Is language becoming a barrier between foreign businesses and locals in Singapore?

When a customer recently walked into a popular bubble tea shop in central Singapore, they were met with blank stares. Their order, spoken in English, went unanswered—until another customer stepped in to translate it into Mandarin. The awkward moment was captured on TikTok, quickly drawing thousands of views and comments.

It wasn’t an isolated incident. Across the city-state, a string of similar anecdotes—ranging from cafes to retail counters—has brought to light a rising trend: foreign businesses operating in Singapore, often staffed by workers who struggle to communicate in English. In a nation where English is the common language of governance, commerce, and daily life, the question hits harder than it seems: “Why no English?”

The friction isn’t just linguistic—it’s symbolic. When language becomes a barrier in customer-facing industries, it signals something deeper: a shifting economic landscape where locals can feel sidelined in their own country.

Singapore’s language policy has always been pragmatic. English, while not indigenous, was adopted as the working language to unify a multiethnic population. Malay, Mandarin, and Tamil were retained as co-official languages to preserve cultural identity. Over the decades, English has become not just a lingua franca, but the primary medium in schools, media, courts, and public signage.

That makes English a baseline expectation—not just in the civil service or boardrooms, but at food stalls, service counters, and supermarkets. Locals expect to be served in English because it’s how Singapore functions.

So when a cashier responds only in Mandarin or Vietnamese, it feels like a violation of the social contract. For elderly citizens or working-class Singaporeans who may not speak Mandarin fluently, such encounters are alienating. And in a country that already wrestles with anxieties over foreign competition, it deepens a sense of displacement.

Part of the issue lies in how foreign-run businesses operate. Many of them are small-to-medium enterprises from China, Thailand, Vietnam, and other neighboring countries that have expanded into Singapore to tap into its affluent consumer base. From hotpot chains and skincare boutiques to construction suppliers and e-commerce storefronts, foreign companies are planting roots here at an accelerated pace.

To keep overheads low, some owners bring in their own staff—either through intra-company transfers or regional hiring pipelines. These workers may be competent and industrious, but not trained in English-language communication. In jobs that require minimal interaction, this might not matter. But in customer-facing roles, it becomes a liability.

The root cause is often practical: employers argue there’s a shortage of local workers willing to do shift work for modest pay. But critics ask whether such employers are doing enough to invest in language training or explore hiring incentives for locals. If the priority is always cost, the service experience will suffer—and so will perceptions of fairness.

Singaporeans are generally tolerant of diversity. But tolerance has limits, especially when language—a pillar of national identity and functional unity—seems to be disregarded. What might begin as a frustrating customer experience can quickly escalate into a viral flashpoint.

Already, there are signs of public pushback. Users on Reddit and TikTok have begun tagging foreign-run outlets with complaints. Some have threatened boycotts, while others have appealed to the Ministry of Manpower to investigate hiring practices.

Government agencies, for their part, face a delicate balancing act. Singapore relies on foreign direct investment and maintains one of the world’s most open business environments. Too much regulation could chill entrepreneurship. But inaction carries political risk, especially as citizen concerns over job access and cultural erosion grow.

One aspect stoking resentment is the perception that some foreign business owners treat Singapore as a playground rather than a community. Social platforms like Xiaohongshu and Douyin (China’s version of TikTok) are filled with posts advising how to register companies quickly, bypass English requirements, or exploit loopholes in housing or labor policies.

These posts may not represent the majority—but they shape perception. To many locals, they suggest a mindset of opportunism, not integration. It reinforces the impression that foreign firms are “here to profit, not to participate.”

Without clearer expectations and visible efforts at cultural adaptation, these firms risk losing their social license—the informal permission granted by the public to operate smoothly in a shared space.

While it may be tempting to call for hardline language mandates, the real solution lies in soft power and system nudges. Several policy ideas are already floating:

• Customer-facing roles could require a minimum English proficiency, certified via workplace literacy benchmarks.
• Incentives could be offered to foreign firms that hire or train local workers in service roles.
• Public directories might help consumers identify which businesses are committed to bilingual service, encouraging market-led behavior.
• Immigration screening for certain Work Permit categories could include English assessment when tied to front-line roles.

Ultimately, the goal is not to exclude—but to encourage deeper participation in Singapore’s economic and social fabric.

The deeper concern isn’t just that a customer couldn’t get their drink order across. It’s the broader fear that Singapore’s growth model—so reliant on openness—might come at the cost of rootedness. If locals walk into shops where no one speaks their language, are they still stakeholders in their own economy?

Language is a stand-in for inclusion. When service encounters are smooth, they affirm belonging. When they’re awkward or alienating, they highlight asymmetries of power and identity. This issue sits at the intersection of hiring norms, immigration policy, business integration, and national identity. It can’t be solved by scolding businesses on TikTok—but it also can’t be ignored until it festers.

Singapore’s success has always depended on threading the needle between openness and cohesion. Foreign businesses are welcome—but they must be willing to meet locals halfway. Speaking English in a service environment isn’t just a convenience. It’s a commitment to inclusion. If the economic logic behind hiring practices doesn’t consider the lived experience of customers, backlash is inevitable. And if foreign firms won’t adapt, Singaporeans may start asking a different question: Why are we letting them stay?

This issue cuts to the core of national identity. In a small, densely populated country where physical space and cultural space are shared, friction over language isn’t a minor annoyance—it’s a signal of whether integration is working. When locals feel like outsiders in their own neighborhoods, the social glue begins to wear thin. Ultimately, Singapore’s value proposition has always been its unique blend of global access and local stability. Undermining one weakens the other. A city that works only for investors and expats will struggle to earn the trust of its own citizens.

Foreign firms that recognize this—and proactively train staff, respect local norms, and bridge linguistic divides—will thrive. Those that don’t may find that the license to operate in Singapore is more fragile than it looks.