Singapore's death penalty: Is there room for compassion?

Nazira Lajim Hertslet recalls the day she learned that her older brother, Nazeri Lajim, had been sentenced to death for trafficking just over an ounce of heroin. Mr. Nazeri had battled with a long-term drug addiction, and his supplier had been given a life sentence. 

“For the first time in my life, from the bottom of my heart, I hated Singapore,” she says. “It is a cruel place.” 

Ms. Nazira had visited her brother in prison every month for the past five years and recently doubled down on efforts to save him from the gallows, drafting petitions, working with activists, and giving interviews. But it wasn’t enough. Mr. Nazeri was hanged at dawn on July 22. 

Five more men have been hanged since, as executions pick up speed in Singapore following a 2-year hiatus during the pandemic. Most recently, authorities executed Abdul Rahim Shapiee on Aug. 5, just hours after learning his appeal had been denied, along with co-accused Ong Seow Ping. Overall, 10 people – all on death row for drug offenses – have been hanged in less than five months this year. The killings have rekindled debate around the death penalty in Singapore, where people have long viewed capital punishment as a way to protect communities against the very real threats of drug trafficking in the region. 

Singaporeans are increasingly calling for compassion toward the convicted and their families, especially given evidence that severe punishments don’t necessarily equal safer streets. Meanwhile, activists are racing against time, trying to stop executions as well as locate and support the families of inmates, who are battling some of the world’s harshest anti-drug laws. 

“The merciless pace of executions has been a huge source of distress,” says activist and freelance journalist Kirsten Han, who’s been involved with the local anti-death penalty advocacy group Transformative Justice Collective since it formed in October 2020. “There isn’t enough time to process or grieve one hanging before another comes again. It’s horrific.”

Who gets the death penalty in Singapore?

The vast majority of death sentences in Singapore are for drug-related offenses, and many are against low-level drug couriers.

In some cases, the death penalty is mandatory, including when a person is found to be trafficking 15 grams of heroin. (For comparison, in the United States, 100 grams triggers a mandatory minimum sentence of 5 years in prison.)

A 2012 amendment allowed judges to replace the death penalty with life imprisonment and caning for couriers who are mentally disabled or have “substantively assisted” authorities. But critics claim the conditions are hard to meet and impossible to verify independently.

Some want an end to mandatory sentencing, while others are calling on Singapore to abolish the death penalty altogether. The U.N. Human Rights Office points out that Singapore’s severe drug laws disproportionately target Malays and poor communities, and do little to disrupt drug trade in and around the city-state.

Indeed, experts around the world agree there is no evidence proving death sentences are better at deterring crime than other punishments, such as life in prison. 

But so far, the Singapore government is standing firmly behind its use of the death penalty as a deterrent, ramping up the pace of executions even as other countries in the region relax their drug laws. 

Nagaenthran K. Dharmalingam’s case pulled Singapore’s death penalty back in the spotlight. The Malaysian drug courier had an IQ of 69, and had been on death row for more than a decade before his execution on April 27.

In a rare show of public support, hundreds gathered twice in April to rally against the death penalty at Hong Lim Park, the only place in the country where Singaporeans can demonstrate without a police permit. More than 100,000 people had also signed an online petition calling for Mr. Nagaenthran to be pardoned, and many on social media are continuing to voice their concerns about the death penalty and Singapore’s war on drugs.

On one website, Singaporeans have been leaving messages for the families of recently executed men. “Salam to Nazeri and his family,” writes one netizen. “I am so sorry. … You don’t deserve this. You deserved compassion and a second chance.”

Persistent safety concerns

Despite this outpouring of support, many Singaporeans aren’t ready to let go of capital punishment. 

Accountant Ivan Gian believes death penalty for drug offenses remains the best available solution. 

“Do I have sympathy for the person facing the death sentence? Maybe not much,” he says, “but I do empathize with their families.”

Javier See, a polytechnic student, says the protests over Mr. Nagaenthran’s execution made him more aware of the controversies surrounding the death penalty in Singapore. But given record-high levels of synthetic drug trafficking in Southeast Asia, he also thinks the death penalty should stay on the table.

“We are very close to the Golden Triangle,” he says, referring to a mountainous region in Thailand, Myanmar, and Laos known for opioid production. “If we abolish the death penalty for drug offenses, drug lords will only recruit more desperate and poor individuals to exploit this loophole.” 

In a radio interview on July 20, Singapore’s Law and Home Affairs Minister K. Shanmugam emphasized the government’s duty to “persuade our people, including young people, that we have to make the right choices for them and for society.” 

That means executing traffickers before they destroy the lives of drug users and their families – a framing that appeals to Singapore’s communitarian values.

But for death row families and advocates, this narrative over-simplifies the issues behind drug trafficking such as intergenerational poverty, while overlooking the fact that drug traffickers are often misusing drugs themselves. Families like Mr. Nazeri’s are then forced to suffer twice: first by watching a loved one struggle with addiction, then by watching them hang.

A controversial process

The methodical, by-the-book efficiency Singapore is known for also manifests in the way the death penalty is implemented, from brief, formal letters rejecting clemency petitions to the 1-week notice for upcoming executions.

However, some argue that Singapore’s treatment of death row inmates isn’t entirely callous. Siew Hong Wong, a partner at litigation firm Eldan Law LLP, sees the lack of advance notice as a blessing.

“If they tell you 6 weeks ... in advance, imagine how you will feel. You are watching the clock,” says the lawyer, who successfully secured an acquittal on appeal for a death row inmate in 2020. 

Even Singapore’s practice of staging pre-execution photoshoots – a custom often described as bizarre and inhumane – has brought comfort to some families. Ms. Nazira acknowledges the practice is cruel but admits she is also finding solace in having recent photos of her brother.

Once scheduled, hangings are difficult to stop. Of the 14 known execution notices issued this year, only four men have been granted a stay of execution. Many lawyers are reluctant to take on late-stage death row cases because they might be accused of abusing the court process if they lose. 

Mr. Abdul Rahim – who was executed on Friday – had a fellow death row inmate representing him.

Many anti-death penalty activists say they’re glad that conversations about the death penalty – once difficult discussions to start – are becoming more common, because it builds awareness of complex underlying issues surrounding capital punishment and drug trafficking. 

But when it comes to concrete change, these activists face an uphill battle. Some, Ms. Han included, are currently under investigation for organizing candlelight vigils without a permit outside Changi Prison earlier this year.

“I keep going because my peers and I see how urgent and desperate the situation is,” says Ms. Han. “People are being killed, in all our names, for a misguided drug policy that is increasingly debunked. ... There’s no way we can stop.”