By Dr Rahim Said
In football, the crowd remembers the striker who slots in the winning goal in the 89th minute. They rarely remember the centre-back who spent 90 minutes quietly clearing danger, or the goalkeeper who shouted himself hoarse organising a defence that never collapsed.
Yet without them, there is no trophy parade. Malaysia’s long, tortuous 1MDB saga is much the same.
Today, many cheer the final scoreline — Najib convicted, billions traced, history rewritten in law reports. But few bother to ask: who kept the ball in play when the referee seemed bought, the linesmen looked away, and the stadium lights were about to be switched off?
This week, a little-known chapter resurfaced, reminding us that the match was almost abandoned years before 2018.
Datuk Bahri Mohammad Zin, a senior MACC officer, was not the star striker. He was the sweeper at the back — the one who saw the attack coming and chose not to panic.
When the MACC took over the SRC International and 1MDB probes, the pitch tilted sharply. Political interference flooded the midfield. Investigations stalled. Leadership changed. The dreaded instruction — No Further Action — was waved like a red card to justice itself. Many players froze. Some walked off the field.
Bahri did something unfashionable: he defended. Knowing the documents could be destroyed, he quietly split the files into three copies and placed them with trusted hands. No press conference. No heroic soundtrack. Just a professional making sure the evidence would still be there when the final whistle had not yet been blown.
When pressure intensified — raids, arrests, intimidation — his reported response was not legalese or bravado, but something more fundamental: “You have power. I have Allah.” That was not a slogan. It was a line drawn on the grass.
Then there is Latheefa Koya, another name conveniently forgotten by those who enjoy celebrating outcomes without acknowledging process.
As MACC chief, she did not arrive to a roaring stadium. She inherited a team bruised by years of interference and fear.
Yet under her watch, the files that Bahri had protected were finally brought back into play. The passes connected. The build-up resumed. Six years later, the scoreboard changed.
It is tempting — especially in Malaysia — to believe that justice only happens when politics shifts. That a new government magically fixes everything.
But that is like believing goals score themselves once the coach changes. The truth, as Iswardy Morni bluntly put it, is harsher: the evidence was always there; what was missing was courage.
Bahri and Latheefa were not playing to the gallery. They were playing a long game, one where the objective was not applause but survival of the truth.
Without them, there would have been no case to reopen, no charges to file, no convictions to debate today in kopi tiam arguments and op-ed pages.
So yes, celebrate the verdicts. Argue about sentences. Fight over house arrest and concurrent terms. That is the post-match analysis Malaysians love.
But remember this: before there could be a final score, someone had to keep the ball from being kicked into the drain. Someone had to stand in defence when everyone else pretended the match was over.
Unsung heroes like Datuk Bahri — and the tireless resolve of Latheefa Koya — are what keep this country going. They don’t score goals. They make sure the game itself is not fixed.
And one can’t help but wonder how many more are still out there, quietly marking their man, hoping that one day, integrity will finally get the standing ovation it deserves.
The views expressed here are entirely those of the writer, Dr Rahim Said
WE