It was announced last week that ASEAN will launch its human rights body in October this year, after a high-level panel has finished preparing the terms of reference setting out its mandate and responsibilities.
Human rights NGOs have been pressurising ASEAN leaders to give this human rights body—the first of its kind in the Asian region—real powers to protect human rights defenders. A regional mechanism mandated to investigate individual complaints of human rights violations would be hugely significant, even if it took many years for it to become effective and properly fulfill its mandate.
But according to Ambassador Rosario Manalo, head of the high-level panel, the ASEAN human rights body will not initially possess any investigative power though she hopes that it will “evolve” such capabilities. “You don't change societies in the wink of an eye,” she said. “We are still grappling with what 'human rights' really is.”
This much is true, and the struggle for an effective regional human rights mechanism was never going to be easy. After living in Singapore and Bangkok, it became clear to me that ‘human rights’ do not mean exactly the same as what they mean in a British context. I understand human rights as the outcome of a particular worldview; one that asserts that humans are humans first, and everything else second. We are born equal, and differences of religion, class, nationality or gender do not change that fact.
However, ‘human rights’ in many Asian societies are the outcome of different worldviews and societal developments. They are more likely to be understood as a useful tool in the struggle against authoritarian leaders and oppressive governments. They may also be used to challenge harmful patriarchal traditions, to fight against dispossession caused by mining or logging, or to assert the desire to determine one’s own sexual identity.
What tends to surprise the western observer is the disconnect between these different struggles. It’s quite common, as one colleague noted, to find a human rights defender risking his life protesting against the Burmese military regime, but at the same time having nothing progressive to say on LGBT rights.
A more subtle example can be found in my Thai co-worker, a fellow intern in the Human Rights Defenders programme. He told me that in Thailand, it is commonly believed that people are born gay or transgender because they committed ‘sexual sins’ in a past life. I was somewhat taken aback by this: to me, the idea that any kind of LGBT identity is a punishment for former wrongdoing goes against the premise of equality underlying human rights. Well, he said, we don’t deny them their right to be gay—since they are born that way, we accept it.
It is true that this attitude prevents the ‘corrective’ kind of approach taken by some of the more loony Christian organisations, and does promote a general acceptance of diversity. But it is an acceptance premised on inequality, so that while the result appears the same, the root is very different. Acceptance of sexual rights in Britain or the US is grounded in a conception of all humans as equal; acceptance of sexual rights in Thailand is based on the perception that hierarchy is inevitable.
It is the ‘universal’ aspect of universal human rights that is missing here. This has the effect of weakening all specific claims made in the name of human rights by presenting them as the sole property of certain special interest groups. If human rights defenders themselves use human rights selectively—utilising the language to achieve goals that are specific to each local context or group—then demands for an ASEAN human rights body that embodies the notion of universal human rights are undermined.
Given this disconnect, it is easy to see why those like Manalo argue that ASEAN countries are simply not ready for a strong regional human rights body. But is a lame duck of a mechanism really preferable to a strong one that takes time and effort to fulfill its potential?
After all, what is being proposed is really little more than a watchdog focusing on human rights promotion and education rather than protection. Increasing awareness of human rights issues within ASEAN countries is supposed to lead eventually to these countries “internalizing” humanist values, in turn creating the necessary pressure for more substantial reform.
But in fact, it just lets authoritarian regimes and military juntas off the hook. No leaders will be losing sleep over such an anaemic institution. When Manalo says there is no political will to create an ASEAN human rights body with teeth, she undermines the political will of the hundreds of organisations and individuals across the region already crying out for precisely that. And without greater attention to regional NGOs and regional inter-governmental institutions, the universalisation of human rights as a worldview in itself will continue to be stymied.
Showing posts with label protest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label protest. Show all posts
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Monday, 22 September 2008
Unseen Scenes in Singapore
by Pia Muzaffar and Olly Laughland
pictures by Alex Jimenez
This article was first published in Poda Poda in December 2007
‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’.
We wrench loose an MDF board covering the once grand entrance, before slipping inside, avoiding the rusty nails. Our feet crunch over broken glass as we peer into the gloom. The ticket booths, smashed to shit, still welcome Mastercard and Visa and still dispense mouldy, discoloured maps. Plastic statues slump, their plastic heads scattered on the floor. ‘I love sex’. ‘Get out’. ‘Bobby and Pris wuz here 99’. The ceiling is falling in, the lights exploded. The tropical undergrowth is slowly reclaiming this misguided business venture. The mosquitos have returned to these stagnant lakes. Giant pink paper horses and blue paper elephants, frozen mid-motion, aflame and collapsing in on themselves.
Perhaps this freakish fairytale was doomed to fail from the start. A tourist attraction designed for Chinese tourism and themed around ancient Chinese imperial history, elaborately carved from plaster of paris and plywood, built in 1980s Singapore, now stands closed a decade later and erased from the national memory.
Like so many Singaporean transgressions, ‘Tang Dynasty City’ remains very much present, but obscured from public view. On the surface, this highly successful city-state embodies the image its government seeks to project: it is clean and clean-living, obedient, polite, orderly and well-planned. Gays, prostitutes, transvestites, the homeless, political dissidents, governmental corruption and national failures – all these get swept under the carpet of state-sanctioned discourse.
The same may be said of the higher education system. When we first started studying here, we were shocked and bemused by the attitudes of the Singaporean students. The learning culture is totally at odds with what we’ve come to expect from our experiences at a British university. In Singapore, we said to each other with a mixture of bemusement and reproach, the students just don’t question anything. They don’t question their lecturers and they don’t question the way the university is run. They don’t question the texts they read, and they shy away from questioning each other. They are excessively respectful of authority, they study way too hard and hardly ever go out, and they ‘strive for excellence’ rather than seeking to critically interrogate established modes of thinking. Dr Chee Soon Juan, a former neuropsychology lecturer at NUS, recalls his frustration with his students. On one occasion he came to class and told them that he was just going to stare at them. So he sat there, and stared. After fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence, in which not one student challenged him or asked him to begin teaching, he simply got up and left.
Of course, having been in Singapore for over three months now, this characterisation of ‘the Singaporean Student’ – as compliant, submissive and unquestioning – has revealed itself to be somewhat simplistic. In the terminology of James Scott, there are definitely both ‘public transcripts’ and ‘hidden transcripts’ at work here, as there are in Singaporean society more broadly. In public, we think it’s fair to say that the majority of Singaporeans are passive and conformist. Decades of authoritarian rule combined with generally decent standards of living and state-controlled media will tend to do that to a society. But in private spaces, Singaporeans still think; they still feel discontent and have that nagging sensation that all is not quite as it appears. However, these hidden transcripts of dissent tend not to manifest themselves in immediately visible ways. Thus our new self-appointed task has been to delve under the carpet and search out this undercurrent of opposition.
Our clandestine visit to ‘Tang Dynasty City’ was just one stop on an alternative 24-hour tour of Singapore, run by a PhD student here who delights in showing both foreigners and young Singaporeans alike the ‘seedier’ sides of the city. Most of our activities were illegal. We spent a couple of hours in a gay club, snuck around a disused, haunted hospital, wandered through a Chinese burial ground, discovered the red-light district, and broke into an indestructible house with a mysterious curse hanging over it – all in the dead of night. Aside from being fun (and pretty scary at times), it opened our eyes to the kinds of alternative narratives hidden under Singapore’s carpet of orthodoxy. The gay bar was far more open and ‘mainstream’ than we had expected – considering homosexuality is illegal in Singapore – and the haunted houses we visited were clearly also frequented by local ghost-hunting enthusiasts and grafitti-spraying youth. We realised there is unorthodox activity going on here but it has its designated place, out of the sight of foreign visitors, and indeed, of many Singaporeans.
What we saw on the tour seemed an apt metaphor for Singaporean ‘resistance’. As we were shocked to discover upon our arrival here, public protest, spontaneous gatherings and political dissent are among those things illegal under Singaporean law. Furthermore, the government invests significant time and resources in manufacturing and maintaining a climate of fear, ensuring that all but a few dissenters are either too scared or too apathetic to voice their dissent. People are unhappy with how their government runs the country, but virtually no one is willing to speak up. We have been incredibly fortunate to meet with one of the few Singaporeans who does speak out, at great personal cost, whenever he can.
Dr Chee Soon Juan used to teach here at NUS. As soon as he became involved in opposition politics, however, he was fired on tenuous grounds. But this, after all, is the National University – the University where ex-Prime Minister (and now ‘Minister Mentor’, a position of authority without precedent in any other professed democracy) Lee Kuan Yew has an entire school named in his honour; where his son (and current Prime Minister) Lee Hsien Loong studied; and where his son in turn and countless other state officials studied. Criticism of the government has been erased from the curriculum. Since his dismissal, Dr Chee has not relented in his mission to make Singapore the functioning democracy its leaders claim it to be. His party, the Singapore Democratic Party, is marginalised from mainstream politics despite having considerable (though often covert) support; he has personally suffered the abrupt ending of his academic career, repeated imprisonment, bankruptcy and continued fines for his political activity, and total demonisation and ridicule by the state-controlled media. Through making such an example of one man (and similar persecution has been acted out on a number of other dissenters in other contexts), the Singaporean government is able to maintain its society in a state of fear.
Even more frightening than this, however, is that the generation who have grown up in Singapore during the last quarter of the twentieth century have no living memory of what society was like before. They don’t remember the 60s and 70s, when student rallies could number in their thousands and to question the government was natural rather than prohibited. One twenty-something Singaporean friend of ours recalls that her uncle was once involved in some kind of activism many years ago, before being getting arrested. She doesn’t know what happened to him whilst he was in custody, and he doesn’t really speak about it, but says he was “changed” after it happened. An atmosphere of fear, secrecy and restraint pervades many popular recollections of this period. Or, even more alarmingly, activism is seen as a joke. The leftist nationalist movements that undeniably played a part in Singapore’s formal independence are reduced to comedic asides in lectures.
By now, the focus of civil society has shifted – and education is a prime example. As Dr Chee noted, the point of education is to question. And yet students in Singapore are programmed from an early age to compete with each other in the quest for ‘excellence’, rather than question authority. This can lead to some paradoxical scenarios: in one of our lectures (a Political Science class no less), the lecturer at one point broke away from the topic to state: “I’m sorry to break it to you, but Singapore is another example of an authoritarian government.” Whilst this might not appear a particularly controversial claim, it is extremely unusual in Singapore to hear such a sentiment expressed by a person in a position of authority – especially at NUS. We were surprised, then, to find that the class spontaneously burst into applause. Clearly such political sentiments are widely-held, but can’t be expressed without first being sanctioned by a figure of authority.
The paradoxical character of dissent here demonstrates that when conventional protest is proscribed, most people seek other ways of expressing their politics. What might seem like a taxi driver merely bemoaning his lot, takes on new significance given the fact that thousands of taxi drivers have had to attend a government training course instructing them to have neat hair, no BO, and to not talk to customers about “sensitive issues” such as race or state policy. A sarcastic aside by an NUS lecturer carries great weight in an academic environment that stifles the free exchange of opinion. What might seem a slight matter, of whether or not to turn up to a peaceful vigil held outside the Burmese embassy in solidarity with the monks and civilians making a stand against a military regime, becomes a decision of great consequence, between silence and massive social transgression. Our experience in Singapore has made meaningful certain academic debates emphasising the myriad, everyday forms ‘resistance’ may take. Small acts may have enormous consequences, and the fact that much discontent is hidden does not mean it isn’t there. It only means you have to spend a bit of time unearthing and exposing it.
‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’.
We wrench loose an MDF board covering the once grand entrance, before slipping inside, avoiding the rusty nails. Our feet crunch over broken glass as we peer into the gloom. The ticket booths, smashed to shit, still welcome Mastercard and Visa and still dispense mouldy, discoloured maps. Plastic statues slump, their plastic heads scattered on the floor. ‘I love sex’. ‘Get out’. ‘Bobby and Pris wuz here 99’. The ceiling is falling in, the lights exploded. The tropical undergrowth is slowly reclaiming this misguided business venture. The mosquitos have returned to these stagnant lakes. Giant pink paper horses and blue paper elephants, frozen mid-motion, aflame and collapsing in on themselves.
Perhaps this freakish fairytale was doomed to fail from the start. A tourist attraction designed for Chinese tourism and themed around ancient Chinese imperial history, elaborately carved from plaster of paris and plywood, built in 1980s Singapore, now stands closed a decade later and erased from the national memory.
Like so many Singaporean transgressions, ‘Tang Dynasty City’ remains very much present, but obscured from public view. On the surface, this highly successful city-state embodies the image its government seeks to project: it is clean and clean-living, obedient, polite, orderly and well-planned. Gays, prostitutes, transvestites, the homeless, political dissidents, governmental corruption and national failures – all these get swept under the carpet of state-sanctioned discourse.
The same may be said of the higher education system. When we first started studying here, we were shocked and bemused by the attitudes of the Singaporean students. The learning culture is totally at odds with what we’ve come to expect from our experiences at a British university. In Singapore, we said to each other with a mixture of bemusement and reproach, the students just don’t question anything. They don’t question their lecturers and they don’t question the way the university is run. They don’t question the texts they read, and they shy away from questioning each other. They are excessively respectful of authority, they study way too hard and hardly ever go out, and they ‘strive for excellence’ rather than seeking to critically interrogate established modes of thinking. Dr Chee Soon Juan, a former neuropsychology lecturer at NUS, recalls his frustration with his students. On one occasion he came to class and told them that he was just going to stare at them. So he sat there, and stared. After fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence, in which not one student challenged him or asked him to begin teaching, he simply got up and left.
Of course, having been in Singapore for over three months now, this characterisation of ‘the Singaporean Student’ – as compliant, submissive and unquestioning – has revealed itself to be somewhat simplistic. In the terminology of James Scott, there are definitely both ‘public transcripts’ and ‘hidden transcripts’ at work here, as there are in Singaporean society more broadly. In public, we think it’s fair to say that the majority of Singaporeans are passive and conformist. Decades of authoritarian rule combined with generally decent standards of living and state-controlled media will tend to do that to a society. But in private spaces, Singaporeans still think; they still feel discontent and have that nagging sensation that all is not quite as it appears. However, these hidden transcripts of dissent tend not to manifest themselves in immediately visible ways. Thus our new self-appointed task has been to delve under the carpet and search out this undercurrent of opposition.
Our clandestine visit to ‘Tang Dynasty City’ was just one stop on an alternative 24-hour tour of Singapore, run by a PhD student here who delights in showing both foreigners and young Singaporeans alike the ‘seedier’ sides of the city. Most of our activities were illegal. We spent a couple of hours in a gay club, snuck around a disused, haunted hospital, wandered through a Chinese burial ground, discovered the red-light district, and broke into an indestructible house with a mysterious curse hanging over it – all in the dead of night. Aside from being fun (and pretty scary at times), it opened our eyes to the kinds of alternative narratives hidden under Singapore’s carpet of orthodoxy. The gay bar was far more open and ‘mainstream’ than we had expected – considering homosexuality is illegal in Singapore – and the haunted houses we visited were clearly also frequented by local ghost-hunting enthusiasts and grafitti-spraying youth. We realised there is unorthodox activity going on here but it has its designated place, out of the sight of foreign visitors, and indeed, of many Singaporeans.
What we saw on the tour seemed an apt metaphor for Singaporean ‘resistance’. As we were shocked to discover upon our arrival here, public protest, spontaneous gatherings and political dissent are among those things illegal under Singaporean law. Furthermore, the government invests significant time and resources in manufacturing and maintaining a climate of fear, ensuring that all but a few dissenters are either too scared or too apathetic to voice their dissent. People are unhappy with how their government runs the country, but virtually no one is willing to speak up. We have been incredibly fortunate to meet with one of the few Singaporeans who does speak out, at great personal cost, whenever he can.
Dr Chee Soon Juan used to teach here at NUS. As soon as he became involved in opposition politics, however, he was fired on tenuous grounds. But this, after all, is the National University – the University where ex-Prime Minister (and now ‘Minister Mentor’, a position of authority without precedent in any other professed democracy) Lee Kuan Yew has an entire school named in his honour; where his son (and current Prime Minister) Lee Hsien Loong studied; and where his son in turn and countless other state officials studied. Criticism of the government has been erased from the curriculum. Since his dismissal, Dr Chee has not relented in his mission to make Singapore the functioning democracy its leaders claim it to be. His party, the Singapore Democratic Party, is marginalised from mainstream politics despite having considerable (though often covert) support; he has personally suffered the abrupt ending of his academic career, repeated imprisonment, bankruptcy and continued fines for his political activity, and total demonisation and ridicule by the state-controlled media. Through making such an example of one man (and similar persecution has been acted out on a number of other dissenters in other contexts), the Singaporean government is able to maintain its society in a state of fear.
Even more frightening than this, however, is that the generation who have grown up in Singapore during the last quarter of the twentieth century have no living memory of what society was like before. They don’t remember the 60s and 70s, when student rallies could number in their thousands and to question the government was natural rather than prohibited. One twenty-something Singaporean friend of ours recalls that her uncle was once involved in some kind of activism many years ago, before being getting arrested. She doesn’t know what happened to him whilst he was in custody, and he doesn’t really speak about it, but says he was “changed” after it happened. An atmosphere of fear, secrecy and restraint pervades many popular recollections of this period. Or, even more alarmingly, activism is seen as a joke. The leftist nationalist movements that undeniably played a part in Singapore’s formal independence are reduced to comedic asides in lectures.
By now, the focus of civil society has shifted – and education is a prime example. As Dr Chee noted, the point of education is to question. And yet students in Singapore are programmed from an early age to compete with each other in the quest for ‘excellence’, rather than question authority. This can lead to some paradoxical scenarios: in one of our lectures (a Political Science class no less), the lecturer at one point broke away from the topic to state: “I’m sorry to break it to you, but Singapore is another example of an authoritarian government.” Whilst this might not appear a particularly controversial claim, it is extremely unusual in Singapore to hear such a sentiment expressed by a person in a position of authority – especially at NUS. We were surprised, then, to find that the class spontaneously burst into applause. Clearly such political sentiments are widely-held, but can’t be expressed without first being sanctioned by a figure of authority.
The paradoxical character of dissent here demonstrates that when conventional protest is proscribed, most people seek other ways of expressing their politics. What might seem like a taxi driver merely bemoaning his lot, takes on new significance given the fact that thousands of taxi drivers have had to attend a government training course instructing them to have neat hair, no BO, and to not talk to customers about “sensitive issues” such as race or state policy. A sarcastic aside by an NUS lecturer carries great weight in an academic environment that stifles the free exchange of opinion. What might seem a slight matter, of whether or not to turn up to a peaceful vigil held outside the Burmese embassy in solidarity with the monks and civilians making a stand against a military regime, becomes a decision of great consequence, between silence and massive social transgression. Our experience in Singapore has made meaningful certain academic debates emphasising the myriad, everyday forms ‘resistance’ may take. Small acts may have enormous consequences, and the fact that much discontent is hidden does not mean it isn’t there. It only means you have to spend a bit of time unearthing and exposing it.
Friday, 8 August 2008
Sussex-Palestine zine 2007
This zine was published following the April 2007 delegation of Sussex students to the occupied West Bank.
Protest Singapore Style
by Pia Muzaffar and Olly Laughland
‘Protest Singapore style,’ so the headline went. 
The day came, our group whittled down to just nine. We approached the venue with trepidation, not knowing what awaited us at the top of the escalators as we emerged from the underground station onto the street. We were met by scores of journalists, photographers and film crews, far outnumbering our diminutive assembly. Upon sighting us they swarmed, cameras flashing, questions shouted, dictaphones thrust to our faces. “What would you say to the Burmese junta if you could be at the ASEAN summit today?” “Are you not scared of breaking Singapore’s strict anti-protest laws?” “Do your parents know you’re here?”
‘9 protestors, 29 journalists, 2,500 police.’
We couldn’t have put it better ourselves.
Weeks of planning, secretive meetings, liaisons with the international media, personal struggle and strained friendships, family warnings and relationship crises – all to walk up a busy shopping street in red t-shirts and holding candles. Our quiet vigil in protest against the Burmese junta’s uncontested presence at the annual ASEAN Summit in Singapore caused something of a stir, to put it mildly.
Weeks of planning, secretive meetings, liaisons with the international media, personal struggle and strained friendships, family warnings and relationship crises – all to walk up a busy shopping street in red t-shirts and holding candles. Our quiet vigil in protest against the Burmese junta’s uncontested presence at the annual ASEAN Summit in Singapore caused something of a stir, to put it mildly.
Of course, we weren’t the only people greatly concerned about the situation. Since the violent crackdowns of Burmese civil society reported in October of last year, hundreds of thousands of people worldwide have been involved in campaigning, calling for an end to the oppressive regime. But the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN), currently chaired by what was our host country of Singapore, is crucial to either undermining or legitimising the Burmese junta. However, Singapore had so far failed to condemn the junta’s actions, its high-level business links with the regime proving far too important to jeopardise, to the great displeasure of Singapore’s 30,000-strong Burmese community.
When we found out that the Burmese generals themselves were to be welcomed with open arms into Singapore’s luxurious Shangri-La Hotel, we decided to take action. There were other events planned, including two forums organised by Overseas Burmese Patriots and SG Human Rights, but these were to be held indoors in diluted form after applications to protest outside were rejected. Singapore’s stringent protest laws and total ban on public assembly once again proved to be an effective way of containing and constraining civil society.
Raised on Millian notions of freedom of speech, a vocal student body at Sussex and general discontentment at elite political power, we decided to risk our student visas and bend the rules. Our plan was simple: to walk towards the ASEAN Summit in groups of three (theoretically remaining within the ban on public assemblies of more than four), wearing red t-shirts to mark our solidarity with the Burmese people, and holding candles (since any sort of banner or placard would require a permit).
An innocent statement, we thought, though loaded nonetheless with our disgust at the junta’s regime. But the authorities thought differently, and made this patently obvious in the days preceding our event.
First of all, an email told us, “You are requested to attend a chat with the Provost and the Dean of Students tomorrow morning.” We went along, and spent a good half hour politely deflecting their polite attempts to neuter our efforts. “We don’t want this descending into violence,” said the Provost, drawing on the standard Singaporean truism: speaking out equals violence and chaos; chaos equals a threat to the economy. He courteously passed us a copy of the Straits Times (the state-controlled newspaper), folded neatly to the front page which read, “Singapore will stick to its tough laws governing public protests”. The internet said the same – so did the television, so did the radio.
Chuckling to himself, he opened a large dossier containing page after page of our personal information gleaned from Facebook. Covered in annotations, it told a story of “potentially unlawful behaviour”. Little did we know a group of fellow students had seen our ‘Stand Up For Burma’ event on Facebook and reported us straight to the University authorities, probably in order to attain more all-important points for their own personal records. Nervous laughter followed. “You know we won’t be able to help you if you’re arrested. Student visas are an issue out of our control,” said the Provost (who is also, incidentally, the ex-Deputy Superintendent of the Singapore Police).
Though we hadn’t been explicitly threatened, we left the ‘chat’ somewhat perturbed. Had our plans taken on a life of their own? Were we interfering in areas that were not ours to meddle with?
It got weirder. The next day we were on our way to the forum organised by the Burmese expatriate community in Singapore, when we got a phone call from a friend who was also involved in organising the vigil. “Erm… guys, I’ll be a bit late for the forum,” he said in guarded tones. “There are couple of policemen in my bedroom. They want to have a word with me.” We felt a sudden jolt of anxiety. The police? The magnitude of what we were doing began to dawn on us. “Do you want us to come by your room?” we asked our friend. “Erm… yeah, that’d be good actually,” he replied, straining to conceal the panic in his voice.”
We rushed to his room, our hearts thudding. There we were greeted by two plainclothes police officers with clipboards. Like the university authorities, they warned us that our planned actions risked breaking Singaporean law. Getting arrested in Singapore is a major, major social transgression. Determined not to be dissuaded, we tried to thank them politely for their advice, but without capitulating. They left eventually, having realised that their words were falling on deaf ears. Yet their visit left us shaken, unsure of what measures the authorities would take to prevent our protest from going ahead.
After this failed attempt, the police force resorted to more insidious means. An undercover policeman was installed at our planning meetings. We each received anonymous text messages clearly concocted by a novice police officer trying to sound young and hip. “Yo heard fm law fac guy police gonna take realie tuff action 2day on asean protest… dude has gd frend in police who knows some higher ups.. better tell those goin 4 protest 2 b real careful… looks like the cops here ain’t jokin… laterz.” We got emails warning of “rising anti-foreigner sentiment” in Singapore, and links to internet forums full of posts condemning our plans. On the wall of our Facebook event, there was even a cleverly constructed anonymous attendee (creatively named ‘Nigel Chomsky’) who attempted to delegitimise our advocacy of non-violent protest by saying things like, “For once Singaporeans, DISSENT!!!!! Hell, we can f*ck the policing bastards.” His profile, again hastily invented by some novice policeman with no conception of what ‘anarchism’ actually means, had pictures of a burning car and a hooded demonstrator hurling a Molotov at riot police. His ‘About Me’ section said, “The system’s fucked up. So I set it right. I dissent.” Although in retrospect these efforts at surveillance and infiltration seem laughable, at the time they were enough to make us feel like our every move was being watched, as if we were in some kind of Orwellian dystopia.
As if these warnings from various authorities were not enough, we were also being chased up by story-hunting journalists who had got wind of our plans. Protest, sadly, is big news in Singapore. And the Singaporean web forums were buzzing with lively discussions about what we were proposing to do. “I think we should deport these ang-mos [local slang for ‘white people’],” one angry user said. Another countered, “NUS, good try, you have my support! NUS you are not wasting your time as you are brave to step out to do so. This is just the beginning, I hope to see more of such movement. Bravo, NUS! Keep it up!” Singaporean friends and strangers contacted us with messages of support. At the same time, a few members of our group were even contacted by lawyers and university authorities their our home countries, warning that participating in the protest would mean automatic expulsion from their degree programmes back home.
What had started as a simple idea, with which we’d become involved through a series of chance encounters, had now snowballed into an event of massive significance, in which an unprecedented number of different people seemed to have a stake. And this was not without effects on our personal wellbeing. We were double-locking our doors at night, unable to sleep. We were constantly looking over our shoulders, and trying to brush aside the threats and doubts that seemed to assail us from all angles. Within our group itself, the pressure was taking its toll. We became embroiled in heated arguments about the right thing to do – and even whether to go ahead with the protest at all – severely testing our friendships with each other. We were tense, scared and doubtful of our own capabilities. The claustrophobia proved too much for many.
When we found out that the Burmese generals themselves were to be welcomed with open arms into Singapore’s luxurious Shangri-La Hotel, we decided to take action. There were other events planned, including two forums organised by Overseas Burmese Patriots and SG Human Rights, but these were to be held indoors in diluted form after applications to protest outside were rejected. Singapore’s stringent protest laws and total ban on public assembly once again proved to be an effective way of containing and constraining civil society.
Raised on Millian notions of freedom of speech, a vocal student body at Sussex and general discontentment at elite political power, we decided to risk our student visas and bend the rules. Our plan was simple: to walk towards the ASEAN Summit in groups of three (theoretically remaining within the ban on public assemblies of more than four), wearing red t-shirts to mark our solidarity with the Burmese people, and holding candles (since any sort of banner or placard would require a permit).
An innocent statement, we thought, though loaded nonetheless with our disgust at the junta’s regime. But the authorities thought differently, and made this patently obvious in the days preceding our event.
First of all, an email told us, “You are requested to attend a chat with the Provost and the Dean of Students tomorrow morning.” We went along, and spent a good half hour politely deflecting their polite attempts to neuter our efforts. “We don’t want this descending into violence,” said the Provost, drawing on the standard Singaporean truism: speaking out equals violence and chaos; chaos equals a threat to the economy. He courteously passed us a copy of the Straits Times (the state-controlled newspaper), folded neatly to the front page which read, “Singapore will stick to its tough laws governing public protests”. The internet said the same – so did the television, so did the radio.
Chuckling to himself, he opened a large dossier containing page after page of our personal information gleaned from Facebook. Covered in annotations, it told a story of “potentially unlawful behaviour”. Little did we know a group of fellow students had seen our ‘Stand Up For Burma’ event on Facebook and reported us straight to the University authorities, probably in order to attain more all-important points for their own personal records. Nervous laughter followed. “You know we won’t be able to help you if you’re arrested. Student visas are an issue out of our control,” said the Provost (who is also, incidentally, the ex-Deputy Superintendent of the Singapore Police).
Though we hadn’t been explicitly threatened, we left the ‘chat’ somewhat perturbed. Had our plans taken on a life of their own? Were we interfering in areas that were not ours to meddle with?
It got weirder. The next day we were on our way to the forum organised by the Burmese expatriate community in Singapore, when we got a phone call from a friend who was also involved in organising the vigil. “Erm… guys, I’ll be a bit late for the forum,” he said in guarded tones. “There are couple of policemen in my bedroom. They want to have a word with me.” We felt a sudden jolt of anxiety. The police? The magnitude of what we were doing began to dawn on us. “Do you want us to come by your room?” we asked our friend. “Erm… yeah, that’d be good actually,” he replied, straining to conceal the panic in his voice.”
We rushed to his room, our hearts thudding. There we were greeted by two plainclothes police officers with clipboards. Like the university authorities, they warned us that our planned actions risked breaking Singaporean law. Getting arrested in Singapore is a major, major social transgression. Determined not to be dissuaded, we tried to thank them politely for their advice, but without capitulating. They left eventually, having realised that their words were falling on deaf ears. Yet their visit left us shaken, unsure of what measures the authorities would take to prevent our protest from going ahead.
After this failed attempt, the police force resorted to more insidious means. An undercover policeman was installed at our planning meetings. We each received anonymous text messages clearly concocted by a novice police officer trying to sound young and hip. “Yo heard fm law fac guy police gonna take realie tuff action 2day on asean protest… dude has gd frend in police who knows some higher ups.. better tell those goin 4 protest 2 b real careful… looks like the cops here ain’t jokin… laterz.” We got emails warning of “rising anti-foreigner sentiment” in Singapore, and links to internet forums full of posts condemning our plans. On the wall of our Facebook event, there was even a cleverly constructed anonymous attendee (creatively named ‘Nigel Chomsky’) who attempted to delegitimise our advocacy of non-violent protest by saying things like, “For once Singaporeans, DISSENT!!!!! Hell, we can f*ck the policing bastards.” His profile, again hastily invented by some novice policeman with no conception of what ‘anarchism’ actually means, had pictures of a burning car and a hooded demonstrator hurling a Molotov at riot police. His ‘About Me’ section said, “The system’s fucked up. So I set it right. I dissent.” Although in retrospect these efforts at surveillance and infiltration seem laughable, at the time they were enough to make us feel like our every move was being watched, as if we were in some kind of Orwellian dystopia.
As if these warnings from various authorities were not enough, we were also being chased up by story-hunting journalists who had got wind of our plans. Protest, sadly, is big news in Singapore. And the Singaporean web forums were buzzing with lively discussions about what we were proposing to do. “I think we should deport these ang-mos [local slang for ‘white people’],” one angry user said. Another countered, “NUS, good try, you have my support! NUS you are not wasting your time as you are brave to step out to do so. This is just the beginning, I hope to see more of such movement. Bravo, NUS! Keep it up!” Singaporean friends and strangers contacted us with messages of support. At the same time, a few members of our group were even contacted by lawyers and university authorities their our home countries, warning that participating in the protest would mean automatic expulsion from their degree programmes back home.
What had started as a simple idea, with which we’d become involved through a series of chance encounters, had now snowballed into an event of massive significance, in which an unprecedented number of different people seemed to have a stake. And this was not without effects on our personal wellbeing. We were double-locking our doors at night, unable to sleep. We were constantly looking over our shoulders, and trying to brush aside the threats and doubts that seemed to assail us from all angles. Within our group itself, the pressure was taking its toll. We became embroiled in heated arguments about the right thing to do – and even whether to go ahead with the protest at all – severely testing our friendships with each other. We were tense, scared and doubtful of our own capabilities. The claustrophobia proved too much for many.
The day came, our group whittled down to just nine. We approached the venue with trepidation, not knowing what awaited us at the top of the escalators as we emerged from the underground station onto the street. We were met by scores of journalists, photographers and film crews, far outnumbering our diminutive assembly. Upon sighting us they swarmed, cameras flashing, questions shouted, dictaphones thrust to our faces. “What would you say to the Burmese junta if you could be at the ASEAN summit today?” “Are you not scared of breaking Singapore’s strict anti-protest laws?” “Do your parents know you’re here?”
They followed us as we walked towards the venue of the summit. They were present when we encountered the police, and when we dispersed without incident. And so it was that the message of our simple, minimalist protest achieved a degree of publicity unthinkable in the UK, making the front page of Singapore’s national newspaper as well as countless other media channels throughout Asia. And the next day, emboldened by the fact that we were not arrested, a group of fifty Burmese residents in Singapore staged another anti-junta protest outside the Summit – an event of far greater political significance.
Our protest was controversial. It may have offended some. But in the following weeks, it became clear to us that our protest had not taken place for no reason. What may have begun as a basic attempt to publicly criticise the Burmese military regime, in an environment where it enjoyed an unacceptable level of impunity, quickly escalated into a question of how Singaporean society understands itself: how it is disciplined, how it relates to ‘external’ interference, and what its fundamental values are. It served to crystallise national debates around public dissent, legitimate authority, the treatment of minorities, and regional diplomacy. And from our point of view, the lengths to which the authorities went in order to try and stifle our political action really demonstrated to us how much we cherish those civil liberties we’ve always taken for granted in the UK, and which have been rapidly eroded under the Blair government. On a personal level, we ended up with sturdy friendships and a new awareness of what we were prepared to do for a cause we believed in.
this article was first published in The Pulse (Spring 2008, issue 1)
Our protest was controversial. It may have offended some. But in the following weeks, it became clear to us that our protest had not taken place for no reason. What may have begun as a basic attempt to publicly criticise the Burmese military regime, in an environment where it enjoyed an unacceptable level of impunity, quickly escalated into a question of how Singaporean society understands itself: how it is disciplined, how it relates to ‘external’ interference, and what its fundamental values are. It served to crystallise national debates around public dissent, legitimate authority, the treatment of minorities, and regional diplomacy. And from our point of view, the lengths to which the authorities went in order to try and stifle our political action really demonstrated to us how much we cherish those civil liberties we’ve always taken for granted in the UK, and which have been rapidly eroded under the Blair government. On a personal level, we ended up with sturdy friendships and a new awareness of what we were prepared to do for a cause we believed in.
this article was first published in The Pulse (Spring 2008, issue 1)
Confessions of a Cultural Relativist: ‘Asian Values’ and Activism in Singapore
Development is imperialistic. It is inseparable from the totalising capitalist project, locking poor peripheral nations into an exploitative relationship with the multinationals and rich governments that make up the core. The notion of a singular development trajectory in which the Rest lags behind the West still doggedly persists in many institutional contexts, often resulting in misguided policy recommendations from Western agencies with disastrous results for developing countries. Well-intentioned grassroots organisations are often just as guilty, imposing inescapably Western norms on recalcitrant or merely unsuspecting populations. All these things we want to export to the rest of the world – women’s rights, free speech, secular education – they so often fail to take cultural difference into account.
Which is why, on my study abroad programme at the National University of Singapore, I had absolutely no intention of getting involved in any sort of activism.
It’s just not the Singaporean way, as we were repeatedly informed. Since Singapore’s independence in 1965, the government of this small city-state has progressively dismantled all the main channels through which real political dissent could be expressed, while fostering a civic culture of conservative conformism. The ban on chewing gum is well known; less often mentioned are the effective ban on public protest, the state-controlled national media, and the decimation of meaningful political opposition. All of which is justified, we are told, by the notion of ‘Asian Values’.
Popularised by the Singapore’s first Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, who continues to exercise a dominating influence in the Singaporean government through his self-created position as ‘Minister Mentor’ and the fact that his son is current PM, ‘Asian Values’ are held in contrast to Western liberal individualism and the sorts of rights and freedoms they imply. Asians, it is argued, are culturally and historically predisposed to a greater emphasis on family, discipline, and social stability.
Thus Singapore’s highly authoritarian government justifies its policies by positing adherence to Asian Values as the key ingredient to its stable social order and, more importantly, to its successful economic development. Amongst the Singaporeans I met, in various capacities, there was a clear consensus between many that whilst an overbearing government might not be to everyone’s taste, there could be no denying the fantastic wealth Singaporeans enjoy in comparison to the countries that surround it. Also frequently noted was the absence of violent and destructive civil unrest, to which all neighbouring states have been subject in varying degrees at some point over the last 50 years. The older generation of Singaporeans did take to the streets and protest, but at the moment the country is a peaceful and prosperous place to live.
There were things about Singapore I gradually became aware of and didn’t particularly like – the servile national media, the ‘free’ but unfair elections, the treatment of immigrants and labourers, the nepotistic government, the warm friendship with the Burmese military regime – but who was I to try and challenge them? If two and a half years of Development Studies have taught me anything, it’s that my personal beliefs in relation to direct political participation are at best culturally specific, and at worst totally unwelcome. It’s sheer arrogance to assume that I have the right to try and spread these ideologies elsewhere.
* * *
The problem, of course, is that Singapore can by no means be described in the simplistic terms outlined above. Economic growth, racial harmony and social stability constitute the idealised picture Singaporean elites are keen to project, and have certainly been internalised by the population to a significant degree. But the longer I stayed in Singapore, the more the cracks began to show.
Thanks to a chance encounter between a friend of mine and a Singaporean pro-democracy campaigner, I found myself in a planning meeting comprising a hotchpotch of different people: Singaporean human rights activists, Burmese residents in Singapore, a Swedish politician, an artist, other exchange students, and members of the Singapore Democratic Party (SDP), the politically marginalised opposition to the ruling People’s Action Party. There were two central points for discussion. The first point was how to respond to the forthcoming Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) Summit in Singapore, given that the leaders of the Burmese military regime were to be in attendance and the news images of their bloody crackdown on monks and other protesters were still fresh in our minds. The second point was how to encourage and embolden ordinary Singaporeans to take an active interest in the political machinations of their government.
What became clear during this meeting is that ‘Western’ notions of liberal freedoms, democratic participation and human rights cannot, in fact, be easily dismissed on crude applications of cultural relativism. The ‘Asian Values’ espoused by certain elites are neither common to all of Asia, nor representative of a homogeneity of opinion in individual Asian countries. There are hundreds, even thousands of people in Singapore who desire a greater engagement with political processes, and a small number of those have sacrificed any semblance of a ‘normal’ life in order to pursue these rights for Singaporean civil society.
Such individuals do not have it easy. I met Chee Soon Juan, now the charismatic icon of the SDP. Once a lecturer at the same National University where I was undertaking my exchange programme, he was promptly fired on spurious grounds as soon as he became involved in opposition politics – a dismissal that other academics there still defend, even if privately acknowledging that there was no legitimate reason for it. Refusing to be deterred, Dr Chee has since become infamous for continuing to assert and act out the right to engage in non-violent protest against the government. As a result, he has been sued and bankrupted by PAP leaders, arrested and imprisoned numerous times, prevented from leaving the country, and consistently ridiculed in national media. The message is clear: Singaporeans attempting to make a stand face severe consequences. The result is a pervasive culture of fear throughout Singaporean society.
Like Dr Chee, I believe firmly in the right to protest and in the usefulness of direct action as a means to social change. Which is why, a few weeks later, I ended up walking with two other exchange students down Singapore’s premier shopping street holding candles and wearing red t-shirts saying, “We pursue peace, justice and democracy for Burma”, surrounded by over twenty international and local journalists and cameramen, and filmed by plainclothes police.
It was the day that the ASEAN Summit began in the exclusive Shangri-La Hotel, and we marched towards the venue to stage our protest against the actions of the Burmese junta and its friendly relationship with Singaporean leaders. In any other country, no one would have batted an eyelid. We had no placards (these being illegal without a permit), we shouted no slogans (to avoid anything giving the vaguest impression of that oft-repeated fear of civil action degenerating into chaos), and we were split up into groups of three (since a public assembly of more than four people is also illegal). When we finally were approached by three of the 2,500 armed police safeguarding the area, we peacefully dispersed. It was the most innocuous protest imaginable. And yet one student journalist later reported that we “did the unthinkable”. This is the extent of the depoliticisation of Singaporean society.
Admittedly, it had not been an easy decision to protest that day. We had been summoned and ‘advised against’ it by the university administration, warned against it by police knocking on our bedroom doors, sent mysterious emails and text messages warning of severe repercussions, and threatened with the possibility of expulsion from some of our home universities. The few Singaporean students who had wanted to participate were totally daunted, and with good reason. The Burmese students, faced with the possibility of deportation, were not about to take the risk either. In the end only nine of us, all foreign students, were able to conduct our vigil.
And, as we had hoped, it turned out pretty well. No arrests, no violence. The somewhat disproportionate media presence meant that our message achieved a degree of exposure quite unimaginable in other contexts, being reported on the front page of Singapore’s national paper and making the evening television news, as well as numerous other media channels throughout Asia. Most importantly of all, the fact that no harm befell us encouraged more people to attend a public rally organised the very next day by members of the Burmese expatriate community in Singapore. Forty to fifty Burmese residents stood close to the ASEAN Summit venue holding placards and posters that read: “ASEAN Act With Honour! Action on Burma Now!” and “Listen To Burma’s Desires. Don’t Follow Junta’s Order.” A protest of this size was unprecedented, and yet police simply stood back for fifteen minutes, after which they called on the protesters to peacefully disperse.
* * *
Academic discussions questioning the universality of human rights and democracy are crucial, but how can we do anything but vigorously assert them when members of other societies are risking their lives and livelihoods in campaigning for their realisation? Amartya Sen, author of Development As Freedom, has argued:
“The people whose political and other rights are involved in this debate are not citizens of the West, but of Asian countries. The fact that individual liberty may have been championed in Western writings, and even by some Western political leaders, can scarcely compromise the claim to liberty that people in Asia may otherwise possess.”
Whilst interrogating Western universalism, we can’t assume that a monolithic, homogenous alternative – ‘Asian Values’ – exists; nor should we imagine that various Asian leaders speak for their diverse populations. As recently as forty years ago, Singapore had a vibrant activist and trade unionist culture where rallies could number in the thousands. Right now, a small but growing group of Singaporeans are working on ways to revive something of that spirit. There’s nothing inherently un-Asian about expressing dissent.
And what’s more, we have to admit that those characteristically ‘Western’ liberal freedoms aren’t exclusively Western. A polarising discourse, which justifies oppression by pitting a falsely homogenous set of ‘Asian’ values against its Western antithesis, is just as dangerous as imposing one set of cultural norms onto the rest of the world.
I certainly don’t want to force my culturally contingent belief in things like free speech and civil disobedience onto a recalcitrant recipient. Yet equally, I have been forced to challenge vacuous and ahistorical formulations of cultural relativism, and ask what purpose they may be serving. Singapore has made me a reluctant sort of universalist.
written for U8 Magazine (forthcoming)
see http://www.u8development.com/default/index.php
Which is why, on my study abroad programme at the National University of Singapore, I had absolutely no intention of getting involved in any sort of activism.
It’s just not the Singaporean way, as we were repeatedly informed. Since Singapore’s independence in 1965, the government of this small city-state has progressively dismantled all the main channels through which real political dissent could be expressed, while fostering a civic culture of conservative conformism. The ban on chewing gum is well known; less often mentioned are the effective ban on public protest, the state-controlled national media, and the decimation of meaningful political opposition. All of which is justified, we are told, by the notion of ‘Asian Values’.
Popularised by the Singapore’s first Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, who continues to exercise a dominating influence in the Singaporean government through his self-created position as ‘Minister Mentor’ and the fact that his son is current PM, ‘Asian Values’ are held in contrast to Western liberal individualism and the sorts of rights and freedoms they imply. Asians, it is argued, are culturally and historically predisposed to a greater emphasis on family, discipline, and social stability.
Thus Singapore’s highly authoritarian government justifies its policies by positing adherence to Asian Values as the key ingredient to its stable social order and, more importantly, to its successful economic development. Amongst the Singaporeans I met, in various capacities, there was a clear consensus between many that whilst an overbearing government might not be to everyone’s taste, there could be no denying the fantastic wealth Singaporeans enjoy in comparison to the countries that surround it. Also frequently noted was the absence of violent and destructive civil unrest, to which all neighbouring states have been subject in varying degrees at some point over the last 50 years. The older generation of Singaporeans did take to the streets and protest, but at the moment the country is a peaceful and prosperous place to live.
There were things about Singapore I gradually became aware of and didn’t particularly like – the servile national media, the ‘free’ but unfair elections, the treatment of immigrants and labourers, the nepotistic government, the warm friendship with the Burmese military regime – but who was I to try and challenge them? If two and a half years of Development Studies have taught me anything, it’s that my personal beliefs in relation to direct political participation are at best culturally specific, and at worst totally unwelcome. It’s sheer arrogance to assume that I have the right to try and spread these ideologies elsewhere.
* * *
The problem, of course, is that Singapore can by no means be described in the simplistic terms outlined above. Economic growth, racial harmony and social stability constitute the idealised picture Singaporean elites are keen to project, and have certainly been internalised by the population to a significant degree. But the longer I stayed in Singapore, the more the cracks began to show.
Thanks to a chance encounter between a friend of mine and a Singaporean pro-democracy campaigner, I found myself in a planning meeting comprising a hotchpotch of different people: Singaporean human rights activists, Burmese residents in Singapore, a Swedish politician, an artist, other exchange students, and members of the Singapore Democratic Party (SDP), the politically marginalised opposition to the ruling People’s Action Party. There were two central points for discussion. The first point was how to respond to the forthcoming Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) Summit in Singapore, given that the leaders of the Burmese military regime were to be in attendance and the news images of their bloody crackdown on monks and other protesters were still fresh in our minds. The second point was how to encourage and embolden ordinary Singaporeans to take an active interest in the political machinations of their government.
What became clear during this meeting is that ‘Western’ notions of liberal freedoms, democratic participation and human rights cannot, in fact, be easily dismissed on crude applications of cultural relativism. The ‘Asian Values’ espoused by certain elites are neither common to all of Asia, nor representative of a homogeneity of opinion in individual Asian countries. There are hundreds, even thousands of people in Singapore who desire a greater engagement with political processes, and a small number of those have sacrificed any semblance of a ‘normal’ life in order to pursue these rights for Singaporean civil society.
Such individuals do not have it easy. I met Chee Soon Juan, now the charismatic icon of the SDP. Once a lecturer at the same National University where I was undertaking my exchange programme, he was promptly fired on spurious grounds as soon as he became involved in opposition politics – a dismissal that other academics there still defend, even if privately acknowledging that there was no legitimate reason for it. Refusing to be deterred, Dr Chee has since become infamous for continuing to assert and act out the right to engage in non-violent protest against the government. As a result, he has been sued and bankrupted by PAP leaders, arrested and imprisoned numerous times, prevented from leaving the country, and consistently ridiculed in national media. The message is clear: Singaporeans attempting to make a stand face severe consequences. The result is a pervasive culture of fear throughout Singaporean society.
Like Dr Chee, I believe firmly in the right to protest and in the usefulness of direct action as a means to social change. Which is why, a few weeks later, I ended up walking with two other exchange students down Singapore’s premier shopping street holding candles and wearing red t-shirts saying, “We pursue peace, justice and democracy for Burma”, surrounded by over twenty international and local journalists and cameramen, and filmed by plainclothes police.
It was the day that the ASEAN Summit began in the exclusive Shangri-La Hotel, and we marched towards the venue to stage our protest against the actions of the Burmese junta and its friendly relationship with Singaporean leaders. In any other country, no one would have batted an eyelid. We had no placards (these being illegal without a permit), we shouted no slogans (to avoid anything giving the vaguest impression of that oft-repeated fear of civil action degenerating into chaos), and we were split up into groups of three (since a public assembly of more than four people is also illegal). When we finally were approached by three of the 2,500 armed police safeguarding the area, we peacefully dispersed. It was the most innocuous protest imaginable. And yet one student journalist later reported that we “did the unthinkable”. This is the extent of the depoliticisation of Singaporean society.
Admittedly, it had not been an easy decision to protest that day. We had been summoned and ‘advised against’ it by the university administration, warned against it by police knocking on our bedroom doors, sent mysterious emails and text messages warning of severe repercussions, and threatened with the possibility of expulsion from some of our home universities. The few Singaporean students who had wanted to participate were totally daunted, and with good reason. The Burmese students, faced with the possibility of deportation, were not about to take the risk either. In the end only nine of us, all foreign students, were able to conduct our vigil.
And, as we had hoped, it turned out pretty well. No arrests, no violence. The somewhat disproportionate media presence meant that our message achieved a degree of exposure quite unimaginable in other contexts, being reported on the front page of Singapore’s national paper and making the evening television news, as well as numerous other media channels throughout Asia. Most importantly of all, the fact that no harm befell us encouraged more people to attend a public rally organised the very next day by members of the Burmese expatriate community in Singapore. Forty to fifty Burmese residents stood close to the ASEAN Summit venue holding placards and posters that read: “ASEAN Act With Honour! Action on Burma Now!” and “Listen To Burma’s Desires. Don’t Follow Junta’s Order.” A protest of this size was unprecedented, and yet police simply stood back for fifteen minutes, after which they called on the protesters to peacefully disperse.
* * *
Academic discussions questioning the universality of human rights and democracy are crucial, but how can we do anything but vigorously assert them when members of other societies are risking their lives and livelihoods in campaigning for their realisation? Amartya Sen, author of Development As Freedom, has argued:
“The people whose political and other rights are involved in this debate are not citizens of the West, but of Asian countries. The fact that individual liberty may have been championed in Western writings, and even by some Western political leaders, can scarcely compromise the claim to liberty that people in Asia may otherwise possess.”
Whilst interrogating Western universalism, we can’t assume that a monolithic, homogenous alternative – ‘Asian Values’ – exists; nor should we imagine that various Asian leaders speak for their diverse populations. As recently as forty years ago, Singapore had a vibrant activist and trade unionist culture where rallies could number in the thousands. Right now, a small but growing group of Singaporeans are working on ways to revive something of that spirit. There’s nothing inherently un-Asian about expressing dissent.
And what’s more, we have to admit that those characteristically ‘Western’ liberal freedoms aren’t exclusively Western. A polarising discourse, which justifies oppression by pitting a falsely homogenous set of ‘Asian’ values against its Western antithesis, is just as dangerous as imposing one set of cultural norms onto the rest of the world.
I certainly don’t want to force my culturally contingent belief in things like free speech and civil disobedience onto a recalcitrant recipient. Yet equally, I have been forced to challenge vacuous and ahistorical formulations of cultural relativism, and ask what purpose they may be serving. Singapore has made me a reluctant sort of universalist.
written for U8 Magazine (forthcoming)
see http://www.u8development.com/default/index.php
Exclusive interview with student protestor
By Michael Wan
Jan. 9 2008
from http://campus-observer.org/index.php/news/exclusive-interview-with-student-protestor.html
NUS exchange student Pia Muzaffar Dawson did the unthinkable last November.
Along with two exchange students, the 22-year-old took her chances with Singapore’s tough laws against public protests by marching down Orchard Road into an area guarded by about 1,000 armed police and soldiers.
Together with Daniel Babiak and Mark (who did not want to reveal his last name), Dawson entered the city area where the Association of South East Asian Nations leaders’ summit was being held.
The trio, dressed in red T-shirts and holding lighted candles, were protesting against Asean’s inaction toward Burma’s junta after the country’s bloody military crackdown on demonstrations led by Buddhist monks. In an e-mail interview with The Observer on Jan. 08, Dawson spoke about her experience with the university administrators that called to warn her against protesting and about what she thinks of NUS students. She has since completed her semester as an exchange student at NUS and returned to England, where she is studying international relations and development studies at the University of Sussex.
Campus Observer: Have you ever protested in England before?
Dawson: Yes, but not very much. I don't have much history of activism. It's only recently that I've been inspired to participate in protests, specifically regarding education in the UK, anti-war, the occupation of Palestine, and the gradual erosion of our civil liberties in England.
Campus Observer: What inspired you to protest that day?
Dawson: First and foremost, the continuing political repression in Burma, the strong links between Singaporean elites and Burmese military rulers and drug barons, and the relative silence in Singaporean media on both these issues. It would have been awful if the Burmese junta could be seen to just turn up in Singapore and not be held accountable for their actions -- especially given the recent violent crackdown on monks and others. Secondly, the repressive environment in Singapore, which restricts free speech, free assembly and free press. With the government silent and civil society groups facing massive restrictions, we thought that we could use our status as international students to highlight this issue. Thirdly - and I am speaking for myself here -- it is becoming increasingly clear to me that protest and political participation are vital to maintaining any semblance of democracy and political accountability. This is something that one generation of Singaporeans knew well, but has been stifled in contemporary Singapore. Knowing full well that a public assembly of more than four people does not necessarily degenerate into violence and chaos, we wanted to demonstrate this in Singapore.
Campus Observer: It was reported that administrators from NUS called to warn you of Singapore's laws. What exactly did they tell you?
Dawson: The provost and dean of students spoke to some of us. They had managed to print out our Facebook event details and explained that the wording of our appeal made it clear that there was intent to hold an assembly of more than four people, even if the protest was conducted in smaller groups. They didn't want us to unwittingly break the law and were concerned that as foreign students we were not aware of local law. They even offered us the Central Forum as an alternative venue to stage a vigil.
Campus Observer: Why did you still decide to go ahead with the protests?
Dawson: Because our reasons for protesting remained the same, and we were concerned that this kind of muting of our plans would have much less of an impact and carry our message much less far. We were also lucky because we knew that any sort of legal action or arrest would not affect us in the same way that it would affect a Singaporean student and their future career prospects (unless we want to work in Singapore, that is).
Campus Observer: Were you afraid when security officials and the police stopped your group of protesters?
Dawson: I wasn't afraid, because we had expected to encounter police in that area, and we knew that we hadn't broken any law. We also knew that the police would not mistreat us in the presence of so many international journalists. The main reason I wasn't afraid, however, was that a successful protest usually relies on good planning, and our group had collectively decided that we would not confront the police or try to defy their warnings. So when the moment came, we were all prepared to disperse peacefully.
Campus Observer: I see that you were using your handphone in one of the photos. Who were you calling?
Dawson: Journalists from all over the world had been calling me non-stop that day!
Campus Observer: Were there any friends, well-meaning or otherwise, who tried to dissuade you from joining the protests? Could you recount one such experience?
Dawson: Yes, one law-student friend tried to dissuade us and managed to dissuade some others. One other friend was not comfortable with the fact that we would have no control over how our protest would be represented in the media, and he was very worried that we would be cast as troublemakers, or that reporters would focus on us and not on the issues that we were trying to publicise. He didn't come, in the end. Luckily, his fears didn't come true. However, I had no problem with the fact that some people didn't want to participate, because it's not right to do those things without being comfortable with your actions. Also, other people's criticisms were totally legitimate and meant we had many excellent discussions in the days before the protest, which ultimately prepared us much better for the day.
Campus Observer: Daniel was quoted by Bloomberg: "A lot of people wanted to come, but they were afraid of the repercussions.” What were these people’s reactions after the protests?
Dawson: They were relieved, I think, that no harm came to us. But I think their fears were totally valid, especially given the way the university, police and local media attempted to scare us out of participating. Hopefully, people will be more encouraged the next time such an opportunity arises.
Campus Observer: What do you think has been the effect of the protests on Singapore's political scene?
Dawson: I don't know. I think it's important to highlight that the next day, 40-50 Burmese residents of Singapore were able to stage a rally, even holding banners and placards. I hope this will encourage even more Singaporeans to become active in civil society. I know that there are many Singaporeans who feel disillusioned with politics, seeing it as a sphere outside and above their control. For me, politics is something everyday and ubiquitous, and I believe we can empower ourselves without the permission of those who are supposedly in authority.
Campus Observer: Describe your opinion of NUS students in three words.
Dawson: Overworked, competitive, and de-politicised!
Jan. 9 2008
from http://campus-observer.org/index.php/news/exclusive-interview-with-student-protestor.html
NUS exchange student Pia Muzaffar Dawson did the unthinkable last November.
Along with two exchange students, the 22-year-old took her chances with Singapore’s tough laws against public protests by marching down Orchard Road into an area guarded by about 1,000 armed police and soldiers.
Together with Daniel Babiak and Mark (who did not want to reveal his last name), Dawson entered the city area where the Association of South East Asian Nations leaders’ summit was being held.
The trio, dressed in red T-shirts and holding lighted candles, were protesting against Asean’s inaction toward Burma’s junta after the country’s bloody military crackdown on demonstrations led by Buddhist monks. In an e-mail interview with The Observer on Jan. 08, Dawson spoke about her experience with the university administrators that called to warn her against protesting and about what she thinks of NUS students. She has since completed her semester as an exchange student at NUS and returned to England, where she is studying international relations and development studies at the University of Sussex.
Campus Observer: Have you ever protested in England before?
Dawson: Yes, but not very much. I don't have much history of activism. It's only recently that I've been inspired to participate in protests, specifically regarding education in the UK, anti-war, the occupation of Palestine, and the gradual erosion of our civil liberties in England.
Campus Observer: What inspired you to protest that day?
Dawson: First and foremost, the continuing political repression in Burma, the strong links between Singaporean elites and Burmese military rulers and drug barons, and the relative silence in Singaporean media on both these issues. It would have been awful if the Burmese junta could be seen to just turn up in Singapore and not be held accountable for their actions -- especially given the recent violent crackdown on monks and others. Secondly, the repressive environment in Singapore, which restricts free speech, free assembly and free press. With the government silent and civil society groups facing massive restrictions, we thought that we could use our status as international students to highlight this issue. Thirdly - and I am speaking for myself here -- it is becoming increasingly clear to me that protest and political participation are vital to maintaining any semblance of democracy and political accountability. This is something that one generation of Singaporeans knew well, but has been stifled in contemporary Singapore. Knowing full well that a public assembly of more than four people does not necessarily degenerate into violence and chaos, we wanted to demonstrate this in Singapore.
Campus Observer: It was reported that administrators from NUS called to warn you of Singapore's laws. What exactly did they tell you?
Dawson: The provost and dean of students spoke to some of us. They had managed to print out our Facebook event details and explained that the wording of our appeal made it clear that there was intent to hold an assembly of more than four people, even if the protest was conducted in smaller groups. They didn't want us to unwittingly break the law and were concerned that as foreign students we were not aware of local law. They even offered us the Central Forum as an alternative venue to stage a vigil.
Campus Observer: Why did you still decide to go ahead with the protests?
Dawson: Because our reasons for protesting remained the same, and we were concerned that this kind of muting of our plans would have much less of an impact and carry our message much less far. We were also lucky because we knew that any sort of legal action or arrest would not affect us in the same way that it would affect a Singaporean student and their future career prospects (unless we want to work in Singapore, that is).
Campus Observer: Were you afraid when security officials and the police stopped your group of protesters?
Dawson: I wasn't afraid, because we had expected to encounter police in that area, and we knew that we hadn't broken any law. We also knew that the police would not mistreat us in the presence of so many international journalists. The main reason I wasn't afraid, however, was that a successful protest usually relies on good planning, and our group had collectively decided that we would not confront the police or try to defy their warnings. So when the moment came, we were all prepared to disperse peacefully.
Campus Observer: I see that you were using your handphone in one of the photos. Who were you calling?
Dawson: Journalists from all over the world had been calling me non-stop that day!
Campus Observer: Were there any friends, well-meaning or otherwise, who tried to dissuade you from joining the protests? Could you recount one such experience?
Dawson: Yes, one law-student friend tried to dissuade us and managed to dissuade some others. One other friend was not comfortable with the fact that we would have no control over how our protest would be represented in the media, and he was very worried that we would be cast as troublemakers, or that reporters would focus on us and not on the issues that we were trying to publicise. He didn't come, in the end. Luckily, his fears didn't come true. However, I had no problem with the fact that some people didn't want to participate, because it's not right to do those things without being comfortable with your actions. Also, other people's criticisms were totally legitimate and meant we had many excellent discussions in the days before the protest, which ultimately prepared us much better for the day.
Campus Observer: Daniel was quoted by Bloomberg: "A lot of people wanted to come, but they were afraid of the repercussions.” What were these people’s reactions after the protests?
Dawson: They were relieved, I think, that no harm came to us. But I think their fears were totally valid, especially given the way the university, police and local media attempted to scare us out of participating. Hopefully, people will be more encouraged the next time such an opportunity arises.
Campus Observer: What do you think has been the effect of the protests on Singapore's political scene?
Dawson: I don't know. I think it's important to highlight that the next day, 40-50 Burmese residents of Singapore were able to stage a rally, even holding banners and placards. I hope this will encourage even more Singaporeans to become active in civil society. I know that there are many Singaporeans who feel disillusioned with politics, seeing it as a sphere outside and above their control. For me, politics is something everyday and ubiquitous, and I believe we can empower ourselves without the permission of those who are supposedly in authority.
Campus Observer: Describe your opinion of NUS students in three words.
Dawson: Overworked, competitive, and de-politicised!
Green means GO!
Is harking back to the ‘golden age’ of Singaporean student activism just a futile nostalgia trip, or a call to arms to a passive student body in a culture of control?
Singapore confuses me. I have just about worked out how to get from one part of the labyrinthine Prince George’s Park Residences to another. I have somehow managed to successfully navigate the unfathomable complexity of module registration. Finding out where my lectures are taking place is another matter entirely, but I suppose after a couple more weeks I will have mastered this too.
It seems that NUS students have to concentrate so hard on working out where we are going and how to get there, that we don’t stop to think about the motivations behind the creation of such a bizarrely convoluted landscape. What purpose could such bafflement serve?
I cannot help but compare NUS with Sussex, my home university in Britain. There our students’ union, library, main lecture theatres, arts institution, IT centre, religious building, careers centre, union shop, bar and nightclub, all surround one central square. This square is thus the focal point for student campaigns and campus events.
At Sussex we occupied the library overnight to demand better resources and longer opening hours; held protests pressurising the university management to reverse their decision to close down our excellent chemistry department; marched against ‘top-up fees’ and the increasing marketisation of our education. We campaigned to twin with a university in Occupied Palestine, and banned Coca-Cola on campus.
But I wonder: if our university was designed like NUS, would such vibrant and successful student campaigns have been possible?
My NUS experience so far almost typifies the widely-held stereotype of Singapore as a highly obedient society. No jaywalking, no littering, no loitering, no chewing gum, no drugs, no public protest, no being gay. Heavy fines and severe penalties for transgression maintain a draconian social order.
And yet the stereotype doesn’t quite hold. There is dissent; but it appears too frequently to engender disillusionment and resignation rather than political action. In a 2001 poll of NUS students, 77% said they were not interested in political participation and 88% believed there were constraints preventing them from getting involved. This context is miles away from the 1960s and 70s when student rallies here could number in their thousands, and Singaporean students were prepared to launch boycotts, hunger strikes, sit-ins and marches in protest against government attempts to curtail their freedoms. By contrast, there now appears to be the general impression that politics is the realm of the elite, and that the results of any attempt at activism would be a foregone conclusion.
Whilst such attitudes are totally understandable given Singapore’s governmental style, they are also based on a misunderstanding of ‘politics’. Politics, after all, is about power. And power is not something possessed merely by the upper echelons of society; it is present in every social relationship. Consequently, so is resistance.
So whilst it may be too much to hope that NUS students might defy the stringent laws, and rally en masse making loud and long-overdue demands to the Singaporean government, we should remember we can still act in seemingly small ways to engage in resistance against the dominant social order.
this article was first published for NUS students in The Ridge, October 2007
Singapore confuses me. I have just about worked out how to get from one part of the labyrinthine Prince George’s Park Residences to another. I have somehow managed to successfully navigate the unfathomable complexity of module registration. Finding out where my lectures are taking place is another matter entirely, but I suppose after a couple more weeks I will have mastered this too.
It seems that NUS students have to concentrate so hard on working out where we are going and how to get there, that we don’t stop to think about the motivations behind the creation of such a bizarrely convoluted landscape. What purpose could such bafflement serve?
I cannot help but compare NUS with Sussex, my home university in Britain. There our students’ union, library, main lecture theatres, arts institution, IT centre, religious building, careers centre, union shop, bar and nightclub, all surround one central square. This square is thus the focal point for student campaigns and campus events.
At Sussex we occupied the library overnight to demand better resources and longer opening hours; held protests pressurising the university management to reverse their decision to close down our excellent chemistry department; marched against ‘top-up fees’ and the increasing marketisation of our education. We campaigned to twin with a university in Occupied Palestine, and banned Coca-Cola on campus.
But I wonder: if our university was designed like NUS, would such vibrant and successful student campaigns have been possible?
My NUS experience so far almost typifies the widely-held stereotype of Singapore as a highly obedient society. No jaywalking, no littering, no loitering, no chewing gum, no drugs, no public protest, no being gay. Heavy fines and severe penalties for transgression maintain a draconian social order.
And yet the stereotype doesn’t quite hold. There is dissent; but it appears too frequently to engender disillusionment and resignation rather than political action. In a 2001 poll of NUS students, 77% said they were not interested in political participation and 88% believed there were constraints preventing them from getting involved. This context is miles away from the 1960s and 70s when student rallies here could number in their thousands, and Singaporean students were prepared to launch boycotts, hunger strikes, sit-ins and marches in protest against government attempts to curtail their freedoms. By contrast, there now appears to be the general impression that politics is the realm of the elite, and that the results of any attempt at activism would be a foregone conclusion.
Whilst such attitudes are totally understandable given Singapore’s governmental style, they are also based on a misunderstanding of ‘politics’. Politics, after all, is about power. And power is not something possessed merely by the upper echelons of society; it is present in every social relationship. Consequently, so is resistance.
So whilst it may be too much to hope that NUS students might defy the stringent laws, and rally en masse making loud and long-overdue demands to the Singaporean government, we should remember we can still act in seemingly small ways to engage in resistance against the dominant social order.
this article was first published for NUS students in The Ridge, October 2007
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