Maybe power does not always change people. Perhaps, instead, it reveals the compromises they were always willing to make. Anyway, power has a way of changing political vocabulary for sure.
I recently read a BBC article about an interview with Angela Rayner following her reappointment as housing secretary by the new Prime Minister, Andy Burnham. Among the questions put to her was whether she intended to repay the £16,876 ministerial severance payment she had received before returning to the Cabinet.
Rayner, a Labour MP, had resigned as deputy prime minister and housing secretary less than a year earlier, amid public controversy over allegations of possible tax evasion relating to the purchase of a property. In her resignation letter to the prime minister at the time, she acknowledged that she had “not met the highest standards” in connection with the purchase.
Asked by the BBC whether she would repay the severance payment, Rayner replied: “No, my severance payment was given to me at the time. I had worked in government for a period of time and then I came out of government for just under a year.” She added: “I will be delivering in government again.”
There is, at the very least, an apparent irony in this response. In 2023, while in opposition, Rayner accused the Conservatives of showing a “staggering lack of shame” after it emerged that former ministers—some of whom subsequently returned to the front bench—had received substantial severance payments.
The Conservatives have since criticised Rayner, asking: “She quit in disgrace and took a £17k payout. Now she’s got her old job back, will she return the cash? Or is it one rule when in opposition, and another once in power?”
Asked why she had chosen to return to government despite acknowledging less than a year earlier that she had fallen short of ministerial standards, Rayner described the experience as really difficult for both herself and her family. She said she felt she had let people down but wanted to fight for them. She also referred to having “unfinished business” in government, including building more council houses and supporting local authorities.
The episode is not without precedent in British politics. Yet, for me, it raised a broader question about what happens to politicians and political movements when the ideals of opposition encounter the realities of power. That question brought to mind the experience of Sri Lanka’s recently elected left-wing government.
For many years, JVP/NPP leaders remained in opposition, presenting themselves as political outsiders and maintaining a distinctly radical left-wing identity. Their rhetoric was often uncompromising, their criticism of established institutions fierce, and their promises of systemic change ambitious. When they eventually came to power in late 2024, however, I felt that the political transformation was remarkably rapid and not towards the direction expected by the people who campaigned for them.
The aggressive rhetoric was toned down. Policies that had previously been defended with considerable conviction appeared to soften. The distance between the new government and many of its former supporters, activists and grassroots allies also seemed to grow. First, it became increasingly difficult to secure an appointment to meet a leader. Then, it became harder to get even a telephone call answered.
To me, it illustrated a familiar feature of political life: power has a way of changing political vocabulary.
The activist who once criticised institutions can become their defender. The politician who condemned privilege may eventually find themselves comfortable among the privileged. The campaigner who promised fundamental change—or “system change”, as the slogan went—may ultimately settle for modest reforms, cautious management and the preservation of stability.
In a remarkably short period, the language of transformation can give way to the language of stability, competence and market confidence. For supporters who invested their hopes in a genuinely transformative political project, this transition can produce a profound sense of betrayal. They may feel that they supported a movement that promised to challenge the existing order, only to see it eventually assume responsibility for administering much of the same system.
It was against this background that Rayner’s BBC interview struck a particular chord with me.
During the 2024 Labour campaign, I had regarded Rayner as one of the more prominent left-wing voices within Keir Starmer’s team. Her speeches and numerous media appearances presented an image of a politician committed to progressive causes, social justice and improving the lives of those on lower incomes.
Perhaps that is why I found her explanation of her return to government so striking. She spoke of the difficulties experienced by herself and her family, her determination not to “let people down”, her desire to “fight for them” and her belief that she had “unfinished business” in government. All of these reasons were presented as compelling arguments for returning to ministerial office—a position of considerable political power. Yet, when asked whether she would return the severance payment she had received after leaving government, her answer was unequivocally ‘no’. Had her conduct didn’t fall below the ministerial standard and Rayner continued in the office, the UK taxpayers would have saved that £17000, she would not have been ‘rewarded’ with a large amount of public money for alleged Stamp Duty evasion.
This exchange reminded me of the rapid political transformation I had witnessed in Sri Lanka not long before. The two situations are, of course, not directly comparable. The political circumstances of Britain and Sri Lanka are profoundly different, as are the individuals, institutions and historical contexts involved. Yet the underlying question remains familiar: what happens to politicians and political movements when ‘the ideals of opposition’ encounter ‘the realities of power’?
Perhaps power does not always change people. Perhaps, instead, it reveals the compromises they were always willing to make.
As for me, I suspect I remain somewhat naïve. I continue to believe that when politicians make promises in opposition, they should genuinely mean them—and that when citizens vote for change, they should be entitled to expect more than a change in political vocabulary once power has been secured.
One of the recurring disappointments of progressive politics is the gap that can emerge between ideals in opposition and behaviour in government. Political movements that once spoke passionately about equality, social justice, economic redistribution and solidarity can, after gaining office, become absorbed by the practical incentives and constraints of governing.
Compromises that were once denounced as betrayals may be recast as political realism. Principles that once appeared non-negotiable can become matters of political convenience. Policies once described as essential to social transformation may be quietly abandoned in the name of economic stability or administrative necessity.
For supporters who invested their hopes in a transformative project, this can feel less like political maturity than abandonment.
The phenomenon is not confined to any particular ideology. It is, perhaps, a recurring feature of political life. Movements are often built on conviction, while governments are forced to operate through compromise. The tension between the two becomes particularly visible when activists enter institutions of power like government finance, judiciary or law enforcement.
Some retain their original commitments and accept the political costs that may accompany them. Others gradually adapt to the incentives of the institutions they have entered. Their priorities shift, their rhetoric becomes less confrontational, and their definition of what is politically possible becomes narrower.
Over time, the language of transformation may give way to the language of competence. Structural reform becomes incremental change. Radical ambition becomes pragmatic management.
There is also a familiar social trajectory in which political figures gradually distance themselves from the communities and movements that initially gave them legitimacy. As political careers progress, social networks change, professional circles become more elite, and ambitions increasingly reflect the world of institutional power.
The symbols of solidarity may remain, but they can become more ceremonial than substantive. The politician who once presented themselves as the voice of ordinary people may eventually find themselves speaking more frequently to investors, entrepreneurs and business leaders. The transformation is not necessarily deliberate, but to former supporters it can create the impression that the identity that once defined the politician has become something they have quietly outgrown.
Reinventing the Self in the Language of Capitalism
Perhaps one of the most striking transformations occurs when former progressives begin to reinvent themselves as champions of entrepreneurship and profit. The political vocabulary shifts from collective struggle to individual innovation, from redistribution to wealth creation, from organised labour to disruption and venture capital.
There is nothing inherently contradictory about supporting entrepreneurship while retaining progressive political values. A progressive government can reasonably seek to encourage economic growth and private enterprise. The transformation becomes more difficult to reconcile, however, when enthusiasm for entrepreneurship is accompanied by a retreat from the economic principles that originally attracted a movement’s supporters.
What was once presented as a critique of capitalism can gradually become an attempt to find a more comfortable place within it.
The disappointment felt by former supporters is therefore not always the result of a single broken promise. It can arise from watching an entire worldview slowly mutate.
People who once believed that a political movement represented a genuine moral and political alternative may eventually conclude that the politician has become indistinguishable from the establishment they once opposed. The sense of betrayal is consequently deeper than ordinary electoral disappointment. It is the feeling that a movement’s language has been retained while its underlying commitments have quietly been discarded.
This is perhaps the central paradox of political movements.
Movements require conviction to inspire people, but political careers often require adaptation to survive. When activists enter institutions of power, they face a choice between maintaining their original principles and adapting to the realities of governing.
Some manage to do both. Others gradually move towards the political centre of gravity of the institutions they once sought to transform.
Eventually, the former radical may appear almost unrecognisable to those who supported them in the beginning. The convictions that once seemed central to their political identity can appear to have been replaced by a more cautious and pragmatic worldview.
Understanding this process is not a particularly comforting exercise. For anyone who has invested deeply in a political movement or believed passionately in the possibility of a more just society, it can be deeply demoralising.
Yet perhaps there is also something to be learned from it.
The experiences of Angela Rayner and Sri Lanka’s left-wing political movement are entirely different in scale, context and consequence. They should not be treated as equivalent examples. But they have nevertheless prompted me to reflect on a broader truth about politics: the language of opposition and the language of power are often very different.
Perhaps the responsibility lies not only with politicians to remain faithful to their principles, but also with voters to remain critical of political rhetoric.
Political language is, after all, an adaptable instrument. It can inspire, persuade and mobilise. It can also be reshaped according to circumstance and audience.
The challenge for citizens, therefore, is to look beyond the language of political promises and examine the past and present actions of the speaker.
Perhaps I am still naive in believing that politicians should mean what they say when they seek our support. But perhaps that is not naivety at all. Perhaps it is simply a reasonable expectation of democratic politics: that when people vote for change, they should be entitled to expect more than a change in vocabulary once power has been secured.
written by Dr. Kapila Dayawansa Amarathunga
