I never imagined that TikTok would become part of my academic journey.
I have spent years teaching sociology and include media theory in related courses — Marshall McLuhan, Neil Postman, the power of television, the dangers of infotainment, and Jean Baudrillard and his hyperreality.
But the world has moved on. The screen is smaller now. The messages are faster, the performances more playful, and the political stakes no less serious. I am no political scientist, but here I am, watching politicians lip-sync to viral audio clips in the name of research, and personal curiosity.
This is politainment: politics wrapped nicely in entertainment, designed to inform, persuade, and perform all at once. My current project involves tracking how Malaysian politicians use social media, particularly TikTok and Facebook, to shape their public digital personas.
Some do it awkwardly. Some do it half-heartedly. A few do it with uncanny fluency. But none of it is accidental. Every post, every soundbite, every filter choice says something about the political mood of our time.
TikTok, especially, fascinates me. It is not just a platform; it is an ecosystem of affect. You do not just scroll — you feel. A well-timed video can make you laugh, rile you up, or move you to tears. You cheer on possible would-be couples, and you cry for done-and-dusted partnerships. When politicians enter that space, they are not just communicating. They are performing for an algorithm that rewards emotion, visibility, and participation. Studying this is not trivial; it is urgent.
I have spent long hours coding video content, categorising tone and symbolism, and comparing how different politicians perform on Facebook versus TikTok. Facebook is still the platform of the seasoned political class — more formal, more controlled, more “YB”. TikTok, on the other hand, is raw, chaotic, and unforgiving. It is where the youth are. It is where image is everything.
Take someone like Muar MP Syed Saddiq Syed Abdul Rahman. His videos are breezy, charming, and plugged into current trends (and of course, a certain celebrity). He speaks the language of the platform without condescension. Then there is Kedah Menteri Besar Datuk Seri Muhammad Sanusi Md Nor — often absent from his own videos, but his voice and worldview echo through montage clips across his platform. That is presence.
Sometimes, late at night, I find myself laughing out loud at the creativity of it all. Amused by it all, to quote Postman. Other times, I feel a weight — the sense that this performative layer is becoming the dominant mode of political engagement.
And yet, I do not think it is all bad. In some ways, this is the most participatory our politics has ever been. People comment, remix, argue. The public is not just watching; they are in it.
Still, the work is not always glamorous. There are grant reports to write, data to clean, comments to parse. There are days when I feel more like a digital ethnographer than a traditional academic. My cat Alfie has sat through more campaign jingles than he probably deserves. My son teases me for knowing more TikTok trends than he does. But deep down, I know this matters.
Because when we study politainment, we are not just tracking trends — we are documenting how people adapt, how politicians evolve, and how public discourse is being reshaped in real time. We are bearing witness to a cultural shift where memes and ministers share the same stage, and where the distance between a speech in the August House and a viral TikTok is sometimes just one remix away.
So yes, I study politicians on TikTok. I take notes when they dance, when they crack jokes, when they speak directly to the camera. Because behind every clip, there is a message. Subtle, maybe, but powerful nonetheless. And behind that message, a changing political landscape that we all need to understand — even if it means watching yet another off-tune duet video before bedtime.
Dr Azrina Husin is an Associate Professor at Universiti Sains Malaysia, currently conducting a research project on politainment with support from a Fundamental Research Grant Scheme.
The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the writer and do not necessarily represent that of Twentytwo13.
