Mutual aid in Singapore: where solidarity looks like charity

In March 2020, just after the coronavirus reached our shores, Odette Yiu stumbled upon a “Mutual Aid and Community Solidarity” Google spreadsheet that Wares, a local library and infoshop, had created. Anyone on the internet was free to state their needs and offer help directly. Each request was accompanied by a story: “[recipient needs] S$300 to make a deposit for a new place to rent; they hardly have enough left for food and are also paying off a S$120 hospital bill.” The bills mentioned were then verified by a group of volunteers, who would proceed to keep track of the funds raised. Though most of the requests were monetary in nature, some people sought food, jobs, and services: “Urgently need a trained youth therapist or counsellor who can provide free counselling sessions over Telegram for a LGBTQ+ youth under 18.”

By circumventing potential intermediaries, such as government agencies or charities, mutual aid is often perceived to be more efficient than social welfare, especially in terms of cash flow. As a digital native in their early 20s, Yiu found the spreadsheet easy to navigate. It included an introduction to the initiative, a compilation of reading materials for those who would like to better understand the concept of mutual aid, as well as links to fundraisers for vulnerable groups like sex workers and migrant workers. The organisers also created a Telegram channel and group chat to facilitate communication regarding fundraising and the distribution of resources.

The next month, the government announced a nationwide partial lockdown, otherwise known as the “circuit breaker”, to minimise the spread of the virus. Students had to transition to home-based learning and most of the adults in Yiu’s orbit started working remotely. For many privileged Singaporeans, the circuit breaker was a reprieve from their usual lives, one that allowed them to indulge in home workouts, baking bread, and brewing kombucha. They could avoid contamination with ease, as “non-essential workers” who were able to avoid producing or coming into contact with commodities to make a living. By contrast, there were plenty of single mothers who struggled to put food on the table, as they did not have the option to work remotely and were reluctant to compromise the safety of their young children; odd job labourers who were laid off as businesses tried to cut costs; ex-convicts who struggled to find employment in an especially unforgiving job market. The spreadsheet was evidence that while the misery that emerged from dealing with a novel public health crisis was collective, the extent of suffering differed.

Day by day, Yiu watched as the requests for aid grew in volume and urgency. As someone who had spent most of their schooling years in elite institutions along Bukit Timah Road, Yiu had limited opportunities to mix with people of different races, incomes, and family backgrounds. Through the spreadsheet, they were exposed to people who were facing precarity, which had intensified because of the pandemic. The borderlessness of the internet enabled people from various socio-economic backgrounds to converge. Desperate to help, Yiu threw themselves into the crisis relief efforts. They contacted and built intimate connections with those asking for aid, coordinated fundraisers, signal-boosted on their personal social media accounts, and updated the spreadsheet with developments pertaining to the requests.

After the first circuit breaker ended on June 1st 2020, the spreadsheet was still buzzing with activity—there were easily a hundred users online at a time. Organiser Diana Rahim wrote about Wares’s mutual aid efforts in an article for the National Gallery: “The needs are relentless, the suffering is relentless, and so we too must be relentless.” For more than a year, Yiu devoted a significant amount of time and energy to the people seeking help through Wares’s spreadsheet. Slowly but surely, it started to take a toll on them. In November 2021, Yiu reached breaking point. They weren’t alone; other volunteers were also burnt out and resentment started to build within the community. After breaking down several times, Yiu strengthened their resolve to go on an indefinite hiatus from the Wares mutual aid project. At first, they worried about what would happen to the people that they had helped. It can feel inhuman to witness suffering without trying to alleviate it. Then, Yiu became livid at how they were riddled with guilt and shame for not having done enough, when the problems were caused by capitalism and other structures that perpetuate inequality. “I can’t help them much. I’m not a god,” Yiu said. “They survived before meeting me and I needed to trust that they [would] survive after [meeting] me.”

Just one month after Yiu went on their hiatus, their close friend attempted suicide. The possibility of homelessness was one of the factors that pushed her over the edge. Yiu spent the next few months taking care of her and that, too, was a form of mutual aid. These different experiences helped Yiu better understand the framework of mutual aid, which in turn led to a radical shift in their worldview and political beliefs. It fundamentally changed the way they relate to people around them.

On the flip side, plenty of individuals demonstrated that the kampung spirit was alive and well by supporting ground-up initiatives to address the changing needs of the community. Belanja Eat was a pay-it-forward initiative that involved 184 hawker stalls, and served more than 7,000 meals to those facing food insecurity during the circuit breaker. The initial success of Wares’s mutual aid spreadsheet also inspired the creation of Eastside Mutual Aid and Migrant Mutual Aid, both of which remain active today. The former was built on the idea that neighbours were better equipped to help each other; the latter was created to focus on the unique needs of migrant workers in Singapore. These initiatives flourished during what sociologist Charles Fritz called the “post-disaster utopia”, the initial period after a crisis when camaraderie is at its strongest and people set their differences aside to provide relief to those in need.

Mutual aid collectives first emerged in Singapore in the late 19th century, often along ethnic or clan lines, primarily then to offer their members assistance with funeral expenses. Many still exist with an expanded remit, though their impact is limited in one of the world’s costliest cities. Government largesse is still crucial, particularly in a time of crisis. Between 2020 and 2022, the Singapore government spent S$192.5bn on economic and social support, as well as public health management measures through four different budgets: Unity, Resilience, Solidarity, and Fortitude.

Despite the unprecedented use of national reserves, the financial aid provided might have seemed insufficient—either too low or infrequent—for those who were hit hardest by the pandemic and whose needs were mounting. Yiu realised that people who sought help through Singapore’s Social Service Offices often had to prove that they had exhausted all their means and had no family members whom they could turn to. The majority of the people they encountered had complicated familial relations. “Let’s be real. How many families don’t have conflicts?” Yiu asked. Not all of them fit the mould of the traditional family unit too; there were single mothers, teenagers with divorced parents, or seniors who lived with their children but received little to no allowance from them. Since they faced issues such as domestic violence, emotional abuse, and estrangement, familial support was out of the question. Some struggling individuals were ineligible for financial aid because they belonged to the same household as family members whom they have severed ties with. In these instances, the ground-up crisis relief efforts were especially crucial as a stopgap for social welfare. They are not, however, sustainable in the long run as “post-disaster utopia” receded with time, especially after it was perceived that the crisis had passed.

Today, mutual aid continues to be practised worldwide, by communities whose needs are insufficiently addressed by existing structures. A noteworthy example would be the longstanding survival programmes that the Black Panther Party runs in the United States, which offer everything from free breakfasts, ambulance services, and medical clinics to political education for children. Lawyer and activist Dean Spade posited that beyond working to directly provide for people who were vulnerable to harmful systems, mutual aid was supposed to comprise two other key elements: building an alternative infrastructure to meet society’s needs and working to dismantle the structures that foster inequality. When mutual aid focuses solely on providing for people without getting to the root causes of what produces vulnerability, it becomes depoliticised and compatible with capitalism and its institutions. Yiu noticed that recent mutual aid initiatives in Singapore have had an overriding focus on crisis response, so much so that there were scarcely any attempts to mobilise around structural issues. Such a phenomenon is unsurprising and can be partially, if not wholly, attributed to the legal limits that the government has imposed on independent social and political activities; organisers in Singapore have to be extra cautious to align with the parameters of the regulations in place and tip-toe around out-of-bound markers for fear of repercussions.

One initiative that focused on structural changes was SG Housing Rights. It was active on Instagram from end-June to mid-July 2020, when Singapore was in its second phase of reopening after the circuit breaker. With a conviction that everyone deserved “access to safe and stable housing, without unjust financial burden and stress, or the threat of eviction”, the organisers had requested for better support for residential tenant households during the pandemic. They compiled anecdotes from tenants who needed rent relief, started an online petition that 1,255 people signed, and prepared a template for those who wanted to e-mail their members of Parliament. Although SG Housing Rights did not gain sufficient traction then, the problems they had raised remain pertinent. Rental prices are at a record high and the need for better regulation has never been greater.

Yiu, who identifies as part of the working class and the queer community, shared that many queer people do not have the option of staying in their family homes, because of reasons that range from physical violence to emotional abuse. During the circuit breaker, they noted that mutual aid was being practised organically in queer spaces. “[Solidarity is] people finding lobang (good deals or opportunities) for rent; it’s people being, ‘Yeah, you can crash my couch.’” When it comes to searching for a scalable solution, Yiu believes that there is strength in numbers: “It’s in our interests to come together and fight in certain situations.” After all, what can a single tenant achieve by confronting their landlord if the exploitative system remained intact? Yiu cited a historic referendum that was held in Berlin in 2021, in which 59 percent of residents voted for the government to seize housing from mega landlords and convert them into social housing. Yiu’s hopeful that as a collective, tenants will have more power to defend their community from dispossession and to convince the government to grant them more rights. They believe that housing (and land) should belong to and be directly controlled by the people who live there, not by a distant and separate entity. That particular referendum, however, appeared to be merely a symbolic victory—almost two years have passed without any concrete action being taken. It begs the question: how much can we rely on official structures to enact social change, to act in the interests of the people at the expense of profits?

When Yiu and the other volunteers started to burn out in rapid succession, it became clear that they had formed dependent relationships with the recipients. Yiu also sensed that some of the volunteers had a saviour complex. Since they were conditioned to view those outside of their social class as people who deserved their pity or mentorship, these volunteers often took on the lion’s share of organising and made decisions on recipients’ behalf. Hence, Yiu constantly highlighted to the participants of Wares’s mutual aid initiative that it was pivotal to connect people who faced similar problems, such as single mums who have inadequate support. That way, their solitary experiences could be transformed into something social and more importantly, they could rally together, solve problems, and advocate for themselves.

“The people embedded in the struggle are the ones who understand their circumstances best,” Yiu said. But, since people in Singapore are alienated from one another, “a lot of folks have forgotten or cannot imagine the sheer power that comes with collective resistance and fighting.” Singapore has a history of mass struggle, they said, which one would know, if one were to research anti-colonial and pro-labour movements: “We’re just not taught these histories—or they get framed in a negative light.”

Given that self-sufficiency and resilience are dominant cultural imperatives, the beneficiaries often grapple with stigma and shame when they approach social services and charitable organisations. Mutual aid initiatives usually fall on the other end of the spectrum when it comes to eligibility requirements, leaving room for people with bad intentions to exploit the goodwill of well-meaning organisers. Yiu has had reason to suspect that thousands of dollars were extracted from trusting volunteers of Wares’s initiative by those who had fabricated stories about their plights. Some even do so after establishing credibility and gaining social capital within the community—they would help to fulfil non-material needs before stating their monetary requests.

In March 2022, Wares’s main organisers put their mutual aid initiative on hold, with these parting words on the Google spreadsheet: “That is now done. The listings exist for the time being as an archive. Through the initiative and actions of many people working together, this project has helped many people with direct aid, much more than it was ever intended to.” The unexpectedly wide reach had inadvertently contributed to its growing unsustainability, especially since recipients outnumbered volunteers. The organisers summed up the issues they needed to address in order to keep going: “individual fatigue, structural crisis, manipulation and abuse, [a] lack of collective capacities, and deference to authority and the dominant logics of charity.” While there is no telling when or if the project will resume, Wares’s organisers have stated that they would like to rethink their approach: “We want to try better,” they wrote, “because we believe in interdependence, solidarity, and mutual aid and care as ways to counter the violence of capitalism in the present.” Even though the formal operations have ceased, it doesn’t invalidate everything the initiative has achieved. Nor does it indicate that all the connections that were forged through the Google spreadsheet haven’t endured—they are simply less visible now.

Irie started to devise creative ways to raise funds for mutual aid during the circuit breaker. They offered personalised tarot readings and sold books before landing on the idea of a thrift market, in early 2021. They have since co-organised two iterations of “Solidarithrift” with activist and writer Tammy Gan. A thrift market reduces fashion waste and also serves as an effective way to raise funds—Singaporeans are generally more willing to spend on clothes than on books or other commodities. The duo also took the opportunity to set up posters about mutual aid, to educate shoppers unaware about the practice. By collaborating with vendors, sourcing the clothes, garnering publicity on social media, and setting up the venues, they acquired and honed practical skills that helped them with future initiatives. Irie also hosts picnics for mutual aid participants to build the foundation for lasting relationships, to interact without the spectre of suffering.

Participating in mutual aid has always been about two things for Irie: giving back and forging deep connections. As someone who has been on the receiving end, they knew how another person’s kindness can be a powerful lifeline. They also realised that a sense of kinship blurred the distinctions between the helper and the helped, staving off the possibility of burnout. Still, Irie confessed that at times, they felt like an ATM machine. Once, a father requested a large sum of money because he wanted a lavish celebration for his child to compensate for his absence at home. While funds were sometimes allocated for less pressing matters like single mothers purchasing treats for Hari Raya festivities, Irie declined the father’s request. They explained that in that particular instance, attention was a more valuable form of currency. It was a difficult conversation; and difficult conversations are a part and parcel of mutual aid. After getting to know someone and the struggles keeping them up at night, it becomes harder to resist the impulse to adopt their problems as one’s own. Mutual aid volunteers joke that they are essentially social workers, but without the expertise or salary. This brings their investment, their desire for connection and communion, and their refusal to reduce people to their circumstances into sharper focus.

And this is why people continue to practise mutual aid, even after our city has returned to a state of relative normalcy, even after the media blitz has passed, even after being burnt out. The pandemic brought inequality into clarity and those who participated have been altered by their experiences. Irie was right in saying that mutual aid was about knowing there were people whom you could turn to in a crisis. And so was Yiu in saying that mutual aid is about identifying structural issues and demanding change. Mutual aid is at once a day-to-day practice and something far bigger than that. Those involved recognise that there is a gap between concept and reality—mutual aid often ends up looking like charity in Singapore. But they attempt to bridge it anyway, one connection at a time. Now, they can better imagine the ways to show up for and to directly care for those made vulnerable by the existing structures. They remain committed to the work: learning about the policies and structures in place; learning from one another; and learning about themselves through the process of aiding others.

Sherryl Cheong is a Singapore-based writer who is invested in telling stories that shine a light on our rich inner worlds. As a fan of creative nonfiction, she is always looking to glean insights from her emotions and experiences.

Letters in response to this piece can be sent to sudhir@jom.media. All will be considered for publication on our “Letters to the editor” page.