Israfil
When I met Israfil, he was quite shy. He was just coming by for his dinners at Cuff Road - the dates marked off his red card showing just how regularly he came by. The food, we've been told by many, isnt good. Yet, another 180 or so men like Israfil come every night because they have to. Many have come to seek their fortune in this garden-city of ours, this first world country who brags of clean streets and well-educated people. They had learnt of Singapore as a golden land of opportunity, where jobs are aplenty and monthly remittances will surely improve the lives of their families back home. The $9K they have to pay their agents? Pffffffft. No problem! That can be recovered within a year of working!
But this is Israfil's story. And he wasnt so lucky.
Israfil is from a village in Bangladesh. His upbringing was middle-class - he told me many times his father, a homeopathy doctor, emphasized on his children's education. He has the equivalent of A-levels qualifications. His sister is teaching Economics at a college in Dhaka city. He left home at 20 to work in Saudi as a driver - a move which his brother later on followed. He''d worked in Bangladesh after returning from Saudi. I'd playfully asked once if drivers in Bangladesh were all as well-educated as he. He said that many Bangladeshis are under-employed. There arent enough jobs to match their skill levels. He had left Saudi after 4 years to come to Singapore to work in a shipyard because he'd heard that money is better here. His parents were counting on his brother and he for financial support since his father retired.
He borrowed money from relatives, fellow villagers and the bank to fund his agent fees to get to Singapore. Upon arrival in Singapore, he was put up in one of the dorms in Geylang. He told me he felt disoriented. He didnt like it in Geylang. But he repeatedly said that "Singapore is a nice country. Many people good". I never know what to say whenever he tells me that.
A few months into the job, the accident happened. He was trying to hook his safety harness to a beam about 2 storeys high when he fell. He fractured his backbone. The insurance company - NTUC - contests his workmen compensation. His boss cut off his accomodation and food and tries to send him home. Israfil ran away. He said he wasnt going to settle for going home - "How go back? Owe many people money!" . Through his social network here, he learnt of TWC2. From there, he got his free dinners, legal advice and a place at a shelter run by HOME organization. Family ties were strained - his parents were not happy that he hasnt been sending money back. He felt ashamed. He couldnt bring himself to answer their phonecalls.
He decided to proceed his case to common law. This means its legally out of MOM's hands and between the lawyer and NTUC. It also means it could take up to a year to get any compensation.
Through all this, a few of us encouraged him to showcase his talent. Israfil could sing and play the guitar. He would often sing while we were walking or were having a slow time at the restaurant. Sha and I organized a time and space for him to perform for us at Post Museum one night, a few weeks before he left for Bangladesh. The New Paper covered the event. Cameras popped and people he'd never seen before congratulated him after. He was really smiling that night. We passed a tip hat around - he used some of the money to buy everyone at the shelter jalmuri (spicy puffed rice - delish!) and he bought me a tea. Sometimes we forget that being able to buy something, anything, gives us dignity.
After that event, Israfil became quite the minor celebrity. A media darling I call him! Journalists from CNA, Bangladesh and Japanese news, local theater groups came to speak with him. Some days he said to me, "Why so many reporters everyday? I migrant worker also so many reporters want to talk".*
He was repatriated on the 16th of February. His flight would be at 4pm that day. He was notified at 11am. He had no money with him. He had no time to buy anything even if he had money anyways. He ran around all day getting various administrative things settled. I met him at MOM at 1.45pm. The officer said, "Why you come so late?! Your flight is at 4pm!". He said he hadnt even time to have lunch. The officer barked, "I'm not asking if you've had lunch. I'm asking why you so late". GRAH!
I walked him to the departure gate. I asked when he'd do back in Bangladesh. He told me he didnt know. He goes home with an injured back, a massive debt and a whole lot of disappointment. He said he'd think about coming back to Singapore again because "Singapore is good country. But my luck no good. Boss no good." I again didnt know what to say.
*It pisses me off when so many journalists interview him and leave without giving him any compensation. Come on, we know you want your story and you probably got it out of him and a few others. But you are also exploiting them ok.
But this is Israfil's story. And he wasnt so lucky.
Israfil is from a village in Bangladesh. His upbringing was middle-class - he told me many times his father, a homeopathy doctor, emphasized on his children's education. He has the equivalent of A-levels qualifications. His sister is teaching Economics at a college in Dhaka city. He left home at 20 to work in Saudi as a driver - a move which his brother later on followed. He''d worked in Bangladesh after returning from Saudi. I'd playfully asked once if drivers in Bangladesh were all as well-educated as he. He said that many Bangladeshis are under-employed. There arent enough jobs to match their skill levels. He had left Saudi after 4 years to come to Singapore to work in a shipyard because he'd heard that money is better here. His parents were counting on his brother and he for financial support since his father retired.
He borrowed money from relatives, fellow villagers and the bank to fund his agent fees to get to Singapore. Upon arrival in Singapore, he was put up in one of the dorms in Geylang. He told me he felt disoriented. He didnt like it in Geylang. But he repeatedly said that "Singapore is a nice country. Many people good". I never know what to say whenever he tells me that.
A few months into the job, the accident happened. He was trying to hook his safety harness to a beam about 2 storeys high when he fell. He fractured his backbone. The insurance company - NTUC - contests his workmen compensation. His boss cut off his accomodation and food and tries to send him home. Israfil ran away. He said he wasnt going to settle for going home - "How go back? Owe many people money!" . Through his social network here, he learnt of TWC2. From there, he got his free dinners, legal advice and a place at a shelter run by HOME organization. Family ties were strained - his parents were not happy that he hasnt been sending money back. He felt ashamed. He couldnt bring himself to answer their phonecalls.
He decided to proceed his case to common law. This means its legally out of MOM's hands and between the lawyer and NTUC. It also means it could take up to a year to get any compensation.
Through all this, a few of us encouraged him to showcase his talent. Israfil could sing and play the guitar. He would often sing while we were walking or were having a slow time at the restaurant. Sha and I organized a time and space for him to perform for us at Post Museum one night, a few weeks before he left for Bangladesh. The New Paper covered the event. Cameras popped and people he'd never seen before congratulated him after. He was really smiling that night. We passed a tip hat around - he used some of the money to buy everyone at the shelter jalmuri (spicy puffed rice - delish!) and he bought me a tea. Sometimes we forget that being able to buy something, anything, gives us dignity.
After that event, Israfil became quite the minor celebrity. A media darling I call him! Journalists from CNA, Bangladesh and Japanese news, local theater groups came to speak with him. Some days he said to me, "Why so many reporters everyday? I migrant worker also so many reporters want to talk".*
He was repatriated on the 16th of February. His flight would be at 4pm that day. He was notified at 11am. He had no money with him. He had no time to buy anything even if he had money anyways. He ran around all day getting various administrative things settled. I met him at MOM at 1.45pm. The officer said, "Why you come so late?! Your flight is at 4pm!". He said he hadnt even time to have lunch. The officer barked, "I'm not asking if you've had lunch. I'm asking why you so late". GRAH!
I walked him to the departure gate. I asked when he'd do back in Bangladesh. He told me he didnt know. He goes home with an injured back, a massive debt and a whole lot of disappointment. He said he'd think about coming back to Singapore again because "Singapore is good country. But my luck no good. Boss no good." I again didnt know what to say.
*It pisses me off when so many journalists interview him and leave without giving him any compensation. Come on, we know you want your story and you probably got it out of him and a few others. But you are also exploiting them ok.