and the Minister who sought to place education within the moral architecture of the nation.
Politics will always invite disagreement; in Malaysia, even breakfast can become a constitutional debate before the nasi lemak is finished. But whatever one thinks of Anwar’s policies, politics or performance, the educational thread running through his public life is difficult to overlook.
The classrooms merely became larger. The work of the Guru never truly stopped.
May God grant Anwar continued health and strength to serve the people and the nation—which, despite all our arguments, labels, alliances and wonderfully Malaysian complications, means every one of us.