Ask No Questions and We Tell You No Lies

It’s no surprise to some of us who’ve seen the Streisand Effect play out before that the defamation case brought by two Singapore ministers against Bloomberg has drawn more public scrutiny than the original article ever did, especially when that article may have otherwise sat quietly behind a paywall if a POFMA had not been issued.

But the article below isn’t about that case or the courts. It’s about a different kind of scrutiny, the kind that happens within institutions rather than in public, and how it can shape the equity of justice and, in some circumstances, erode public trust.

When politicians make declarations like “We do not tell lies, and we do not tell lies about not telling lies. We speak the truth to you and to everyone,” as made by a former Singapore Prime Minister, it sounds so definitive on the surface. But the moment you start asking how that claim is actually tested, who verifies it, who is allowed to question it, and what happens when they do, the certainty starts to look a lot less solid. We’re told institutions exist to ensure integrity, and in theory they do. Take the Corrupt Practices Investigation Bureau. We’re assured it has to report somewhere, that it “cannot report to God.” But when its Director ultimately reports to the Prime Minister, it’s not unreasonable to ask how independent that process really is in practice, particularly if allegations were to involve members of the same party, government-linked entities, or even those seen as opponents of the party. That’s not an accusation. It’s just a question. But it’s the kind of question that goes to the heart of how trust is built or eroded.

Because let’s get real here, people don’t suddenly become virtuous when they take an oath, qualify as lawyers, or put on a white uniform and enter politics. Systems don’t eliminate human nature; they rely on it behaving. And we’ve already seen how that assumption can fall apart, most recently in the case involving former minister S. Iswaran. At the end of the day, humans are flawed and human nature doesn’t just disappear because a system says it should.

Hence, without scrutiny whether from within Singapore or overseas, “truth” isn’t really established at all. It becomes something that is asserted, protected, and repeated, until the real issue is no longer whether it is true, but whether anyone is prepared to question it. And the problem isn’t limited to outright lies. Not disclosing something material or allowing a version of events to stand when key facts are missing, can be just as misleading. The outcome is the same, people are left with an incomplete picture, and decisions are made on that basis.

In the corporate world, directors can be held liable not just for what they say, but for what they choose not to disclose, precisely because both can mislead. Which is why the issue isn’t just whether someone lies, but whether the system is set up to even detect it, whether the right questions are asked, whether the right people are willing to ask them, and whether those questions are allowed to go where they lead, no matter which side of the political divide someone sits. Because accepting human frailty is one thing. Accepting the failure of those meant to guard against it is another.

Lawyers, accountants, bankers, auditors, they are not just participants in any system, they are its safeguards. They are expected to question, to challenge, and to step in when something doesn’t add up. If they instead facilitate, rationalise, or simply choose not to see, the issue is no longer just the wrongdoing itself. It’s the enabling of it.

And beyond them sit the regulators and legal bodies, whose response to the covering up of whistleblower submissions should raise an even more uncomfortable question, not just who did wrong, but who chose not to act, and why. Because when those tasked with oversight fail to step in, or worse, are seen to look away, it’s no longer just about individual conduct, it’s about the system that allows it. If they too fail to act, then who, exactly, is left to watch the watchmen?

Afterall, anyone can say, “we do not tell lies…”

In a perfect world, that might even be enough. There would be no need for compliance, auditors, police or courts, because everyone would simply tell the truth. But we don’t live in that world, and we never have. Which is why scrutiny exists in the first place. And where scrutiny is uneven, what is presented as truth goes unchallenged for some, while others are subjected to an entirely different standard, justice isn’t equitable, it’s selective.

A man loses his position over an alleged lie to a Committee of Privileges. That is the version we are told, and on its face, it is not wrong. I use the word alleged deliberately, because I am one of those who remain unconvinced of Pritam Singh's guilt.

But even putting that aside, the story we are given feels incomplete.

Because before there was a lie, there was a process. And before there was a process, there was a decision to start one. Without the Committee of Privileges, there would have been no case to answer, no testimony to examine, and ultimately no conviction to arrive at. The question isn’t just whether Pritam Singh lied. It’s why his case has been pursued so aggressively, and why others are not subjected to the same scrutiny?

Let's not forget that justice doesn’t begin in the courtroom, it begins at the point where someone decides what is worth investigating and what is not. And if that decision is not applied evenly, especially where conflicts exist, then everything that follows carries that imbalance with it. A conviction may still be legally sound, but it does not settle the deeper question of whether the system itself is operating fairly. Because if scrutiny is reserved for some, while others are left untouched, then the question is who decides what lies remain hidden and which ones are exposed?

But concerns about unequal scrutiny are not new in Singapore. A number of high-profile matters have entered public discussion in recent years, from the Ridout Road issue to allegations of abuse of power raised by Lee Hsien Yang, from the Keppel bribery case to questions surrounding the conduct of the Speaker of Parliament. The point here is not to assert wrongdoing in any individual case. The point is whether the same level of independent, transparent inquiry is applied across all cases, regardless of who is involved.

Lee Hsien Yang raised serious allegations regarding potential abuses of power at the highest levels of Singapore’s leadership. Yet there was no Committee of Inquiry, the Prime Minister was exonerated in a Parliament dominated by his own party, where dissent is rarely, if ever, heard.

Lee Hsien Yang once stated that “it is wrong to lie to Parliament and it is wrong to lie under oath,” pointing to what he described as contradictions between statements made in Parliament and statutory declarations submitted to a ministerial committee. That naturally raises a more uncomfortable question: if that’s the standard, why wasn’t it tested? Why was no Committee of Privileges convened? And why was that alleged inconsistency never pursued with the same vigour as the lie that Pritam Singh was said to have told?

Similarly, the Ridout saga raised questions, yet what followed were defamation suits and POFMA orders, not an independent public inquiry. When those overseeing the process are a colleague, and the Director of the CPIB reports up the same chain of power, independence becomes less a matter of fact and more a matter of faith.

Consider the case where the former Prime Minister was made aware of an affair between the Parliamentary Speaker and a member of the ruling party. The Speaker, entrusted to uphold independence, remained in position while the relationship continued. No investigation was undertaken into that decision taken. Even though a lie and a non-disclosure take different paths, one could argue they land in the same place: a Parliament operating on incomplete information. But the leader of Singapore's opposition party, Pritam Singh, was the only one who faced a Committee of Privileges.

In the Keppel bribery case, six individuals were named by overseas authorities as being implicated. Despite the company’s government-linked status, no prosecution was pursued in Singapore, and no independent inquiry was conducted to assess whether that decision was justified.

Pritam Singh is not alone in facing intense scrutiny. Lee Suet Fern, Li Shengwu, Terry Xu, Parti Liyani and others have experienced similar. Which raises the real question: not whether scrutiny exists, but who decides where it is directed, and where it is not.

If my own efforts to obtain an investigation to uncover the truth have appeared futile over the past decade, it's not because the issues lack substance, but because I believe pursuing them would raise difficult questions, about regulatory inaction, institutional accountability, and whose interests are ultimately being protected if there has been a cover-up. This should not be mistaken for an absence of dirt beneath the rug, but rather a reflection that no one is willing to lift it.

How would we ever know if anyone has lied to regulators, to investors, to financial institutions, to legal bodies, if whistleblowers are paid for silence, if matters are quietly covered up, and if no one is willing to lift the rug and ask the questions? Because that’s really what this comes down to. Not just what may or may not have happened, but whether the system is even capable of uncovering it when it matters.

When a whistleblower raises concerns involving a client of politically connected law firm Allen & Gledhill, a client with an influential relationship with a government-linked bank like DBS Bank, and is then offered money to hand over evidence and provide letters of retraction of the serious concerns raised, it is difficult not to see that as something that warrants closer scrutiny.

When a department within DBS Bank, Legal, Compliance and Secretariat, takes close to eight weeks to decline authentication of two questionable DBS letters that had been used in a broader scheme to defraud, despite clear red flags raised by a lawyer, a time-sensitive transaction, and interests aligned in favour of their client, it does more than raise eyebrows. It raises serious questions about process, urgency, and priorities, and about what, or who, those priorities ultimately serve.

And when a senior figure from within that same DBS department directs that those same letters be excluded from a whistleblower submission, and even that the bank itself be kept unaware of that exclusion, the issue starts to shift beyond the documents themselves and toward the integrity of the process surrounding them.

Add to that a forensic document examiner’s view that at least one of the letters lacked credibility, and correspondence from an independent third party to both current and former DBS CEOs raising concerns about the independence of the whistleblowing framework, and it becomes increasingly difficult to dismiss these as isolated issues.

These are, at the very least, serious red flags.

Yet instead of those concerns being independently examined, the focus appears to turn toward a whistleblower, who is then publicly characterised as having acted with malice.

Which brings us back to the real question. Not just what happened, but why situations like this are not subjected to the level of independent scrutiny one might expect, particularly when they touch on institutions and relationships at the upper levels. Because without scrutiny, we are not dealing with established truth. We are dealing with a version of events that is left to stand, not because it has been tested, but because no one is prepared to test it. And if that is the case, then “truth” becomes less about what is, and more about what we are expected to accept.

How many more “truths” might unravel if the same level of scrutiny that was applied to Pritam Singh, Lee Suet Fern and others were applied across the board? I look at cases like Parti Liyani, investigated, charged, prosecuted and initially convicted on evidence that later proved flimsy and false. And events which led to Lee Hsien Yang and Lee Suet Fern being forced into exile, then I look at my own situation. Black and white evidence pointing to suppression, inducements, and a deliberate effort to bury allegations, where conflicts exist in the upper echelons, yet not even the threshold for an investigation is met.

When there’s no appetite to even look, the message isn’t subtle: there’s no need to dig, no need for scrutiny, no need for challenge, because “we do not tell lies… we speak the truth to you and to everyone.” Just accept what you’re told, while those in control decide who gets questioned, and who is never even looked at.

Maybe I'm naive, and this is business as usual in Singapore. But if it is, it sits uneasily against the constant refrain of zero tolerance for corruption, no cover-ups allowed, and no one being above the law. Because without independent scrutiny, what remains is not proof of truth, it is simply an unchallenged version of events. And until more people find the courage to speak up, “truth” becomes whatever those in control decide it is. Ask no questions, and that is the only truth you are allowed to have. Then no one should be surprised when trust gives way to doubt.

Part of what compelled me to write this article was the courage demonstrated by two whistleblowers, a father and son from within Singapore's legal fraternity. Their LinkedIn posts stayed with me, not because they were provocative, but because they were honest in a way that is rarely seen. Sharad Selvam Ramachandra wrote, “No one is above the law. That is why I blew the whistle on my grandmother.”

Krishna Ramachandra spoke about those who have been “in the jaws of the machinery”

""Ultimately, the only meaningful tales are told by those who have been in the jaws of the machinery — experience a crucible moment — and now dedicate their life to ensure these injustices do not happen to others. That is the ill-advised courage I have in calling out the bad actors."  

And calling out bad actors

"The time has come for lawyers to call out the bad actors in their fraternity. Professional courtesies should not trump one's professional and ethical responsibility. Self-policing professional bodies are not always effective enough—there has to be a separate body, not dissimilar to an internal affairs bureau, that does not suffer from the sycophancy already built into professions such as law, accountancy, and medicine."

I couldn’t agree more with his sentiments. We have to keep telling our stories, and more people need to be willing to call out bad actors, even if they are lawyers, bankers or politicians, because these things don’t just disappear. They get buried. And once they’re buried, they don’t magically resolve themselves, they sit there, like a minefield, waiting for the next person to walk straight into the same problem.

The moment people become part of the machinery that covers things up, or worse, start framing those who speak up as the problem, the focus has already shifted. It’s no longer about what happened, it’s about controlling the narrative around it. And that’s where things start to rot.

Given my own experience over the past decade, I’m not asking whether we’re heading in that direction, I believe some of us already know the answer.