Rafizi’s down but hardly out

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 A rare breed of a politician who readily admits to reality. - Facebook image

Rafizi’s down but hardly out

KUALA LUMPUR, May 26, 2025: No News Is Bad News reproduces below an article found on WhatsApp titled TALK IS CHEAP, BUT SILENCE IS A LUXURY I’VE MASTERED.

In short, dumping the party loyalist and committed Reformasi PKR reformist from the central leadership is party president Anwar Ibrahim and PKR’s loss.

We have nothing to add nor wish to comment further as much have been posted by us on the PKR elections that concluded on Friday.

 A Facebook image that came with the caption: My ideal future prime minister.

*TALK IS CHEAP, BUT SILENCE IS A LUXURY I’VE MASTERED*

A Lament Reality Check on Malaysian Politics, Brotherhood, and the Strange Art of Staying Awake During Ceramahs

I am 66.

Which means I’ve been dodging political rallies, avoiding partisan fever, and quietly deleting forwarded WhatsApp videos of screaming politicians for approximately six decades and change. That’s longer than some ministers have stayed loyal to a single party—which, in Malaysia, is practically sainthood.

You see, I have never been a political neophyte. I have never waved a party flag, marched to a stadium or to Sogo, nor stood under a tattered tent eating bihun goreng while a local YB screamed about bangsa, agama, dan bahasa over a squealing loudspeaker. I don’t own a party polo shirt. Never have. Never will. I don’t know the party’s fight song. I barely know my own ringtone.

Why? Because talk is cheap.

And in Malaysia, it’s on year-round clearance sale.

Politicians love talking. It’s their cardio. And the rakyat? Oh, bless us all—we keep buying it. We clap for recycled slogans like it’s Shakespeare. We laugh at jokes that wouldn’t survive a family WhatsApp group. We nod at promises like amnesiacs with a goldfish attention span.

Now, don’t mistake my detachment for ignorance. I read. I observe. I scroll. I sip my kopi o’ while the political circus plays out across screens and speeches. And sometimes, I do more than watch—I remember.

I remember Rafizi Ramli.

Not the Deputy President who just lost. Not the technocrat with the complicated oil subsidy pitch that made most people reach for panadol. Not the viral Facebook critic with thousands of “like if you agree!” fans.

No—I remember Raf of Mendula Ingens, Class of ‘94.

A Budak Koleq.

A Carey Award winner.

A boy who once debated his way through the Piala Perdana Menteri as a Form Three student, leaving judges in awe and opponents in therapy.

He wasn’t just good. He was feared.

He once spoke for ten minutes straight on Malaysia’s economic future, in flawless Bahasa, quoting Keynes, Syed Hussein Alatas, and—bizarrely—a line from The Karate Kid.

At 15.

And yes, I remember the tahlil too.

2010. A solemn evening at Bukit Jelutong.

Our dear batchmate friend, Wan Hashim a.k.a. Ginjit, had passed. His balu, Nor’Aini—who once taught in MCKK—called for a gathering of FT7276. We came, older and greyer, half of us unsure which surah to start with.

And there he was—Rafizi Ramli. Not one of our batch. But present. Respectful. Quiet.

When the call came to lead the tahlil, we all did the usual Malaysian Uncle Shuffle—eyes down, adjusting songkok, suddenly very fascinated by the floor tiles.

But Rafizi stepped forward.

And led.

With the calm composure of a boy who’d grown up too quickly in too political a world. With the quiet dignity of someone who knew that real leadership isn’t shown behind podiums or press conferences—but in small, sacred spaces where no cameras roll.

So when people say he’s too idealistic, too principled, too naïve, I nod. Because it’s true.

Rafizi never played the long game. He played the right one. And in Malaysian politics, that’s fatal.

He refused to cozy up to the usual warlords. He fought with math instead of money. He believed in oil subsidy reforms and governance like some people believe in horoscopes—stubbornly, against all logic.

And yes, maybe he sulked when MOF took over his project. Maybe he lost because he didn’t build enough alliances, kiss enough hands, or flatter enough egos.

But let’s be honest—what kind of person do we really want at the top? The one who plays the game? Or the one who tries to fix the board?

He says he’s relieved. I believe him.

Because sometimes, stepping away from the stage doesn’t mean quitting. It means surviving.

Politics is a meat grinder.

Even a reformist gets chewed.

And maybe, just maybe—when the smoke clears and the dust settles—people will realise that you don’t need to win to have mattered.

So here I remain, 66 and unimpressed, watching this carousel of promises and pantomime from the safety of my verandah, kopi in hand. I don’t attend rallies. I don’t wear party colors.

But if Rafizi ever runs again?

Maybe I’ll attend.

Maybe I’ll finally wear a party shirt.

Maybe I’ll even clap—twice.

Or Maybe I’ll be dead by then.

Because the man may be politically out,

But in the quiet hearts of the boys who once walked under the Big Tree of MCKK  and the oldest rubber tree of Kuala Kangsar,

He’s still one of ours.

And that, my friends,

Counts for everything.

*Hisham Badrul Hashim*