A Singaporean in Guangzhou wonders: why do I feel so at home here?

On a recent trip to China, I was on a rumbling subway train when I was struck by a strange sense of homecoming. It was as if I had been transported back to my childhood, and suddenly I was completely at home among all the strangers in the subway carriage – even though it was my very first time in Guangzhou. The funny thing is that nothing special happened on that ride. I just had a moment to observe my surroundings and realise how much my husband and I – both Chinese Singaporeans – resembled the everyday people around us. We were all roughly the same height and had the same colouring. Many of the other passengers had large almond-shaped eyes with double eyelids and low nose bridges with rounded tips, rather like mine. Although I had visited China many times and taken the subway in cities including Beijing, Shanghai and Chongqing, I had never felt this way before. While I would not invite a second look in most parts of China, I often felt like an “other”. If I am being honest, my nagging feeling in those other cities might have been that in contrast to the often taller, fairer and well-groomed Chinese women, my tropical tan, short stature and make-up-free face were more likely to conjure an image of a homely hobbit, standing among ethereal elves. Fundamentally, however, the feeling of otherness extends beyond mere looks. It is in the subtle things, like having to strain the ear to understand the different melodies of spoken Chinese across the country and tasting somewhat recognisable, yet strange, Chinese flavours – such as heavily seasoned pancakes and grilled meats with cumin. Here in southern China, every other man in the street looked like he could be a long-lost uncle or distant relative. If I was a hobbit, so were people around me. In Guangzhou, capital of Guangdong province, I realised I had felt othered because I had been visiting the wrong cities all along. Here in southern China, every other man in the street looked like he could be a long-lost uncle or distant relative. If I was a hobbit, so were people around me. Besides, the cuisine was often familiar and comforting: soups, lightly cooked seafood, rice-based dishes, except in a wider variety and at lower price points than in Singapore. But the most delightful surprise was the brand of Chinese spoken in Guangzhou. The Mandarin was easy to understand – sometimes the accent sounded like that of our Chinese Malaysian brethren across the Causeway, at other times, it was exactly how Chinese Singaporeans would speak. The icing on the cake was the casual use of Cantonese; twice, I even heard conversations in Teochew. Growing up in 1980s Singapore, I learned English and Chinese at school, but at home, my mother tongue was Malay-laced Teochew, as taught by my paternal grandparents. I also picked up Cantonese by osmosis, while devouring undubbed TVB dramas, broadcast from Johor, Malaysia, with my grandmother. Although my Cantonese is not as fluent as my Teochew, I usually have little trouble understanding it. As I grew older, the highly successful Speak Mandarin Campaign in Singapore meant that there were fewer opportunities to converse in dialects outside the family. But I loved speaking dialects and trying my luck wherever possible, whether it was ordering Teochew rice porridge at hawker centres or chatting with random elderly women. Alas, over the past decade, these encounters have dwindled dramatically. On the few trips I have taken to Hong Kong, I have tried speaking Cantonese, but the somewhat baleful impatience of shopkeepers and service staff mostly leaves me shy and stuttering. So imagine my delight on my first morning in Guangzhou, when an elderly lady approached me in the hotel lift lobby and asked in Cantonese which floor the restaurant was on. I not only directed her to the correct floor, but we also discussed the quality of the breakfast buffet. Only after she thanked me warmly and said goodbye did I realise that I had just conversed entirely in Cantonese without stammering. After that encounter, I became braver and spoke Cantonese whenever I could for the rest of the trip. At times, shopkeepers would smile at me in surprise. As I recounted later to a friend, Guangzhou somehow feels more receptive to poor Cantonese than Hong Kong. It rewards those who try to speak the local dialect, even if they don’t sound perfect. Sadly, I did not have a chance to travel to the Chaoshan region, also in Guangdong province, and try my Teochew on hapless native speakers there. But since returning from Guangzhou, the idea of visiting my ancestral city, Shantou (Swatow), has arisen more than once. While there is probably no hope of tracking down any ancestral village there since the elders in my family died without providing any information, there remains a deep curiosity. Even though the last three generations of my family were born in Singapore, the trip has helped me understand what it means to be descended from immigrants. It is the experience of feeling a strong, mysterious sense of belonging in a place you have never visited before. It is at once unexpected and enlightening, as if parts of yourself, previously unknown, are now revealed.

A Singaporean in Guangzhou wonders: why do I feel so at home here?

.css-1c6uqr6{color:inherit;font-weight:inherit;font-size:inherit;font-family:inherit;line-height:inherit;overflow-wrap:break-word;}Guangzhou set me at ease in a way other cities didn’t. I began to understand what it means to be descended from early Chinese migrants

Guangzhou set me at ease in a way other cities didn’t. I began to understand what it means to be descended from early Chinese migrants