Outside a police station in one of the safest cities in the world, activist Jolovan Wham stands alone. In his hands is a piece of cardboard, the smiley face crudely inked in black marker, like a child’s picture on the side of a fridge. No slogans. No chants. No crowd to echo his cause. A surgical mask hides his expression, once viewed as a relic of the pandemic, but now a chance for some public anonymity.

The problem for Wham is in Singapore, even standing alone can be a crime. Under the Public Order Act, one-person demonstrations are enough to trigger a police investigation. Laws have tightened so much, public protest has been forced to shift to something quieter and more creative. Activists are finding ways to speak out without speaking at all: a blindfolded train ride; a procession of watermelon-printed umbrellas drifting toward the Istana, home to Singapore’s President.

And, in one case, a simple smiley face drawn on a piece of cardboard.

“I was stood there for less than 10 seconds,” Wham says.

He believes authorities targeted him out of fear others might follow.

“They weren’t charging me because I am causing public disruption,” he says. “They charged me because they’re afraid of copycat actions. Even if what you have done is peaceful, they will go after you if they believe other people would be inspired.”

Permits are rarely approved for anything political.

“I applied for several in the past, all of which were denied. At some point I stopped applying and decided to just do it.”

Wham isn’t alone in attempting peaceful demonstrations.

I make my way to Singapore’s court to witness the outcome of an ongoing trial where three women were taking the stand after being charged for violating the Public Order Act.

In 2024, Annamalai Kokila Parvathi, Siti Amirah Mohamed Asrori and Mossammad Sobikun Nahar organised a walk later called ‘Letters For Palestine’ to the Istana to hand-deliver letters to the government calling for them to cut ties with Israel.

A police statement released after the procession declared permits would not be granted for any assembly advocating the political causes of another country, citing the “real risk” of public disorder and warning, “we must not let events happening externally affect the internal situation within Singapore”.

It’s a long drive down Havelock Road toward State Courts. The sun is beaming, forcing me to squint as I drive past gardens, lush green parks, and views of vines draping themselves across high-rise balconies. Further along and closer to our destination, the scenery changes, the sun’s rays lessens and the air cools.

On one side of the road is the Ministry of Manpower building, dull and white, endless squares of uniform windows, giving it the feel of a bureaucratic fortress. At the lights for New Market Road, the Family Justice Court looms large and grey. Its stone walls and rigid symmetry evoke a colonial-style office, growing larger and more formidable the closer it comes.

The building looks frozen in time, perhaps like the laws upheld within its walls. Laws many argue no longer have a place in modern Singapore.

Inside the court room seven armed police officers are present. Four clustered at the entrance as supporters entered, making their presence known as all available seats quickly filled. The other three sit to the right, assigned to escort the accused.

In a few moments the women will learn if the prosecution has built a strong enough case to see them called to answer charges under Singapore’s Public Order Act. Charges which could see them face fines of up to $10,000SGD or up to six months in prison.

Or both.

All inside the court stand as District Judge John Ng enters. Officers close the door to the Perspex box containing the three women and lock it.

Judge John Ng begins by saying the court is not here to decide guilt or innocence, but rather to ascertain if there is enough evidence for the women to be called to enter their defence. Evidence he says can be direct or indirect, as long as it gives rise to inferences to be drawn.

The tension is palpable, and people shift to the edge of their seats, tilt their ears. Silence hangs heavy in the air.

“Having heard these submissions and in the light of the evidence, the prosecution has successfully made a case against each one of you,” Justice Ng tells the room. Reactions are muted but small gasps escape and heads shake with polite disbelief.

Jolovan Wham says: “If what you are doing is political in nature then they won’t give you a permit. If you wanted to carry watermelon print umbrellas to the Istana you would need to get a permit, but they wouldn’t give you one anyway.”

The police called it a matter of public order, but Wham’s voice again echoes in my head: is this a message being sent to potential copycats?

The smiley‑sign protest was not Wham’s first clash with the law

In 2017, he organised a silent demonstration aboard Singapore’s train line to mark the 30th anniversary of Operation Spectrum

“In 1987, the government arrested activists accused of being Marxists trying to overthrow the state. They were detained without trial and tortured. The longest was held for two years,” he says.

“We held up a book about those arrests and blindfolded ourselves during the ride. It was peaceful. People were curious and wanted to know what was happening. There was hardly any disturbance or obstruction.”

In 2021, the State Court sentenced him for this protest. Wham was fined SGD $8,000. Instead of paying the full amount, he spent 22 days in jail.

Operation Spectrum has long been a contentious topic for Singapore’s government and one which activists say has altered the landscape of protest and resistance forever. The government flexed its powers under the Internal Security Act to shut down dissent, they say, claiming it was all for national stability.

Activists and thinkers were targeted not only for what they said but for who they knew and where they gathered. Civil space tightened, open debate came risky and public protest turned into an act of defiance putting those involved in real danger.

Wham’s journey didn’t begin with politics. He studied social work and after graduation began working for the Humanitarian Organisation of Migration Economics. It was here he says he was confronted by systemic injustices.

He recalls legal yet exploitative practices such as recruitment fees forcing workers to pay thousands before enduring 12‑hour days. Abuse of domestic workers is common, he says

“They file complaints with authorities, but often nothing happens,” he says. “Then they go back home with no justice.”

As a result, workers are often forced into isolation, their mental health declines, and they are left too afraid to seek help.

For Wham, civil rights are inseparable from all other struggles.

“If we don’t even have space, if we don’t even have a voice, how do we begin to address the issues we want to advocate for?”

Some progress came with the creation of Speakers’ Corner in Hong Lim Park, a space for permitted protest. But the rules kept tightening.

“Back in the day you needed a permit if you had five or more people, so if there were four of you, you could protest freely. Then it became four, then three, and after the Public Order Act came in, it’s down to just one,” Wham says.

“Now one‑person protests are criminalised. You can still organise events at Hong Lim Park but only if they approve them.”

It’s 4:30pm when I arrive at Wholesome Café, and over the next hour the people I meet will prove the name is fitting. The café sits tucked behind a hospital, large fans pushing humid air and carrying the smell of curry from the counter where an elderly woman ladles steaming portions into bowls. As I get to know Tay, chickens weave between tables and chairs, bustling with confidence.

A young American opposite me says they are jungle fowl, but she’s heard others say they’re actually descended from chickens who escaped a farm in the 1970s and have been roaming ever since. The woman and her companion are here to support Tay, but want to remain nameless and faceless. They are international students already under police investigation, worried more attention could see them removed from the country.

For now, they sit out of view but close to Tay, knowing in a few moments they would be walking across the road to face a police interrogation.

Tay who uses they/them pronouns, is 23 and has been involved in activism since high school. At 19, they joined a protest against transphobia after concerns the Ministry of Education interfered with a student’s gender transition.

“Being involved in that protest woke me up to how bad the carceral system is and how ridiculous policing and the Public Order Act can be,” Tay says.

“They know people are watching. The optics of arresting students in front of the Ministry of Education aren’t good.”

Much of Tay’s activism now focuses on Singapore’s death penalty. They began writing clemency appeals which they delivered to the Istana when they learned a man with low intellectual ability was facing execution.

“The late Nagaenthran had an IQ of 69 and the PAP government scheduled to execute him,” Tay says.

“How could any government that claims to care for its people execute someone for drugs or for any reason?”

Death, Tay says, is final. The ultimate form of control.

“Questioning the death penalty puts into question the regime itself. If people ask why the state can take lives, they’ll start asking why it can control what we say, what we do with our bodies, even what we do overseas.”

Tay

Tay argues this control extends far beyond executions.

“When migrant workers are still transported at the back of lorries, that’s a form of death penalty. When gender‑affirming surgery is excluded from insurance, that’s a death penalty for some trans people.

“I think with how authoritarian interventions have developed in Singapore over the past few decades, we have no choice but to learn how to be creative,” Tay says.

Creativity in protest spills into Singapore’s back lanes. In Haji Lane, amid souvenir shops and rainbow‑tiled walls, a sign draws me in: Love Art? Come Upstairs.

Up the staircase and through the door, I enter a gallery where every surface is claimed by art. The colours swirl, clash, and hum with stories waiting to be told.

Before I had take a full step inside, I’m face to face with a piece of art held up by pegs, a silhouette of a woman etched in charcoal on a black background.

Lim quickly makes his way over to me, a smile beaming on his face,

“The artist Jewell Dalina was actually a pastry chef,” he says.

He speaks about her, and her life, her struggles.

“Her art is made up of agápi and thlípsi, love and grief.” His voice softens on those last words. He carries her story like one you might tell of a lifelong friend instead of the shadow caught in charcoal on paper before me.

I look back at the woman in the portrait, her head resting on the soft outline of a table, beside a coffee cup and an ashtray. The slump of her shoulders. The way her hair falls forward, hiding her face.

It’s not just something she’s drawn, it’s something she’s lived.

Lim moves with me from piece to piece, sharing the story behind each work and the artist who made it.

Then, almost casually, he says, “I’m technically blind now. I have a condition where my eyesight is worsening.”

The words hang there. This is his life, his world is built on colour, form and detail.

Someone who has created an entire gallery around what he can see and what he wants others to see. And now, his sight is slipping away.

He lights up when talking about Sam Lo, once nicknamed “Sticker Lady”, who now identifies as a man.

Lo’s most famous work was a road stencil reading My Grandfather Road, a sarcastic jab in Singlish aimed at people who act like they own the place. He also pasted stickers on pedestrian crossing buttons: Press Once Can Already and Press Until Shiok.

The works seem harmless to the outside eye, even funny, yet Lo was arrested and charged under the Vandalism Act. “It was quiet defiance,” Lim says. “When I saw it, I thought there is hope for Singapore art.”

In Singapore, walking the line with the authorities is an art form, and few have done it more boldly than Tang Da Wu. Now 83, his defiance in 1995 remains a defining moment in the country’s art history.

“The government had cut funding to the arts,” Lim says.

At an event, Tang approached the president at the time, Ong Teng Cheong, holding a black jacket with the words ‘Don’t Give Money to the Arts’ printed on the back. Tang asked if he could wear it, and Ong said yes. He slipped it on and handed the president a note that read: I am an artist. I am important.

Lim laughs as he tells the story. He still works with Tang and describes him as bold, uncompromising, and much like his art is someone who lives entirely by his own rules.

Lim says Singapore’s biggest artistic hurdle is self-censorship.

“We won’t cross the line, and even if we do, we won’t tell you. We’ll let you guess. Declaring it outright would be too confrontational.”

He likens it to a dog trained not to enter the kitchen, “after a while, even without a barrier, it won’t cross. You don’t see police everywhere, but there’s no crime, right?”

This analogy resonates with the many testimonies I’ve heard over the last few weeks. You don’t see police lurking the streets, instead an invisible force quietly holds Singaporeans in line. Rules are learnt and internalised early on, a self-enforcing system which sees people police themselves, and others around them, without a second thought.

The walls here don’t reveal themselves to those raised in their shadows. Instead they stand cold and unmoving, like the brutalist concrete ribs of Changi Prison pressing quietly inwards on those contained inside.

Activists like Wham and Tay keep pushing back in writing, in performance, in art, hoping their acts might make people stop and remember to question the authority shaping their lives. The art of protest.

This story was produced as part of a federal government New Colombo Plan-funded Curtin Journalism Singapore Study Tour.