Remembering Syed

The following piece, by Sabrena Jefri-Tan, was written in memory of Syed Suhail bin Syed Zin, who was executed on 23 January 2025. Sabrena and Syed were in a relationship right up until his arrest in 2011.

On 23 January 2025, a man I deeply loved was executed by the state in Singapore. He had been on death row for almost 10 years, and I vividly remember the day he was arrested in our shared home.

Some wounds never heal.

To kill a man, there was no fanfare or compassion involved, just a simple, taut rope to end Syed’s life—expeditious and efficient, true to my home country’s reputation. Did he suffer and cry out in his last moments? Was he afraid? I should know better than to ask these questions. I know too much.

But there are other important things I know, too.

Syed Suhail bin Syed Zin was an extraordinary man.

I always joked that if he were free from the shackles of addiction, he would have collected at least three PhDs. What else would you expect from a person with photographic memory, limitless intellectual curiosity and perseverance? So much perseverance against the odds he'd been dealt. He was tall as a giant, with the heart of a kitten and an impeccable taste in music. For all his brightness, he deserved to shine.

Singapore, with its glossy and modern appearance, is not kind to those who fall through the cracks of its society. Picture a country that would rather hose down a teenager in rehab with freezing water than provide competent mental health support. If you think that’s barbaric, picture a country that would rather kill its most vulnerable members of society rather than institute proper support systems like:

• Treating addiction as a physical disease, not a personal choice
• Moving away from stigma and punishment towards compassion and understanding
• Abolishing mandatory medical reporting to the authorities of patients struggling with drug use

Imagine that your home is also your torturer, jailer and executioner. Since 2022, 26 people, including Syed, have been killed in Singapore, most of them for drug offences. About another 50 people remain on death row. Entire families are devastated.

Everyone has a story. Syed deserved to be heard and understood and supported, yet the systems in place failed him completely. When he lost his mother to cancer as a young boy and fell in with the wrong crowd, he found solace in drugs. Recreational at first, then gradually, when the emotional pain was too great, the harder stuff. He tried, so many times, to kick the addiction. He tried until the very last day of his freedom. I would know; I was there to witness his falls, hopes, dreams and resilience for a better future. I was there to hold him through endless cycles of withdrawal. Syed was the living embodiment of my favourite Japanese proverb: "Fall down seven times, get up eight."

Every day was a fight against the wheel of shame and stigma. The government might argue that Syed was given multiple chances to be an upstanding member of society—he'd been arrested before, been to “rehab” and given job opportunities. They might say that he'd been arrested in possession with intent to sell—a fate shared by many people who, driven by their dependence on substance use, resort to desperate measures. All this is true. But truer still was his struggle with mental health and the inadequacies of the services the country had to offer. Concepts like harm reduction, unconditional positive regard and cultural humility are generally alien to Singapore's mental health field, even now. What really hurts is the knowledge that Syed’s death was a game of luck. Had he been lucky enough to be born in a place where his struggles were more understood, his life would have looked very different. Luck dictates whether the crime you’re arrested for will be paid in blood or not. The death penalty postures as a righteous, moral thing. But the truth is that killing is killing. Just because something is written into law doesn't make it ethical.

Syed was 48 years young when he received a letter that said: We will kill you in four days.

Expeditious. Efficient. Cruel. Dehumanising. Shameful. Ignorant. These are the words that come to mind when I think about my country. It isn’t lost on me that the very place I feel homesick for, where my own father and grandmother and grandfather are buried, is also a place that murders its citizens.

Let me weep bitter tears, even though Syed would probably chide me for it. In his last letter to the world, he bore no resentment, just deep concern for his fellow inmates waiting for their own letters. Even after years of fighting for an appeal and a presidential pardon, he demonstrated grace to his “fellow Singaporeans” till the very end.

I am not so forgiving. I am livid and heartbroken. But I also want to acknowledge that Syed gave me an eternal gift. His arrival and absence in my life is what has fueled my passion to support others in their mental health. A decade later and halfway across the world, I'm now training to be the kind of clinician who could have helped someone like him. Someone who would have listened and cared. I work with patients who struggle with substance use and I see them for who they are: imperfect human beings, just like Syed, whose lives mean so much more than their addiction.

Many years have passed since I've laid eyes on Syed or since we wrote to each other (don’t even get me started on his fancy penmanship). In one of our last exchanges, Syed made some awfully good puns. This is how I will always remember him: a gentle giant, full of wit, love and light.

I have since married and built a wonderful life in a foreign country I am grateful for each day. Maybe one day I will return home to a changed society that understands the difference between justice and punishment, or between tolerance and acceptance.

For now, let me grieve knowing that in my own journey of healing, Syed lives.