When Isetan announced it would close its Tampines Mall outlet in November 2025 after almost three decades in operation, it wasn’t just a regular business winding up. It signalled to me the death of the Singaporean shopping mall template I have a love-hate relationship with, where a department store is the anchor tenant.
This wasn’t the only change in the past few years to the Singapore I grew up with. Each loss was made more pronounced against the post-pandemic landscape, where practically nothing was familiar anymore.
Several longtime or heritage businesses shuttered too, with a string of notable closures in expatriate enclave Holland Village, like the 80-year institution Thambi magazine store, party shop Khiam Teck and furniture business Lim’s Holland Village.
Then there was the slow death of cinemagoing, once a classic Singaporean pastime. Filmgarde Cineplexes exited the market in March after 18 years, while Cathay’s operator mm2 Asia in the same month continued its slew of closures, shutting down its sixth theatre in three years.
No matter the change, public reactions, perhaps predictably, centred around nostalgia. But this prevailing sentiment isn’t mere romanticism of the past.
I’ve found it masks deeper, unspoken anxieties about our shifting identity. Do we miss the physical entity that’s vanishing, or do we really miss the time and people we used to be that it represents?
Plus, what does it even mean to be Singaporean?
Some might say that it's our penchant for “chope-ing” (reserving) seats at hawker centres with tissue packets. Others might highlight our world class airport and Singlish – two hallmarks of Singaporean efficiency.
There’s also our multiculturalism, “kiasu” mentality (being afraid to lose), cookie-cutter shopping malls, grouchy taxi uncles, standardised Housing and Development Board (HDB) flats, and a peculiar belief that our food is better than Malaysia’s.
The way I see it, however, the crux of our national identity is less about these tangible anchors than our existential need for them.
This desire is most evident in nostalgia – increasingly common and inevitable in a country where change and progress are synonyms.
As a millennial digital native, I recognise that social media makes nostalgia more contagious too, creating an algorithm-aggravated collective pining for a past we never knew.
It’s captured in one popular Facebook group, for starters: Heritage SG Memories. Pictures of Wisma Atria’s iconic giant aquarium, for example, tend to see many members reminiscing about the days it was the standard meeting spot.
The aquarium, demolished in 2008, only featured occasionally as a gathering point in my memory – but I can’t be certain. Like plenty on social media, nostalgia also gets reduced to the most relatable anecdote, and I end up inheriting and remembering experiences I didn’t quite live through.
And this cultural yearning is only likely to increase, with rapid urban evolution the norm in a land scarce nation.
Lepak Downstairs, a photo series by hobbyist photographer Jonathan Tan, that captures bench designs rarely seen in newer HDB flats. (Photo: Instagram/jontannn)
Hobbyist photographer Jonathan Tan noticed a similar sentiment when he started Lepak Downstairs – a photo series of old-school stools and tables found at HDB void decks.
Some people told him they appreciated his effort to “capture history in photos”, the 36-year-old said. Without such quaint designs anymore, newer Build-to-Order (BTO) flats “don’t have character”.
“I think people get emotional when these things disappear because there isn’t really a replacement. It feels like the disappearance isn’t justified. You’re taking a piece of their childhood … their memories away, but there’s nothing put in place for it,” he added.
So, it seems to many that being Singaporean – or at least having a sense of belonging to this country – lies in constantly navigating the gap between preservation and progress.
It’s a process often steeped in nostalgia.
The creator behind the Instagram account @hdb_mrt, whose film photos reflect a familiar overtone of longing, said he started the account almost a decade ago partly because he was “searching for this idea of home”.
Syafiq, who requested to only use his first name, said he didn’t just want to capture the older parts of Singapore that may soon disappear, but to “remember what we have now and to contemplate what it means to live in this country, to live as Singaporeans, to experience the world as we do”.
“Within that is also a sense of nostalgia,” the 36-year-old said. “Because the search for home is nostalgic in nature.”
To him, nostalgia is a “longing for a place, time, event or feeling that we cannot go back to”. It’s an emotion that “only exists when we have loss” and has to do with “how things have changed so much so quickly within our lifetime”, such as realising our childhood neighbourhoods are no longer the same.
Heritage educator and millennial Ho Yong Min has similarly observed that his generation is starting to wonder: “Are the places that I’m growing up in starting to be lost?”
The “trade-offs” create a “tension in our hearts”, believes the 41-year-old founder of The Urbanist Singapore, a content platform dedicated to heritage storytelling amid urban design.
“In Singapore where every square metre is optimised, it tightens the sense of how spaces are so precious. I think it becomes psychological angst for folks who are growing up and witnessing change, (knowing) that obviously has to be balanced out with the need for change. So it’s very complex.”
There is “a bit of a paradox” to negotiate living in Singapore, added Dr Felicity Chan from the Lee Kuan Yew Centre for Innovative Cities at the Singapore University of Technology and Design (SUTD).
“To enjoy Singapore, you must be very adaptable to change, but we also know that people like stability,” said the deputy director for the Master of Science in Urban Science, Policy and Planning.
Perhaps then, as Syafiq suggested, our nostalgia is also an “inability to be satisfied with what we have now” and a “reckoning of the present”. His photography, although it may resemble vignettes of a simpler Singapore, thus compels viewers to reflect on what it means to “be in the now”.
Some may argue the cure for nostalgia is not to get overly attached to anything – a neighbourhood shop, a local business, a daily path you take to work – in the first place.
SUTD's Dr Chan noted that it has become "quintessential Singaporean to rationalise and not hold onto things too tightly".
"We’ve learnt to accept that one cannot expect things to stay the same way for a long time … And because things change so quickly, you don’t even realise that you haven’t had enough time to develop the depth of emotions before (a place) is gone.”
Yet, forming attachment is only human nature. To deny ourselves that experience in exchange for an easier time letting go in future isn’t pragmatism, just cynicism.
And despite our best efforts, nostalgia resurfaces time and again. Even youth may start experiencing nostalgia at a much younger age too, being exposed to increasing online content about urban change in Singapore.
As a full-time educator, Syafiq said his students, most in their mid-teens, aren’t often “given credit” for the nostalgic feelings they have for their childhood. But he believes this nostalgia will inadvertently mould their Singaporean identity as they grow up.
Seeing nostalgia as integral to nation-building may hence better reveal what anchors our sense of belonging from an earlier age.
After all, as Dr Chan observed, the search for identity among youths is a lot more "acute" than in someone older, when there is more identity "stability".
With physical symbols of heritage, Ho from The Urbanist Singapore believes it’s important to take a “more nuanced view” to get people thinking about what heritage means to them. He focuses on how to respect and pay homage to our heritage rather than the “total loss” whenever a building or business disappears.
“Because heritage actually comes from the word ‘inheritance’. It’s something that we can steward from generation to generation,” he said.
“So while there is a feeling of loss, there’s also a recognition that there are government agencies like HDB and the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA) that do what they can to try to infuse heritage and history into urban planning or a new estate that’s being developed.
“The question isn’t whether to develop, but how to integrate memory into progress. I feel that is the more constructive way forward – and obviously the ‘how’ to integrate is important. It should not be something cursory.”
Ultimately, things don’t have to last forever to leave a mark, even if that runs counter to the Singaporean instinct for stability.
While knowing this may not dull the weight of our perennial nostalgia, it just means nostalgia is as baked into our DNA as a desire for economic progress. For in a country where change is the only constant, loss is too.
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This wasn’t the only change in the past few years to the Singapore I grew up with. Each loss was made more pronounced against the post-pandemic landscape, where practically nothing was familiar anymore.
Several longtime or heritage businesses shuttered too, with a string of notable closures in expatriate enclave Holland Village, like the 80-year institution Thambi magazine store, party shop Khiam Teck and furniture business Lim’s Holland Village.
Then there was the slow death of cinemagoing, once a classic Singaporean pastime. Filmgarde Cineplexes exited the market in March after 18 years, while Cathay’s operator mm2 Asia in the same month continued its slew of closures, shutting down its sixth theatre in three years.
No matter the change, public reactions, perhaps predictably, centred around nostalgia. But this prevailing sentiment isn’t mere romanticism of the past.
I’ve found it masks deeper, unspoken anxieties about our shifting identity. Do we miss the physical entity that’s vanishing, or do we really miss the time and people we used to be that it represents?
Plus, what does it even mean to be Singaporean?
OUR NATIONAL IDENTITY
Some might say that it's our penchant for “chope-ing” (reserving) seats at hawker centres with tissue packets. Others might highlight our world class airport and Singlish – two hallmarks of Singaporean efficiency.
There’s also our multiculturalism, “kiasu” mentality (being afraid to lose), cookie-cutter shopping malls, grouchy taxi uncles, standardised Housing and Development Board (HDB) flats, and a peculiar belief that our food is better than Malaysia’s.
The way I see it, however, the crux of our national identity is less about these tangible anchors than our existential need for them.
This desire is most evident in nostalgia – increasingly common and inevitable in a country where change and progress are synonyms.
As a millennial digital native, I recognise that social media makes nostalgia more contagious too, creating an algorithm-aggravated collective pining for a past we never knew.
It’s captured in one popular Facebook group, for starters: Heritage SG Memories. Pictures of Wisma Atria’s iconic giant aquarium, for example, tend to see many members reminiscing about the days it was the standard meeting spot.
The aquarium, demolished in 2008, only featured occasionally as a gathering point in my memory – but I can’t be certain. Like plenty on social media, nostalgia also gets reduced to the most relatable anecdote, and I end up inheriting and remembering experiences I didn’t quite live through.
And this cultural yearning is only likely to increase, with rapid urban evolution the norm in a land scarce nation.
Lepak Downstairs, a photo series by hobbyist photographer Jonathan Tan, that captures bench designs rarely seen in newer HDB flats. (Photo: Instagram/jontannn)
Hobbyist photographer Jonathan Tan noticed a similar sentiment when he started Lepak Downstairs – a photo series of old-school stools and tables found at HDB void decks.
Some people told him they appreciated his effort to “capture history in photos”, the 36-year-old said. Without such quaint designs anymore, newer Build-to-Order (BTO) flats “don’t have character”.
“I think people get emotional when these things disappear because there isn’t really a replacement. It feels like the disappearance isn’t justified. You’re taking a piece of their childhood … their memories away, but there’s nothing put in place for it,” he added.
THE “TENSION” IN NOSTALGIA
So, it seems to many that being Singaporean – or at least having a sense of belonging to this country – lies in constantly navigating the gap between preservation and progress.
It’s a process often steeped in nostalgia.
The creator behind the Instagram account @hdb_mrt, whose film photos reflect a familiar overtone of longing, said he started the account almost a decade ago partly because he was “searching for this idea of home”.
Syafiq, who requested to only use his first name, said he didn’t just want to capture the older parts of Singapore that may soon disappear, but to “remember what we have now and to contemplate what it means to live in this country, to live as Singaporeans, to experience the world as we do”.
“Within that is also a sense of nostalgia,” the 36-year-old said. “Because the search for home is nostalgic in nature.”
To him, nostalgia is a “longing for a place, time, event or feeling that we cannot go back to”. It’s an emotion that “only exists when we have loss” and has to do with “how things have changed so much so quickly within our lifetime”, such as realising our childhood neighbourhoods are no longer the same.
Heritage educator and millennial Ho Yong Min has similarly observed that his generation is starting to wonder: “Are the places that I’m growing up in starting to be lost?”
The “trade-offs” create a “tension in our hearts”, believes the 41-year-old founder of The Urbanist Singapore, a content platform dedicated to heritage storytelling amid urban design.
“In Singapore where every square metre is optimised, it tightens the sense of how spaces are so precious. I think it becomes psychological angst for folks who are growing up and witnessing change, (knowing) that obviously has to be balanced out with the need for change. So it’s very complex.”
There is “a bit of a paradox” to negotiate living in Singapore, added Dr Felicity Chan from the Lee Kuan Yew Centre for Innovative Cities at the Singapore University of Technology and Design (SUTD).
“To enjoy Singapore, you must be very adaptable to change, but we also know that people like stability,” said the deputy director for the Master of Science in Urban Science, Policy and Planning.
Perhaps then, as Syafiq suggested, our nostalgia is also an “inability to be satisfied with what we have now” and a “reckoning of the present”. His photography, although it may resemble vignettes of a simpler Singapore, thus compels viewers to reflect on what it means to “be in the now”.
HOW WE CAN EMBRACE NOSTALGIA’S INFLUENCE
Some may argue the cure for nostalgia is not to get overly attached to anything – a neighbourhood shop, a local business, a daily path you take to work – in the first place.
SUTD's Dr Chan noted that it has become "quintessential Singaporean to rationalise and not hold onto things too tightly".
"We’ve learnt to accept that one cannot expect things to stay the same way for a long time … And because things change so quickly, you don’t even realise that you haven’t had enough time to develop the depth of emotions before (a place) is gone.”
Yet, forming attachment is only human nature. To deny ourselves that experience in exchange for an easier time letting go in future isn’t pragmatism, just cynicism.
And despite our best efforts, nostalgia resurfaces time and again. Even youth may start experiencing nostalgia at a much younger age too, being exposed to increasing online content about urban change in Singapore.
As a full-time educator, Syafiq said his students, most in their mid-teens, aren’t often “given credit” for the nostalgic feelings they have for their childhood. But he believes this nostalgia will inadvertently mould their Singaporean identity as they grow up.
Seeing nostalgia as integral to nation-building may hence better reveal what anchors our sense of belonging from an earlier age.
After all, as Dr Chan observed, the search for identity among youths is a lot more "acute" than in someone older, when there is more identity "stability".
With physical symbols of heritage, Ho from The Urbanist Singapore believes it’s important to take a “more nuanced view” to get people thinking about what heritage means to them. He focuses on how to respect and pay homage to our heritage rather than the “total loss” whenever a building or business disappears.
“Because heritage actually comes from the word ‘inheritance’. It’s something that we can steward from generation to generation,” he said.
“So while there is a feeling of loss, there’s also a recognition that there are government agencies like HDB and the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA) that do what they can to try to infuse heritage and history into urban planning or a new estate that’s being developed.
“The question isn’t whether to develop, but how to integrate memory into progress. I feel that is the more constructive way forward – and obviously the ‘how’ to integrate is important. It should not be something cursory.”
Ultimately, things don’t have to last forever to leave a mark, even if that runs counter to the Singaporean instinct for stability.
While knowing this may not dull the weight of our perennial nostalgia, it just means nostalgia is as baked into our DNA as a desire for economic progress. For in a country where change is the only constant, loss is too.
Continue reading...