Hello everyone!
My second (and last) week in Singapore was full of trying not to get lost, trying not to sweat, and trying to understand languages I don’t speak. I spent a few days walking around more of Singapore’s cultural nodes like Arab Street and Haji Lane as well as Joo Chiat and the Peranakan houses. Another day consisted of a long walk from Arab Street across downtown through Merlion Park and the marina, all the way to the famous hawker centre Lau Pa Sat. Every weekday at 7pm, the street behind Lau Pa Sat is shut down to traffic, filled with outdoor seating, and turned into what is called Satay Street – a row of satay stalls that pump out thousands of chicken, beef, and prawn satay sticks a night to hungry tourists and locals alike (although the large majority of the crowd is made up of foreigners).
Satay Street
This hawker centre is unlike many others across Singapore in that it is, quite obviously, a tourist hive. Although hawker culture in general is very Singaporean and a commonly listed must-do experience on many travel guides (not to mention a UNESCO-recognized Intangible Cultural Heritage), the hawker centres that are frequented by locals rarely exhibit the same curated aesthetic as Lau Pa Sat. Where other hawker centres house small metal stalls that are often cash-only, Lau Pa Sat features food-truck style, decorated eateries that are “mobile payment friendly,” as they often advertise. Other hawker centres’ desserts may be ang ku kueh (a Chinese sweet dumpling) or kuih seri muka (a Malaysian steamed layer cake), while Lau Pa Sat’s include croissants, ice cream, and donuts.
It was a super interesting visit signage-wise, as many of these differences are also reflected in the language, wording, and other semiotic elements used throughout the space. Below are a few examples:
A stall with neon signage, not found in other hawker centres
A stall featuring “Western Food”
English signpost
I also got to visit the National University of Singapore’s campus, where I interviewed a Chinese PhD student in NUS’s English Language and Linguistics department. A large part of what we discussed was Singapore’s Peranakan culture and its contested existence as a relic of the past vs a current lived identity. The term Peranakan is typically used to refer to the ethnic group that are descendants of Chinese immigrants to Southeast Asia who intermarried with local Malay communities…however, some understand the term to encompass any person of mixed native and foreign ancestry. Another point of tension is whether this identity is a dead culture or still active – as in, whether it is simply a part of Singapore’s history or a current identity that one can still hold. My interlocutor shared that one of his friend’s ex-boyfriends self-identifies as Peranakan, even though his mother – who is the only source of his mixed heritage – doesn’t use the term to describe herself. To my interlocutor, it felt more like a performance than a lived identity, as if the label was being used to signal cultural capital or uniqueness. The way he put it, calling yourself Peranakan, when even your mixed-race parent doesn’t, feels a little insincere, which I thought was interesting.
My last interview was with a linguist at Brown University who was in Singapore doing some fieldwork. Much of his work in the past has consisted of interviewing Singaporeans about Singlish’s use, popularity, and cultural ties. The commercialization of Singlish is evident all across Singapore – in souvenir gift shops (including the one at NUS), restaurants, and even the name of my local SIM card (Connect Lah!), the use of Singlish particles like lah, leh, and lor has been co-opted into branding that feels authentic and cheeky, yet safely commodified. However, in his opinion, there seems to be no clear consensus on what actually counts as Singlish. In his interviews, everyone has a different definition – some say it’s simply whatever Singaporeans speak, while others insist it’s a distinct variety with its own features. Some people view Singlish as universal and unmarked, while others, especially those from older or more elite backgrounds, actively distance themselves from it. For instance, one of his dissertation committee members, who was also a government ambassador, insisted she does not speak Singlish at all, despite her audience often identifying her speech as Singlish, which exemplifies a generational and ideological divide. There’s also a clear ideological boundary between Singlish and its Malaysian counterpart, Manglish. While the two varieties share features, people in Singapore often reject the idea that Malays in Singapore could be speaking Manglish, as it’s seen as geographically and politically inappropriate.
I also learned that in schools, Standard Mandarin is the only Chinese variety taught and promoted. Students who are ethnically identified as Chinese are required to study Mandarin and cannot opt out, while other racial groups (e.g., Indian students) may have the option to opt in. Chinese dialects such as Hokkien or Teochew are largely excluded from formal education and official discourse. They may appear briefly in end-of-year or enrichment activities where students are asked to learn a phrase from a grandparent – but even these moments are framed around Mandarin, with prompts like “How would you say this in Mandarin?” This reflects an underlying policy of dialect suppression. Mandarin holds clear economic and social capital. Even a limited ability to speak it can grant access – for example, communicating with a plumber directly instead of hiring a translator can save money. It’s not necessarily about fluency, but about gaining access to certain linguistic and economic spaces.
In my last blog post, I talked a little bit about linguistic inaccessibility when it comes to older generations. I noticed a bit of this in a few museum visits – many automatic doors throughout the Asian Civilisations Museum feature warnings that the door swings outward, presumably prompting visitors not to get too close. However, this warning appears only in English, and does not include any iconography (that is, the message is in words only). Despite the potentially humorous vision this scenario might evoke, it is worth considering that if you cannot read English, you are very likely to get smacked by the door on your way to the next gallery. This may not often lead to serious injury, but we can imagine that if the visitor happens to be elderly and lacking the ability to quickly move out of the way, the repercussions may be fairly serious. A lack of multilingual signage has also caused harm with younger populations – there have been instances where signage in and around a construction site has been in a language a worker cannot understand, which has led to injury and even death. These situations can often seem rare or not inherently tied to language, but because signs are essential forms of communication and provide access to information, inadequate signage can absolutely lead to physical harm.
On a lighter note, one of my favorite recurring signs in Singapore is the one prohibiting durian, the spiky fruit with an infamously pungent smell. The “No Durian” symbol often appears right next to typical “No Smoking” and “No Food” warnings in confined or shared spaces. It’s on MRT platforms, hostel elevators, and even fridge doors. The idea that a fruit has a smell so bad that it warrants official signage is hilarious to me. Also, it’s particularly funny that in the sign to the right, possession of durian in this space lands you a fine double of that for eating or drinking.
I flew from Singapore to Manila on Monday night, and after taking yesterday to catch up on sleep and do a load of laundry, I’m ready to explore Manila today! Being in my second-to-last country is surreal to say the least. Thank you to the Circumnavigators Club and to everyone who has been a part of this adventure!