She had just returned from night duty when her stepmother received the call. Something shifted in the woman’s expression—an almost imperceptible flicker of alarm—and without saying much, she quietly changed into her baju kurung.
“I need to go back,” she said simply, already pulling her scarf over her head.
“To other house?” Noorie asked. “Is everything alright?”
The older woman hesitated for a moment, then nodded, not offering any explanation. But Noorie had seen enough to know something wasn’t right. She decided to follow. The call had come from one of the neighbours—an old aunty who had noticed a man sleeping outside on the common corridor floor, curled up like a child, right in front of the flat’s metal gate. It was Osman—her stepbrother. He was still there when they arrived. Curled in a foetal position, back pressed against the wall, shoes kicked off to one side, body half-exposed under the weak corridor light.
Noorie took in the scene with a long, quiet sigh. Her stepmother didn’t say a word. She just walked over and gently tapped him on the shoulder.
“Bangun, Osman… mari masuk,” she said, her voice low, almost embarrassed. Osman stirred, blinking in the daylight, then slowly got to his feet. His gait was unsteady—sluggish and swaying, like someone drunk or heavily sedated. Without a word, he shuffled behind them as the mother unlocked the gate and opened the front door.
They walked into the house in silence. Her stepmother’s face remained blank, emotion held tightly behind her eyes. Noorie didn’t look back. She couldn’t. The shame was too much to bear—not for herself, but for the woman beside her. The neighbours had seen him. People walking by had seen him. Their family name had been seen.
In a country like Singapore, such sights were rare—this wasn’t a back alley or a forgotten kampung. This was a Housing Board flat, a corridor meant for children’s bicycles, potted plants, and laundry racks. Not sons sleeping off their high like beggars at a void deck. How humiliating it must’ve been for his mother.
“They’re like this lah… I really don’t know what to do with them anymore,” her stepmother muttered under her breath, hands deep in the sink, scrubbing at the plates that had been stacked and crusted over. Noorie stood behind her, observing the familiar rhythm—the clatter of dishes, the sigh that came from somewhere deep in the chest.
This wasn’t the sigh of fatigue. It was surrender. She turned toward the bathroom. The floor was littered with dirty clothes, stained towels, empty shampoo sachets. There was a smell—of dampness and decay, not just of space, but of living.
Noorie asked, gently, “Where’s the other one?” Her stepmother didn’t turn to look.
“Still sleeping… what else.”
Noorie walked down the corridor, stepping over a crumpled shirt, until she reached the last room. The door was ajar. She pushed it open quietly. There he was. The second son. Her other stepbrother. Lying sprawled across the single mattress, one leg half off the edge, a fan oscillating noisily in the corner. The room was stuffy, windows shut tight, the air heavy.
He was pretending to sleep—she could tell. The way his breathing shifted when she entered. He wasn’t asleep. He just didn’t want to face her. Or maybe… he didn’t want to face his brother. Because earlier that morning, he had refused to open the door. He left his brother to sleep outside, in full view of the neighbours and the world, pretending he couldn’t hear the knock, pretending he wasn’t home.
Noorie stood there for a moment, then turned to leave. What was there to say? What could she possibly say? This wasn’t just about drugs. This was about despair. About shame so deep that even brothers had stopped seeing each other as kin. About a mother torn between hope and helplessness, still doing dishes, still wiping floors, still trying to hold on to dignity in a house that had long crumbled inside.
Her stepmother sat down slowly on the edge of the old rattan chair. The house was finally quiet—both sons in their rooms, though neither asleep. The dishes were done. The clothes still lay in the toilet. Noorie handed her a warm cup of coffee without a word.
The older woman held it between her palms, more for comfort than thirst. “I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered, her voice almost too soft to hear. “They weren’t always like this, you know… when they were small, they were good boys. Osman used to follow me everywhere. So clever in school. The teachers all praised him.” She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that came from another lifetime. “I still remember when he recited the azan for the first time at the surau. His voice… so pure. Everyone clapped.”
Noorie said nothing. “But now…” her voice cracked. “Now when I look at him, I don’t recognise that boy anymore. But… he’s still my son. No matter what.” She rubbed her hands together. “The neighbours—they look at me like I’m the one who failed. As if I didn’t try hard enough. They don’t know what it’s like to see your own child shrinking right in front of your eyes. To smell the drugs on their skin, and still kiss their forehead before bed.”
Noorie reached out and placed her hand gently over hers. “You don’t need to explain,” she said quietly. “You’re doing your best.” Her stepmother nodded slowly, her eyes glistening.
“I just want peace in this house. That’s all. A bit of peace before I die.” And in that moment, Noorie saw it all—the fatigue, the grief, the enduring love that refused to let go, even when everything else already had.
She saw her father sitting alone in the living room, his eyes fixed on the television, though she could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. The TV flickered with bright colours and canned laughter, out of place in the silence of the house.
“She didn’t come back with you?” he asked, without turning.
“No. She said she wanted to settle something first and will come back later.” Noorie slipped off her shoes and walked over, lowering herself onto the sofa across from him.
“Father will go over later and bring her back. Will you be at home tonight?”
“No. I’m meeting some friends. Dinner.”
“Okay then… I’ll take her out to eat. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” He muted the TV, finally looking at her. “What do you think if we go over to your sister’s place in the US? Just for a while.”
“That’s a good idea, Dad,” Noorie nodded immediately. “I’ve been thinking about it too. You must bring her away from that house—from those boys. Maybe only then they’ll realise what it means not to have a mother at home, not someone constantly cleaning up after them, making excuses, picking up their pieces.”
She leaned back, rubbing her temple as the memory returned. “You should’ve seen the condition of the house. I was so shocked to see Osman sleeping outside like a homeless person. Right there at the corridor… like someone discarded. The neighbours must be whispering by now.”
Her father sighed. A long, slow exhale from somewhere deep inside. “This is not the first time,” he said, his voice heavy. “They’ve been fighting again. Nasir must’ve thrown him out. Doesn’t want to let him back in.”
Noorie shook her head. “I really pity her, Dad. She doesn’t deserve this. On the bus, she told me about the other son. The one who was released from the rehab centre—only to get caught again for shoplifting.” He nodded grimly. “They sent him back in.” There was silence for a while. Not the awkward kind—but the tired, resigned kind. The kind that comes when two people have run out of words to explain a world that keeps falling apart in slow motion.
Then Noorie added, softly, “She needs a break. A proper one. And so do you.”
“They caught him with the same drugs again,” her father said, his voice low with frustration. “He told the police it belonged to a friend… but if that’s true, why was it in his pocket?”
Noorie sighed. “The police aren’t stupid. The urine test must’ve come back positive.” He nodded. “They sent him back in. This time, for a longer stint.”
Silence sat between them for a moment before Noorie spoke again. “What can we even do for them, Dad?” Her voice cracked just a little. “It’s depressing. One child lost to this is already too much. But two?”
Her father’s eyes clouded. “Father doesn’t understand why they don’t just detain him permanently. He’s clearly using again. Every time they catch him, they let him go… and the cycle continues. It’s like waiting for another tragedy.”
Subutex was introduced into the Singapore market in 2002 as part of a medically supervised treatment program for opiate dependency. It was intended as a substitution therapy, designed to reduce withdrawal symptoms and cravings among heroin addicts. The idea was that by stabilizing the user, they could better reintegrate into society—hold down jobs, rebuild personal relationships, and avoid relapse.
However, instead of being taken as prescribed (sublingually), Subutex was soon misused and injected, often in combination with other drugs such as Dormicum. This marked the beginning of the so-called "needle injection culture" in Singapore.
The situation became a public health concern. Instead of helping abusers recover, Subutex inadvertently created a new wave of intravenous drug use, complicating the addiction landscape and raising risks of disease transmission. Subutex became a classical example of a good medical intention gone wrong—a harm-reduction measure that, without proper regulation and oversight, led to unexpected and damaging consequences.
“Father has spoken to them many times. For a while they listen… then it all starts again. All because of their friends’ influence. If only we could stop those friends from contacting them… maybe things would be different.”
“Alternatively, we could try sending him to a private rehabilitation center. I read about one in Johor, run by ex-addicts themselves. But he has to go in voluntarily. If we can just persuade him… maybe there’s still hope. At least we could do something to help Mak Cik. She’s suffered so much because of them.”
She paused. “That’s why I think it’s a good idea for you to bring her to visit Sister in the US. You should stay there longer this time. Only then maybe… just maybe… those two will finally wake up. Sometimes, people don’t realise what they have until it’s gone. Maybe then… they’ll know what their mother really means to them.”
Chpt 25 / 36
