Peace Centre showed the best of youth unleashed in Singapore - warm, inclusive, enterprising and safe

BEFORE it finally closed at the weekend, Peace Centre had become that rare, uplifting story with no downsides. It was a courageous, hands-off social experiment that actually worked in Singapore, offering artistic and entrepreneurial spaces to young people. It was also a time portal. The mall took me back to my days as a nightclub impresario. When I was 17.

That’s right. Nothing gives me greater joy than to point out that the secret to writing 30 books is not the imposed constraints of a tuition centre, but the freedom to improvise an income on an East London housing estate by organising nightclub events. At 17.

Legally, I couldn’t drink or enter a nightclub at 17, but that didn’t stop me from briefly managing the most popular nightspot in my corner of East London for a few months, until a doorman pinned me to the wall and accused me of allowing underage drinkers into his club. He pointed out the culprits, both of whom made Harry Potter look like Gandalf.

Basically, an earlier invite to an 18th birthday party at the nightclub had revealed that families were renting out the venue during off-peak weeknights, promising to fill an otherwise empty dancefloor with thirsty drinkers for a small fee. I had an idea. My friend’s father had a printing company. Together, we were soon selling tickets for fake birthday parties and making more money than our parents. Naturally, greed intervened, and we ended up selling tickets to anyone who could stand tall and put on a deep voice. Puberty was optional.

I’m not condoning the manufacturing of fake birthday parties, only the skills involved. ChatGPT can do knowledge, but it can’t stop a doorman from removing one’s testicles if one doesn’t come up with a plausible excuse for inviting the Cabbage Patch Kids to an adult-only party. It’s the hustle, the impudence, the cheeky stuff that gets us through.

Making up the rules as they go along

And the Peace Centre had the lot, in glorious technicolour, sprayed across its walls in dazzling graffiti pieces. A rare, precious spirit leapt across the stage in dance competitions, threw open pop-up stores to sell vintage books and clothes, hosted art galleries and unleashed barbers. When I saw the teenagers spray-painting, dancing, creating and improvising, I saw myself, standing outside an East London nightclub 30 years ago. We were both making it up as we went along. Only there were fewer drunks at the Peace Centre and the building didn’t reek of piss.

But the Peace Centre was definitely onto something, something even greater than the sum of its irreverent parts. There was a vibrant DIY philosophy on every floor. Tenants turned up and tried to make things work. There was no predetermined outcome, no guarantee of success, but there was a shared space to take chances. How rare is that in Singapore? Are we even set up to fail in Singapore?

Tuition centres are built only for a young person's academic success, to do as instructed, to follow prescribed formulas and parrot model essays for better grades (do you know who’s already good at this stuff? ChatGPT, but let’s not digress). Still, the tuition routine works if one enters a workplace with prescribed formulas and parroted models. There’s always a place for number crunchers and box tickers. (Or at least there was. Do you know who’s already good at this stuff? ChatGPT, but let’s not digress.)

One of the most productive tuition centres in the last few months has to be Resurrack, a terrific thrift store that sold retro and vintage gear at Peace Centre. The place was packed when I visited and the curated collections were excellent. I later discovered the owner was 19-year-old Isaac Loh, a polytechnic student, hustling his way along before serving an overseas internship. He’s got a great chance against AI.

And there was something wonderfully hopeful about watching (mostly) younger people rifling through racks of second-hand clothes. Research shows that Gen Zs are more likely to suffer from eco-anxiety – heaven knows, the poor sods have been battered over the heads enough with the existential crisis of our making – and are actively shopping for more sustainable alternatives. The new stuff is expensive, the upcycled stuff less so. They knew what they were looking for at Peace Centre.

Brief, utopian alternative in a musty mall

But they only had the space to do so thanks to Gary Hong and Yvonne Siow, the founders of PlayPan, the social movement that came up with the ingenious idea to take over the condemned mall for an extended lease to enable community-driven initiatives that simply would not enjoy the same financial or artistic freedom elsewhere. As a result, Peace Centre flourished.

Meanwhile, new malls continue to open. Older malls are renovated and reopened, to sell familiar products from the same franchises, the only ones capable of paying the rent, as more discerning customers turn away from dreary bricks and mortar stores in favour of something offbeat, homemade, vintage, upcycled, whatever; anything that stands out from the homogenised experience currently being repeated at a mall near you, with shoppers dashing from one identical shop to another, like extras in The Truman Show.

Peace Centre offered an alternative. It was a brief, utopian alternative, and not one to be repeated at every glassy, billion-dollar behemoth. But it showed something different and different is priceless in utilitarian Singapore. It showed what liberated, youthful creativity looked like and it was warm, inclusive, enterprising and safe. More importantly, it showed what other neglected malls could look like in the future.

Without naming names, there are enough musty malls, from Tanglin Road to Marina Bay, that could use greater footfall, a farsighted landlord, a little entrepreneurial freedom and a splash of colour. PlayPan took care of the lot at Peace Centre. Why not allow them and others to take care of other fading premises? Perhaps then, young Singaporeans will forge deeper, more authentic connections with their shopping centres.

And if any of these places need a nightclub, they know where to come.

Neil Humphreys is an award-winning football writer and a best-selling author, who has covered the English Premier League since 2000 and has written 28 books.

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