Remembering Siew Teng

The Siew Teng I know

I did not meet Siew Teng in a dramatic moment. There was no declaration, no turning point, no clear beginning. Our conversations unfolded the way many friendships do—through fragments: messages about birds, about food, about meeting times and missed connections, about money that mattered more than it should have, about ideas that refused to settle.

At first glance, the exchanges look ordinary. We talked about wildlife—kingfishers appearing near his flat, a toad that returned as if it belonged there, civet cats wandering the edges of human habitation. These were not small talk. They were signs. Siew Teng noticed the world carefully. Even when life pressed in on him, he retained a naturalist’s eye: alert, curious, quietly reverent.

Interwoven with these moments of observation were practical struggles. Work was irregular, sometimes just a few hours. Money arrived sporadically, some time through the kindness of others. He asked for help not theatrically, but plainly—bank transfers, phone bills, transport. When help came, he expressed gratitude. When it did not, he accepted it without complaint.

We met often in public, modest places—hawker centres, temples, shopping malls. Holland Village, Chinatown, Buddha Tooth Relic Temple. These were not chosen for symbolism, but they became symbolic nonetheless. They were places of shelter, of pause, of temporary belonging. We walked. We ate. Sometimes we simply waited.

Siew Teng was a man of ideas—sometimes too many, sometimes too sharp. He read widely and shared constantly: articles, videos, social media posts, alternative explanations for global events. He was deeply suspicious of authority, convinced that truth was being concealed, that narratives were imposed rather than discovered. I did not always agree with him. Often, I pushed back gently, urging restraint, balance, compassion. Our disagreements never hardened into conflict. They hovered, unresolved, as many real differences do.

What struck me most was not what he believed, but how alone he often felt in believing it.

There was a persistent sense of time running out. Court cases dragged on. Outcomes remained uncertain. He spoke matter-of-factly about prison, about institutionalisation, about losing his possessions while confined. These were not threats or laments. They were possibilities he had already rehearsed inwardly. He lived as someone preparing for constraint, even while still walking free.

And yet—this is what must be remembered—he did not retreat entirely into despair. He walked long distances to save money. He sought free meals at temples. He offered to do small jobs for strangers: sweeping leaves, running errands, helping where he could. He still asked others how they were doing. He still noticed the sky.

Near the end of our exchanges, he spoke of writing—of collecting his life stories, of setting them down. Others had suggested it before, he said. When I mentioned it again, it stayed with him. That matters. It means he still imagined a future in which his voice would be read, not merely endured.

Remembering Siew Teng is not about agreeing with him, nor about turning him into a symbol. It is about acknowledging a human being who moved through our orderly, efficient city with difficulty, friction, and dignity. A man who fell through the gaps not because he was careless, but because the gaps exist.

If there is a lesson here, it is not ideological. It is human.

Pay attention to the quiet lives.
Remember that clarity and confusion can coexist in the same mind.

This is how I would remeber Siew Teng.