AT the age of 66, I did something that surprised even myself. I returned to university.
The last time I sat in a classroom as a student was almost 50 years ago. Back then, assignments were written by hand, research meant hours in libraries and nobody had ever heard of artificial intelligence.
Suddenly, there I was again, carrying books, reading journal articles, meeting supervisors, and worrying about deadlines like any other student.
The only difference was that most of my classmates were the same age as my children.
For years, I was the one reminding them to study, finish their assignments, attend lectures and most importantly, graduate. Like many mothers, I could become quite a monster when it came to education. University was never presented as an option. It was an expectation.
So when I enrolled in a Master’s programme, my children immediately seized the opportunity for revenge.
“Mama, don’t embarrass us.”
“Mama, don’t quit halfway.”
“Mama, make sure you finish.”
I suppose I deserved it. What they did not realise was how difficult returning to university would be. A brain occupied for decades with family, public service, charitable work, royal duties and countless other responsibilities suddenly had to remember how to think academically again. There were moments when I wondered whether my brain had quietly retired. Instead, it chose to work overtime.
Yet there was also joy.
Perhaps it is because I have always loved history. Perhaps it is because I grew up in a family conscious of history. Or perhaps it is because I eventually realised that I was not merely studying history.
I was studying a story my own family had lived through for centuries.
Throughout this study, I have traced the movement of law, ideas, manuscripts and dynastic relationships across the Malay world. Again and again, the evidence reveals that constitutional traditions were preserved not only through institutions and texts, but also through the people entrusted with carrying them forward.
In reflecting upon this history, I cannot ignore a certain irony. Just as dynastic marriages once linked the courts of Melaka, Pahang, Johor, Patani, Brunei, and Aceh, my own journey forms a small part of that continuing story.
Born a princess of Johor and married into the House of Pahang, I did not set out to become a student of constitutional history. Yet it was through this journey that I encountered the Hukum Kanun Pahang and came to appreciate the magnitude of the legacy preserved within it.
My purpose in undertaking this study has never been to claim ownership of that legacy. Rather, it has been to return it to the people of Pahang and to restore recognition to a constitutional tradition that deserves its rightful place within the history of the Malay world.
What began as a Master’s thesis on the Hukum Kanun Pahang gradually became something much larger. At first, it was simply an old legal text, a manuscript preserved in a museum, a historical document waiting to be translated and understood.
But as I spent more time with its pages, it became something else entirely. It became a mirror.
Through it, I discovered not only the history of a kingdom, but the history of an idea: that sovereignty must be guided by law, that power must be restrained by justice, and that governance is ultimately an amanah before Allah.
What moved me most was not what was written in the manuscript, but what survived despite its absence.
For centuries, the manuscript itself was no longer in Pahang. Yet the monarchy survived. The institutions survived. The traditions survived. The assumptions concerning kingship, succession, governance, and responsibility survived. The text was hidden, but the civilisation endured.
Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all. Civilisations do not survive because of buildings. They do not survive because of monuments.
They survive because certain ideas are carried from one generation to the next.
Sometimes consciously. Sometimes silently.
The Hukum Kanun Pahang was one of those ideas.
The fall of Kota Melaka did not mark the end of a civilisation. The civilisation simply changed its address.
Part of it continued in Pahang. Part of it survived in law. Part of it survived in memory. And part of it waited quietly in a manuscript until the day it returned home.
As I traced the genealogy from Melaka to Pahang, from Sultan Muhammad Iskandar (Parameswara) to Sultan Sultan Mansur Shah to Sultan Muhammad Shah, from Sultan Abdul Ghafur Muhyiddin Shah to the present day, I came to understand that history is not a series of disconnected events. It is a chain. Each generation inherits something and leaves something behind.
The recovery of the Hukum Kanun Pahang is therefore more than the recovery of a manuscript. It is the recovery of memory.
It is the restoration of a constitutional tradition. It is the rediscovery of a chapter of Malay civilisation that has waited far too long to be read.
Today, as more Malaysians encounter this remarkable manuscript, my hope is not simply that they will admire it as an old document.
My hope is that they will recognise it as something much more important, a reminder that long before colonial codes and imported systems, our forefathers had already reflected deeply on law, governance, justice, and responsibility.
This thesis is therefore more than an academic exercise. It is an attempt to leave something behind.
A contribution.
A correction.
A reminder.
A legacy for my children and I hope, for future generations of Malaysians.
As I write these final pages, the thesis is nearing completion and the viva voce lies ahead. I confess that I am nervous. It is a strange feeling.
At 66 years old, one would imagine that examinations, interviews and academic scrutiny belong to another lifetime. Yet here I am, experiencing the same anxieties as students less than half my age.
Sometimes I pause and laugh at the absurdity of it all. After leaving school for almost half a century, I somehow found myself back at university, surrounded by classmates young enough to be my children, writing a Master’s thesis on a manuscript that disappeared for centuries and returned home just in time for me to discover it.
None of this would have been possible without the patience, guidance and faith of my supervisors, who believed in me even when I occasionally doubted myself. They challenged me, encouraged me and helped me transform a fascination with history into a serious academic undertaking. For that, I shall always remain grateful.
To have reached this point already exceeds anything I imagined possible. Yet somewhere along the way, another thought quietly entered my mind.
What if this is not the end?
What if one day there is a PhD?
I must admit that “Dr Mama” has a rather nice ring to it too.
Soon, if Allah wills it, I will walk across the stage to receive my Master’s scroll. My husband will be there. My children will be there.
And I suspect they will be smiling, beaming with pride, perhaps with the same joy and gratitude I once felt as I watched them reach their own milestones.
There is something wonderfully humbling about seeing the roles reversed, the mother who once cheered from the audience now becoming the one being celebrated by her family.
Because after years of telling them to finish university, Mama finally had to take her own advice.
And when that day comes, I know exactly what I will be thinking.
The manuscript came home.
Perhaps our memory can too.
And yes..
Mama made it!
Tunku Azizah Aminah Maimunah Iskandariah is a master’s candidate at the International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation (ISTAC), International Islamic University Malaysia.