The day I turned 34 years old, I filed an application to commence judicial review proceedings against the state. It was not the most normal way to celebrate a birthday, and set me back a significant chunk of change, but let me explain why it had to be done.

The background

On the morning of 11 October, as I rode an MRT to City Hall to attend a meeting, I received a call from a number I didn’t recognise. It turned out to be the Ang Mo Kio Police Division headquarters, and an investigation officer said she needed to talk to me about a Facebook post I’d published five months ago. She wouldn’t tell me anything more. She wouldn’t even tell me what I’d written in that Facebook post (who remembers what they wrote on social media almost half a year ago?) She just asked me to present myself at the police station some time in the next week. I asked her to call me back later in the day, after I was done with my work and had a chance to look at my calendar. That evening, we settled on an appointment date of 11am on 21 October.

But the more I thought about it, the more confused I was. I had no idea what this was all about. The officer had seemed reluctant to confirm over the phone whether an investigation into any particular offence had been opened. I had no information about why I had to go to the police station. So I contacted the investigation officer again and asked her to to put in writing that I was required to go to the police station. Based on previous experience, written letters from the police would state that investigations had commenced, and would also specify the alleged offence and the relevant legislation.

It took a few working days for the investigation officer to get back to me with a letter. But what she sent me was nothing like the notices I’d previously received. It still didn’t confirm if there was an investigation, nor did it tell me what the alleged offence was. It merely noted that I had asked for a letter, and that this letter had therefore been issued to me, reiterating the agreed-upon appointment date. Basically: “You wanted a letter? This is a letter.”

When I showed up at the police station on 21 October, the investigation officer handed me a letter stating that a Facebook post I published on 10 May 2022 had amounted to contempt of court. She told me that the Attorney-General’s Chambers had directed the police to issue me a conditional warning. The warning stated that I have to remain “crime-free” for the next 12 months, or else the AGC reserved the right to charge me for whatever offence I’d committed, plus contempt of court. When I asked which bit of the Facebook post had been in contempt of court, I didn’t get a clear answer. I was merely told that “the post” was the issue. I left the police station having been told that I’d apparently committed contempt of court, without it being explained to me how I’d been in contempt.

I later also realised that the report number printed on my conditional warning appeared to indicate that a police report had only been filed on 18 October 2022. However, I was first contacted by the police a week prior, on 11 October.

My application

The application that I’ve filed asks the court to declare that my act of publishing the 10 May Facebook post had not been in contempt of court, and to quash the conditional warning I received. Additionally, I also ask that the court order the police to give me a copy of the report lodged against me. I’d applied for a copy via the portal on the police website on the night of 21 October—including paying a $14 search fee—but hadn’t received an update even after following up with the investigation officer twice. On 14 November (three days after I filed my application with the court), I received an email saying that the police “are unable to supply you the documents that you have requested for.” Why they are unable to provide me the documents, I have no idea.

Taking the AGC and the police to court is not something one does lightly. It’s not cheap, for one—my filing fees came up to a little over $600. It would have been much easier to suck it up and move on, as some friends (but not all!) have advised me to do. After all, a conditional warning has no legal effect.

But the knowledge that it has no legal effect doesn’t lessen my frustration. If there’s no legal effect, then what is a conditional warning that says “don’t do anything we deem illegal for 12 months, or we might charge you for everything” but a threat printed with an official letterhead? The police are currently still investigating me for two alleged incidences of “illegal assembly”—once when I sat outside Changi Prison in muted contemplation with my friends, and once when a small group of us posed for a photo with a placard. I have seen friends charged, arrested, and convicted for “illegal assemblies” even when they caused no violence, disruption or harm. I recently saw Jolovan Wham get sent to prison for 15 days, in lieu of paying a fine, just because he held up an A4 sign outside the State Courts for 15 seconds. And what if the AGC once again decides that some Facebook post is out of line? Our experiences demonstrate how easily an activist can be found to have broken the law. The only way for me to really make sure that I can remain “crime-free” for 12 months would be to keep silent, keep my head down, and do nothing.

As I exited the police station with my conditional warning in hand, a sense of unfairness bubbled up inside me. This feeling has not dissipated; instead, it has settled on my shoulders like an invisible cloak. I’d been summoned and told that I had scandalised the judiciary, even though the judiciary themselves have not weighed in on this matter. I’d been handed a threat cloaked in officious language, but no one had even bothered to articulate what I’d done that was so wrong. And the general expectation appeared to be that I would just take this and go away quietly.

Can they do this? Is this right?

Ultimately, these are the questions at the root of my decision to file an application. As far as I understand, there was no police investigation into my Facebook post. I’ve never been questioned about it, nor does the conditional warning letter say anything about the police having looked into the matter. Since receiving the call from the police, I’ve read and re-read my old post, and I don’t understand what the problem is. I’ve shown it to other friends, including legally trained friends, and they aren’t exactly sure what the issue is, either. Can a person just be contacted by the police out of the blue, told to present themselves at the police station to be given a conditional warning, without any explanation as to what exactly they’d done wrong?

Very often, we resign ourselves to the idea that the authorities have broad discretion and power over us. Within civil society circles, we sometimes grow numb and normalise the notion that we will all just have to put up with a certain amount of shit, because this is what happens when you’re an activist in an authoritarian state. But what if we don’t just resign ourselves to shaking it off?

I’m not claiming to be a victim of torture or police brutality, but I do think that it’s unreasonable to have been called to the police station with next to no information, just to be told that I’d committed an offence, without any explanation as to how. If the Attorney-General’s Chambers thinks I’ve committed an offence, they should be able to explain themselves. There should be more accountability and transparency. At the very least, people accused of having done something wrong should know why they are being so accused.

I don’t expect this to be some sort of high-profile, seminal case. I’m not going to make bold claims about how I’m doing it for Singapore, even though I do feel there is public interest value in doing something like this. At the very heart of it all, I see it as an act of standing up for myself, of making the point that, just because an institution has power, doesn’t mean it can do whatever it wants.

It’s a simple (albeit expensive 😵) act, but if more of us could do these simple acts of standing up to power, I think we would all be better off in the long run.