Role-playing a Prisoner Without the Conviction: Within the Dungeons of Singapore's State Courts
30 September 2026
I am writing about something uncomfortable and embarrassing, but sometimes the most uncomfortable stories are precisely the ones that need to be told. I have already written to the State Courts to address the fundamental issues of hygiene and humane treatment of Persons in Custody, because what happened to me should never be standard practice.
Here is a more detailed account of that ugly episode.
On 28 September, I was detained at the State Courts’ holding centre while waiting for my bail to be processed. Yes, I’ve been charged under the Public Order Act, but that’s another story for another day.
After being formally charged, I was shackled and handcuffed and brought to the holding centre at the basement of the State Courts, where I was detained for almost 4 hours. The holding centre was like a mini-jail, with cells lining both sides of a long corridor. There were about 12 cells. I noticed a sign inscribed with “PIC” on the wall, so calling those detained there “PICs” or Persons in Custody, would be fitting. PICs who were charged but had no one to bail them out would be brought to remand prison by the end of the same day. Those PICs were given white t-shirts and brown pants with the word “prisoner” (or “prison”) printed on them. It felt incongruous to be labelled a “prisoner” when none of us had been found guilty of the charges yet.
Within my cell, at some point after lunch, my stomach began to ache. Nature was calling. It takes swallowing a bit of pride to put what happened next into words, but I will try.
I asked the wardens for toilet paper. That was when the humiliation started.
I was initially given two “rations”. By one ration, I mean four small squares of very thin single-layer, poor-quality toilet paper folded thrice into a narrow rectangle. I asked for more and was given another two rectangles. I wanted even more, but the warden flatly refused to give me anymore.
I didn’t think it would be enough, but I had no choice. I sat down on the cold metallic toilet, hoping for the best. The four small rectangles proved completely inadequate.
When I was first placed in a cell in the holding centre, I was issued a paper cup. This was the cup that I was expected to use for drinking water. I had no choice but to use this cup to fill up water for my toilet needs. I habitually use a bidet spray and toilet paper for optimal cleaning. The small cup of water was simply not enough.
With no more water or toilet paper by my side, I was trapped in a dilemma. The water dispenser was on the other side of the cell and I could not pull up my jeans to get there since my jeans would then be soiled. I happened to be in the cell with the widest frontage, of about 5.5 metres. The upper half across the front of the cell was composed of glass panels, while the lower half consisted of vertical metal grilles. In effect, the cell was completely exposed to anyone walking by, as well as scrutinised by someone in a control room through the CCTV camera overhead. The toilet was tucked in one corner of the cell, while the water dispenser sat at the opposite end, roughly 5 metres apart.
I couldn’t sit on the toilet forever. I got up, shuffled across the full length of the cell floor with my jeans pulled a quarter of the way down, upper torso leaned forward, derriere pushed back to prevent any accidental dripping onto my jeans, knees bent slightly so that the pants won’t fall off completely. I must have been quite a spectacle to watch. Fortunately for me, the PIC in the cell opposite mine sat with her face turned downward, far too absorbed in her own sorrows to notice. She had no bailor and was already in prisoner clothes with the word “prisoner” stamped on the brown pants. However, I was aware that the CCTV camera was recording my every clumsy move.
Back to the toilet seat, I fiddled around to find a way to clean myself with just water. I contemplated using my hand, but then there was no soap afterwards to wash my hands. I gave up the clumsy water fetching because the cell was far too visible from all angles, and a tiny drinking cup could never hold enough water or provide the flow needed for proper washing anyway.
I sat on the toilet to wait as I called out for more toilet paper. I lost track of how many times I called out to the wardens. They ignored my pleas, insisting that I had already been given enough. I had to be more explicit: “There is still shit around the butt hole.” It was not a sentence I particularly wanted to say. But, pun intended, when shit hits the fan, and wardens are actively preventing me from taking care of my basic hygiene, modesty will not get me anywhere.
At some point I felt so uncomfortable that the mess might inadvertently soil my underwear and jeans, that I removed them entirely, and hung them over the waist-high modesty wall that partially shielded the toilet.
I sat and waited. The only possible solution was to plead with the wardens.
At some point, I decided to use the call button located next to the cell entrance since my verbal pleas were going nowhere. To reach the button, I had to shuffle forward without my pants, leaning my upper torso forward to ensure that my t-shirt hem would fall lower over my bare hips. I covered up as best I could. All the while, I was conscious of the CCTV camera in the cell. Knowing that someone could be watching me in such a vulnerable and undignified state made the process extremely degrading.
One warden eventually came over and instructed me not to press the call button. She was clearly annoyed. She gave me two rectangles of the toilet paper and then grudgingly another two after I protested the insufficiency. Even that was not enough. The papers dissolve into pulp when they came in contact with water.
I continued to ask for more toilet paper, but the warden simply ignored me as she walked up and down the corridor to attend to other matters. Her conduct felt like a power play. I recalled that I was “in custody” and this was probably how things operated in the State’s lockup facilities.
So I sat on the toilet seat to wait, hoping someone would still come to save me from the indignity of sitting there half-naked. I could hear the wardens talking about me and discussing how many rations of toilet paper they had already given me. I was at cell no. 2, close to the office, painfully within earshot of their subtle micro-aggressions.
I wish I could tell the wardens that this was certainly not an area where Singapore’s much-vaunted one-size-fits-all policy worked. It was absurd to apply a rigid ration to something as variable and basic as human bodily needs, especially when dignity and basic hygiene were at stake. And in my case, the rations provided were manifestly inadequate.
After waiting for some time, I concluded that no one was going to come over to hand me any more toilet paper. I had to change my approach. I had been humiliated enough. It was time to turn up the volume.
I walked to the front of the cell and knocked firmly against the metallic parts repeatedly to get their attention. I raised my voice. I demanded more toilet paper. I wanted to escalate the matter to a higher authority.
All the while, I remained mindful of leaning a little forward so that my t-shirt could cover my hips. I had long given up hope of complete modesty with the CCTV camera scrutinising every move from my back.
After some time, a warden with a gentle demeanour came to deal with me. I told her firmly I was going to raise this matter to higher-ups. This was a matter of basic hygiene. She was more conciliatory in her approach than the previous wardens and told me she would give me more toilet paper, before handing me 5 rectangles.
With those, I was finally able to complete my cleaning routine. Shortly after, a more senior warden, wearing three stripes on her shoulder, came by to offer me a few higher-quality paper napkins, which I accepted appreciatively for later use.
Yet, I felt no sense of triumph that the ordeal had finally ended.
I had been degraded badly. And I knew that if I had not threatened to report them, the bullying would have continued. In fact, I was deeply disturbed by the whole ordeal because I had just witnessed what the normative practices were like in these dungeons buried under Singapore’s courts of law. It was cold irony that the violations of my basic rights to humane treatment, decency and hygiene occurred within an institution that was supposed to be at its core, the emanation of justice and fairness.
I fought back, but what about those who dared not, who were too frail, or who simply did not know what to do. Take, for example, the PIC across my cell. She was a foreigner. Her friends were foreigners. No one could bail her out. Her family back home did not know she was being detained. Would she have dared to speak up or demand fair treatment if she was mistreated? I doubt it.
Looking back at the end of the day, after recollecting myself, I couldn’t help marvelling at the absurd, Kafkaesque ordeal, exposed by something as basic and ordinary as toilet paper.
It was plainly stupid and surreal.
In fact, the entire setup in the holding centre was rife with unnecessary waste.
In the afternoon, the centre conducted a muster check on the PICs, despite this being a temporary day facility where people came and went in random sequence within hours. No one stayed overnight, nor was anyone kept in a single cell. I was sent to three different cells during my four-hour detention in the holding centre, handcuffed every single time I was moved. To add to the absurdity, this superfluous ceremonial routine had to be performed by a full-fledged police officer, while the regular wardens were auxiliary police officers.
Also in the afternoon, as the anxiety of prolonged waiting set in, I decided to practise yoga to relieve the tension. The wardens came by three separate times to stop me or clarify which poses I was allowed to do. The first time, a warden ordered me to stop what I had just been doing. She ordered me to sit on the ground, claiming I could only sit or walk, but not “exercise.” Really? The last warden came over to point out which poses were forbidden and which were allowed.
It was clear to me that they were watching me from the control room through their electronic Panopticon. They had almost certainly witnessed the entire humiliating toilet routine earlier.
Presumed innocent until proven guilty. I was legally NOT GUILTY. I had been placed in the holding centre merely to wait for my bail bond to be processed, before being released. Yet, I had already been subjected to a lineup of institutional indignities and treated like a convicted prisoner. In court, those charged alongside me were handcuffed and shackled in turn. At the holding centre, we were body-searched before being led to our cells in handcuffs, which were only removed once we were locked inside. During the body search, there was a moment of panic as I wondered whether the warden, after inspecting my mouth (obviously for hidden items) and running her fingers around and beneath my bra band, was going to conduct a cavity search.
On top of the body search came the toilet humiliation and micro-aggression I have detailed. Not every warden was cruel; some were fair, even kind. But others clearly misused their authority. There appeared to be no clear protocol governing matters such as the hygiene standards of Persons in Custody. It was left to individual wardens to make arbitrary decisions.
What happened to me is a fundamental matter of public health and human dignity. Even if subtle bullying is tacitly permitted to “break” Persons in Custody – much like breaking a horse – there must be boundaries. In my case, those limits were breached. I salute those who came before me, who were subjected to these same indignities, yet stoically pulled up their pants and carried on, even while physically soiled and deeply degraded in body and spirit.
Note:
(1) As this is written from memory under a very stressful moment, I may have jumbled the sequence of events and fumbled minor details. But I stand by the primary account. I welcome the Court to review the CCTV footage in a respectful manner to verify my account.
(2) I have written to the State Courts to raise the issue of basic hygiene and the dignity of persons who are under their custody.
I am writing about something uncomfortable and embarrassing, but sometimes the most uncomfortable stories are precisely the ones that need to be told. I have already written to the State Courts to address the fundamental issues of hygiene and humane treatment of Persons in Custody, because what happened to me should never be standard practice.
Here is a more detailed account of that ugly episode.
On 28 September, I was detained at the State Courts’ holding centre while waiting for my bail to be processed. Yes, I’ve been charged under the Public Order Act, but that’s another story for another day.
After being formally charged, I was shackled and handcuffed and brought to the holding centre at the basement of the State Courts, where I was detained for almost 4 hours. The holding centre was like a mini-jail, with cells lining both sides of a long corridor. There were about 12 cells. I noticed a sign inscribed with “PIC” on the wall, so calling those detained there “PICs” or Persons in Custody, would be fitting. PICs who were charged but had no one to bail them out would be brought to remand prison by the end of the same day. Those PICs were given white t-shirts and brown pants with the word “prisoner” (or “prison”) printed on them. It felt incongruous to be labelled a “prisoner” when none of us had been found guilty of the charges yet.
Within my cell, at some point after lunch, my stomach began to ache. Nature was calling. It takes swallowing a bit of pride to put what happened next into words, but I will try.
I asked the wardens for toilet paper. That was when the humiliation started.
I was initially given two “rations”. By one ration, I mean four small squares of very thin single-layer, poor-quality toilet paper folded thrice into a narrow rectangle. I asked for more and was given another two rectangles. I wanted even more, but the warden flatly refused to give me anymore.
I didn’t think it would be enough, but I had no choice. I sat down on the cold metallic toilet, hoping for the best. The four small rectangles proved completely inadequate.
When I was first placed in a cell in the holding centre, I was issued a paper cup. This was the cup that I was expected to use for drinking water. I had no choice but to use this cup to fill up water for my toilet needs. I habitually use a bidet spray and toilet paper for optimal cleaning. The small cup of water was simply not enough.
With no more water or toilet paper by my side, I was trapped in a dilemma. The water dispenser was on the other side of the cell and I could not pull up my jeans to get there since my jeans would then be soiled. I happened to be in the cell with the widest frontage, of about 5.5 metres. The upper half across the front of the cell was composed of glass panels, while the lower half consisted of vertical metal grilles. In effect, the cell was completely exposed to anyone walking by, as well as scrutinised by someone in a control room through the CCTV camera overhead. The toilet was tucked in one corner of the cell, while the water dispenser sat at the opposite end, roughly 5 metres apart.
I couldn’t sit on the toilet forever. I got up, shuffled across the full length of the cell floor with my jeans pulled a quarter of the way down, upper torso leaned forward, derriere pushed back to prevent any accidental dripping onto my jeans, knees bent slightly so that the pants won’t fall off completely. I must have been quite a spectacle to watch. Fortunately for me, the PIC in the cell opposite mine sat with her face turned downward, far too absorbed in her own sorrows to notice. She had no bailor and was already in prisoner clothes with the word “prisoner” stamped on the brown pants. However, I was aware that the CCTV camera was recording my every clumsy move.
Back to the toilet seat, I fiddled around to find a way to clean myself with just water. I contemplated using my hand, but then there was no soap afterwards to wash my hands. I gave up the clumsy water fetching because the cell was far too visible from all angles, and a tiny drinking cup could never hold enough water or provide the flow needed for proper washing anyway.
I sat on the toilet to wait as I called out for more toilet paper. I lost track of how many times I called out to the wardens. They ignored my pleas, insisting that I had already been given enough. I had to be more explicit: “There is still shit around the butt hole.” It was not a sentence I particularly wanted to say. But, pun intended, when shit hits the fan, and wardens are actively preventing me from taking care of my basic hygiene, modesty will not get me anywhere.
At some point I felt so uncomfortable that the mess might inadvertently soil my underwear and jeans, that I removed them entirely, and hung them over the waist-high modesty wall that partially shielded the toilet.
I sat and waited. The only possible solution was to plead with the wardens.
At some point, I decided to use the call button located next to the cell entrance since my verbal pleas were going nowhere. To reach the button, I had to shuffle forward without my pants, leaning my upper torso forward to ensure that my t-shirt hem would fall lower over my bare hips. I covered up as best I could. All the while, I was conscious of the CCTV camera in the cell. Knowing that someone could be watching me in such a vulnerable and undignified state made the process extremely degrading.
One warden eventually came over and instructed me not to press the call button. She was clearly annoyed. She gave me two rectangles of the toilet paper and then grudgingly another two after I protested the insufficiency. Even that was not enough. The papers dissolve into pulp when they came in contact with water.
I continued to ask for more toilet paper, but the warden simply ignored me as she walked up and down the corridor to attend to other matters. Her conduct felt like a power play. I recalled that I was “in custody” and this was probably how things operated in the State’s lockup facilities.
So I sat on the toilet seat to wait, hoping someone would still come to save me from the indignity of sitting there half-naked. I could hear the wardens talking about me and discussing how many rations of toilet paper they had already given me. I was at cell no. 2, close to the office, painfully within earshot of their subtle micro-aggressions.
I wish I could tell the wardens that this was certainly not an area where Singapore’s much-vaunted one-size-fits-all policy worked. It was absurd to apply a rigid ration to something as variable and basic as human bodily needs, especially when dignity and basic hygiene were at stake. And in my case, the rations provided were manifestly inadequate.
After waiting for some time, I concluded that no one was going to come over to hand me any more toilet paper. I had to change my approach. I had been humiliated enough. It was time to turn up the volume.
I walked to the front of the cell and knocked firmly against the metallic parts repeatedly to get their attention. I raised my voice. I demanded more toilet paper. I wanted to escalate the matter to a higher authority.
All the while, I remained mindful of leaning a little forward so that my t-shirt could cover my hips. I had long given up hope of complete modesty with the CCTV camera scrutinising every move from my back.
After some time, a warden with a gentle demeanour came to deal with me. I told her firmly I was going to raise this matter to higher-ups. This was a matter of basic hygiene. She was more conciliatory in her approach than the previous wardens and told me she would give me more toilet paper, before handing me 5 rectangles.
With those, I was finally able to complete my cleaning routine. Shortly after, a more senior warden, wearing three stripes on her shoulder, came by to offer me a few higher-quality paper napkins, which I accepted appreciatively for later use.
Yet, I felt no sense of triumph that the ordeal had finally ended.
I had been degraded badly. And I knew that if I had not threatened to report them, the bullying would have continued. In fact, I was deeply disturbed by the whole ordeal because I had just witnessed what the normative practices were like in these dungeons buried under Singapore’s courts of law. It was cold irony that the violations of my basic rights to humane treatment, decency and hygiene occurred within an institution that was supposed to be at its core, the emanation of justice and fairness.
I fought back, but what about those who dared not, who were too frail, or who simply did not know what to do. Take, for example, the PIC across my cell. She was a foreigner. Her friends were foreigners. No one could bail her out. Her family back home did not know she was being detained. Would she have dared to speak up or demand fair treatment if she was mistreated? I doubt it.
* * *
It was plainly stupid and surreal.
In fact, the entire setup in the holding centre was rife with unnecessary waste.
In the afternoon, the centre conducted a muster check on the PICs, despite this being a temporary day facility where people came and went in random sequence within hours. No one stayed overnight, nor was anyone kept in a single cell. I was sent to three different cells during my four-hour detention in the holding centre, handcuffed every single time I was moved. To add to the absurdity, this superfluous ceremonial routine had to be performed by a full-fledged police officer, while the regular wardens were auxiliary police officers.
* * *
It was clear to me that they were watching me from the control room through their electronic Panopticon. They had almost certainly witnessed the entire humiliating toilet routine earlier.
* * *
On top of the body search came the toilet humiliation and micro-aggression I have detailed. Not every warden was cruel; some were fair, even kind. But others clearly misused their authority. There appeared to be no clear protocol governing matters such as the hygiene standards of Persons in Custody. It was left to individual wardens to make arbitrary decisions.
What happened to me is a fundamental matter of public health and human dignity. Even if subtle bullying is tacitly permitted to “break” Persons in Custody – much like breaking a horse – there must be boundaries. In my case, those limits were breached. I salute those who came before me, who were subjected to these same indignities, yet stoically pulled up their pants and carried on, even while physically soiled and deeply degraded in body and spirit.
Note:
(1) As this is written from memory under a very stressful moment, I may have jumbled the sequence of events and fumbled minor details. But I stand by the primary account. I welcome the Court to review the CCTV footage in a respectful manner to verify my account.
(2) I have written to the State Courts to raise the issue of basic hygiene and the dignity of persons who are under their custody.
.jpg) |
One ration – four small squares of very thin single-layer, poor-quality toilet paper folded thrice into a narrow rectangle |
