The politicians we deserve

It’s a Tuesday evening at a Toa Payoh Central food joint when I overhear two Gen-Z Singaporeans discuss the coming General Election. One laments that she can’t book a May vacation because polling day might be called. The other waves her off: “Why not? Because you want to vote? What for? It’s not like our votes count anyway.” The remark hangs in the humid weekday air, dripping with cynicism, a casual quip that reflects a deeper disillusionment among young voters. Theirs (at least for the two ladies within earshot) is a sense that politics is a foregone conclusion, that leaders will do as they please regardless of public input.

Still, it’s hard to blame the cynics entirely. Recent events have ostensibly rattled Singapore’s faith in its public officials. In the past year alone, a Transport Minister was arrested amid a corruption probe​. Not days later, Singaporeans learned that the Speaker of Parliament had resigned over an extramarital affair — and, across the aisle, an opposition Member of Parliament did the same for a similar lapse in judgment​.

Add to that mix a series of tone-deaf public remarks and petty ideological squabbles in Parliament, and one starts to see why many feel that holding politicians to any high ideal is a naive exercise. Both the ruling People’s Action Party (PAP) and the opposition have, at times, appeared more interested in scoring points than in genuine soul-searching. When a politician’s misstep turns into a partisan spectacle of “Gotcha!” rather than a moment of contrition, the public loses sight of the bigger issue: the character of those who lead us.

These episodes are not dredged up to attack any party — indeed, both the PAP and the Workers’ Party (and in no small way, some smaller opposition groups) have been scarred by similar scandals​. Rather, they illustrate a universal point: Public office bears an ethical weight far heavier than ordinary careers. When a business executive cheats on a spouse or a clerk misuses funds, it might stay a private affair or office gossip. But when an elected leader does so, it’s a betrayal of public trust. Leaders enact laws, manage billions in taxpayer money, and wield influence over national morale. In Singapore’s context, where the social contract has long been rooted in trust and exemplary governance, such breaches cut especially deep. The late Lee Kuan Yew, donning austere white attire as a symbol of purity, once vowed that leaders must be “whiter than white”​ — above even the faintest whiff of impropriety. In other words, the people who make the rules must live by them more strictly than anyone else, or risk the entire system’s credibility.

The burden of public office

This idea isn’t mere local wisdom; it echoes across civilisations. Over two thousand years ago, Plato argued that those who most dread power are best qualified to hold it​. In his ideal republic, philosopher-kings would rather pursue truth than personal gain, and they accept leadership only as a solemn duty. Rulers, he believed, were to live simply, communally, and virtuously. The moment leaders start seeing high office as an entitlement or a perk, they veer off the philosopher-king’s path. For Plato, the provenance of legitimate authority lay in wisdom and selflessness, not ambition.

Ancient Chinese thinkers voiced a similar refrain. Confucius taught that a leader’s virtue sets the moral climate of the nation: “The Virtue of a gentleman is like the wind, and the Virtue of a petty person is like the grass — when the wind moves over the grass, the grass is sure to bend.”​ In other words, the behavior at the top trickles down. If a leader is righteous, the people will follow; if a leader is corrupt, society bends toward cynicism and vice. Chinese history even embedded this in the Mandate of Heaven doctrine — the idea that Heaven grants a ruler authority only as long as he governs justly. A corrupt or unjust ruler, it was believed, would invite disaster and forfeit the right to rule​. While we live now in a secular age of constitutions and elections, that ancient principle survives in secular form: a government’s moral authority is its mandate to govern. Lose one, lose the other.

And so, great leaders throughout history have been held to extraordinary standards. Even Julius Caesar divorced his wife merely on suspicion of impropriety. The lesson here is that public figures, by virtue of their position, must avoid not only wrongdoing but even the appearance of wrongdoing. That may seem harsh, but it comes with the territory. It is the price of political provenance — the unwritten cost of legitimacy.

No heroes, only humans

Yet, even as we demand high standards, we must guard against unrealistic idealism. The two friends at dinner — the dutiful voter and the disillusioned skeptic — are both partly right. Yes, we absolutely need our leaders to have integrity; no, we shouldn’t fantasise that they’ll be flawless saints. In fact, expecting sainthood can backfire. Even the idealistic television drama The West Wing warned of this. In one scene, a presidential candidate admits that “we all live lives of imperfection,” cautioning that “if we expect our leaders to live on a higher moral plane than the rest of us, well, we’re just asking to be deceived.”​

A politician who knows the public demands perfection will simply hide his sins more carefully. In George Orwell’s satirical novel Animal Farm, the ruling pigs famously proclaim that “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” It was Orwell’s acid way of showing how leaders might hypocritically exempt themselves from the very rules they impose on everyone else​. A society that worships its leaders can blind itself to their misdeeds until it’s too late. The answer, then, is not to place leaders on impossibly high pedestals, but to place principles on that pedestal — and keep our leaders firmly grounded to those principles. We should neither idolise our politicians as messiahs nor shrug off their misbehavior as business-as-usual. This, in the end, is the business of elections — not only choosing between manifestos, but deciding what kind of moral provenance we accept in those who lead us.

This balance requires maturity: an electorate that neither falls into adoration nor cynicism. The ruling PAP often reminds Singaporeans of its track record and the need for experience, while opposition parties urge checks and accountability. Both arguments have merit. What’s crucial is that neither longevity nor dissent become excuses for moral laxity. Whether one wears the white-and-blue of the PAP or the blue-and-red of the Workers’ Party (or any other hue of our political spectrum), the fundamental civic virtue required is the same. Honesty, humility, and a sense of service are non-negotiable. Without them, clever policies or stirring speeches ring hollow. As political theorist Hannah Arendt noted, “integrity can indeed exist under the cover of all other vices except” hypocrisy. A leader could be gruff or aloof in personal style and still govern ethically — but if a leader preaches integrity while practicing deceit, rot has set in at the core​. And once trust is broken, it’s exceedingly hard to restore.

Reclaiming trust and courage

The lead-up to the 2025 General Election feels urgent, not because any party is promising radical change, but because of a quiet crisis of confidence. As citizens, we are stakeholders in this system; our cynicism or faith will collectively shape its future. True, political perfection is impossible — no candidate or party will ever be wholly without blemish. But that does not mean we should lower our expectations to zero. It means we should vote with eyes open, not for perfect heroes but for imperfect individuals who at least demonstrate honesty about their imperfections and a commitment to better themselves and serve the public good. It means we must demand transparency when mistakes occur and contrition from those at fault, rather than accepting cover-ups or half-truths — because that too is the business of elections: rewarding accountability, not performance. It means telling our leaders, we are watching, and telling ourselves, we must stay engaged. The moment we tune out with a cynical quip — “our votes don’t count” — we cede the moral high ground entirely and guarantee the very outcome we feared: that our voice won’t matter.

In the waning light of that dinner, perhaps the skeptical friend shrugs because she feels powerless. But the irony is that her power, as a voter and citizen, is exactly what unscrupulous leaders count on her to forsake. Accountability in governance isn’t a gift that politicians will simply hand to a disengaged public; it must be exacted by a citizenry that cares. The price of political provenance, ultimately, is paid by all of us — paid in vigilance, in discernment, in the courage to look beyond party colors and patronage and to demand integrity as the minimum standard for leadership.

So to the question, “What for? Why bother voting if our votes don’t seem to count?”, the answer must be: because abstaining or acquiescing to cynicism carries a far heavier price. It means our standards slip further and our leaders answer to no one. Conversely, if we each wield our vote as an instrument of discernment and principle, we inch the system closer to what it should be: not a perfect meritocracy of angels, but at least a republic of responsible, accountable men and women striving to deserve the public trust. In this charged moment before the election — when 51 new potential candidates make their rounds, resignations ripple through the upper ranks of government agencies, and pamphlets fill mailboxes — the most important campaign is the one within each voter: to reclaim that sense of responsibility.

Singapore may never have a perfect government (no nation ever will), but if we insist that those who ask for our mandate uphold a higher moral code, we reinforce the unwritten law that public service is a public trust. And if we do so with clear eyes — neither cynical nor starry-eyed — our votes will count in more ways than one. They will count not just towards electing one party or another, but towards reaffirming the values we expect our leaders to embody. In the end, that is how we, the citizens, share the burden of moral leadership: by refusing to relinquish our discernment at the ballot box. It’s been said that in a democracy, the people get the government they deserve — in the business of elections, what we normalise today becomes the character of our institutions tomorrow. By demanding better and voting with conscience and courage, we remind our politicians that we intend to deserve the very best of them — and nothing less.