Nostalgia is a powerful force. On social media, residents often romanticise past leaders, whether MPs, ADUNs, Mayors, Councillors, or even RA and RT chairpersons. The pattern is familiar: incumbents are judged harshly, often more for what they have not done than for what they have achieved.
Meanwhile, past leaders are remembered fondly if they did a decent job, with many criticisms forgotten as trivial. If they did nothing, they fade into obscurity. Only those who left behind a scandal are remembered for the wrong reasons. The true mark of leadership is simple: whether people miss you when you are no longer in office.
This cycle of judgment and nostalgia is not confined to politics. It plays out in our relationship with the trees of Subang Jaya. Before a tree is taken down, complaints abound: it is sick, it poses a danger to motorists, and its roots damage drains and kerbs. Yet once the tree is felled, protests erupt. Suddenly, everyone is a tree hugger.
As if all trees are healthy, beautiful, and harmless. As if development does not require trade-offs. The reality is that urban areas are constantly evolving. Parking lots, road widening, and new facilities demand space. Trees are not taken down for no reason. Yes, we want more greenery, but we must also accept the balancing act of safety, infrastructure, and growth.
Recently, several trees in SS17 were felled to make way for public parking lots, as part of the development of shop offices along the road. I only discovered the fact in January, though the development order had been approved long before. The onus was on MBSJ to relay this information to ratepayers. Instead, residents only found out as contractors took the trees down, without knowing why. I shared the little that I knew: that the trees were removed for parking lots. It appeased some, but not all. Damage control after the fact is never as effective as transparency from the start.
Of course, residents would prefer pruning or trimming over removal. We would prefer proactive maintenance: saving sick trees where possible, and preventing illness before it spreads. Case studies elsewhere show that this is possible. In Singapore, arborists use sonic tomography and soil sensors to detect hollow trunks, root decay, and early signs of disease. This predictive monitoring allows them to treat trees before they become hazardous through soil aeration, targeted fertilisation, or cabling to stabilise weak branches. The result is fewer emergency removals and more trees saved. Subang Jaya could benefit from adopting similar preventive practices, moving beyond the binary of “prune or chop.”
Yet the frustration is not only about the act itself. It is about communication. MBSJ’s poor communication compounds the anger. If the council routinely updated residents on tree maintenance, pruning schedules, or the rationale for removal, people would understand. If they explained why it takes longer to repair potholes, drains, or public park amenities, or why functioning street lamps are replaced en bloc, residents would see the logic. Or at the very least, they would be more tolerant.
Instead, we only find out during or after the act. The council’s website and social media are under-utilised, reserved for car-free day announcements, major road diversions, or tax collection notices. The everyday work, the maintenance that shapes our lived environment, is left invisible. And when things are invisible, people assume the worst.
Simple fixes could change this: weekly maintenance bulletins, WhatsApp broadcast lists, a live dashboard of ongoing works, and pre-emptive notices before contractors arrive. These are not expensive solutions, but they would build transparency and trust.
This is where the parallel with leadership becomes clear. Just as trees are judged more harshly when they are gone, leaders are judged more harshly when they are present. Incumbents face criticism for every perceived failure, while past leaders are remembered through rose‑tinted lenses. The lesson is not to avoid criticism; it is inevitable. The lesson is to communicate, to explain, to engage. A leader who leaves office and is missed has succeeded. A council that removes a tree and is understood has succeeded. Silence breeds resentment; transparency builds trust.
Just as a tree’s absence makes us reflect on the shade it once gave, a leader’s absence makes us reflect on the service they once offered. The true test of both is whether their loss is felt. If residents miss the tree because it sheltered them, or miss the leader because they stood with them, then the value was real. Communication, care, and presence are what make that difference. In Subang Jaya, we deserve leaders and councils who leave behind shade, not shadows.
