by Dr Rahim Said
In Malaysia where entrepreneurship is lauded as the lifeblood of economic progress, it’s always a little heartbreaking when some bright sparks take innovation down the wrong alley.
Take, for instance, the recently uncovered syndicate in Kedah peddling fake medical certificates (MCs) to civil servants, including — how poetically ironic — the police.
For RM25 to RM30 a day, anyone could buy themselves a getaway from work, no fever, no runny nose, no soul-crushing wait at Klinik Kesihatan. Just a printed sheet of A4 paper, a fake doctor’s stamp, and the sweet liberation of a Netflix binge on a Tuesday morning.
Some call it forgery. Others might be tempted to call it… market demand.
You see, Malaysia has always had a curious relationship with rules and loopholes.
We philosophise a lot about “the ends justifying the means,” especially when those means save you a morning of waiting in line, a lecture about your blood pressure, and the indignity of a sick note being questioned by a supervisor who last checked his humanity in 1997
The man behind this MC syndicate was, in his way, a genius of sorts. A patient-turned-document forger, he memorised doctors’ names during his hospital visits — proving, if nothing else, the power of good observation skills.
Then he combined a tablet, a printer, and a dash of low-stakes rebellion into a modest little operation that served a niche market: civil servants too lazy, or too embittered, to face another day at the office.
Anyway, let’s not kid ourselves — if there’s a demand, there will always be a supply. His customers weren’t hardened criminals; they were people just like us. Maybe your neighbour. Maybe your cousin. Perhaps even the friendly cop directing traffic.
They simply wanted a shortcut from the monotony, a reprieve from whatever bureaucracy or petty supervisor awaited them at work.
But this isn’t a story about laziness alone. It’s a reflection of a broader problem: when systems become so stifling, so devoid of empathy, that people resort to creative lawbreaking just to breathe.
In many cases, these fake MC buyers weren’t faking cancer treatments or dodging national duty. They were skipping desk work, morning briefings, and endless reports. One could argue it was petty. One could also argue that it was a matter of survival.
Of course, none of this makes it legal. The law is clear — document forgery and cheating carry significant consequences.
Yet, the fact that this business thrived for two years suggests a collective, unspoken understanding: sometimes the official route feels more punishing than the crime.
It also raises uncomfortable questions about integrity in public service. If the people tasked with enforcing the law are among those subverting it, what message does that send?
What happens when the enforcers themselves find the rules too ridiculous or rigid to follow?
The entrepreneur behind this syndicate has been arrested, along with two alleged middlemen. The laptops, stamps, and precious A4 paper sheets now sit in an evidence room somewhere.
But you can bet your last unpaid traffic fine that someone else, somewhere else, is taking notes, eyeing the next innovation in Malaysia’s rich tradition of informal micro-enterprise.
Because in Malaysia, if there’s a way to shortcut the system, someone will find it.
However, until the system itself is built on fairness, humanity, and a little less pointless bureaucracy, people will continue chasing the end without the means.
So, somewhere in Taman Songket Indah, an empty eatery table sits where negotiations once took place. The business of being sick — even when you’re not—might be on pause for now. But the market, my friend, is eternal.
–WE
The views of the writer are entirely his own