Kurt Ganapathy heads out to the streets of Singapore with a camera in hand to capture life as we know it during this COVID-19 season.
As coronavirus spreads around the world, images of abandoned spaces, panic buying and exhausted medical professionals have become the norm.
But together with these pictures have come stories of humanity, perseverance and, as Singaporeans like to call it, kampung spirit.
Singapore was hit early on, with its first case reported on January 23, and the number of cases in the country has risen steadily since then.
But, by and large, we’ve rolled with the punches, supported the fight against the virus and cheered good news whenever it’s come in.
And while people in Singapore are taking extra precautions and playing it smart wherever possible (wash your hands and don’t touch your face!), that doesn’t mean we’re living in a climate of fear.
As Kurt Ganapathy found heading out to the city centre and Changi Airport, it’s very much a case of business (almost) as usual as people walk on with quiet resolve.
Photography: Kurt Ganapathy
Curation: Arman Shah
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![[Content warning – this profile piece discusses the subject of suicide that may be sensitive and potentially triggering. Reader discretion is advised. Information about seeking help is available at the end of the carousel post. Stay safe]
“My brother died 8 years ago. I was at home when I found out. It was a Friday night, and I was on a long-distance call with my partner who was in Europe at the time. At 1am, I got up from bed to go to the toilet. That’s when I saw my mum crying alone in the living room.
My mum isn’t a particularly emotional person. I’ve probably seen her cry three times my whole life. I was worried and concerned, of course, and asked what’s going on. She turned to me and said, ‘I have bad news. Joel died.’
When a sibling dies unexpectedly, it takes time for you to process the news. And then you realise that your family will never be the same again. You will never be full or complete anymore. There is only brokenness. And that was the first emotion that hit me really hard.
The next morning, we got more details, and I learnt that he killed himself. When someone commits suicide, family is required to identify the body at the mortuary. My mum said, ‘Look, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.’ And I’m thinking, how can I let you do this alone?!
Even though I could sense a heaviness in the air around her, my mother looked relatively composed. But when they wheeled in the body, she simply broke. She kept saying that it’s not him. It’s not him. It doesn’t look like him. I had never seen that side of her before.
My mother was always put together, but at that moment, she sounded like a young mother who had just lost her newborn baby. It was less heartbreaking that I lost my brother, and more painful that I had to see her that way.
When my brother was 12, he moved out of the house and lived with my grandmother. I never knew why. Maybe it’s because we weren’t well-to-do. Maybe it’s because our parents didn’t have the best of relationships. I was his younger sister, but I didn’t know much about him.
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