The British political system has just witnessed its fifth prime ministerial resignation in ten years—a striking instability by that nation's standards. Yet what distinguishes the departures of David Cameron, Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, and Rishi Sunak from those of their Malaysian counterparts is the grace with which they have exited. Cameron and May now occupy the House of Lords, offering measured commentary on government policy without seeking a return to the top job. Johnson channels his energies into writing and journalism. Truss has largely withdrawn from public view. Sunak retains his parliamentary seat but has moved into the private sector. In every case, these former leaders have accepted the verdict of voters or circumstance, preserved their party affiliations, and allowed their successors to govern without constant second-guessing. The contrast with Malaysian politics could hardly be more stark.
Malaysian politicians, by contrast, seem constitutionally incapable of accepting defeat or relinquishing their place in the arena. The moment a leader loses an election, fails to secure a prized nomination, or falls out of favour with party leadership, the calculation shifts dramatically. Rather than retire honourably, they treat their former party as a rival to be destroyed. They cross the aisle, adopt new colours, and launch campaigns that are driven less by conviction than by a desire for vindication or retribution. The pattern has become so entrenched that it now represents a defining feature of the Malaysian political system—one that undermines stability, fragments opposition blocs, and ultimately serves the interests of those who are best positioned to survive constant realignment.
The Johor state elections provide a contemporary illustration of this tendency. Puad Zakarshi, who spent more than four decades as an Umno member beginning in 1980, abandoned the party on the eve of voting and subsequently appeared at Pakatan Harapan events, clearly intent on damaging his former organisation. The official narrative centres on his dissatisfaction with the state party's subordination to higher-level direction. Yet observers close to the situation note a simpler trigger: his son was not selected as a candidate. When political ambitions are thwarted, the response is rarely to accept the decision or to work within the system for change. Instead, the aggrieved party switches sides and weaponises their institutional knowledge against those who denied them advancement.
Similarly, Marina Ibrahim, a respected and effective DAP state assemblyman, quit her party and has been mounting vigorous attacks on her former colleagues. She has articulated principled objections, claiming discomfort with what she characterises as covert support for the imprisoned former Prime Minister Datuk Seri Najib Razak. However, the proximate cause was reportedly a reassignment to a more difficult electoral district—a routine internal party matter that became, in her eyes, sufficient grounds for a wholesale break and subsequent campaign against DAP. Notably, Marina has at least refrained from immediately joining a rival party, and she declined to contest as an independent. Yet her presence on the attack line nonetheless fragments the opposition vote and weakens the bloc that might otherwise challenge Umno's dominance.
The situation becomes even more fractious when departing politicians establish entirely new vehicles for their ambitions. Rafizi Ramli, the former PKR deputy president, lost internal party elections and responded by founding a separate party, ostensibly dedicated to the same progressive principles that PKR championed. In practice, his new organisation now competes directly with his old one for the same voters and constituencies. This fragmentation almost guarantees that neither party will prevail in three-cornered contests, handing victory to opposition forces that represent everything both were meant to oppose. The tragedy is entirely predictable: vengeance has triumphed over strategic calculation, and electorates suffer the consequences.
DAP itself has experienced similar internal ruptures. P. Ramasamy, the former deputy chief minister of Penang, has waged an unrelenting campaign against his old party since being excluded from the 2023 candidate slate. He founded the Urimai party and has directed sustained criticism at former DAP secretary-general Lim Guan Eng, whom he once labelled "Emperor". Yet Lim Guan Eng himself now finds himself in an awkward position. Despite stepping down as Penang's chief minister, he has become an opposition voice within a state still governed by his own party, locked in disputes with his successor Chow Kon Yeow over policy direction. The current Chief Minister has grown sufficiently exasperated to publicly tell Lim to "sit down" during assembly proceedings. This internal conflict within DAP's leadership cadre threatens substantial electoral damage when the next general election arrives, undermining the party's capacity to present a unified alternative to Barisan Nasional governance.
The pathology becomes even more pronounced among former prime ministers, those who have scaled the highest rung of power. Unlike their British equivalents, Malaysian former PMs cannot accept relegation to the backbenches or retirement. Muhyiddin Yassin continues to manoeuvre within Bersatu, attempting to reclaim the authority he once wielded. His journey—from Umno to Bersatu, into partnership with Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad, then to Perikatan Nasional, and now feuding with Perikatan's PAS partner—illustrates the constant realignment and the absence of any ideological anchor. Ismail Sabri, Muhyiddin's successor as Prime Minister, remains active in Johor politics under Umno's banner but holds no federal position, a diminishment he has clearly not accepted with equanimity. Both men continue to engage in manoeuvres designed to recover lost status rather than to build something new or to mentor a younger generation.
Yet the most striking example remains Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad, who celebrated his 101st birthday recently and shows no signs of retreating from political warfare. Mahathir stands as the archetype of the vengeful ex—the ultimate survivor who brought down the very Barisan Nasional government he once led, who has worked with and subsequently against both PAS and DAP, and who appears willing to employ any rhetorical weapon to advance his immediate objectives. His recent pronouncements, urging Malays to vote exclusively for Malay candidates on grounds that otherwise Malays would lose their homeland, represent a dangerous escalation in divisive rhetoric. The statement is jarring not merely for its apparent appeal to ethnic tribalism but for what it reveals about the ease with which figures of immense influence abandon principle when it serves their political interests.
The Malaysian system thus finds itself caught in a vicious cycle. When ambitious politicians lose elections or fail to secure nominations, they lack the institutional and cultural mechanisms that push Western politicians toward graceful retirement. There is no expectation of dignity in defeat, no social premium placed on mentoring successors, no understanding that one's final legacy might rest on the calibre of leaders one develops rather than the continued prominence of one's own name. Instead, the default response is to treat defeat as betrayal, to seek revenge through party-switching, and to mount campaigns that prioritise personal vindication over collective advancement. Each such defection further weakens the political formations that birthed the defector, making it easier for better-organised rivals—typically those already in power—to consolidate their position.
The consequences ripple through the political ecosystem in ways that extend far beyond individual electoral contests. When opposition figures spend as much energy attacking each other as attacking the government, they squander the opportunity to present coherent alternatives or to build durable coalitions. When former leaders refuse to depart, they block the emergence of younger talent and prevent the natural generational renewal that healthy democratic systems require. When personal grievance becomes the primary driver of political decision-making, policy substance becomes secondary, and voters are left with the impression that politicians care chiefly about their own fortunes rather than the public interest. Malaysia's political culture has become defined by this pattern—a system in which the unchosen exit, the permanent grudge, and the perpetual comeback attempt have become normalised to the point where they barely register as remarkable.
Comparison with Britain reveals what becomes possible when political leaders internalise the expectation that defeat carries dignity rather than shame, and that departure opens avenues for influence and legacy-building that continued grasping for power forecloses. That cultural expectation does not exist in Malaysia, and its absence exacts a price that extends well beyond individual ambitions. Until Malaysian politics develops mechanisms and norms that encourage graceful retirement and reward elder statesmen for mentorship rather than comebacks, the pattern will likely persist—with each new round of departures triggering fresh cycles of revenge, fragmentation, and instability that ultimately serve those best positioned to exploit the resulting chaos.
