The recent acquittal of three Singaporean women charged with allegedly organising a peaceful procession in solidarity with Palestine has cast sharp light on the sweeping powers enshrined in Singapore’s Public Order Act (POA) 2009 — and the dangers such laws pose to basic civil liberties.
On 21 October 2025, District Judge John Ng acquitted Mossammad Sobikun Nahar, Siti Amirah Mohamed Asrori, and Annamalai Kokila Parvathi, who had been charged under the POA for allegedly organising a procession on 2 February 2024 to publicise the Palestinian cause. The walk began outside Plaza Singapura and ended at the rear gate of the Istana.
The court accepted that the walk had taken place and that the women had played a role in planning or participating in it, but found that the prosecution failed to prove they knew — or ought to have known — the area was prohibited.
The judge observed that the route contained no visible signage or markings, and similar past events had occurred there without incident. Even an officer from the Istana Security Unit testified that the event was peaceful and required no intervention.
The court’s decision was met with audible relief from the public gallery. Yet the mere fact that the case was brought to trial at all — over a peaceful, symbolic walk — reveals the breadth and bluntness of Singapore’s current public order regime.
Prior to 2009, laws governing public assemblies were housed under section 5 of the Miscellaneous Offences (Public Order and Nuisance) Act (MOA).
This section permitted the government to regulate both assemblies and processions, with criminal penalties for unauthorised acts. But its scope was narrower, its definitions clearer, and its enforcement tied to actual public inconvenience, disorder, or obstruction — not mere symbolism or visibility.
The Pre-2009 Landscape
In fact, until amendments in 1989, the MOA did not even require permits by default. The Commissioner of Police could issue general rules regulating assemblies — including permit requirements — but these had to be gazetted to carry force.
There was no standing prohibition on peaceful gatherings. The 1989 amendments introduced a permit regime, but even then, regulation was based on published rules and localised restrictions — not a presumption that all expression must be licensed.
In practice, after 1989, assemblies were generally subject to permit requirements under ministerial rules made pursuant to Section 5.
At the time, parliamentary assurances were given to allay concerns that the new powers would be abused.
Then–Senior Minister of State for Home Affairs, Dr Lee Boon Yang, assured Parliament that “no one is prevented from having assemblies,” and that “all [one] needs to do is to apply for a permit and it will be duly processed.”
That assurance helped legitimise the regime — but over time, it was quietly abandoned. In practice today, permits for political or symbolic protest are rarely, if ever, granted.
Even non-confrontational or recreational events have not been spared. In 2007, the Workers’ Party’s application to hold a cycling event at East Coast Park — to mark its 50th anniversary — was rejected by the police.
The stated reason was that outdoor events by political parties carried a “greater potential for a breach of the peace, public disorder and unruly behaviour.”
Then–Senior Minister of State for Law and Home Affairs, Associate Professor Ho Peng Kee, argued that even if organisers behaved responsibly, members of the public might confront them and “debate” their views, potentially attracting a crowd and creating disruption.
As an alternative, he suggested that the party “cycle round the stadium” or hold celebrations indoors.
Such discretionary enforcement reveals the deep elasticity of the permit regime. Peaceful gatherings, however benign in form or intent, could be prohibited based on who organised them — not whether they posed any actual threat to public order.
“Processions”, such as walks or marches, could also be regulated — but only if a ministerial order or police restriction had been specifically issued for that location or event. In the absence of such an order, a small and peaceful procession that caused no obstruction or nuisance was not an offence under the MOA.
In the case involving Sobikun, Amirah, and Annamalai, the walk from Plaza Singapura to the Istana — peaceful, non-obstructive, and involving a relatively small group — would almost certainly not have triggered prosecution under the MOA.
That framework changed drastically with the introduction of the POA in 2009, brought by then Minister for Law and Second Minister for Home Affairs, K Shanmugam.
The POA: Where One Is a Crowd
The stated aim of the POA was to “maintain public order and safety” in light of evolving security concerns, but in effect it collapsed the earlier distinction between obstruction and expression, making even small, peaceful demonstrations subject to criminal sanction unless pre-approved.
The Act not only repealed section 5 of the MOA but replaced it with a comprehensive and punitive legal infrastructure, granting sweeping new powers to the police and ministry.
Among the most controversial changes was the redefinition of key terms — most notably “public assembly” and “procession” — to include acts involving even a single person.
Under Section 2 of the POA, a “public assembly” now includes any gathering intended to publicise a cause, express support or opposition to a view, or commemorate an event — even if carried out by a single individual.
Similarly, a “procession” is defined as a group — or even a lone person — moving along a route to publicise a cause, commemorate an event, or demonstrate support or opposition.
Under this framework, a person holding a sign, walking silently in symbolic protest, or even carrying an umbrella with a political motif can be deemed to be participating in a regulated act — unless they first obtain a police permit.
The result is a legal framework that no longer distinguishes between a protest, a march, or a solitary symbolic act. In the Palestine case, even umbrellas painted with watermelons — a peaceful symbol of solidarity — became subject to prosecutorial scrutiny.
From Right to Permission: The Quiet Erosion of Civic Freedom
Yet the irony runs deeper. The very political party that introduced these laws — the People’s Action Party (PAP) — once flourished under the more permissive regime of the MOA.
In the 1950s and 60s, student groups, labour unions, and political actors allied to the PAP regularly organised public demonstrations, rallies, and marches. These activities were lawful as long as they did not cause disruption or public nuisance.
After coming to power, however, the PAP gradually closed the same civic space it had once used to rise to prominence.
The POA marked the legal culmination of that reversal. Rather than being a response to public demand, the Act was a top-down imposition.
There was no groundswell of concern from citizens demanding tighter laws on assembly. Nor did the government provide compelling evidence that the existing legal framework was failing.
Minister Shanmugam justified the POA by citing major international events such as the APEC Summit and IMF–World Bank meetings, yet these were exceptional and securitised occasions, which hardly justified the creation of permanent and far-reaching changes to the regulation of everyday civic life.
Workers’ Party MP Sylvia Lim, then serving as NCMP, challenged the need for such an expansive law during the April 2009 parliamentary debate: “Do we need to rush into passing such a law which could have wide-ranging implications for civil liberties, on the pretext of needing to manage international events?”
In response, Minister Shanmugam asserted: “We are not trying to eliminate public expression. We are trying to regulate it in a way that maintains order and ensures safety… The framework allows for responsible expression, while ensuring that public spaces are not misused.”
Despite such assurances, the Act passed — with support from PAP MPs and the sole objections from Mr Siew Kum Hong (then NMP), Ms Sylvia Lim, and Mr Low Thia Khiang (then MP for Hougang).
And now, 15 years on, the concerns raised during that debate have proven prophetic. The case of Sobikun, Amirah, and Annamalai shows that even individuals who actively try to stay within the bounds of the law can still find themselves on trial.
As Judge Ng remarked: “It was clear from the evidence that the three were trying their level best not to run afoul of the law.”
Let us remember that Singapore’s laws on public assembly did not evolve in response to a societal problem. The POA was passed simply because the PAP government wanted it passed, enabled by the blank cheque voters handed it through electoral dominance.
The law on assembly and expression has evolved to eliminate unregulated civic expression altogether — a deliberate recalibration of power designed to suppress public dissent, not manage disorder.
What was once a right — protected under Article 14 of the Constitution, which guarantees Singaporeans the right “to assemble peaceably and without arms” — is now a regulated privilege, subject to administrative discretion and vague enforcement boundaries.
The idea that the current law “balances rights and order” is difficult to defend when peaceful participants face criminal trials for simply walking on public paths. The absence of clear signage, the cooperation of the crowd, and the peaceful nature of the event did not prevent criminal charges.
The Public Order Act is not just a piece of legislation. It is a political sophistry — one that treats unregulated expression as a threat, rather than as a necessary part of democratic society. It presumes illegitimacy, and places the burden on citizens to seek permission not to disrupt, but to express.
If Singapore is to remain a society governed by the rule of law, it must recognise that laws must not only be obeyed — they must be justified. When obedience becomes divorced from legitimacy, faith in the system itself begins to erode.
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