Singapore Tonight - Tue 17 Jun 2025
47:53 Min
Singapore Tonight
From business to politics, health to technology, we bring you up-to-date with the latest news on Singapore and analyze how these events may affect you tomorrow.
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CNA
33 minutes ago
- CNA
From mass-market to artisanal: These makers are reclaiming the soul of Korean soju
For decades, soju has been known as Korea's cheapest drink; ubiquitous, industrial and almost invisible in its character. Walk down any street in Seoul and you'll find it: rows of bright green bottles stacked in restaurant fridges, recycled in alley bins, or clinking in baskets under metal tables. At just under S$2 (US$1.55) per bottle (an average 360ml bottle at a major supermarket costs about 1,400 won or S$1.30), soju represents one of the most consumed spirits in the world. Jinro Soju has topped Drinks International's annual list of best-selling global spirits for years, notching up sales of 65 million 9-litre cases in the 2013 list. Soju, Korea's national drink, is everywhere, and yet, in the ways that matter, it is often unseen. For most, soju is a social lubricant, a symbol of release – not a beverage that is typically savoured. It's functional and affordable, taken in shots rather than sips. The clear drink is often miscategorised – not quite a wine nor spirit, as its cheapness has come to define it. But historically, soju was seasonal and ceremonial, brewed slowly with three ingredients – rice, water and nuruk (traditional Korean fermentation starter) – and aged with intention, and rooted in place. So, behind the fluorescent hum of the convenience store lies a quieter story, one that predates mass production and marketing budgets. In kitchens, cellars and purpose-built distilleries, a handful of makers are returning to soju's origins. Not by rebranding it for a luxury audience or mimicking Western spirits, but by refusing to let its true form die out. Among them are two very different producers – Sulsaem, a modern distillery committed to reviving traditional methods, and Samhae Soju, the sole inheritor of a spirit once revered in the Joseon Dynasty. Their paths are distinct – one born from contemporary rediscovery, the other from legacy – but their philosophies are surprisingly aligned. In a market driven by speed, scale and sameness, both brands have chosen to anchor their work in memory, method and meaning. THE RETURN TO INTENTION The soju that most people know today is not just the result of technological progress – it's a product of war, policy and cultural adaptation. In the aftermath of the Korean War, South Korea faced devastating food shortages. To protect rice supplies, the government banned the use of rice in alcohol production from 1965 to 1999. In its place, the manufacturers turned to imported starches like tapioca or sweet potatoes, which were fermented into high-proof ethanol and then diluted with water to create what is now known as diluted soju. This new form of soju was designed for mass consumption. By the 1970s, as Korea began its rapid industrialisation, soju became the drink of the salaryman, the factory worker, the exhausted patriarch returning home after 14-hour shifts. It was consumed at pochangmachas (outdoor street food stalls) and barbecue joints, always in a hurry, always in rounds. Rather than a celebration of craft or terroir, soju became synonymous with a ritual of stress release, a coping mechanism embedded in the rhythm of modern South Korean life. By the time the rice ban was lifted in 1999, diluted soju had already become entrenched as the default. The spirit's identity had shifted entirely – from artisanal to anonymous, from mindful to mechanical. The result? A national palate shaped by efficiency, trained to forget that soju, too, once carried the complexity of place and time. 'We grew up thinking that's what soju is,' said Shin Ji-yeon, general manager at Sulsaem.'But it's not. There's so much more behind Korean alcohol.' Instead of viewing soju as a product to modernise, Sulsaem saw it as something to protect. Their process begins with 100 per cent Korean rice, traditional nuruk and slow fermentation, before double-distilling the resulting cheongju and ageing it in onggi (porous clay jars used in Korean fermentation for centuries). 'We aim to create well-crafted soju using traditional methods and Korean ingredients,' Shin said. Unlike industrial soju, which prioritises speed and scale, their goal is to highlight the depth and character of the original spirit, and to restore soju's integrity. Where Sulsaem is building something new from old foundations, Samhae Soju is continuing something that never fully disappeared. At its helm is Kim Hyun-jong, a quiet and charismatic brewer who didn't set out to become the steward of Seoul's historic spirit – he simply didn't walk away from it. 'I came across the original master by chance,' Kim told me in his small tasting room in Seoul. 'He was a designated intangible cultural heritage holder in Seoul, a sojujang. He taught me the way of Samhaeju – and when he passed, I carried it on.' Samhaeju, the aged rice wine from which Samhae Soju is distilled, dates back to the Joseon Dynasty. Its name – literally 'three hae' – refers to its unique brewing schedule: fermentation begins on the first hae-il (pig day in the lunar zodiac), with two subsequent batches added on later hae days, spaced 12 to 36 days apart. This triple-fermentation method, known as samyangju, yields a complex yakju that is then aged at low temperatures before being distilled into a clean, high-proof soju with a soft, round mouthfeel and lingering finish. The process takes months and the yields are low. The ingredients – Korean rice, aged nuruk, and well water – are carefully selected. 'What we are doing is extracting the essence of a refined rice wine,' Kim said. Kim is one of the only known distillers still producing Samhae Soju in accordance with the original lunar brewing calendar. 'I didn't revive this – I've simply continued what my teacher passed on,' he explained. FERMENTATION AS PHILOSOPHY Despite their different settings, both Sulsaem and Samhae share a common scepticism of modern fermentation. Kim is particularly pointed: 'Industrial alcohol uses one strain of yeast. But Korean nuruk is different. It contains hundreds of microbial strains, and each one has a different role in fermentation, depending on temperature, humidity, and how the nuruk is made. It's something you can't replicate in an industrial setting. It's like bread these days – it just rises but doesn't really ferment.' Kim continued: 'Modern soju looks right, but it lacks the depth that comes from proper fermentation.' At Sulsaem, this fermentation manifests in a meticulous attention to ingredient sourcing. Only Korean rice is used. No flavourings, no shortcuts. 'Even the water matters,' Shin said. 'We think about how every element – rice, nuruk, water – shapes the soju's character.' Both distilleries face the same question: If traditionally distilled soju is so much better, why don't more people drink it? The answer is, of course, economics. Commercial soju is cheap because it is made quickly and at scale, often using imported starches, industrial ethanol, and additives. A bottle of green-label soju might retail for less than S$2. Traditional soju, by contrast, takes months to produce, uses only domestic ingredients, and is often made by hand. A single bottle might cost anywhere from S$12 to S$70 or more. Even among curious drinkers, few know how to appreciate the layers these distillers work so hard to preserve, much less pay for them. Kim is direct about the challenge. Traditional soju, he explained, is made with domestic Korean rice and aged through a long fermentation and distillation process – all of which drives up the cost. In contrast, commercial soju is made from imported starches or ethanol and produced at scale. 'It's hard to compare the value,' he said. While many consumers baulk at the higher price of traditional bottles, Kim believes it reflects the ingredients, time, and care that go into each batch. Still, he acknowledges that for those accustomed to neutral, diluted soju, traditional styles can be a shock to the palate, often described as too unfamiliar or too strong. Shin echoes the same sentiments. 'The most difficult thing is the public perception that soju should be cheap, and that most consumers don't understand the difference between diluted and distilled soju.' Will traditionally distilled soju ever replace its commercial cousin? Unlikely. But that's not the point. What matters is that it continues to exist – and that people know the difference. The hope, shared by both Kim and Shin, is modest but clear – that soju, like sake or Scotch, can one day be tasted with intention, discussed with nuance, and valued not for how fast it disappears, but for how long it lingers.
CNA
an hour ago
- CNA
Commentary: The myth of the suppressed Chinese consumer
NEW YORK: The great half-truth about China is that its economy consumes too little and invests too much. Over-investment is a real problem, but underconsumption is not. So the mounting calls on the country to 'rebalance' by encouraging more consumer spending are misguided. In the standard telling, China set out to become a manufacturing power in the 1980s and has since suppressed spending by consumers, so it could pour their savings into building ports and factories. But the suppressed consumer is a myth. So far this century, in real terms, private consumer spending in China has grown more than 8 per cent a year, faster than in any other economy – by far. Over the past few years, consumer spending growth has slowed in most countries, due to ageing populations and falling real incomes, and it has fallen in China as well to 5 per cent a year. But that is still higher than in any other major economy except Turkey, where consumption was boosted by a credit boom and refugee inflows. The myth rests in good part on the consumption share of China's gross domestic product, which is just 40 per cent – well below the global norm. But the reason for this anomaly is not that consumption has grown slowly, it is that the other big component of GDP, investment – in infrastructure, real estate, export industries – has grown even faster, averaging 10 per cent a year in this century. That pace, too, is the fastest for any major economy by a significant margin. Corrected for this long-term pattern of over-investment, the consumption share of China's GDP would be around 55 per cent, closer to normal. Consumer spending has also grown much faster in China than in established and newer Asian manufacturing powers, from Japan and South Korea to Indonesia and Malaysia. And when the original miracle economies were reaching the level of development in China today, they too saw sharp slowdowns in consumer spending growth. Yet, somehow, calls to free the Chinese consumer persist alongside mounting evidence of the steady growth in their spending. It's difficult to spot symptoms of repression among the Chinese shoppers in luxury stores from Shanghai to Paris. Drill down into consumer spending, and growth looks to be weakening mainly for services, not goods. But this, too, is partly illusory. If one factors in services provided by China's government at little or no charge, including healthcare and education, consumption rises significantly as a share of GDP. CONSUMPTION VS INVESTMENT Investment, on the other hand, is clearly excessive at 40 per cent of GDP and roughly equal to consumption. In a typical economy, investment is lower than consumption as a share of GDP but more important to the economic cycle. Consumers can't stop spending on necessities in a downturn but businesses can stop investing, at least for a while. This binge has been extreme. Only 10 countries have ever seen investment peak above 40 per cent of GDP, briefly. At that level, so much capital flows to unnecessary projects that the binge tends to reverse quickly, slowing growth. China, uniquely, has managed by debt engineering to keep investment above that for two decades now. Relentless over-investment is fuelling tension with trading partners, since China ends up exporting a lot of its excess production and breeding dysfunction at home. Over time, such binges tend to divert capital into less productive targets such as real estate – which helps explain China's debt-soaked property market today. The outsiders urging China to focus instead on the consumer can cite genuine 'structural' obstacles to their spending. Internal migration controls block many rural Chinese from moving to higher paying urban jobs. Meagre pensions compel many workers to save for retirement rather than spend. The weakening real estate market and other negative 'wealth effects' further discourage spending. China's leaders seem to be heeding some of this advice. An 'action plan' announced in March promised to 'vigorously boost consumption', but so far the action has been light on structural reform and heavy on subsidies for purchases of goods such as home appliances – which have only a passing effect. Consumers rushing to buy rice cookers now won't be buying them in coming years. China's consumer spending has been growing at a world-beating pace and doesn't have much room to accelerate, particularly not when many households are deep in debt. That debt has tripled in the past 15 years to over 60 per cent of GDP, among the highest in emerging markets and close to that in the heavily consumer-driven US economy. The country can't solve the real problems caused by over-investment – from geopolitical tensions to dysfunction at home – by attacking the phantom problem of underconsumption. The crux of the imbalance is that the state has been pushing too much investment for too long in the name of hitting its inflated growth target, now set at 5 per cent. The answer is not to shift the focus of state meddling to boosting consumption. It is to accept that China is weighed down by a shrinking population, declining productivity and a huge debt load. It has a real potential growth rate closer to 2.5 per cent than 5 per cent. And as growth slows to a more realistic pace, consumption will naturally expand as a share of the economy.
CNA
an hour ago
- CNA
‘Won't get annoyed, won't snap': Indonesians tap AI for judgement-free emotional support, but risks abound
JAKARTA: Ahead of an extended family gathering, Nirmala (not her real name) found herself unusually anxious. The reason: Small talk that could spiral into interrogation. 'Sometimes I just don't know how to answer questions from relatives, and that stresses me out,' said Nirmala, 39, who asked to remain anonymous. In contrast, the generative artificial intelligence platform ChatGPT has been nothing but a source of comfort ever since Nirmala began using it as a sounding board last October. 'It's not that I don't have anyone to talk to,' Nirmala told CNA Indonesia. 'But when I bring up things that people think are trivial, I'm often told I'm being dramatic. So I talk to AI instead – at least it listens without throwing judgement.' Like Nirmala, overseas student Ila (not her real name) has turned to AI-driven chatbots for advice. Ila, 35, first turned to ChatGPT in April 2023 when she was preparing to move abroad for further studies. She later began also using Chinese AI platform DeepSeek. At first, Ila – who also requested anonymity – used the platforms for practical information about university life and daily routines in her host country, which she declined to reveal. 'Before leaving for school, I had a ton of questions about life abroad, especially since I had to bring my children with me. AI became one of the ways I could gain perspective, aside from talking directly with people who'd already been through it,' she said. The platforms' replies put her at such ease that in October last year, she began sharing her personal issues with the chatbots. NO JUDGEMENT FROM CHATBOTS AI chatbots have taken the world by storm in recent years and more people are turning to them for mental health issues. Indonesia is no different. An online survey in April by branding and data firm Snapcart found that 6 per cent of 3,611 respondents there are using AI "as a friend to talk to and share feelings with". Nearly six in 10 (58 per cent) of respondents who gave this answer said they would sometimes consider AI as a replacement for psychologists. People in Southeast Asia's largest economy are not necessarily turning to AI chatbots because they lack human friends, but because AI is available 24/7 and "listens" without judgement, users and observers told CNA Indonesia. The tool, they said, is especially handy in a country with a relatively low number of psychologists. According to the Indonesian Clinical Psychologists Association, the country has 4,004 certified clinical psychologists, of whom 3,084 are actively practising. With a population of about 280 million people, this translates to about 1.43 certified clinical psychologists per 100,000 population. In comparison, neighbouring Singapore has 9.7 psychologists per 100,000 population – a ratio that is already lower than in other Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development nations. The potential benefits of using AI in mental health are clear, experts said, even as risks and the need for regulation exist. The rise of AI as a trusted outlet for emotional expression is closely tied to people's increasingly digital lives, said clinical psychologist Catarina Asthi Dwi Jayanti from Santosha Mental Health Centre in Bandung. AI conversations can feel more intuitive for those who grew up with texting and screens, she said, adding that at least a dozen clients have told her they have consulted AI. "For some people, writing is a way to organise their thoughts. AI provides that space, without the fear of being judged," she said. Conversing with ChatGPT is a safe way of rehearsing her thoughts before opening up to somebody close to her, Nirmala said. "Honestly it doesn't feel like I'm talking to a machine. It feels like a conversation with someone who gets me," she said. AI chatbots offer accessibility, anonymity, and speed, said telecommunications expert Heru Sutadi, executive director of the Indonesia ICT Institute. AI platforms, he said, are "programmed to be neutral and non-critical". "That's why users often feel more accepted, even if the responses aren't always deeply insightful," he said. Unlike a session with a psychologist, "you can access AI 24/7, often at little to no cost", Heru said. "Users can share as much as they want without the pressure of social expectations. And best of all, AI replies instantly." In Indonesia, an in-person session with a private psychologist can cost upwards of 350,000 rupiah (US$21.50). Popular telemedicine platform Halodoc offers psychiatrist consultations at prices starting from 70,000 rupiah, while mental health app Riliv offers online sessions with a psychologist at prices starting from 50,000 rupiah. Another advantage of a chatbot, said Ila, is that it "won't get annoyed, won't snap, won't have feelings about me bombarding it with a dozen questions". "That's not the case when you're talking to a real person," she added. As such, AI can serve as a "first safe zone" before someone seeks professional help, especially when dealing with topics such as sexuality, religion, trauma or family conflict, said Catarina. "The anonymity of the internet, and the comfort that comes with it, allows young people to open up without the fear of shame or social stigma," she explained. Some of her clients, she added, turned to AI because they "felt free to share without worrying what others, including psychologists, might think of them, especially if they feared being labelled as strange or overly emotional." RISKS AND IMPACT ON REAL-LIFE RELATIONSHIPS But mental health professionals are just as wary of the risks posed by AI chatbots, citing issues such as privacy, regulation of the technology and their impact on users' real-life interactions with others. The machines can offer a false sense of comfort, Heru said. "The perceived empathy and safety can be misleading. Users might think AI is capable of human warmth when, in reality, it's just an algorithm mimicking patterns." Another major concern is data privacy, Heru said. Conversations with AI are stored on company servers and if cyber breaches occur, "sensitive data could be leaked, misused for targeted advertising, profiling, or even sold to third parties". For its part, Open AI, ChatGPT's parent company, has said: "We do not actively collect personal information to train our models, do not use public internet data to profile individuals, target advertising, or sell user data." Indonesia released a National Strategy for Artificial Intelligence in 2020, but the document is non-binding. AI is currently governed loosely under the 2008 Electronic Information and Transactions (ITE) Law and the 2022 Personal Data Protection Law, both of which touch on AI but lack specificity. A Code of Ethics for AI was issued by the Ministry of Communication and Digital Affairs in 2023, but its guidelines remain vague. In January this year, Communication and Digital Affairs Minister Meutya Hafid announced comprehensive AI regulations would be rolled out. Studies are also emerging on the impact of chatbot usage on users' real-life social interactions. In a 2024 study involving 496 users of the chatbot Replika, researchers from China found that greater use of AI chatbots, and satisfaction with them, could negatively affect a person's real-life interpersonal skills and relationships. Child and adolescent clinical psychologist Lydia Agnes Gultom from Klinik Utama dr. Indrajana said AI-based relationships are inherently one-sided. Such interactions could hinder people's abilities to empathise, resolve conflicts, assert themselves, negotiate or collaborate, she said. "In the long run, this reduces exposure to genuine social interaction," said Agnes. In other countries, experts have highlighted the need for guardrails on the use of AI chatbots for mental health. As these platforms tend to align with and reinforce users' views, they may fail to challenge dangerous beliefs and could potentially drive vulnerable individuals to self-harm, the American Psychological Association told US regulators earlier this year. Safety features introduced by some companies, such as disclaimers that the chatbots are not "real people", are also inadequate, the experts said. AI can complement the work of mental health professionals, experts told CNA Indonesia. It can offer initial emotional support and a space for humans to share and explore their feelings with the right prompts, said Catarina of Santosha Mental Health Centre. But when it comes to diagnosis and grasping the complexity of human emotions, AI still falls short, she said. "It lacks interview (skills), observation and a battery of assessment tools." AI cannot provide proper intervention in emergency situations such as suicide ideation, panic attacks or abuse, said Agnes of Klinik Utama dr. Indrajana, a healthcare clinic in Jakarta. Therapeutic relationships rooted in trust, empathy, and nonverbal communication can only happen between humans, she added.
