Fragmented Promises: The Reality Behind Malaysia’s Housing Policies

It was just supposed to be another ordinary day in Kuala Lumpur. Rain had been falling since dawn, soaking every corner of the city and driving people to seek shelter where they could. I arrived at the soup kitchen more out of habit than expectation, thinking I’d spend the morning behind the scenes like usual, chopping vegetables and stirring soup. But today, for the first time, I was put outside to serve. The queue was longer than I’d ever seen. People shivered under flimsy ponchos or worn out jackets that were dripping wet. As I ladled each bowl of steaming noodles, the warmth seeped into my own hands just as it did for those waiting in line, connecting me to every person clutching their meal against the chill.

The first person in line was a hunched old uncle, rainwater dripping from every edge of his thin jacket. He smiled shyly through the cold and told me, “I walked a long way—no choice. I live at PPR Raya Permai.” PPR, or Program Perumahan Rakyat, is a Malaysian government initiative that provides low-cost housing for lower-income groups, aiming to offer affordable rental and ownership options to families earning less than RM2,500/USD 596 per month who do not own property. The phrase “affordable housing” came to mind, but it’s important to recognize that true affordability means more than just low cost. It should also include the ease of living and a sense of security. For most people, the term is often only associated with pricing, but genuine affordable housing is meant to guarantee not just a manageable rent, but also safe, healthy conditions and reliable access to daily essentials which is a definition recognized in Malaysia’s housing policies and public expectations.

He told me he couldn’t afford a taxi and had walked in the downpour to the nearest train station, nearly half an hour away from his flat. As he sneezed, I wrapped a towel around his shoulders, poured hot tea, and handed him some paracetamol. He seemed grateful but tired, the way only people who carry everyday burdens can be. I was struck by the fact that an old uncle had needed to walk nearly two kilometers in the pouring rain just to put some food in his belly. After my shift ended, I found I couldn’t bring myself to eat my own bowl of noodle soup, thinking about how much he had endured for that one hot meal. When he left, I couldn’t stop thinking about the place he called home, and why something meant to be “affordable” could still force a man to endure so much. How can we truly call this “affordable” when it means having to walk so far just for a basic meal? Does affordability have to mean settling for what’s leftover or scraping by with necessities that are barely good enough?

As he merged back into the line of people who had likely overcome their own challenges just to be there, the true nature of Kuala Lumpur’s affordable housing became impossible to ignore. PPR Raya Permai is only one of the hundreds of public housing complexes across the city, yet its story is repeated time and time again. These blocks offer shelter to large families, retirees, migrant workers, and anyone else who finds themselves caught between rising costs and stagnant wages. At first glance, the architecture seems unproblematic: four tall towers, each holding hundreds of units no larger than 550 or 660 square feet. The buildings were meant to be a lifeline. But over time, cracks began to show: leaking pipes and broken lifts became a constant headache for residents, making everyday life more difficult. These failures often sent people in search of help to nearby clinics, where long lines were now a daily reality, as minor health problems and accidents caused by the building’s poor condition began to accumulate.

Life in a PPR complex feels both communal and strained. Children run through narrow corridors, unbothered by the peeling paint and puddles that grow increasingly more hazardous after every rainfall. In the early mornings, mothers set out trays of kuih (sweet pastries) to sell down at the roadside. Fathers depart on long commutes, hoping traffic will not add another hour to their journey home. By noon, the stairwells fill with the familiar sounds of gossip, laughter, and the occasional argument, as neighbors lean out of windows, discussing news, sharing worries about rising rents, or grumbling about the government’s latest promises. The physical closeness brings some comfort, yet the infrastructure struggles to support the lives packed within its walls. The building itself tells a story: mold creeping along walkways, security guards stretched thin, a tired maintenance crew tasked with patching problems that always seem to multiply.​

Far too often, it is PPR’s location on the city’s fringes that shapes the fate of its residents.While some blocks are luckier, located close enough to crowded schools, bustling wet markets, and several clinics, residents there can manage daily errands more easily. Others, like Raya Permai, remain cut off, especially for those too old or too weak to walk the long distance from their homes to the nearest MRT or LRT station. I learned that for many, the commute is more than just inconvenient; it is a daily struggle. Uncle and his neighbors must choose between exhausting walks or spending scarce ringgit on taxis they simply cannot afford. Rain transforms the journey into an obstacle course. Mud slicks the pavement. Shoes squelch. Clothes fail to keep out the wet, and umbrellas, if they are owned at all, are little match for tropical downpours.

We hear regularly that progress is being made. The government heralds improvements: the urban poverty rate has apparently fallen from 4.5 percent in 2022 to 3.7 percent in 2024, painting a picture of gradual economic uplift. Ambitious budget allocations, including RM2.47 billion earmarked for social housing in 2025, give the impression that urgent needs will soon be met. Yet it doesn’t take many soup kitchen conversations to see the gap between policy and reality. Behind every headline number are stories like Uncle’s. And as of the latest data, more than 227,000 Malaysian families still lack basic financial and housing security, their lives defined less by government statistics than by the daily obstacles they must overcome.​

Walking the corridors of Raya Permai, reality comes alive in the smallest details. An elderly woman waits for her grandson to come home and help her climb the stairs. She has needed her grandson’s help to climb the stairs ever since the lift broke down for the third time last month. Another family, with three children and an aging parent, discusses how to rearrange their sleeping spaces as the roof springs a leak. Mold grows in quiet patches, sometimes cleaned by residents themselves, other times left to spread until it becomes a health hazard. Mornings reveal a rotation of volunteers and paid workers, wiping down shared facilities. At night, the isolation deepens. Security patrols do their best, but with so few staff for so many people, fear remains. Residents learn quickly where to walk and which troubles to avoid.

For many, living in PPR fosters an uneasy sense of gratitude mixed with disappointment. PPR housing was meant to help those climbing their way out of poverty. PPR housing was created to offer a lifeline for low-income families struggling to find secure homes in Malaysia’s cities. Its history goes back to government efforts in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when rising urban migration and the aftermath of the Asian Financial Crisis led to a surge in squatter settlements. The government saw the need to clear slums and give every family a shot at stability, so it launched the Program Perumahan Rakyat which provided simple flats, modest rents, and a clear mission: to help people climb their way out of poverty and into proper communities. Over time, high-rise blocks sprang up across Klang Valley and the capital, with three-bedroom units offered at prices far below market rates. Yet as years passed, it became obvious that building walls and handing out keys was only the beginning of the challenge. These units became overcrowded, had poor maintenance, and physical isolation often breeds despair. Design flaws, tiny units, limited ventilation, thin walls, reinforce the feeling that families are trapped in a system built for convenience, not dignity. Worse, the very placement of these developments, so far from economic hubs, job opportunities, and social activities, deepens social stigma. PPR residents begin to feel, and sometimes internalize, the message that they belong apart from the city’s progress.​

But these problems didn’t arise by accident. Malaysia’s housing system suffers from three major, interconnected problems. First,  governance is fragmented, there are too many agencies and levels of government involved which would lead to poor and limited coordination between them. As a result, new public housing blocks are sometimes built without proper links to public transport, jobs, or social services; maintenance responsibilities are unclear, and families end up isolated from urban opportunities. Second, policy thinking is often short-term. Targets for the number of housing units delivered or headline homeownership rates take precedence over quality, location, and long-term community building. Governments tend to prioritize visible achievements and rapidly launched projects, while deeper issues of sustainability and livability persist.​​ Finally, relying on market logic and private developers creates further problems.  Developers have strong incentives to build high-margin luxury properties, resulting in far more supply at the top end and severe shortages lower down. Even when so-called affordable units are created, strict eligibility criteria and high rates of bank loan rejection mean many families cannot access them, so vacant units pile up in remote areas while demand remains unmet in urban centers. All these factors work together to exclude those who need help most, making a mockery of the public policy “promise” and trapping families in a cycle of precarity and disappointment.

Financing for low-income families makes matters worse: with banks rejecting sixty percent of loan applications for affordable homes, many deserving candidates never get a chance at ownership. Banks often reject loan applications for affordable homes not because applicants are “undeserving,” but mostly due to strict lending requirements and risk assessments tied to income, job security, and credit scores. Many lower-income families, even when eligible for public housing, struggle to provide stable proof of income or meet the debt service ratios banks require to approve a loan. Some may have irregular earnings, short job histories, or lower credit scores due to previous debts or lack of banking history, making them high-risk in the eyes of financial institutions. As a result, even sincere and hardworking candidates are frequently denied mortgages for affordable units, leaving homes unsold and defeating the original purpose of these public housing initiatives. As a result, they settle into long-term rentals, always one emergency or policy change away from housing insecurity, the fear of being on the streets.​ 

This fragmented landscape differs sharply from Singapore’s Housing and Development Board (HDB) system, where housing policy has long been driven by state planning and universal access goals. The HDB in Singapore is the national government agency responsible for planning, building, and managing public housing estates, with over 80% of Singapore’s residents living in HDB flats that are designed to provide affordable, high-quality homes and integrated community facilities. This centralized housing authority builds, maintains, and regulates public housing so that 80 percent of citizens live in well-kept flats, enjoying perks that stretch far beyond a roof over their heads. Grants fund regular upkeep; ethnic integration policies preclude social isolation between the many different races within the community at these housings; robust planning means transport, clinics, markets, and green spaces are all within reach. Most of the HDBs have parks around them to promote a healthier lifestyle that doesn’t cost as much, in fact it’s free to just take a walk in these parks. Homeownership there is an attainable dream, not a complex idea.​

International comparisons add further perspective. The United Kingdom’s “Right to Buy” program, once hailed as a breakthrough in public policy, encouraged tenants of government-built flats to purchase their homes at a discount. It was intended to broaden homeownership, but over time it resulted in a dramatic loss of public assets, a surge in private and often unaffordable rentals, and a deepening of social inequality as working-class families were shut out of new opportunities. While Southeast Asia’s cities like Kuala Lumpur share some surface similarities, a mix of public housing blocks, rapid urbanization, and rising economic aspirations, there are crucial differences too. Malaysia’s PR1MA program and similar schemes try to bridge a vast and diverse population: unlike the UK’s original council flat system, Malaysia’s urban population is far more varied in ethnicity, geography, and economic background, and the state’s capacity to enforce strong public ownership or rent control has long been weaker. Yet the risks are comparable: when reforms designed to expand homeownership instead favor middle-income applicants at the expense of the most vulnerable, or when poorly located housing and market incentives keep the poorest families locked out, societies replicate the consequences seen in the UK, higher inequality, more housing insecurity, and lost faith in public promises.

The debate around Malaysia’s housing market is often narrowly framed in terms of supply and demand, with many assuming that simply increasing the number of new units will allow benefits to trickle down to those most in need. Policymakers and developers are quick to highlight statistics showing more homes built, fewer unsold units, and climbing homeownership rates as proof of real progress. Yet, everyday experience tells a different story: there’s a persistent mismatch between the supply developers produce and the actual needs of lower-income families. Affordable housing units are frequently built where land is cheapest or in locations far from jobs, transport, and community life, so they remain vacant while demand continues to surge in urban centers.​​

Market-driven approaches have not balanced the scales. Instead, they’ve led to more units sitting empty, overpriced relative to local incomes, or located in areas that do little to support mobility and well-being. “Numbers don’t paint our troubles,” as one woman waiting for medicine put it. “Politicians see percentages, we see every night of leaking roofs and empty pantries.” Behind the official statements lies unresolved hardship: technical fixes, quotas, and launches alone will never address root problems of accessibility, financial exclusion, and the structural divides in Malaysian society. Real reform means deeper change, rethinking where and how public housing is built, who gets access, and what it means to have a safe, meaningful home in the city.

What should those reforms look like? A true housing reform must begin with coherence at the center. Instead of scattered agencies working at cross purposes, a single, empowered housing authority should coordinate planning, financing, and maintenance to ensure decisions align toward one common goal: livable, sustainable communities and housing. Housing delivery must also be reimagined around a build‑then‑sell principle, where families receive homes that are complete, functional, and free from the broken promises of half‑finished projects. Beyond construction, inclusivity should guide design and planning. Blocks that bring together residents of different incomes, ages, and backgrounds foster the social networks and everyday encounters that turn housing from concrete to community. Financing must likewise shift toward equity, with stronger government backing that allows more citizens to obtain mortgages without facing prohibitive bank rejections. And none of this endures without consistent upkeep which is a commitment to maintaining lifts, plumbing, and communal areas that affirms not just practicality, but the basic dignity of the people who live there. 

And finally, listen. Everyone I meet in places like the soup kitchen has insights policymakers will never learn from spreadsheets. By elevating their stories, by recognizing the lived reality behind every statistic, Malaysia can set priorities that mean something. The RM2.47 billion allocated for social housing in 2025 isn’t just a number; it is a chance to map out a different future, one where the uncle at PPR Raya Permai walks home under clear skies knowing the city is with him, not somewhere far away.​

What’s at stake here is more than policy, it is a vision of belonging. Malaysia stands at a crossroads. The road of fragmented, market-driven housing policies leads to tired souls and soaked slippers, to communities of anxious neighbors waiting desperately for change. The path toward a tested, centralized blueprint for dignified public housing, like Singapore’s, offers an alternative. It promises justice, unity, and cities built not as fortresses of wealth, but as living places for every person.

Rainy mornings at the soup kitchen have a way of revealing the true spirit of care that binds a city together. When a humble uncle from PPR Raya Permai smiles through the drizzle, gratefully cradling a bowl of steaming noodles, his quiet resilience becomes a gentle reminder of why these reforms matter so deeply. Policies crafted in distant offices only come alive when they reach those for whom warmth, shelter, and dignity are most precious. It is their stories, their steadfast hope on wet and weary days, that should guide us toward building a city where no one is left shivering alone. In listening closely, may we shape a future that truly reflects the kindness, strength, and belonging we yearn to share.

Photo by Khairil Yusof

Kay Kamarul Zaki is a freshman from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, studying economics and public policy at New York University. She is interested in urban poverty, social inclusion policies, anti-displacement initiatives, and the future of renewable energy in growing cities. In her free time, she enjoys reading translated literature, her current favorite authors are Stefan Zweig and Magda Szabó, discovering new foodie spots with friends, and playing with cats.