Transcriber: Eunice Tan Reviewer: Tanya Cushman
Judge them by the content of their character,
not the colour of their skin -
Martin Luther King, 1963, in his "I Have a Dream" speech.
So eloquent.
No, I'm not here to talk about racism or colour - no.
These workers are dirty, they are smelly, they are loud.
They are workers.
So should we send them back?
No.
But sometimes we say things that we don't mean.
I've been working with them for over 20 years now,
and I can tell you -
no, they are no angels; they're not saints.
But they're not devils too.
They're just people at a coalface, at a sharp end of the stick,
doing work that you and I don't want to do.
I've done management consulting for many companies,
and every time there's a workplace accident,
some of these companies go,
(Inhales sharply)
"Was it our worker?"
"Did it happen in our premises?"
"Was it during our working hours?"
Instead of asking,
"Is he okay?"
"Has someone attended to Ali, to Ram, or to Apam?"
"Have we contacted their families?
They must be worried."
Why can't we treat people like people?
You see, there's a disconnect here.
We say that we're civilised,
we are First World.
But at the same time,
we judge, we label
without understanding.
Did you know that there are 5.6 million people living in Singapore,
and out of them, 1.2 million are actually foreign workers,
excluding domestic helpers?
1.2.
What does 1.2 million look like?
Well, if you were to take the entire residential population
of Jurong, Woodlands, Tampines, and Bedok,
you have 1.2 million.
Wow.
Where are they?
Do you see them at the fast-food outlets?
The coffee joints?
Or maybe they are somewhere at the discotheques?
No.
Singapore is very glamorous.
It's picture-perfect; it's beautiful.
These guys -
they live on the other side of the looking glass,
looking in.
And I know what you're thinking:
1.2 million.
You know, you've read the newspaper reports.
Sometimes things go bad.
Little India riots -
300 of them rioting.
Now I'm talking about 1.2 million.
But you can be rest assured, it's not their character.
They're not like that.
Even the commissioner of police has ever said,
"There's more trouble in Geylang and Clarke Quay than with them."
Now you're probably thinking,
"Who's this guy, standing here, talking about foreign workers?"
See, all my working life, I've been asked this question:
"Where do you come from?"
"When did you migrate here?"
I always tell them in this way:
"Hello?
I'm a Singaporean, born and raised here.
Served my National Service; was a (Hokkien) smelly recruit.
I finished my reservist, in case you're wondering.
(Laughter)
And now you're thinking,
"Who is he, if he's local born, to talk about foreign workers?"
See, when I was growing up, parents used to tell their kids,
"If you're naughty, the black man will catch you.
The Bai Jaga will catch you."
In case you all don't know what is "Bai Jaga",
Bai Jaga is the Sikh with a big turban and a big beard,
standing guard.
My mother couldn't tell me this
because I was the son of a Bai Jaga.
I've never admitted this anywhere,
but my father was a migrant.
Then he became a Singapore citizen before I was born.
Yes, I was born and raised here,
but he was from Punjab, India.
And he was uneducated -
he needed thumbprint, not signature.
Just like some of these workers -
they actually don't know how to read and write their own name,
but they will take out their work permit and copy
because it's the law to know your own name.
My father worked two jobs:
bus driver and security guard.
He would come home once a week to change his work clothes.
And I can tell you - kids are mean.
They used to disturb and say,
"Hey, your father's smelly.
He rides a bicycle.
Why? No money?"
Yeah, he didn't.
He would save everything for us,
just like these workers do.
And while kids are mean, adults are no better.
His colleagues and his friends would tell him,
(Malay) "Hey, Singh,
when are you going back to your village?
Why don't you go back to India?"
I'll translate for you:
"When are you going back to your village?
Why don't you go back to India?"
And I was a kid listening to this.
I was angry at him;
I was embarrassed by him.
But at the same time,
my heart cried for him because I knew how hard he worked.
So I vowed - I said,
"I'm going to distance myself from these foreigners and foreign workers
so that I could be treated as an equal in your society."
But you see,
you can call it fate, karma, the universe -
it has a plan for you,
and it has a funny way of teaching you lessons.
After my NS, the only job I could find was in a shipyard,
then construction sites,
then oil and gas.
My subordinates, my colleagues, my superiors -
non-locals.
But they taught me a lot of lessons.
Right now, I run several successful businesses,
helping other companies overcome their challenges
with the seven, eight different nationalities
that they have on their worksites,
solving their cultural or behavioural issues
simply because I know what these guys are thinking and feeling.
You see, you don't need to go to the university to learn life lessons.
Looking at the audience, I know that some of you have gone for NS
or have families that have got sons that go for NS.
NS is hard.
First two weeks are hell.
You don't see your parents, no home-cooked food, and no freedom.
For these guys,
their first two weeks are two years.
So let's see whether we can put you in their shoes just for a short while.
So imagine you're one of them.
Every day, you have to wake up at 4 o'clock in the morning
to prepare your meal - breakfast and lunch -
pack it up,
and then be downstairs at the roadside by about 5:30.
So a lorry comes -
and you can't be late for the lorry; the lorry can be late for you.
You're late, you get cut in salary.
So the lorry comes.
The lorry comes, you scramble on.
The numbers at the back of the lorry
tell you how many people can be squeezed into that lorry.
And then they drive you and deposit you at a worksite -
this is by maybe 6:00, 6:30.
You have to wait there because the gates are not open yet.
At 7:30, the gates finally open -
and you're not paid for this time.
When the gates finally open,
you rush in to punch your card or do a fingerprint.
If you're late?
Again, cut.
Then you do your work.
Then you do your work until lunch,
where you finally get to take the meal that you cooked
and that you hung up somewhere.
Now you get to sit on a pavement and eat.
Then this continues -
your work continues until about 8:00, 9:00,
when finally, they send you back.
You take a shower at 10 o'clock because -
a quick shower because there's over a thousand people waiting for you.
Then you cook your meals.
You might not have time to wash your uniforms.
The next day, it happens again.
And again.
And that's just work.
That's fine.
Then at work, the hard part is when you're trying to work,
someone comes up to you and says,
(Singlish) "Are you stupid?
Don't you know how to work?
I'll cut your salary."
Because there are times that you don't how to work,
that you don't know certain things.
That's at work.
Then when you take public transport,
you sit in a train.
A total stranger will cover their nose because you're smelly
or walk away and pull their kids away because they are fearful.
And you can't say anything.
All these workers are very afraid of losing their jobs.
Going back home means loans and families waiting for them.
So they keep quiet.
But you're also thinking,
"No, I see them outside - they joke and laugh!"
Please forgive them,
because when they see their friends and talk about family,
they cheer up
and they forget "their place".
See, it takes a lot for them to do what they do for two years.
Can you?
What they've taught me
is resilience.
Cappuccino now cost six bucks.
It's expensive.
A meal costs 10.
Have you seen any of them queuing up for that?
Which leads me to ask you this:
what do you think their monthly salaries are?
So I'm going to do a quick survey.
I'm going to see how many people raise their hands
when I flash some answers.
So I hope you can participate, all right?
I'm going to flash some answers,
and you tell me what you think their salaries are.
How much do you think they earn a month?
If you think it's A, can you please raise your hands?
Great. You can put them down.
If you think it's B, please raise your hands.
Can't be the same person again, right?
Okay.
If you think it's C, please raise your hands.
Okay.
If you think it's D, please raise your hands.
Thank you.
For those that have chosen A and B,
after this, please give me your numbers - I'll pass it to them.
I'm sure you'll make very generous bosses.
(Laughter)
For those that chose C -
very close, very pragmatic.
But the harsh reality is far worse.
You see, they earn about $14, $15 a day.
And to do that, they have to take a loan of about six to seven thousand dollars
to pay an agent to come here and work.
Six, seven thousand doesn't seem much.
But imagine -
to pay off that loan,
you need to work for one and a half to two years.
And that's, hopefully, you get to work every day.
So they save what they can,
and that means they cook their own food
if they can.
So in some dormitories,
they're allowed to cook their own food
but in a communal kitchen
because you also don't want to burn down the whole dormitory.
What does their food look like?
Now, lots of rice and maybe one dish.
And on special occasions, then maybe meat.
Then, of course, there are some dormitories -
because it's a business -
they will not allow you or them to cook food.
They will not allow catered food in; they will cater the food.
Like I said, it's business.
So what they do is they will cook the food -
and they start preparing about maybe midnight -
and they'll dump the food at the roadside,
or where the workers will come and collect it,
at about 3:00, 3:30 in the morning.
Some workers come out earlier,
and they help to put the food on structures
so that the dogs, the cats, and the rats don't get to it.
So next time you see plastic bags on the road near dormitories
or near where workers hang out,
please don't kick,
because that's their breakfast and that's their lunch.
What they've taught me
is frugality.
But you see, the hardest lessons
are to come.
They're here for two years.
They might not see their kid's first smile,
first words,
or first time that they walk.
And some of them don't see when their parents pass away.
And as a man, you take it, you keep it,
because you don't worry your family.
Just like some of you go for NS or your studies -
when parents ask you, "How is everything?"
you say, "Everything is good."
You'll fake it, you'll lie,
because you don't want someone else to worry.
A long time ago, I had a project called "Robertson Walk",
and I had two workers, Anthony and Raja.
So they came to me one day and said, "Boss" -
my name is "Boss" -
"Boss,
(Laughter)
can we use the show flat?"
I said, "Okay, sure."
So on a Saturday night, they opened up the show flat -
I was there -
and they were clean.
For the first time in my life, I saw them clean -
best suit, even combed their hair.
And they had this old camera where you put the film inside and turn.
Every time you take a picture, you turn.
Don't know whether some of you have seen that.
And Raja will pretend to cook in the kitchen,
Anthony will take pictures,
and then they will swap.
Then they will sit on the couch and watch the fake TV,
and then they'll swap.
They will be on the dining chairs, swap.
Then I asked them,
"Why are you going through all this?"
Then they said,
"So we can send the photos to our mothers so that they won't be worried."
(Sighs)
Sad.
But I knew exactly where they lived:
they lived in the basement two carpark of a building under construction.
180 workers in a carpark
with plywood walls,
bunk beds, thin mattresses,
dirt and mud on the floor.
And yet they were telling their parents
they're good.
What I learnt from them
is sacrifice.
You've probably also seen reports or photos on the internet
where a worker helps an elderly cross the road
or where there's a heavy downpour -
someone holds an umbrella.
Then there was one, not too long ago,
where a toddler was dangling from the third-floor balcony
and everybody was busy taking photos and calling for help.
And these two workers came out of nowhere,
climbed the outside of the building,
saved the toddler,
came back down on the outside,
left.
Remember when I said,
call it universe, call it life, call it karma?
Well, my father used to work in a place called Soon Li -
around an area called Soon Li.
Soon Li, even back then, had a lot of workers just hanging around
because there were dormitories.
And one of these nights, while he was working,
he had a stroke,
and he fell, outside the gate.
The boss, who he had worked with for more than 30 years,
got into his car, in his nice Merc,
drove off past the gate.
I can tell you it is very hard to miss a human body.
The only reason he survived
was there was a group of workers who rushed over and said,
"Uncle, are you okay?"
And they called for an ambulance, and they stayed with him.
Workers.
Not the guy with the five Cs.
See, these guys have empathy towards others.
They might be less educated than you,
but they can care.
They might have less than you,
but they have a heart.
What they taught me
was empathy.
Now, at the start,
I said there's some kind of disconnect.
There is a disconnect between humans to humans
and within our own feelings.
You see, some of you say
that you want to go overseas and help out with charity work, disasters.
Great.
Some of you say that you want to start businesses so that you -
you want to find passion to solve the world's problems.
Wonderful.
But here's a catch:
without compassion,
how can you have passion?
If you don't care about people,
then whatever you're trying to solve doesn't matter.
If you can't recognise the people that are right in front of you,
why are you going overseas?
See, I want to teach my kids to respect others
and treat people the way they should be treated.
At work, I help to change the lives of these guys.
Yes, I understand they are just workers.
Yes, they are not angels; they're not perfect angels.
Neither are they devils.
But here might be an idea worth spreading:
can we start treating these workers and everyone around you
as fellow human beings?
(Applause)