As cities grow taller and busier, are we losing the simple neighbourly warmth that once defined our streets?

LET’S be real. Our neighbourhoods have changed faster than a Myvi on a highway. We are all so busy and caffeinated that we rarely take a second to breathe, let alone have a chat with the person living next door.

Conversations have shrunk to the size of an emoji. Our connection to the community is often limited to how many bars of 5G we can get on our porches.

Remember the days when the “Aunty” next door would hand over a bowl of curry laksa over the fence and you would return the bowl with some kuih? Those small acts built a bridge.

Today, we have replaced those bridges with eight-foot-tall automated gates and CCTV cameras that notify our phones every time a stray cat sneezes near our compound. It feels like connections are now built for convenience, not care.

As the number of cars on our streets grows, so does the “creative” parking that erodes our sanity. We have all seen it: the viral neighbour wars of late 2025, where a parking dispute in Cheras got so heated that the local council showed up and fined everyone on the street. That was a RM30,000 community gift that nobody asked for.

Or consider the infamous “Puan Sri” saga where a woman who claimed her title gave her the right to park on a neighbour’s porch, then demanded to see their wedding certificate as proof they lived there! When did we stop being neighbours and start being private investigators?

I often think of my childhood, when riding my tiny bicycle around the neighbourhood felt like a grand adventure. Every family knew my name – mostly so they could tell my mother if I was being mischievous.

Every corner was a safe zone, and I felt part of a giant, ungated family. Now, I worry about the next generation.

As we look towards the Urban Renewal Act 2026, where cities are becoming denser and taller, how do we show our children the joy of a “kampung spirit” in a concrete jungle?

It seems we have traded the freedom of the streets for the safety of a screen. Yet, all is not lost. Communities are like sourdough; they just need a little warmth to rise again.

We saw this in early 2026 when a Chinese aunty became a “second mother” to her neighbour’s daughter, proving that trust and love can bridge any ethnic divide over 14 years.

We saw it in the “Aunty Sheila” squad who spent years helping their stateless neighbours finally get their ICs. These are not government programmes; they are just people deciding not to be strangers. Perhaps it can start with something small – a friendly hello that does not involve a complaint about a tree branch or a cup of coffee shared on the porch.

Maybe, it can be joining a “Hari Cuci Malaysia” event to clean the drains together because nothing bonds people like a mutual hatred for a clogged longkang.

If we pause for a moment, we will remember what truly matters – the laughter, the shared meals and the security of knowing that if you accidentally leave your gate open, your neighbour will call you instead of posting a picture of it on a complaint group.

By slowing down, we can bring back the warmth and harmony that once made our streets feel less like a parking lot and more like a home.

Tiviyah Kunasekaran

Seremban

 The Sun Malaysia