Surveillance in Public Space: Waiting, Watching, Being Watched

The Bus Stop as a Stage

Surveillance in public space is rarely loud or obvious. It doesn’t always come with a camera or a warning sign. More often, it appears in small, familiar moments — like waiting at a morning bus stop.

There were five of us: a schoolgirl adjusting her skirt, a man bobbing to music in his headphones, a woman with tired eyes staring into the distance, and me — watching more than waiting.

Power was there too, not in any official form, but in the way we each occupied space. The girl folded her arms. The man took over the bench and railing with ease. I softened my gaze, keeping my hands busy. These responses were shaped by the kind of quiet control that defines surveillance in public space.

More Than Just Glances

This was not digital monitoring. No security cameras. No recorded feed. Just eyes — watching, judging, lingering. These glances were enough. Enough to make us adjust. Enough to remind us we were being seen.

We’ve learned to perform under that gaze. To act small, safe, quiet. This is exactly what Foucault meant by the panopticon — a world where we watch ourselves before anyone else does. You can read more about Foucault’s concept here.

The bus stop becomes a kind of silent theatre. We follow rules no one has spoken, but everyone seems to know.

The Performance of Presence

I reached for my phone — not because I needed it, but because it gave me something to do. I adjusted the strap of my bag. My shoulders stayed relaxed, but never too open. These were not random choices. They were part of a routine shaped by daily, quiet discipline.

These small gestures reveal how surveillance in public space shapes our very bodies. We prepare ourselves to be watched. We adjust to avoid risk. For some, this performance is occasional. For others, it’s daily life.

And I kept asking myself: when did stillness become dangerous? When did simply being — without purpose or disguise — turn into something risky?

Space Isn’t Neutral

Public space is not as open or equal as it appears. It reflects power — who gets to look and who must look away. Who moves freely, and who measures every step.

There was no drama at the bus stop. No confrontation. Just quiet choreography. Still, recognising it made a difference. Naming the rules helped me question them.

Awareness doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes, simply noticing is the beginning of change. Carrying that awareness is like carrying a stone in your pocket — small, but impossible to forget.

Tomorrow, I might still reach for my phone. I might still adjust my bag. But now, I’ll know exactly why. That, too, is resistance.

If reflections like this resonate, you might enjoy Gender in the Gallery: Who Gets to Be Art?, which explores visibility and erasure in creative spaces.