The last of the gentlemen: A tribute to Tun Abdullah Ahmad Badawi
A tribute to Tun Abdullah Ahmad Badawi
Those were the days when the title “Prime Minister” carried weight. Not just printed weight on paper, but real, spoken respect. The kind of respect that even a normal person like my mum, a tutor from Kedah, would carry in her voice.
I remember her stories vividly. She used to proudly tell me that “Tun Dr Mahathir orang Kedah juga”, and how he and Tun Dr Siti Hasmah visited her school when she was a little girl. Despite not always agreeing with his policies, she never spoke ill of the man or the office he held. For people like her, the job of a Prime Minister was beyond politics. It was duty. It was sacrifice. It was service. Even if she didn’t know the ins and outs of policymaking, she respected the burden they carried.
Then came my turn. My generation. I never thought that pride would continue—but it did.
I went to High School Bukit Mertajam (HSBM). And back then, we used to walk around proudly saying “We’re from Pak Lah’s school.”
That’s right—Tun Abdullah Ahmad Badawi, Malaysia’s fifth Prime Minister, went to the same school. There was a sense of pride we carried with that. Even though we were just teenagers, not fully politically aware, we knew enough to feel that something big was happening when he took over after Dr Mahathir stepped down in 2003.
There was fear, of course. A big one. Who could possibly fill such big shoes?
But Pak Lah did. And he did it with grace.
The 2004 general election saw one of the biggest victories in Malaysian history. People celebrated, not just politically, but as one. Even those who weren’t on his side had nothing but kind words to say. Because he was that kind of leader—charismatic, calm and decent to the core.
And I’ll never forget this:
Years later, in 2015, I had the honour of interviewing him as a journalist. I was nervous, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I told him with a bit of pride in my voice, “Tun, I’m from HSBM too.”
He gave me that signature Pak Lah smile. And then, like the true gentleman he was, he spent the next two minutes interviewing me instead. Asking me how I was, where I worked, how journalism was treating me. I was the one supposed to be asking the questions, but there he was—gracious, warm and genuinely interested.
By the time you read this, I’m sure many experienced journalists and editors would’ve already detailed his legacy—Islam Hadhari, his leadership style, his political calmness, the way he carried himself. But here’s what I can offer, from a journalist who lived through the ups and downs of Malaysia’s modern history:
I was there when a Prime Minister was sent to jail.
I was there when another one came back—twice.
I was there when we lost one plane to mystery and another to tragedy.
I was there when faith in the system wavered.
And still, I remember the time when the position of Prime Minister wasn’t a meme or a point of mockery. When it wasn’t turned into a circus in roadside ceramahs or clickbait on social media.
I remember a time when the Prime Minister was someone people actually wanted to listen to.
Pak Lah’s introduction of Islam Hadhari wasn’t just a slogan. Even as a non-Muslim, I found myself curious, wanting to understand what this vision meant. It was accessible. It made sense. It was sincere. That’s how much weight his words carried.
And that’s what we’re missing today.
Politics is necessary. We know that. But it shouldn’t turn into a playground where anyone and everyone treats the Prime Minister's chair like a revolving door, or worse: a joke. There was a time when the four legs of that chair weren’t just furniture. They stood for integrity, wisdom, patience and humility.
Tun Abdullah Ahmad Badawi was the last of that kind—a true statesman, not just a politician. He never raised his voice to win a crowd. He didn’t need to. His calmness was his strength. And whether you agreed with him or not, you couldn’t deny that he was, above all, a good man.
One of my former editors once said, “You can never find a good man like Tun Abdullah anymore.”
I believe that. And I think deep down, many Malaysians do too.
He will be remembered not just for what he did, but how he did it. With dignity. With heart. With the kind of humility that you don’t often see in power anymore.
So here’s to Pak Lah, Malaysia’s Father of Human Capital Development.
The Prime Minister who reminded us what leadership should look like. And the man who made even a small-town schoolboy like me feel proud to say—"I’m from his school."
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