Mummy, you were only a child, this was the only life you knew and played in except grandpa was rolling life’s dice with drugs.

I was confused about what even was a "halfway house". All I knew was that grandpa needed to live there before returning to us. It was only much later when I listened to your stories that I began to piece your experiences together. You were only 10 when the weight of the world was too much for your tiny, little innocent feet. At 10, when children ran and played in the playgrounds, running with bubbling laughter under the bright sun, you were confined indoors. Not because you wanted to, but your dad could not keep his mind and body steady enough for you to look up to him as a father. At 10, you wanted to play with the other kids but saw your dad playing with white snow that you believed was candy.

While my mother's story is personal, it reflects a broader issue affecting many children. In the US, more than 8 million children live with parents who regularly abuse drugs (Lander et al., 2019). Although Singapore does not provide statistics like the above, we cannot discount the many children who live such experiences. The impact of parental drug abuse on family dynamics is profound, leading to a higher likelihood of emotional and behavioural problems among children (Finan et al., 2015; Hussong et al., 2010, as cited in Lowthian, 2022). Unfortunately, they may not break the cycle and end up following their parents into a life of degeneration with drugs (Ministry of Home Affairs, 2021). This disruption often leaves a constant void of a healthy attachment with their parents. The lack of parental love can reinforce a child’s beliefs that they are not worthy of such love and may cause the child to exhibit behaviours that we would consider delinquency or callousness. In reality, a parent’s love can tame the tempest within a child. These children are not just mere statistics in the fight against drugs, they are children with a whole life waiting for them. They deserve to be uplifted and not torn down by circumstances beyond their control.

To fully grasp the impact of parental drug abuse on children, it is essential to consider Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs), which are traumatic events in childhood that include abuse and household dysfunction (Richardson, n.d.). For instance, having a parent who abuses drugs adds a point to a child's ACE score. Given the dysfunctional reality of these children, their ACE scores would increase significantly as drug abuse is often linked to neglect and other household dysfunction (Kuppen et al., 2020). Over time, this prolonged trauma can lead to a cascade of issues from health to education, and socioeconomic prospects.

As a result of this constant stress and trauma, these children are likely to grow up with a lifetime of depressive episodes that can eventually lead to suicide attempts (Anda, 2018). Furthermore, they are likely to experience worse health outcomes such as an increase in heart problems and diabetes.

Physical health is not the only area in life that takes the blow from drugs; the long-lasting effects of a dysfunctional family due to drug abuse create an environment that hinders these children from excelling in other aspects of life, such as academic performance. For instance, children of drug abusers often face conduct problems and disciplinary issues in school, which can result in suspensions, further impeding their educational progress (Lowthian, 2022). Their issues in schools do not just stop there as these children are also likely to view themselves as average or below-average students, a reflection of the low self-esteem fostered by their home environment (Lowthian, 2022). Though we may see the above as individual problems, parental drug abuse can disrupt a child’s life which can cause a plethora of issues.

As the twig is bent, so grows the tree. A child is a reflection of their parent’s upbringing. Sow their childhood with love and care and watch their precious flourish in life. However, as this essay has shown, life rears its ugly head on the innocent. The dwindling mercurial highs of drugs are not worth the lifetime of lows their child faces. I would like to think that after all these years my mother has gotten over her father’s constant relapses, but I know that the girl within her knows she deserves a better life. A life away from the bitterness of her younger days, and perhaps a true chance to reconnect with her father.

Wherever my grandpa is now, I pray that he finds peace after all these years.

He asserted, “If you still come in with kilos of [certain prohibited drugs], which will destroy hundreds, thousands of families, one death is too kind.” Similarly, throughout his years in office, Mr Lee was questioned incessantly on his unwavering stance to execute drug traffickers. Yet, his steadfast, radical and unorthodox stance has aged well; he was a visionary who discerned that allowing drug abusers their self-indulgent state of being ‘high’ would equate to their loved ones’ lives hitting new lows.

I vividly remember proudly donning the Anti-Drug ribbon and vowing to #saynotodrugs since the ripe age of seven. This memory was later buttressed by my discoveries of the insidious psychological effects of drug consumption through various media sources. Specifically, with the decriminalisation of drug use in Oregon in 2020, I pored over videos panning over the dystopian downtown area littered with slumped bodies and listless wandering faces — a lasting impression of the widespread, real-world impacts of drugs on a city. The spill-over effects on third parties, however, often remain understated.

“I didn’t know at that time, was it my brother speaking, or the drug speaking.” Gina’s account of dissonance at encountering a family member addled by drugs will forever be etched in my mind. Her story represents countless other nameless family members hurting because they struggle to reconcile their adoration and respect for family displaying abusive behaviour under the influence. Imagine being threatened by your own biological brother for money for drugs under the threat that he would reclaim his own daughter, your niece, from your care whilst horrifyingly insinuating that he would do awful things to her if the money was not forthcoming. This is Gina’s very account of her being between a rock and a hard place. Filial piety is deeply rooted in our Asian heritage — caring for family because the same blood flows through our veins. Yet, when drugs alter one’s brain chemistry and heighten one’s dependence on drugs for certain chemicals, even loved ones may become irrational and oftentimes unrecognisable. As such, the continuous defensive stance family members have to take against others and themselves when picking up after their loved but unrecognisable drug-abusing family members is taxing — both on their mental and physical well-being.

Furthermore, we are all complicit in shouldering the cost of drug abuse. According to the National Institute of Drug Abuse in the United States of America, an estimated 65 percent of the United States prison population has an active Substance Use Disorder (SUD). While these are not local statistics, they are an eerie premonition of how drug usage correlates with crime rates. As taxpayers, because of drug abuse, we would be forking out up to 65 percent more to incarcerate criminals if not for our strict drug laws. Consequently, the sentiment of drug abusers being financial burdens to the general population may arise, brewing resentment and a lack of empathy towards them and a rift in our already diverse society.

Regrettably, the number of arrested drug abusers in Singapore aged below 20 years old increased by 8 percent in 2023 from 2022, according to CNB. This increase could be attributed to the glamorisation of drug consumption by the entertainment industry. As a young adult myself, I am uncomfortably aware of posts on social media and television shows skewing drug abuse to be ‘cool’. Romanticising the abuse of drugs is not uncommon, with productions like HBO’s Euphoria (2019) and The Idol (2023) depicting idolised A-list actors consuming high doses of drugs. Culture is of paramount importance. Yet, impressionable youths must be redirected to the cold hard reality of drugs with increased and accurate public education.

At this juncture, allow me to dissect Singapore’s strategies aimed at preventing drug use. Though it seems obvious, the stalwart resolve to not legalise drug use is of paramount importance. If left to weaker leadership willing to accede to global trends, Singapore could earn millions, if not billions, in revenue merely by legalising drugs. From tourism receipts being bound to exponentially increase alongside the gains from heavy taxation, legalising drug use could very much be a rational economic decision for our Little Red Dot. However, this idea is unfathomable to the average Singaporean as we continue to stand behind the decision to impose capital punishment for the trafficking of drugs in tandem with our public education highlighting the adverse effects of drugs.

Singaporeans, however, must keep in mind that while we may neither condone nor support drug abuse, we must support drug victims as a friend, neighbour and fellow citizen.

My sister had to be reminded as she stood at the foot of Jaddi’s hospital bed. Tubes were being fed into my granduncle’s nostrils. The beeping of his heart rate monitor sliced through the room in short intervals. The cold and too clean of an environment in the minuscule room encompassing of white walls never felt inviting. Just desolate, as if taunting and reminding us all of what actions had led him there.

I was home then, asleep and unsuspecting that that night would be the last time I saw Jaddi or when he would take his final breath. The double digits of my age were a contradiction to how naive and oblivious I had been.

I was nine when the police parked their car at the parking lot of my block. Red and blue sirens and all. I was told to stay in the room while they took Jaddi away. My grandmother’s frown bunched together along with her wrinkles. She was crying. Lips tugged downwards and the brown in her eyes glossed from her hot tears. “He needs to go to the bathroom. Just let him go to the bathroom before you take him. Please," she was saying in Malay. I remember her being angry. “Go to sleep,” I tried fighting the anxious knot tightening in my chest and pushing away the waves of apprehension causing the turmoil inside of me. No one told me much.

Jaddi spent years in rehab for drug abuse.

When I saw him for the first time in years, it was like seeing the shell of him. His body changed dramatically. Gangly and exacerbated by the extra-large AC/DC shirts he always wore. His gargantuan glasses sitting on the sharpness that was his skinny face. You could have cut the tension in the room with a knife. I could not talk to him naturally after years apart. It was disconcerting how I used to know everything about him and then nothing much. But, this was my Jaddi. The same person who asked me to stand on his back when it was aching, who put a picture of my painting as his phone wallpaper, who never failed to send me “Relax! It’s the weekend!” pictures on WhatsApp weekly.

I rarely speak to my family about Jaddi. Whenever we do talk about him, it is to remind one another to pray for him as he lies, waiting in the grave for the afterlife. But as much as time can break your heart, it gives and mends too. My mother sat down with me and told me the things I ached to know years ago. Jaddi started taking drugs a long time ago, back in the 80s. He never showed signs because he made sure to take them without any of us around. No one saw him slur his words, lash out or act high out of his mind. Just his caring personality, banter with his older sister and lopsided smile while he smoked his cigarette, his familiar smell easy to detect. They tried talking him out of doing drugs. But the sinkhole always pulled him in again. Friends found him again. The temporary euphoria from a high stealing him away from us again. Again and again.

I did not cry when I first heard that he passed away. It did not register. But when I saw my family members carrying him, wrapped in white cloth, I felt the weight of the number of “I love you-s,” or “How was your day, Jaddi-s?” I did not manage to say. I felt the decades of years he missed living dawning on me and then being snatched away as he got carried away to be buried. I cried in front of everyone then, not even aware of the multitude of pats or hugs I had that morning.

Whenever my grandmother prays now, she prays for Jaddi too. I wonder how she actually feels, wonder if we had just tried a little harder, pushed him a little more, maybe the outcome could have been different. I wonder if I could have been more to make him want to stop. To make him change for us.

But Jaddi had his struggles too. Fighting on his own battlefield.

It’s true. He shouldn't have dealt with things that way. Now I try to remember what I can of him. Because beyond being a drug addict, he was my granduncle, the youngest of four siblings, a lover forced into a winless fight. “Jangan lupa untuk berdoa untuk Jaddi,” they said – Don’t forget to pray for Jaddi.