By Dr Rahim Said
The world has an unfortunate habit of looking for solutions in all the wrong places. When pirates hijack ships, we send warships. When criminals demand ransom, we send negotiators. When governments fail, we appoint committees to investigate — usually followed by more committees to investigate the first.
But what happens when someone tries something different?
Consider Kiyoshi Kimura, a Japanese sushi restaurant owner better known as the Tuna King. His business is selling fish. Yet around 2012, according to his own account, he attempted something even the world’s navies had struggled to achieve: persuading Somali pirates to abandon their guns and return to fishing.
In 2011, 237 pirate attacks were reported off Somalia. Ships were seized, sailors held hostage, and ransom demands ran into millions. Warships from the United States, Europe, NATO, China, India and Japan patrolled the Gulf of Aden. Yet piracy remained a serious problem.
Then came a man from Tokyo whose expertise was sushi, not military operations. Kimura explained that some pirates had once been fishermen whose livelihoods were undermined by foreign trawlers depleting local waters. His account was not the whole story — piracy also involved state collapse, criminal networks and huge profits — but he saw something military planners could not solve with guns alone: men who had once earned their living from the sea.
Instead of asking how to defeat them, he asked: what would persuade them to stop?
According to his account, he provided four fishing boats, helped the fishermen catch yellowfin tuna, arranged facilities to preserve their catch and promised to buy their fish. His message was simple: abandon piracy and earn an honest living.
He was not offering a lecture on morality. He was offering an alternative. It is easy to condemn a criminal. It is harder to understand the circumstances that make crime attractive and then create an option that restores dignity without excusing wrongdoing.
Kimura’s contribution to the decline of Somali piracy has not been independently established, and it would be an exaggeration to credit four boats with solving an international crisis. Naval patrols, armed guards, better ship protection and developments within Somalia all mattered. But the principle behind his initiative deserves attention — especially here in Malaysia.
Consider our own mat rempit. For years, Malaysians complained about young motorcyclists roaring through the streets, staging illegal races and disturbing neighbourhoods. The standard response was predictable: more enforcement, more arrests, more stern warnings.
Law enforcement is necessary. Reckless riding endangers lives. But is punishment alone enough? Where are those young men today? Some may have grown out of their habits, found jobs, started families. Others may have redirected their knowledge of motorcycles and roads into legitimate work as e‑hailing drivers or food‑delivery riders.
We should not assume every delivery rider was once a racer. Yet the possibility raises an important question: what happens when the energy once spent on a nuisance is redirected towards earning an honest living?
The young man who once raced may possess mechanical skills, road knowledge, confidence and an appetite for adventure. Those qualities, without the recklessness, could have value in motorcycle repair, logistics or delivery services. What if we had deliberately created more pathways to make that transition possible?
Imagine programmes combining safety training, technical certification, apprenticeships and access to legitimate employment. Instead of merely telling young people what they must stop doing, we could help them discover what else they could do.
That is where the sushi man from Tokyo becomes relevant. Kimura’s approach was not to excuse piracy but to change the economic equation. He tried to make catching fish a viable alternative to hijacking ships. We could apply the same thinking to our social challenges.
Providing skills and legitimate earning opportunities does not guarantee that everyone will change, but it gives people more choices. And choices matter.
The mat rempit phenomenon is not identical to Somali piracy. One involves dangerous road behaviour; the other involved organised attacks on ships. The lesson is not that the two are equivalent, but that both invite us to consider whether prevention and practical alternatives can complement enforcement.
A job is not merely a salary. It can provide structure, self‑respect and belonging. For a young person labelled a troublemaker, the chance to earn a legitimate living may offer something else: the opportunity to be known for what he contributes rather than what he once did wrong.
The greatest lesson in Kimura’s story is not that a sushi entrepreneur accomplished what navies could not. It is that the ability to make a difference does not belong exclusively to those with power or office. Sometimes, it belongs to someone who understands a trade, recognises a human need and is prepared to act.
You do not have to be a president to change a nation. You do not have to be a general to restore peace. You do not have to be a billionaire to give someone a second chance. And you certainly do not have to be a chef to change the world. But if you happen to be one, why not?
We may never know exactly how much difference Kimura’s four boats made off Somalia, or how many Malaysian youths have redirected their skills. But the questions are worth asking: How many young people have we written off before discovering what they might become? How many problems persist because we condemn undesirable behaviour more than we create desirable alternatives?
Perhaps the next breakthrough will not come from another summit or billion‑ringgit programme. Perhaps it will come from a mechanic who trains unemployed youths, an entrepreneur who hires former offenders, a teacher who refuses to give up on a difficult student, or a retired professional who shares a lifetime of experience.
The world does not always need another hero with a cape. Sometimes, it needs someone willing to roll up his sleeves and do something useful.
So, the next time we think we are too ordinary or too insignificant to make a difference, remember the Tuna King. He was a restaurateur, not an admiral. His business was fish, not foreign policy. Yet he looked at a crisis and imagined a possibility others overlooked.
It is never too late to change the world. You may be a teacher, a mechanic, a fisherman or a chef. You simply need to see a problem, believe something can be done, and have the courage to begin.
WE