From print to podcasts, The Straits Times has been a 180-year ritual
It is 1849 and Moby-Dick is yet to be published and construction of the Eiffel Tower is yet to begin. The modern zipper has not been invented and neither has colour photography. The Washington Post does not exist nor does The Wall Street Journal. But The Straits Times is already four years old and in its pages you can find all manner of things.
Bayonets for sale. Horsehair petticoats. Punkas. Gunpowder. If you're not interested in such items, you can read dispatches from New York, the long, formal letters written to the editor, or the birth of a child under the quaint subhead of Domestic Occurrence.
The first newspapers arrived around the 17th century and in time most lands had their version of a Dispatch, Courier, Inquirer, Examiner, Advertiser, Tribune, Gazette, Herald, Chronicle and Post. We are simply The Straits Times. In 1845, the year Elizabeth Barrett received her first love letter from a fellow poet named Robert Browning – 'I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett', it began – we started our own relationship with this city.
The playwright Arthur Miller, author of Death Of A Salesman, said that 'a good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself'. Very quietly, of course. This conversation began at dawn, for the newspaper is a city's start to the day, though now, in its digital form, it is an all-day companion.
The newspaper, often trying to be all things to all people, glues us all. As people unwrap – or click on – the pages, they are in fact wrapping themselves in the city. The writer Alain de Botton put it neatly: 'To look at the paper is to raise a seashell to one's ear and to be overwhelmed by the roar of humanity.'
Families snatch sections and fold themselves into corners of rooms. News is opened, Sports rifled through, Business examined. Bylines become ignored or turn into trusted friends, a case of two strangers intimately connected by words. Once a taxi driver berated me on discovering that I had not read the latest
Sumiko Tan column .
The Straits Times has been a 180-year ritual and for readers, through time, everything must be in the right place. When the box scores were removed from Sports, letters of protest followed. When a masthead font is changed, a grumble rises. As if one's morning tea has been fiddled with.
In the beginning The Straits Times' front page was crammed with wordy advertisements and to surf through the paper's long history is to be met with all manner of curiosities. On Jan 20, 1920, a new stock of Colt automatic pistols was announced. In 1954, a headline shouted 'Podgy stockbroker kept his mistresses on the loot from phantom oil'.
On one corner of the front page was a box titled The Law Of Storms which requires explanation. 'The Editor of The Straits Times,' it was written, 'will feel greatly obliged by Captains of Vessels furnishing him with particulars (extracted from the Ship's Log, including observations of Barometer and Thermometer) of occurrences of typhoons or hurricanes in the China Seas; more especially for notices of typhoons from the Bashee Group northwards to Chusan or Shantung.'
The Straits Times was read, then perhaps carried on a bus where it was bent and pleated, and then at day's end probably used to swat flies. A newspaper has historically had many uses. It lines drawers but is also cut and framed and put behind glass, as May and Colin Schooling did with the story on Joseph going to train in America.
Phil Graham, the great publisher of The Washington Post, once told Newsweek correspondents, 'So let us today drudge on about our inescapably impossible task of providing every week a first rough draft of history that will never be completed about a world we can never really understand.'
The Straits Times did this every day, becoming a city's habit and its reassurance. Now we bookmark pages on our phone, then the page of a particular edition was occasionally kept and forgotten. In the insides of old cupboards we often find these clippings after our parents pass. It tells us what they cared about, these pages their precious written proof of extraordinary days.
The Straits Times has been a citizen's inheritance. Parents read it and children in time picked it up or downloaded its app. A bit like trying on your father's shoes. It became a first introduction to Singapore, telling stories of its moods, its grievances, its cosy corners, its grimy nooks.
Reporters have wandered the ports of this city, the riot-strewn streets, the circus tents, the sporting fields. Like those the paper has reported on, it is itself fallible. There are more opinions of a paper than there are those within it. Yet everything has been done in the service of the reader. It is why The Straits Times has overseas correspondents in 11 nations. In time the world has become our beat.
But primarily Singapore is our world and how far Singapore has come and who Singaporeans are as a people have always been recorded in headlines, photographs, illustrations, videos and graphs. Der Spiegel, the German news magazine, means The Mirror and like it this paper reflects how Singaporeans have lived, stumbled, improved and changed as a society. In October 1972, a front-page headline read: 'It's dearer after two: Govt acts to cut down size of families'. By January 2013 the shift was clear: 'The big push for more babies' insisted the front page.
The Straits Times has been this city's voice, its explainer of the world, its guide, its informant and connective tissue. How many things do you have in common with your great-great-great-grandfather? This paper might be one. It has outlasted cinema halls, parks, roads, and is as intrinsically local as a curry puff or an HDB building. It is loved and loathed and people shut doors on reporters even as they recognise them as allies of a sort. After all, as Gay Talese wrote in The Kingdom And The Power, his history of The New York Times: 'News, if unreported, has no impact. It might as well have not happened at all.'
This paper has proclaimed war, announced freedom and declared independence. It has also noted that an 'Enraged buffalo falls to six police bullets'. From news on Mahatma Gandhi's assassination trial to the winning goal scored by a school footballer, we have found room for the global saint and the local hero. Inside its pages births have been listed, deaths catalogued, weddings announced and jobs advertised. One might say a nation lives and loves and works in its newspaper pages.
In a shaken-up media world, bruised mostly by a digital revolution which ensures news – not necessarily verified or fairly presented – is available 24 hours on the phone, over 2,500 newspapers have closed in the United States since 2005. The Straits Times has endured yet takes nothing for granted. As a city's landscape alters and its citizens' lives change, so have our designs, our ambition, our sections, our ideas. To stay relevant is to adapt.
When this paper began, typewriters had not been invented. Now we don't use them any more. Old journalists could adroitly change a ribbon and impale rejected stories on a metal spike (thus the term 'spiking a story'). Their inheritors design magical graphics and can film and edit on their phones in a flash.
The paper can be found at your doorway and in neat piles on supermarket shelves but it's also online and in the digital universe of Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, X, YouTube and LinkedIn. News no longer rides on a solitary vehicle. Old-timers still like to feel the actual paper. But everything alters, even the sound of newspapers: once it was only a rustle, now the digital 'ting' is an alert to a new story on the phone.
And so The Straits Times comes to your home but also to your phone. We're happy to meet you wherever you go and however you find information. If your world is Instagram, The Straits Times will see you there. If you prefer the app, then through myST you can personalise your newsfeed.
The written word remains sacred but the newspaper world has expanded that idea. News is expressed digitally through podcasts, videos, graphics or complex, cutting-edge interactives, whether it's a ride through the
100 years of the Johor-Singapore Causeway or how a person on a wheelchair
can navigate the MRT . The boundaries of creativity shift every day.
'Live' blogs follow events as they unfold and
during the 2025 General Election , The Straits Times often sent three reporters to a rally. One to write for the newspaper, two to make videos. Perhaps one for Instagram and the other for TikTok. No one, the newspaper understands, sees the world the same way, through the same medium and for the same length of time.
The traditional and the modern are intertwined. The old-fashioned, door-knocking journalism that defined newspapers remains but it is bolstered by revolutionised newsrooms where entire teams are devoted to breaking news. But nothing works at a single speed. Reports on a disaster may arrive on the website in seconds, but an imaginative construction of Max Maeder's waterworld might require nine months.
But irrespective of form and tools, we know what is expected of us. One hundred and eighty years is a privilege and a weight. Tastes alter and so does a nation's pulse. It is our job to have a sensitive, intelligent, reliable finger on it. When we don't meet a high standard, we expect you to tell us. Of course, we cannot guarantee we will always get it right, but there are some things we can say for certain. Like a repeat of the front page of the very first edition of The Straits Times on July 15, 1845, is unlikely.
It noted, among other things, that two milch goats were for sale. They were, it was boasted, in excellent condition.
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Straits Times
21 hours ago
- Straits Times
In moments of crisis, ST has stepped up to support, not just report
On Oct 12, 1978, an explosion on the Greek tanker Spyros at Jurong Shipyard killed 76 and injured 69 others. It was Singapore's worst post-war industrial disaster. On the afternoon of Oct 12, 1978, a thunderous blast tore through Jurong Shipyard. An explosion had occurred on board the Greek tanker Spyros, unleashing an inferno that would claim 76 lives and injure 69 others. Ambulances and helicopters ferried the severely burnt victims to Singapore General Hospital and Alexandra Hospital as police hearses moved in. It was Singapore's worst post-war industrial disaster. The Straits Times' reporters covering the accident bore witness not only to the horror but also the outpouring of compassion from Singaporeans. Amid the shock and despair, people flocked to the hospitals to donate blood. Various organisations set up relief funds, hawkers emptied their tills, unions and businesses wrote big cheques and even schoolchildren organised collections for families of affected classmates. SBS employees taking part in a fund-raising drive for victims of the Spyros and other industrial accidents in November 1978. The Straits Times donated $100,000 to the Singapore Labour Foundation's Special Relief Fund for the Spyros victims. ST PHOTO: YOW YUN WOH Any thought that Singaporeans might be an uncaring lot was convincingly shattered by the hundreds who showed up at hospitals to give blood for the victims, noted an article in the Oct 14, 1978, edition of The Straits Times. Within two weeks, nearly $4 million had been raised for the Spyros victims and their families. The Straits Times also donated $100,000 to the Singapore Labour Foundation's Special Relief Fund for the victims. Nationwide, there was much concern and anger over safety standards at the shipyards. In a statement, Mr Lyn Holloway, then managing director of The Straits Times Press, shared the company's sentiments when he said: 'Industrial safety must be of prime concern to everyone engaged in industry and regulations must not only be adhered to but should also be enforced to ensure Singapore does not have a repetition of what has taken place.' The Straits Times' reporters covering the Spyros accident in October 1978 bore witness not only to the horror but also the outpouring of compassion from Singaporeans. PHOTO: ST FILE The newspaper has had a long history of lending its reach and platform to those in need in the community. The earliest known efforts date back to the first half of the 20th century, a period dominated by the two world wars and the Great Depression. When World War I broke out in 1914, the paper's British editor, Mr Alexander William Still, led its efforts to raise money and recruit volunteers for forces overseas. Singapore, then part of British Malaya, had joined the Allied war effort, fielding a Malayan contingent of several thousand soldiers. An article dated Nov 24, 1914, documents the paper's efforts to support the Malayan contingent being sent to England to join the war: 'We have been able to supply warm clothing to several men, and have put parcels on board for others who may join the ships. 'We have sent a big stock of cigars, cigarettes, tobacco, chocolate, biscuits, tinned fruit and other comforts, and we have entrusted… in each case a substantial sum of money to meet expenses en route and to help men who would otherwise land practically penniless.' These endeavours continued after the war in different ways. During the Great Depression, when many lost their livelihoods and more, the paper provided free advertising space for those seeking employment. One report estimates that Singapore's gross domestic product fell by half between 1929 and 1932. Historian C.M. Turnbull notes in her 1995 book, Dateline Singapore: 150 Years Of The Straits Times, that the paper created a 'Victims of the slump' column in 1930, which grew longer over the next couple of years as people such as planters, miners and commercial assistants became more desperate for work. In the early years of World War II, The Straits Times set up a war fund, which raised over $6 million by 1941 to support the Allied powers in the war. Small and substantial contributions were regularly reported, even as the paper did its part to remind people to stay calm and follow orders. All charitable efforts came to an end, of course, during the Japanese Occupation between 1942 and 1945 when The Straits Times ceased publication and was replaced by a Japanese-controlled English-language paper, The Syonan Times, later renamed The Syonan Shimbun. In 1960, The Straits Times set up a Cheer Fund to support a 600-strong Malayan Special Force sent to the Congo, which was experiencing political upheaval and violence after gaining independence from Belgium. The period after Singapore's independence in 1965 came with its challenges, including social unrest. In 1969, the Straits Times Group set up a National Relief Fund for the victims of racial riots that had broken out in Kuala Lumpur and elsewhere in Malaysia. By mid-May, the fund had raised nearly $600,000 for the victims. Fast forward to 1990. As Singapore's economy grew rapidly and the country prepared to mark its 25th anniversary, the needs of the less well-off became increasingly an issue of concern. A national 25th Anniversary Charity Fund was set up to raise $50 million for Singaporeans in need. The Straits Times signed up to raise funds with its own Spirit of Singapore Appeal, in which it set up a dedicated phone line to receive phone-in pledges. Journalists were also sent to visit schools, offices and other organisations to raise awareness and support. By the end of the year, the charity fund had crossed the $68 million mark, with the Government matching pledges dollar for dollar. Of this, more than $1.4 million had been pledged through the phone calls made to The Straits Times. Mr S. Chandra Das, chairman of the 25th Anniversary Charity Fund Committee, commended the news organisation for its efforts. A Spirit of Singapore appeal asking readers to phone in their pledges, big or small, through The Straits Times' Newsline. This was published on Feb 15, 1990. PHOTO: ST FILE Caring for community Over the years, readers have often called in with offers of help in response to stories that moved them. Collections would then be taken. In March 1991, for instance, The Straits Times published a story about an ice cream seller whose heart and kidneys were donated by his family after his untimely death from a brain haemorrhage. Mr Chionh Chai Lum left a wife, who was a part-time cleaner, and two teenage sons. Their savings amounted to $1,000. In response to a flood of calls, the paper set up the Chionh Fund, which raised $160,000 for the family within days. An article dated March 12, 1991, noted: 'Singaporeans have not only demonstrated resoundingly that they do care for their less fortunate fellow citizens – but that they care a lot, too. And because of their big hearts, The Straits Times is able to wrap up the Chionh Fund a week ahead of schedule.' But the paper's support also sparked some questions on how far it should champion causes for individuals. By the end of the decade, the editors had decided to play a bigger role in meeting the needs of the community through charitable efforts. An article on Sept 21, 2000, noted that while the newspaper had done its social duty quietly before, its editor, Mr Leslie Fong, had decided the time had come for it to take a higher profile. The Straits Times Million Dollar Duck Race 2000 was announced to raise money for Touch Community Services, a not-for-profit organisation. 'We all have to do a little bit more. Everyone in ST should feel the need to make himself a useful member of Singapore and the civil society we all say we want,' Mr Fong said. 'We cannot just stand on the sidelines and comment. We should set an example.' The Straits Times' first Million Dollar Duck Race, held at the Singapore River on Nov 12, 2000, raised more than $1 million for charity. ST PHOTO: ALBERT SIM A total of 100,000 rubber ducks were available for 'adoption' by members of the public at $10 each. On a breezy Sunday morning on Nov 12, 2000, they then 'raced' on the Singapore River. The winner – physical education teacher Abdul Razak – got a $10,000 cash prize. The Singapore race was heralded as the Best International Duck Race of the Year, smashing the world record for the most number of ducks 'adopted' in a single race. The charity drive raised more than $1 million. In 2001 when another duck race was held, another $1 million was raised. School pocket money fund Amid the continuing national conversation about the widening wealth gap in Singapore, Straits Times journalist Braema Mathi wrote a special report on Dec 6, 1998, on the plight of children from struggling families. The report headlined 'The comeback kids' told the stories of a 12-year-old girl from a broken home, another 12-year-old girl whose family had to get by on $700 a month after her father was bedridden with a stroke, a 15-year-old boy who was his family's sole breadwinner, and an 11-year-old boy who had been picked up by the authorities for begging. The stories weren't just widely read but also provoked an outpouring of support from readers. Ms Mathi recalls readers calling in, asking to donate money. As the numbers increased, she realised that the paper had to find a way to handle the contributions and disburse the funds. Initially, four individual trusts were set up for the children featured which were co-managed by their schools. But a wider discussion was also taking place about the plight of other similar children, amid a public desire to help. Ms Mathi mooted the idea of a fund to provide money for underprivileged children. It won widespread support from the newsroom. On Oct 1, 2000, The Straits Times School Pocket Money Fund (STSPMF) was launched to help with the recess meals and transport expenses of underprivileged students. 'The way people were wanting to give, it was exhilarating and also overwhelming,' says Ms Mathi, 66, who was with the paper for about nine years and was a Nominated MP from 2001 to 2004. Ten-year-old Farah, the poster girl for The Straits Times School Pocket Money Fund when it was launched, in an Oct 2, 2000, article on the fund. PHOTO: ST FILE The fund has helped students, especially during economic downturns and crises. When the severe acute respiratory syndrome (Sars) hit in 2003, more than 10,000 students received aid from the fund, almost three times the number it had helped in the first year of its operation. The year 2009 was also challenging with the global financial crisis. Companies slashed their charity budgets as the economic slump impacted their businesses. But the fund persisted with its efforts to raise contributions. Mr Han Fook Kwang, then editor of The Straits Times, wrote in the fund's 10th-anniversary book: 'We are only the facilitator and organiser of this effort. The real heroes are the thousands of Singaporeans who have stepped forward with their donations and who have volunteered their services. They have made this fund-raising project – now in its 10th year – one of the most successful in Singapore.' In a report to mark The Straits Times' 175th anniversary , then editor Warren Fernandez, noted: 'We started with a simple mission. We wanted kids not to go hungry in school so they could concentrate on their studies, and not fall behind. We have stayed true to that over the years, raising the amounts we give to each child, and also extending our reach to more and more children and families in need.' As at July 2025, STSPMF has helped more than 220,000 children and youth and disbursed more than $100 million. Students come from families whose per capita gross monthly household income does not exceed $750. The charity now operates through a network of more than 300 schools, 60 social service agencies as well as thousands of generous corporate and individual donors and fund-raisers, to support 10,000 children a year. Its biggest fund-raising event is the annual ChildAid concert. Since its inception in 2005, the event has raised $33 million for the pocket money fund as well as The Business Times Budding Artists Fund, which helps artistically talented youth showcase their talents. ChildAid 2024, held at the Esplanade on Nov 29, 2024 , featured more than 80 young talents, including visually impaired singer Nur Anisah Daaniys Sufian, 12. In the fund's 2023 annual report, Straits Times editor Jaime Ho, who took over the chairmanship of the fund in 2023, said: 'We need to look out for the less privileged amongst us. The national Forward Singapore agenda seeks to refresh our social compact for the road ahead, such as having individuals and community organisations care for those in need. Visually impaired singer Nur Anisah Daaniys Sufian, 12, at ChildAid 2024. Since 2005, the event has raised $33 million for The Straits Times School Pocket Money Fund and The Business Times Budding Artists Fund. ST PHOTO: JASON QUAH 'The fund's mission – to reach out to every child in need and provide them with the resources to do well in school and beyond – is even more relevant now. No child should be deprived of an opportunity for a more positive future.' Student Emmanuel Thevanesan K. 17, whose parents suffer from illness and mobility issues, says the fund has helped his family with necessities. Student Ray Koh, 17, whose mother is the sole breadwinner of the family, says the support from the fund means he doesn't have to ask his mum for pocket money. It has also changed his impression of what a news organisation is all about. 'At first, I thought that The Straits Times was just another news source that reports local and foreign affairs. However, after hearing that the fund was started by journalists, it completely changed my view,' he says. 'I never knew that we had such caring communities out there.'
Straits Times
21 hours ago
- Straits Times
From print to podcasts, The Straits Times has been a 180-year ritual
The newspaper is a city's start to the day, though now, in its digital form, it is an all-day companion, says the writer. It is 1849 and Moby-Dick is yet to be published and construction of the Eiffel Tower is yet to begin. The modern zipper has not been invented and neither has colour photography. The Washington Post does not exist nor does The Wall Street Journal. But The Straits Times is already four years old and in its pages you can find all manner of things. Bayonets for sale. Horsehair petticoats. Punkas. Gunpowder. If you're not interested in such items, you can read dispatches from New York, the long, formal letters written to the editor, or the birth of a child under the quaint subhead of Domestic Occurrence. The first newspapers arrived around the 17th century and in time most lands had their version of a Dispatch, Courier, Inquirer, Examiner, Advertiser, Tribune, Gazette, Herald, Chronicle and Post. We are simply The Straits Times. In 1845, the year Elizabeth Barrett received her first love letter from a fellow poet named Robert Browning – 'I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett', it began – we started our own relationship with this city. The playwright Arthur Miller, author of Death Of A Salesman, said that 'a good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself'. Very quietly, of course. This conversation began at dawn, for the newspaper is a city's start to the day, though now, in its digital form, it is an all-day companion. The newspaper, often trying to be all things to all people, glues us all. As people unwrap – or click on – the pages, they are in fact wrapping themselves in the city. The writer Alain de Botton put it neatly: 'To look at the paper is to raise a seashell to one's ear and to be overwhelmed by the roar of humanity.' Families snatch sections and fold themselves into corners of rooms. News is opened, Sports rifled through, Business examined. Bylines become ignored or turn into trusted friends, a case of two strangers intimately connected by words. Once a taxi driver berated me on discovering that I had not read the latest Sumiko Tan column . The Straits Times has been a 180-year ritual and for readers, through time, everything must be in the right place. When the box scores were removed from Sports, letters of protest followed. When a masthead font is changed, a grumble rises. As if one's morning tea has been fiddled with. In the beginning The Straits Times' front page was crammed with wordy advertisements and to surf through the paper's long history is to be met with all manner of curiosities. On Jan 20, 1920, a new stock of Colt automatic pistols was announced. In 1954, a headline shouted 'Podgy stockbroker kept his mistresses on the loot from phantom oil'. On one corner of the front page was a box titled The Law Of Storms which requires explanation. 'The Editor of The Straits Times,' it was written, 'will feel greatly obliged by Captains of Vessels furnishing him with particulars (extracted from the Ship's Log, including observations of Barometer and Thermometer) of occurrences of typhoons or hurricanes in the China Seas; more especially for notices of typhoons from the Bashee Group northwards to Chusan or Shantung.' The Straits Times was read, then perhaps carried on a bus where it was bent and pleated, and then at day's end probably used to swat flies. A newspaper has historically had many uses. It lines drawers but is also cut and framed and put behind glass, as May and Colin Schooling did with the story on Joseph going to train in America. Phil Graham, the great publisher of The Washington Post, once told Newsweek correspondents, 'So let us today drudge on about our inescapably impossible task of providing every week a first rough draft of history that will never be completed about a world we can never really understand.' The Straits Times did this every day, becoming a city's habit and its reassurance. Now we bookmark pages on our phone, then the page of a particular edition was occasionally kept and forgotten. In the insides of old cupboards we often find these clippings after our parents pass. It tells us what they cared about, these pages their precious written proof of extraordinary days. The Straits Times has been a citizen's inheritance. Parents read it and children in time picked it up or downloaded its app. A bit like trying on your father's shoes. It became a first introduction to Singapore, telling stories of its moods, its grievances, its cosy corners, its grimy nooks. Reporters have wandered the ports of this city, the riot-strewn streets, the circus tents, the sporting fields. Like those the paper has reported on, it is itself fallible. There are more opinions of a paper than there are those within it. Yet everything has been done in the service of the reader. It is why The Straits Times has overseas correspondents in 11 nations. In time the world has become our beat. But primarily Singapore is our world and how far Singapore has come and who Singaporeans are as a people have always been recorded in headlines, photographs, illustrations, videos and graphs. Der Spiegel, the German news magazine, means The Mirror and like it this paper reflects how Singaporeans have lived, stumbled, improved and changed as a society. In October 1972, a front-page headline read: 'It's dearer after two: Govt acts to cut down size of families'. By January 2013 the shift was clear: 'The big push for more babies' insisted the front page. The Straits Times has been this city's voice, its explainer of the world, its guide, its informant and connective tissue. How many things do you have in common with your great-great-great-grandfather? This paper might be one. It has outlasted cinema halls, parks, roads, and is as intrinsically local as a curry puff or an HDB building. It is loved and loathed and people shut doors on reporters even as they recognise them as allies of a sort. After all, as Gay Talese wrote in The Kingdom And The Power, his history of The New York Times: 'News, if unreported, has no impact. It might as well have not happened at all.' This paper has proclaimed war, announced freedom and declared independence. It has also noted that an 'Enraged buffalo falls to six police bullets'. From news on Mahatma Gandhi's assassination trial to the winning goal scored by a school footballer, we have found room for the global saint and the local hero. Inside its pages births have been listed, deaths catalogued, weddings announced and jobs advertised. One might say a nation lives and loves and works in its newspaper pages. In a shaken-up media world, bruised mostly by a digital revolution which ensures news – not necessarily verified or fairly presented – is available 24 hours on the phone, over 2,500 newspapers have closed in the United States since 2005. The Straits Times has endured yet takes nothing for granted. As a city's landscape alters and its citizens' lives change, so have our designs, our ambition, our sections, our ideas. To stay relevant is to adapt. When this paper began, typewriters had not been invented. Now we don't use them any more. Old journalists could adroitly change a ribbon and impale rejected stories on a metal spike (thus the term 'spiking a story'). Their inheritors design magical graphics and can film and edit on their phones in a flash. The paper can be found at your doorway and in neat piles on supermarket shelves but it's also online and in the digital universe of Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, X, YouTube and LinkedIn. News no longer rides on a solitary vehicle. Old-timers still like to feel the actual paper. But everything alters, even the sound of newspapers: once it was only a rustle, now the digital 'ting' is an alert to a new story on the phone. And so The Straits Times comes to your home but also to your phone. We're happy to meet you wherever you go and however you find information. If your world is Instagram, The Straits Times will see you there. If you prefer the app, then through myST you can personalise your newsfeed. The written word remains sacred but the newspaper world has expanded that idea. News is expressed digitally through podcasts, videos, graphics or complex, cutting-edge interactives, whether it's a ride through the 100 years of the Johor-Singapore Causeway or how a person on a wheelchair can navigate the MRT . The boundaries of creativity shift every day. 'Live' blogs follow events as they unfold and during the 2025 General Election , The Straits Times often sent three reporters to a rally. One to write for the newspaper, two to make videos. Perhaps one for Instagram and the other for TikTok. No one, the newspaper understands, sees the world the same way, through the same medium and for the same length of time. The traditional and the modern are intertwined. The old-fashioned, door-knocking journalism that defined newspapers remains but it is bolstered by revolutionised newsrooms where entire teams are devoted to breaking news. But nothing works at a single speed. Reports on a disaster may arrive on the website in seconds, but an imaginative construction of Max Maeder's waterworld might require nine months. But irrespective of form and tools, we know what is expected of us. One hundred and eighty years is a privilege and a weight. Tastes alter and so does a nation's pulse. It is our job to have a sensitive, intelligent, reliable finger on it. When we don't meet a high standard, we expect you to tell us. Of course, we cannot guarantee we will always get it right, but there are some things we can say for certain. Like a repeat of the front page of the very first edition of The Straits Times on July 15, 1845, is unlikely. It noted, among other things, that two milch goats were for sale. They were, it was boasted, in excellent condition.
New Paper
2 days ago
- New Paper
Local author traces evolution of Singaporean Chinese names
A Chinese Singaporean born in the 1960s might have been registered as Shiau Vee Hueng. By the 1980s, that same person would have been named Shiau Vee Hueng, Don (Xiao Weixiong, Don). In the 1990s, the name might appear as Shiau Weixiong in his birth certificate, and by the 2010s, possibly as Don Shiau. Writer Don Shiau noted this anecdotal observation using his own name at his talk at the National Library on June 8. The talk, titled The Comfortable Chaos Of Singaporean Chinese Names, was part of his residency with the National Arts Council-National Library Board Writers' Lab 2025 from February to April, a programme that supports writers at the early stages of developing manuscripts. He plans to write a book about the different "personas" he adopts when referred to by different names. Mr Shiau's interest in Singaporean Chinese naming conventions began in mid-2024, when he noticed that his identity card listed both a dialect name and a pinyin one. Now 44, he recalled having to write his name in pinyin in primary school, despite being given a dialect name. He later learnt that this was a result of Singapore's 1979 Speak Mandarin Campaign, a language policy aimed at replacing Chinese dialects with Mandarin to promote greater communication among Chinese Singaporeans. Academics told The Straits Times that Singaporean Chinese naming conventions have evolved over time, shaped by shifts in policy, preferences and broader global influences. Mr Don Shiau's student concession card with his name written only in pinyin. PHOTO: COURTESY OF DON SHIAU But in the absence of longitudinal and representative data, any generalisations should remain tentative, said Dr Lee Wee Heong, head of Chinese studies at the Singapore University of Social Sciences. In the 1950s, mainland Chinese linguists created hanyu pinyin (or pinyin) in order to standardise the pronunciation and romanisation of Mandarin. Singapore was the first country to adopt the system outside of China in the 1970s. In 1981, pinyin names were introduced in pre-primary and Primary 1 classes here, where pupils were told to write their pinyin names with dialect names. Dr Lee said: "Pinyin offered a consistent and standardised system for romanising Chinese names and proved useful for administrative purposes such as school registration, ICs and passports." This policy was later reversed in 1991, when the Ministry of Education allowed the use of dialect surnames from the following year, but its effects were long-lasting. Mr Don Shiau's GCE A-level certificate, which shows both his dialect and pinyin names. ST PHOTO: LIM YAOHUI Dr Lee said that since then, a wider range of naming conventions has emerged. "Today, we see full pinyin names (for example, Li Weixiong), traditional dialect romanisation (for example, Lee Wee Heong), and hybrid forms combining dialect surnames with pinyin given names (for example, Lee Weixiong)," he said. Some choose to register both dialect and pinyin names, with the latter being reflected in brackets in official records. Ms Chua Sioh Ling, 54, is one such example. Although her birth certificate lists only her dialect name, her identity card reads "Chua Sioh Ling (Cai Xiaoling)". This has, however, led to some confusion when filling in documents or booking flights as she is constantly unsure of which name to use. Ms Chua Sioh Ling is among some Singaporeans who have both their dialect and pinyin names listed on their identity card. PHOTO: COURTESY OF CHUA SIOH LING Another Singaporean, Mr Lee Xuan Jin, 25, has both his dialect and pinyin name - Li Xuanjin - recorded on his birth certificate. His parents followed the format used for Mr Lee's father, whose name includes the pinyin version in brackets, but opted to name their son in pinyin instead of dialect. In school, Mr Lee typically wrote his name as "Lee Xuan Jin", though he once experimented in primary school by using "Xuanjin", as he thought it looked more "stylistic". New naming trends Among younger Chinese Singaporeans, Mr Shiau has observed that some no longer include their Chinese names in the English portion of their birth certificate. Ms Shanice Hoo, 22, is a case in point. Although her father has a dialect name, he chose a simple and recognisable name for her. Hence, her identity card lists only "Shanice Hoo" in English, with her Chinese name appearing only in Chinese characters. Dr Peter Tan Kok Wan, a senior lecturer at the National University of Singapore's Department of English, Linguistics and Theatre Studies, said young Singaporeans are primarily English speakers and that Singaporean culture is, to some extent, influenced by other cultures. "They want names that work well in Singapore and when they go overseas... The given names (Chinese-based and English-based ones) are what parents can play around with." Mr Douglas Ong Say Howe, 30, was given a Hokkien name by his parents to reflect his Hokkien heritage, along with an English name to set him apart from others with more common English names. Still, there are variations in naming practices, said observers. Mr Douglas Ong Say Howe was given a Hokkien name by his parents to reflect his Hokkien heritage. PHOTO: COURTESY OF DOUGLAS ONG SAY HOWE Dr Lee said these variations reflect personal and familial preferences, parental attitudes, and practical considerations such as pronunciation. Some families opt for continuity with older generations, while others embrace modern naming conventions that reflect a more global or bilingual identity, he said. Dr Foo Suan Fong, executive director of the Singapore Centre for Chinese Language, said that retaining dialect names can be a way to preserve the unique Singapore cultural identity. For Mr Lim Tia Kiat, 21, his name is a rare sight for Singaporeans born in the 21st century. His father, Mr Lim Kai Ching, 52, wanted his sons to remember their Hokkien roots. Believing that Chinese names carry deeper significance - something he feels is often lost in English names - he consulted a fengshui master to choose his sons' full dialect names. While both sons were given traditional names, Mr Lim encourages them to take on English names if they wish. In recent decades, the arrival of new Chinese citizens has added further diversity to naming practices in Singapore, said academics. For instance, mainland Chinese typically use standard hanyu pinyin for their names, including family surnames. Dr Lee said some new immigrants from China opt to use dialect-based spellings for their names instead of pinyin - for example, Teo Wei Ming instead of Zhang Weiming - "in order to blend in more seamlessly with local-born Singaporeans". In the case of Ms Ilyssa Feng Yuan Yi, 22, she was originally named "Feng Yuan Yi" by her China-born parents, and she later added an English name through a deed poll in 2020. While the romanisation of Chinese names has changed over time, what is most important is the Chinese characters themselves, said Dr Lee. "Regardless of whether a name is written as Lee Wee Heong, Lee Weixiong or Li Weixiong, the underlying Chinese characters (for example, 李伟雄) remain constant and are what truly anchor a person's identity, reflect parental aspirations and connect generations across time," he said.
