Daily roundup: 18 years' jail for woman who hacked adoptive father to death after tussle over Sengkang flat — and other top stories today, World News
1. 18 years' jail for woman who hacked adoptive father to death after tussle over Sengkang flat
A 31-year-old woman who was suffering from persecutory delusions became frightened that her adoptive father would kick her out of the family's Sengkang flat after her adoptive mother died from cancer... » READ MORE
2. 'How long can I continue to sing for?' JJ Lin diagnosed with heart condition in 2024
JJ Lin has been diagnosed with a heart condition. The 44-year-old Singaporean singer, who is currently on his JJ20 Final Lap World Tour, revealed... » READ MORE
3. 'Wow, who is this girl?' Pierre Png and Cynthia Koh recall first time they met at water park as teens
Local actors Pierre Png and Cynthia Koh are no strangers to one another in the entertainment industry, with their first on-screen collaboration dating all the way back to Holland V in 2003 as siblings Mo Yangyang and Mo Yanyan respectively... » READ MORE
4. Joss paper burning allegedly sparks corridor fire in Chai Chee; 7 received medical aid
Seven people received medical treatment after a fire broke out at the corridor of a Chai Chee Housing and Development Board (HDB) block... » READ MORE
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Straits Times
3 hours ago
- Straits Times
Fragments of Gong Gong from old newspaper clippings
The writer's late grandfather Tan Swee Teck, who died in 2012 at the age of 83. He was among 14 police officers who were investigated in 1961 for the suspicious death of a thug in lock-up. In childhood, everything makes sense. There was nothing off-key about my grandfather's absence from the big Sunday lunch. The adults agreed he was a threat to my grandmother's appetite. Therefore: exile. Therefore: he took his soup at a private table in the same flat. The way I saw it, my mother's father was not many things, but a few bad ones. Tan Swee Teck was a former cop and philanderer who turned deserter in 1965, when he, too, declared independence, begging off from his family for seven years. If his charge sheet held intrigue, I was, in the tweenage tradition, immune to it. In an abuse of free will, I had, aged nine or 10, suddenly decided my body was unseemly and the new girth to my thighs – not yet observed under the pinafores of my peers – obliged me to scrutinise all bodies religiously. In the old man, I saw the worst of it: a weeping mouth, liable to drool, and hands, lousy with veins. His eyes were the chilliest of all. Wet and inexplicably blue, they expressed nothing, made no petition for love or pity, and even in his final act, when he got dementia and had to be spoon-fed by his children, asked no questions. He died of pneumonia in 2012, aged 85 – a commonplace that could not provoke my interest. Then, this Chinese New Year, my mother let slip that in her father's drawer of last effects were two clippings of The Straits Times. They were lost now, after 13 years, but had something to do with the Hock Lee bus riots, she said, recalling an interview – accents implying heroics. Probably, I had heard of them before and promptly forgot. Improbably, I was now working for The Straits Times, with a new and intimate stake in its archive. Family legend is peculiar that way. The young take it as fact, too conclusive to be exciting, unmoved even by tales of secret stature or fortunes lost in mysterious and implausible ways. The not-so-young abruptly see that the facts must be proven, on pain of living with myth. Exhibit A: Singaporean men of a certain vintage have been known to spontaneously produce coffee-table books of family histories. So, with a feeling of ambush by the dead, I began a quest for the public record of my grandfather. The past was instantly unruly. I preferred to meet it the old-fashioned way, with gloves, in the dusty office library, among stacks of yellowed paper. At the very least, have a go at the microfiche, threading film through the quaint machine. But the librarian, her quarters spotless, said she would handle it. PDF scans of all Straits Times articles with my grandfather's name arrived in my inbox by the end of the business day. Its heft was unnerving – eight stories in all. I had heard of only two, and by some cosmic prank, one of the rumoured clippings that had set things off was missing from the compilation. All but one report sketched ignominy. In 1961, Detective Tan had been among 14 police officers interdicted from the force for the suspicious death of a thug in lock-up. A May 30, 1961, report about a thug who died in police custody alleged that policemen – including the writer's grandfather – were involved. Detective Tan Swee Teck was later found not guilty. PHOTO: ST FILE The autopsy of the secret society member confirmed strangulation, nine fractured ribs, massive internal bleeding and 24 abrasions, bruises and contusions all over. He died alone in a cell in the Criminal Investigation Department, after interrogations by my grandfather and company. None would own up to the deathblows, and the police commissioner threatened to sack the lot, on grounds of a 'conspiracy of silence'. It was all there in black and white – evidence of a crime more serious than infidelity – and as I read the headlines adjudicating my grandfather's guilt, I had the curious sense of being stiffed by history. Legally, my secret hope of a redemption story was still tenable, if not obtuse. The detective was not guilty, in fact, no one was, said the clippings. Though three inspectors in the group had been identified as the chief assailants, the coroner's inquest returned an open verdict. The prosecution issued charges, then dropped them. An internal investigation concluded with almost the whole crew reprieved and only the leader dismissed. But the facts had my grandfather bang to rights: at best, an accessory, and at worst, a lucky participant. More on this topic The Straits Times marks 180 years of telling your S'pore story Blood quickened, I made off for the old Sunday lunch, declaring in a giddy text some 'news' for the family – puffed up suddenly by the moral seriousness of journalism which, in fact, could reach through time to tell us what we have neglected to remember. My relatives were lounging in the post-lunch way in my uncle's new condo, mumbling about cold soup. The words tumbled out of me artlessly ('Gong Gong might have killed someone in jail'). They received it impassively. Only my younger sister seemed to react. For a beat, I thought perhaps his children already knew but had chosen to omit it, preferring to guard their fair share of information. My aunt and uncle would already have been born, a timeline I confirmed with some urgency. When it was clear they were equally caught out, I resorted to the leading question: 'Aren't you shocked?' The retorts were swift. My uncle said: 'What's there to be shocked about? That time all police beat to get a confession.' You don't know if he was just scared of his boss, my aunt chimed in. In a few strokes, they saw what I had to exert myself to understand, that the dead operate in the ethical framework of their time. The proof was in the paper. Two years after the gangster's death, in 1963, the body of the fired inspector was found belly up in the sea, trussed up with steel wire, in what the front-page news report framed as a suspected secret society revenge killing. The rough justice of the epoch demanded it. Another curveball: my mother had found a picture of the news clipping missing from the folder sent by the librarian. Buried deep in her camera roll, the photographed text quoted 'Tan Swee Peck's' court testimony of his work in the 1955 Hock Lee bus riots. Its disappearance from the search results had come down to a banal typo, a 'p' in his name where there should have been a 't'. A news clipping dated Aug 11, 1955, where the writer's late grandfather was mentioned. PHOTO: ST FILE The curt report told of how the detective had infiltrated a mob of some 3,000 striking bus drivers and angry students who turned violent when police opened water jets at them. The fray lasted a day, injuring 31 people and killing four – one student, two cops and a journalist. My grandfather was in court to give evidence against rioters he had caught in the act. It was somewhere between this reveal and the next, that my Gong Gong had come home for good in what my uncle remembered as a drama of fire and brimstone on the night of the 1972 Robinsons fire, that the satisfactions of the official narratives broke down. In the hunt for the past, the margin of error is slimmer than a letter. The paper was broad, blunt and not without error. The family account was partial, qualified by what had been kept from them but heightened by the odds and ends that stick in personal memory. If I wanted to meet the man, I would have to look harder, squint for the blazing fragments not on the record. Helpfully, the late detective had left taped interviews with the National Archives' Oral History Centre copied into cassettes now stashed in mottled envelopes under my uncle's TV. Recorded in 2000, they frizzed into life with some reluctance, disclosing, not the grunts and groans of my grandfather's wasted throat, but the low voice of the man at 73. I had never heard him speak. He talked in a loud drawl, with a fugitive trace of Mr Lee Kuan Yew's cadence – a slow start, rising in the middle – that struck me for the first time as a quirk of that generation of English speakers, born in the 1920s. In a different accent, his young interlocutor pressed for details of the vanished Chinatown of his past. Over four hours, the old man dictated the narrative of the place and so, his life: A childhood in Craig Road watching clans go to war in the streets, opium dens, rickshaw pullers who made their own shoes and had special lamps for escorts, the war and liberation, the night soil truck coming to take buckets of poo from each house before the advent of the sewerage system, cabarets. Sometimes, he was unwittingly charming, nerdy about place names and the minutiae of who owned what. He could rattle off the full names and titles of every neighbour, the number of floors in each building, and at one point offered to draw the floor plan of the old CID building. Always, he was factual, verging on cold, delivering details of British coronation day and mass screenings during the Japanese Occupation with the same steady dispassion. That he went to be registered with two brothers and one never came back, didn't seem to shake him. Working as a labourer for the Japanese was 'hot and dirty', so he joined the police, where he could get better rations and rice 'not too broken' for cooking. Naturally, he never left. This made for some comedy. Did he not face resentment from his countrymen for working for the Japanese, asked the interviewer. He had no understanding of the sentiment. The rumour was that the Chinese would be sent away if they did not, 'that is all', he said – a catchphrase he liked to end his every disclosure with. I had to laugh. Here was a man with a Nietzschean love for his fate, who had lived under three administrations and knew the bounds of all authority, had seen the British go from overlords to night soil men as prisoners of war then restored once again. Suddenly the silence, or submission, of his eyes as I had known them made sense. My mother later let on that she had never seen proof of adultery. Perhaps his seven-year departure from the family was a midlife attempt to cut against that instinct, though, and this is the rub, I am only imagining this. In the final analysis, I cannot say if he was redeemed or condemned by my labours, nor even if he was many things or just a few. My flirtation with the past had thrown up only the incompleteness of evidence, memory, and the facts we call history, which even when undisputed – like the death of a man in custody – can admit different meanings. Eventually, that is all.
Straits Times
3 hours ago
- Straits Times
Your S'pore Story: ‘Response has always been positive until I posted my nasi lemak character'
This artist went viral for a pop culture mash-up, but has since shifted his artwork to reflect themes closer to home The cheat code to going viral? According to a comment on Mr Andy Choo's artwork, it is making Malaysians angry. The origin of well-loved hawker dishes has long been a prickly subject between Singapore and Malaysia. So when the 39-year-old unveiled a character based on nasi lemak – as part of a series reimagining Singapore's hawker favourites as fantasy heroes – he did not expect it to stir up a debate. Watch his video here. Dozens of Malaysians flooded his page with comments, accusing him of claiming the national dish as Singaporean. Mr Choo had added a note acknowledging the dish's Malaysian origins, but the clarification did not appease them. Still, the nasi lemak debacle – while unintended – felt like a small win. To Mr Choo, it signalled a step towards greater visibility for Singaporean artists on the global stage – it shows that people outside of Singapore are noticing his artwork. He shares more about his line-up of hawker heroes, what drives him to keep creating, and how he hopes to nurture the next generation of home-grown artists. Mr Choo has also designed characters inspired by himself and his wife, Andimoo and Jegginyan (seen in the foreground). PHOTO: SPH MEDIA 'When I did One Piece Avengers in 2012 – a mash-up of the most popular Japanese and American characters – it blew up overnight. So I thought, okay, I know how to get the fame: just take popular characters, put your own spin on them and maybe throw in a crossover. But after a while, I stopped. I did not want to keep using other people's characters and most people would not even know a Singaporean was behind the artwork. I wanted to create something that was more uniquely Singaporean – that's much more meaningful to me. The idea came during the Covid-19 pandemic. I had nothing to do at home and was staring at a plate of chicken rice. At the same time, the game Genshin Impact was really popular. So I thought: what if I combined the two? Could I create something that is uniquely Singaporean? And that is how the characters were born. Chicken rice became a tall, slim lady archetype. Ice kacang and laksa represent the younger girls with smaller builds. Then, there are the big guys like chilli crab and bak kut teh. The black and white carrot cake are your average Joes. I shared them online, including on international artist pages. The response for my artwork has always been positive – until I posted the nasi lemak character. That post sparked a wave of comments from Malaysians saying that nasi lemak was not Singaporean, but Malaysian. About 10 years ago, I did something similar too – taking something familiar and putting a Singaporean spin on it. Years ago, when the Transformers movies were big, I turned Singapore's buses and taxis into Transformers too. It has always been my thing. Apart from creating my own mash-ups, I've spent over a decade helping young artists build a strong foundation in art and drawing. I have been teaching art across primary, secondary and tertiary levels. To nurture younger talent, I am now working on a curriculum that is more interesting for kids. It is packaged like a role-playing game – they unlock skills as they progress and earn badges along the way. And all the characters I've created will be used in my teaching materials. In Singapore, if you want to do art on a professional level, you either work for a company or start your own, like I did. There are not many indie studios here, which is why people end up aiming for jobs overseas, at companies like Marvel and DC. But I still want to stay. There's just something special about Singapore and I think it's because this is where I grew up. That's why I'm always trying to create something that's our own.'
Straits Times
3 hours ago
- Straits Times
Your S'pore Story: ‘We would climb up and down Bukit Timah Hill about six times'
This father turned stairwells and hiking trails into a training ground for his son – the youngest Singaporean to complete the hike to Everest's base camp While other children his age are attending preschool and learning to play musical instruments, Abyan Imtiaz Irkiz is busy setting national records. And not just any record either. Last year, at just five years old, Abyan became the youngest Singaporean to reach Everest Base Camp – the gateway to the highest mountain in the world. Watch their video here. For eight days in the Himalayas, Abyan and his father, Mr Zikri Ali, braved blistering winds, bouts of altitude sickness and temperatures that dropped to minus 14 deg C, until they reached their destination 5,364 m above sea level – an impressive feat for an adult, let alone a pre-schooler. Mr Zikri, 42, runs a yoga school in Singapore with his wife, while Abyan has an elder sister and younger brother. Looking back at their arduous journey, he shares how he prepared Abyan for the ascent and what he has come to admire most about his child. For Abyan, nature walks and rugged trails are just part of playtime with dad. PHOTO: SPH MEDIA 'I first got the idea when we were in Nagarkot, Nepal, in 2022. We were on a yoga retreat and part of it involved hiking the Nagarkot Panoramic Trail – just a day hike, about 12km. Top stories Swipe. Select. Stay informed. Singapore HSA intensifies crackdown on vapes; young suspected Kpod peddlers nabbed in Bishan, Yishun Singapore Man charged over distributing nearly 3 tonnes of vapes in one day in Bishan, Ubi Avenue 3 Singapore Public healthcare institutions to record all Kpod cases, confiscate vapes: MOH, HSA Singapore Man allegedly attacks woman with knife at Kallang Wave Mall, to be charged with attempted murder Singapore Singapore boosts support for Timor-Leste as it prepares to join Asean Singapore UN aviation and maritime agencies pledge to collaborate to boost safety, tackle challenges Singapore High Court dismisses appeal of drink driver who killed one after treating Tampines road like racetrack Singapore 18 years' jail for woman who hacked adoptive father to death after tussle over Sengkang flat It was already quite challenging. Some of the adults in the group were struggling because of the undulating terrain – lots of ups and downs. But Abyan did it and he didn't complain at all. A few years back, I came across an article about a six-year-old boy who had made it to Everest Base Camp with his parents. I was quite impressed by that. Then I thought, if we train properly, I think Abyan can do it too. So I asked him. We were standing at a viewpoint in Nagarkot and I pointed out where Everest was. I told him: 'You see those mountains up there? One of them is Everest, the tallest mountain in the world. Do you want to climb up there with Papa?' And he said yes. So we started training by hiking and climbing staircases to build up his endurance. In Nepal, we would cover about 600 to 700m of elevation gain each day, so I tried to simulate that in Singapore. We trained in our block, which is 27 storeys high, and we'd go up and down about nine or 10 times. Or we would climb up and down Bukit Timah Hill about six times. It was progressive training over a period of four months. We started out doing it only once a week at first, but at the height of our training, it was four times a week. But it's all fun for him. From a young age, Abyan has always been intense. He does not give up easily. If he fails at something, he keeps going until he gets it. He's very garang (Malay for fearless). During training, there were moments where I could see he was very tired, but he kept pushing himself. Even when he reached a point where he wanted to quit, he still kept going. I'd ask him if he needed a break and he'd say: 'No, no. Come, let's go.' When we finally reached Everest Base Camp, it felt like all the hard work had paid off. I was so proud of him for achieving it and all the hard work he had put in. And I know he had some takeaways from the experience. Because along the way, I told him: 'You know, if we have a plan and we work hard, there's a high chance that we can achieve what we want to achieve.' And he did. I hope he brings that same intensity into whatever he chooses to do in future.'
