“The arbitration process is mired in red tape and unlikely to get them what they deserve,” Omala said, her tone hardened and resigned. “Many of them run out of money while waiting for a settlement, admit defeat and have to borrow money from fellow migrant workers to fly home. Once they leave the country, the MOM case files are closed. And the same employer continues to hire.”
“This is so sad,” Andreae purred, directing her sorrowful eyes at Krison.
Jessica found her friend’s affectation almost as unbearable as the indignation simmering in her. She turned to look at the two migrant workers again and asked, “What’s the other guy’s story?”
“Bhimul? Before he flew in, he signed an IPA—an In-Principle Approval—that promised a construction job paying $1,600 per month, which is decent enough,” Omala said. “But when he reached Singapore, the company assigned him a job as a gardener with a salary for only $750 and made him pay for his own meals and transport. It was a total mismatch.”
“But the IPA is in black and white,” Jessica argued. “The employer can’t possibly get away if he fails to deliver.”
“Yes he can, unfortunately.” Omala sighed. “Whenever MOM arranges for mediation, the employer simply refuses to agree on any sum of compensation for Bhimul. So the authorities have to arrange for yet another mediation session several weeks down the road. The game plan is to wear Bhimul down until he uses up all his savings, gives up and goes home defeated.”
Jessica was taciturn for the next hour working at the serving counter. As she scooped from the container of sayur lodeh onto the plates held by the migrant workers, she studied their faces. She had seen them all before, pumping sewage out of clogged drain pipes on the roadside, filthy towels wrapped around their necks to soak up perspiration, or seated on the void decks in groups of three or four, eating out of packets of mixed vegetable rice unfolded on the cement floor. They existed in her peripheral awareness only as aberrations of the neat and orderly city she grew up in. Their alien presence was an inconvenient necessity.
Jessica had never seen them properly until tonight. She now saw them as Majumders and Bhimuls, fearful of asking for their unpaid salaries lest their employers might repatriate them debt-laden, or despondent as they awaited the outcome of interminable bureaucratic processes that wore down their spirits and wiped out their savings. And Jessica felt angry. How could her government, and her people, allow such injustice to perpetuate? How could she herself not have known?
After the soup kitchen had closed, Jessica and Andreae made their way to the nearest underground MRT station on foot. The latter was babbling about Krison, extolling his saintly qualities and practically offering herself as a sacrificial virgin at his altar. But Jessica was not listening. She was troubled. Now that the indignation had tapered off, she had to ask herself: What was she going to do about it?
In the past, whenever Jessica became impassioned with social injustices and human tragedies, she had always taken action. When she read about the genocides in Somalia and Syria, she signed the online petitions to condemn the perpetrators, and shared them readily on Facebook. When an earthquake of magnitude 8.9 hit Japan two years ago and sent a 10-metre tsunami rolling through large swaths of farmland, she stuffed three huge canvas bags with her old clothes and lugged them to the Mercy Relief collection point. Her actions satisfied her conscience enough such that she did not feel guilty splurging on her next Nike or Speedo purchase. She had done her part and a certain destitute child in a far away corner in Somalia, Syria or Japan was better for it.
What she learnt tonight was different. The system put in place by her government and practised by her people had allowed the despicable to prey on the vulnerable. The injustice occurred in her backyard. She felt culpable, almost as if she were guilty herself. She did not know what she could do—not yet—but she knew she had to act.
Jessica’s train of thought was abruptly interrupted when Andreae suddenly grabbed her wrist and hissed, “Don’t look. Just keep walking.”
“What? Where?”
“The poster. Don’t look at the poster on the left.”
Jessica defied the instruction and craned her neck to the left to zoom in on a poster adorning the wall in the MRT station. The model in the poster was a familiar face—Adhha bin Jimari.
It had been almost a year since she last saw him.
“I’m so sorry, Jess,” Andreae whined in a high, thin pitch that scratched the irascibility in Jessica. “I tried to distract you.”
“I’m alright,” Jessica replied curtly. She wouldn’t have noticed the poster had Andreae not brought her attention to it.
“I know he broke your heart but it was a long time ago,” Andreae continued soothingly. “You have to get over it.”
“I am over it.”
“You don’t have to hide your feelings from me, Jess. I’m your best friend. You can be totally honest with me.”
“Of course,” Jessica replied untruthfully.
She had lied to Andreae about the break-up. The truth was simply too complicated.
The poster was a bold publicity effort designed to counter the public’s disgruntlement over a recent series of massive train breakdowns. In it, Adhha was down on one knee next to a train engine, wearing an oil-stained uniform and holding a spanner in his hand. He looked into the camera with his trusting puppy eyes, lightly touching the hearing aid on his left ear. The caption read, “I don’t hear well, but I hear your feedback. I am doing my best to fix the problem. Give me time.”
Jessica first met him at a fund-raising sports event. Andreae had sprained her ankle and begged Jessica to take over her spot in the relay team. She was to complete six laps in the pool, pass the baton to a hearing-impaired cyclist, Adhha, who would have to cycle eight kilometres before passing the baton to a runner for the last leg of the race. Jessica later told Andreae that she thought Adhha looked dashing in his cycling gear. What she failed to mention was how impressed she was by the sizeable package in his cycling tights.
Jessica initiated a texting-based courtship. By the time they met for their first date, Jessica had learnt quite a bit about Adhha. He worked as a technician with Singapore Mass Rapid Transit, was currently training for the Southeast Asia Sports Meet, and had never had a girlfriend before. Jessica found the last bit of information titillating. She felt like she was given the reins to a promising young stud and the freedom to break it in at the livery arena.
As the weeks passed, the texting progressed from polite and friendly chatter to flirtatious and provocative exchanges. When Adhha revealed that there was an unfrequented storeroom in the underground tunnel next to the train tracks where sometimes he hid out and jerked off, Jessica asked to see it. Aflame with anticipation, Adhha ignored the regulations and smuggled her in. It was in that dusty little room, her back flat on the sleeping bag that jiggled every time a train roared past, where she gave the cyclist his first wild ride in a new terrain. Despite his clumsiness, Jessica knew she had picked her stud well. Given time, she could train him to go the distance.
Adhha proved to be a diligent student. He accorded Jessica the same respect and obedience as he would his track-and-field coach, and fine-tuned his strength and speed to provide her the utmost pleasure. Jessica was brought to new heights of ecstasy she had never experienced before. In fact, she was so pleased she planned a surprise treat for him; she would offer him the reward of a ride without the rubber suit.
Jessica found out that Adhha was scheduled for the afternoon shift on the day he was meant to receive the treat. After her tutorial ended, she made her way to the train station where he worked and texted him the code “TW”. That was her signal that he should proceed to pick her up at the platform and smuggle her underground for some “tunnel works”.
Adhha was delighted to receive the unscheduled visit. Once they were safely in their dusty little secret room of carnal pleasure, the pair lost no time conjoining lips and removing intervening items of attire. Jessica had packed a tiny pair of
scissors in her bag. It was her intention to present the surprise treat with a flourish, snatching the condom pack from his hand and snipping it in half. But the moment did not materialise. Both of them groaned when Adhha’s pager beeped and a text message came that his service was required urgently.
Jessica mentally prepared herself for a long wait. The poor reception underground did not permit web surfing, so Jessica watched an episode of Game of Thrones she had downloaded onto her mobile device. When Adhha had not returned after the episode ended, Jessica decided to chat with Andreae over SMS.
Girl, guess where I am. Hint: dark, sweaty and steamy.
Oh no, you’re stuck in the underground train tunnel. You poor thing!
Jessica was stunned. How did you guess???
It’s all over the news, Jess.
What is all over the news??
The worst train disruption in the history of SMRT. Where are you stuck? Hasn’t help arrived yet?
I can’t get onto the web. Send me some pics.
Jessica quickly browsed through the screen grabs that Andreae text-messaged. The North-South and East-West lines, the two major arteries of the train system, had both broken down an hour ago. Channel NewsAsia estimated that 750,000 commuters were affected. The back-up fleet of buses activated to ferry stranded commuters was unable to handle the volume, and angry commuters were flooding social media with their frustrations. The situation did not look like it would improve anytime soon.
Jessica packed her bag and let herself out of the storeroom. She counted her blessings that the lighting system was in order; she did not fancy having to make her way through a darkened and abandoned tunnel alone. It also struck her that had she not been engrossed watching Game of Thrones, she would have noticed the anomaly earlier. The dead silence in the tunnel in the absence of rumbling trains was deafening.
Rounding a bend, Jessica saw that a six-carriage train had been stranded less than 200 metres from the platform. Strangely, the passengers had not yet been evacuated. She could see movement inside the carriages from afar. As she closed the gap, she could also hear angry shouting from within one of the carriages. Someone was pounding on the door panel and hurling scurrilities at a lone figure standing outside the carriage. Although she was staring into the bright lights from the platform, Jessica could tell that the silhouette planted on the train tracks was none other than Adhha.
Jessica raced forward and asked Adhha what was happening. He explained, in a mix of hand signals and slurred muttering, that the electrical circuit had tripped and the train doors remained stubbornly shut. Several of his colleagues were working on the problem in the switchboard room but there was an enraged commuter who simply would not stop abusing him.
The man pounding on the door panel was a Caucasian with a thunderous voice; Jessica could hear his tirade clearly through the glass pane. She could also tell that the air-conditioning in the carriage must have shut down, for most of the commuters were perspiring profusely. The entire lot looked utterly miserable.
“We are doing our best to fix the problem,” Adhha tried again to placate the Caucasian. His slurred enunciation was almost indecipherable, even to Jessica, who was standing next to him.
“Speak up, you moron! I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”
“He said, there is a team of technicians working on the problem. Just be patient!” Jessica shouted to make herself heard. Then she added, “This man is hearing impaired.”
“You think I haven’t figured that out? After an hour of hearing this insufferable fool spout nonsense that none of us can understand?” the Caucasian retorted. “And how stupid can you be to send an idiot who can’t hear nor speak to manage a crisis situation while the rest of the team has run for cover?”
Jessica suspected just as much; Adhha’s colleagues had offered him up as a sacrificial lamb because none of them were willing to face the angry crowd. But the Caucasian’s belligerence got on her nerves. “You need to calm down,” she said.
“Why should I calm down?” the Caucasian challenged. “Do you know how much of my time you have wasted? If I hadn’t sent my car for servicing, I won’t even be on this filthy piece of shit you have the gall to call First-World public transport. First World, my arse!”
“Please calm down,” a fellow commuter in the carriage urged. “We’re all in the same boat. We’ll just have to be patient while they fix the problem.”
“You know why you are all calm and patient? It’s because you’re all sheep. This is a nation of sheep! You trust your government to do everything and make every decision. You can’t even think for yourself. And you don’t know your rights. When you are stuck in a malfunctioning train, you should clamour for action! You don’t just sit back and trust that someone, somewhere, will fix the problem. But I am guessing none of you sheep will understand that.”
Although he was unable to hear the exchange, Adhha could tell from the looks on the commuters that the tension in the carriage had escalated. There was nothing he could do except to raise his voice and plead again, “Please, we are sorry. We are doing our best to fix the problem.”
“Oh, shut up, you bloody parrot!” The Caucasian slapped the glass pane separating them.
All of a sudden, the train doors wheezed and slid open. There was a collective cheer as the commuters felt a draft of fresh air enter the carriage. The Caucasian muttered something under his breath as he threw his attaché case down onto the tracks and made ready to jump. Alarmed, Adhha shouted for him to wait. He had yet to set up the emergency detrainment ramp. But the Caucasian ignored him and made a leap, landing heavily onto the tracks and losing his footing.
“Are you alright?” Adhha rushed forward to help the man up.
Once the Caucasian got back onto his feet, he picked up his attaché case and swung it wildly at Adhha. Adhha gasped and lifted his arms to ward off the assault. The crazed Caucasian made two more ineffective swings before aborting his attack and turning to stumble towards the platform. But he didn’t get very far. Jessica dashed past him and blocked his way with her arms outstretched.
“You apologise to him or I will call the police.”
“Get out of my way!” the Caucasian bellowed and charged at her.
Jessica wanted to shove the brute back, but his swinging attaché case smacked into her shoulder, causing her to lose her balance and fall onto her side. There was a sharp pain at her left ankle where she felt a tendon snap. She could only watch with angry tears as the Caucasian clambered up the stairs and disappeared from the platform.
Adhha rushed over to assist her once the retractable ramp had been set up. Some of the commuters who had descended crowded around her too. Everyone was indignant about the actions of the big bully. Jessica let herself be carried by Adhha up the stairs onto the platform in the manner of a new bride by her groom. She thought it was really sweet of Adhha and secretly wished someone was filming the scene.
And of course, someone had.
Over the next two days, the unprecedented SMRT fiasco dominated the print media headlines and online newsfeeds. Keyboard warriors slipped into full battle gear and waged war against the SMRT CEO. They trained their spotlight onto his million-dollar performance bonus, hinted at his familial connections to the political elite and demanded a public apology. It became an instant circus as netizens herded the CEO into the ring and whipped up a storm demonising him.
In the midst of the brouhaha, a four-minute video clip uploaded by one of the commuters who was trapped in the stalled train was slow to gain traction.
You’re on YouTube! Andreae was the one who sent Jessica a link to the video clip three days after the incident. The first three minutes was shot inside the carriage. The Caucasian was filmed berating Adhha even after it became clear that the latter was a hearing-impaired young man. The tail end of the segment saw the Caucasian hop onto the tracks, assault Adhha, push a young lady onto the ground and make his getaway. The clip ended at the point when Adhha was carrying the injured youn
g lady up the steps onto the platform.
Jessica was devastated. Although the image of her with her arms outstretched blocking the bully’s escape was imposing, she was only captured as a silhouette against the platform lights. Her countenance was barely recognisable.
Don’t worry. They will uncover your identity eventually, Andreae comforted her. It’s amazing what the online community can do.
Andreae was almost right. The Internet was amazingly efficient when its users came together to conduct a collective investigation. But the focus of their hunt was the Caucasian and they wanted blood. It was quickly established that the man at the centre of the furore was an expatriate from the United Kingdom. He went by the name of Anton Cassidy and worked for SmartInvest Asia as a Senior Wealth Manager. The irony that emerged was that Mr Cassidy’s LinkedIn profile listed the man, who proved himself so lacking in compassion, as someone who had been working with the charitable organisation Willing Hearts on poverty alleviation over the past decade.
Netizens were further enraged when a screen grab surfaced of Mr Cassidy’s Facebook post immediately following the incident. There was a picture of his silver Porsche and a caption that read, “Ahhhh… reunited with my baby! Normal service can resume, once I have washed the stench of public transport off me.” There was also an astringent comment by Mr Cassidy in which he claimed he was caught in an awful train meltdown and had to suffer the stupidity of a “retarded” technician who was clueless about his job.
Over the next few days, the online furore gained momentum. The keyboard warriors gathered an army united in an enmeshment of xenophobia and patriotism, and demanded that Anton Cassidy apologise. The expatriate eventually did, but he made the mistake of emphasising that his family suffered extreme distress from the online harassment and thinly veiled death threats. The netizens rejected his apology over its perceived insincerity. SmartInvest Asia bowed to pressure and issued a statement to the effect that it did not condone the Senior Wealth Manager’s behaviour, and that the company and Cassidy had “parted ways with immediate effect”. But the keyboard warriors were not placated. In the end, five weeks into the ruckus, Anton Cassidy fled the country in disgrace.
The Riot Act Page 3
