It happened by accident.
We were backstage after a show, still buzzing from the applause, still half in costume and half in character, when the topic of pay came up. It started innocently — someone complaining about how much they had spent on transport versus how little they earned from the gig. I laughed, too casually, and mentioned how much I was getting per show. Silence followed, sharp as stage light glare. Their eyes shifted, their smiles stiffened. It was then I realised my mistake: my rate was higher. Not double, but enough to draw invisible lines between us. The next few rehearsals felt different — conversations faded when I entered the room, and that easy camaraderie dissolved into polite distance.
It wasn’t that they were malicious; they were hurt. They believed they should have earned the same. Yet none of them had negotiated. They accepted the rate offered, assuming it was fixed. I, on the other hand, had asked — perhaps a little nervously — if the pay could reflect my years of experience, awards, and prior engagements. The producer agreed. I thought it was a simple conversation. But in that small moment of honesty, I learned that transparency in pay is not always received as fairness. Sometimes, it only exposes what people would rather not see: that fairness is not always equally distributed, and often, it never was.
The Culture of Silence Around Salary
Talking about money has always carried a strange weight. In many Asian societies, including Singapore, conversations about income are considered impolite, even shameful. Salary is seen as a private matter, a number that signals status, worth, and — in some eyes — moral character. The less we say, the less we risk being judged. This cultural conditioning conveniently benefits employers, because silence about pay creates a fog where inequalities can thrive unchecked.
Historically, salary secrecy is not an accident but a strategic practice. In corporate environments, it protects companies from internal unrest. As the U.S. labour historian David Jacobs noted in *The Politics of Pay* (2004), pay secrecy began as a managerial tool to maintain order and prevent workers from comparing wages that might expose discrepancies in treatment. The logic is simple: what people don’t know, they can’t contest.
In Singapore, while there is no law forbidding employees from discussing pay, many organisations include *non-disclosure clauses* within contracts. These clauses, though often framed as “confidentiality agreements,” are essentially designed to prevent open discussion of salary details. Such measures are legal under Singapore’s *Employment Act (1968)*, which gives employers broad discretion over contractual terms — as long as they don’t contravene basic labour rights. But fairness is not a guaranteed clause. It depends on corporate goodwill.
The Illusion of Fairness
The idea of meritocracy — that pay reflects effort, talent, and contribution — is deeply embedded in Singapore’s social fabric. Yet without transparency, meritocracy can easily morph into mythology. According to a 2022 report by the International Labour Organization (ILO), pay transparency policies are among the most effective tools to reduce gender wage gaps and improve workplace equity. The report found that countries with legislated transparency mechanisms saw measurable reductions in wage disparity (ILO, *Global Wage Report 2022*).
In contrast, opaque systems rely on trust — or perhaps, complacency. Employees assume that HR systems are objective, that appraisals are fair, and that someone somewhere is ensuring parity. But as numerous studies in behavioural economics suggest, humans are not naturally fair when given discretion. Bias — conscious or otherwise — seeps in.
A 2023 survey by the World Economic Forum revealed that 67% of employees believe their organisations lack pay transparency, and among them, 45% suspect that gender or racial bias affects salaries (*WEF Future of Jobs Report 2023*). When workers cannot compare, inequality hides behind professionalism.
In creative industries like theatre and the arts, where pay structures are often freelance or project-based, this inequality becomes even murkier. Rates can vary wildly for the same role, based not on skill but on reputation, connections, or negotiation confidence. I have met young actors who perform brilliantly yet earn half the rate of their peers simply because they “didn’t want to sound difficult.” Silence, they believe, is humility. But in the economy of work, silence is often surrender.
Why We Keep Quiet
There are psychological and practical reasons behind this collective hush. For one, money conversations make people uncomfortable. In *The Psychology of Money* (Housel, 2020), Morgan Housel argues that money is never just about economics; it is about identity, fear, and comparison. Knowing that a colleague earns more can spark envy, insecurity, or even resentment — emotions that undermine teamwork. Employers, aware of this, often justify pay secrecy as a way to “preserve harmony.”
There’s also the matter of self-worth. Discussing salary means confronting how much one’s labour is valued in a market that often rewards negotiation skills over actual performance. Two employees may perform equally well, but if one negotiates assertively while the other accepts quietly, their pay will differ. And once that difference is known, workplace harmony can easily crumble.
From a managerial perspective, non-disclosure policies also serve practical ends. As HR consultant Deborah Cain wrote in *The Harvard Business Review* (2021), “Transparency without context creates chaos. People need to understand why differences exist before those numbers make sense.” But the problem is that context is rarely provided. Companies want compliance, not conversation.
When Silence Becomes Complicity
The danger of salary secrecy is that it doesn’t just hide unfairness — it normalises it. When pay discussions are taboo, employees lose one of their most powerful negotiation tools: information. It becomes impossible to gauge one’s market worth, and impossible to collectively demand equitable treatment.
In many countries, pay transparency movements have gained ground. The *European Union Pay Transparency Directive (2023)* requires companies to disclose pay ranges for positions and allows employees to request pay information by gender and role. Similarly, several U.S. states, such as Colorado and New York, now mandate salary range disclosure in job postings. Early studies show that such policies not only narrow wage gaps but also improve job satisfaction and retention (Bennett, *Journal of Labor Policy*, 2023).
In contrast, Singapore’s employment culture remains rooted in discretion and deference. Pay discussions are considered “sensitive HR matters.” The tripartite guidelines from the Ministry of Manpower (MOM, 2023) encourage “transparent communication,” but stop short of requiring public disclosure. Without structural transparency, it falls on individuals to advocate for themselves — a process that favours the confident and punishes the modest.
The Negotiation Trap
This brings us to a difficult truth: sometimes, higher pay is not the result of exploitation but of persuasion. The ability to negotiate effectively is a skill, and employers often reward it. Yet when negotiation becomes the main determinant of pay, it inadvertently disadvantages those less comfortable with confrontation — often women, younger workers, or those from cultures that prize humility over assertiveness.
Economist Linda Babcock explored this in *Women Don’t Ask* (2003), showing that men initiate salary negotiations four times more often than women, resulting in long-term income gaps even when qualifications are identical. The issue is not competence but conditioning. We teach people to be hardworking and grateful, not strategic.
In my own experience, the resentment I faced from colleagues after revealing my rate came from this same emotional dissonance. They weren’t angry at me; they were angry at themselves for not asking. The real frustration wasn’t the number — it was the realisation that negotiation is power, and they hadn’t exercised it.
Transparency with Context
Of course, transparency without empathy can do more harm than good. A blanket disclosure of salaries without explaining the reasoning — experience, seniority, scope — can breed envy instead of equality. True transparency must come with *context*. Companies like Buffer, a social media software firm, have experimented with radical openness: all employee salaries, along with the formulas used to calculate them, are published publicly. This approach, as their 2022 annual report shows, has reduced internal friction and improved retention.
Similarly, Nordic countries, often cited for their wage equality, allow public access to individual tax records. While that level of openness might be culturally incompatible elsewhere, it demonstrates how normalised transparency can defuse tension. When everyone knows the rules, envy loses its sting.
The Legal Grey Zone
In Singapore, non-disclosure agreements (NDAs) concerning salary are not explicitly illegal. However, legal experts such as Tan and Yeo (2021) from *Singapore Law Review* have argued that such clauses could be challenged if they restrict employees’ statutory rights or public interest. Still, few dare to test this in court — partly due to cost, partly due to fear of professional repercussions. The MOM’s *Employment Practices Guidelines* (2023) advise against discriminatory pay practices but stop short of endorsing transparency laws.
This gap creates a quiet impunity. Companies can pay two employees vastly different sums for similar work, citing “market variation” or “performance discretion,” without any obligation to justify it. Employees who question the difference risk being labelled as “difficult.” In a society that prizes stability, few are willing to jeopardise job security for the principle of fairness.
What We Lose in Silence
When pay remains secret, inequality doesn’t just persist — it deepens. Workers internalise the belief that their worth is unchangeable, that asking is arrogance, and that silence is virtue. This conditioning is particularly harmful in creative and caregiving professions, where passion is often used to justify low pay. “You do it for love, not money,” people say — a romanticisation that quietly excuses exploitation.
Transparency, on the other hand, is uncomfortable but liberating. It forces organisations to justify differences and helps individuals understand what is truly valued. More importantly, it invites collective dialogue — a reminder that fairness is not a favour, but a right negotiated through shared awareness.
In 2022, Singapore’s *Tripartite Alliance for Fair and Progressive Employment Practices (TAFEP)* launched initiatives encouraging employers to “adopt pay transparency progressively.” While voluntary, this signals a slow cultural shift. But progress requires participation. Transparency can’t be imposed from above; it must be demanded from below.
The Emotional Cost
I still think about that moment backstage. About how a simple number altered how my colleagues saw me — and how I saw them. For weeks, I felt guilty for earning more, even though I had done nothing unethical. But guilt is a strange emotion in matters of pay; it stems from internalising the idea that equality means sameness.
In truth, equality should mean fairness — and fairness cannot exist without honesty. Perhaps if we were all more open, the sting of comparison would fade. Perhaps we would learn to negotiate not against each other, but alongside one another.
Breaking the Silence
Maybe the real question is not whether we should discuss our salaries, but why we’re so afraid to. The silence around pay mirrors our discomfort with inequality — we fear what we might discover if we pull back the curtain. Yet silence doesn’t protect us; it protects the system.
As writer Roxane Gay once said in an interview on labour fairness (2019), “Transparency is not the problem — inequity is.” Discussing salary should not be taboo. It should be a form of collective empowerment.
Because when we whisper about pay, inequality listens. But when we speak, even awkwardly, we start to dismantle the structures that keep fairness out of reach.
Maybe that’s the first step — to talk. To ask. To no longer apologise for wanting what is fair.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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