Sallek Yaks Musa

Truth hurts. Few appreciate it, and even fewer defend it when it threatens comfort or convention. My understanding of this reality came through personal experience, an early lesson in leadership that continues to shape how I view authority and the dangerous allure of sycophancy.

Two decades ago, my journey into education began in an unusual way. For five years, my father had spoken passionately about his dream to establish a nursery, primary, and secondary school that would help transform the state of education in our city. In 2004, we finally decided to bring that dream to life. What followed was both the beginning of my passion for education and my first encounter with the complexity of leading people and institutions.

The process of establishing the school was neither smooth nor simple. I remember every detail – the struggle to develop infrastructure that met required standards and equip it, the endless paperwork, the defence of proposals before career bureaucrats, and the scrutiny of regulatory inspections. Each stage tested our patience and resolve, yet the experience became invaluable. It offered me lessons no textbook could teach and laid the solid foundation of my leadership philosophy.

By the time we received approval to open in September 2005, I led over a hundred interviews to staff the school. That period sharpened my ability to read people and situations intuitively, a skill I have trusted ever since. The school went on to succeed beyond expectation: self-sustaining, thriving, and impacting tens of thousands of young lives. Yet, behind this success lay one central principle – truth.

My commitment to truth shaped the school’s ethos. Every decision, from recruitment to remuneration, from board meetings to relationships with parents and staff, was guided by sincerity. My academic training would later frame this conviction in philosophical terms. With leadership, I align with Auguste Comte’s positivist epistemology, rooted in the belief that truth is objective, concrete, and independent of social interpretation. This, I discovered, is easier preached than practised.

In practice, truth is disruptive. It offends vanity, challenges comfort, and exposes deception. My insistence on it often placed me in direct opposition to others on the Board, including my father. He later confided that while my defiance was difficult to bear, it forced him to confront realities he had overlooked. I further learned that the defender of truth often stands alone. My father eventually recognised what I had resisted all along: the quiet but corrosive power of flattery.

Sycophancy, though rarely discussed openly, remains one of the greatest dangers to leadership. It thrives where authority is unquestioned, and dissent discouraged. Flattery seduces leaders into believing they are infallible. It builds an echo chamber that filters information, reinforcing biases and creating an illusion of competence. Over time, this isolation from reality becomes costly as decisions are made on false premises, honest critics are sidelined, and mediocrity is rewarded over merit. But this is not a modern affliction.

The 16th-century political theorist Niccolò Machiavelli, in The Prince, warned rulers of this very danger. He cautioned that the wise Prince must deliberately surround himself with people courageous enough to speak the truth, for flatterers ‘take away the liberty of judgment.’ Centuries later, the philosopher Hannah Arendt would echo this concern, arguing that the loss of truth in public life leads to moral decay and political collapse. The persistence of these warnings shows how deeply entrenched sycophancy remains in systems of power.

The psychology behind flattery is deceptively simple. It feeds the ego, providing comfort that masquerades as respect and support. Leaders, craving affirmation, often mistake it for loyalty. But as Daniel Kahneman and other cognitive theorists have shown, human judgment is easily distorted by bias and praise. Flattery, therefore, becomes not merely a social nicety but a psychological trap, one that blinds decision-makers to inconvenient truths.

For those newly stepping into student’s course representative roles, these lessons carry special relevance. Academic leadership is often less about authority and more about stewardship, the quiet work of creating conditions where ideas can flourish, student’s voices are heard, and students can contribute honestly. Resist the temptation to surround yourself with agreeable voices. Encourage critique, invite dissent, and create a culture where questioning is not perceived as confrontation but as commitment to excellence. The strength of representation lies not in the leader’s popularity but in their willingness to confront complexity, admit limits, and make decisions grounded in truth rather than convenience.

As the once “baby school” turned twenty this year, its anniversary passed in my absence. My father’s message of appreciation reached me nonetheless, and his words reminded me why truth, though often costly, remains indispensable to authentic leadership. He wrote:

Remember, son, true leadership lies in listening attentively, sieving facts from noise, embracing unpopular voices, acting on truth, and valuing others above yourself.

That reflection closed a circle that began two decades ago. It reminded me that leadership rooted in truth is not about being right but about being realistic. It is about creating space where honesty thrives, even when it unsettles.

Flattery may offer short-term peace, but truth builds long-term strength and relationships. The leader who welcomes honesty, however uncomfortable, not only guards against failure but also nurtures a culture of integrity that outlives their term.

Twenty years after that first bold step into education, leading teams and managing academic programmes in education, I remain convinced that truth is not a luxury in leadership – it is its lifeline. Legacies are not defined by applause or position, but by the integrity to lead with sincerity, listen without fear, and act with unwavering commitment to what is right. People are ultimately remembered not for simply opposing flattery, but for the truth they championed and the courage they demonstrated to stand firm in their convictions when it mattered most.