No matter which street, train, or overpass I travel, they follow me. Sometimes it’s just a curious few and other times it’s a bewildered dozen, but they always come in pairs, following wherever I go. They are everywhere at the same time – well, everywhere but exactly where I am. They remain near me but not so near as to make obvious their pursuit. A unique form of surveillance pervades my existence in this nation, one that is quite easy to see yet far easier to feel, just like the sun and its persistent swelter during the Singaporean daytime. You can unfurl an umbrella to block the sun’s sting but you can never escape the heat; I can ignore the eyes following my every move, but I can never escape the stares.

The staring, studying, scrutiny, and squinting from tens of eyes was one of the first realizations I had when I turned off “tourist mode.” This being my first trip abroad from the U.S., I approached Singapore as any giddy tourist would — a camera in one hand, Google Maps in the other, and wide-open eyes for the wealth of attractions the small country has to offer. Changi Airport was the perfect landing spot to engage every sense of a tourist. Somehow, five hours were all too easy to spend within the airport-mall-market-playground-food court-jungle that spanned over seven floors and 6000 acres. My eyes and phone camera admired the wonderful man-made structures that attracted thousands of other tourists from across the world. Although I was technically within Singapore, I didn’t realize the airport was somewhat of a liminal space dominated by non-Singaporeans and unrepresentative of everyday life. There were so many eyes, but none followed me – not yet. My invisibility among the diversity of internationals was a temporary comfort as I indulged in this superficial first-taste of the “city in a garden.” 

In the haste of driving to my hotel, checking in, lugging massive suitcases to my room, and finally letting it seep in that wow, I’m suddenly halfway across the world, I was still mentally distant from the people around me. The unfamiliar sights captured my heart and mind immediately. I never knew visiting, let alone living, in a new country would be so visually overwhelming. There were dozens of statues to behold, hundreds of skyscrapers to see, thousands of shops to peruse, millions of magical plants to touch, and perhaps billions of little slugs on sidewalks to befriend. The sight of Singapore cannot be taken in at once, nor do I expect to fully absorb it by the end of my 3-month stay. However, admittedly, the last aspect of Singapore I began to explore and understand were its people. The population density overwhelmed me, giving me the perfect excuse to keep my eyes focused only on where I was headed. While taking my first stroll out of my hotel through Kampong Gelam, a historic Muslim quarter with varied eateries and striking murals, my periphery gradually stole my attention from my planned destination straight ahead. At the edges of my perception were heads slowly turning, tracking me like a telescope would track a star. Then there were whispers shared between shop owners stationed along the street. And then there were curious toddlers pointing in my direction. 

By accepting that I am different and unable to mask all of my differences, I tried to gain insight into the reasons why I was the target of so many eyes.

Naylah Canty ’23

At first I dismissed this feeling of being watched, telling myself that it’s traveler’s paranoia, or at worst, main-character syndrome. There was likely some monument conveniently positioned behind me that fooled me into thinking that I was the subject of strangers’ attention. I test out this theory, finally using my eyes to meet the stares of the people streaming past me. What I saw were eyes, eyes, and more eyes, looking directly into mine. My eyes darted to the ground – I couldn’t bear the sudden scrutiny. Perhaps this was the moment when I truly landed, or in other words, when I took my head out of the clouds. I realized that despite being inside Singapore, I couldn’t be further from a typical Singaporean. The stares were a frank reminder that I am a Black woman in Asia and that fact in itself draws unsolicited attention. Anxiety washed over me like a heatwave. I began to sweat. 

Enduring the rest of the day as if I were under a microscope was nerve-racking, to say the least. I tried to behave like I wasn’t aware of my unique appearance nor the stares I faced because of it. I carried myself like a statue—always present for others’ entertainment yet stone-faced and unreactive to the hundreds of passing gazes. I became hyper-aware of things that never consumed a single thought before, like the length of my stride, bounce of my step, swing of my braids, and cadence of my speech. All of these had to be carefully moderated to mimic a new “normal” which was devised from the cumulative behavior of surrounding Singaporeans. Though more of a coping mechanism than an effective tactic, attempting to blend in seemed to be the easiest method to evade the overwhelming number of eyes.

My hotel room, the only place where I knew I wasn’t being watched, became my home base. Being alone provided a much needed break from being different. Sitting on my humble twin bed is where I realize that being abroad is being out of place in every sense—culturally, emotionally, socially, and geographically. No shortcut to joining a foreign society exists and no mimicry guarantees admission, especially when I don’t share its members’ racial identity. By accepting that I am different and unable to mask all of my differences, I tried to gain insight into the reasons why I was the target of so many eyes.

There is a saying that eyes are the windows to the soul—maybe eyes can be the windows to a nation too.

Eyes can communicate a world of words without saying a single thing while leaving much room for contrasting interpretations; my initial fear was that the stares indicated that I wasn’t welcome in the country or that my out-of-place-ness was viewed with disdain from locals. I almost settled on this interpretation because it’s quite effortless to make uniformed generalizations about people who see me as different from them. However, this characterization of Singaporeans didn’t align with the kindness they treated me with and the extra patience they’d afford me since I was obviously a foreigner. Not even in the glances I took of those who gazed at me did I sense reproach or ill-will. So, I considered a second interpretation: the stares were simply genuine expressions of intrigue. They were harmless glimpses at a member of an ethnic and racial group that is extremely rare in Southeast Asia. Either interpretation is nearly impossible to verify on a case-by-case (or maybe eye-by-eye) basis, since there is a wide range of attitudes toward foreigners and Black people in any nation. Nonetheless, I knew it’d be most healthy for me to assume Singaporeans would perceive me in the same way I perceive them—with no preconceived bias or pretense. 

Therefore, two big questions arise: how do I thrive in a country where I feel so different? How do I continue to be myself even if everyone is watching? These questions attack the core of the meaning of “comfort,” specifically what makes an environment safe and fulfilling for me. In this environment, comfort cannot emerge from a common racial or national identity, which were the characteristics that defined most of my social communities in college. Instead, I must find comfort while being unchangeably different from those around me. This creates a beautiful opportunity to seek out personalities and experiences that resonate with mine.

Displaced geographically from my identity, I can closely witness how other identities interact under totally unfamiliar cultural contexts. Moreover, I can invite Singaporeans to get to know me for my personality, interests, hobbies, and quirks—dissolving the large but invisible barriers of race, gender, and nationality with the power of friendship. In order to connect with Singaporeans, I’m forced to confront differences for what they are: just differences, not anything to be ashamed or terrified of. There are plenty of differences within the Singaporean population too yet there is a strong sense of unity and harmony; I’m convinced that my unique difference won’t make the melting pot boil over. 

Being myself is the only solution. The eyes and why they stare—though they make me more self-conscious—have no real impact on who I am. Now, instead of avoiding what most overwhelmed me, I use my eyes to observe the diversity of Singaporeans and the ways they talk, walk, dress, dance, and live in an environment that’s so drastically different from what I’ve always known. I’ve become more comfortable with being intrigued by others and letting them be intrigued by me. Looking at people from different backgrounds is the first step to beginning to understand them and accept their presence, so sometimes, I respond to stares with a small smile. There is a saying that eyes are the windows to the soul—maybe eyes can be the windows to a nation too.