I didn’t think vaping would ever become a topic that made teachers speak in hushed tones.
Not because it was taboo. But because of how young the children involved have become. When a teacher quietly tells you that a primary school student — not a teenager, not someone dealing with puberty and rebellion — but a child under the age of thirteen has been caught with a vape, something inside you shifts. The conversation is no longer about “bad habits” or “youthful experimentation.” It becomes something heavier. Something closer to alarm.
Over the past few months, vaping in Singapore has taken on a darker edge. This July, it came to public attention that a significant number of vapes seized by the authorities contained etomidate, a medical sedative typically used in hospital settings. Etomidate is not a recreational substance. It is used to induce sedation before surgery, administered under controlled conditions by trained professionals. When inhaled through a vape device, its effects are unpredictable and dangerous, ranging from breathing difficulties to loss of consciousness.
This revelation jolted many of us. Vaping, which some still dismiss as a “less harmful alternative” to smoking, suddenly crossed into the territory of drug abuse. The mango and lychee scents now carried something far more sinister.
In response, the Singapore Government announced a tightening of laws. Vaping has been illegal here for years, but July marked a turning point. Etomidate and related substances were classified as controlled drugs under the Misuse of Drugs Act. Penalties became heavier. Rehabilitation and supervision became mandatory in certain cases. Even school-going children are no longer exempt from consequences.
I support this move. Unequivocally.
Not because I enjoy the idea of punishment, but because I work with young people. I see how habits form. I see how attention drifts. I see how dependency creeps in quietly, especially when something is marketed as harmless fun. It doesn’t take a neuroscientist to tell us that substances affecting the brain, especially during childhood and adolescence, can interfere with concentration, memory, and motivation. Declining academic performance is often the first visible sign, but it’s rarely the last.
Yet, even as I support stricter laws, I can’t shake a lingering question: are heavier fines and tougher punishments enough?
Because if fear worked perfectly, no teenager would ever drink underage, no student would ever cheat, and no adult would ever text while driving.
The increase in vape-related arrests suggests that enforcement is working, but it also reveals something else — the scale of the problem. When cases rise, it doesn’t always mean people are suddenly worse. Sometimes it means the issue has been simmering for a long time, unnoticed, normalised, or dismissed.
And the stories coming out of schools are unsettling. Teachers have spoken about vapes found in pencil cases, bags, and toilets. There are accounts of older youths approaching younger students near school gates. These aren’t isolated incidents anymore. They form a pattern.
The danger, of course, isn’t just the act of vaping itself. It’s what vaping represents to a child. It becomes a shortcut to feeling older, cooler, braver, or more in control. It becomes a coping mechanism, a social currency, or worse, an early doorway into chemical dependency.
Which brings us back to the question: if punishment alone doesn’t deter curiosity, what else can we do?
Looking beyond Singapore helps. Other countries have been wrestling with youth vaping for years, often learning the hard way.
In Ireland, for example, several schools installed discreet vape detection systems in toilets and common areas. These devices don’t shame students publicly or create spectacles. They simply alert school leaders when vaping occurs. One school reported a dramatic reduction in incidents after installation, not because students were fined or suspended, but because the environment itself changed. There was no longer a “safe corner” to hide in.
In parts of the United States, schools have taken similar approaches. Middle and high schools installed air-quality sensors that detect vape particles. Teachers reported that students were less likely to bring vapes onto campus once they knew anonymity was gone. Behaviour changed not through fear, but through certainty.
The United Kingdom took a different route. In some cities, the National Health Service began offering specialised vaping cessation clinics for young people, including children as young as eleven. These clinics treated vaping as a health issue rather than a moral failing. Counsellors worked with students to address addiction, stress, and peer pressure. Nicotine replacement therapies were introduced where necessary, and family involvement was encouraged.
The World Health Organization has consistently advocated for a whole-of-community approach. Their studies suggest that schools are most effective when prevention is woven into daily life, rather than delivered as a one-off scare talk. When students understand how addiction works, how marketing manipulates desire, and how peer influence shapes behaviour, they are more likely to make informed choices.
Even product design matters. In several European countries, flavour bans were introduced to reduce the appeal of vaping to young users. When bubblegum, candy, and dessert flavours disappeared, experimentation rates dipped. The product simply became less interesting.
All of this points to one uncomfortable truth: laws are necessary, but they are only one piece of the puzzle.
Singapore’s tougher stance sends a strong signal, especially with the classification of etomidate as a controlled drug. It tells students, parents, and sellers that this is no longer a grey area. But children don’t operate purely on logic. They operate on emotion, belonging, curiosity, and impulse.
If we rely only on punishment, we risk teaching kids how to hide better instead of helping them understand why not to start.
That’s where parents, schools, and communities come in. Conversations about vaping cannot begin only after a child is caught. They have to start early, casually, and honestly. Not with lectures, but with questions. Not with threats, but with curiosity.
What do you think vaping does to your body? Why do you think companies make it taste like candy? Who benefits when you get hooked?
These aren’t scolding questions. They’re thinking questions.
Schools, too, can shift the narrative. When vaping is framed as a health and wellbeing issue rather than a disciplinary problem, students listen differently. When teachers are equipped not just to punish but to guide, interventions feel less like traps and more like support.
Because here’s the thing: most kids don’t wake up wanting to ruin their health or sabotage their future. They try things because they’re young. Because they’re bored. Because someone older made it look harmless. Because nobody explained what was really inside that sweet-smelling cloud.
If this situation isn’t controlled, the consequences won’t arrive all at once. They’ll creep in slowly. More distracted classrooms. More health issues. More students quietly struggling with dependency before they even understand what addiction is.
That’s why the government’s move matters. It draws a firm line. But what happens around that line matters just as much.
Vaping is no longer just about smoke. It’s about how early we allow risk to enter a child’s life, and how seriously we take our responsibility to protect it.
And if we get this wrong, we won’t just be dealing with fines and confiscations. We’ll be dealing with the long shadow of choices made too young, too lightly, and too soon.
That’s a cost far heavier than any penalty.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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