“It is this history of actions and manoeuvres of the PAP state that has determined the type of political culture today: all manner and form of organised groups—professional associations, trade unions, political parties and students—have been incapacitated from becoming a contender to the PAP’s dominance of Singapore’s political life. Every generation therefore, has seen new, although short-lived, non-PAP leaders. In the light of such a history, it is little wonder that all these groups should have appeared immature and easy meat for the PAP government to pick off.
Underlying this however, is a continuity that is clear—a depoliticisation of Singapore society by means of persuasion, coercion and ideology—the current that has caused the broken episodes of non-PAP political history.”
- From the end of “Part II: Recent Political History”, A Shift in the Wind, written in the mid-1980s, and published by Word Image. It's edited by Chew Kheng Chuan, Tan Tee Seng, Teo Soh Lung and Kenneth Tsang.
This little book of essays is important in several ways. It is, firstly, a valuable account and insightful analysis of Singapore’s past and future from that point in time. The book was supposed to come out in 1987 following the watershed 1981 by-election and the 1984 general election that inspired the authors to put pen to paper. In the end, it never saw the light of day as a result of the Internal Security Department’s (ISD) arrest of a group of alleged “Marxists”, including the four editors (one of whom, Chew Kheng Chuan, was the subject of a Jom profile last year). The story of the link between the stillborn work and the detentions hasn’t been fully told, as it should be; this review will try to fill in some of these gaps.
There are four chapters in this slim work of just 88 pages. The first (“The Present Political Atmosphere”) begins with the triumph of opposition stalwart Joshua Benjamin Jeyaretnam in the by-election in Anson constituency, in 1981. The victory of the Workers’ Party leader was as momentous as it was precarious: “JBJ”, as he is often called fondly by his supporters, edged in with 51.9 percent of the votes. It marked the first time in 15 years that the hitherto seemingly unassailable People’s Action Party (PAP) had to clear a seat in Parliament for someone not under its circle and lightning banner.
Elsewhere, this tiny dent to the ruling party’s monopoly would have been political par for the course. Not so in Singapore. It was seen by both sides as a huge breakthrough, politically and psychologically. Recriminations followed, including a comic accusation levelled at a journalist from the pro-PAP The Straits Times that he had leapt in celebration when the results were declared (he explained that he was merely jumping so as to see over the heads of his taller colleagues).
The defeat is partly ascribed to residents expressing their anger at being resettled without being given HDB flats in compensation. It might also be down to hubris: the PAP man was parachuted into the ward just before the election and antagonised the existing party grassroots. Only 10 months prior at the general election, his predecessor had romped home with 84 percent of the votes.
Was the loss just a temporary and reversible blip for the PAP?
The 1984 general election proved otherwise. Not only did Jeyaretnam repeat his insult by winning again, but the equally redoubtable Chiam See Tong of the Singapore Democratic Party also clinched Potong Pasir. And then there were two. The PAP’s vote share also dropped to 65 percent from 78 percent in 1980.
One reason the book gives for the turn against the party was a “shift in the wind” that saw voters going from satisfying basic needs to clamouring for more say in how the country is run. Another was an anti-elitist backlash against the hugely controversial eugenics-based “Graduate Mothers Scheme” that gave tax deductions to married graduate women for having more babies, with housing and education priorities thrown in. A third was the proposal to raise the CPF savings withdrawal age from 55 to 60 and later to 65. Chiam’s bid no doubt was also boosted by Lee Kuan Yew, then prime minister, sneering at his less than stellar O-level result compared to the six distinctions of his PAP opponent.
Besides analysing these reasons, this book also captures vividly the exuberant election rallies of Jeyaretnam and Chiam, complete with quotes from avid supporters.
(It’s worth noting that taking part in the almost carnival atmosphere of many opposition rallies is cathartic for many as evidenced by the interviews; these events are one of the few instances, besides National Day Parades and sports fixture, in otherwise staid Singapore of collective mass gatherings, whose psychological benefits are studied academically. At the rallies I attended, I saw people hiding scared from the cameras of what many believed were ISD officers. But what surprised me were the openly and exuberantly anti-PAP voters who would, without a shred of fear, shout out on their own or take part in the call-and-response of the speakers.)
The book also includes half a dozen opposition party cartoons from that general election. One depicted an emperor perched on a throne with his face drawn as a lion bearing the unmistakable features of Lee Kuan Yew. It was captioned “Democracy—PAP-Style”.
The first chapter ends with what it sees as the new zeitgeist:
On 22 December 1984, the people of Singapore shouted. It came from the gut, a desire to stamp history with more than just a vocal imprint.
Why was there a need to shout? Singaporeans would know. For too long, there had been no way to speak our minds, no way to make serious political criticism without fearing for career prospects or livelihood or even the silent arm of the Internal Security Act.
The shouts have now died down. But having got a wedge into the door of a new freedom, people are not about to let it close on them. If anything, events since 1984 have seen the build-up of a whole new climate of thought and opinion…
…Becoming political. It is a new feeling for a generation too young to have understood the 1960s or to have followed the remarkable transformation of Singapore’s political terrain in any serious manner...For many of those whose adult lives coincided with those heady days, a sense of political involvement in the making of the nation has been blunted by cynicism, or fear, or simply submission. In a word, depoliticisation.
The reference to the Internal Security Act (ISA) would turn out very soon to be too prescient.
The second chapter is a survey of Singapore’s political history from 1959 through to the 1970s. It covers the demise (partly at its own hands) of the opposition Barisan Sosialis party in the 1960s and subsequent detentions of its leaders in the ISD’s “Operation Coldstore”, the increasing suppression of the labour and student movements (post the flight of student leader Tan Wah Piow), and the government seizing control of the media via a series of laws.
Chapter three moves on to the “ideology and culture” of the PAP government. It describes how the people saw the PAP as arrogant, paternalistic and authoritarian. But it also points out what the electorate liked: that the PAP was capable; ran a prompt and fair public service; was not corrupt; and maintained a clean and safe city. The book also acknowledges Singapore’s economic and social progress, singling out with special praise the city-state’s housing policy. As it prudently points out, “This book is not a condemnation of the People’s Action Party (PAP). Nor is it an anti-government tract.”
The authors posit that PAP ideology is grounded in three “isms”: elitism, meritocracy-ism, anti-welfarism. The last is characterised as “Not Even the Helpless Should be Helped.” For them, meritocracy serves as a successful ideological argument for elitism but they reject that the first justifies the second:
It is unquestionable that meritocracy and competence are necessary to administer a country effectively. However, while the able certainly have a right to administer and execute the will of the majority, they do not have the right to rule, to decide what is best for the majority. This is the weak link in the arguments of meritocracy-ism and elitism. Political equality or democracy, in contrast, asserts that the majority are able to know what is best for themselves and this determines the right to rule. Those with ability can well be used to administer or serve the will of the people.
A Shift in the Wind also criticises the concept and practice of all three “-isms”. On meritocracy in Singapore, for example, it says that the playing field is not level, that paper qualifications are not the best indicator of an ability to govern, and that it causes low self-esteem in the losers.
The chapter concludes:
By the mid-1980s however, Singapore had gained a certain measure of economic and political stability. The desire for democracy is now resurfacing. However, those who rule still believe in elitism. Elitism is, by its nature, fundamentally opposed to democracy. When elitist ideology fails to persuade, authoritarianism dispenses with nice arguments and simply says: we cannot afford democracy.
The fourth and last chapter, titled “Towards Participation”, looks ahead to the prospect of democracy for Singapore following the opposition breakthroughs of 1981 and 1984. It says:
The key political issue in Singapore is a popular desire for a more open and accountable government. However, at the same time, it must be able to maintain the high standards of technocratic competence and administrative efficiency of the present government.
The two are often posed as competing alternatives.
The authors, however, cite the examples of rich and advanced liberal democracies to argue that democracy is actually good for economic growth rather than the reverse, as the PAP always asserts.
For them, the bedrock of democracy is “constitutional government, competitive elections, free mass media, developed pressure groups and independent courts…” They discuss the role that each of these play and how they together are more effective in the long run than an elitist system in guaranteeing “the permanence of law and order and clean, efficient government than any group of mortal leaders however well-intentioned and able.”
A Shift in the Wind is thus a liberal call for developing a real and proper democracy. It is a yearning for freedom, openness and competition between different powers (the legislature, the executive, the judiciary, the media, the labour movement, civil society). By connecting this to economic development, the authors undercut the government’s reason for its authoritarian and paternalistic ways.
Written in clear and simple prose, well-researched, level-headed and cogently argued, the book is no screed against the PAP or the government it runs. Elsewhere, it would have been taken as a contribution to the public discussion about a nation’s politics and society.
But this was 1980s Singapore, where an abiding feature was the poverty of public discourse. Debate was scarce and controlled and on the PAP’s terms. Dissenters have been incarcerated and suffered detention without trial for very long periods. Among them was Chia Thye Poh, who at that point, 20 odd years after he was arrested, was still behind bars for refusing to admit he was a communist, which he said he could not do because he wasn’t one in the first place.
The book was thus a brave thing to write. It came about because the creators were engaged in other brave things, sometimes engaging with and occasionally coming against the government (always carefully and gently, of course, the political climate being what it was). And while they were doing these, and preparing the book for publication, something else was going on, something they didn’t know about.
Although credited to the four editors, there are at least a dozen or more behind the book, including the unnamed authors. Chew Kheng Chuan, one of the editors, told me in an interview that the idea for the book surfaced among a loose conglomeration of socially conscious and politically engaged young people from several more or less informal groups, who gathered occasionally to discuss the issues of the day. They included social workers from the Geylang Catholic Centre and other Catholic church organisations; the remnants of the students’ unions of the then-Singapore University and Singapore Polytechnic (by then much neutralised, following Tan Wah Piow’s escape from the country); liberal-minded “returnees” from overseas universities in the US and the UK; law society members; and theatremakers such as playwrights, actors and directors.
The meetings alone, as already noted, required some courage. It was the days before the internet when the media was under the sway, if not direct ownership, of the government. Open dissent and civil society—“pressure groups”, the book calls them—were harshly dealt with. There was a palpable fear hanging in the air, as it would for many years after that, a fear that to this day has not completely dissipated. If coming together was courageous, thinking of publishing the book was even more so, even one that preemptively declares that it is not anti-government. But such is youthful optimism, perhaps, and the tonic of mutual encouragement that companionship amidst the committed and like-minded provide (the very thing that the authorities lose sleep over).
Chew told me, “There was no one person who said, ‘Let’s write the book.’ The idea arose naturally from our discussions on the 1984 election. The mood in the air was, ‘Oh wow, things are changing.’ At the time it was not conceivable that the PAP would not be in power. But we thought it would be more open to political participation.”
They spent 1985 and 1986 discussing and researching the book, with up to 20 people involved in one way or another. “For us it’s, ‘Let’s educate the public on how to participate in politics.’ This is a meaningful education for the public about politics of Singapore,” recalled Chew.
A few people hunkered down to write different parts of the text, though Chew said that it’s still best not to name them even today. By early 1987, the four editors felt the book was ready to be published.
Then Operation Spectrum occurred. In two swoops in May and June 1987, the ISD arrested a total of 22 people it labelled as “Marxist conspirators”. They were allegedly out “to subvert the existing social and political system in Singapore, using communist united front tactics, with a view to establishing a Marxist state.” The charges and the so-called evidence adduced were so incredible, if not laughable, that I don’t remember a single one of my peers at The Straits Times (which I had just joined as a rookie of the political desk that was charged with covering the whole thing) who bought the story—though we all dutifully did Lee Kuan Yew and the ISD’s bidding in reporting what they wanted. Such was the government’s case that in 1992, minister S Dhanabalan resigned from the Cabinet because of disagreement with Operation Spectrum.
Of the 22 detained without trial, many were involved in the writing of the book. But some who had contributed to it in major ways were never arrested. Chew, who was detained like the other three editors, recalled, “When we were arrested we thought that working on this book was the reason for our arrests, but it turned out that the ISD was completely unaware of it! We assumed on our arrests that there was a spy amongst us, but it turns out that this was not true.”
The ISD’s surveillance was not watertight as it turned out and it only found out about the book after the detentions. It demanded to see it. A few months into Chew’s detention, ISD director Tjong Yik Min told him that he had read the book and “found nothing wrong with it.”
Chew added, “Then I said, in a cheeky remark, perhaps you could write the foreword!” For Chew, Tjong’s words showed that the ISD did not have an issue with the book. “It’s a journalistic work, and a textbook example of how to develop democracy. But I could not communicate Tjong’s remark to the outside.”
Without knowing this, a friend of the detainees, Jane Leong, meanwhile wanted to publish the work. She pointed out that it was not a Marxist/communist book about class struggle but how to develop democracy, and hence would vindicate the detainees. But others, including relatives of those detained, feared it would only prolong their incarceration; their views prevailed.
Chew was physically abused during his detention, including being slapped numerous times by an officer named Sim Poh Heng until he bled. He was released and then in 1988, detained again for editing, printing and distributing a statement signed by other released detainees denying the accusations against them and saying they were mistreated in jail. Operation Spectrum set back civil society for the next two decades, said Chew.
After they were released (the last, Vincent Cheng, was held for three years) the few typewritten manuscripts still around gathered dust on the shelves of some of the editors and authors. It was only this year, decades after what Chew rightly called the start of a period of “white terror”, that someone suggested finally publishing the book.
The editors wrote in a new preface for the present edition, “Thirty-seven years later, in 2023, we, the present editors, have decided not to ‘update’ what had been written to account for the changes that have occurred in Singapore in the last three and a half decades. We wanted to accurately and authentically capture our youthful voices then, for the historical record.” They concluded, “Significantly, we found that the substance of what was written is still relevant, and still vital for our aspirations today.”
That unfortunately is all too true. But that is another story.
Tan Tarn How writes plays and children’s adventure books. He was formerly a teacher, journalist, policy researcher and arts activist.
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