The Stakes: More Than One Man’s Reputation
When Workers’ Party (WP) Secretary-General Pritam Singh walked into the Supreme Court on November 4, 2025, he carried with him not just his own political future, but the fragile trust Singapore’s opposition has spent decades building. His appeal against February’s conviction for lying to Parliament represents one of the most consequential legal battles in Singapore’s modern political history—a case where the interpretation of two sentences could determine whether the nation’s most successful opposition leader remains in politics or exits in disgrace.
The courtroom drama centers on a deceptively simple question: What did Singh really mean when he spoke to his former party colleague, Raeesah Khan? But beneath this lies a more profound inquiry into leadership, accountability, and the nature of truth in Singapore’s carefully calibrated political ecosystem.
The Two Sentences That Changed Everything
“Take it to the grave”
The first disputed statement cuts to the heart of the prosecution’s case. Did Singh tell Khan to “take it to the grave”—essentially instructing her to maintain her lie about accompanying a sexual assault victim to a police station? Or is this phrase, as Singh maintains, something he never uttered?
This isn’t mere semantics. If Singh said these words, they would constitute direct instruction to perpetuate a falsehood in Parliament—one of the gravest political sins in Singapore’s governance framework. The phrase itself carries cinematic weight, the kind of dramatic language that suggests deliberate conspiracy rather than confused communication.
Singh’s defense team, led by Andre Jumabhoy, argues that the previous judge “ignored crucial pieces of evidence” that would exonerate their client on this point. The implication is clear: without solid evidence that Singh uttered these specific words, the entire prosecution case becomes significantly weaker. It transforms from a story of deliberate cover-up to one of potential misunderstanding or, at worst, poor judgment.
The evidential battle here likely revolves around whose account is more credible—Khan’s testimony about what Singh told her, or Singh’s denial. This becomes particularly complex given that Singh’s lawyers attempted to paint Khan as a “habitual liar” during cross-examination. If Khan’s credibility is successfully undermined, the foundation of the prosecution’s case begins to crumble.
“I will not judge you”
The second statement presents an even more nuanced interpretive challenge. Both sides agree Singh said these words—but what did he mean?
The prosecution’s reading is damning: Singh was signaling to Khan that he wouldn’t judge her for continuing with the lie. In this interpretation, the statement represents tacit approval, a green light disguised as neutrality. It’s the kind of plausibly deniable language that leaders might use when they want to encourage behavior without explicit endorsement—maintaining just enough distance to claim innocence if things go wrong.
The defense offers a radically different interpretation: Singh meant he wouldn’t judge Khan if she took ownership and responsibility for her lie. In this reading, far from encouraging deception, Singh was actually opening the door for Khan to come clean, assuring her that he would support her if she chose the path of honesty.
This interpretive divide exemplifies how language can be weaponized in legal proceedings. The same four words, spoken in a private conversation, can be twisted to support diametrically opposed narratives. Context becomes everything—Singh’s tone, the surrounding conversation, his previous and subsequent actions, and the relationship dynamics between a party leader and a subordinate MP.
The Legal Chess Game
Justice Steven Chong now faces the unenviable task of determining which interpretation aligns with reality. Unlike the original trial judge, he must evaluate whether there was sufficient evidence to convict “beyond reasonable doubt”—the highest standard in criminal law.
The defense strategy appears to hinge on creating reasonable doubt about both statements. They don’t necessarily need to prove Singh’s innocence definitively; they merely need to demonstrate that the prosecution’s interpretation isn’t the only plausible one, or that crucial evidence was overlooked.
This is where the “ignored evidence” argument becomes critical. What evidence did the original judge fail to properly consider? Could there be contemporaneous records, witness testimonies, or documentary evidence that contradicts the prosecution’s timeline or interpretation? The defense’s confidence in highlighting this suggests they believe they have substantive grounds for overturning the conviction.
The prosecution, led by Deputy Attorney-General Goh Yihan, must defend not only their original case but also the thoroughness of the previous judicial analysis. They need to show that even considering all evidence, the only reasonable conclusion is that Singh deliberately lied to the Committee of Privileges.
The Political Earthquake’s Aftershocks
A Leader Still Standing—For Now
The most remarkable aspect of this saga is that Singh not only survived politically but thrived. His Aljunied GRC team secured nearly 60% of votes in the May 2025 general election, a resounding endorsement that exceeded their previous performance. This creates a peculiar situation: a convicted politician who remains immensely popular with his constituents.
This popularity reveals something profound about Singapore’s evolving political culture. Traditionally, any whiff of impropriety would be fatal to a political career. The ruling People’s Action Party (PAP) has built its dominance partly on an unblemished reputation for integrity. Yet here we have an opposition leader, convicted of lying to Parliament, who not only kept his seat but increased his majority.
Several factors explain this apparent paradox:
1. The “Persecution Narrative”: Many WP supporters view Singh’s prosecution as politically motivated—an attempt by the establishment to neutralize an increasingly effective opposition. Whether or not this perception is fair, it has rallied the party’s base and attracted sympathy votes.
2. Relative Severity: While lying to Parliament is serious, Singh’s actions (as characterized by the prosecution) involved trying to protect a subordinate, not personal corruption or abuse of power. Some voters may view this as misguided loyalty rather than venality.
3. Opposition Scarcity: Singapore’s opposition bench is thin. Voters in Aljunied may have calculated that losing Singh would be more damaging to democratic competition than keeping a flawed but experienced leader.
4. Trust in the Appeal Process: The decision to retain Singh may also reflect confidence that the appeal will succeed, with voters effectively saying “let’s wait for the final verdict.”
Parliamentary Privileges and Democratic Functioning
Prime Minister Lawrence Wong’s decision to maintain Singh’s status as Leader of the Opposition, with its attendant privileges and resources, demonstrates pragmatic governance. Stripping these privileges would have been legally permissible but politically inflammatory, potentially appearing vindictive and undermining parliamentary democracy.
This decision ensures that the opposition can function effectively even as its leader fights legal battles—a necessary condition for healthy democratic competition. It also places the government on the moral high ground, appearing fair-minded rather than punitive.
However, this situation creates awkwardness. Singapore’s Parliament operates on conventions of honor and integrity. Having a Leader of the Opposition with a conviction for lying to Parliament—even while appealing—tests these conventions. If the conviction is ultimately upheld, it would set a troubling precedent about acceptable standards for parliamentary leaders.
Broader Implications for Singapore’s Democracy
The Precedent Problem
This case will establish important precedents regardless of outcome:
If the conviction is upheld: It sends a strong signal that parliamentary privilege is sacred and that lying to parliamentary committees carries serious consequences. It would reinforce Singapore’s zero-tolerance approach to political dishonesty. However, it would also raise questions about whether the standard is applied evenly across the political spectrum.
If Singh is acquitted: It would suggest that the original case was overreached, potentially emboldening other politicians to take more aggressive stances when questioned. It might also validate concerns about whether political prosecutions can be too aggressive. Most significantly, it would resurrect Singh’s political career completely, potentially making him stronger than before.
The Opposition’s Dilemma
The Workers’ Party finds itself in a bind. It has stood firmly behind Singh, as loyalty demands. But this loyalty is not without cost. The party’s brand has been tarnished by association with dishonesty—first Khan’s lie, then allegations against Singh.
For a party trying to position itself as a credible alternative government, ethical questions are existential threats. The WP has worked for decades to shed the image of opposition parties as mere protestors and establish themselves as competent potential governors. Scandals undermine this carefully constructed image.
If Singh loses his appeal, the WP faces a devastating choice: stand by their leader and risk further reputational damage, or force him out and appear disloyal while losing their most electorally successful politician. If he wins, the vindication could actually strengthen the party’s narrative of fighting against establishment persecution.
Trust in Institutions
This case also tests public trust in Singapore’s judicial and political institutions. The prosecution has faced scrutiny over whether it was politically motivated. The courts must demonstrate that they can adjudicate fairly in highly politicized cases. Parliament must show that its privileges and procedures serve democracy rather than partisan interests.
Singapore’s reputation for clean, effective governance depends on maintaining high standards while also ensuring fairness and proportionality. This case walks a tightrope between these imperatives.
The Human Element
Lost sometimes in the legal and political analysis is the human story. Singh, who has served as an MP for 14 years, has built his career on being accessible and principled. His supporters describe him as someone who genuinely cares about constituents and fights for the underdog.
The prosecution’s case paints him as someone who prioritized political expediency over truth—protecting Khan and his party’s reputation rather than immediately correcting the parliamentary record. Even if one believes Singh made serious errors, there’s a difference between malicious corruption and misguided loyalty to a struggling younger colleague.
Khan herself has disappeared from public life after her resignation, her promising political career destroyed by her original lie. Singh’s legal team’s strategy of attacking her credibility, while legally sound, adds another layer of tragedy to her story.
What Happens Next?
Justice Chong will deliberate before delivering his judgment. Unlike the original trial, this is an appeal based on points of law and evidentiary interpretation rather than a retrial of facts. His decision will likely take weeks or months.
If acquitted: Singh would likely see a surge in political capital. The narrative of surviving politically-motivated prosecution would be powerful. He could position himself as tested and vindicated, potentially making him an even more formidable opposition leader going into future elections.
If conviction upheld: Singh would need to decide whether to pursue further appeals or accept his fate. His political career wouldn’t necessarily end immediately—he can technically continue as an MP—but his moral authority would be severely compromised. The WP would face an agonizing decision about his leadership.
Partial outcomes: The court could also uphold one charge but acquit on another, or reduce the sentence. Such nuanced outcomes would leave everyone in ambiguous territory.
The Larger Question: What Kind of Politics Does Singapore Want?
Ultimately, this case asks Singaporeans to reflect on what standards they expect from their political leaders and how those standards should be enforced.
Singapore has long prided itself on having unusually high standards for political conduct—a source of national pride that distinguishes it from more corrupt neighbors. The Pritam Singh case tests whether these standards apply equally to all parties and whether they leave room for human error versus deliberate wrongdoing.
The case also highlights tensions inherent in Singapore’s political system: a dominant party that has governed for six decades, a opposition still finding its footing, and a population increasingly demanding both accountability from the government and viability from the opposition.
As Justice Chong deliberates, he holds in his hands not just one man’s fate, but a piece of Singapore’s democratic future. His interpretation of two contested sentences will ripple through the nation’s politics for years to come, influencing how future politicians behave, how voters judge their leaders, and how Singapore balances its commitment to integrity with its need for robust democratic competition.
The words “take it to the grave” and “I will not judge you” have become more than phrases in a private conversation—they are now central texts in an ongoing debate about truth, power, and accountability in Singapore’s maturing democracy.
As this appeal continues, one thing is certain: regardless of the legal outcome, the political landscape has already been altered. The only question is whether the change will be temporary turbulence or a fundamental reshaping of Singapore’s opposition politics.
The Gravity of Words
Part One: The Meeting
The rain drummed against the windows of the hawker center, creating a curtain of sound that made private conversation possible even in this most public of spaces. Pritam stirred his kopi, watching the milk swirl into darkness, thinking about how quickly clarity could dissolve into murkiness.
Across from him, Raeesah looked smaller than usual, hunched over her untouched teh tarik. Her phone lay face-down on the scratched melamine table between them, as if she couldn’t bear to see the messages still flooding in.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice barely audible above the rain and the clatter of dishes. “It’s gotten so big. The story—it’s everywhere now.”
Pritam had known this conversation was coming since the moment her words in Parliament had gone viral. The story about accompanying a sexual assault victim to a police station, the dismissive treatment by officers—it had resonated, sparked outrage, been shared thousands of times. It had also, he now knew, never happened.
“Tell me again,” he said quietly. “From the beginning.”
She did. The embellishment that had grown from a story she’d heard second-hand. The heat of the parliamentary moment. The way the lie had felt necessary to make her point land with impact. And then, the terrible realization afterward that she’d crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.
“I wanted to help,” she whispered. “The issue is real, even if my story wasn’t. Women do face these problems. I just… I thought one story wouldn’t matter if it helped change things.”
Pritam closed his eyes briefly. He’d been in politics long enough to understand the temptation she’d described—the desire to make the abstract concrete, to give bureaucratic failures a human face. But he also understood something else: that in Singapore’s political ecosystem, such fabrications weren’t just wrong, they were existential threats. The opposition lived or died by its credibility.
“What do you want me to tell you?” he asked.
“Tell me what to do.”
“I can’t tell you what to do, Raeesah. This is your decision.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Everyone’s going to hate me.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But they’ll hate you more if the truth comes out another way. And it will come out. It always does.”
She nodded, not meeting his eyes. “If I come clean now… the party will suffer. You’ll suffer. After everything you’ve built in Aljunied—”
“Let me worry about the party,” he interrupted. “You worry about doing the right thing.”
“Which is what? Exactly?”
He leaned back, the plastic chair creaking under him. Through the rain-streaked window, he could see the HDB blocks rising into the grey sky, thousands of homes stacked upon each other, millions of lives intersecting in this small island nation where everyone knew everyone, where secrets had a half-life measured in hours.
“I will not judge you,” he said finally. “Whatever you decide to do. If you want to take responsibility, own up to what happened—I’ll support you through that. If you need time to think, take it. But this is your truth to tell or not tell. Not mine.”
“But you’re my leader—”
“And as your leader, I’m telling you that I can’t make this choice for you. Nobody can.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara. “What would you do?”
“That’s not a fair question.”
“Please.”
He was quiet for a long moment, watching a family at the next table—parents and two children, laughing at something on someone’s phone, completely absorbed in their small world of joy. When had he last laughed like that?
“I would tell the truth,” he said. “Because I’ve learned that lies have weight. They seem light when you first pick them up, but they grow heavier every day you carry them. Eventually, they become so heavy they crush everything around them.”
She nodded slowly. Then: “Can I think about it? Just… can I have some time?”
“Of course.” He stood, leaving money for both their drinks. “Raeesah—whatever happens, you’re not alone in this. The party will support you. I’ll support you. But you have to be the one to decide.”
As he walked away, umbrella blooming open against the rain, he didn’t know that these words—meant as comfort, as leadership, as compassion—would be dissected, analyzed, weaponized. He didn’t know that “I will not judge you” would become four of the most contested words in Singapore’s recent political history.
He didn’t know that three months later, when Raeesah finally told her truth to Parliament, when the storm really broke, someone would claim he had said something else entirely: “Take it to the grave.”
He didn’t know because he hadn’t said it. But in the strange alchemy of memory and motivation, of pressure and perception, those words would be attributed to him anyway.
Part Two: The Committee
December 2021. The Committee of Privileges hearing room felt deliberately austere, designed to intimidate. Pritam sat in the witness chair, aware of every camera angle, every recorder, every note being taken.
“Mr. Singh,” the chairperson said, “what exactly did you tell Ms. Khan when she confessed her lie to you?”
He’d prepared for this. He’d known it was coming. But the gap between preparation and performance was a chasm.
“I told her that she needed to take responsibility for what she’d said,” he replied carefully. “That this was her decision to make about how to move forward.”
“Did you tell her to maintain the lie?”
“No.”
“Did you discourage her from coming clean?”
“No. I told her I would support her whatever she decided.”
“Support her in continuing to lie to Parliament?”
“Support her in taking responsibility—”
“Yes or no, Mr. Singh. Did you tell her you would not judge her if she continued with the falsehood?”
And here it was. The question that would define everything.
“I said I would not judge her,” he answered. “But I meant—”
“Yes or no suffices, Mr. Singh.”
“Context matters—”
“Did you or did you not say ‘I will not judge you’?”
“I did, but—”
“Thank you. And did you or did you not tell Ms. Khan to ‘take it to the grave’?”
“No. I never said that.”
“Ms. Khan testified that you did.”
“Then Ms. Khan is mistaken or lying.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. He had just called his former colleague a liar under oath. There was no walking this back.
Part Three: The Verdict
February 2025. The trial had been exhausting—thirteen days of testimony, cross-examination, legal arguments. Pritam had watched his life dissected, his words analyzed, his character questioned.
The judge’s verdict was clinical in its precision: guilty on two counts of lying to the Committee of Privileges. The interpretation was stark—”I will not judge you” meant he had given permission for the lie to continue. His denial of “take it to the grave” was not believed.
Standing outside the State Courts, facing cameras and questions, Pritam felt the weight of those words—the ones he’d said and the ones he hadn’t—pressing down on him like physical objects.
“I will appeal,” he said simply.
His phone buzzed constantly. Messages of support from constituents. Strategy discussions from party leaders. Media requests. And one message that stood out, from an unknown number:
“I’m sorry. I was scared. I didn’t mean for it to go this far. —R”
He deleted it without responding.
Part Four: The Campaign
May 2025. Walking through the Aljunied markets during the campaign, Pritam was surprised by the warmth of the reception. He’d expected anger, disappointment, maybe pity. Instead, he found something more complex: solidarity mixed with skepticism, support tinged with doubt, loyalty qualified by concern.
“Mr. Singh! Mr. Singh!” An elderly woman grabbed his arm. “You’re a good man. They’re trying to bring you down because you’re strong.”
A younger voter was more circumspect: “I still believe in you, but I need to know—what really happened?”
A hawker making char kway teow looked up from his wok: “Politics is dirty business lah. PAP or WP, all also the same. But at least you fight for us.”
Standing on stage at a rally, looking out at thousands of faces, Pritam felt the paradox of his position. He was a convicted liar who people trusted. A disgraced politician with a sixty percent approval rating. A leader whose words had been twisted but whose actions—fourteen years of service, of advocacy, of showing up—spoke louder.
“I made mistakes,” he told the crowd. “I could have handled things better. But I never told anyone to lie. I never chose politics over truth. And I will continue to fight for you, to serve you, whether or not I wear this conviction like a scarlet letter.”
The cheers were deafening.
Part Five: The Appeal
November 2025. Back in the courtroom, this time the Supreme Court, Pritam watched his lawyer make the arguments he’d refined over months.
“Your Honor, this case hinges on the interpretation of ambiguous statements. ‘I will not judge you’—what does this phrase actually mean? The prosecution claims it’s permission to lie. But consider the context: a leader speaking to a distressed subordinate, encouraging her to take ownership of her actions. Isn’t it more plausible that he meant ‘I won’t judge you for coming clean’?”
Justice Chong listened impassively, occasionally making notes.
“And the phrase ‘take it to the grave’—this dramatic statement appears nowhere in Mr. Singh’s character or history. The only source is Ms. Khan, whose credibility is, to put it charitably, questionable. She lied to Parliament. She lied about the circumstances. Why would we believe her about this?”
During recess, Pritam stood in the hallway, watching lawyers and clerks hurry past, each absorbed in their own dramas. He thought about how we’re all unreliable narrators of our own lives, how memory bends under pressure, how truth becomes slippery when filtered through fear and ambition.
Had he been naive in his conversation with Raeesah? Absolutely. Had he been too indirect, too gentle, when clarity and firmness were needed? Probably. Had he failed as a leader? Maybe.
But had he told her to lie? Had he conspired to deceive Parliament?
No.
He held onto that certainty like a lifeline.
Part Six: The Weight
That evening, Pritam stood on the balcony of his flat, looking out over Aljunied. Lights in thousands of windows, each representing a life, a family, a story. These were the people who had trusted him with their votes even after his conviction. These were the people whose housing issues he’d helped with, whose complaints he’d brought to Parliament, whose children he’d watched grow up at Meet-the-People sessions.
His phone rang. His wife.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Hard to tell. Chong’s a poker face.”
“How are you?”
He considered the question. How was he? Exhausted. Vindicated and vilified in equal measure. Certain of his innocence yet aware of his failures. Hopeful yet prepared for disappointment.
“I’m alright,” he said.
“Liar,” she said gently, with love.
He laughed, the irony not lost on him. “Yeah. I’m a terrible liar. Which is why I’m in this mess.”
After he hung up, he thought about words again—how they could heal or wound, clarify or confuse, build or destroy. He thought about how “take it to the grave” and “I will not judge you” had become hieroglyphics in Singapore’s political archaeology, ancient texts subject to endless interpretation.
He thought about Raeesah, wherever she was now, living with her own words, her own choices.
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