There is something rather endearing about our confidence in money. Whenever society encounters a problem that refuses to go away, we seem to believe that the solution must involve some combination of financial incentives, subsidies, grants, rebates, and the occasional voucher. If something is too expensive, we make it cheaper. If people are reluctant to do something, we give them money to do it. And if they still refuse, perhaps we need to increase the amount.
It is a wonderfully practical approach, especially in Singapore, where we have become quite skilled at calculating the financial implications of almost everything. We can tell you how much a flat costs, how much a household can save through a particular grant, and how much financial assistance a family might receive when a child arrives. We can probably produce a spreadsheet showing the long-term savings of having children, although I suspect the spreadsheet would become considerably less convincing once we start including enrichment classes, school expenses, and the inevitable request for a mobile phone.
But what happens when the problem is not simply that something is expensive? What happens when people have looked at the numbers, understood the incentives, and decided that they do not particularly want what is being offered?
This question has become increasingly relevant in Singapore, where falling birth rates have prompted renewed conversations about why fewer people are choosing to have children. Singapore's Department of Statistics reported a resident total fertility rate of 0.97 in 2024, falling further to 0.87 in 2025. These figures have renewed concerns about the country's demographic future, alongside efforts to make starting and raising a family more financially manageable.
Financial support matters. Nobody in their right mind would argue that raising a child is inexpensive, and any assistance that reduces the burden on parents deserves serious consideration. But there is a difference between making something more affordable and making someone want it. A subsidy can reduce the financial cost of a decision without necessarily changing the desire behind that decision. We may be able to help people afford parenthood, but we cannot assume that affordability is the only thing standing between them and a baby.
This is one of the questions I explore in my play Carrot and Stick. The title refers to the familiar approach of encouraging behaviour through rewards and punishment, but the play's concerns extend beyond the rather literal question of whether a carrot is worth six dollars. Through a supermarket conversation between Jumi, her daughter-in-law Siti, and their neighbour Mdm Zaiton, the play explores family expectations, financial anxiety, reproductive assumptions, and the different ideas people have about what constitutes a responsible life.
The supermarket scene begins with a disagreement over groceries. Siti picks up a packet of carrots, and Jumi immediately questions the price.
“Six dollars?” she asks, holding up the carrots. “For this? One, two, three, four, five, six.”
After counting them, she concludes, “Six dollars for six sticks.”
Siti corrects her: “Yes. Six dollars. For six. Pieces. Not sticks.”
Jumi's solution is straightforward. “Alamak. Why must buy here? Buy from wet market, the uncle will throw in two more. Free!”
It is a small exchange, but it captures something familiar about the way different generations approach money. To Jumi, paying six dollars for six carrots is an unnecessary expense when cheaper alternatives exist. Siti, however, has her reasons for buying them there. Their disagreement is not merely about vegetables; it is about priorities, and the assumption that the person who spends money differently must be making the wrong decision.
This is where the discussion about having children becomes interesting. When we talk about the financial burden of parenthood, we often assume that reducing the burden will make the decision more attractive. Yet the cost of raising a child is not limited to the amount appearing on a receipt. It includes time, energy, changes to one's career, adjustments to one's relationships, and the quiet surrender of freedoms that might previously have been taken for granted. Some of these costs can be measured in dollars. Others are harder to quantify, particularly when they involve the expectations of family members.
The play makes this tension more explicit when Jumi and Siti discuss the flat Siti and her husband have purchased near Jumi. Their exchange goes like this:
Siti: “That’s the reason we bought the unit near yours. For the proximity grant.”
Jumi: “And that is a bad thing?”
Siti: “I wanted somewhere more central.”
Jumi: “Don’t forget, I’m also your free part-time maid. Look after your rabbit.”
Mdm Zaiton, who has been listening to the conversation, offers her own financial wisdom: “Ah! Good. Save as much as you can. Buy essentials only.”
Siti, who has apparently reached the limit of her patience, mutters under her breath, “Is condom essential?”
The humour lies partly in the suddenness of Siti's remark, but it also exposes a contradiction. A couple may make a practical housing decision to save money and remain close to family, yet the decision does not necessarily mean they welcome every expectation that comes with that proximity. Living near one's parents can provide valuable support, but it can also blur the boundaries between being a helpful parent and becoming an unpaid caregiver. In Jumi's case, the arrangement has apparently earned her the title of a free part-time maid.
I am not suggesting that family support is a bad thing. Quite the opposite. Intergenerational support can make a tremendous difference to parents who are juggling work and childcare, and many families would struggle without it. But the arrangement becomes more complicated when help gradually turns into an expectation, and the work involved is no longer acknowledged because it is supposedly what family members do for one another.
A proximity grant can make a housing decision more affordable. It cannot guarantee that everyone involved will be comfortable with the arrangement. Nor does it tell us whether a couple wants to live near their parents in the first place. The same principle applies to financial incentives for parenthood. They can ease particular burdens, but they cannot determine whether someone wants the life that comes with the decision.
There is another reason the exchange matters. Jumi believes that the arrangement is a good one because it offers practical advantages. Siti sees those advantages too, but they are not enough to make the arrangement her first choice. Both women are looking at the same situation, yet their assessments differ because their priorities differ. If we can understand that distinction in a conversation about housing, perhaps we should also be able to understand it in a conversation about parenthood.
The play then moves from the financial implications of family life to the assumptions people make about what a family should look like. Maryam enters the scene as a rabbit, although her behaviour and Siti's treatment of her leave room for a different interpretation. Siti regulates what Maryam eats, worries about her health, and attempts to instil discipline. Jumi, meanwhile, questions the number of rules imposed on her.
At one point, after a disagreement about food, Jumi says:
“I told you already. You can’t have too many rules.”
Siti responds, “What?”
“Maryam only four. Yet, you set so many rules for her,” Jumi explains.
Siti counters, “You said that disciplining starts from young?”
Jumi clarifies, “What I meant is… don’t lie. Don’t steal.”
“Discipline starts from food,” Siti insists.
Jumi is unconvinced. “What?”
Siti continues with her explanation: “People steal because of food. They steal then lie about it.”
The conversation is absurd, as conversations in families sometimes are. A discussion about food becomes a debate about morality, discipline, and the foundations of responsible behaviour. Both women believe they are making sensible arguments, but they are working from different assumptions about what it means to care for someone.
This exchange is particularly revealing when Maryam is understood as a child rather than a rabbit. Modern parenting can become an exercise in managing risks, anticipating problems, and attempting to prevent every possible mistake. Parents are encouraged to think about nutrition, emotional development, educational opportunities, online safety, and the many other factors that might affect a child's future. The intentions are often admirable. Yet the desire to provide the best possible upbringing can become an exhausting effort to optimise every aspect of a child's life.
Even the carrots cannot simply be carrots. Later in the play, Siti explains why she insists on buying organic produce. Her concern is not limited to Maryam's immediate health; she is already thinking about the next generation.
“These carrots are organic!” Siti declares.
When Jumi questions her, Siti launches into an explanation about pesticides and fertilisers:
“Yes! Organic. No harmful pesticides and synthetic fertilisers. So, we’re safe from paraquat, and glyphosate. So, Maryam doesn’t get affected by endocrine-disrupting pesticides. So, her children—my grandchildren will be healthy. These chemicals stay in your system. Get passed on to the next gen—”
Jumi interrupts her with a familiar complaint: “As usual, trying to confuse me with all these big words like endo... endo…”
Mdm Zaiton adds, “Wah! Some of these things so hard to even pronounce.”
The scene is funny because Siti's concerns are recognisable, even if her explanation overwhelms the people listening to her. She wants to make the right choices now to protect a future that has not yet arrived. Her concern stretches beyond Maryam to children who may not even exist. The carrots have become part of a much larger project: the attempt to ensure that the next generation will be healthy and safe.
There is nothing inherently wrong with thinking ahead. Parents have good reason to care about the environments in which their children grow up, and making informed decisions about food and health can be valuable. The difficulty begins when the responsibility to care becomes entangled with the expectation that every decision must be correct. More information can help us make better choices, but it can also introduce new anxieties about all the things we might be getting wrong.
In Siti's case, the organic carrots are an investment in a future that she wants to protect. Yet the scene also raises a question about the emotional cost of trying to control that future. If raising a child already involves considerable uncertainty, the pressure to anticipate and eliminate every possible risk can make the responsibility feel even heavier. Financial assistance may help with the price of the carrots, but it cannot resolve the anxiety behind the decision to buy them.
This is where the play's ambiguity surrounding Maryam becomes especially useful. Maryam is a rabbit, but the audience is invited to consider whether Siti's relationship with her might also be read as that of a mother and child. Mdm Zaiton voices the confusion directly when she asks Jumi, “Eh. I’m the very confuse. Is Maryam her daughter or pet?”
The question is funny, but it also exposes the assumptions we bring to our understanding of family life. If Maryam is a rabbit, Siti is a woman who has chosen to care deeply for an animal. If Maryam is understood as a child, Siti's behaviour becomes part of a conversation about parenting, discipline, and the expectations placed on mothers. The same actions acquire different meanings depending on how we interpret the relationship.
Of course, caring for a pet and raising a child are not interchangeable experiences. They involve different responsibilities and different long-term commitments. But that does not make affection for an animal insignificant, nor does it mean that a life without children must be understood as an incomplete version of a life with them. People find meaning in different relationships and responsibilities, and there is no reason to assume that every person must want the same things to experience a fulfilling life.
Yet parenthood is often spoken of as a natural progression in adulthood. We may assume that people will eventually want children once they have settled into a relationship, established their careers, or become financially stable. When someone does not want children, the response can be to ask whether they have considered the financial assistance available, whether they might change their minds, or whether they simply have not reached the right stage of life.
These questions are not always asked with ill intent. Sometimes they come from genuine concern, or from people who have found parenthood deeply rewarding and cannot imagine choosing differently. But there is a difference between sharing the value we find in our own lives and assuming that everyone else should find the same value in the same arrangement.
A person who wants children may be worried about whether they can afford them. Another may be worried about whether they can balance parenting with work. Someone else may have considered all these things and simply not want to become a parent. These are different circumstances, and treating them as though they all arise from the same financial problem risks misunderstanding what people are actually telling us.
The play's humour also exposes how deeply reproductive expectations can be embedded in family conversations. In the supermarket, Jumi discovers that Siti and her husband have apparently not been using the condoms she thought were intended for them. The conversation becomes increasingly awkward as the women try to work out what this means for the marriage and the possibility of children.
Jumi eventually offers a familiar piece of advice: “Malay people say ‘the way to man’s heart is through his stomach’.”
Siti protests, “I’ve always looked after his—”
Jumi cuts her off: “By feeding him overpriced sticks? Sticks that he had to pay for?”
The joke returns us to the carrots, but the conversation has travelled a considerable distance. What began as a disagreement over grocery prices has become a discussion about marriage, sexual expectations, and the possibility of having children. Jumi's assumptions are shaped by what she considers normal and permissible. Siti, meanwhile, is left to navigate expectations that have been placed upon her marriage, even when the people discussing it do not fully understand what is happening within it.
This is not to say that Jumi is a villain. She is a mother who wants what she believes is best for her son, and her advice comes from a worldview in which marriage and children are closely connected. Her expectations may be frustrating, but they are also recognisable. Many family pressures do not arrive as explicit demands. They come through jokes, questions, advice, and comments made in the supermarket aisle, often by people who believe they are being helpful.
That is part of what makes conversations about fertility so difficult. The pressure to have children does not necessarily come only from government policy or financial incentives. It can also come from family, community, cultural expectations, and the assumption that parenthood is a natural milestone that everyone should eventually reach. Even when nobody says outright that a couple must have children, the expectation can still be present in the questions people ask and the conclusions they draw.
A declining birth rate has genuine implications for Singapore. It affects the age structure of the population, the future workforce, and the demands placed on social support systems. These are legitimate concerns that require serious policy responses. The government has a role to play in making it easier for people who want children to raise them with adequate support. That includes addressing affordability, access to childcare, workplace expectations, housing, and the distribution of caregiving responsibilities.
But a demographic challenge does not mean that every individual must personally resolve it by having children. National interests and personal desires do not always align neatly, and a humane society must be able to acknowledge that tension. Supporting parenthood should not require us to treat people who do not want children as though they have misunderstood their own lives.
Perhaps the most useful question is not whether we have offered enough carrots, but whether we understand why people are reluctant to reach for them. Some may need more financial support. Others may need better working conditions, more dependable childcare, or a fairer sharing of domestic responsibilities. And some may simply not want children. These are different realities, and they deserve different responses rather than one universal explanation.
The title Carrot and Stick carries another irony. A carrot is supposed to entice, while a stick threatens consequences. Both approaches assume that the person being persuaded can be moved towards a desired outcome through an external reward or pressure. But a decision as personal as parenthood cannot be understood entirely through that framework. We can make the path easier for people who want to take it, but we cannot assume that everyone is waiting for the right incentive to begin walking.
Perhaps we need to become more comfortable with the possibility that some people will make choices we would not make ourselves. A person can love children without wanting to raise them. A couple can be financially stable without wanting to become parents. Someone can be a caring, responsible adult without fulfilling the expectations that society has attached to adulthood. None of these possibilities should require an elaborate defence.
There is a temptation, when faced with a social problem, to look for a solution that can be counted. Money can be counted. Grants can be counted. Babies can be counted. But the reasons people make decisions about their lives are less easily measured, and perhaps that is why they are so often left out of the conversation. It is much easier to announce a financial package than to examine the complicated relationship between work, family, identity, freedom, and fulfilment.
The carrots in my play cost six dollars for six pieces. Jumi thinks this is a terrible deal, while Siti seems prepared to pay for what she believes is worth the price. Their disagreement is small, domestic, and rather funny. But it also reflects the larger question that runs through the play: who gets to decide what is worth paying for, and whose priorities determine the choices we make?
When it comes to parenthood, perhaps the answer should begin with the people who will have to live with the decision. We can provide financial assistance, improve policies, and build a society in which raising children is less burdensome. We should do all these things for the people who want families. But we should also recognise that making parenthood more affordable is not the same as making it universally desirable.
Because if the only measure of success is whether we have managed to persuade people to take the carrot, we may miss the more interesting question of why they wanted something else in the first place. And if we are going to spend six dollars on carrots, we might as well at least be honest about why we bought them.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
No comments:
Post a Comment