- Raeesah Khan’s false Parliament story led to Pritam Singh’s conviction for lying under oath, exposing deeper cracks in the Workers’ Party’s leadership and accountability.
- Two senior ministers rented state-owned colonial bungalows through unclear processes—no laws broken, but public confidence took a hit.
- In both cases, party leaders defended themselves legally but failed to show humility, widening the gap between political power and public trust.
- In today’s Singapore, integrity and humility mean more than legality—it means being visibly honest, even when it’s inconvenient.
Singapore’s political system has long been praised for its order, discipline, and trust. But since the last general election, a series of scandals—some personal, others systemic—have chipped away at that image. From leaked videos to courtroom trials, from ministerial real estate to legislative power grabs, the past five years have tested not just individuals, but institutions.
This article reviews key political episodes from the current term—not to sensationalise them, but to ask a harder question: how did our leaders respond when tested? Did they act transparently, accept accountability, and uphold their own standards? Or did they pivot, delay, and obscure?
As voters prepare for the next general election, these stories matter—not just for what happened, but for what they reveal about the people asking for your vote.
CHAPTER 1: RAEESAHGATE
It began in Parliament, where privileges are premised on integrity. Workers’ Party MP Raeesah Khan, known for her admiration of communist activists and her outspoken advocacy on progressive issues, recounted a harrowing tale of accompanying a sexual assault victim to the police station—a story intended to highlight alleged police insensitivity.
But it wasn’t true. It turned out she was recounting a secondhand story that she had heard at a support group. She did not witness or personally accompany the victim as originally claimed.
From Admission to Inquiry
By the time the truth emerged, Khan resigned, but not before wasting a lot of police time on investigating something that never happened. Her admission triggered a wave of controversy and led to a Committee of Privileges (COP) inquiry, where new revelations shifted the focus from her falsehood to the Workers’ Party leadership.
During the hearings, it became clear that Khan had been instructed—either explicitly or through implication—not to come clean in Parliament. This finding directly implicated party leader Pritam Singh, opening the door to a separate investigation into whether he had misled the COP about his role in encouraging the concealment.
What began as a single MP’s lie quickly expanded into a broader crisis of credibility for the party’s top leadership.
Singh on Trial
Party leader Pritam Singh, alongside senior party figures, was accused of mishandling the situation, with critics alleging deliberate concealment of Khan’s falsehood.
In February 2025, Singapore’s Leader of the Opposition and Workers’ Party chief, Pritam Singh, was convicted on two counts of providing false testimony under oath to a parliamentary Committee of Privileges (COP).
Specifically, Singh was found guilty of falsely testifying about his actions following an August 8, 2021, meeting where Khan admitted to lying in Parliament. He claimed to have instructed Khan to clarify her falsehood, but the court determined that he had instead suggested maintaining the deception.
The court imposed the maximum fine of S$7,000 for each charge, totaling S$14,000. Deputy Principal District Judge Luke Tan emphasized the importance of truthful testimony under oath, stating that Singh’s actions warranted the maximum fine.
A Timely Amendment?
Interestingly, an PAP-backed constitutional amendment passed in May 2022, after proceedings against Singh had begun, raised the disqualification threshold for MPs from a fine of S$2,000 to S$10,000 per offence. Singh’s S$7,000 fines per charge fall below this revised bar, allowing him to retain his seat and remain eligible for re-election.
Under the previous rules, Singh would have been disqualified automatically. Although the amendment was presented as a long-overdue “inflation adjustment”, in retrospect, it effectively preserved Singh’s political viability despite a criminal conviction.
Singh has indicated his intention to appeal the conviction, and the legal process is ongoing which means that the conviction and its implications remain subject to change.
Fractures Within the Party
The episode raised unresolved questions about the Workers’ Party’s internal accountability and the extent to which transparency was compromised for party unity.
Two of Khan’s key aides, Loh Pei Ying and Yudhishthra Nathan—who had testified before the Committee of Privileges—resigned from the party in November 2022. Loh, a long-serving member and former secretarial assistant to Pritam Singh, and Nathan, a dedicated volunteer, cited the party’s handling of the fallout as a contributing factor. Their departures underscored the extent of disillusionment within the party’s inner ranks, adding to the impression that the leadership crisis had fractured trust not just with the public, but also among its own.
Then came the expulsion of former Non-Constituency MP Daniel Goh—perhaps the clearest signal yet of the party’s stance toward internal dissent. Goh had publicly questioned the leadership’s handling of the Raeesah Khan incident and criticised what he called a lack of openness and accountability. In September 2023, he was expelled by the Central Executive Committee for making public statements deemed detrimental to the party. Goh, who had already stepped back from frontline politics due to health reasons, described his expulsion as confirmation that his retirement from politics was now complete. His removal sent a clear message: public criticism of the leadership, even from former stalwarts, would not be tolerated.
Rather than encouraging open discussion or course correction, the party appeared to prioritise cohesion over candour, reinforcing perceptions that loyalty mattered more than truthfulness. Did the leadership intentionally withhold critical information from the public? Were decisions shaped more by political self-preservation than principled transparency? And does this incident point to deeper structural issues within Singapore’s most prominent opposition party?
“The Khan Affair” has become more than a cautionary tale of one MP’s error—it remains a vivid reminder that integrity, transparency, and accountability are foundational to one’s political credibility, and by extension, that of one’s party.
CHAPTER 2 – THE RIDOUT SAGA
Two ministers. Two bungalows. One old Singaporean wound of begrudging political leaders for their lifestyle choices. These weren’t just any properties. They were black-and-white bungalows—remnants of colonial power, once homes for British elites, now leased by the political elite. It wasn’t just a matter of comfort or taste. It was a visual metaphor: those with power living in the literal architecture of it.
The Spark
In May 2023, opposition politician Kenneth Jeyaretnam lit the spark. In a blog post, he raised questions about Law and Home Affairs Minister K. Shanmugam and Foreign Minister Vivian Balakrishnan renting massive colonial bungalows along Ridout Road—properties managed by the Singapore Land Authority (SLA), which fell under Shanmugam’s own ministry.
The allegations weren’t of illegality, but of privilege, secrecy, and a possible conflict of interest.
The story exploded online. Why were ministers renting state-owned mansions? Were the properties advertised publicly? Was there preferential treatment? And what about the optics—two senior ministers living large on government land while ordinary Singaporeans grapple with rising costs?
The Official Response
As pressure mounted, Prime Minister Lee ordered two investigations: one by the Corrupt Practices Investigation Bureau (CPIB), and another by Senior Minister Teo Chee Hean. Both probes cleared the ministers of wrongdoing.
The verdict as that there was no corruption, no abuse of power and no special treatment.
Case closed? Not quite.
The government positioned the matter as resolved. But for many, it felt like closure by fiat. Not because questions were answered, but because questions were no longer welcome.
While the ministers were legally in the clear, many members of the public weren’t convinced. Minister Shanmugam asked the Deputy Secretary of the Ministry of Law for a list of available properties—during a meeting attended by senior officials. He cited privacy as his reason.
SLA later clarified there was no formal application process for such properties, which are typically handled case-by-case. Still, his dual role as tenant and Minister-in-charge raised concerns about perceived conflict of interest—even in the absence of wrongdoing.
Perception Problems
When everyone sees smoke, insisting there’s no fire doesn’t clear the air. It chokes it.
The Ministerial Code of Conduct isn’t about criminal liability or technical breaches. It’s about trust. It’s about whether the public still believes their leaders are acting in good faith. And when the Code says ministers must avoid even the appearance of impropriety, it means exactly that: perception matters.
Sadly, in the Ridout Road saga, public confidence clearly took a hit.
Online, the backlash wasn’t just about rent or property. It was about a growing belief that the rules serve the powerful first—and the rest later. The saga became a lightning rod, not because of what was done, but because of who it was done for.
MPs on both sides—yes, even within the ruling party—acknowledged the tensions in the public. They recognised the distinction between legal exoneration and public unease. They called for tighter guidelines, better oversight, clearer communication. They were trying to close the gap.
But Minister Shanmugam’s response, while doing well to invoke transparency and accountability, ended up being less than what we’d hoped for.
He didn’t address the pressing issue of public perception, but rather argued it was irrelevant because it was too subjective. Instead of accepting that the perception of conflict was itself the problem, he challenged the very definition of it, arguing that if there’s no actual or potential conflict, then “perceived conflict” is meaningless.
That it’s just a subjective feeling. That governance can’t operate on vibes.
It missed the point entirely: that public trust doesn’t hinge on technical definitions. It hinges on whether people believe their leaders understand the weight of their position—and carry it with care.
Because perceived conflict of interest isn’t about legal precision. It’s about public trust. It’s the higher standard the Code demands, the “spirit” of the text that everyone loves appealing to – not just to avoid wrongdoing, but to avoid doing anything that looks wrong. Not because ministers are guilty, but because the general public must not be left wondering.
That’s what makes this episode so disappointing. Shanmugam recused himself – Great. Followed procedure? Sure. But here was a chance to show humility, not just compliance. A chance to say, “I did what was allowed, but I understand how this might have looked to the public—and that matters.”
Instead, we got lectured on legal theory, on hypothetical knee surgeries and police reports. On why “perceived conflict” is too vague to matter. Ironically, by refusing to admit that perception had become a problem, he confirmed the very perception the Code warns against: a minister out of touch with public sentiment.
This wasn’t a criminal trial. No one was asking for a resignation or a fine. It was a question of judgment and moral leadership. A test of whether the government could own a misstep without being dragged there.
They failed that test.
And in doing so, they squandered an opportunity—not just to clear the air, but to show the public that their integrity matters more than their pride.
What could’ve been a footnote is now a stain. Not because of the rental, but because of the response.
Problematic Pricing
Beyond optics, a tougher question persists – was the government doing things right or doing the right thing?
The government insists the $26,500 monthly rent for 26 Ridout Road, and $19,000-$20,000 for 31 Ridout Road are in line with the Singapore Land Authority’s (SLA) guide rent, set by professional valuers and reflective of market conditions for aging black-and-white (B&W) bungalows, accounting for the properties’ poor condition, years of vacancy, and significant tenant-funded repairs—over $500,000 in Minister Shanmugam’s case—while emphasising no preferential treatment occurred, as confirmed by the CPIB in June 2023. Fair enough, on paper.
To many observers, particularly the financially-literate, these rentals seemed strikingly low especially in a climate where Government Land Sales (GLS) are priced at eye-watering levels.
Yes, B&Ws lack modern appeal and demand tenant upkeep, but that doesn’t fully explain the gap when prime land is involved. The SLA’s framework might be defensible in a vacuum, but it’s the broader market appetite—unconstrained by bureaucratic guide rents—that fuels widespread public scepticism.
And that’s where the real problem lies. Ministers, under the advice of the civil service, have a duty not just to avoid impropriety, but to optimise returns on public assets, B&Ws included. If the rent fetched lags significantly behind what a competitive market might bear, it’s not just an optics failure—it’s a policy shortcoming – one which should be treated as an issue to be addressed, not an opportunity to be seized.
The government says low demand and prolonged vacancy (among aforementioned reasons) justified the rates, (which were double-confirmed by SLA’s valuers who did not know the identity of the prospective tenant).
But shouldn’t these be red flags prompting reform? Consider this: online analyses, like those on Reddit, estimate that 26 Ridout Road’s expanded 23,164 sq m land area could command S$60,000 monthly if priced proportionately to its original S$24,500 guide rent for 9,350 sqm. Market estimates at the time suggested B&W rentals could hit S$50,000+ for comparable sizes. If you’re lucky, one might be on the market at the time of your reading for you to look at.
Even within SLA’s portfolio, the median rent for B&Ws over 20,000 sqft was S$13,000 in 2022, but this obscures outliers: a Mount Rosie Road B&W (7,718 sqm) fetched S$28,000, hinting at higher potential for prime locations. Official comparisons based on floor area (e.g., S$29.78/sqm average for 26 Ridout’s 856.5 sqm in 2018) show alignment with neighbors, but this sidesteps the question of land value—Ridout Road’s defining asset—which dwarfs floor area in market appeal.
SLA should benchmark B&W rents against private GCB rates, not just historical guide rents, to reflect true market value.
A prudent approach would have been to reassess SLA’s rental model before approving tenancies that, to many, look like steals amid Singapore’s property frenzy. Instead, two senior ministers benefited from a system their government oversees, with no evident push for reform. Legal? Yes, per CPIB. Optimal stewardship? Hardly. The clarifications extinguish corruption allegations but leave a lingering question: why aren’t public assets commanding what they could?
A Damaged Standard and Recovery Effort
In the background was a growing sense that the PAP had tripped over the bar it had set for itself. The public had been told for decades that even the appearance of wrongdoing was intolerable—a principle rooted in the Singapore Ministerial Code of Conduct (see Section 3.1) and echoed by Lee Kuan Yew’s insistence on incorruptible governance.
But when the appearance came, the blame shifted onto the public for perceiving it. That struck many as arrogant, with online forums and commentators decrying a disconnect between rhetoric and response.
To their credit, the government welcomed scrutiny, initiated investigations, and committed to new declarations for ministers leasing state properties. They didn’t have much of a choice.
The reforms implemented were a good, tangible response: ministers must now declare such rental arrangements as outlined in new guidelines, improving transparency and helping prevent similar confusion in the future. These changes came after robust debate in Parliament, where MPs called for stronger safeguards and clearer standards around potential conflicts of interest.
But the episode still left a mark—reminding everyone that in a system built on trust, even appearances matter. This isn’t unique to Singapore; the UK’s Ministerial Code demands ministers avoid any “perceived” conflicts (Section 1.6f), while the U.S. invokes the “Caesar’s Wife” adage—public figures must be above suspicion. And in politics, perception can be as damning as proof.
Reading Between The Lines
One would be correct to point out that there is no moral equivalence between the PAP’s and WP’s respective actions, because what Raeesah Khan did—and how the Workers’ Party leadership handled it—involved criminal offences. Fortunately, this analysis isn’t trying to draw a false comparison. The question isn’t whether the offences were equally bad. It’s whether the instincts were troubling in the same way: the instinct to delay accountability, to manage fallout quietly, and to protect political viability over transparency. That’s where the patterns start to align.
Together, the Khan affair and the Ridout Road saga reveal a common shortcoming: the instinct to protect institutional credibility at the expense of transparency. In both cases, the individuals involved leaned on procedural legality to shield themselves from public criticism. But in doing so, they neglected the deeper responsibility of political leadership—not just to be beyond reproach, but to appear beyond reproach.
The Workers’ Party stumbled when it closed ranks and withheld uncomfortable truths. The People’s Action Party faltered when it defended conduct that, while lawful, left many Singaporeans uneasy.
Both parties responded with formality and firmness. But what was missing, in different ways, was a posture of humility—a recognition that public trust isn’t maintained through technical compliance alone, but through an honest reckoning with how things look as much as how things are.
Both parties erred in the same way: by focusing on doing things right, instead of doing the right thing. They followed process. They met technical standards. But they missed the larger moral question—the one the public kept asking: is this how a leader should behave?
Singapore’s modern electorate is more educated, more sceptical, and more exposed to global standards of political accountability. They expect leaders to practise integrity not just in action, but in tone. Not just in what is legal, but in what is right. And increasingly, they also demand modesty—an awareness that power must be exercised with restraint, and defended with transparency.
If there’s a lesson here, it’s that governance in modern Singapore can no longer rely on reputational capital built decades ago. It must be renewed through consistent honesty, accountability, and a visible ethic of service. Anything less, and the trust that holds the system together will continue to erode.
A Word of Clarification
This series should not be mistaken for a wholesale condemnation of Singapore’s political establishment. The country remains an exceptional achievement—marked by social stability, economic progress, and an effective public service. These outcomes were made possible by generations of dedicated politicians and civil servants, including all the individuals named in this review.
The aim here is not to assign malice or deny their decades worth of contributions. It is to raise necessary questions about how leadership and accountability operate—and how trust is maintained—in a political culture that prides itself on integrity. High-trust systems are not self-sustaining; they require constant vigilance against complacency, opacity, and institutional self-preservation.
All humans are fallible and even the most selfless of leaders are subject to the blunting effect of power and position. It develops in the heart gradually, often in the shadow of good intentions and procedural compliance. But it can be arrested, provided the warning signs are acknowledged early.
This review is offered in that spirit: not as an axe but as a mirror for reflection—among both the elected and the electorate. Political systems are not beyond repair. But course correction depends on a shared willingness to confront uncomfortable truths before they become permanent features.
Up Next…
In the upcoming articles in this series, we turn to other fault lines in this latest term of government: the wave of political resignations over personal indiscretions, the Iswaran corruption probe in part 2, and the controversial use of POFMA and FICA, and the ACRA NRIC disclosures in part 3.
Each episode tests different facets of the social contract. Together, they challenge not only our institutions, but our assumptions about what kind of governance Singapore needs next.
