Yearning for a place to call our own
By Toh Ee Ming
Growing up in a typical Asian family, I was the homebody whose life revolved around obediently following the family schedule and routines. “Family is the most important,” my father, the ultimate patriarch, dictated.
Working from home as a freelancer blurred the division between work and personal time. I was frequently interrupted, from having to take my younger siblings to and from primary school and later playing with them, to assisting my parents with all matters of affairs. Spending too much time with friends outside was frowned upon, as with any deviation from the typical routine.
Fraught by family tensions during the Covid-19 lockdowns, with a longing for personal space, and on the cusp of turning 30, I decided to move out to a Housing Development Board (HDB) flat in Bugis last January with a friend. The process was surprisingly quick. We found the space via a Facebook group listing, spoke to the existing tenant and landlord and signed the two-year lease within a matter of days.
Unsurprisingly, my family didn’t take it too well at first. They read it as a reflection of their parenting failure, that I was throwing money down the drain and refused to speak to me for a while.
In recent years, a growing number of young, single Singaporeans are breaking away from the norm to rent for a variety of reasons, desiring a greater sense of freedom and independence in a climate marked by skyrocketing property prices. This trend has been accelerated by the pandemic, as millennials seek more conducive work-from-home environments. According to the Department of Statistics, the number of citizens and permanent residents under the age of 35 who were either living alone or away from their parents rose from 33,400 in 1990 to 51,300 in 2020. This number jumped by almost 10,000 between 2019 and 2020.
It’s a departure from the classic Singapore Dream: get a degree, find a partner, get married, move out from your parents’ home into your Build-to-Order (BTO) flat, live there for a few years, sell it for fat proceeds and upgrade. Living on my own feels like a luxury. Bugis is home to numerous religious sites, bookstores, museums, galleries and an abundance of good food, the neighbourhood is rough around the edges yet vivid with character.
I take pleasure in domestic life, decorating the space with photos, paintings and ceramic wares, filling it up with a bountiful array of plants, grocery shopping, and attempting to cook a decent meal.
With all this newfound time, the days seem longer. I am surprised to find myself lining up my social calendar to meet a widening circle of friends, which the introverted me would have previously baulked at. My flatmate and I befriended an art curator couple in their mid-30s living on the same floor. We have fallen into a routine of exercising together, dinners, spontaneous invites to their place, and have even participated in art jams along the corridor where we did linocut printing. I have taken up new hobbies: rollerblading lessons at the National Stadium, cycling around Marina Bay, and caring for horses as a volunteer with a social enterprise in Bukit Timah. It has also pushed me to be hungrier about taking on work opportunities, in order to cover the rent.
Living with my close friend, a documentary producer, has also given our friendship a new take. We joke that we’re like a married couple: conversations now revolve around the mundane like bills and cleanliness levels, and we have a joint calendar where we set aside time for quality bonding outside of the flat.
A series of conversations with friends and fellow renters revealed similar discoveries. For some, renting has provided an environment to rediscover themselves on their own terms, a safe space to be away from toxic or judgemental family members, and an opportunity to cohabit before marriage. To simply be.
Having lived abroad in France and the UK, tech professional Si Hui missed having her own space. During the height of Covid, she decided to move out with two others whom she met through mutual hobbies. But first, to understand each other better, they each filled up a five-page questionnaire detailing daily habits, schedules and their feelings about “animals, babies and gay people.”
Vibe check passed, they proceeded to rent an old condominium in the heart of Orchard for about S$3,000 a month—a high-ceilinged, three-bedroom apartment dubbed, “The House of Decent People”, an inside joke, featuring objects like a refrigerator tacked with poetry magnets to assemble poems and a space to engage in spirited, intellectual debates. It was also where Si Hui and another housemate created a newsletter to share their favourite reads. Moving out has given Si Hui more space to date, host friends, and grow her social circle. Last year, she hosted a tomato dinner party where she had guests tasting different varieties of heirloom tomatoes and tomato dishes.
Having lived under his parents’ roof all his life, moving out was a “transformative experience” for Si Hui’s housemate and fellow tech professional Jovi.
Unlike living in a university dorm or doing an overseas exchange, renting as a working adult with a certain level of financial agency, allows for self-discovery, Jovi said. He’s free to make decisions without having to answer to a parent or significant partner.
He also noted that being in his family’s home fixed him in a “certain loop” of arrested development, relying on them for meals, playing computer games all day and living a more sedentary lifestyle. But now, Jovi has discovered, he joked, that he’s a “yuppie” who goes to spin class and orders healthy grain bowls for meals. The change of physical context has helped him to form healthier habits.
“My parents know me as someone whom they had to change diapers for, and they’ll always see me in a certain way,” Jovi explained. “But what my housemates experience is a freeze frame of myself in this period of my adult life. All of us are trying to find ourselves again and we’re rediscovering who we are.”
For filmmaker and producer Nathan Ng, his “light bulb” moment occurred a few years ago, when he was 27, and he noticed that many of his older friends were starting to rent together.
He moved into a room at Golden Mile Complex with his partner, sharing the space with friends-turned-housemates. Ng said that the building was grimy and rundown, the electricity faulty at times, and the police often visited to respond to fights. Despite all that, it had a special charm and beauty. Subsequently, they moved to eastern Singapore, and lived in two different condos. The fun thing about renting, he added, is being able to experience different types of residences.
Their various rentals drew the likes of DJs, designers, artists and fellow creatives—their “janky-ass family of misfits.” The spaces also doubled as a war room for projects, a co-working space, and a photo and jamming studio. Friends also regarded their home as a safe haven during difficult times, and a sanctuary where they could gather and celebrate each other’s birthdays and achievements. As artists, he quipped, “we’re all a very emotional bunch.” In their downtime, Ng and his partner enjoy cycling by the beach and being close to nature or playing with their pets. He said, “Being surrounded by your own people who are on a similar journey, not wanting the conventional Singapore lifestyle, all of us hustling and trying to do our own thing…felt very reassuring.” The reason he chose to rent was less about resisting familial obligations: “It was about being able to build a life in Singapore as a creative person while staying true to my own values and my own self-worth.” Ng tries to visit his parents every week. With home ownership in Singapore getting increasingly more expensive, Ng’s uncertain about whether he’s willing to sacrifice segments of his life in order to pay a mortgage. His partner and him are also toying with the idea of living in Bangkok for a few years to explore the art scene there.
Why are more people finding community, belonging, inspiration and freedom outside the confines of traditional familial structures and homes? Tan Ern Ser, a sociologist at the National University of Singapore, pointed to political scientist Ronald Inglehart’s theory of post-materialism, which argued that economic development and growing affluence have brought about the emergence of a significant value-shift, one that prioritises self-expression and freedom.
In Singapore’s context, young people “now inhabit a social world which differs significantly from that of their parents’ generation,” said Tan. Staying under the same roof may be experienced as “restrictive”, preventing them from engaging in their preferred routines and activities, and hanging out with a wider social network beyond the confines of the household. The generational gap could also be a source of conflict. Besides, he said that the increase of people with higher education levels, and who hold well-paying jobs means that they can choose to live on their own.
While the Singapore Dream of upward mobility is still very much alive, a significant majority probably “see the mobility game they confront as much harder to play than that of their Gen X parents’ generation,” explained Tan. Big-ticket items, such as a private apartment and car, are now considered less affordable and harder to attain. Moreover, he said that external factors have also increased the risk of unemployment and income insecurity. He believes that many young Singaporeans have not abandoned the desire for home-ownership, but might also want affordable rental options if they decide to move out of their family home. “I do not see the desire for home ownership and their wanting to have the rental option available as mutually exclusive,” Tan said.
Renting isn’t without its drawbacks. Horror stories abound about unsuitable living conditions, micro-managing landlords with lists of rules and clashes with housemates.
When she was 26, postgraduate student Melissa (not her real name) had rented an “odd trapezium-shaped” studio apartment in the Joo Chiat area at a reduced price. The windows opened to face a wall, so it lacked ventilation and sunshine, which caused mould to grow on the walls. Eventually the rental unit proved too unconducive and she returned to her parents’ one-and-a-half years later. While the initial months required some getting used to, she said that her parents are more mindful of her privacy, though the “nagging never really goes away.”
Janice Lim, a media professional, has had to contend with “annoying” situations in the last two HDB rentals over four years. For the most part, renting has been a “journey of personal growth”, where she could forge her own routines, live a more environmentally friendly lifestyle, and learn to do basic household chores. (She admitted to being quite “pampered”.) Lim has since learnt to be savvy about the renting process and to navigate the art of difficult and awkward conversations.
In one rental at Tiong Bahru, the landlord ended up staying in more often than he had suggested he would. He would also chide her for the smallest things, like sleeping with the door open, and show preferential treatment, like stopping her from eating peanut butter on the sofa while he and the other housemate drank wine on it. Eventually, he told her that he planned to turn the room she rented into a home office. Shortly after moving out, she saw that he had listed the room again advertising for new tenants.
In the second rental, Lim encountered more challenges with her housemate, who took issue with her partner staying over and refused to let him use the shower. Sure, boundaries are important. The real problem was when the housemate said that she had no issues with Lim hosting a few friends, but later complained to the housing agent. Their relationship soured. She eventually had to give up the apartment because the landlord didn’t want to renew the lease, which also illustrated the uncertainty that renters face.
Lim observed that the rental relationship is largely skewed in favour of the landlord. Rules like no cooking or light cooking and no visitors—restrictions on things that are basic human rights—are common. It’s also become the norm to ask potential tenants for their age, gender, nationality, race, creating a system that perpetuates racism and discrimination. It’s a “cowboy town,” she said, and boils down to a lack of incentives to regulate the rental market space, which has long been seen as a realm for expatriates and low-wage workers.
Singapore abolished the Control of Rent Act in 2001, as the law had become irrelevant—the majority of Singaporeans lived in public housing. It wasn’t until the pandemic that more Singaporeans began renting and speaking out about these issues.
Lee Kuan Yew, Singapore’s first prime minister, was a key proponent of home ownership: “My other important motive was to give all parents whose sons would have to do national service a stake in the Singapore their sons had to defend,” he wrote in his memoirs. “If the soldier’s family did not own their home, he would soon conclude he would be fighting to protect the properties of the wealthy. I believed this sense of ownership was vital for our new society which had no deep roots in a common historical experience.”
Before HDB launched the Home Ownership for the People Scheme in 1964 to encourage families to own their flats, Singaporeans were only allowed to rent them. In 1968, this scheme saw a boost when the Central Provident Fund (Amendment) Act was passed to allow citizens to use their CPF savings to pay their down payments and mortgages. By the 1980s, the government had housed more than 80 percent of the population. Singapore had turned into a nation of homeowners.
Home ownership has often been portrayed as superior to renting: “The official narrative, even back in our grandparents’ day, has always been about encouraging home ownership, rather than keeping an open mind about renting,” said Ku Swee Yong, a property analyst and director at International Property Advisor. “Renting has become a bit of a taboo—it’s always ‘Oh, how come you’re renting, you’re not buying?’ It’s equated to, ‘You’re still single at 32?’ There’s a real stigma attached to it.”
In comparison, said Ku, places like Switzerland and Germany are nations of renters, largely because they have strong pro-tenant laws stemming from a “human rights standpoint”. He argued that in a “highly capitalist society” like Singapore, market forces should not be given free rein, but that measures must be put in place to ensure that tenants’ rights are better protected. Ku has mediated cases when landlords try to profiteer by drastically raising rents in the middle of a tenant’s contract.
Louis Chua, a Workers’ Party member of parliament, has argued that there “needs to be a greater diversity of housing options. But more urgently…there is a severe shortage of HDB rental flats in its various forms today, and supply is simply insufficient to meet current demands.”
HDB’s annual report shows that there were only 63,773 rental flats as of March 2021 compared to more than 1 million flats sold, of which 97 percent have one or two rooms.
Chua has called for the government to significantly raise the stock of rental flats across flat sizes, which could cater to other groups like couples who need an interim housing option while waiting for their BTO flat to be ready. He also pointed out that rental housing offers more financial freedom and a flexible and dynamic workforce. For instance, individuals can take greater calculated risks or seek alternative pathways to advance their careers, such as overseas postings and can develop a more entrepreneurial mindset. More crucially, he said, “Renting a HDB flat need not and should not be seen as a sign that you are poor and needy, and our position on rentals need to reflect that.”
Agreeing with Chua’s points, Ku said, “HDB has many schemes to encourage people to get out of the ‘rut’, and that rut to them equates to rental housing. There’s the misconception that by providing more rental housing, people will slump into laziness and Singapore will lapse into a social welfare model. But why is home ownership being elevated to something prestigious to strive towards?” Like Chua, Ku thinks that more effort could go towards expanding the range of quality rental housing that the government subsidises and regulates. This might be an appealing option for young, upwardly mobile professionals, creatives, gig workers and even retirees who have sold their property and want to live out their last days with fewer responsibilities. “By giving them a strong tenancy agreement and security, it reduces the risk of them being subject to the whims of private landlords…that HDB is there to act as a sheltered harbour,” he said.
The government would have to consider Chua’s suggestions carefully, said Sim Ann, senior minister of state in the Ministry of National Development:
“...mainstream rental represents a significant departure from our public housing policy and principles. It will reshape our social norms and could weaken our communities, because unlike home ownership where people sink their roots, rentals are more transitory. This is not something we will embark on lightly, without deep consideration.”
Many people I spoke to dream of one day owning their homes. But some feel that they've been unfairly priced out, with the market favouring the typical homeowner profile that’s also aligned with the government’s narrative.
“The whole tying of marital status and family formation to housing policy is very archaic. As singles, we’re trying to rebuild our own life. But singles have to wait till 35 to buy, and we’re priced out more than couples because of our single income,” said Lim. “Renting is good, but it’s the only option I have because of the way the housing policy is structured. I’m stuck.”
The narrative about renting is inherently problematic, argued Si Hui. Pitting the practice of renting as a by-product of liberal Western values that oppose conservative Asian ones is a straw man argument: “It’s more nuanced than that. I can still be filial to my family and care for them, even though this is the life I choose to lead,” she said. “There can be other forms of family, non-traditional or non-nuclear, which doesn’t make it any less Asian or loving.” Ultimately, she thinks that it’s hard for a strong renting culture to take root and disrupt Singapore’s home ownership model. It “doesn’t make much sense to be a nation that rents,” said Si Hui. When she lived in London people seemed trapped in a cycle, having to rent for a long time before they could afford to buy a home, which resulted in a sense of transience and little motivation to put down roots.
One year in, renting is still a tiny source of friction with my family: they’ve not visited my space; my father sometimes declares that he “doesn’t understand me”; and I reckon that, if they could, my parents might try to conceal the fact that I’ve moved out from outsiders.
Still, living apart has brought us closer, a common sentiment experienced among fellow renters. When previously we might have taken each other for granted, there’s now a conscious effort to engage in quality dinner conversations, share day-to-day updates in the family group chat and cherish whatever time we have together. (My younger sister, in Primary 5, has taken to sending me e-mails to say “Hi” for no reason, and my dad hugs me every time I visit them.)
Ironically, having lived in four different residences with my family, it’s my current room that I feel the most at home in. After a long day, nothing beats returning to this little comforting nook in the world I’ve carved out for myself. It’s a place I can call my own, at least for a little while.
Link to article here.
