Read Between The Lines (Part 2): Mics, Mistresses and Macallan

CHAPTER 3: OF MICS AND MISTRESSES

July 2023. Within 48 hours, Singapore’s political class unraveled in real time. First came the hot mic fallout.

In April, Speaker of Parliament Tan Chuan-Jin muttered “f****ng populist” under his breath after a speech by WP MP Jamus Lim. It went unnoticed for months—until a Reddit user surfaced the clip on 9 July. It went viral eliciting an apology from Tan by 11 July.

It looked survivable; albeit not unprecedented.

In 2021, Foreign Minister Vivian Balakrishnan was caught on a hot mic sneering at PSP NCMP Leong Mun Wai: “He’s illiterate. Seriously, how did he get into RI?”. He too later apologised, but the remark, petty and elitist, revealed a deeper contempt for alternative voices in Parliament—and a flash of how some in power view those who challenge them.

These were perhaps not just slips of the tongue, but slips of the mask – a disappointing glimpse of how some in power really speak when they think no one’s listening. The language of confidence, perhaps—but also condescension.

Then came the cascade.

The Affairs Go Public

On the morning of 17 July, a video surfaced online showing WP MPs Leon Perera and Nicole Seah holding hands at a restaurant. The clip, allegedly recorded years earlier, was brief, shot with a potato, and quietly devastating. The mysterious Reddit account that posted it disappeared within hours—but the damage was done.

WP announced an internal investigation.

Rapid Resignations

That very afternoon, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong held a press conference. He announced the resignations of Tan Chuan-Jin and Cheng Li Hui, citing their “inappropriate relationship”—one he had personally counselled them to end back in February 2023.

They hadn’t.

In a refreshing moment of vulnerability, PM Lee later admitted that he should have forced the issue earlier.

Tan’s resignation letter foregrounded the hot mic incident and merely alluded to a “personal matter” later on, but LHL’s response made it clear: the affair was the decisive factor.

Then, on 18 July, Perera and Seah resigned.

At a press conference, WP leader Pritam Singh confirmed the affair had begun after GE2020 and ended by early 2021. He also disclosed that the party had received allegations from Perera’s driver in late 2020 or early 2021. Perera and Seah denied it at the time, and no further evidence emerged—until the video.

Singh said that had Perera not stepped down, he would have moved to expel him. I guess we’ll have to take him at his word?

Crisis or Choreography?

Four MPs. Two Affairs. One Day. Bombshells just hours apart.

Was this crisis management—or crisis choreography?

The timing raised eyebrows. Had the video been held back until it could do maximum political damage—or deflect from PAP’s own mess?

The smoking gun had been deleted, yet the smoke remained. So like Singh, we shall “refrain from speculating” (an insinuation in itself?).

What They Knew, and When

But something troubling is still outstanding: Both parties had prior knowledge; and both waited.

LHL knew about Tan and Cheng’s affair in February 2023. He advised them to end it, but let them continue in office for months. Singh knew about Perera and Seah’s rumoured affair as early as late 2020, but chose not to investigate further after their denials. And with Raeesah Khan, Singh knew she had lied in Parliament by 8 August 2021—but didn’t correct the record until October, after public pressure made it unavoidable.

So what gives?

If uprightness and truth are the standard, why the multiple delays?

Delay as Strategy

What these episodes show is that morality and uprightness may not be the real operating principle. Pragmatism is. The moral performance comes after, when the fallout can’t be ignored.

Despite their alibis which we are expected to take on faith – Pritam Singh saying he delayed action to protect Khan’s mental health after she disclosed past trauma, and Lee Hsien Loong saying he deferred Tan Chuan-Jin’s resignation to spare the families public pain, the facts are that both LHL and Singh acted only when the political cost of inaction became too high. Until then, silence. Tolerance. Delay.

A political cynic may argue that they were simply calculating the risks and optics.

So when Singh frames the WP’s swift resignations as proof of moral clarity, it rings hollow. Not because he’s lying—but because it came only after years of keeping quiet. Same for LHL. His reminder about “high standards” landed flat to critical observers. If they mattered so much, why let Tan stay on after February?

This isn’t simple hypocrisy however. It’s strategy. They’re not being moral leaders—they’re shrewd, pragmatic political survivors, and in the real world of political intrigue, even the best have to make difficult decisions that uncomfortably straddle deeply held values and political expedience.

The Weight of Resignation

Still, the fact that both parties accepted resignations—rather than stonewall or excuse—shouldn’t be overlooked. In Singapore’s political culture, resignation carries weight. It signals that personal misconduct, especially infidelity or betrayal of family trust, is taken seriously.

But while stepping down matters, it matters more when action is taken swiftly, on principle, once the facts are clear. Even if it’s done quietly, out of public view. Delay, however well-intentioned, dilutes the message.

CHAPTER 4 – IS & HIS BILLIONAIRE BUDDY

The Arrest That Shook the System

It started with a polite phrase—”assisting with investigations“—and ended with international headlines announcing the arrest of a Singapore Minister. Doubtless, an eye-grabber given the reputation of the political class.

In July 2023, Transport Minister S. Iswaran was arrested by the Corrupt Practices Investigation Bureau (CPIB), alongside billionaire hotelier Ong Beng Seng, the man credited with bringing the Formula 1 Grand Prix to Singapore. It was the first time since the 1980s that a sitting cabinet minister had been implicated in a case of this scale.

From Allegations to Charges

Iswaran was accused of accepting over $400,000 in gifts—Formula 1 tickets, luxury hotel stays, golf clubs, a Brompton bicycle, and more. The government stayed silent for months, citing ongoing investigations.

Then in January 2024, he was formally charged with 35 offences, including corruption and accepting gifts in his official capacity. He resigned the same week.

In March, most corruption charges were dropped, and in September, he pleaded guilty to five charges, including obstruction of justice, and admitted to accepting the gifts. He also repaid $380,000 to the state.

On October 3, 2024, Justice Vincent Hoong sentenced Iswaran to 12 months’ jail, rejecting both the prosecution’s (six to seven months) and defence’s (eight weeks) submissions as “manifestly inadequate.”

A Question of Character and Conduct

The distinction between corruption and criminal carelessness was legally significant—and somewhat of a relief to PAP supporters.

It wasn’t corruption. It was carelessness.

To his credit, in a notable act of honour and personal accountability, Iswaran returned all his ministerial salary dating back to the start of investigations, voluntarily resigned from his political appointments, and submitted himself to judicial ruling once the charges were clarified and verdict rendered in October ’24.

Nevertheless, the optics were bad for the PAP. Though the most serious corruption charges were ultimately dropped, the remaining charges still cut against the impression of infallibility.

How did someone of Iswaran’s seniority become so cavalier with gifts? Had Singapore’s narrow focus on efficiency and performance bred a political class less attuned to the older virtues of restraint, humility, and personal discipline? Were internal checks too trusting? Too quiet? Had this subtle compromise gone undetected elsewhere among the elite? Why did it take months for the government to announce his arrest?

We may never know the answer to some of these questions.

Institutional Confidence and Political Branding

Whatever the case, the PAP’s reputation took a further hit with this second (post-Tan Chuan Jin) bombshell involving a major political office holder.

For many voters, this case was a sobering reminder that even some of Singapore’s most beloved and respected politicians were fallible.

Deputy Prime Minister Lawrence Wong used the opportunity to point to the PAP’s zero tolerance for corruption and that the system would investigate all cases, even if they proved politically damaging. The public assurance reiterated the PAP’s longstanding narrative: that clean government is a non-negotiable part of its brand.

But is this really evidence of political virtue—or merely a reflection of the system doing what it’s supposed to do? Singaporeans might appreciate that the PAP plays by the rules of its own institutions. But they should also recognise that in a rule-based system, doing so isn’t moral heroism—it’s compliance.

And given the delay in reporting the Tan Chuan-Jin affair, there’s reason to be cautious. Transparency often comes after exposure, not before. So while Wong’s words may be technically accurate, they should be received not with cynicism, but with discernment.

The question now is whether the system’s internal checks are robust enough to prevent future lapses—or too reliant on post-hoc damage control.

The Moral Language of Tough Decisions

Across the three recent cases—the two affairs and Iswaran’s prosecution—a familiar script emerged. Leaders framed their responses as principled, even painful: doing what was right, upholding standards, protecting public trust.

Prime Minister Lee and Pritam Singh spoke of moral difficulty. Lawrence Wong went further, calling Iswaran’s case proof that the system works—that the PAP doesn’t flinch in the face of uncomfortable truths.

Such language is expected. When a scandal breaks, the instinct is to claim moral clarity. But a sharper question lingers: were these actions truly principled, and taken early? Or were “standards” invoked only after silence became untenable?

In the PAP affair, the WP affair, and Raeesahgate, the pattern is clear. Party leaders knew what was happening—but waited. Only when exposure loomed did responsibility kick in. In these cases, the rhetoric came after the fact.

Iswaran’s case was different. There’s no indication of internal cover-up. Once CPIB flagged the issue, the system moved: charges, resignation, sentencing. If anything, this was the rule of law functioning—reactive but intact. Still, even here, the moral high ground is shaky. In a rules-based system, doing the right thing after an investigation isn’t virtue. It’s basic compliance.

A Tale of Two Scandals

But there is a further puzzle to be solved.

Why was the public reaction to Iswaran’s failure more forgiving than toward Ridout Road, even though both shared the similarities of involving senior ministers who vigorously defended themselves while under national scrutiny. Why?

In part, it might come down to optics and tone.

Iswaran’s offences—F1 tickets, whisky, golf clubs, theatre shows—felt relatable. Wrong, yes, but recognisably human. The gifts were extravagant, yet understandable. Ridout, by contrast, involved sprawling black-and-white bungalows, opaque lease processes, and private property lists requested from within the minister’s own ministry. It triggered something deeper: a sense of untouchability. Not corruption, but access that ordinary Singaporeans would never have.

Then there was the defence. Both ministers mounted robust cases. Iswaran ultimately submitted to the law once it became clear he had crossed the line. Shanmugam, likewise, responsibly sought to avoid conflicts of interest and defended himself vigorously—but what rankled was the rhetorical shift. When the standard of avoiding “perceived conflicts of interest” gave way to technical explanations of “actual” or “reasonable” conflicts, many felt the goalposts were being moved to preserve face. What the public saw with their eyes was being reframed—out of bounds by legalese.

Finally, there was the question of who bore the cost. Iswaran stood alone. In Ridout, the government circled the wagons. The defence came not just from the ministers involved, but from an entire apparatus of institutional reassurance.

These nuances matter. Singaporeans can tell the difference between a personal failure and a systemic evasion. The former invites consequences—and sometimes sympathy. The latter, reminiscent of an argument with an impregnable spouse, provokes something more lasting: yuck.

In Iswaran, people saw a man who ultimately accepted his fall.
In Ridout, they saw a system unwilling to admit it had tripped on its own standards.

And that is the deeper challenge. Singaporeans are not just asking for clean governance in the legal sense. They’re asking for a deeper ethic: one that acts early, speaks plainly, and governs with modesty. Not moral posturing after the fact, but moral clarity from the start. That distinction—between playing by the rules and living by the spirit of them—may well be the measure of political credibility in the years to come.

Up Next…

We’ve seen how politicians responded to scandal after it broke. In the next piece, we look at how the state works to prevent scandal from surfacing at all—through law, policy, and process.

From the use of POFMA and FICA to the mishandling of the NRIC leak, we examine how the government defines what can be said, who gets scrutinised, and what stays hidden. The focus shifts from personal failure to structural control.