Between the rows of plastic seats and the lush, two-kilometre horseracing track, were some familiar neighbourhood elements. Throngs of people dressed in short-sleeved shirts, bermudas, and jeans milled about in the organised chaos. Among them, numerous uncles, cigarettes dangling from their lips and newspapers from their hands. Their eyes darted among tiny words in a book, each squint accompanied by a deep drag from their tobacco rolls, the tips glowing red-hot. Above us—the observer and the observed—hung a gigantic screen.

An older gentleman was buried in the Punters’ Way, a one-stop booklet for the discerning bettor. Betting on horses relies on skilled research and an intimate understanding of the racehorse, the jockey, and their shared synergy.

“Uncle, which horse are you looking at ah?” My voice broke his meditation. 

“Ahh, I'm looking at Number 4.”

It was the third race of the day. Each takes just over a minute, and their start times are 30 minutes apart. Before being ushered onto the tracks, the competing horses are paraded like the season’s latest car models. I saw one with a meshed cloth over its head and ears—a “blinker”. Horses, as natural prey to predators such as wolves and mountain lions, evolved in the wild to have extensive peripheral vision. The blinkers are meant to keep their sights locked on the finish line, much like uncle and his betting bible.

For this race, the nine horses rode out to the start point with their petite jockeys sitting atop. Number 4 had already made an impression on me. He had a beautiful chocolate mane that matched his body, with an iconic start and stripe marking across his snout. His gait was bouncy, carefree and light. Before I knew it, the barriers sprang open, and the creatures burst forth with startling force. As my eyes tracked Number 4’s movements, the cheers of the crowd seemed to fade away. On the home stretch, he emerged from the herd to take pole position. Bullet-like, he shot across the turf, his jockey’s body frozen in the martini glass position. With every metre, the crowd’s roars grew more deafening, reaching a crescendo as Number 4 crossed the finishing line. My reverie was broken.

I noticed the same uncle returning from the betting counter. “I won S$120 for my S$100 bet,” he said. A 20 percent profit, slightly higher than Number 4’s historical return of 17 percent.

I wanted to see the horse that had made this uncle S$20 richer. The air around him was heady, even as the inevitable cigarette smoke choked my lungs and stung my eyes. Photographers trained their cameras onto the owner, the trainer and the jockey. I shifted my eyes to the horse. The gelding was restless, still catching his breath. 

One race later, a crack of thunder broke over the racecourse. The sky, gashed with streaks of lightning, looked down threateningly; soon strong gusts of wind swirled around us, and raindrops fell like icy needles. The lightning alert light came on and the horses were recalled. The next race was postponed. I took a big gasp of the cold air to relieve my smoke-filled lungs. I thought about the winner who had been gasping for air post-race, who did not receive a break but was dragged along for a photo-taking session. This suffocating scenario was on replay in my mind.

My nasal passages stung as the pressure in my sinuses built up. My eyes started watering.

“It’s the smoke.” I told myself. 

Was it?

I walked towards a gantry on the side, which turned out to be the entrance to the Owner’s Lounge. “Sorry ah, you cannot go in,” said a cheery aunty, looking at my shirt and shorts. “Next week you come again! Buy a S$30 ticket, dress beautifully and I’ll let you in!” It was a reminder that this particular space, as clearly stated in the Punters’ Way, was reserved for the well-dressed and -heeled. I struck up a conversation with Aunty. She told me that she would miss her friends of over 20 years at the STC. This place of “work” had evolved into their hangout spot, and over time, the buds of collegiality had bloomed into friendships. 

Aunty was referring, of course, to the news of the track’s closure, first announced publicly on June 5th 2023. It’ll eventually be replaced, perhaps inevitably, by new Lego blocks for people to call home. That news had broken the spirits of the trainers, owners, and all those who have spent their lifetime with horses—the groomsmen, stable boys, scyes, equine specialists and more. The imminent end of the STC directly threatened their livelihoods and generational legacies. Horses course through the veins of many here. 

Even as I pondered their loss and grief, I wondered: would the horses miss their mates too?

As Timothy Barnard writes in Imperial Creatures, “[T]hese contests allowed British administrators and merchants to indulge in their ‘national pastime’ in an outpost of empire.” The club, in other words, existed to entertain the upper echelons of colonial Singapore society, including European administrators and Malay royalty. The sport was notorious for being expensive and thus afforded only by the elite, Donna Brunero, a historian at the National University of Singapore, told CNA. The main colonial objective of horseracing, however, was to foster a sense of belonging in the colonies, strengthening the bonds between the Empire’s centre and its nodes.

In 1924, the Singapore Sports Club changed its name to the Singapore Turf Club, and in 1933, it moved to a new location in Bukit Timah. With the move came a luxurious upgrade to a “three-storey grandstand, 2,000 teak armchairs, a tote house, a jockey’s stand, luncheon and tea rooms, stables, syces’ quarters and a secretary’s bungalow. Initially built to accommodate 250 horses, its capacity was expanded over the years to house over 700 horses.” A new North Grandstand was completed in 1981, increasing the holding capacity by 50,000 spectators. 

By this time, racing had become immensely popular among the masses, thanks to four-dollar tickets introduced in 1960. The STC now played host to people from vastly different socio-economic milieus. In 1972, for instance, 26,000 came to see Queen Elizabeth II, accompanied by Prince Philip and Princess Anne, grace the horseracing event at Bukit Timah. A special race—the Queen Elizabeth II Cup—with S$35,000 prize money on offer, was held in her honour. The 60-odd years at Bukit Timah were wildly successful, eventually prompting the move to a bigger, sleeker arena. In 1999, the Turf Club moved to its final destination, tucked away in the serenity of Kranji. The new grounds were the size of 200 football fields, the grandstand was five-storeys high, and floodlights all around the concourse allowed for thrilling night action. Horseracing’s future, it seemed, was secure for a long time. 

It was not to be. By 2020-21, betting revenue had plummeted below S$500m, half of what it was in 2011-12. The early decline was likely down to the increasing popularity of online betting. Singapore Pools offers a legal and safe one-stop shop to access global betting games, including overseas races. With such a convenient mechanism in place, the physical betting outlets in STC began losing their appeal. The pandemic dealt the sport a further blow, and post-pandemic attendance averaged 2,600—in a complex that could hold 30,000. In hindsight, perhaps it should have been obvious. The STC was no longer viable in a tiny nation forever haunted by the twin spectres of land-scarcity and development. 

The air was frigid along the corridor to the lounge, carrying a faint whiff of staleness reminiscent of old shopping complexes like Orchard Plaza. Inside I found high bar stools and betting counters under dim yellow lights. This just seems like another casino. But just as I had this thought, I stepped out into bright daylight. Here was the Owners’ Lounge, a glass box bathed in gentle light. The entire STC track lay beneath our feet, against a lush backdrop of secondary forests. The tables closest to the windows were labelled with dour “Reserved” signs. 

I nestled into a soft couch with a frothy cup of teh tarik, which cost four times what it does at my local. My feet rested upon velvety rugs, and the only sounds were the faint clink of crockery and hushed murmurs from nearby tables. 

Wait, am I on a holiday?

A week ago, I had been battling the wind, rain, and smoke in the lower grandstand. Yet, I was close enough to experience everything up close—the pungent smell of the stables, the racehorses’ bodily expressions as they were paraded around. Today, I’d come here for a reason, but I could feel my resolve eroding in the midst of this opulence. Here, the horses were simply miniature numbered figures running along the track far below. Yet, as they charged towards the finishing line, the cheers I heard were the same as the ones I heard in the hot and stuffy space below—boorish and rowdy, like an intense football game. 

Like modern football stadiums, the STC features a stratified architecture, where different levels of the building are distinguished by ticket pricing, exclusive dress codes, and the services provided. In many ways it’s a microcosm of a highly-stratified society, all the more because those at the top are significantly less chatty. Many were immersed in deep thought, amidst a sea of spreadsheets, papers, notepads, and scribbles. Each table had its own LCD screen, which allowed both closer analysis of bets and winnings, but also added another digital layer between human and horse, a further abstraction from the live action far below. 

Some wanted to experience the novelty of a dying sport. A Caucasian woman had brought her mum, who was last in Singapore before the second world war, to reminisce about the old colonial city. Later, I passed a scraggly-looking lady seated at a small table towards the back of the lounge. Her eyes seemed to have disappeared behind thick frames. Sheets of paper were scattered across the table and the Punter’s Way was just peeking through. I decided to strike up a conversation with her.

“Did you bet earlier?”

“My horse didn’t win. Do you own a horse?” Her tone was nonchalant, and she spat the question before I could react.

“Oh, I don’t, sorry to hear that you didn’t win…”

“Yes, aiya, she lost.” She chopped through my previous response and pressed on. “So, are you here with some owners, or trainers?” 

“I’m just here with a friend, to watch the races.” At this point, I decided to take a bet on her limited patience. “By the way, where do you think your horse will be when the Turf Club closes?”

“Depends on his performance,” she said curtly. 

Later, I found a photo on Facebook of the same person posing with her racehorse, claiming a victory from a race some months prior. A jockey had commented: “Congratulations to you all of your winnings, especially to the jockey X who has guided this material to clinch this race.” 

The colony. Where the performance of material is paramount. I may have only travelled a few steps from the Lower Grandstand, but I felt like an outsider in a highly stratified space, where creatures are commodified for the pleasure of a ruling, capitalist class.

In November 2023, STC first announced financial aid for trainers and owners, partly to stem the exodus of horses, and ensure that owners would be incentivised to keep racing through the 2024 season. For instance, it implemented a Horse Expatriation Plan Award (HEPA), which awards S$2,000 upon a finalised expatriation plan per horse. Then there were horse exportation subsidies, that reimburse up to 90 percent of a horse’s retirement or relocation costs—transport, animal licensing, veterinary health compliance certifications, and so on—up to a maximum of S$12,000. Separately, STC also offered a monthly S$800 subsidy to cover feeding, bedding, and stable costs for every horse staying at the club.

While useful, these contributions are insufficient. A Horse and Hounds article quotes that the true cost of a racehorse’s relocation or retirement can be very significant, especially when overseas repatriation plans are in consideration. Another estimate suggests that S$4,000-S$4,500 per month is required to meet a horse’s retirement needs. Meanwhile, repatriation to race in Australia, for instance, can cost some S$25,000.

The Thoroughbred Owners and Association Sports Trust (TOAST), a group that aims “to represent and promote the interests of racehorse owners locally and internationally”, rebuked STC’s HEPA and its “one-sided Agreement (Annex B)”. In a newsletter, it said that it was “unacceptable” for owners to be responsible for the orderly and timely expatriation of horses.

But if not owners, then whom? Surely the pride in the achievements of their wards—the second half of the 2023 newsletter was devoted to that—goes hand in hand with certain responsibilities. It requires the acknowledgement of a complex repatriation process, robust financial capabilities and collective effort to be able to provide for the horse’s needs. The owners’ unwillingness to fork out limits trainers’ ability to make retirement plans for their horses. The Asian Racing Federation (ARF) expressed animal welfare concerns, wondering “about the ‘extraordinary demands’ the relocation of more than 700 horses will have on other jurisdictions.”

Amidst the uproar and sadness of it all, SG Retirement Racehorse, a non-profit organisation dedicated to fundraising and finding safe retirement for STC’s racehorses, was set up this year. Industry insider Jakki Harrison, who is actively driving donations with two others, shared in an interview with Horse and Hounds that “she has sent seven horses—some to full retirement at a knowledgeable home in France, others to be retrained as riding horses in Germany”. Many horses were sent to Malaysia—the cheapest option—but Harrison is worried about the quality of life they’ll have there. She also said that she’d like “to see a provision of a fund for each horse, similar to Hong Kong, where owners are required to pay towards a horse’s retirement as a condition of their import to race.” The Hong Kong Jockey Club prepares the racehorses’ retirement and “charges owners a fee of HK$80,000 (S$14,000) when they bring a horse to Hong Kong.” This is to ensure that the horse is appropriately rehomed upon retirement.

The Hong Kong Jockey Club also provides career transitions through a RESTART Retired Racehorse Programme: “[T]he facilities at both retired horse locations aid a varied and diverse training programme with the goal of producing well-rounded, relaxed horses that can continue their training and education in a new career once the initial retraining phase is completed.” 

Sadly, Singapore’s horse retirement plans are not so well-considered. As I contemplate how the numerous human actors are passing the buck for the horses under their care, I feel a sinking sense of sorrow that does not know where to go. 

But, at least our athletes and jockeys get the privilege of retiring comfortably in their penthouses and mansions. What of our horses? “A racehorse’s peak is between four to eight years old,” an equine veterinarian told me. Their subsequent health and future depend on their owners’ grace and moral compasses. Often, the decision to treat their injuries is weighed against the cold economic benefits of doing so. 

One individual from the equine industry told me about a mare that hobbled out of her owner’s favour after a painful injury. The mare was to be “deleted”—no longer deployed as a racehorse. She might be sold off for a meagre profit, resuming employment in a riding school in her weakened state, living out her final days doing hard labour. 

So, no mansions, no sponsorship deals, no training academies nor sports-related positions await them. Only “deletion”, and a long road of painful bondage that might end tragically, as they recede into history much like older car models. As Angus Taylor put it: “Practically, the capitalist mode of production militates against viewing the nonhuman world as anything other than a storehouse of exploitable resources.” 

An injured horse is a depreciating asset. While I too, grieve in my own ways, in search of my own closure, Budiansky’s eloquent words that open this essay nudge me into exploring other human-horse relationships; relationships in which horses are held in sacredness, pride and reverence. 

Over time, our relationship with horses has grown to be far more complex. Horses have carried us across our ancient and modern histories, serving as transport through geographical zones, cavalry in warfare, a means of commerce, and as a source of entertainment. Even in the age of mechanised transport, the horse is still exalted in many parts of the world. 

“I cannot ride a horse anymore, so I cannot work. What is the use in living?” So opens Victoria Soyan Peemot’s The Horse in My Blood: Multispecies kinship in the Altai and Saian Mountains. Peemot is quoting her ailing grandfather who, like her, is Tuvan, a nomadic Central Asian community of which horses are an integral part. The Horse in My Blood is a moving portrayal of human-horse relationships; an exploration of how their lives and identities are paced and braided through careful, mutual identity negotiations.

“Both must match each other,” she wrote, “and a man must put his efforts into matching his horses’ worth by being a good owner…” This mutual worthiness is often-stressed in Tuvan epics—a young boy and his colt face challenges together, thereby earning their adult names simultaneously. And so the Tuvan human-horse bond is one of reciprocity and mutual obligations, governed by an understanding that the two are destined to support each other. “The horse,” an elder Tuvan told Peemot, “was created by Burgan bashky (Buddha) so that a person can seek the horse’s help and ride with him.”

One balmy evening at the Esplanade outdoor concourse earlier this year, my ears were graced by a group of Tuvan musicians who brought with them the sounds of the steppe vegetation, valleys, and high mountain passes. Amidst the vast soundscape, their magical throat singing full of rich overtones and powerful droning resonated through my very being. 

“Hmpp-prrrh.” 

A warm frisson crept up the back of my neck as the throat singer skilfully imitated the gentle low snort of the horse. The auditory mise-en-scène was beautiful and alive. They told the steppes’ stories of the nomadic riders through voices and words, and their resilient mounts through the horse’s clatter, neighs, and snorts. The musician’s gust of wind echoed steadily through the microphone. I was certain I heard a gorgeous mane flapping in the desert wind.

The Tuvan are a people deeply connected to their environment and the creatures who inhabit it. This shone through in their ability to express their folklore, land and wildlife through intricate and superb throat singing. Through their music, songs and storytelling, I heard the galloping of the horses’ hooves echoing through the vast expanse—a telling tribute to the profound bond that marks man and horse as equals in Central Asian nomadic culture.

One kick from him and I might just die. I was honestly quite intimidated.

“You can touch him,” my friend said. The gelding moved forward with an uneven gait, towering over my head. Is that an injury? He lowered his velvety snout, initiating a nose rub. Restraining myself slightly, I inched forward and gave him an assuring caress on his gigantic snout. The gush of warm breath right after seemed like an affectionate sign of approval. Fuzzy. I felt a rush of adrenaline and that’s when I knew. I was and would always be obsessed with horses, especially racehorses.

I scanned the stable space, feeling a visceral sense of emptiness. Where will you go after this?

Donate on SG Racehorse Retirement’s Gofundme page to help them find safe retirement options for the Singapore Turf Club (STC) racehorses. They aim to:

1. Retire the older horses or ones that are irreparably lame.
2. Find good homes for the sound ones with professionals that can retrain them to suit new careers and look after their best interests.

Pamela Ng is a creative storyteller who cares deeply for biodiversity and ecological challenges. She hopes to drive change through her artistic means and nature guiding. During the day, Pam works as a sustainability professional in energy management. Off the clock, she can be found nose-deep in pockets of green and blue, doing wildlife rescue work, or ideating novel ways to communicate long-standing misconceptions and narratives of our environment.

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