WE are often reminded ad finitum that leadership is not position. It is action. It is action derived from the leader’s drive for responsibility, vigour and persistence in the pursuit of goals, and his self-confidence and sense of personal identity. Often, these characteristics are moulded when young.

Having a famous father figure that displayed these traits and attitudes, according to famed US sociologist R D Mann, puts the leader in a better position to lead.

That is why the myth of “leadership dynasties” or “anointed families” is easily accepted in high power distance societies. They revel in hero worship and Asian histories, especially, reverberate with stories of the hallowed names of families that are seen as guardians of nations and people.

As a young country going through the throes of nationhood, Malaysia is not spared this experience. Our founding fathers are revered and the stories of their heroic sacrifices for the nation are common tales retold a thousand times. Their sons and daughters are also held to a higher level of expectation.

A recent statement by the family of our late second prime minister that came days after The New York Times quoted a statement from the Prime Minister’s Office that Datuk Seri Najib Razak’s wealth came from a family inheritance is a case in point.

“We wish to put on record that Tun Abdul Razak was a highly principled man, well-known to all who knew him for his frugality and utmost integrity and any statement or inference to the contrary would be totally false and misleading to his memory and to his service and sacrifices for the nation,” the family wrote in the three-paragraph statement.

It is very commendable for the family to come out as a united front in preserving the legacy of their father — a man known as a true gentleman.

But not many of us are blessed with a towering father figure of national importance. Yet, that should not matter. A role model is what any father should be known for. Mine and yours are no different. Let me tell you about mine.

My father was a quiet man of action. Stoic and self-sacrificing, he spoke only when he had to, and was not given to providing wise, life-changing advice to his offspring. It was “not his style”. I cannot remember long conversations with him.

He seldom displayed affection in public but we knew when he was happy or displeased with us. He was just “there” — a quiet provider for his family, with an easy smile for the wife and a stern but friendly countenance for his children.

I grew up too fast and spent my impressionable age in hostels and dormitories away from the family. Amidst books and examinations, his presence became the voice over the telephone during weekend calls or the name at the bottom of the monthly letter stuffed with a fifty-ringgit note.

As I busied myself academically, I thought other men were more significant than my father. Those men, who taught my classes muttering intelligent-sounding jargon and wrote scholarly articles in journals and explained complex theorems and philosophies, were those whose ranks I aspired to be in.

My father never did that — he was, in my mind, quite ordinary. My hero worship made me a disciple to thinkers and writers living in faraway US and the UK and the rest of the world who ignited my young mind.

Then, while in college, as I travelled to India, the US and Europe, I realised I had seen more, had travelled farther than my father ever did. His magic chant of “Delhi, Calcutta, Madras, Bombay” (in lieu of the more commonplace “Abracadabra”) when he played with us, did not hide the fact that he never visited these places. (Later, he did visit Delhi and stayed there for a year!)

He was especially excited when I visited London. He kept asking if I had gone to Fortnum & Mason — in his eyes, the world’s best grocery store. And the same eyes lit up when I took out a bottle of fruit preserve from that store I bought as a gift!

Then, I entered the “grown-up” world — the career, the relationships, the credit card collectors. In this bustle of keeping up with the Joneses, I looked forward to returning home, my safe sanctuary, to his reassuring presence, watching an old rerun on television together, listening to a story about nothing in particular and hearing his warm, fulfilling laughter.

That was when I rediscovered my father again — not as a boy in awe, but with respect as a man. And I realised a truth I had always known but could not articulate — my father was always there for me. Unlike the professors, the books, the celebrity heroes, the mentors, he was always there.

He provided me with the mould to be what I am today. His love for the written word, his insistence on claiming the moral high ground and his discipline for hard work all converged to show me how to not just survive but to thrive.

My father is sadly no longer with me. In the colourful words of my friends in India, he “expired” some 18 years ago.

And now, at an age bordering 60, as I look at my own children, I wonder what they think of me. At what point will they exclude me from their world of important men, and will there be a point when they will return to me with a nod of understanding?

How will they measure my weaknesses and strengths, my flaws and distinctions, my fears and dreams? Will they finally claim me in the name of love and respect?

Sometimes the simple lessons are the most difficult to teach. Sometimes the most essential truths are the most difficult to learn. I hope that one day my children will cherish all the lessons and truths that have flowed to them, through me, from their grandfather.

When my children do this, perhaps they will feel the same pride and fulfilment that I do when I say, “I am my father’s son”.

Zakie Shariff is CEO of a state-owned GLIC and co-founder of hCap Associates, a talent search company

This article first appeared in The Edge Malaysia Weekly, on March 16-22, 2015.

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