Singapore executed Pannir Selvam Pranthaman in the early hours of 8 October 2025. He was laid to rest on 10 October—which was, coincidentally but fittingly, also World Day Against the Death Penalty.
I could write about the horror of learning, in the evening of 7 October, that his last application for a stay of execution had been denied. I could write about his family’s shock, their grief, the way they fell to their knees in desperate prayer. I could write about the prison’s officious callousness, all the way to the end, or the tears that were shed during the wakes (in Singapore and in Ipoh) and the funeral. But I’ve already written so much about grief; the bereavement of death row family after death row family, my own emotional turmoil, the twisted, desperate anger that seeps below the skin and takes root in the heart and lungs until it gets hard to breathe.
So I’d like to write about Pannir and his triumphs instead—about the person whose light the state has deprived us of, claiming it was for our own good.
Pannir spent eleven years in prison, eight of them on death row. If the state had got its way, his life would have ended in May 2019. But he’d won a stay of execution back then, and again in February this year. Singapore tried three times to kill him; they succeeded this time, but they are fools if they think this is a win.
The People’s Action Party, the government they control, and the state they preside over want the world to remember Pannir as nothing more than a drug trafficker, a “proxy murderer”, a “scourge of the earth” individual who spent close to a decade as a Prisoner Awaiting Capital Punishment. But Pannir would not cooperate with their dehumanising cruelty. He refused to sit in a solitary cell on death row and wait quietly for the end.
His older sister Sangkari told me that, when he was younger and free, Pannir was never really one for studying. While on death row, though, Pannir began to read—first in Malay, then in English—and then to write. He was prolific, producing poetry and songs that shared his thoughts on death row conditions, on his love for his family, on his disdain for scheming politicians, on current affairs and the state of the world. His first poetry collection, Death Row Literature: A Collection of Poems, was officially launched just one week before he received his third, and last, execution notice. Among the belongings that the prison handed over to his family post-execution was the manuscript for a second poetry collection. His words were a window into his inner life, reminding us that prisoners aren't faraway, abstract characters, but people who think and dream and feel, too.
Becoming a poet and a writer from death row—armed with only loose sheets of paper and ballpoint pen refills—is already an impressive feat, but Pannir didn't stop there. He persuaded his sisters to set up an NGO, Sebaran Kasih, to serve vulnerable communities and death row families in Malaysia. He asked them to get his songs professionally produced, even pinpointing the Malaysian artistes he wanted to perform his music. He encouraged them to step up to campaign not just for him, but for an end to the death penalty as a whole.
Pannir read up about the law and pored over court documents—not just his own, but also that of other death row prisoners. When other guys wanted to file legal applications, Pannir reviewed submissions for them. In 2022, when I met Sonia, the sister of Kalwant Singh (executed in July that year), she mentioned that Kalwant would let Pannir review his papers before he made any decisions. Kalwant's trust in Pannir's judgement was so great that he'd once told Sonia, "If Pannir says [the documents] are okay, then I'm okay."
Pannir was sharp and intelligent, but he shone the brightest when expressing his love for his family.
On Tuesday night, after he heard that his application for a stay had been dismissed, Pannir requested a phone call with his family. The prison said no. Their final visit had ended a couple of hours earlier on an emotional but also slightly uncertain note—not knowing the outcome of his stay application, they'd been reluctant to say final goodbyes, wanting to cling on to the hope that they'd see him again. Now, informed of the crushing court decision, there was no way for Pannir to speak to his parents or siblings one more time.
So he started writing. He wrote letter after letter for each of his family members. In each one, he noted the time he started writing with that particular loved one in mind, as well as the time he finished. Reading these letters after his execution, Pannir's family was able to piece together how he spent his last night on this earth, and realise that, even though the prison had refused him that phone call, he'd still found a way to spend those final hours with them.
Pannir wanted so, so much to live; there was still so much he'd wanted to do. But since Singapore would show no mercy, since Singapore insisted that he had to die, he walked to the gallows with courage and a deep love for his family in his heart. Singapore took so much from him, but never managed to take his spirit or his strength.
Pannir loved his family and was—still is—fiercely loved in return. Over the past eight years, his family have done everything you can possibly imagine to fight for his life. The campaign to save Pannir transformed his two sisters into tireless activists. Sangkari conducted her own investigations, tracking down drug traffickers in the hopes that the information would help her brother get a certificate of cooperation that would save his life. Angelia, the baby of the family, has grown tremendously over the years; she's the driving force behind Sebaran Kasih, and I've seen her address ministers, parliamentarians, embassy officials, journalists, packed conference rooms, from Kuala Lumpur to Berlin.
When the execution notice was issued on 4 October, the family gathered right away: from Ipoh, from Kuala Lumpur, from Johor. While in Singapore, they prayed together every night, then had family meetings to discuss their plans for the next day—because the prison would only allow three people to see Pannir at a time, they had to work out a schedule for who would go in when. This is a fraught exercise for many families; an unwelcome opportunity for unnecessary drama to creep in at an already stressful, traumatic time. But Sangkari says a prison officer told her that Pannir's family visits went more smoothly than any other they'd seen. The family didn't have time to waste on quarrels and squabbles. Every moment they had was for Pannir, only Pannir.
When Pannir's casket was carried into the memorial hall in Singapore, Sangkari positioned herself at its head, where she could stroke his hair, his face. She stayed there all afternoon, not noticing the swelling and aching in her legs until the pain broke through her grief the next day. She kept watch, strict with her ban on photos and videos; Pannir wanted to go with dignity, and she made sure his death wouldn't become fodder for social media virality. She did the same at his wake in Ipoh, too. When I saw her there, sitting next to his casket, she said, "Even when my brother is a body, I am still protecting him." Because Pannir had asked that people wear white at his funeral, she made sure that at least everyone in their immediate family adhered to his wishes.
In all the years I've known her, Sangkari has been soft-spoken, calm, polite. But she'll turn into a lioness if anyone tries to mess with Pannir. I'm sure some officers at Changi Prison can attest to this. To them, I say, serves you right.
At Pannir's funeral on Friday morning, his brother Isaac led the worship songs, his voice soaring, thick with emotion. Other siblings gave eulogies, sharing cherished memories. Standing on the stage, Sangkari told the reporters that had shown up at the funeral: "I give you permission to take photos of this moment, and to report that this is how we, Pannir's siblings, are sending him off."
"Pannir is not just a name in the news," she said. "I want to remind others that change is possible, even from the darkest place. That's who my brother was, a man of faith, compassion, and courage."
As I stood in that church hall, surrounded by voices raised in song and prayer for Pannir, I thought of the wealthy, powerful politicians, civil servants, and public prosecutors who keep the death penalty regime running and staunchly defend its use. I wonder if they have people who'll go to bat for them like this, who'll love them this intensely, without condition—or if, even from behind bars and within a polished, white casket, Pannir has them beat in this area, too.
At the funeral, Sangkari said: "We are here to remind the world that mercy is strength."
I'm sure someone like K Shanmugam would trip over his own tongue to squeal about how this newsletter I'm writing is "romanticising" a convicting criminal. I'm not denying that Pannir has made mistakes in his life. But let's be clear about the harm caused by the act he was charged and killed for. The 51.84g of heroin that he'd brought in would have gone to people who, for a variety of reasons that require our attention and care, chose to purchase and use the drug (and shouldn't be punished in prison cells for it, either). But since he was caught and the drugs confiscated, that 51.84g was never consumed by anyone, and therefore caused no one any harm at all. For this ultimately victimless act, Pannir was punished more harshly under Singaporean law than someone would be for dangerous driving that caused death, or actual attempted murder.
Pannir, recognising that he'd made some poor choices in the past, spent years working to change himself and the narrative of his life. The 38-year-old man that Singapore hanged on Wednesday was not the 27-year-old arrested in 2014. The Pannir who was killed was stronger, wiser, fired up with purpose. There was so much more he could have done, so much more he could have contributed to the world.
The executions of Datchinamurthy and Pannir within two weeks of each other have left cracks in my heart that'll take a long time to heal—if they ever do. I mourn for these men I never got to meet, and for their families whose hands I've held, whose bodies I've hugged in hope and heartbreak. These recent killings show that a person and their family could do everything to redeem themselves, to show growth and change, to apply pressure and plead for grace, and still Singapore will demand a price paid in blood.
There was every reason not to kill Pannir. The fact that we still did is not a reflection on who he was or what he’d done, but on us and the country we live in. Carrying out his death sentence did not shame him; it shames us. We are the ones who need to ask ourselves what we’re doing to change this state of affairs, because Pannir is the latest to die, but he will not be the last—unless Singaporeans make those in power stop these senseless, unjust murders.
Thank you for reading this newsletter. Please share it widely so more people can read about who Pannir was, and why we urgently need to stop the killing.