‘Flashpoint’ dives into the temperature of GE2025 political rallies—the noise, the heat, the restless undercurrent you can’t put into words. Each photographer is given full creative freedom to interpret the rallies in their own distinct style and capture the raw energy that slips past speeches and slogans.
Amrita Chandradras, 37, is a documentary photographer and photojournalist whose work on identity and social issues has appeared in The New York Times, National Geographic, and The Washington Post. For this piece, she captures warmth, mystery, and reverence in the rain-soaked aftermath of a People’s Action Party (PAP) rally at Yishun Stadium.
RICE does not endorse any political party in Singapore. Refer to our GE2025 content coverage policy for details.
I arrived early, wondering how the shoot might unfold if the rain didn’t let up. I usually like to ease into a space, get a feel for it before lifting the camera. But the downpour had me second-guessing everything—would people still show up? Would the energy shift?
The uncertainty was distracting at first. I found myself wrestling more with thoughts than the weather itself.
Still, there’s always something to be said for the quiet in between. The rain gave me space to slow down, to observe. I wandered into an HDB block overlooking the stadium and took in the scene from above, trying to read the mood of the place from a distance.
And then, just as suddenly as the rain had started, it began to ease. The clouds parted, and the sun broke through with an almost theatrical glow.
A stranger appeared beside me and asked, “Do you see God in the sun?” I didn’t know what to say. Maybe some questions don’t need answers. We smiled, and he walked away.
As I stepped back into the soft drizzle, the sky opened up, and to my astonishment, a rainbow arced right above the rally stage.
That image, that convergence of heavy rain and golden light, would never have happened without the storm.
I was surprised to discover free ice cream being handed out at the entrance. People trickled in slowly, and the crowd never felt big enough for the space.
Volunteers tried to bring a lively energy with bells, whistles, horns, glowing LED boards, and flags. Goodie bags were passed around, along with sweets and even umbrellas.
The media presence was strong with bloggers, photographers, and news crews clustered around the area, which I found intriguing. Supporters carried a variety of poster cut-outs, each one louder than the next.
The crowd felt like a blend: some passionate supporters, some curious onlookers, and others like me just observing it all unfold.
I approached this project as an observer, not a supporter, so none of the images in this series reflect my political stance. What intrigued me was the question: What would it be like to photograph a PAP rally in a country where the party has been in power since independence?
People often ask me about the atmosphere, the energy on the ground. I can only say that I walked, I observed, and I photographed based on instinct. My interest lies with the people who chose to be there.
Can a photograph hint at what they’re thinking? I’m drawn to faces, to how we move through and occupy public space, how bodies interact with their surroundings.
These are fleeting moments, never quite the same from one breath to the next. What do our postures, our silences, and our presence say?
In that sense, the rally became another site for observing human expression within a deeply structured environment.
This year’s general election is the first time I’ve been able to attend physical rallies. In the past, COVID-19 restrictions and long stints overseas kept me away.
I’ve attended a few opposition rallies out of a genuine interest in the stories they’re telling. As a photojournalist, I believe it’s important to document a range of perspectives.
Personally, politics have always been present in my life, though for many years I kept them at a distance. I grew up in a household where political discussions were part of the daily fabric of life—my father was a journalist, and our conversations were often intense, emotionally charged, and impossible to ignore.
For a while, stepping back from it all felt like a necessary kind of privilege. But now, I understand him more clearly. The way we live—and the futures we imagine—are shaped by policy, by power, and by the choices we make together.
Turning the camera toward politics isn’t just about documenting events; it’s about trying to make sense of the structures we live within.
I was especially drawn to photographing an older man dressed head to toe in crisp white, with a PAP pin neatly fastened to his shirt. His clothes were immaculately pressed, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence that immediately stood out.
There was a look of reverence in his eyes as he looked at the PAP politicians on the rally stage. By the way he was dressed and the energy he gave off, he could have easily been mistaken for a politician himself.
As an observer, what caught my attention most were the people standing quietly around the edges of the stadium, watching the rally from the periphery.
There was something about their presence that stayed with me.
It made me reflect on the boundaries—both visible and invisible—that shape our spaces.
Who gets to stand at the centre? Who remains at the margins? And ultimately, who holds the right to question, to access, to belong?
Looking at the rallies I’ve attended so far, not just from that night, one thing stands out: there seems to be a notable shift, with younger people getting more involved.
It’s incredible, especially considering that my generation didn’t seem as engaged when we were their age or at least, that’s how I remember it. Perhaps it’s the rise of debates and conversations fuelled by technology and social media.
But it’s hard to say for sure. The future feels uncertain. Perhaps it’s not the rallies themselves, but what we carry home from them, the quiet questions, half-formed thoughts—that matter most.
