Why Titles Without Roots Will Rot—and What We Must Teach Our Children Instead

A King’s Comment That Struck a Nerve

Two days ago, during the Agong’s birthday celebration, something unexpected happened. Instead of the usual ceremonial pleasantries, our King delivered a message that broke through the pageantry like a lightning bolt: “Datukship is not for sale. If you have money, do charity. Help the poor and needy.”

To many, it might have sounded like just another remark. But for those of us paying attention, it was a rare moment of raw honesty—a direct challenge to a culture that has quietly normalised trading recognition for status. What struck me wasn’t just what he said—it was that he dared to say it at all. And what he said didn’t just apply to a few corrupted individuals chasing titles. It reflected a broader truth that I’ve witnessed across families, schools, leadership rooms, and even inside myself: we are too often obsessed with how we look, not who we are.

The Boy Scout Who Loved His Badges

I remember vividly being in primary school, proudly wearing my boy scout uniform. What I loved most about scouting wasn’t the activities or even the friendships—it was the badges. Every time I earned a new one—whether for cycling, camping, or life skills—I’d ask my grandmother to sew it onto my uniform. One evening, she laughed and said, “Why sew so many things? Like beggar clothes—patch here, patch there.” I was furious. To her, they were just patches. To me, they were proof that I mattered.

That memory never quite left me. As I grew older, the badges changed—but the hunger stayed the same. They became degrees, job titles, awards, LinkedIn updates. I wanted to be seen. To be validated. And I began to see that many of us never outgrow the need for badges. We just upgrade them.

The Tragedy of Inflated Credentials

Years later, I found myself in Melbourne, coaching students across 18 universities. Some were brilliant and hungry to learn. Others were just… collecting credentials. I had one student who’d been in Australia for six years, supported entirely by his family, with no job, no direction, and no desire to change. He paid me to translate lecture slides—nothing more. He’d show up late, light a cigarette, and say, “No rush. Just talk. I’ll pay.”

At first, I thought, “Well, this is easy money.” But after a few sessions, I couldn’t do it anymore. I told him, “You’re not learning anything. You’re wasting your time, your parents’ money, and my time too. You can use Google Translate. You don’t need me. What you need is to face your life.” To my surprise, he didn’t argue. He sat quietly.

What frustrated me wasn’t his laziness. It was the waste of potential—and my unwillingness to stay silent about it. Because deep down, I care about helping people grow. Not just achieve, but become. And when I see someone hiding behind a certificate or a status label, it reminds me of something I’ve committed my life to fight against: performing for validation, instead of living with purpose.

The Monash Student Who Didn’t Know Why

Just last week, a Monash undergraduate student sat across from me and asked, “What’s the point of getting full HDs in my degree?” Her tone wasn’t rebellious—it was resigned. She’s the only daughter in a close-knit family, deeply respectful of her parents’ wishes. “It’s what they expect from me,” she said. “So I just follow. But honestly… I don’t know what I want.”

Her words stayed with me. Not because they were unique, but because they’ve become so common. We’re raising young adults who know how to chase excellence but have no idea what they’re chasing it for. We equip them to achieve, but we never ask them to reflect. So they keep climbing ladders that may not even be leaned against the right wall.

It’s not that they’re unwilling. It’s that they’ve been taught how to meet expectations without ever being asked who they want to become.

When Education Becomes a Stage, Not a Journey

As someone involved in education, I’ve seen this play out again and again. We say we care about learning, but what we actually reward is performance. In Malaysia, we pour resources into tuition centres and exam prep, yet our students still score far below average on international benchmarks like PISA. Only 1% of Malaysian students reached top proficiency in math compared to 9% in OECD countries.

A teacher once told me, “Sometimes I feel like the children don’t know they’re allowed to fail. That’s the real pressure we feel—unspoken, but everywhere.” That hit hard. Because if students don’t know how to fail, they’ll never know how to grow. And if teachers can’t protect that space for failure, then we’re not educating—we’re stage managing.

This is the silent cost of title obsession. When we chase grades, accolades, and awards at the expense of identity, we strip education of its soul. We turn schools into factories for polished images instead of incubators for resilient humans.

The Durian Tree Doesn’t Lie

Let me offer a picture that helps me think clearly about this: the durian tree.

It takes years to grow. You can’t rush it. You prepare the soil, nurture the roots, and wait. Sometimes 10, even 15 years before it bears fruit. But when it does—the fruit is rich, distinct, unmistakable.

Now imagine someone who wants the fruit without the process. They take a mango tree and hang durians on it. From afar, it looks impressive. “Wow! That tree is so productive!” But it’s all an illusion. The fruit wasn’t grown—it was placed. Bought. Staged.

And like all fake things, it eventually rots.

That’s the danger of titles without substance. Awards without contribution. Degrees without learning. You can hang as many accolades as you want, but if the roots aren’t real, the fruit won’t last. And worse—you’ll spend the rest of your life maintaining an illusion that drains you.

Leadership Is What You Carry, Not What You Flash

This problem isn’t just in students or parents—it’s in leadership, too.

I’ve met individuals with more titles than responsibilities. CEO. Dato’. Advisor. Doctor. Founder. And I’ve also met a humble professor who walked away from royalty to serve in education and research. One was collecting recognition. The other was living contribution.

Over the years, I’ve been offered awards. Honorary degrees. Accelerated school licenses—if I was “willing to play the game.” And each time, I said no. Not because I’m noble, but because I know how fragile shortcuts are.

These regulations exist for a reason. They protect students. They ensure safety. They create accountability. And yes, they can be painfully bureaucratic—but they also weed out those who aren’t serious.

We don’t build legacy by cutting corners. We build it by doing things the long, hard, sometimes invisible way. The durian way.

So What Do We Do With All This?

I believe we need a cultural shift—one that starts with parents, continues in schools, and echoes through leadership.

Parents need to stop obsessing over how their children perform and start caring about who they are becoming. It’s okay if your child doesn’t score straight As. What matters more is whether they know how to bounce back from failure, stand up for what’s right, and discover what they truly value.

Schools need to move beyond ranking students and start preparing them for life. That means making space for mistakes. Teaching empathy. Modeling courage. Encouraging questions that don’t have neat answers.

And leaders—we must stop introducing ourselves with our accolades and start leading with our impact. If our identity is dependent on our title, we haven’t grown—we’ve just decorated ourselves.

As a society, we need to restore the meaning of words like “Datuk,” “Doctor,” “Principal,” “Leader.” Not just as decorations—but as evidence of real contribution.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

We often think the greatest danger is being overlooked—unseen, uncelebrated, unknown. But maybe the real danger isn’t obscurity. Maybe it’s self-deception.

What if the real fraud isn’t lying to others… but branding yourself before you’ve truly become yourself?

When children grow up performing for approval, we call it success. But what if the opposite of real education isn’t ignorance—it’s inflated performance without identity?

We say we want our children to succeed, but we rob them of security when we never let them fail. We think we’re protecting them—but what we’re really doing is packaging them.

Because what lasts—what truly lasts—isn’t the applause, or the certificate, or the title.

It’s the roots.

The quiet resilience.

The hard-won clarity.

Legacy isn’t loud. It’s patient. It’s earned.

And it can never be bought.