Dad laughed. ‘Thankfully they have you to fight for them. I see a bright destiny for you, Maya, and a promising future for this country with young Singaporeans like you.’
I glowed when he said that. Mama smiled too, then looked sternly at me. ‘But not on school days, and not without you telling us every juicy detail.’
From the gleam in her eye I could tell Dad’s words had touched her more than she would admit.
Dad closed the conversation by putting his hands on top of the notebook. ‘So, all these ladies have been taken care of?’
‘Most of them. Well, Sri, she’s still waiting in the shelter. Her case is taking a very long time.’
‘But they’re helping her now. You have nothing to do with that anymore. Cases closed?’
I shook my head. ‘One isn’t. Moe Moe and Jenny.’
I told them again about what Cat and I did, and why; a little bit about the bullying too, leaving out the nastier bits, leaving those for later, for when I felt comfortable enough to own up to the disgusting thing I’d done. I explained that we’d known for sure that Jenny and her brother had been abusive, not just to me but to Moe Moe too, that we’d seen the bite marks. And that Aunty M didn’t want to do anything, so we’d felt we had to. That it was justice. But later, I’d realised that we’d forgotten about Moe Moe, about how it would affect her. I looked at Mama and Dad. ‘I need to fix this. Please help me.’
Mama turned to Dad. ‘God, that woman, the mother. She’s terrible. I so don’t want to deal with her.’
Dad sniggered. ‘Remember Tom and that Indian girl? I stepped up. You want the juicy details, it’s time to earn them.’
Mama blushed. She took out her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and stared at it for a while. ‘I’ll ask her to meet me for coffee this afternoon. We need to hear her side of the story first.’
As soon as Jenny’s mother answered the phone, we could hear her loud voice from across the table. ‘No, I’m not prying, that’s not it. I’m worried that Maya might be involved in all of this. Can we maybe meet and discuss it? It’s friendlier in person.’
The voice on the other side became louder and angrier. Mama held her hand over the phone and walked outside, closing the balcony door behind her.
When she came back she said, ‘They’ve been given a warning from MOM, but nothing official since it was the kids who did it. Moe Moe didn’t want to take it any further.’
Oh. I felt a small pang of disappointment.
‘Jenny and Harry are in a lot of trouble. She’s furious. At Moe Moe too, for not coming to her when it happened. She first thought that Moe Moe had called MOM, but after Moe Moe asked MOM not to take it further, she wasn’t so sure. But she said she still had to fire her if she couldn’t trust her anymore. What is it with these helpers? Why can’t they just tell us important stuff?’
I felt a tiny wriggle in my stomach. ‘Did you tell her..?’
Mama looked at me. ‘That you did it? I suppose I would have, if I’d needed to, to save Moe Moe. But I won’t expose you to that madwoman unless I really have to. She now thinks it was one of the neighbours. I reminded her that Moe Moe had always worked very hard, and tried to convince her to let her transfer. She said she’d think about it.’
Think about it? I must have looked sad and confused. Mama came up to me, and squatted in front of me. ‘Maya, I’ve tried my best. It’s all I could do. It’s up to her now. Let’s hope she’ll do the right thing and let her transfer. And Moe Moe will be better off with another family. One with nicer kids. She’ll be fine in the end. And you stay clear of that Jenny from now on.’
I didn’t need any encouragement there.
Dad came over and pulled Mama to her feet. He hugged her and looked at me over his shoulder. ‘I’m proud of my two ladies. A bit unconventional and extreme sometimes, but they mean well.’
I got up and weaselled myself in for a group hug. It seemed the old Mama and Dad were back today, and were planning to stay.
Mama giggled. ‘Is this our Mary Poppins moment? Is Aunty M unfolding her umbrella, to fly away on the west wind, so we can go fly our kites?’
Dad and I looked at her, baffled.
‘Come on, you must know Mary Poppins? That was my favourite movie growing up. The parents are both too busy, him with his job at the bank, her being a suffragette, but the nanny saves the kids, and the family, they all go and fly kites, singing, and Mary Poppins flies off in the sunset. Happy ending.’
Dad and I still looked baffled.
‘We need to watch that movie,’ Mama said. ‘You’ll love it, Maya.’
‘Hi Cat, good to see you,’ Mama said when Cat came in that afternoon. She’d phoned me earlier, but I’d wanted to tell her the news to her face and asked her to come over. Cat looked at Mama with a question mark on her face, and I pulled her upstairs to my room.
‘I haven’t heard your mother greet me so nicely, ever,’ Cat said. ‘I take it you told her nothing yet?’
She looked at me, her brow furrowed. I didn’t know what to say for a moment, so I hugged her instead. Then I told her everything, from my confession to Mama talking to Jenny’s mother.
Cat nodded. ‘Well done, Maya.’
I beamed, and wondered what we should do now. Was it really over, or was this just the beginning?
Cat shrugged. ‘You know, I’m bored of all of this. Let’s go for a swim.’
I didn’t think she was bored at all, but I agreed. A swim would freshen us up.
That afternoon we watched ‘Mary Poppins,’ together – me, Dad, Mama, Chloe, Cat, and even Aunty M, who made a big bowl of popcorn.
Mama was right, I loved it, down to the feminist mother, the Dad preoccupied at the bank, the magic, the adventures, and the crazy friends. At the end, when the happy family were flying their kites, and Mary Poppins swallowed a tear before she set off under her flying umbrella, I looked at Aunty M. She would go too one day. Like PoPo, I would never forget her, but she was needed by two other kids, a prince and princess in a pig shed, and I needed to share her.
Dad jumped up. ‘I have a great idea. Tomorrow we’ll go to Marina Barrage. It’s been too long!’
I remembered the afternoon that we did makan angin, flying kites on top of the barrage building. There had been fights, a Mamamonster, Dad had sworn, Chloe had wailed. But there’d been satay too. And fun. Even fun didn’t come in black and white.
Aunty M didn’t come with us to the Barrage that Sunday. She was helping others, or having a picnic with friends, I wasn’t sure which. Mama was right; Aunty M could be close as an oyster. But when she came home that evening she came into my room, something she never did on a Sunday. I was half asleep in my bed, dreaming of kites and picnics. I nodded when she asked if I wanted a story.
Aunty M began telling one of her Kanchil stories, in a soft, whispering voice that made the story merge with my dream.
Kanchil, the mousedeer, had been stealing cucumbers again and the farmer had had enough. He made a scarecrow out of old clothes, and smeared it with glue to trap Kanchil. I saw the scarecrow, in a batik dress, swaying gently between the cucumbers. The Kanchil, still greedy for cucumber, got stuck, one leg after the other. The farmer rejoiced, put Kanchil in a cage, and sharpened his knives for mousedeer satay.
In my half sleep, I could taste the peanut gravy, the same one I’d eaten earlier that day, with cucumber cubes on the side. But before we could eat, a dog passed by.
Cunning little Kanchil told the dog he was a prince, staying the night at the farm as a guest. Tomorrow, he would wed the farmer’s daughter. Could the dog smell the peanut gravy for the satay feast that they would throw?
The dog laughed, but the gravy smelled too good not to be true. Kanchil convinced the dog to open the cage and swap places with him, so the dog could wed the farmer’s daughter instead, and feast on satay.
I imagined the wedding in a yellow house, Nurul in her pink, frilly dress. But then I heard Kanchil laughing in the distance, flying away on the string of a gr
een beetle-shaped kite. I felt the wind licking my hair, and saw that below me there was nothing left but a cockroach in a cage.
Aunty M stood up, moving her chair backwards, the sound waking me properly. The whole story swirled away like water down a plughole. I felt Aunty M was trying to tell me something in her own, complicated way. But I had no idea what it was. I wasn’t even sure which part was hers, and which part I had dreamt.
Aunty M smiled her special smile, and closed the bedroom door behind her.
Acknowledgements
Although A Yellow House is a work of fiction, and the character of Aunty M is completely made up, there are many real women in Singapore who inspired me to write her and they deserve to be mentioned. I grew up in Malaysia and the Middle East with domestic workers in the house, and as an adult found I had so many questions about them that – unlike Maya – I had not even begun to imagine as a child. So when I moved to Singapore in 2012 with my own family I joined HOME, a local charity that supports low wage migrant workers. I have been part of HOME for the past five years in many capacities. I managed volunteers, the shelter, a befriender program. I taught creative writing and empowerment classes, and created the MyVoice blog and the book Our Homes, Our Stories to showcase their work. Not only did I learn a lot about the plights and rights of migrant domestic workers, I also met a large number of inspirational and strong women.
The HOME helpdesk has given direct support to roughly 2000 migrant workers per year since 2004, and their shelter houses around sixty domestic workers that have run away from their employers. Some are abused, others simply ill-treated, exploited, or not paid. A few are accused of criminal offences themselves. All the cases of domestic worker ill-treatment and abuse in this book are based on actual cases I encountered through HOME. The details of the cases were adapted, to protect the privacy of the individuals involved and to fit the plot of the book.
HOME’s helpdesks could not run without the amazing contributions of both the staff and the team of volunteers. Many of the women that volunteer with HOME are domestic workers themselves; they spend the little free time they have to educate themselves and help others. They man the Sunday helpdesks, answer calls and messages during the week, and comment on questions in our online support groups. They organise events and activities, and run a Sunday school. Together they offer a community and support network for tens of thousands of women from different countries that left their families behind to work in Singapore.
This book is for all of them, to honour their good work. These women are not afraid to speak out for themselves and their peers. They show us that migrant workers are not victims, but strong women that have the courage to move overseas on their own to do this challenging work. Many of them became my friends, and shared the stories of their lives with me.
Novia, Cute, Bhing, Lita, Emi, Ei Phyu Tun, Moe Moe Than, Kina, Rea, Miriam, Gilda, Jo Ann, Chusnul, Juliet, Jinky, Jenelyn, Fitri, there are too many of you to list here, but you know who you are and I am grateful and happy to know you!
I’d also like to mention the Singapore Ladies Book Club, that helped nurture my love for Asian literature, and that has been nothing but supportive in my writing. I particularly like to mention Audrey Chin and May Murayama, for reading early versions of my manuscript, and Raelee Chapman for her never-ending advice and support. I’d also like to thank Sari Sudarsono, Juliet Ugay, Marion Kleinschmidt and Soojata Samy for giving feedback on my manuscript from their unique perspectives.
And last but not least thanks to my husband – who’s feedback I do appreciate even when it seems I don’t – and Indah, who puts up with my less-than-domestic-goddess style management and runs my household like clockwork. Indah is the owner of the original yellow house, that she built years ago in central Java with the money she made working in Singapore.
About the Author
After a childhood spent traversing Asia, the Middle East and Europe, Karien van Ditzhuijzen settled in Singapore in 2012. Karien has a degree in chemical engineering, but gave up her career developing ice cream recipes to become a writer. She now dedicates her life (in no particular order) to advocating migrant workers’ rights, her family, her pet chicken and being entertained by monkeys while writing at the patio of her jungle house.
In 2013 Karien joined Singaporean charity HOME to support domestic workers staying at their shelter. In 2014 she founded the MyVoice blog, a place for migrant workers to share their stories. Karien created and edited the book Our Homes, Our Stories, an anthology of 28 real-life stories written by migrant domestic workers, which was published in March 2018.
As a freelance writer and blogger Karien contributes to several publications in Singapore and the Netherlands. In 2012 she published a children’s book in Dutch recounting her childhood in Borneo. A Yellow House is her first novel.
www.bedu-mama.com
www.myvoiceathome.org
A Yellow House Page 28