Evaluating the effectiveness of sex education in Singaporean schools
Are schools adequately addressing sex education?
As a teacher with 25 years of experience, my approach has always been to eliminate discomfort and demystify the topic. I kick off sex education classes by getting students to say “penis” and “vagina” three times, aiming to create a matter-of-fact atmosphere.
Recent news, particularly incidents involving university students facing charges for sexual assault and voyeurism, raises concerns about the lack of guidance on consent—so much so that universities now have to implement dedicated modules. I worry that pornography has fostered unrealistic expectations and objectification, influencing young minds to prioritize sexual gratification over respect for boundaries. This leads me to question whether our education system is sufficiently preparing students.
The curriculum attempts to be thorough, covering everything from biology to consent. Teachers undergo hours of pre-class seminars that include theoretical discussions and role-playing exercises. We might find ourselves acting out scenarios involving teenagers navigating sexual situations, such as Boy A asking Girl A for sex after a few dates or figuring out the appropriate age of consent on platforms like Tinder.
This often results in awkward laughter, as it’s difficult for students to take these sessions seriously when teachers appear to be stepping outside their comfort zones. Most educators present sex education lessons in a stoic manner, understanding that they are required by the Ministry of Education (MOE) to do so, without questioning the relevance of these lessons.
While a few younger teachers express concerns about the teaching methods, we adjust our approach to better reflect the class culture, incorporating contemporary references like the impact of Instagram on the sexualization of teenagers or the prevalence of dating apps.
When we announce that the next few civics lessons will focus on sex education, reactions vary—from enthusiastic cheers from the boys to reluctance from the girls, with some expressing a preference for completing their math work instead.
Ultimately, this leads to a disconnect between expectations and reality. Instead of engaging with their teachers about techniques or personal experiences, students are presented with informational sources about HIV/STD treatment and a panel of experts approved by MOE who discuss the consequences of premarital sex.
The panel typically includes medical professionals, married educators, lawyers, and school counselors, resulting in clinical, somewhat preachy lessons on contraception that often lack practical demonstrations. Additionally, students are shown videos about unwanted pregnancies and diseases, which can unintentionally evoke humor rather than impart serious information.
Across all materials, the prevailing message is one of abstinence. It’s not surprising that, after providing feedback, some students report feeling bored or disappointed and prefer to seek answers on Google or YouTube.
Once, I asked my students to indicate, through blinking, who among them had engaged in sexual activity. Some girls jokingly pried their eyes open, stating they had more pressing concerns—like their A Levels—than engaging in sex.
When I attempted to clarify curious inquiries about what constitutes sex, such as hand jobs or oral sex, my colleagues at the back of the room observed students recoil in embarrassment.
During gender-segregated sessions, boys shared bolder questions and experiences, including those from students I didn’t teach, who felt comfortable discussing their encounters. One even recounted meeting an older woman online who propositioned him.
In contrast, the girls dismissed sex as “gross” and labeled boys who watch porn as “er xing” (disgusting). It’s evident that boys are culturally conditioned to sexualize their experiences at an earlier age.
This reveals not only a gender divide in sexual education but also a cultural one. More conservative or religious students often avoid discussions about sex. Religions like Islam and Christianity explicitly discourage premarital sex, leading some students to adopt an “we’ll address it when we’re married” mentality. Others from Asian-conservative backgrounds are raised in households that avoid discussing taboo topics, opting instead to seek information from peers or online sources, often stumbling upon pornography.
Moreover, the sex education curriculum fails to address questions related to the LGBTQ+ community, assuming that teenagers do not experience sexual confusion. However, my interactions with students have shown otherwise.
Typically, in each cohort, one or two students confide their struggles with their sexuality, often feeling disapproval or shame. Consequently, I’ve become an outlet for these students’ concerns, even those I don’t teach, as they perceive me as approachable and non-judgmental. It’s disheartening to see them burdened by secret shame while the curriculum implies their existence is irrelevant.
During a panel discussion on sex education, when a question regarding homosexuality arose, a speaker quickly cited the legal stipulations of 377A and dismissed further discussion. I wondered how these students felt at that moment and whether we were doing enough to support them.
Is the teacher’s role merely to provide information or to help students make informed choices? Or is sex education just another box to check off in the curriculum?
Teachers often hesitate to engage with such topics due to fears of breaching MOE regulations. Discussions about homosexuality are typically relegated to school counselors, and some teachers view it as wrong or illegal. I’ve only been able to speak with students about it outside of my role as a teacher, sometimes online after hours. Identifying as queer has helped foster trust and comfort regarding sensitive topics.
While school counselors are available to support students through their emotional challenges, there remains a stigma that only troubled students seek counseling.
Whenever I read about promising students involved in misconduct, I question whether they understand consent or have addressed their personal struggles during their time at school. If parents struggle to navigate these discussions, how can teachers be expected to do better?
During parent-teacher conferences, some parents express concerns about their children’s relationships, which I assume includes discussions about sex. As a form teacher, my role remains limited to advising students to focus on academics, intervening only when school rules are broken. Their activities outside of school fall beyond my responsibilities, which is why I believe teachers must maintain a professional distance, reducing sex education to mere biology.
We aspire to engage more personally with students and delve into their deeper issues, but we face constraints of time and curriculum.
While we hope to outsource sex education to professional vendors with the expertise to provide comprehensive education beyond just abstinence, this raises additional concerns regarding budget limitations and bureaucratic hurdles that often impede progress.
