After deregistering from Singapore’s official plastic bag charge scheme at the end of 2025, Ang Mo and its smaller counterpart Hao Mart were no longer compelled to collect that five-cent fee. The move wasn’t political or rebellious—it was procedural. For three straight years, neither chain has met the S$100 million income barrier imposed by the National Environment Agency. That pushed them below the legal cutoff, allowing them to bow out of the policy altogether.

But the actual shift wasn’t in legislation—it was in discretion.

Although no longer bound by the rule, Ang Mo Supermarket resumed charging for plastic bags at some shops. At first glance, it felt like little had changed. However, the divide between mandatory and optional regulation holds power. And in retail, that authority typically displays itself through consumer trust.

By operating outside the established plan, Ang Mo no longer has to declare how many bags it gives away, how much cash it gets from them, or where that revenue ends up. That level of reporting had once created an admittedly thin—but still helpful—veil of accountability.

According to Ang Mo’s public report from 2024, it issued 664,828 plastic bags and received slightly more than S$33,000. Of this, almost S$2,746 was paid as Goods and Services Tax. The remainder—more than S$30,000—was allocated to local community development and education funding in Marymount and Punggol Shore.

This act of redistribution, though admittedly minor in magnitude, stood out. Especially when pitted against Hao Mart, which had poured all of its equivalent revenue into its own activities. I was particularly struck by the comparison—not in a critical manner, but as a reminder of how readily transparency may become obscured when no one is formally observing.

To be clear, deregistration does not equate to traditional deregulation. It’s more a shrinking of oversight. NEA’s inaugural bag levy scheme—rolled out in July 2023—was impressively effective in cutting bag usage by as much as 80% at participating establishments. Cold Storage, FairPrice, and Don Don Donki all stay on the list, constrained not merely by rules, but by the weight of popular expectation.

By contrast, Ang Mo’s move exposes the gaps that occur when policies focus too heavily on revenue as a measuring point. When smaller operators slide below the threshold, they depart the spotlight, leaving consumers to navigate a hodgepodge of policies that feel inconsistent—even arbitrary.

The decision to charge or not now falls entirely with these retailers. Some will do it out of habit. Others will continue for the optics. A few may discreetly drop the charge completely. Without compulsory data reporting, we may never completely know.

Yet it’s worth asking: what are five cents truly for?

Are they a price tag for convenience? A nudge toward sustainability? A penalty for forgetfulness? Or have they become, discreetly but steadily, a new stream of micro-revenue for struggling merchants stuck between rising rents and decreasing margins?

Ang Mo Supermarket is now a test case in many respects. Not just for the plastic bag policy, but for what occurs when the bounds of corporate accountability vary slightly—just enough to modify expectations, but not enough to cause outcry.

Discussions on the forum have been lively. Reddit threads lit up with individuals criticizing the lack of transparency from businesses like Hao Mart and arguing whether philanthropic donations actually reflect goodwill—or only give tax benefits disguised as altruism. Others voiced their surprise regarding the NEA’s own measures, pointing out how even well-meaning studies could be misconstrued.

Some commenters worried about Ang Mo’s financial condition, noting empty shelves and diminishing stock as indicators of a business in retreat. The optics of charging for plastic bags when they are legally exempt have ramifications whether or not that is the case. If customers start to feel like they’re being nickel-and-dimed for the wrong reasons, then five cents can cost far more than it’s worth.

Despite its minority, this problem highlights a larger one: how retail systems interact with environmental goals. When policies disappear gradually, it’s simple for behaviors to follow. That’s where public trust becomes a renewable—or exhaustible—resource.

Nevertheless, the data shows optimism. Many consumers increasingly bring their own bags out of habit, even at deregistered establishments. Behavioral change, once ignited, is surprisingly resilient. Even in the absence of strict regulation, this very inertia—the positive kind—may propel environmental initiatives ahead.

Over the next year, Singaporeans will get to decide whether that five-cent signal still matters. Some may continue paying, perceiving it as a civic contribution. Others may start questioning where the money goes. And a few might cease shopping at places that seem to profit from policies no longer applied.

One thing is certain: policies do not go away once they become options. They simply migrate—from compliance offices to cashier counters, and finally, to public perception.

The bag charge experience has, if anything, demonstrated that even the simplest policy—quietly implemented, moderately enforced—can significantly alter behavior. Not instantaneously, but insistently.

And if Ang Mo changes its role in this new world, it’s not deregulation that defines the future, but whether trust—like reusable bags—can carry more than it seems.

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