APRIL 16 — Work, classes, meetings, site visits, and the occasional quiet moment at my desk. Much of my day is spent indoors. Like most people, I move from one building to another without thinking too much about it.

Lecture halls, offices, lifts, corridors. They are simply part of the routine. But every now and then, I notice something. A room that feels heavier than it should. Air that seems to linger a little too long. A space that looks perfectly fine, but does not quite feel right. You tell yourself it is just fatigue. Or maybe the weather. Or perhaps you just need coffee. And then you move to another building, and somehow, you feel better. It is easy to dismiss these things. Most of us do.

Over time, however, I have started to pay more attention to these small signals. Not just as someone who uses buildings, but as someone who studies and works with them. Because buildings, like people, age. And sometimes, they do not age quietly.

Across Malaysia, many of the buildings we use every day were constructed decades ago. They were built to the standards of their time, using the materials and knowledge available then. Structurally, many of them are still sound. They stand. They function. They continue to serve their purpose. But performance is more than just standing. It is about how a space breathes. How it carries light and air. How it protects, not just from external forces, but from what we cannot see. There is a tendency to think that if a building is not visibly damaged, then it is fine. No cracks, no collapse, no immediate danger.

But some issues do not announce themselves so clearly. They settle in quietly. Older materials, for instance, were not always designed with long-term health in mind. Asbestos was once considered efficient and durable. Today, we understand what happens when its fibres are released into the air. Lead-based paint, ageing wiring, outdated piping systems. None of these are dramatic on their own. But together, over time, they begin to shape the environment we live in.

Then there is ventilation. In many older buildings, air circulation was never designed for the density and usage we see today. Spaces that once accommodated fewer occupants are now filled beyond their original intent. Air becomes stagnant. Moisture lingers. Small issues accumulate into something harder to define, yet difficult to ignore.

You may not notice it immediately. But your body does. A slight discomfort. A recurring headache. A sense of tiredness that feels out of place. These are often dismissed as part of modern life. But sometimes, they are not. I came across a thought recently that stayed with me. It suggested that not all problems arrive loudly. Some settle in so gradually that we learn to live with them before we even recognise them as problems. Buildings can be like that. We adapt to them. We adjust. We normalise the discomfort. Until it becomes part of the background.

Maintenance, of course, is always carried out. Walls are repainted. Fixtures are replaced. Systems are repaired when they fail. These are necessary. But they often address what is visible, not what is embedded deeper within the building itself. It is a bit like treating symptoms without asking where they come from.

As engineers, we are trained to look beyond the surface. To ask not just whether something works, but how well it works, and under what conditions. Perhaps it is time we apply the same thinking to the spaces we occupy every day. Not all buildings need to be replaced. But many need to be understood again. What is the quality of the air we breathe indoors?

What materials surround us, and how have they changed over time?

Are these spaces still aligned with what we now know about health and well-being?

These are not dramatic questions. But they are important ones. There is also something else worth reflecting on. We often talk about sustainability in terms of energy, carbon, and environmental impact. These are crucial. But sustainability is also about people. About whether the environments we create are supportive of human health in the long run.

A building that stands for 50 years but quietly affects its occupants is not entirely successful, even if it meets structural expectations. Somewhere along the way, we may have focused too much on whether buildings can last, and not enough on how well people can live within them. Perhaps the shift we need is not radical, but subtle.

To pay a little more attention to the spaces we sit in.

To notice how they feel, not just how they look.

To recognise that comfort is not a luxury, but a signal. And to accept that sometimes, the problem is not us. It is the space around us, asking, in its own quiet way, to be seen again.

Because if a building can quietly shape how we feel, then ignoring it does not make us resilient. It simply makes us unaware.

* The author is the Coordinator of Industrial Networking and Quality Management at the Faculty of Civil Engineering & Technology, Universiti Malaysia Perlis (UniMAP), and may be reached at aniraasyikin@unimap.edu.my

** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.