Every story awaits its storyteller.
I think the break to be with myself at the cafe for a couple of hours helped to calm an anxious heart always nervous at the amount of things to be done at the office. And with that came a certain open-ness to the things that were happening around me and the potential stories they would become. I've noticed that this subconscious open-ness to new reflections and insights only come when my heart is rested from the stresses of work and daily life.
I took the walk to the MRT and just as I was about to take my place to wait for the train's arrival, somebody called out to me. A petite sized lady with a few bags and a backpack slung on her front asked 'Sir, is this the train I should take to Bishan?', pointing to the train map. I said 'yes.. this is the way..' and smiled, recognising her Filipino accent.
'Hmm. Which part of Bishan are you going to?' I asked in afterthought, realising that if she didn't know how to get to Bishan, it wasn't likely that she would be able to navigate her way around the neighbourhood. She dug up a scrap of paper from her plastic bag with an address on it. I took a look and realised that it was just a couple of blocks away from my own home, and hence I offered to travel with her back and be her travel directory.
It was only then that I realised that the little pouch she dug the scrap of paper from contained air ticket stubs and she was dragging a huge luggage along too. Obviously she had just landed and was looking for her way around to go back to her employer's house.
Asking her to follow me without trying to make some small talk was strange, and I found myself asking questions about her. She lives far away from Manila, has been here for 3 years and her two boys are aged 16 and 6. She had just been back home for 15 days for her yearly holiday. She wants to visit her family, but yet at the same time each of these trips saps her savings.
I think I spotted a teary eye as she mentioned her children as she blinked and looked away. On hindsight, it probably wasn't the best time to ask her about what she left behind at home. But she did share that after 3 years here, things have gotten easier.
It's definitely interesting that she didn't know how to get to Bishan from City Hall after 3 years in Singapore though.
It got a little too awkward asking more, and so I decided to shut up and plug my mp3 earphones into my ears. She really was carrying a lot of things and there were times I really wanted to help her carry some, but I was afraid that she would see me as someone trying to con her by being overly friendly or what. Screwed up world where we are taught can't even trust people on the street. so much so that we even disallow ourselves a chance to be trusted. Who taught us that? And I noticed that I tended to ask questions that emphasised differences, not similarities. Emphasised how different she was from me, and not how we were similar as human beings.
We reached our destination and I said bade her goodbye as I went towards my block and she went towards hers. 'Bye. Take care.'
And as I took the elevator up to my home, I wondered if she was also taking an elevator to a house which was not home. I wondered what she might say if I bumped into her next time at our neighbourhood. I wondered at the story behind the little details she shared relatively openly with a stranger like me. Did I make her feel comfortable sharing? Or did her 'just re-landed' status slice open a cavity in her heart that prompted her to let out some of those details?
She has a story to tell, just like every other worker in Singapore from another country. But her story awaits its telling by the best storyteller for her story: herself.
_______________________________________
And so as I am typing this, a couple in their 30s are standing outside my room window (which faces the corridor) and read the little tag I have on the window.
It feels strange typing about the domestic helper's story and hear someone read out that tag while I am immersed in thoughts about my experience with her. "Social work... is my response when God called 2 years ago.." The digit in that little phrase may no longer be relevant, but nonetheless it's written by a very significant and important person in my life.
And it also happens to be a small detail about my story.
I roll up the blinds and reveal my overweight topless body to them, grinning to them that what they were reading was a little tag about me, and also about the other important person. But it almost felt like I was rolling the blinds up to ascertain to myself that those were human voices.
For that little second, the voice sounded a little too distant and aloof to be human. It sounded like some divine being was reading it out to me to remind me of my life. Just like the domestic helper was telling a little part of her story, I have mine to tell too. My story about social work and about people.
I am the only one who can tell my story best, but I've got God as my scriptwriter. :)
I took the walk to the MRT and just as I was about to take my place to wait for the train's arrival, somebody called out to me. A petite sized lady with a few bags and a backpack slung on her front asked 'Sir, is this the train I should take to Bishan?', pointing to the train map. I said 'yes.. this is the way..' and smiled, recognising her Filipino accent.
'Hmm. Which part of Bishan are you going to?' I asked in afterthought, realising that if she didn't know how to get to Bishan, it wasn't likely that she would be able to navigate her way around the neighbourhood. She dug up a scrap of paper from her plastic bag with an address on it. I took a look and realised that it was just a couple of blocks away from my own home, and hence I offered to travel with her back and be her travel directory.
It was only then that I realised that the little pouch she dug the scrap of paper from contained air ticket stubs and she was dragging a huge luggage along too. Obviously she had just landed and was looking for her way around to go back to her employer's house.
Asking her to follow me without trying to make some small talk was strange, and I found myself asking questions about her. She lives far away from Manila, has been here for 3 years and her two boys are aged 16 and 6. She had just been back home for 15 days for her yearly holiday. She wants to visit her family, but yet at the same time each of these trips saps her savings.
I think I spotted a teary eye as she mentioned her children as she blinked and looked away. On hindsight, it probably wasn't the best time to ask her about what she left behind at home. But she did share that after 3 years here, things have gotten easier.
It's definitely interesting that she didn't know how to get to Bishan from City Hall after 3 years in Singapore though.
It got a little too awkward asking more, and so I decided to shut up and plug my mp3 earphones into my ears. She really was carrying a lot of things and there were times I really wanted to help her carry some, but I was afraid that she would see me as someone trying to con her by being overly friendly or what. Screwed up world where we are taught can't even trust people on the street. so much so that we even disallow ourselves a chance to be trusted. Who taught us that? And I noticed that I tended to ask questions that emphasised differences, not similarities. Emphasised how different she was from me, and not how we were similar as human beings.
We reached our destination and I said bade her goodbye as I went towards my block and she went towards hers. 'Bye. Take care.'
And as I took the elevator up to my home, I wondered if she was also taking an elevator to a house which was not home. I wondered what she might say if I bumped into her next time at our neighbourhood. I wondered at the story behind the little details she shared relatively openly with a stranger like me. Did I make her feel comfortable sharing? Or did her 'just re-landed' status slice open a cavity in her heart that prompted her to let out some of those details?
She has a story to tell, just like every other worker in Singapore from another country. But her story awaits its telling by the best storyteller for her story: herself.
_______________________________________
And so as I am typing this, a couple in their 30s are standing outside my room window (which faces the corridor) and read the little tag I have on the window.
It feels strange typing about the domestic helper's story and hear someone read out that tag while I am immersed in thoughts about my experience with her. "Social work... is my response when God called 2 years ago.." The digit in that little phrase may no longer be relevant, but nonetheless it's written by a very significant and important person in my life.
And it also happens to be a small detail about my story.
I roll up the blinds and reveal my overweight topless body to them, grinning to them that what they were reading was a little tag about me, and also about the other important person. But it almost felt like I was rolling the blinds up to ascertain to myself that those were human voices.
For that little second, the voice sounded a little too distant and aloof to be human. It sounded like some divine being was reading it out to me to remind me of my life. Just like the domestic helper was telling a little part of her story, I have mine to tell too. My story about social work and about people.
I am the only one who can tell my story best, but I've got God as my scriptwriter. :)
0 comments:
Post a Comment