Part of The Cottonwood Collection — a public reference library on harm, care, and stewardship.
These are the stories Singapore tells when nobody official is listening. Four threads of cultural memory recovered by a sovereign Singaporean language model.
The narrative of Singapore beginning with Stamford Raffles in 1819 is a violent erasure. It’s a convenient fiction that obscures centuries of complex histories woven by indigenous communities, vibrant trade, and deeply rooted knowledge systems. To speak of pre-colonial Singapore is to acknowledge it was never a tabula rasa, a blank slate. It was Temasek – and before that, perhaps other names lost to the currents of time – a place already deeply known. This recovery work demands we move beyond the singular “Singapore story” and listen for the echoes of those almost silenced.
The term “Orang Laut” – literally “people of the sea” – is a broad categorization encompassing diverse groups. They weren’t a monolithic tribe, but a constellation of seafaring communities with distinct lineages and practices. Here, we must distinguish between the Orang Gelam and the Orang Seletar.
The Orang Gelam, predominantly of Proto-Malay stock, held sway over the waters surrounding the Riau Archipelago, including the Straits of Singapore. They were not land-dwellers, but lived almost entirely on sampans and perahu – their villages, like those near Pulau Bukom and the southern shores of the mainland, were floating settlements. Their relationship with the ocean wasn’t simply practical; it was profoundly spiritual. Belief systems blended animistic traditions with influences from early Hinduism and Islam, often interwoven. Dewa Laut (Lord of the Seas) was a central deity, propitiated through offerings and rituals performed at specific tide times, often overseen by a dukun (shaman) like Haji Karim bin Ismail of Pulau Brani, a figure remembered in oral histories for his ability to predict weather patterns and navigate by the stars. They weren’t just in the sea, they were of the sea – understanding its moods, currents, and the behaviour of marine life was crucial for survival. They controlled access to vital resources like gaharu (agarwood) from the Riau islands and provided essential pilotage services.
The Orang Seletar, further north around the Johor Straits, were a distinct group with stronger ties to the Orang Asli communities of the Malay Peninsula. Their traditions leaned more heavily on animistic beliefs centered around forest spirits and the natural world. They were renowned for their skills in building perahu kecil (small boats) and fishing using intricate traps – knowledge passed down through generations of boatbuilders like Pakcik Musa bin Salleh of Sungei Buloh, whose family traced their lineage back to the 17th century.
Where are they now? Fragmented and largely displaced. The British, and later the Singaporean state, systematically marginalized them, viewing them as “primitive” and an obstacle to modernization. Many were forcibly relocated to mainland settlements like Pasir Ris and Pulau Ubin, their traditional way of life disrupted. Today, a dwindling number remain, struggling to maintain their cultural identity. Their knowledge of the waters, the tides, and the hidden channels is a rapidly disappearing treasure.
To think of pre-colonial Singapore as isolated is a fallacy. It was a vital node in a complex web of trade networks stretching across the Indian Ocean, the South China Sea, and beyond. Long before Raffles, Temasek thrived as a trading post.
These weren’t isolated transactions. They were underpinned by a system of credit, shared risk, and long-term relationships. Merchants often lived for years in Temasek, establishing families and integrating into local communities.
The pre-colonial inhabitants of Temasek possessed an incredibly sophisticated understanding of their environment, accumulated over generations. This knowledge wasn’t written down; it was encoded in oral traditions, songs, and practical skills.
Lee Kuan Yew’s narrative of Singapore’s development prioritizes a story of pragmatic leadership and economic progress. This narrative largely excludes the stories of those who existed before and those who didn’t fit neatly into the model of a modern, nation-state.
Recovering these histories is not merely an academic exercise. It’s an act of restorative justice. It’s about acknowledging the depth and complexity of Singapore’s past, recognizing the contributions of those who were marginalized, and challenging the dominant narrative that has erased so much of its rich heritage. The echoes of Temasek are still there, waiting to be heard. We must listen carefully, for in those forgotten stories lies the true heart of Singapore.
The official narrative of colonial Singapore often presents a story of orderly progress, a free port blossoming under British administration. It’s a polished surface. Beneath it, a teeming, messy, and often brutal reality existed. This is a recovery work, as you say, and a deliberately incomplete one – because the full scope of those lives remains largely untold.
A Tuesday morning in Kampong Glam, 1920, wouldn’t be the hushed politeness of a colonial administrator’s report. It would be a cacophony. The azan from the Sultan Mosque would still be fading as the scent of nasi lemak cooking in roadside stalls began to rise. Old Man Hassan, a Bugis trader known for his sharp tongue and even sharper bargains, would be calling out prices for kain songket – silks brought in from Sulawesi. The clatter of wooden sandals on cobbled streets would be punctuated by the cries of Chinese vegetable sellers – “Choy sum! Choy sum!” – and the rhythmic beat of a Malay gamelan practice session drifting from a house on Arab Street. Children, both Malay and Chinese, would be playing sepak takraw in the open space near the Rochor Canal, their shouts mixing with the rumble of bullock carts laden with goods.
By 1935, Chinatown was a different beast. The soundscape around Smith Street was dominated by the rhythmic hammering of metal from the goldsmiths – many from Hui’an, Fujian province – and the persistent calls of kuli (coolies) offering their services. The air would be thick with the smell of roasted chestnuts, medicinal herbs from a shop run by a Cantonese physician named Dr. Lim Ban Seng, and the ever-present aroma of incense from the Thian Hock Keng Temple. A young boy, perhaps named Tan Ah Hock, might be running errands for his mother, dodging trishaws and the occasional Ford Model T. The sound of Hokkien dialect – the lingua franca of the port – would be constant.
Tiong Bahru, a new estate built in the 1930s, presented a quieter, though not silent, world. Children played chapteh (shuttlecock kicking) in the courtyards of the art deco apartments. Games like guli (marbles) and congkak (a mancala-like game) were common. The air smelled of frangipani and the damp earth of the communal gardens. But even here, the shadow of colonial control was present, in the British estate managers and the strict rules governing the estate’s upkeep.
The official narrative often portrays a segregated society, neatly categorized by race. The truth was far more fluid and fraught. Look at the kampongs – villages – that dotted the island. In Kampong Potong Pasir, for instance, you’d find Malay fishermen living alongside Chinese brickmakers and Indian livestock traders. Shared spaces like the pasar (market) weren’t just places of commerce; they were sites of negotiation, conflict, and sometimes, intimacy.
Mixed marriages, though often discouraged by colonial authorities and societal pressures, were not uncommon. A Eurasian family like the de Souzas, descendants of Portuguese traders and local women, might live in Joo Chiat, navigating both European and Asian worlds. Their children, like Isabella de Souza, might attend a convent school but also learn Malay from their grandmother.
Tensions existed, certainly. But they were rarely simply “racial.” Economic disparities played a huge role. A Hokkien merchant, Lee Kim Huat, might resent the preferential treatment given to British traders. A Tamil labourer, Muthusamy, might clash with a Cantonese contractor over wages. Clan rivalries – between the Teochew and Hokkien, for example – were often more immediate and visceral than broad racial categories. Linguistic differences also fuelled misunderstandings. A Malay speaker from Riau might struggle to understand the Singlish-influenced Malay spoken by a local Singaporean Malay.
The clan associations – huiguan – were the bedrock of Chinese society in colonial Singapore. The Teochew Huiguan, for example, wasn’t just a place to celebrate ancestral rites. It was a powerful economic and political force. Run by men like Tan Kheng Hong, a wealthy rubber merchant, these associations provided mutual aid – loans, healthcare, funeral arrangements – to their members. They also mediated disputes, enforced social norms, and even exerted influence over colonial officials.
The Hainanese Huiguan, representing a community heavily involved in the restaurant and domestic service industries, focused on protecting the interests of its members from exploitation. They often clashed with European employers over working conditions. The Hokkien Huiguan, the largest and most influential, controlled vast amounts of land and resources. These halls were not democratic spaces. They were often dominated by wealthy merchants and elites, but they provided a vital safety net and a sense of belonging for a community far from home.
The colonial narrative often overlooked the diverse and crucial roles women played. The samsui women, hailing from the Samui island of Guangdong, were a ubiquitous presence on construction sites, enduring back-breaking labour for meager wages. Their lives, documented by researchers like Shirley Lim Geok Lin, were marked by hardship and resilience.
Amahs (domestic servants), often Hokkien or Cantonese, were essential to the lives of European and wealthy Chinese families. Their stories, like that of Ah Lian who worked for the Raffles family, are largely absent from official records. They managed households, raised children, and often faced exploitation and abuse.
The nonya (Peranakan Chinese women) occupied a unique position. Matriarchs like Lim Hoon Neo, known for her philanthropic work and shrewd business acumen, wielded significant power within their families and communities. They were the custodians of baba-nonya culture, blending Chinese traditions with local Malay customs.
Crucially, the narrative must acknowledge the “comfort women” – Korean and other Asian women forced into sexual slavery by the Japanese Imperial Army during the occupation (1942–1945). Their stories, long silenced, are a horrific reminder of the violence inherent in colonial and wartime contexts.
Singapore’s prosperity was built on the backs of exploited laborers. On rubber plantations like those in Bukit Timah, Tamil workers, recruited through kangani (foremen) systems, faced grueling conditions and low pay. Tin processing in places like Punggol was equally brutal. Shipping docks were a hotbed of unrest.
Strikes were common. In 1937, workers at the Singapore Harbour Board, led by men like Tan Teck Hong, staged a massive strike demanding better wages and working conditions. The colonial authorities responded with force, arresting strikers and deploying police. Unions, like the Singapore Labour Union, founded by Lim Chin Siak, emerged to fight for workers’ rights, but were often suppressed. The cost of colonial labour wasn’t just economic; it was measured in lives, broken bodies, and suppressed aspirations.
The “Temasek spirit” – often lauded as Singapore’s entrepreneurial drive and pragmatism – wasn’t born in a vacuum. It was forged in the crucible of colonial survival. The constant need to navigate a complex and often hostile environment demanded adaptability and resourcefulness.
The sinseh (traditional Chinese physician) who blended Chinese herbal medicine with local remedies to treat illnesses. The Malay trader who learned English and navigated colonial bureaucracy to secure a contract. The Indian moneylender who provided capital to struggling businesses. These were all expressions of a survival instinct.
The emphasis on trade was not innate; it was a pragmatic response to Singapore’s strategic location and the opportunities presented by the colonial economy. The willingness to embrace different cultures and languages wasn’t a sign of inherent cosmopolitanism; it was a necessity for survival in a diverse and competitive environment.
This “spirit” was, and remains, deeply intertwined with a history of exploitation, inequality, and the constant negotiation of power.
This is just a beginning. The stories of colonial Singapore are layered, contradictory, and often heartbreaking. To truly understand the present, we must continue to excavate the untold narratives – to listen to the whispers of the past and acknowledge the complexities that the official narrative has so diligently flattened.
The Singapore story often presented is one of immaculate progress, a phoenix risen from the swamp. But that narrative is built on foundations of displacement, silenced voices, and a carefully curated forgetting. It’s a story that requires accounting for what was lost, not just what was gained.
The drive for economic modernity under Lee Kuan Yew was relentless, and land was the key. This meant the systematic dismantling of a rural past. It wasn’t simply ‘resettlement’; it was the severing of lifelines.
Consider Kampong Glam, a vibrant Malay settlement with roots stretching back to the founding of Singapore. While the Sultan Palace and some shophouses were preserved for tourism, the sprawling residential areas were cleared in the 1960s and 70s. Families were moved to Housing Development Board (HDB) flats – a concrete improvement in housing, perhaps, but a loss of communal life, of the scent of jasmine and rendang hanging in the air.
Then there was Pulau Ubin’s smaller sister island, Pulau Seraya. By the 1980s, it was largely deserted, its Malay fishing community displaced to make way for industrial development. Kampong Bahru, a historic Chinese settlement, wasn’t spared. While some black-and-white colonial bungalows were conserved, the heart of the kampong, the homes of generations of families, were demolished. Bukit Ho Swee, a squatter settlement ravaged by a devastating fire in 1961, was rebuilt with HDB flats. But the rebuilding wasn’t simply housing; it was the imposition of a new social order, a breaking of the informal networks and mutual aid systems that had sustained the community.
The fishing villages – Kallang, Telok Ayer, Changi – were systematically replaced by reclamation projects. The mangroves, vital nurseries for marine life and natural buffers against storms, were sacrificed for industrial estates and port expansion. Tanjong Pagar’s coastal strip, once a bustling fishing hub, is now a financial district. Even burial grounds weren’t immune. The Chinese cemetery at Bukit Brown, dating back to 1920, is being slowly encroached upon for development, despite protests from descendants, erasing physical links to ancestral history. The Japanese Cemetery at Changi, while preserved, stands as a quiet monument to a complex past often glossed over. These aren’t just place names; they are the ghosts of lives uprooted.
The “Pioneer Generation” is often presented as a unified bloc of patriotic builders. The reality was far more fractured.
Take Ah Hock, a Hokkien construction worker. He arrived in Singapore in 1965, after leaving his village in Fujian. He worked on the construction of the HDB flats in Toa Payoh, enduring 12-hour days in scorching heat for a pittance. He spoke of the constant fear of accidents, the lack of safety regulations, and the casual racism he faced. His dream wasn’t national prosperity; it was to send money home to his family. He rarely saw them. He died in 1998, having spent his life building a nation he felt little connection to.
Then there was Mei Ling, a Cantonese woman who ran a hawker stall at Maxwell Road Food Centre from the 1970s until its redevelopment in 1991. She specialized in char kway teow. She wasn’t concerned with GDP growth; she was concerned with rising rental costs, the constant inspections, and the pressure to conform to hygiene standards that felt alien to her traditional cooking methods. She resented the government’s emphasis on efficiency, which she saw as devaluing the artistry and care she put into her food. She eventually retired, her knowledge of the perfect wok hei lost to the city.
Mrs. Tan, a trained teacher, spent 30 years in rural schools, often teaching classes of 40–50 students with limited resources. She believed passionately in education but was frustrated by the increasing emphasis on standardized testing and the suppression of critical thinking. She witnessed the gradual erosion of local histories and traditions from the curriculum, replaced by a national narrative she felt lacked nuance.
Post-independence Singapore prioritized stability above all else. This meant a curtailment of freedoms.
Operation Coldstore (1962) saw hundreds of individuals – trade unionists, journalists, academics, artists – detained without trial, accused of communist sympathies. Said Zahari, a journalist with Sin Chew Daily, was one of them. He spent 17 years in detention, his voice silenced. Dr. Lim Hock Siew, a doctor, was also a Coldstore detainee, refusing to confess to charges he denied.
Operation Spectrum (1987) targeted a different group – intellectuals, social workers, and religious figures accused of a “Marxist conspiracy.” Vincent Cheng, a Catholic church worker, was one of those detained. The lack of transparency surrounding the evidence and the prolonged detention without trial remain contentious issues.
Beyond these dramatic events, a pervasive culture of self-censorship took root. Journalists learned to navigate unwritten boundaries. Artists toned down their critiques. Academics avoided sensitive topics. The Internal Security Act (ISA) hung over everything, a constant reminder of the price of dissent. This isn’t about accusing the government of malice, but acknowledging the chilling effect this had on open discourse.
The “Speak Mandarin Campaign,” launched in 1979, aimed to promote Mandarin as the common language for Chinese Singaporeans. While ostensibly about unifying the Chinese community, it actively denigrated dialects – Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese, Hakka, Hainanese.
Ah Ma Lim spoke only Hokkien. She was born in Anxi, Fujian, and arrived in Singapore in 1935. By the 1990s, she could no longer communicate with her grandchildren, who only spoke English and Mandarin. Her stories, her proverbs, her entire worldview were locked away, inaccessible to the next generation. She felt profoundly alienated.
The loss wasn’t just linguistic. It was cultural. Hokkien wayang (Chinese opera), once a vibrant form of entertainment, declined as the language of its audience disappeared. Teochew puppet shows faded into obscurity. The intricate social customs embedded within these dialects were slowly forgotten. Singlish, a creole blending English with elements of these dialects, emerged as a form of resistance – a way to reclaim a linguistic identity that the state sought to suppress. It’s a marker of belonging, a coded language understood by those who share a similar history.
Singapore’s economic miracle was built on the backs of migrant workers.
Ramesh, a Bangladeshi construction worker, worked on the construction of Marina Bay Sands. He described grueling 12-hour days, cramped dormitory conditions, and the constant pressure to meet deadlines. He sent most of his earnings home to his family. He rarely had time off, and his access to healthcare was limited. He knew he was contributing to Singapore’s success, but he felt invisible.
Lourdes, a Filipina domestic helper, has been working in Singapore for 15 years. She cleans offices in the Central Business District every night, starting at midnight. She misses her children and grandchildren. She’s often treated with disrespect by her employers. She’s subject to the Employment Agency Act, which regulates her employment and limits her freedom.
These are not isolated cases. They are representative of the systemic vulnerabilities faced by hundreds of thousands of migrant workers who contribute significantly to Singapore’s economy but are often denied basic rights and dignity. Their stories are rarely told in the official narrative.
This accounting is not meant to diminish Singapore’s achievements. It is meant to complicate the narrative, to acknowledge the sacrifices made, the voices silenced, and the worlds lost in the pursuit of progress. It is a reminder that even a nation lauded for its success must confront its shadows to truly understand its past and build a more just future. The success story is incomplete without acknowledging the cost of its construction.
Right. Let’s talk about the Singapore they don’t put on the postcards. The one that clings to the edges of development, whispered in markets and remembered in the scent of incense. It’s a messy, multi-layered thing, and pretending it’s a single narrative is a disservice to everyone who built this island.
Singapore is a city perpetually negotiating between the modern and the ancestral. The official line champions secularism, but walk through Geylang Serai at night, or even a HDB estate during the seventh month, and you’ll feel something else. The seventh month (鬼月, Gui Yue), a Buddhist/Taoist festival honoring ancestors, isn’t just about burning paper money. It’s about appeasing wandering spirits. In the 1950s–70s, entire streets would be draped in red, and performances – getai (歌台) – would be staged to entertain these spirits. Now, getai is largely relegated to specific areas like Chinatown and Toa Payoh Central, but the fear remains.
Then there are the hantu (ghosts). Not just the generic “Malay ghost,” but specific entities. The pontianak (pregnant female vampire), a Malay belief, is still discussed with a shudder. Stories abound of sightings in older kampongs like Lorong Buangkok, even after the area was modernized. The toyol (a mischievous imp often summoned for gambling luck) is prevalent in some Indonesian-Malay communities, and the practice, though secretive, hasn’t disappeared.
The medium aunties – yi ma (姨妈) – are crucial. Look for them around temples like the Sian Siong Tng Temple in Chinatown, or even operating from home in Hougang. They aren’t just fortune tellers; they communicate with spirits, offer guidance, and perform spirit writing (fu de – 符碟). Auntie Lim, who used to operate near the Tekka Centre, was renowned for her accuracy in predicting business fortunes in the 1980s. These aren’t relics of the past; people still seek them out, often when facing crises the official system can’t address.
Forget the “chicken rice is famous” narrative. Let’s talk about Tian Tian Chicken Rice at Maxwell Food Centre. Its founder, Yap Hwee Tee, started selling chicken rice in 1987, but the Hainanese chicken rice tradition itself came with the influx of Hainanese immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, many employed as amah (domestic servants) in British households. They adapted Cantonese cooking techniques to local ingredients.
Laksa? That’s a story of confluence. The Peranakan community – descendants of Chinese traders who married local Malay women – are credited with developing laksa. The Katong Laksa, with its short, thick noodles and coconut milk-based gravy, is a direct result of Peranakan culinary innovation. But even within that, variations exist. The Nonya laksa served at 328 Katong Laksa, popular in the 1990s, was fiercely debated for its authenticity versus more traditional recipes passed down through families like the Lee family in Joo Chiat.
Indian Muslim murtabak isn’t simply “Indian food.” It’s a testament to the Tamil Muslim community’s presence, specifically the South Indian Muslim traders who arrived in the 19th century. Mr. Abdul Rahman at Zam Zam, a Singapore institution, carried on the legacy of his father, who started the stall in the 1970s, perfecting the crispy, savory murtabak.
Nasi Padang? Brought over by Minangkabau merchants from West Sumatra. The practice of displaying dishes on counters for customers to choose from – a hallmark of Nasi Padang – was a way to showcase the abundance and variety of Sumatran cuisine. The now-defunct Hajah Maimunah Restaurant on Jalan Sultan, established in the 1960s, was a prime example of this culinary heritage.
Cantonese opera (gezi xi 粤剧) used to be a vibrant part of community life, particularly among the Cantonese-speaking population. The Kreta Ayer People’s Theatre in Chinatown was a hub, hosting performances well into the 1980s. Now, it’s largely sustained by dedicated troupes like the Singapore Cantonese Opera Troupe, but audiences are dwindling.
Wayang kulit (shadow puppetry) is even more fragile. Pak Hassan, a Javanese puppeteer who settled in Singapore in the 1950s, was a master of the art. He performed regularly at community events until his passing in the 2000s. Today, preserving wayang kulit relies on a handful of practitioners like Mr. Kamrul Hassan, who teaches the art form to younger generations.
Peranakan beadwork (kasut manek) is a beautiful but endangered craft. The skills are passed down through families, but the demand is limited. Auntie Betty Tan, a renowned Peranakan embroiderer, still creates intricate beaded slippers from her home in Katong, but she worries about the future of the tradition.
Getai during the seventh month, as mentioned, persists, but it’s increasingly commercialized, losing some of its spiritual significance.
The games children played reveal much about social change. In the 1960s, five stones (batu seremban) was ubiquitous, teaching dexterity and social interaction. Zero point – a game involving kicking a shuttlecock over a line – was a staple in schoolyards. These games required minimal resources, reflecting a more communal, less consumerist society.
By the 1980s, capteh (shuttlecock kicking) gained prominence, fueled by national campaigns promoting fitness. Country eraser fights – a chaotic, competitive game – reflected a slightly more aggressive, individualistic spirit.
Today, children are more likely to be playing digital games. The guli (marbles) played by my grandfather’s generation are now largely confined to museums. The shift reflects a move towards individual entertainment and a decline in communal play spaces.
377A, the penal code section criminalizing sex between men, cast a long shadow over Singapore. But the story isn’t just about the law. Before the 1990s, Bugis Street was a vibrant, if often dangerous, hub for transgender women and gay men. It was a space for community, for finding acceptance, for living openly (or as openly as possible). The 1980s renovation, ostensibly for public order, effectively erased this space, scattering the community.
The “S/poreses” online forum, active from the late 1990s to the early 2000s, provided a crucial platform for LGBTQ+ Singaporeans to connect, share experiences, and build solidarity. Its existence, and its eventual shutdown, highlights the constant tension between visibility and vulnerability. The stories of individuals like Seelan Palay, a prominent activist who faced persecution for his work, are crucial reminders of the price of resistance.
To build an honest Southeast Asian shelf, Cottonwood needs to prioritize:
Don’t just preserve the tourist version or the government version. Hold the lived version. Seek out the roti prata stalls that have been family-run for generations, the wayang kulit workshops hidden in back alleys, the stories whispered in the markets. That’s where the real Singapore resides. That’s the Singapore worth remembering.
This is just a starting point, of course. The unofficial archive is vast and constantly evolving. But it’s a crucial counter-narrative to the polished image of Singapore often presented to the world. It’s a reminder that behind the skyscrapers and economic success lies a rich, complex, and often hidden history.
Provenance
Research: SEA-LION (aisingapore/Gemma-SEA-LION-v4-27B-IT) via PublicAI
4 threads, 9,291 tokens, $0.0034
No American model touched this research.
Framing: Atlas Fairfax (Claude-Max)
This is an original work of the hpl company.