On March 4, 2025, Singapore’s Minister of State for Home Affairs, Sun Xueling, announced that the city-state is contemplating caning as a punishment for scammers in severe cases, spotlighting the devastating toll of scams that stripped victims of a record $1.1 billion in 2024 alone. This proposal, aired during a parliamentary debate, underscores a hardline stance against a crime that preys on trust and leaves financial carnage in its wake.
Yet, as this potential penalty looms, a provocative question emerges: will the self-righteous brigade of anti-death penalty advocates—those I’ll dub “pro-drug mule supporters” for their tendency to lionize traffickers as misunderstood victims—redirect their sanctimonious fervor to shield scammers from the rod?
Let’s be clear: the pro-drug mule crowd has long cloaked itself in moral superiority, tirelessly campaigning against capital punishment for drug traffickers.
Their narrative is predictable—poverty, desperation, or coercion, they argue, drives these “unfortunate souls” to smuggle narcotics across borders. Never mind that their actions flood communities with addiction and death; the focus remains on systemic inequities, painting traffickers as mere pawns in a cruel world. It’s a convenient tale, one that sidesteps personal accountability and elevates socioeconomic hardship to a get-out-of-jail-free card. Now, with caning on the table for scammers, the parallels are striking: both groups often hail from disadvantaged backgrounds, both exploit vulnerabilities for profit, and both leave victims in their wake. So, will these activists pivot their mission to embrace scammers as their next cause célèbre?
The hypocrisy of such a shift would be laughable if it weren’t so predictable. Scammers, like drug mules, frequently come from low-income families—a fact that pro-drug mule supporters would likely seize upon to argue against caning. They might claim that these individuals, too, are “victims of circumstance,” forced into deceit by a lack of opportunity. But let’s dissect this logic. Scammers don’t just stumble into phishing schemes or fake investment pitches; they actively devise and execute plans to defraud, often targeting the elderly or naive. In 2024, Singapore saw scam losses soar past $1 billion, with cases like a Clementi resident losing her life savings to overseas accounts via local mules. This isn’t a petty theft born of hunger—it’s calculated predation. If poverty excuses scamming, does it also absolve robbery or extortion? Where’s the line?
Critics might argue I’m too harsh, that I’m dismissing the structural inequalities these advocates love to trumpet.
Sure, low-income environments can limit options, but the leap from hardship to harming others isn’t inevitable—it’s a choice. Drug mules opt to ferry poison; scammers opt to fleece the vulnerable. The pro-drug mule camp’s obsession with context over consequence conveniently ignores the agency behind these acts. They’d rather weep for the perpetrator than the pensioner bankrupted by a scam call. If they extend this leniency to scammers, they’ll prove their crusade isn’t about justice—it’s about fetishizing the underdog, no matter the cost to society.
And what of the victims? Sun Xueling’s push for caning reflects a recognition of the “serious harm” scammers inflict—financial ruin, emotional trauma, even bankruptcy. A Jurong MP recounted a constituent’s despair after losing everything, a story echoed across Singapore’s 2024 scam statistics. Yet, the pro-drug mule supporters rarely spare a thought for the families shattered by drug addiction or, in this case, the lives upended by fraud. Their empathy seems reserved for the lawbreaker, not the law-abiding. Should they rally against caning for scammers, they’ll expose this lopsided morality anew—championing the sob story of the cane-bound while the scammed sob alone.
There’s a deeper flaw in their potential pivot: it undermines deterrence.
Caning, like the death penalty, sends a message—cross this line, and the consequences sting. Singapore’s low crime rates don’t come from coddling; they stem from clarity. If scammers know a few lashes await, they might think twice before hitting “send” on that next fake SMS. But if the pro-drug mule crowd succeeds in softening this stance, they’ll embolden the very behavior they claim to contextualize. They did it with drug trafficking—decades of sob stories haven’t stemmed the tide of mules—and they could do it again here, leaving Singaporeans defenseless against a rising scam epidemic.
So, will these advocates turn their gaze to scammers? I’d wager yes. Their track record suggests an addiction to defending the indefensible, a compulsion to spin every criminal into a martyr. But let’s not be fooled: their mission isn’t noble—it’s naive at best, cynical at worst. Scammers and drug mules aren’t hapless victims; they’re architects of misery. If the pro-drug mule supporters can’t see that, they’re not just questioning caning—they’re questioning reality. Singapore should stand firm, cane in hand, and let the sanctimonious squawk. The rest of us have victims to protect.
