RSF’s Press Freedom Index: why does Singapore rank so low?

There is perhaps no other country ranking where Singapore finds itself below Congo, the Philippines, Russia and Sudan. In 2021, that’s what made me take a much closer look at the Press Freedom Index by Reporters sans frontières (RSF, Reporters Without Borders). The Index analyses the environment for journalists—political, legal, economic, socio-cultural and security—in 180 countries and territories around the world.

Singapore placed 160th in 2021. Odd. Whatever my grievances about media restrictions here, surely we don’t deserve to rank below countries, like those four, where journalists are regularly killed or “disappeared”. That same year, RSF invited me to join the survey panel for Singapore, for the 2022 Index.

I was excited. I have much respect for the organisation’s work, even more urgent in today’s polarised world. Many establishment journalists may not see the point. In February 2022, Patrick Daniel, a former editor-in-chief of Singapore Press Holdings (SPH), said that there is “a little bit of opacity” in RSF’s methodology, which he argued should be audited. (The irony of SPH barons mentioning opacity and audits is lost, maybe, only on them.)

More generally, defenders of the Singapore model have long poo-poohed foreign assessments of democratic values here. Part of their objection is relativistic, an Asian Values-esque argument that the nature of democracy necessarily differs from one society to the next, and that attempts to suggest a universality to them are at best hollow, and at worst neo-colonial.

A related objection is around societal definitions of success. The Singaporean, so it goes, cares more about socio-political stability and economic growth than waffly things like individual liberties. In terms of press freedom, there is the further dissonance of an ostensibly open global financial centre, which depends on the free flow of information, being accused of throttling the media.

All this leads to an instinctive rejection in Singapore of the RSF Index. To me, it was an opportunity to meditate more deeply on the concept of freedom, not only at a personal level, in terms of my own craft, but also perhaps in terms of advocacy.

However, the survey panel requires anonymity, for good reason. Many journalists, especially in the “Global South”, might be targeted by their own governments if they are known to be cooperating with Western NGOs, allegedly out to promote some liberal Western agenda (to repeat a batty nativist trope).

I told RSF that while I appreciate many journalists’ need for discretion, my circumstance is different—I want to participate and I want to be able to talk openly about it. They eventually agreed.

In the two years that I’ve since served on the panel, my respect for RSF’s work has grown. The survey is exhaustive, rigorous and run efficiently with much attention paid to privacy. The global summary report that’s released along with the index on World Press Freedom Day (May 3rd) is always illuminating. Among other startling findings this year is the impact of the fake content industry. In 118 countries, “most of the Index questionnaire’s respondents reported that political actors in their countries were often or systematically involved in massive disinformation or propaganda campaigns.”

From 2021 to 2023, Singapore’s position rose from 160 to 129. This is partly a reflection of a better raw score but also a relative shift, as the media environment has deteriorated in other countries. Over that same period, Hong Kong dropped from 80 to 140 while India fell from 142 to 161.

In this essay, I will examine Singapore’s score in those five categories—political, legal, economic, socio-cultural and security—and also share some broad recommendations on how we can improve. Before that, it’s important to understand the evolution of Singapore’s quite unique media model.

The Straits Times (ST) was founded as a weekly in 1845. Its rivalry with The Singapore Free Press offered the bustling young colony’s residents competing viewpoints on urgent local and regional issues, for instance on the violent actions of James Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak, against the Dayaks. This thirst for diverse views prompted ST to start publishing daily in 1858, and over the next century led to a proliferation of other outfits in what would become one of Asia’s richest and most dynamic metropoles. (ST has arguably always been pro-establishment—whether the colonial or independent state.)

In the 1960s, Lee Kuan Yew and the ruling People’s Action Party (PAP) sought to exert hegemonic control over society partly by co-opting or crushing the very elements that had enabled their rise, including labour unions, former leftist allies and independent media outfits.

1971 saw the closure of two newspapers, Eastern Sun and The Singapore Herald, for alleged foreign interference, and the crippling of another, Nanyang Siang Pau, for allegedly inciting Chinese communalism—its executives were detained without trial and it later merged with Sin Chew Jit Poh to form Lianhe Zaobao, the main Chinese-language paper. These were the notable victims of a purge that had a chilling effect on the media and speech in general. Separately, in the 1950s-60s Singapore had a vibrant, radical Malay press, which withered away for different reasons—for instance, Utusan Melayu, co-founded in 1939 by (future Singapore president) Yusof Ishak, was taken over in 1961 by UMNO (United Malays National Organisation), the main party in Barisan Nasional, the coalition that ruled Malaysia until recently. Berita Harian, founded in 1957, is the only vestige from that buzzing era.

Parliamentary dominance allowed the PAP to easily pass legislation to tighten its stranglehold over the media. The notorious Newspaper and Printing Presses Act (1974) offered the government effective control over the ownership and executive appointments of all mainstream media (MSM) channels. This was the genesis of the sycophantic relationship between the MSM and the PAP.

The establishment regularly perpetuates the media creation myth to serve its purposes. For instance, in “Defending Singapore Against Foreign Interference”, Muhammad Faizal Bin Abdul Rahman of the S Rajaratnam School of International Studies (RSIS) repeated two PAP allegations that have never been proven. “In the 1970s, the Eastern Sun newspaper had received funding from Chinese Communist elements to publish articles to shape the political attitudes in Singapore. The Singapore Herald newspaper had received funding from South-east Asian elements to campaign against National Service.”

Among the scholars who have previously cast doubt on these PAP allegations are Mary Turnbull, Jothie Rajah and Cherian George. But by stating them as fact, an academic institution—one bearing the name of a former journalist—had magically transformed apparent political skulduggery into gospel truth.

By the 2000s, there seemed to exist a dichotomous narrative about Singapore’s media model. On the one side, the establishment and assorted fans of the broader “third world to first” Singapore story saw media repression not as a flaw but a feature. They subscribed to the notion that the mainstream media’s main role is to be a government mouthpiece—reporting bare facts (though not the inconvenient ones) and shaping public opinion in line with government agendas. In this vision, the media in a democracy is not meant to serve as a Fourth Estate, as a bulwark against tyranny and extremism, nor even as an instigator of new thought, but rather simply as a handmaiden to idealised rule. It’s a role that appeals to illiberal democrats, who believe that the messiness of distributed discourse undermines effective long-term governance.

On the other side, to many of us, it was becoming clear what our democracy and economy was missing—partly because we were given our first taste of the forbidden fruit. The internet had democratised discourse, with blogs and then social media offering non-establishment commentators a platform, and their readers a community. Though Facebook has much to be ashamed of in terms of speech and content moderation in South-east Asia—hate speech against the Rohingyas the most obvious—in the Singapore context, it has played an invaluable role in promoting diversity of thought and weakening the PAP’s grip over information. Other platforms, such as Instagram, Twitter and TikTok, have since each risen in prominence to play similar roles for different generations of Singaporeans (while the proselytisers of corporate new-ageism and personal triumphalism have found devotees on LinkedIn).

In trying to constrain these non-establishment actors, the PAP’s methods have become more sophisticated. Initially it mostly ignored online commentators, seeking simply to cast doubt on the medium itself. Later it began ridiculing individuals, essentially ordinary citizens, partly by forming its own troll army—what has now become known as the PAP’s Internet Brigade (IB), the most unsavoury Singaporean element on the internet today. Though the exact means by which “IBs” are funded and controlled is unclear, my own belief, having spoken with media wonks and PAP insiders over the years, is that the PAP no longer has complete control over them. If true, they are essentially unchecked extremists.

Over the past decade, as the prominence of non-establishment online commentators has grown, the PAP has again changed tack, this time seeking to co-opt them through journalistic access and financial rewards. This includes new media outfits like Mothership and Rice Media, both of whom do government work (such as sponsored content); social media influencers or outfits, like SGAG; as well as individual commentators such as Michelle Chong. Market access or “market censorship” is how they are kept in line—the riches of the Singapore dream are on offer to friendly media channels and personalities.

However, one can hardly blame them for choosing the most obvious revenue stream in an era of financial uncertainty for the whole industry. Business models have changed radically. In the early 1800s, the advertiser-funded, print model was just emerging. It lasted the better part of two centuries and, while ensuring financial viability for many outfits, was criticised for, among other things, promoting a consumption-based lifestyle. When climate activists analyse, say, the post-war period of abundance and consumption in the US, or similar instincts among the Chinese and Indian middle classes today, the unholy alliance between big brands and newspapers—the psychological imprints on readers about a material good life—must be scrutinised.

As the digital revolution decimated print advertising revenues everywhere—something I had a ringside view of at two different units of The Economist Group (2006-13)—many new outfits sought out online advertising revenues. This in turn has forced outlets to chase eyeballs, using novel Big Data and with a terrifying algorithmic fervour, thereby nudging editorial towards clickbait and sensationalism. Reader-funded models, like the one at Jom, have a different challenge—ideological bias. If our main subscribers (aka funders) come from a particular class or point on the political spectrum, there is a tension between provoking thought across a range of views and pleasing them with ones they already hold dear (which would more likely ensure customer retention).

In this new media world, it is the popular commentators and outfits—whether on Instagram, YouTube or elsewhere—that the PAP seeks to control and exert influence through. Put another way, over the past two decades, as the definition of news and the media has broadened, the PAP’s drive to manufacture consent has forced it to shift its gaze from the beat reporter at the local broadsheet to the climate activist on Instagram.

This is roughly how Singapore’s media has evolved over the past two hundred years, and is important in understanding today’s lack of freedoms.

I don’t know any other survey panellists for Singapore but if I examine our relative positions on the five—poor score for political and legal; mediocre for economic and socio-cultural; better for security—they instinctively feel right to me.

For the political context, I marked down Singapore on issues like editorial interference by political actors; autonomy of civil servants in media roles; preferential access for friendly media channels; and censorship. I marked up Singapore on things like the transparency of the licensing process.

For the legal context, I marked down Singapore on issues like the presence of a law empowering authorities to censor without the approval of a judge; whether permissible restrictions on freedom of expression (e.g. on national security grounds) were being abused to restrict press freedom; and on journalists’ right to unionise. I marked up Singapore on things like journalists’ right to a fair trial; and the ease of setting up a media outlet and of becoming a journalist.

These are subjective. Not everybody will agree with my view that, for instance, the licensing process is relatively transparent and that it’s relatively easy to set up a media outlet. (For those interested in Jom’s journey, which has informed my view, read “Isn't it risky starting a magazine in Singapore?”)

We should also note that the Index captures the presence of something but not its relative importance in a local context. It’s unclear, for instance, how urgently journalists in Singapore need a right to unionise. There are bigger issues at play, I believe, as described below.

When it comes to the economic environment, I marked down Singapore on issues like whether administrative and financial constraints hinder the launch of independent outfits; whether the state distributes its advertising and media assistance fairly; and whether journalistic editorial content is sufficiently differentiated from sponsored content and advertising. I marked up Singapore on things like the availability of affordable, quality internet service; and whether journalists are regularly bribed to say something.

In terms of our socio-cultural context, I marked down Singapore on things like whether the pluralism of Singapore’s people is reflected in the media; self-censorship; and whether religious groups call for censorship. The areas where I marked up Singapore include whether there is discrimination (based on things like ethnicity and gender) in the ability for one to work in journalism.

Finally, security (safety) is the category through which I probably learned the most about myself and the media environment here. The reason is that I hitherto tended to brush off or underestimate the various forms of abuse or violence facing journalists—often focusing only on extreme actions, such as torture, while ignoring more subtle, and perhaps also more insidious, forms, such as the psychological trauma from dealing with trolls.

I marked down Singapore on things like whether journalists’s social media accounts or websites are hacked; whether journalists suffer forms of professional harm as a result of their work; whether the authorities spy on journalists; and the psycho-emotional risk for journalists, including public discrediting of work; targeted verbal threats; and harassment campaigns. I marked up Singapore on whether journalists have been assaulted, kidnapped, murdered, tortured or suffered cruel treatment in the past year.

Having highlighted above what I perceive to be some of the main challenges across those five categories in Singapore, let me share some recommendations on tackling three of them. Consider this more a long-term wish list than a quixotic belief in a self-absorbed government’s capacity for change. (Sorry, folks. Ownself check ownself is alive and well.)

It also includes the eye-watering sums spent on advertising, close to S$200m annually. While some of this spending is on vital communication that is in the public interest, for example pandemic-related messaging, much else is questionable—the use of public money to effectively push PAP narratives (as Michelle Chong did here). Australia, a country of 25m people, spends just over double that, which has led to disgruntlement there. (Singapore spends some 2.5 times as much as Australia on a per capita basis.) Yet even if Singapore sees the need for such massive government advertising, we should use public money to advertise across all platforms—from Mothership to The Online Citizen—not just the ones obedient to the PAP. (In “Remaking an untenable media system: why SPH’s proposed overhaul is not enough”, George expounds on the need for an “independent public body to disburse funds”.)

Second is better safety for journalists. Writers should not fear professional repercussions simply because of what they write—which is the case now, not only for people outside the system, such as Roy Ngerng, but even those within, such as the ST’s Li Xueying. The hacking of journalists’ social media accounts—it’s happened once to me—is deplorable, as is the trolling by the PAP IBs. The person who I believe has faced the most vile, misogynistic attacks is Kirsten Han, now managing editor at The Mekong Review. (If the PAP is serious about addressing bullying and misogyny in society, it could start with its own trolls.) Finally, there’s sufficient evidence (here and here) that the Singapore government is using sophisticated spyware to target journalists and others. This must stop.

Third is an improved legal environment conducive to journalism and, more philosophically, the free exchange of ideas. Two new pieces of legislation have bothered journalists over the past few years: 2019’s Protection from Online Falsehoods and Manipulation Act (POFMA), and 2021’s Foreign Interference (Countermeasures) Act (FICA). They are sufficiently complex and, at least for POFMA, have been used in an unpredictable and random enough fashion, such that many ordinary people don’t quite know where the boundaries are. Writers self-censor excessively. Non-Singaporeans are unsure whether they can even read and support independent media. Several foreigners have asked me if they are allowed to subscribe to Jom, worried that they’ll get us into trouble (for taking “foreign money”). Well, Jom is just like any other subscription product, from ST to Netflix. We’re happy that some 13 percent of our subscribers today are non-citizens (based on our recent reader survey).

No doubt, online falsehoods and foreign interference are both very real problems globally. But Singapore has to disentangle political interests from our attempt to control them. POFMA and FICA give too much decision-making power to partisan politicians. That power should be shifted to the courts or perhaps an Ombudsman.

One useful framework for understanding media repression in Singapore is “classical” versus “contemporary” forms of censorship. (It’s mentioned in “Red Lines: Political Cartoons and the Struggle against Censorship” by George and Sonny Liew.) Classical forms of censorship, such as physical restraint, direct action, and violence, are declining in popularity across the world, partly because, especially in a time of smartphones and social media, they’re often self-defeating—governments that deploy them risk losing public support.

In their place are contemporary forms of censorship, including social ostracism, market exclusion (market censorship), and an information glut—premised on the idea that it’s not speech that’s scarce, but the attention of listeners. In “Is the First Amendment Obsolete?”, Tim Wu, a law professor at Columbia University, argued that “cheap speech” today “may be used to attack, harass, and silence as much as it is used to illuminate or debate.”

A contemporary example in Singapore is with public housing. The relentless propaganda in the MSM, including in editorials, advertorials and advertisements, about Singapore’s affordable housing is likely to continue all the way to the next election, in a bid to drown out alternative narratives. Expect many more photographs of Desmond Lee, national development minister, looking cheery at a new block. And perhaps social media influencers being paid to peddle the government line.

George also categorises these contemporary forms as fear, friction and flooding. PAP apologists focus too much on classical forms of censorship and not enough on contemporary ones. Media repression in Singapore today is actually similar to that in other illiberal democracies, such as India, Russia and Turkey.

Even among those who favour media liberalisation in Singapore today, some believe that it’s mostly about our stage of growth. According to this view, in the (apparently) turbulent 1960s-70s, media repression was justified; but it no longer is, given our relative political stability and aspirations to build a knowledge economy.

But I’d like to challenge even this view. If Lee Kuan Yew had not been able to defang Singapore’s feisty media outfits, and if they had remained an assertive, alternative power centre during our years of rapid growth, perhaps they would have fulfilled a very basic journalistic creed—comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable—that might have already helped create the kinder, more equitable society we’re now striving to nurture.

No matter. We can start now.

Sudhir Vadaketh is Jom’s editor-in-chief. 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.