20/09/2025

SATURDAY | SEPT 20, 2025

18

When memory fades, love remains M Y GRANDMOTHER still remembers me. For that, I am grateful. But each visit reminds me that she is no longer the same woman who once anchored my world.

2040, nearly one in seven Malaysians will be over 65 and dementia cases are expected to more than double. This means more and more families will find themselves in this quiet struggle – piecing together home care, juggling work and children, and wondering if they are doing enough. Yet, dementia care remains under-recognised and under resourced in Malaysia. We do not talk about it enough, even though it is already reshaping the lives of hundreds of thousands of families. That is why we must stop thinking of dementia as simply “old age”. It is not a normal part of growing older; it is a disease – one that strips dignity and tests love in ways most people cannot imagine until they are living through it. When I visit her now, I do not expect her to be the grandmother she once was. Instead, I try to meet her where she is – even if that means hearing the same question 10 times, even if it means being patient with her anger. Because when I hold her hand, when I sit with her in her confusion, I am doing more than comforting her; I am honouring the woman she has always been – strong, fearless and devoted. If memory fades, then it is love that must remain. It is compassion that must remain. It is care – however imperfect, however difficult – that must remain. I write this not only for my

When I became a mother myself, her happiness was doubled, as if life had rewarded her twice. Her love was steady and unconditional, the kind of love you never question because it is woven so tightly into your being. Now, that love feels trapped inside an illness she cannot control. The warmth and patience that once filled her have been replaced by restlessness and agitation, and at times she lashes out at the very children who care for her. It is hard to see her children bear the weight of caregiving. Their love for her is clear but so is their weariness. Each day asks more of them – in the long nights, in the difficult choices and in the quiet sorrow of watching the mother who once held them now slip further and further away. This is the cruelty of dementia. It does not just steal memory; it steals the person you knew, piece by piece. It forces you into a strange kind of grief – one that begins long before death and lingers without closure. And yet, my family’s story is far from unique. In Malaysia today, more than 8% of senior citizens aged 60 and above are estimated to live with dementia – a figure that translates into nearly 260,000 people. With our population ageing rapidly, the number is projected to rise sharply in the coming years. By P O I N T A V I S H T R I

Meanwhile, halfway across the world, the modern state of Israel, established as a homeland for a persecuted diaspora, now pursues policies many see as systematically displacing the Palestinian people whose ancestors lived on that same land for centuries. It feels like historical whiplash, a collective madness. What drives this seeming global schizophrenia? The uncomfortable answer lies not in inherent craziness but in the collision of deep-seated human anxieties, historical trauma and the brutal calculus of power when resources feel finite and identities feel threatened. Both situations expose a painful psychological transition. Societies built by immigrants or refugees eventually reach a point where they become the established group. The very openness that allowed their creation becomes perceived as a threat to their hard-won security, culture and economic stability. The US, after waves of immigration, now sees segments of its population fearing cultural dilution, job competition and strained social services. Israel, born from the ashes of the Holocaust and centuries of displacement, achieved statehood but now faces demographic pressures and She asks me, again and again, to take her back to her house – the house that still stands, filled with decades of memories but where she can no longer live on her own. Each time I explain why she cannot go and each time it feels like a small heartbreak – a reminder that dementia is not only about memory loss but about losing pieces of the person you love. I often think back to the woman she was before this illness took hold. She was widowed at 47, left to care for six children, two of them still in school. She had no career, no official title, no pension waiting for her but she carried her family with a strength far greater than any of those things. She cooked, cleaned and managed the household, ensuring every ringgit was enough for her children’s needs and for the family to carry on. For me, she was more than a grandmother – she was my second mother, a constant presence in my life. She was there for every bruised knee, every heartbreak and every small joy. When I married, she cried as though I were her own daughter. P O T T U B Y H A S H I O N I

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My grandmother’s love was steady and unconditional, the kind of love you never question because it is woven so tightly into your being. – PIC COURTESY OF HASHINI KAVISHTRI KANNAN

received – endures.

grandmother but for every family living through the quiet heartbreak of dementia. May we find strength in one another’s stories and may we remember that while memory may slip away, love – given and

HashiniKavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor at theSun. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com

COMMENT by Prof Datuk Dr Ahmad Ibrahim

Global schizophrenia: Why societies turn defensive after being open WE live in an age of jarring contradictions. The United States, a nation literally forged by immigrants – from the Mayflower to Ellis Island and Silicon Valley – now grapples with fierce political movements demanding walls and closed borders. security threats from the Palestinians it displaced or incorporated. The trauma of being the outsider can morph into a fierce determination to never be vulnerable again, often expressed by controlling who is now considered the outsider. the sea. When resources (land, water, jobs and political power) are perceived as limited or when identity feels intrinsically tied to maintaining a demographic majority, empathy erodes. resources feel scarce and identities feel fragile.

“The world isn’t growing ‘crazy’; it is revealing a deeply ingrained human vulnerability: the struggle to transition from the persecuted outsider to the secure insider without replicating the

Breaking this cycle requires a conscious effort that runs counter to base instincts: nations must confront the complexities and injustices within their founding narratives, not just the heroic parts. Systems must be built that recognise the dignity and rights of all people within a territory, moving beyond exclusive ethno-nationalism. Security concerns and economic anxieties need solutions that don’t demonise entire groups. We need leaders who foster empathy and envision shared futures, not those who stoke fear and division for political gain. The world isn’t growing “crazy”; it is revealing a deeply ingrained human vulnerability: the struggle to transition from the persecuted outsider to the secure insider without replicating the exclusion that once harmed us. Recognising this pattern is the first step towards breaking it. The alternative is a future defined by ever higher walls and deeper cycles of resentment – a madness from which we may never awaken. ByProf Datuk Dr Ahmad Ibrahim is affiliated with the Tan Sri Omar Centre for STI Policy Studies at UCSI University and is an associate fellow at the Ungku Aziz Centre for Development Studies, Universiti Malaya. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com

National identities are often built on powerful, sometimes simplified, narratives. The US mythos celebrates the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free” but often glosses over the displacement of native Americans and the exploitation of immigrant labour. Israel’s founding narrative centres on “a land without a people for a people without a land”, which inherently dismisses the centuries long Palestinian presence. When the lived reality – ongoing indigenous claims, the presence of “other” peoples with deep roots and the complexities of integration – persistently challenges the foundational myth, the response isn’t always reconciliation; it can be denial, defensiveness and a hardening of borders, both physical and psychological. Protecting the myth feels like protecting the nation itself. At the heart of both scenarios lies a potent fear: the fear of being overwhelmed, replaced or losing control. In the US, this manifests as anxieties about changing demographics, cultural shifts and economic competition. In Israel-Palestine, it is the zero-sum demographic struggle over land and political control between the river and

The “other” transforms from neighbour or potential citizen into an existential threat. Logic and historical context become casualties in the struggle for perceived survival. Past suffering can be a powerful motivator for building safe havens but it can also be weaponised to justify inflicting suffering on others. The profound historical trauma of Jewish persecution fuels Israel’s determination for security, sometimes leading to policies that inflict trauma on Palestinians. Similarly, descendants of immigrants who faced hardship can sometimes develop a stance of “we made it, now pull up the ladder”, forgetting their own ancestors’ struggles. Unprocessed trauma, coupled with power, can create cycles of violence and exclusion, each side feeling justified by past wounds. Is it “crazy”? Or predictably human? Labelling it “crazy” absolves us of the harder analysis. This isn’t irrationality in a vacuum; it is a tragic, recurring pattern in human history. Groups achieve safety or dominance and then pull up the drawbridge. Trauma hardens into defensiveness. Myths ossify and resist inconvenient truths. Fear of the “other” trumps empathy, especially when

exclusion that once harmed us.