A Yellow House

by Karien van Ditzhuijzen

  Things started to make more sense. ‘Mama told me that she wanted to do social studies, but chose business instead.’

  Aunty Tan nodded. She pushed the plate my way. ‘Here, take another biscuit.’

  At that point, Mary Grace came home, and the atmosphere changed. We sat around a bit longer, eating biscuits, chatting about random things, until Aunty M said she had to make dinner and we went home.

  I didn’t know how, but somehow Aunty Tan had reduced my fear – of Jenny, of getting caught, even of costing someone a job. Aunty Tan was like PoPo: she gave things a background, a reason and a purpose, which made understanding the world easier. When you understood things they became less scary.

  That evening I lay in bed and tried to add it all up in my mind. I put Mama together again from all the information I’d heard, then added the Mamamonster, and Dad being away so much. I felt everything was connected, but struggled to join the dots. I still missed PoPo, but meeting Aunty Tan was like getting back a piece of her. And if I had just a little bit of PoPo, maybe I could find a way out of all of this.

  The next day I stepped onto the bus more confidently. I looked at Jenny and not the ground for the first time in a long time. She said nothing.

  At school I heard the rumours repeated through others now. Since I lived in the same condo, people asked me if I knew more about what Jenny had done. Cat, always beside me, was happy to give them the details. I felt like a real Superroach, but in a good way. Jenny had got her due. I just had to fix the Moe Moe problem, and things would be good. Maybe Cat was right. Maybe I could tell Mama, and ask for help. Not the monster, but the real Mama beneath, the one that Aunty Tan had revealed. If only I could be sure I could reach her.

  Cat came home with me to see a manual that Aunty M had brought home from the helpdesk, which helped answer questions that we couldn’t. We went through it, trying to find answers on what could or would happen to Jenny, and how we could save Moe Moe.

  The manual clearly listed the rules that employers had to stick to, but there was nothing there that told us what to do next. We went through the cases we’d seen over the months. In many of them, the women wanted to transfer, because they didn’t like their job, their employer, the way they were treated. But often, no matter how many questions we asked, we hadn’t been able to find anything we could use to file a complaint with MOM. Since domestic workers didn’t have the right to quit, their only hope was to get permission from their employer, or, if they didn’t give it, to appeal to MOM. We knew that already, and the manual confirmed it. It seemed that only MOM could help Moe Moe.

  ‘Shall we get a photo of the bites,’ Cat suggested, ‘and email it to them?’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have seen it when they interviewed her? And they’d know who sent the email.’

  We had done enough. If Moe Moe had wanted to go on with the complaint, she would have told MOM herself. But we studied on regardless. What else could we do?

  We copied the items on the list into our notebooks. An employer of a domestic worker in Singapore had to give adequate food and rest, acceptable accommodation, cover medical costs, provide safe working conditions, pay the salary – on time. What they must not do was take away their workers’ permits and passports, or ill-treat them. Ill-treatment, it added, included abuse, abandonment, neglect and the causing of injury. With regards to the weekly day off, MOM, stated that every worker had the right to a weekly day of rest, but pro rata salary could be paid in lieu by the employer if she agreed this with the domestic worker. Mutual consent, it said.

  Many of the rules we barely understood. Others seemed simple at first glance, yet talking to the aunties had proved otherwise. Many women complained about the food they got, but what was an ‘adequate’ amount? Instant noodles at every meal? One slice of bread at breakfast? Whatever the employer left after they’d had their fill?

  Acceptable accommodation was a dubious term as well. We’d heard of women sleeping on the floor in a common room, in the hallway, with the elderly, on the floor of the kitchen, and even, Aunty M told me, on a balcony. It wasn’t allowed, but it still happened. How could MOM look into people’s private houses to check?

  MOM would deal with complaints about violations, like they were doing now with Moe Moe, but could only do this if someone alerted them. Even then, they didn’t always act. Anything to do with safety would be given priority, Aunty M had said, but taking away passports was as common as mosquitoes in this country, and there was no point complaining about either.

  Just being there, listening, doling out advice and the helpdesk phone numbers was what we did to help the domestic workers we spoke to. They then had to make up their minds to either accept what they were dealt, or decide to throw in the towel and go home. A lot of them put up with it. We came here to work, we need the money, they said, and decided not to risk going to MOM, not to risk that much-needed salary.

  But none of this was helping Moe Moe.

  43

  Mary Grace said Aunty Tan wanted me to come and have milo again. I went up with Mary Grace, hoping we could talk more about PoPo.

  We sat at the table and Aunty Tan put a bowl of white rabbit sweets in front of me. She must have bought them specially for me, as if I were still a little girl. But Aunty Tan didn’t mention PoPo. Instead she asked about Sri, who was still at the shelter, waiting for her case to progress and her employer to be convicted for physical abuse. She commented how unfair it was that this might take many more years, and Sri stuck in Singapore all that time.

  I was in shock. How did she know? Did she know about my involvement too? But Aunty Tan was so friendly that I just answered her probing questions. After Sri, she asked about Julia, who had gone back to the Philippines, and when her rash had cleared came back to Singapore with a new employer.

  Mary Grace told Aunty Tan how Aunty M had heard from Bella, the domestic worker who had filed a complaint about her employers making her wash all their clothes by hand, till Bella’s hands bled. It was Aunty M’s first success story, and Mary Grace proudly told us how MOM had approved the transfer for Bella, and how she was now happy in her new job. Then I myself told Aunty Tan about Nee Nee. When she knew all about that already too, I realised the food that Mary Grace regularly brought over came from Aunty Tan herself. She asked sharp questions.

  After that, Aunty Tan looked me in the eye. ‘You know Maya, sometimes I think, what has Singapore come to? When I was young, things were different. We had our amahs, and they were respected by their employers. They were trusted with the household, with the children, whom they were supposed to help raise. Nobody felt the need to put up cameras, even if they had existed then. The amahs were treated like human beings. ’

  I thought of Ah Feng. Had it been like that for her? Or did Aunty Tan have that rose-coloured filter Mama had mentioned? I remembered that Ah Feng had felt in charge of her own destiny. I opened my mouth to tell Aunty Tan about Ah Feng, but Aunty Tan had her own answer already.

  ‘You know, in the old days, people knew their neighbours. We had kampong spirit. We did not live in these anonymous apartments, where everybody sits in their air-conditioned room, and nobody even knows who lives next door. Do people know if the neighbours abuse the maid? Do they care? No more kampong spirit these days, no more gotong royong. We all live stacked in buildings like sardines in a tin, but we close our eyes. We close our ears. Not our problem, stick to your own. You know about gotong royong, Maya?’

  I had no idea. ‘Is it Malay?’

  ‘Of course it is Malay. Community spirit. Last time, everybody knew each other. Everybody helped each other. People made other people do their best. Do they do gotong royong at your school?’

  I’d never heard of it, so I shook my head.

  ‘It means everybody helps. With cleaning, cooking, looking after the kids. Not everyone for themselves. We all need to help flag suspicions of maid abuse, domestic abuse, child abuse. We should worry about helping others, out of genuine concern, instead of worrying to be s
een as busybodies. We should have a national campaign for this purpose.’

  I grinned. Singapore loved campaigns like that. There would be funny films with songs and dance. Everybody laughed at them, but did they work?

  Aunty Tan went on: ‘Singapore is obsessed with survival and success. Our society has become so competitive, we have neglected kindness and helpfulness. Many of us have become used to being cold and apathetic to the plight of others. Or are we just too busy working all the time to even see?’

  Aunty Tan fell silent and looked around the table to Mary Grace and me. Nobody dared comment.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, but again no one answered, not even Aunty Tan herself. She went on: ‘And how do we change this? For most of us Singaporeans, it is not in our nature to intrude, to be the kaypoh neighbour, we prefer to – how do you call that? – mind our own business.’

  Aunty Tan sounded like the schoolteacher she’d once been, and a preachy one too. Mary Grace had sat quiet during her monologue, and now she stood up, collecting the empty milo cups and taking them to the kitchen.

  In the silence that followed, I thought about what Aunty Tan had said. ‘That is what Mama says, mind your own business. If she found out I went out with Aunty M, helping the helpers, she’d be so mad.’

  It had slipped out before I could even think. I clasped my hands in front of my mouth. Aunty Tan had probably not known the extent of my involvement. She knew about the visits to Nee Nee, and that I sometimes went with Aunty M. But not that Mama would disapprove. She would consider it her duty to intervene, to not mind her own business, and to tell Mama.

  My face froze. Aunty Tan looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Your mother is a busy woman. A business women. But she has a good heart. Why would she object? It is sweet of you, helping your Aunty M, helping others. Your PoPo would be proud. And I’m sure your Mama too.’

  I swallowed deep. ‘No, she wouldn’t. She told me. She said I should not be a busybody, just do my homework. But that’s not the worst.’

  I stumbled over my tongue, trying to put the worst into words. ‘Mama would fire Aunty M if she found out. She hates even Mother Teresa.’

  Aunty Tan smiled. ‘She has a point there, actually. You know, Mother Teresa is worshipped in the west, but she has been criticised too. They say that what she did glorified suffering instead of relieving it. Some people like to make themselves seem bigger, by making the ones they help smaller. I don’t believe in saints. Everyone is human, with good traits as well as flaws. Your mother too.’

  I couldn’t control my words; they all streamed out of me – Jenny’s threats, Win losing her job, Moe Moe, my fear for Aunty M, Nurul’s future. I didn’t say that it was us who’d probably caused Moe Moe to lose her job. There was enough to feel guilty about already.

  ‘Maya, sweetie,’ said Aunty Tan. ‘Trust your parents. Tell them. Don’t wait for Jenny to paint a distorted picture of you. Tell them yourself, your way. The right way.’

  It was the same advice that Cat had given. Aunty Tan offered me another sweet, but I felt I was too old for one. Sweets didn’t make everything right anymore.

  I lay in bed, going over what Aunty Tan had said. I’d been afraid of her too before, but she’d turned out to be more understanding than I’d expected. It was time I lived up to that special feminism I’d invented, the one that was about standing up for yourself. The first step was being honest about who you were, and what you did. I had to tell Mama.

  But actually doing it was harder. Should I tell Dad first? Maybe he would react better. But he was on a business trip, so that would mean postponement. No, I knew it had to be Mama.

  Having decided to tell her – knowing that whatever happened, it would at least be over – I felt something close to relief. But Mama was moody at breakfast, hurrying me along to get ready for the bus. I knew it wasn’t the right time.

  At school, the ruckus around Jenny had died down, but she was still quiet and unhappy, and people occasionally sniggered behind her back. Her nickname now was ‘biter’, and I felt so bad I even told some of her classmates that it wasn’t her, but her baby brother that had bitten their helper. Jenny overheard and looked at me bitterly. She hadn’t mentioned telling Mama again.

  When I told Cat, she laughed, and had to point out what should have been clear to me. Jenny was a coward, and Meena just blew with the strongest wind. They’d been empty threats all along. Jenny wouldn’t risk her own hide by shooting mine.

  If Jenny were not going to tell Mama, need I do it? I considered backing out, but since my visit to Aunty Tan it felt like the world had shifted and many things looked different. Easier. All the things I was scared about before no longer seemed that bad. As PoPo had always done with her stories and explanations, Aunty Tan had opened my eyes and made me think.

  Finally, I thought of Moe Moe, and Aunty M, and realised I couldn’t ignore this. I couldn’t be weak like Jenny. Someone had to tell Jenny’s mother that it had been us, not Moe Moe, who had called MOM; and Jenny’s mother was way more scary than my own.

  I decided that if Mama was home in the evening to put me to bed, I would tell her then. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t. On the way back from school I was nervous, not sure what I was hoping for. I asked Aunty M several times whether Mama would be home that night.

  ‘I don’t know, sayang, stop asking me. She’ll be home when she is home.’

  That night, I heard Mama return from the cocoon of my sheets. It was late and I was supposed to be asleep. When she came in, I pretended that I was, not even stirring when she straightened the sheet over me. She stroked my hair, and I kept my eyes squeezed shut. The touch of her hand was cool, and I vowed never to tell her. Maybe I could run away, and go live with Nurul in her yellow house. I was afraid to own up to my parents, to my mother, who I really was.

  The next day was a blur and somehow I just knew that, that evening, Mama would be home on time and I would tell her. I had to anyway, because Cat had said that if I didn’t, she would. Cat had spent a good few days fuming that Jenny had received no punishment from MOM, but I’d managed to get her to see that Jenny being embarrassed in front of the whole school was much better, and that the more time she spent provoking Jenny, the bigger the risk that she’d do something dangerous. Cat reluctantly agreed, and then promised me she’d drop the whole thing if I told my mother that night.

  She looked at me sternly and said, ‘You’ll tell her, and then you’ll save Moe Moe.’

  ‘And Aunty M,’ I added quietly.

  Dad was home from abroad and Mama was home for an early dinner. They chatted about summer holiday plans, visiting Europe to see Opa and Grandma, going to France. The mood was much too happy and relaxed. But I kicked myself mentally; there was no more time for excuses. I would tell her that night.

  44

  Dad tucked me in and cuddled me before he went out to deal with a wailing Chloe. Mama came in and sat on my bed. ‘Story or book?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t I tell you about a princess that saved the palace from, erm, a galloping herd of, erm, of elephants?’

  ‘Actually, Mama, can I tell a story tonight? I have a good princess one.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I took a deep breath and swallowed. ‘Once, there were a princess and a prince. They were very poor. Their father, the king, had left to fight worthless wars, and they lived with their mother in a chicken shed.’

  Mama giggled.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, ‘it’s a sad story.’

  She straightened her face.

  ‘Since the prince and princess had no money to go to school, their mother, the queen, went to another country to work. The prince and princess stayed with their grandmother, who was even poorer, and lived in a pig shed.

  ‘The queen cleaned and cooked for an evil stepmother. But the country was full of dragons. The queen wanted to slay the dragons, but she also needed to do her job, so she slayed them secretly. But one day, a stable boy found out, and threatened to tell the evil stepmother. If
he did, the queen would lose her job, and be sent back to the chicken shed, and the prince and princess would have to leave school.’

  I had to swallow a few times again, struggling to find more words.

  ‘Maya, sweetie, stop the story for a minute,’ Mama said. ‘What are you trying to tell me? Where did this story come from?’

  I started to cry.

  ‘Are you talking about Aunty M? That she left her children to come and work here? And what about those dragons? I don’t understand. Please Maya, tell me what’s bothering you.’

  Slowly it trickled out. The dragons, the abusive employers, and Aunty M fighting them.

  ‘But Maya, what did you think, that I was such an evil stepmother? That I wouldn’t allow that? That I didn’t know? Aunty M asked my permission to volunteer at that helpdesk. I admit, I was worried at first. We agreed that it could never interfere with her work. And it hasn’t. She does her job well, better than I’d ever hoped.’

  Mama pulled me towards her and cuddled me. ‘Were you worried about that? That I would fire Aunty M for helping others? Why would you think that?’

  ‘You said that, that time with Cynthia, you said you hated busybodies, and Mother Teresa.’

  ‘Did you hear that? Were you eavesdropping again? Don’t do that. You hear things you don’t understand,’ Mama scolded.

  She continued in a softer voice. ‘I was very stressed at that time. I felt like everyone was judging me. At work, my friends, and Aunty M at home. Maybe I was jealous of Aunty M. She seems so calm and efficient, like she always knows what to do. She can look at me when I’m screaming, not saying anything, in a way that makes me feel like a bad mother. And I missed you girls.’