There’ll be no wrap this weekend, because I’ll be with Datchinamurthy Kataiah’s family today, then flying up to Kuala Lumpur to attend the official launch of Death Row Literature, Pannir Selvam Pranthaman’s collection of poetry, tomorrow. Apart from time, I’m not sure I have the energy or headspace to write a news wrap.
But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to say.
How should I describe this rage, this disgust, at the people in power in my country? How do I fully articulate my throbbing, nauseating revulsion at the way they talk a big game, with big grins plastered on their faces, about care and compassion and “we first” societies, while they preside over—and actively cling on to—a cruel regime that plays god and kills? How can I best express my utter contempt for an institution that has the gall to plaster “CAPTAINS OF LIVES” and “REHAB RESTART RENEW” on their front gate and in their collaterals, even as they force men and women into tiny stuffy cells and march them to the gallows? How should I communicate my utter lack of respect for a government that continues to stubbornly insist that nonviolent drug offences fall under the classification of “most serious crimes” when multiple UN bodies have already made clear that it doesn’t?
On 13 September, I accompanied Datch’s family to the Istana to submit a joint appeal for clemency, for him, Saminathan, Lingkesvaran, and Jumaat. The many security officers at the rear gate of the Istana would only let two people in, so his sister and I entered, handed over our IDs, and watched as they put the two simple envelopes through a rigorous security screening process. They gave us an acknowledgment slip to show that the letters had been received by the Istana’s mail room.
I suppose the president and prime minister never looked at the letters until the last minute, because the prison called the family past midnight on Thursday to tell them to be on “stand by”, that Datch’s execution scheduled for that morning had been delayed, pending a decision on clemency. If the answer was no, they’d still proceed with the execution in the afternoon. Everyone just had to sit tight and wait for the decision from up high.
They made Datch and his family wait the whole excruciating morning, only to call in the afternoon to say that the clemency appeal had been rejected and the execution would go ahead. The family was not allowed a final visit or phone call. The prison didn’t tell the family the time the execution would take place, just that they should identify Datch’s body at Changi Prison at 3pm. The authorities probably didn’t even think of their actions as cruel; they probably thought of it as just a job that needed to get done.
Fuck them.
With every instance of such cruelty—and the smug arrogance that sustains it—my respect and confidence in Singapore’s government and public institutions diminishes. Every promise about Singapore being a welcoming home to live in, about how we’re united, about how we’re a caring society, rings hollow. This is a cold, morally bankrupt country that kills, that twiddles its thumbs and does the bare minimum in the face of genocide, that willingly risks the lives of low-wage workers in lorries for economic gain because “buses would be expensive”—yet those in power claim we need them to keep us safe from the underprivileged, oppressed, exploited peoples on the drug trade’s lowest rungs. People like Datch, who have already demonstrated their ability to change and grow, and who have the potential to do so much—except the state has already decided that the only thing they are allowed to do is die. In our names.
Fuck. Them. All.
The first thing Datch’s mother says to me when I arrive at the funeral parlour is, “I touched him.” She touched her son’s hands, stroked his face, kissed fingers that she pressed on to his forehead. It has been so many years since she’s been able to touch her son. She hadn’t even been allowed to touch him during the family’s last visit this week, not even a single hug to say goodbye.
When the undertakers bring Datch into the parlour, she spends most of the evening and night standing by his casket. Her expressions of affection are no longer separated from him by plexiglass, but by death.
Later, when we arrive in Johor Bahru—about 24 hours after the prison told the family to “stand by”—there’s already a small crowd waiting outside the house. The undertaker opens the door of the hearse; many pairs of hands reach out for the casket, to carry Datch home. It’s been a decade-and-a-half since he’s been home.
There was no reason for Datch to die, except that powerful people, acting on behalf of all Singaporeans, determined that it would be so.
The government harps on and on about “deterrence”, but there’s no clear, conclusive evidence that the death penalty deters the drug trade. Years of prohibition, policing, and criminalisation—not just in Singapore but in many parts of the world—have done nothing to stop the global illicit drug trade from flourishing. More and more cities, states, and countries are looking into alternatives like decriminalisation and harm reduction. But not Singapore. Singapore just keeps arresting and killing, arresting and killing.
Datch’s death will make no difference to the drug trade; it only gives the state the satisfaction of flexing their power. This reality—of the state killing, again and again, in all our names—is not one we should accept.
If you’re in Singapore, come to Hong Lim Park on 29 September at 7pm. Come join us as we call out the Attorney-General’s Chambers, a key player in Singapore’s death penalty regime. Come join our protest against the death penalty.
Come and tell them, “No more. Not in my name.”