那天清晨，我一如往常在一天的会议与事务开始前，拿起手机查看讯息。原以为会看到与工作相关的询问、政策讨论，或是偶尔出现的不同意见——这本就是公共人物生活的一部分。
然而，映入眼帘的，却只有一个词：kafir（异教徒）。
没有任何解释，也没有任何论述。
不久后，我明白了原因——只因为我出席了一场华人节庆活动，以示尊重。
我放下手机，沉默了一会儿。并非因为我的信仰受到动摇，而是震惊于宗教竟可以如此轻易地被简化为一个标签。仿佛信念是脆弱的，只要站在“错误的地方”，和“错误的人”在一起，就会被否定。
这个片刻的冲击，其实映照出许多马来西亚人心中长期存在、却鲜少言明的张力：宗教，本应指引良知，却往往在公共领域中，被滥用为评断、区隔，甚至排斥他人的工具。
多年来，我曾出席过许多华人文化与宗教相关的节庆活动，包括中元节、庙宇宴会、祭祖仪式等。这些邀请总是带著真诚与善意。我被当作邻里、民选代表，也是一名马来西亚人来接待。从未有人要求我越界，也从未有人质疑我的信仰。
我出席，并非为了膜拜，而是为了尊重、倾听与学习。
而令人意外的是，这些场合往往极其日常。人们谈论家庭、生意、生活成本的压力，以及对子女未来的期盼。长者讲述代代相传的传统，孩子在摆满食物的桌子间穿梭嬉闹。有笑声，也有庄重的仪式感，更有一种无需言明的默契——即便信仰不同，我们的生活却紧密相连。
从一名穆斯林的角度来看，这些经历反而让我更加踏实。它们让信仰回归本质。信念是内在的，不是靠回避来证明，也不需要用怀疑来防卫。伊斯兰从未要求信徒活在恐惧的围墙之后，而是要求我们以品德（akhlaq）立身——行为、尊严与慈悲。
先知穆罕默德本人，正是生活在多元信仰的社会中。他与不同信仰的人经商、保障他们的权利、遵守承诺、尊重彼此的存在，却从未对自己的信仰产生焦虑。他的信念足够坚定，能够共存。这种从容，是今天值得我们重新记起的价值。
在这些节庆中，我感受到的不是诱惑或困惑，而是被欢迎、被信任，以及共存所带来的静默力量。彼此尊重边界，各守信仰。这正是成熟社会应有的模样——懂得区分信仰与恐惧。
讽刺的是，最激烈的反应，往往来自最遥远的地方。
它们来自从未踏入这些空间的人，只透过传言、社交媒体片段或政治叙事来理解差异。在他们眼中，不同即是威胁；信仰必须透过排他来“捍卫”，而不是透过品格来实践。
这正是治理必须介入讨论的地方。
当宗教是真诚的，它是一座道德指南针，引导我们走向诚实、公义、克制与仁慈，提醒掌权者：权力是一种托付，而非奖赏。但当宗教被转化为政治武器，它便失去了本质——不再规范行为，而是审查身份；不再启发良知，而是制造服从；成为压制异议、逃避问责的便利盾牌。
一个国家，无法通过神学把关来治理。公共政策不能建立在“不纯正”的指控，或披著宗教外衣的忠诚测试之上。治理需要的是清晰、公平与理性，而不是将宗教语言包装成政治威胁。一旦信仰被用来质疑他人的归属感或公民身份，它便不再神圣，而是变得功利。
马来西亚不会因为领袖出席自身传统以外的文化活动而变得脆弱，恰恰相反，它因此更强大。代表性不等于认同，尊重不等于皈依，出席更不等于背叛。
面对对我行动感到不安，甚至指责我“越界”的人，我始终以礼相待——这同样是我信仰的一部分。我告诉他们：信仰不会因为承认他人而流失。它并不像恐惧所想像的那样具有“传染性”。与不同社群并肩而立，并不会削弱信念。真正削弱我们的，是以愤怒取代理解，以猜疑掩盖智慧，把恐惧误当成虔诚。
良好的治理，不要求任何人为了归属而放弃自我，而是创造一个让不同身份无惧共存的空间。这种平衡，不靠口号，也不靠道德表演，而需要一种安静的勇气——选择原则而非掌声，理解而非怒火。
宗教，应该让我们成为更好的人，而不是更擅长树敌。当我们清楚划出这条界线——让宗教成为道德的指南针，而非政治的武器——我们守护的不只是信仰本身，也是在守护民主。如此，马来西亚才能保有它应有的尊严。
瑟丽娜《宗教应是道德指南针，而非政治武器》原文：Religion as a moral compass, not a political weapon
It was still early when I checked my phone that morning, one of those quiet moments before the day fills up with meetings and responsibilities. I expected the usual mix of messages—questions about work, comments about policies, the occasional disagreement. That is part of public life.
Instead, a single word appeared on my screen: kafir.
There was no argument attached. No explanation.
The reason became clear soon enough—it was because I had attended a Chinese festival to show respect.
I remember putting my phone down and pausing for a moment. Not because my faith felt shaken, but because I was struck by how casually religion had been reduced to a label. As if belief were fragile. As if faith could be undone simply by standing in the “wrong” place, among the “wrong” people.
That moment stayed with me because it reflects a deeper tension many Malaysians live with quietly: the way religion, something meant to guide our conscience, is often pulled into public life as a tool to judge, divide, and exclude.
Over the years, I have attended many Chinese cultural and religious festivals—Hungry Ghost Festival, temple dinners, ancestral commemorations. These invitations are usually extended with warmth and sincerity. I am welcomed as a neighbour, a representative, and a fellow Malaysian. No one has ever asked me to cross my boundaries. No one has ever questioned what I believe.
I attend not to worship, but to show respect. To listen. To be present and above all, to learn.
And what often surprises people is how ordinary these moments are. People talk about their families, their businesses, rising costs, their hopes for their children. Elders explain traditions passed down through generations. Children weave between tables stacked with food. There is laughter, quiet reverence, and an unspoken understanding that while our beliefs differ, our lives are deeply connected.
From a Muslim perspective, these moments are surprisingly grounding. They strip faith down to its essence. Iman is internal. It is not proven by avoidance, and it is not protected by suspicion. Islam never asked its followers to live behind walls of fear. It asked us to live with akhlaq—with conduct, dignity, and compassion.
Prophet Muhammad himself lived among people of different beliefs. He traded with them, protected their rights, honoured agreements, and respected their presence—without anxiety about who he was or what he believed. His faith was confident enough to coexist. That confidence is something worth remembering today.
At these festivals, what I feel is not temptation or confusion. I feel welcomed. I feel trusted. I feel the quiet strength of coexistence—people observing their rituals while respecting my boundaries, and me doing the same in return. It is a reminder that a mature society understands the difference between faith and fear.
What is ironic is where the harshest reactions come from.
They come from a distance—from people who have never stepped into these spaces, who know them only through rumours, social media clips, or political narratives. To them, difference feels threatening. To them, faith must be defended through exclusion rather than lived through character.
This is where governance enters the conversation.
Religion, when sincere, functions as a moral compass. It shapes values like honesty, justice, restraint, and mercy. It reminds those in leadership that power is a trust, not a prize. But when religion is turned into a political weapon, it loses its purpose. It stops guiding behaviour and starts policing identity. It becomes a shortcut to authority, a way to silence dissent, and a convenient shield against accountability.
A country cannot be governed through theological gatekeeping. Public policy cannot be built on accusations of impurity or loyalty tests disguised as religious concern. Governance requires clarity, fairness, and reason—not religious language repackaged as political threats. The moment faith is used to question someone’s belonging or citizenship, it ceases to be sacred and becomes transactional.
Malaysia is not weaker because its leaders attend cultural events outside their own traditions. It is stronger because they do. Representation is not endorsement. Respect is not conversion. Presence is not betrayal.
When I meet people who feel uneasy with my actions—or who accuse me of crossing a line—I respond politely, because that too is part of my faith. I tell them this: faith is not something you lose by acknowledging others. It is not contagious in the way fear imagines. Standing beside another community does not weaken belief. What weakens us is when anger replaces understanding, when suspicion overtakes wisdom, and when fear is mistaken for devotion.
Good governance does not ask anyone to surrender who they are in order to belong. It creates space where different identities can coexist without fear. That balance is not achieved through slogans or moral grandstanding. It requires quiet courage—the kind that chooses principle over applause, and understanding over outrage.
Faith should make us better humans, not better enemies. When we draw that line clearly—keeping religion as a moral compass, not a political weapon—we protect both our beliefs and our democracy. And in doing so, we give Malaysia the dignity it deserves.
本文观点，不代表《东方日报》立场。
升旗山国会议员。
