With characteristic brio, Raja brought his global mindset to the deliberations in ASEAN. Sometimes his calls came off as the signature of a far-sighted strategist. Other times, of a brash maverick.

One such occasion was the ASEAN foreign ministers’ meeting in Pattaya on 16 April 1973, which was marked by an underlying sense of drift. In his speech, Raja sought to spark a rethink on ASEAN's growth strategy: besides expanding intra-ASEAN trade, the grouping should also seek to attract investments from developed countries. For this, they had to change the prevailing image of ASEAN from one of “political instability, contending nations and endemic violence” to one of “great growth potential”. This required countries to “mute, and if possible, remove causes for such conflicts”, he argued, and to focus on economic development and solving domestic problems.

His presentation at the opening session made an impression on the audience, at least according to British diplomat Arthur de la Mare. Raja's was “by far the best speech” of the day, he reported to London. “Rajaratnam was as usual listened to with great attention and respect,” observed the former British high commissioner in Singapore, who had been based in Bangkok since 1970.

In his despatch, the envoy contrasted Raja's speech with those of the other ministers, describing each in turn as predictable, platitudinous and pedantic, and in one case, likened it to comparing “Hyperion to a satyr”, quoting from Shakespeare's Hamlet. But what the classics scholar-diplomat did not see was the drubbing that Raja received from his counterparts in the closed-door session.

According to George Bogaars, then the MFA's permanent secretary, Raja had rather upset some of them by emphasising that ASEAN countries should focus on their economic development, encourage investment, bring about greater social justice and eliminate corruption. This, apparently, provoked “an emotional response” from the Filipinos, who accused Singapore of “turning its back on ASEAN” and of being more interested in Western Europe and North America than its neighbours.

Foreign interference is often about the long game. It takes time to stoke public anger against specific “unfriendly” policies, or against the government as a whole to the point when it could lose an election. It takes time to create the preconditions to destabilise a society and to erode the people's will to resist external intervention.

Raja and his colleagues therefore believed that in the case of individuals, groups or newspapers potentially serving foreign interests, if they were not stopped in their incipient phases today, they could mature to the point where they could cause Singapore serious harm tomorrow.

The move on 15 May 1971 to expose the “black operation” funding of the English-language newspaper Eastern Sun was calculated to signal clearly that no one, whatever his social, professional or political status, should believe that the patronage of outside powers would give him protection or immunity.

A government statement set out how the wealthy businessman Aw Kow, the son of one of the Tiger Balm brothers, had launched the paper in 1966 with financing from Chinese Communist agents based in Hong Kong. Their agreement was that the newspaper's policy would be dictated by Communist intelligence officials, and a Chinese operator would be appointed under their control to act as advisor to the Eastern Sun as a cover for his intelligence work. As part of the plan, the Eastern Sun would pursue a moderate editorial policy to gain respectability.

Aw Kow did not deny the charges. In disgust, the senior expatriate staff of the Eastern Sun resigned en masse. Soon after, the paper folded with little fanfare. The other two newspapers, Nanyang Siang Pau and the Singapore Herald, however, put up a vigorous fight. They denied the charges and sought to rally public opinion to their aid, both at home and abroad.

Fully aware of the scepticism among some over the “black operations” charges, Raja set out to educate the public. On the same evening of 15 May, he used the unlikely occasion of a reunion dinner of the Christian Brothers’ Old Boys Association to mount a lecture that stands today as one of the most concise and complete expositions of Singapore's policy towards covert foreign interference.

Completely pro-capital, pro-imperialist, anti-worker, antipeople” – these were some of the slogans brandished by the Barisan Sosialis and pro-communist unions against what they called the “blood-sucking, man-eating Employment Bill”.

Out to fan public alarm about the bill, they painted such slogans in public spaces, held protests, and distributed pamphlets saying that the proposed law “exposes the out-and-out vile, reactionary anti-worker, fascist features of the LKY puppets”. Their condemnations were soon joined by a chorus of anti-PAP critics lambasting the government for helping foreign investors and local capitalists to grow rich at the expense of the poor.

Raja had fully expected such vitriol from the pro-communists after he tabled the Employment Bill on 15 May 1968. He also knew that their defiance would put pressure on the NTUC, which was anxious to show that it was no PAP puppet. What he could not predict was how the general public would react.

The controversial bill had been crafted as an omnibus law to replace three former ordinances relating to employment and working conditions, but it was the 10 new clauses, of course, that provoked the outcry. Among other things, they limited sick leave, including hospitalisation, to 28 days (primarily to combat the malpractice of malingering); prohibited the employment of persons aged 55 or older, except by special permission of the Commissioner of Labour (aimed at freeing up jobs for young workers); and tied the payment of bonuses to productivity and performance rather than leaving it as a matter for negotiation (to maintain the incentive purpose of bonuses).

Another contentious clause involved payment for overtime work – it would do away with triple pay for work on public holidays and Sundays, and limit overtime work to 48 hours a month. This was to root out the practice of slowing down during weekdays in order to work overtime for the triple pay, and to encourage employers to hire more staff rather than make the existing employees work more overtime.

When S. Dhanabalan was posted to the foreign ministry as senior minister of state in February 1979, he swallowed his doubts and stepped up. Foreign affairs was, by his own admission, “not the kind of thing that intrinsically appealed to me”. His background was in banking and finance.

Dhana, as he was usually called by his colleagues, had started his career in the finance ministry. Armed with an honours degree in economics from the University of Malaya in Singapore, he had risen swiftly, helping to set up the Economic Development Board and the Development Bank of Singapore. He was the bank's executive vice-president when the PAP tapped him for politics at the age of 39 in 1976.

With his stellar record, he was one of the younger leaders groomed to form the nucleus of the next generation of Singapore's leadership. In appearance, he was clean-cut, urbane and short – about five feet tall – with an angular jaw and flashing dark eyes.

In 1978, when he was promoted to senior minister of state in the national development ministry, the work was well within his comfort zone. Not so his switch to MFA just six months later. Everyone was watching the 42-year-old political neophyte – could he make it as the potential successor to Raja, a political grandee at 64?

The reality was, for anyone – whoever it was – taking over from the founding minister, it would be like stepping into the shoes of a great, almost mythical, giant. Raja more than embodied MFA – he was MFA. He was its moving spirit. He had created it from nothing and given it life.

The foreign ministry's framework, strategies and priorities were all stored in Raja's mind, and even then, he was improvising as he went along. By 1979 when Dhana arrived, Raja had virtually become the sole authority in the ministry on external developments and foreign policy. Since 1965, every Cabinet portfolio except his as foreign minister had seen changes.

It was a measure of Dhana's stoic sense of duty that, when presented with the unnerving challenge, his response was: “Someone had to do it. I was prepared to take a shot at it.” It would be a baptism of fire.

Camera lights flashed as Raja strode into Paya Lebar airport on 16 September 1965. He was about to embark on his historic mission to the United Nations in New York as Singapore's founding foreign minister. For the first time since assuming the post, he looked the part. He cut a distinguished figure in a dark tailored suit, a crisp white shirt and well-knotted tie, accented by a pressed white handkerchief in his suit breast pocket.

A throng of supporters lined up to greet him with cheers, flower garlands and banners wishing him “Godspeed” and “Bon Voyage”. Flashing a beaming smile, he stopped to shake their hands. Aware of the public hopes pinned on his mission, he radiated a confidence that suggested all would be well despite the troubles of the moment.

He told the press: “This is the first effort by the Singapore government as an independent and sovereign country to put itself on the map of the world.” Then, in a pointed message to countries that had yet to recognise Singapore, he outlined two guiding principles for the proper conduct of relations between countries: “Do not ask us to take your friends as our friends. Do not expect us to take your enemies as our enemies.” He stressed: “Once relations between two countries were established on this basis, there is a chance that we may strengthen our ties and improve relations.”

Despite his brave face, many fears followed him. He boarded the plane with the heavy knowledge that, to date, only about 40 countries had individually recognised the newly formed nation – barely a third of the UN membership. Meanwhile, Indonesia was persisting in its hostile campaign to isolate Singapore from the Afro-Asian countries, portraying it as an Anglo-American imperialist stooge. At one point in late August, the path for UN membership had appeared so fraught with risks for Singapore that Raja had to consider the prospect of dropping it.

In a sign of Singapore's continuing troubles, the Commonwealth had not admitted Singapore into its fold – at least not yet. Commonwealth membership carried some weight as a badge of international legitimacy and respectability, particularly in Africa. Raja formed a suspicion, which he shared with British diplomat J.V. Rob on 16 August, that “Indonesian intrigues might be delaying matters”.

Perched on the front bench in the Singapore Legislative Assembly, Raja fidgeted in his seat as the debate over Malaysia stretched deeper into the evening of 13 November 1964. He was shortly due to open a high-profile international festival along Orchard Road, yet leaving the chamber was increasingly not an option.

It was a rancorous debate, with one opposition MP after another accusing the prime minister of breaking his promise of delivering a more prosperous and happy future for Singapore as part of Malaysia. Barisan Sosialis MP Kow Kee Seng typified their assault: “Malaysia has come about and what happens to the people of Singapore?” Only “difficulties, misery and unemployment all round”.

Lee was constantly on his feet, stressing the need to confront the new realities and to make Malaysia work. At one point, after repeated attacks for giving too much power to KL, he brought home the reality of it all: “If perchance things do not go right, and they go wrong, and Singapore does go south, then I concede to them the possibility in that situation of Malaysia breaking off.”

Grave-faced, Raja looked on with folded arms. He had no illusions about the political hazards ahead. The pro-communist Barisan, which had won 33.2 per cent of the national vote in the last general election in 1963, wanted Malaysia to fail, and the PAP to fall.

Raja, a strategist behind the merger campaign now being maligned, had only contempt for the Barisan's antics, and was not above heckling from his seat. But at this debate, he was taken aback by the PM's concession of a “break-off” possibility. It was an idea that, to Raja, was beyond ludicrous: it was unthinkable.

As he sat grimly through the debate, he knew he could not make it to the international festival at the Thai Consulate on Orchard Road. So, as he would whenever circumstances demanded it, he pressed his long-suffering wife, Piroska, into service.

The only certainty in life is an unformed future to be shaped to our will.” Raja scrawled this thought down in his private notebook in 1992 as his restless mind traversed over Singapore's journey of trials and triumphs. Now, at 77, he found momentary stillness in the idea, not so much as a meditation of what was left of his own future, but as a guiding philosophy for future generations.

As that entry in his diary shows, at a time when he had earned every right to bask in the glory of his achievements, Raja's mind was still on the future of the country and its next generation. How to design a “future-oriented” education, he mused, “which can convince youth that the future is not hopeless and that a decent place can be found for them in a meritocratic world”? Then, “the future and its shaping become something worth living for”.

And the answer, he believed, lay in an education that strove to instil in the young the will and the faith that they could achieve “even greater things in the future”. This was, in essence, his dictum for a future-oriented education: “Creating a better future for ourselves is a more satisfying life than the mere contemplation of grandeurs from another time.”

Diary jottings like these show a creative mind at work, but also a stout heart in action. One cannot help but marvel at the constancy of his faith in the power of the human spirit and imagination to shape a desired future, holding through disasters and suffering, through meandering and mean times, and now, through the bleakest hours of the evening of his life.

His solitary musings betray none of uneasy foreboding as to his own fate with his failing faculties. Perhaps they were his way of holding on, by grasping for beliefs and ideals that had powered him through the darkest of times when the odds seemed impossibly stacked against him.

It was 5 August 1967. In the fading light of the day, Raja found himself a lonely voice in a room with leaders from more powerful countries in the region. They were Adam Malik of Indonesia, Narciso Ramos of the Philippines, Abdul Razak of Malaysia, and Thanat Khoman of Thailand. Since about 4 p.m., they had been discussing the formal basis for what would become known as the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).

Their surroundings were deceptively relaxed. The five ministers were ensconced in an airy bungalow at Bangsaen, a seaside resort about two hours’ drive from Bangkok. Within the walls of the meeting room, however, the mood was getting as dark as the dusk outside.

Aware of Singapore's puny size and pugnacious reputation, Raja preferred to let the others state their positions first. He recognised the Asian concern for ritual and face. After all, he was here to make friends, not only to protect Singapore's interests. But he could not gloss over Indonesia's reference to “foreign bases” in the preamble of the draft declaration. As currently phrased, it basically opposed the presence of foreign bases, and could be read as barring individual members from relying on external defence ties for their security.

When consultations began months before, he had already made clear that this reference to foreign bases was irrelevant to the basis for the grouping. Yet, here it was, still in the draft in Bangsaen.

Nevertheless, Raja was hopeful that others would speak up on it. After all, Thailand and the Philippines – both members of the anti communist Southeast Asia Treaty Organisation (SEATO) – hosted US military bases on their soil and relied on external guarantees to ensure their individual security. So did Malaysia which, like Singapore, had British bases – both were part of the Anglo-Malaysian Defence Agreement that included the UK, Australia and New Zealand.

Furthermore, whatever their political and historical differences, all of them faced a common threat: Maoist China, which was stoking armed insurgencies and funding local communist movements in the region. The ideological divisions of the Cold War were being fought out at their very doorstep in the raging Vietnam War. Thailand, which played an important role in America's regional strategy, was at the forefront. This was obvious to everyone in the room – Bangsaen itself was heaving with American soldiers on rest and recuperation.

As a statesman, Raja had to work with the imperfect foreign regimes he faced, not with counterparts he might have ideally wished for. This could sometimes make for unpalatable diplomacy with dubious and even repugnant characters. This was the part of his job that he confessed he disliked most and found most trying. “As a foreign minister, I meet people. I form my own impressions. Some of them I find completely distasteful,” he said. “But I cannot afford to let them know about this.” In politics as in diplomacy, at times one had to engage in some dissimulation, he said, “which I find distasteful but which is necessary”.

Few encounters tested his ability to deal with the darker side of diplomacy than negotiating with the notorious henchmen of the Pol Pot regime: Khieu Samphan, Ieng Sary, and the latter's wife, Ieng Thirith, who was also Pol Pot's sister-in-law and the highest-ranking female in the regime. It was an unavoidable part of the tortuous business of forging a new coalition out of three incompatible Kampuchean resistance factions.

Besides the communist Khmer Rouge leaders, there were the two non-communist nationalist leaders: former head of state Prince Norodom Sihanouk, who was based in Pyongyang and Beijing, and former prime minister Son Sann, who was based in Paris. Compared with the Khmer Rouge, these two men were paragons of virtue. But they shared one major weakness as resistance fighters: they lacked the brute military strength of the Khmer Rouge, which was putting up the only credible resistance with its 35,000 troops well armed with Chinese weapons. On the other hand, the non-communist nationalists had a valuable asset that eluded the repulsive and reviled Khmer Rouge: respectability.

If the non-communist groups could join forces with the Khmer Rouge in a united front, they would recast the image of Democratic Kampuchea and sustain international support for the struggle. Together, they could exert greater pressure on Vietnam to accept a political solution and withdraw its forces from Kampuchea. And as part of a coalition representing Democratic Kampuchea at the UN, the two noncommunist nationalist factions could legitimately receive aid, including weapons, from governments sympathetic to their cause – just the way the Vietnamese were being armed by the Soviets, and the Khmer Rouge by the Chinese. That was the strategic logic that underpinned the coalition scheme conceived by Raja, its principal architect.

Raja read the prime minister's 12-page Cabinet memorandum on “possible constitutional re-arrangements” with grave misgivings. Faced with the Tunku's desire to “hive off” Singapore from Malaysia, Lee was proposing a temporary withdrawal by Singapore from Malaysia to avoid a race conflict and its dire consequences. But the envisaged disengagement would entail a heavy price: the PAP would no longer be able to influence events in Malaya, Sabah and Sarawak, or influence policy in Malaysia.

The crux of Lee's proposal, laid out in a paper written on 25 January 1965 or just before, was to revert to the position before merger: autonomy for Singapore in all areas except for defence and foreign affairs, and banning Singapore citizens from taking part in political activities outside Singapore, and vice-versa.

With a ruthless eye, Raja parsed through Lee's arguments. These rested on the conviction that the moderates in UMNO would not be able to control its ultras and prevent a racial conflict, or stop it once it started. Knowing the situation that would unfold, Lee argued, the moderates would thus be prepared to use “extreme methods” to get Singapore out of Malaysia. Hence, better to disengage now, buying time and avoiding conflict in the hope that “in an improved situation we can in future go on again for a Malaysian nation”, the PM concluded.

It was a critical moment of decision, much like the moment at an old-fashioned wedding when the priest says, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” Raja decided to say his piece.

Over four typed pages, the culture minister put on record his opposition to any adjustment that would suggest the PAP was cowed by the UMNO ultras into compromising its multiracial vision for Malaysia. He argued strenuously against detaching Singapore from Malaya – whether loosely or completely, or even temporarily – and against pulling the PAP out from Malaya. What the PAP should do instead, he advised, was to “stay put and try to rally forces against the ultras on a Malaysia-wide basis”. Of course, there were great risks for the PAP in taking that course, he acknowledged, “but these are no less for the ultras if they have to contend with forces that the PAP can spearhead on a pan-Malaysian basis”. It was the kind of judgment call that – along with boldness, brashness and a touch of brazenness – characterised Raja's approach to an uphill battle worth waging.

The economic, political, strategic and cultural dynamism in Southeast Asia has gained added relevance in recent years with the spectacular rise of giant economies in East and South Asia. This has drawn greater attention to the region and to the enhanced role it now plays in international relations and global economics.

The sustained effort made by Southeast Asian nations since 1967 towards a peaceful and gradual integration of their economies has had indubitable success, and perhaps as a consequence of this, most of these countries are undergoing deep political and social changes domestically and are constructing innovative solutions to meet new international challenges. Big Power tensions continue to be played out in the neighbourhood despite the tradition of neutrality exercised by the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).

The Trends in Southeast Asia series acts as a platform for serious analyses by selected authors who are experts in their fields. It is aimed at encouraging policymakers and scholars to contemplate the diversity and dynamism of this exciting region.

INTRODUCTION

The ASEAN Guide on Artificial Intelligence (AI) Governance and Ethics (ASEAN AI Guide) was endorsed at the Fourth ASEAN Digital Ministers Meeting (ADGMIN),which concluded on 2 February 2024. Premised on the importance of nurturing a “trusted AI ecosystem”, this Guide is based on seven guiding principles including transparency and simplicity, fairness and equity, security and safety, alongside other salient aspects. The discussion on the need for suitable governance levers, or at the very least, for closer tabs on AI technologies, greatly accelerated with the exponential growth of generative AI applications such as ChatGPT in 2023. Though these developments represent exciting technological breakthroughs, they also raise concerns over ethical and governance risks. Moreover, recognizing these risks and how to best mitigate them, is a matter of some urgency, given their rapid proliferation.

Some jurisdictions are attempting to implement heavy-handed legislation such as the European Union (EU) AI Act, but compared to these, the ASEAN AI Guide is a notably more light-touch approach to managing the AI space that is more strategically apt for the region. With the absence of a central legislative body in ASEAN, and with the diversity in digital capabilities and regulatory capacities among ASEAN member states (AMS), a more ambitious endeavour would miss the mark. Moreover, it has been emphasized at its release that business innovation is being prioritized over other factors and thus a less heavy-handed approach would be a better fit.

The ASEAN AI Guide forms a part of the ASEAN Digital Masterplan 2025 (ADM2025) which is grounded in the establishment of “secure and transformative digital services, technologies and ecosystem”. While the Guide may seek to align with international best practices and standards, it is meant to serve more as a “practical guide” for organizations who bear the onus over the responsible and ethical development and deployment of AI systems, rather than as a policy playbook for governments. As such, governments and regional bodies feature as secondary facilitative actors, with the Guide homing in on the primary stages of the value chain. Although the voluntary, light-touch approach employed by the Guide provides flexibility for stakeholders, this aspect could render it ineffective on the other extreme. With these initial considerations in mind, we examine aspects of the ASEAN AI Guide which hit the mark, as well as areas that require more consideration, and suggest policy recommendations to help make it more well-rounded. Additional measures to heighten its use as a safeguard for stakeholders of AI technologies in its development and usage will also be discussed.