“We cannot expect people to have respect for law and order until we teach respect to those we have entrusted to enforce those laws.“
– Hunter S. Thompson
IN the sacred trust between a government and its people, few responsibilities carry more tangible weight than road safety. The Road Transport Department (JPJ) sits at the heart of this obligation, tasked with ensuring that our roads remain safe, civil and accountable.
Every lorry driver who obeys traffic laws, every motorcyclist who wears a helmet, and every bus operator who undergoes rigorous licensing contribute to a system meant to protect lives.
But what happens when the protectors become perpetrators?
In a series of videos that have recently gone viral, my good friend from Puchong, politician-turned activist Awtar Singh, confronts a dire and deeply troubling reality: JPJ officers themselves are allegedly breaking the very laws they’re sworn to enforce.
From driving against traffic to parking in disabled spaces, operating vehicles with bald tyres, and even encroaching on private facilities, their actions not only violate regulations, but they also trample upon public trust.
And it doesn’t end there. When drivers are involved in road accidents, JPJ has reportedly taken on roles traditionally reserved for law enforcement, moving to suspend licences even before investigations conclude.
This practice defies the principle of “innocent until proven guilty”. I just wonder under what legal authority does the authority act as judge, jury and executioner?
Malaysia’s legal framework clearly delineates roles. The police investigate accidents, courts adjudicate guilt, and JPJ issues licences based on established procedures. When these lines are blurred, when JPJ suspends licences based on assumption, not legal conviction, then we witness a disturbing erosion of due process.
What are the consequences? A lorry driver whose licence is abruptly suspended faces immediate and profound consequences. Who feeds his family while his vehicle sits idle in an impound lot for months? Who pays his housing or car instalments? What happens when his livelihood is crushed beneath bureaucratic overreach?
The human cost of these missteps is staggering. And when such punitive actions stem not from judicial orders but administrative zeal, they resemble something else entirely: arbitrariness, unchecked authority.
Consider this juxtaposition: A bus driver is suspended for a traffic violation pending investigation. Meanwhile, a JPJ officer is caught driving in the wrong lane, cutting double lines, or using a disabled parking space, and suffers little more than an internal slap on the wrist.
Perhaps they’re barred from driving JPJ vehicles temporarily, but allowed to drive privately. Is that the standard we uphold?
If JPJ officers are exempt from real accountability, then what message are we sending to thousands of drivers across Malaysia? That laws only apply to the rakyat, not to those who wear uniforms? That enforcement is about punishment, not example?
This is not merely a lapse; it’s a moral collapse. JPJ must recognise that its credibility hinges not on how strictly it punishes others, but on how honourably it holds itself to the same rules.
There is something almost sacred in the role of traffic enforcement. JPJ’s mandate is not simply technical, it is ethical. It is about keeping children safe as they cross the road, ensuring that an overloaded lorry doesn’t cause a fatal crash, preventing motorcycles from weaving recklessly through congested streets. It is about protecting life.
When those tasked with this duty behave irresponsibly, they commit a betrayal. Not just of their roles, but of the moral gravity of public service. No badge or bureaucratic protocol should shield anyone from the consequences of their own negligence.
Transport Minister Anthony Loke must step forward and lead by example. Investigations into rogue officers must be swift, impartial, and public. JPJ must be held accountable for overreach or silence in the face of misconduct. And the ministry must urgently restore the balance between authority and accountability.
The ground is rumbling. Awtar Singh’s fiery words capture something visceral; an unrest among the working class. Lorry drivers, bus operators, and small transport businesses are beginning to ask, “Why are we the only ones punished, while officers walk free?”
He warns of a future where these drivers may simply stop. Yes, they may just go on strike! Imagine one week without lorry movement, without bus routes, without freight deliveries.
The economic impact would be catastrophic. From construction sites to supermarkets, supply chains would grind to a halt. Our country would bleed, and the cause would not be protest but indignation pushed too far.
This is not a threat. It’s a truth waiting to be realised if reforms do not come swiftly.
Where do we go from here? Let us make it clear! No one is calling for anarchy. Malaysia needs enforcement. We need road safety. We need order.
But what we don’t need is hypocrisy. JPJ must commit to reform; not behind closed doors, but in open public view. Officers who flout laws must be subject to the same legal procedures as citizens.
There must be transparency, not internal shielding. There must be integrity, not image management. And most importantly, there must be compassion; a real understanding of how enforcement affects livelihoods, families and futures.
No law is just if applied selectively. No department is credible if it cannot govern itself. No public servant is respected if they forget whom they serve.
Let us pray sanity will prevail. Public patience is running thin.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at rajlira@gmail.com
