We live in a nation where English, Mandarin, Malay, Tamil, and Hindi mingle freely, sometimes in the same sentence.
This linguistic richness is often celebrated as proof of harmony. Yet, every now and then, a word slips out, lands with a thud, and is judged unsavoury or even racist.
The speaker may plead ignorance. After all, racial slurs do not usually begin life as villains. Many start out as neutral descriptors, affectionate nicknames, or even terms of respect.
Over time, these words mutate, lose their innocence, and occasionally, turn feral. Other times, the offence is brushed off as a joke or a miscommunication. But to the person on the receiving end, it still hurts.
I know this personally. Growing up in 1950s Singapore as a Sikh boy, I stood out – with my topknot, and a burly, bearded father in a turban who looked fearsome despite his gentle nature.
In school, I was called “baiyee”.
The word comes from “bhai”, Hindi for “brother”, a warm term Punjabi men use among themselves.
But in the mouths of other children, “baiyee” was delivered with a sneer.
Later came “Babu Singh”, the lazy moniker for any turbaned Sikh male.
Ironically, “babu” is a lovely word in Hindi and several Indian languages – respectful, even affectionate.
Somewhere along the way, it was hijacked, stripped of goodwill and weaponised as a punchline.
There are other examples.
Consider “thambi”, Tamil for “younger brother”. Within South Indian families, it remains a term of endearment.
When used elsewhere, however, it has often become a condescending label for a low-status worker – not unlike how “boy” was once used by white Americans to belittle Black men.
By dictionary definition, neither “boy” nor “thambi” is inherently offensive. Yet, in December 2011, the Harvard Law & Policy Review noted that a Circuit Court of Appeals recognised that a white supervisor calling Black employees “boy” constituted sufficient evidence of racism.
Worse still, in the 1960s, South Indian children in Singapore were sometimes greeted with a cheery but cruel “Ada orang?” – Malay for “Is there a person there?”
The joke referenced dark skin supposedly disappearing at night. Meant to be humorous, it cut deeply.
Fast forward to July 2019, when a Chinese actor darkened his skin to portray multiple races in an advertisement for e-payments.
Intended to convey that e-payments were for everybody, it instead sparked a brownface controversy.
The backlash was swift, the consensus clear: Blackface and brownface have no place in modern Singapore.
More recently, the use of the term “keling kia” – literally “Indian guy” in the Teochew dialect – during the General Election campaign reignited debate.
Though linguistically neutral, the term is now widely regarded as derogatory in Singapore and Malaysia.
Profuse apologies followed, as did the familiar refrain of unintended offence.
Sadly, casual racism persists. Today, we also hear denigrating remarks about Filipinos, Indonesians, and other migrant communities who come here to work.
Often framed as harmless humour, such language survives precisely because those not targeted cannot understand why a “small remark” can sting so deeply.
Perhaps even more troubling is how early such language now surfaces.
In a Dec 25 Forum letter in The Straits Times, a parent observed that children on playgrounds now use vulgar language and racial references with startling ease.
These remarks are often tossed out casually, as jokes, and frequently go unchallenged by peers or adults.
Busy parents may never hear them repeated at home. But by then, the damage is already done, the writer concludes.
It cannot be denied that Singapore’s success has always rested on a shared understanding that living closely together requires care.
That responsibility extends to the words we utter – and the ones we tolerate.
When words begin to wound, they deserve to be banished, for good.
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31 Dec 2025 9:51
