Musa Aman Redux: Disquiet and Apathy in East Sabah

Musa Aman, Sabah’s longest-serving and arguably its most controversial Chief Minister, was sworn in as the 11th Yang di-Pertua Negeri (TYT) of Sabah earlier this year. For many Sabahans, the appointment of the state’s former chief minister (2003-2018) is seen not as exoneration but a stark reminder that the state’s elites shield their own.

As chief minister, he was hailed for creating immense progress for the state but also faced allegations of centralised control, patronage, and systemic corruption. After losing power, in 2018 he was charged with 46 counts of corruption that were subsequently dropped in 2020 without trial.

Musa’s return might be read by more urban, city-based, and federal-centric observers in Malaya and the West of Sabah as a return to political stability. The 2023 removal of Article 6(7) in the state Constitution has now given him broad discretionary powers to appoint a chief minister regardless of party majority.

In East Sabah, however, the return of old elites in new guises has sparked political fatigue and frustration, especially over fears of renewed party hopping (frogging), a practice that plagued Sabah since the 1990s. While Musa may not represent East Coast interests, his re-emergence signals the revival of the gravy train, and with it, the quiet pragmatism needed to navigate Sabah’s uneven political terrain, where meaningful development is often reserved for those loyal to the West.

Musa was nominated by Chief Minister Hajiji Noor, leader of the ruling Gabungan Rakyat Sabah (GRS) coalition, as a move to stabilise elite alliances. The opposition Parti Warisan Sabah (Warisan), which tends to project a reformist democratic image, publicly opposed his return but engaged with Musa-linked actors behind the scenes. These fluid and pragmatic dealings reflect how even reformist parties must navigate long-standing patronage networks to remain politically relevant.

Existing commentaries focus on elite and party-level implications of Musa’s return. Crucially, this return reveals how political legitimacy is shaped not by elite narratives, but also through lived experiences and contestation at the margin. In towns like Sandakan and Lahad Datu, his return feels like confirmation that power remains concentrated in the hands of West Coast elites and their Peninsular Malaysia patrons. For many, Musa is not just a person, but a symbol of how Sabah’s east is consistently marginalised in state governance.

This sense of alienation is not new. Sabah is home to diverse and historically marginalised communities, like the Bajau, Suluk, and Bugis people. While Kota Kinabalu and its surrounding areas on the West Coast saw visible investment and infrastructure under Musa, the development of the East Coast was linked to political loyalty. The Palm Oil Industrial Cluster in Lahad Datu was a flagship example, but despite years of promotion, it faced investor scepticism, high costs, and security concerns. Musa responded by supporting the Eastern Sabah Security Command (ESSCOM), a militarised zone aimed at curbing cross-border crime. Yet for many, ESSCOM reinforced surveillance more than it offered safety, especially among stateless communities in the east like the Bajau Laut.

Speaking to the author about Musa’s return, Samsul, a 30-year-old teacher in Sandakan, smiled and said, “Well, Musa Aman is back. I know people are angry, but maybe we get better duit kupi?”, referencing wryly the “coffee money” which is part of the entrenched culture of vote-buying. When asked if he was angry, he shrugged. “Maybe I was at first. But why be angry now? He’s not technically a politician anymore, even if he still shapes the story. That’s why I said he should just pay me lah.”

Samsul’s response mirrors a broader sentiment across East Sabah: fatigue with political recycling, cynicism toward elite narratives, and the sense that systemic change remains elusive. In these regions, elections are saturated with cash handouts disguised as travel reimbursements, welfare aid or duit kupi, a practice long sustained by both GRS and Warisan alike. For many, Musa’s return was not surprising; what is striking is how little the system has changed.

In towns like Sandakan and Lahad Datu, his return feels like confirmation that power remains concentrated in the hands of West Coast elites and their Peninsular Malaysia patrons. For many, Musa is not just a person, but a symbol of how Sabah’s east is consistently marginalised in state governance.

Yet Musa’s image is not entirely tainted. Among older East Coast voters, he is remembered as someone who, despite everything, delivered. “We called him corrupt, but at least he built roads, gave aid, brought development,” a Lahad Datu resident remarked. During his tenure, for example, Musa developed rainforests in parts of the East Coast and positioned the state as a global ecotourism hub.

Neither GRS or Warisan are riding high now. Notably, Musa’s return coincides with the eruption of a rare earth mining scandal implicating GRS-linked politicians accused of securing mining concessions through elite patronage networks. While GRS attempts to project stability, these revelations further erode GRS’s claim to clean governance.

Meanwhile, Warisan is struggling to retain the moral high ground. Its once-galvanising slogan, “Sabah for Sabahans,” has morphed into a tool for exclusion, increasingly used to question the belonging of Bajau, Bugis, and Suluk communities who live on the margins, often without documented citizenship given Sabah’s lengthy and porous borders. The slogan has been widely used (and often hijacked or repurposed) by various political parties, each adapting it to suit their own agendas. In towns like Semporna and Kunak, support for Warisan lingers, but many feel disillusioned by the turn toward ethnonationalism from a party once celebrated for its inclusivity.

In East Sabah, corruption is not an abstract scandal; it is tangible. Locals interviewed by the author spoke candidly about party-hopping politicians, vanishing community projects, and the sudden appearance of luxury vehicles. The word ‘integriti’ is used prominently in government programmes like KITA 2024 to underscore the need for transparency. But the word is often seen as hollow. Many suspect such campaigns are timed to distract from mounting corruption investigations.

Both Warisan and GRS now vie for support through infrastructure projects and handouts, while subtly managing public memory. In the new Musa era, politics is no longer about reform but about narrative control: what to forget, what to forgive, and who feels familiar enough to trust. Warisan hesitates to criticise GRS’s embrace of Musa without exposing its own contradictions; and GRS, in turn, cannot condemn Warisan’s past without defending its alliance with a man once seen as the face of old politics. Musa’s return matters less for his actions than for what he symbolises: entrenched networks that resist change. But with Sabah’s state election due by year’s end, the old guard will soon be put to the test.

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