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When WhatsApp Stops Connecting Us and Starts Consuming Us

When WhatsApp Stops Connecting Us and Starts Consuming Us Technology was supposed to make communication easier. Instead, many of us now carry a small source of anxiety in our pockets. WhatsApp has become so deeply embedded in everyday Malaysian life that it is difficult to imagine a normal day without it. Families organise themselves through WhatsApp groups. Businesses depend on it. Schools use it to communicate with parents. Friends make plans through it. Community groups share announcements, warnings and, occasionally, questionable information. It is undeniably useful. But usefulness can become dependence. And dependence can become unhealthy. The problem is not WhatsApp itself. The problem is the expectation that we must always be available because WhatsApp makes it technically possible. A message arrives. We check it. Another arrives. We check again. A group becomes active. We feel compelled to see what is happening. Someone has read our message but has not replied. We s...

The Holier-Than-Thou Facebook Preachers

The Holier-Than-Thou Facebook Preachers


Every society has its saints. Malaysia has Facebook saints—self-appointed, permanently online, and morally flawless between 7 a.m. and bedtime. These are the Holier-Than-Thou Facebook Preachers, delivering daily sermons from the comfort of their couches, armed with long captions, selective quotes, and an ego polished to a divine shine.

They wake up, open Facebook, and immediately feel called—to correct, to condemn, to lecture. Someone posts a harmless photo? Sin detected. Someone shares an opinion? Moral emergency. A mistake goes viral? Time to preach repentance, humility, and values—preferably with caps lock and zero self-awareness.

Their posts are masterpieces of righteousness. Carefully worded to sound wise, compassionate, and deeply principled—while quietly aiming at someone specific. “Not judging, but…” is their favourite opening lie. Because nothing says humility like publicly correcting strangers while pretending to be spiritually superior.

Offline, these same people cut queues, double-park, gossip aggressively, and treat waiters like furniture. Online, however, they float three inches above the ground, glowing with virtue. Accountability is for others. Self-reflection is postponed indefinitely.

They weaponise morality without practising it. They quote values but ignore kindness. They preach forgiveness but block instantly. They demand respect while delivering insults disguised as advice. It’s not faith—it’s performance. A costume worn for likes, shares, and approval from people who already agree.

The comment sections are their pulpits. Anyone who disagrees is “lost,” “ignorant,” or “corrupted by modern thinking.” Debate is unwelcome. Questions are disrespectful. Only applause is accepted.

What makes this behaviour exhausting isn’t belief—it’s arrogance. Not values—but volume. Real integrity is quiet. Real compassion doesn’t need an audience.

Until Malaysians learn that morality practiced loudly but lived poorly is just noise, Facebook will remain crowded with preachers who talk like saints, act like everyone else, and somehow believe the internet owes them reverence.

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