Skip their Promises. Watch what Politicians wear instead.
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A man walks up to a podium at Hong Lim Park.
Behind him, along the backdrop of a makeshift stage, hangs an enormous black banner with the words “Where is the Accountability in Singapore?” It was 16 March 2019 — a Saturday, and a group of politicians were spending half their weekend to voice out their discontent with accountability in the Singaporean political system. This man is one of them, and a sizeable crowd of mainly elderly men who sat on white plastic chairs gawked at him, listening with rapt attention to his speech.
He is a member of the People’s Voice Party, a newly-formed opposition party in Singapore*. A seasoned politician, he has served with Members of Parliament of the incumbent People’s Action Party (PAP) as a letter writer since 2011, before becoming elected as branch candidate for the Central District Community, one of the five districts in Singapore that the PAP oversees. He is a Singaporean citizen, an Anglo-Chinese Junior College alumnus, and has been involved in politics for nearly ten years.
But, he is a white Caucasian male. He speaks with a distinctively British accent, and his words, oratory prowess and eloquence reflect an articulate, highly-educated man.
His name is Brad Bowyer, and he is one of the freshest faces in the Singaporean political scene.
Naturally, many Singaporeans at the event and online greeted him with skepticism at first sight. ‘Is this man Singaporean?’ They wondered as they scrutinised his white skin and brown hair, attempting to pick up any tiny indication of Asian features or Singaporean idiosyncrasies from his demeanour. Perhaps a colloquial slip of the tongue. Or an accidental dash of Singlish. His accent — a fading Cockney English accent, inspired by an upbringing in London’s East End — doesn’t help either. Apart from his opposition rhetoric, he did not seem to share any of the qualities possessed by traditional Singaporean politicians. No black hair, dialectal foibles in his speech, and no random loud boos while casting a thumbs-down at the incumbent government mid-speech.
No — he was articulate, poised and graceful. He fit the wealthy, educated white male Caucasian stereotype perfectly, resembling the kind of expatriate who multinational companies send to Singapore to work, rake in the dough, and return to their home countries after a few years. Men who deliberately remain disconnected from the happenings of local politics and view themselves more as temporary workers than Singaporean citizens. This was the Caucasian male stereotype that Singaporeans are more accustomed to. Not the kind of man who would be fighting alongside working class Singaporeans while arguing for more transparency and accountability from the ruling party.
With the Caucasian male stereotype entrenched in their minds, Bowyer’s appearance raised questions and curiosity from the audience. How would he empathise with their daily struggles? Singapore’s rising cost of living? How would he be aware of the darker side of Singapore — the shortcomings of the system? The voices of the oppressed? How could they trust him?
Bowyer is an articulate man, no doubt. But the most significant indication of his sincerity to serve the working class Singaporeans lies not in his eloquence, policies or promises. Instead, it lies in his personal style. He had to garner the trust of the people, and what he wore to the rally at Hong Lim Park that day did just that.
That day, he wore an ill-fitting pink long-sleeved Oxford shirt, paired with regular cut jeans which was held in place by a black leather belt. His baggy shirt sagged over his shoulders, its sleeves unbuttoned and carelessly cuffed and folded in the middle of his lower arm. It was casual to the point of appearing disheveled, and he would have blended right into the sea of middle-aged corporate workers at Raffles Place who are on the way home after a long day at work. Unbuttoning the second button at his collar only accentuated this rumpled image.
It was most likely that Bowyer had dressed in such a casual manner because of the balmy weather and blazing heat. That Saturday was undoubtedly very sunny indeed. But with his ruffled ill-fitting shirt and sleeves carelessly rolled-up at his arms, he also presented himself as a politician that was ready to get his hands dirty to serve the working class with sincerity. He was one of them — sartorially, at least — and was more than willing to work by voicing their concerns and taking meaningful action for them in Parliament. His blue regular fit jeans with hems that pooled at his feet underscored his point, calling to mind the very group of workers who denim jeans were originally made for. He was a worker for the working class. His style relayed that he understood and related to their struggles, and was actively striving to voice out their concerns. Even if the colour of his skin, his sophisticated English vocabulary and his slight Cockney accent didn’t show this, his attire — the only thing he could manipulate — did.
Parallels could be observed between Bowyer’s informal outfit and the attire of a different Singaporean statesman at another political rally. The ruffled shirt, with its collar unbuttoned at its second button, draws an interesting resemblance to what the late Mr Lee Kuan Yew had worn when he rallied against the Singapore Airlines pilot strike nearly three decades ago. Pulling such a brazen sartorial move might seem unbecoming of a statesman, as such a deeply unbuttoned collar might evoke an informality that could be interpreted as nonchalant and unprofessional. However, in the context of these men, a stylistic quirk as tiny as this complements their aggressive, adrenaline-fueled rhetoric, demonstrating a powerful dominance and authority as politicians. As Singapore’s Prime Minister when the strike occurred, Mr Lee was determined to ensure the survivability of the nation and her citizens, and his bold outfit during that rally complemented his no-holds-barred rhetoric that put continuity of country above the pilots’ discontent.
Of course, what Mr Lee had worn during that specific speech was an outlier to his traditional outfit: a white long-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting white trousers, with a small red lightning bolt embroidered at his chest. Back when Singapore had just obtained her independence, the founding members of the ruling People’s Action Party had donned this white-on-white uniform, which has transcended time to become one of Singapore’s most effective and renown forms of branding that symbolised the incumbent government.
The white-on-white collared shirt and baggy trousers conveyed a utilitarian sensibility. It was a uniform to get work done. Like how Bowyer had presented himself at the rally, Singapore’s founding fathers portrayed themselves as men who were willing to get their hands dirty, work for the people and build the country. Mr Lee Kuan Yew was also known for campaigning relentlessly at the Tanjong Pagar Group Representation Constituency (GRC), even after becoming Prime Minister, in order to continue addressing the concerns of the working class. As he had famously said in 1955, “Tanjong Pagar is a working class area. No other division has such a high proportion of workers, wage-earners, small traders and such a low proportion of wealthy merchants and landlords living in it. I wanted to represent workers, wage earners and small traders, not wealthy merchants or landlords. So I chose Tanjong Pagar, not Tanglin.” After independence, the People’s Action Party represented the voice for the working class, and their ubiquitous white uniform reflected this too.
White has traditionally been a colour signifying purity, and this notion was especially prominent to the late Mr Lee, who took pride in the corrupt-free characteristic of the members in his Party and in Singaporean politics. Apart from its pristine lustre, the white uniforms also portrayed their wearers as white knights who had managed to save Singapore from dying at the demands of Malaysia after a failed merger prior to its independence.
Unfortunately, long gone are the days when the PAP was viewed as a mouthpiece for the working class. Alas, the symbolism of the white-on-white uniform has been degraded from an indicator of purity to a sign of disconnect and disillusion. Today, what had been baggy and utilitarian white work shirts have been replaced by white polo tee shirts — a garment usually worn by the affluent upper class. While it reflects a formality that citizens expect their politicians to possess, and hints at the wealth that Singapore has accumulated over time under stable and effective leadership, it also symbolises the ivory tower that Singaporeans might feel their politicians remain stuck in and the elitism they embody, therefore disconnecting them from listening to the needs of the working class.
Bearing this disconnect in mind, Bowyer’s casual outfit reflected that subtle reconnection to the working class, whether he was aware of it or not. This sartorial move complemented his opposition rhetoric, therefore building a bridge of trust between his audience and himself.
Fashion is political. At first glance, this rarely seems to be the case. As an international industry, it crosses geographical territories and reflects the multitudes of cultures around the world. But fashion also implicates each and every one of us, whether or not we recognise its effect. In a similar vein, what politicians wear speak as effectively as their rhetoric and policies. This was as evident in the sixties as it was in Bowyer’s rally today. So where is the trust and accountability, you might ask? For Bowyer and the incumbents, the answer might just lie in their clothes.
*As of 24 March 2019, Brad Bowyer is no longer a part of People’s Voice Party. But he is still involved in Singaporean politics as a voice of the opposition.
