“But…” Hashwini struggled to comprehend Jingxuan’s viewpoint. “But surely it is wrong to look down on, say, the uncle or aunty from China who clears food trays at the food courts or empties wastepaper bins in the office?”
“Look at it this way—these people are saving up and sending money back to China to build houses in their village or hire workers to work on their farms. The villagers will give them respect when they return home loaded with cash. But while they are working here, I don’t think they are necessarily looking for the same from your people. That’s not what they’re here for.”
Hashwini pouted but kept her opinion to herself. Perhaps Jingxuan had a valid point. Her comrades did appear to abide by different game rules, rules that allowed a casino high roller like the Beast to dictate grammar and spelling outside the Oxford Dictionary.
Before her break ended, Hashwini was delighted to spot a message from Euu Ki on her mobile phone. He had swapped shifts with another colleague so that he could come over to her place tonight to work on Teen RV. Although the two would not admit it, the blog had progressively taken over their lives. They could not wait to log on and check the chain of reader comments they had to reply to and the newest challenge from Daxue they had to respond to. Just two nights ago, another one of the five bloggers they had launched an offensive against finally decided to take up the bait. The spike in viewership shared between Teen RV and Daxue must have elicited jealousy.
You are out of chips. Get some Pringles Hot & Spicy. Euu Ki texted her a reminder.
On her way home, Hashwini chose to alight one bus stop earlier, cross the road and slip into Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop. Her shopping basket was only half-full when she felt someone tug at her sleeve. It was Kaustubh.
“We need to talk.”
Intrigued by the urgency in his tone, Hashwini allowed him to usher her into the storage room. They had not met since the night of the riot.
“The police are looking for you.”
It took Hashwini several seconds to register the information. She had been so engrossed in Teen RV over the last two months that the night of the riot had regressed into a dusty corner of her memory.
“What? Why?”
“You made a call to the police using my mobile phone, remember?” Kaustubh made no attempt to hide his accusatory tone. “Of course they traced it back to me!”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them I lost my mobile phone two days before the riot.”
“Did they buy your story?”
“Initially, yes. But then my TV clip came out, the one with the MP. Did you catch it?”
Hashwini nodded. “But what has the TV clip got to do with it?”
“Someone who was on the bus that night recognised me. He went to the police and said I was with the undercover policewoman on the night of the riot.”
“What undercover policewoman?”
“You, idiot! You announced yourself as the police when you boarded the bus, remember?!”
Hashwini turned pallid. Details from the night of the riot were seeping out of the walls of her cranium like ghouls from the grave.
“The police came again. This time round, they demanded to view the CCTV recording on the night of the riot. That was how they discovered my lie.”
“What lie?”
“That I had lost my phone! Are you listening at all?” Kaustubh hissed in exasperation. “The CCTV clip showed you snatching the mobile phone out of my back pocket and making the call. So, obviously, I didn’t lose it two days ago.”
“How did you explain the lie?”
“I told them I did not know you, that you ran off with my phone and I never got to see you again, and that I didn’t want to get involved, so I lied about the phone,” Kaustubh said. “You need to back up my story when you go in.”
“What do you mean go in?”
“You are wanted by the police. They will ID you sooner or later through the CCTV clip. You might as well surrender yourself.”
Hashwini stood stunned.
“Well?” Kaustubh pressed.
“I don’t think I am ready to talk to the police,” Hashwini stammered. Oh, why had she shouted “Police!” when she boarded that bus? Would they charge her for impersonating a law enforcement officer?
“Don’t wait too long,” Kaustubh cautioned. “And remember…this discussion between us? Never happened.”
Chapter 8
Jessica simply could not believe her eyes.
There it was again, next to the entrance to the $2-an-item Daiso outlet, a life-size cardboard standee of Chong Jin in his tight-fitting operational STAR uniform. There was one at the neighbourhood lottery station and another flanking the ATM at the mall. Three sightings within one morning were simply too much!
Andreae had called the night before to alert her to a radio programme. Jessica tuned in just in time to catch a female caller gushing about the dashing STAR team member whose standee had been sighted all over her neighbourhood. The caller shared her hope that the Little India riot could be adapted into a movie starring the real-life heartthrob of a hero and that the casting director would run an open audition for fans like her to try out for the female lead. She ended her rambling by dedicating Bruno Mars’ “When I Was Your Man” to the most gorgeous man in blue she had ever laid eyes on.
Jessica had thought the female caller jejune and foolish until it struck her that she herself had behaved very much the same way when she first crossed paths with Chong Jin. Blinkered by infatuation, she had endured the afflictions he laid upon her without recognising them as such. She had been a willing, compliant victim. She should be the last person to judge anyone.
But Chong Jin, she felt entitled to judge. The man was a monster. That someone who resorted to blackmailing a girlfriend using sex tapes he had filmed without her knowledge should receive adoration from the public infuriated her. This was a mad world. The truth was contorted beyond recognition by the skewed angle with which the media trained its spotlight and everyone who bobbed their heads and danced to the pulsating beat of the falsity was complicit in this madness.
Were Jessica honest, she would admit that she felt slighted. With the release of her interview footage, she had anticipated a wave of public admiration for her courage in speaking up for the migrant worker community. That did not come about. Instead, the viewers’ attention was all but consumed by the last two seconds of the footage, when the videographer had zoomed in to highlight the bruise marks on her wrist.
If the public had speculated about what had happened to her in that ambulance before the valiant STAR team hero came to the rescue, they were now convinced they knew the truth. One of their own had been raped by a rioter.
There was instantaneous uproar on social media. Several online petitions sprang up to demand accountability. The comatose rapist should not be allowed to get away with the crime just because he was not awake to defend himself. There was clamouring for the man to be sentenced, flipped over on the hospital bed so he could be lashed with the maximum 24 strokes of the cane, then wheeled into a solitary cell in prison and left to rot for the rest of his unconscious life.
At one point, a keyboard warrior claimed that he had successfully applied for a permit from the police to hold a protest at Hong Lim Park, the only venue in the country where registered protests were sanctioned. Close to six hundred registered to attend. On the day itself, however, fewer than forty people turned up. When no one stepped forward to lead the protest, the attendees realised it might have been a prank. That being the Sunday after Christmas, they peacefully dispersed and merged into the shopping crowd lured to the malls by the many post-Christmas sales.
Soon after the telecast of her interview, Jessica received a text message from Omala requesting her to come down to Migrant Workers Count Too for a meeting. The response from the public had caught them by surprise and they urgently needed to come up with a plan to mitigate the damage to their cause.
“I am sorry thing
s turned out the way they did,” Omala apologised upfront, looking Jessica in the eye with all the sincerity she could muster. “I know how terrible you must feel to be thrust into the spotlight for the wrong reason, but I am asking you to be brave. We need you to make another statement.”
“I already made it clear that I did not wish to talk about it,” Jessica insisted. She did not want to have to explain the bruise marks.
“I know you did,” Omala said. “But those bruise marks on your wrist are the only thing everyone sees now. Unless we guide the public to see past that and to focus on the real issue—the demonisation of the migrant worker community—we will find ourselves looking at a lost cause. And you are the only one who can save it.”
Jessica leant back on her chair and studied the other three in the room. Omala sat upright, both hands perched on the armrests, like a panther ready to pounce. This woman was determined to get things moving her way. Kuan Eng sank deep into the sofa, his head slightly cocked, tapping a forefinger rhythmically on his lips, observing the exchange and contemplating options. Krison rested his chin on his cupped hands and avoided eye contact with her but she could read the angst in his furrowed brows. This man was feeling guilty for dragging her into the current predicament.
All three assumed she was unwilling to discuss the sexual assault she endured.
The truth was that she was frantically figuring out how she could satisfy the entire nation’s curiosity, without revealing what had actually happened and without telling a lie.
“I have said this before, and I will say it again,” Omala spoke. “In life, challenges often jump at you when you least expect them. It is the brave who will grab the opportunity and make history. People will listen if you speak. This is your opportunity to educate a misguided public. This is your chance to help fight xenophobia.”
Jessica stood her ground. “I will continue to support your cause. But I will not be bullied into talking about any subject I do not wish to discuss.”
Omala looked like she was about to launch into another volley of persuasion when Kuan Eng lifted a hand to stop her.
“Let Jessica’s silence be her statement.”
All three stared at Kuan Eng.
“What Migrant Workers Count Too lacks is a face. The public needs to put a face to a cause. Over the years, we have tried unsuccessfully to zoom in and focus on selected case studies of individual migrant workers to highlight their plights. It did not work because there is this unbridgeable gap that exists. When the average Singaporean looks at a news photo of a migrant worker who has suffered, they may sympathise and be moved to make a donation. But at the back of their minds, they think, ‘This man is not one of us.’ He looks different, dresses differently and talks differently. The difference is what stands out.
“This time around, we will offer the public one of their own and give them a face they can identify with. Jessica is now a face they recognise as a victim of a riot. We are going to change that. Jessica will help front our efforts to petition for the migrant workers. Her continued, sustained presence and her refusal to behave like a victim will be a strong statement. We want her magnanimity, equitability and courage to inspire the public to do the same.”
There was a moment of silence as the three ruminated. Jessica stole a glance at Kuan Eng. The man was unlikely to turn heads but what he lacked in looks he made up for with a sharp sense of dressing. Both the clingy sky blue stretch-cotton shirt and the pair of dark blue slim-fit chinos he wore looked like they were tailor-made. He sat close enough such that the glint from his cufflinks caught her attention. Although he had picked a simple design, the craftsmanship looked as exquisite as any from Gucci or Dunhill. Omala had mentioned that Kuan Eng worked as a corporate lawyer; the man could certainly afford the high life. In spite of that, he had maintained a behaviour that was as unassuming as his dressing was unostentatious. Jessica instinctively felt that she could trust his judgement.
“What do you have in mind?” Omala asked.
“Some publicity project that will allow Jessica to interact with migrant workers, that captures her as an ally, not a victim,” Kuan Eng said. Turning to Krison, he asked, “Do we have any ongoing projects that we can tap on?”
“Actually, yes,” Krison nodded eagerly. “There is this pet project that Siow Har has been working on on her own. She had wanted to keep it a secret but one of the migrant workers told me and I asked her about it.”
“Tell us!” Omala urged.
“Siow Har cycles to and from work using the Park Connector Network of lanes. She observed that many of the migrant workers were cycling in the dark without a bicycle light. And then one night she herself had a collision with one of them. That gave her the idea. So every month, she would go down to Daiso and purchase a dozen bicycle lights at $2 apiece to give away to migrant workers who cycle. She has been doing this quietly for the last few months.”
“That’s lovely!” Omala exclaimed.
“This is exactly the project we need!” There was a sparkle in Kuan Eng’s eyes. “Simple concept, human interest element, easy to scale up. We should totally do this!”
“Great! I can’t wait to tell Siow Har!” Krison beamed.
An awkward silence followed. It took Krison a few seconds to realise that the impending spotlight would be trained on Jessica, not Siow Har.
“She will understand,” Omala finally said, absolving everyone present of their guilt.
Three days later, Migrant Workers Count Too launched a publicity event titled “Release Them from the Dark”. A group of volunteers, with Jessica among them, stationed themselves outside a Daiso outlet handing out pledge cards. Members of the public were encouraged to pen a message of support to a migrant worker who would be receiving a bicycle light for free.
“I have emailed The Online Citizen too.” Kuan Eng pre-empted Jessica. “They may turn up to interview you, so you have to be prepared for their questions.”
“Why did you invite them? They are the ones who zoomed in on the bruises and triggered the online furore.” Krison frowned.
“The readers of The Online Citizen are precisely the ones we need to connect with,” Kuan Eng explained. “As social activists, we should never fear opposition or haters. We can work to change their perception. The ones we fear are those who are apathetic or claim to be apolitical. When they don’t care enough to even hold an opinion, our cause is doomed. It is important that people are drawn to our cause.”
It turned out that The Online Citizen was not the only online news portal attracted to the publicity event. As Jessica approached the entrance to Daiso, no less than three videographers materialised and aimed their recording devices at her. Several mobile phones were switched to audio record mode and thrust in her face. A quick round of introductions established that both The Real Singapore and Wake Up Singapore were eager to cover the event as well.
“I will answer your questions,” Jessica reassured them. “But can I request that we move over to the booth set up by Migrant Workers Count Too?”
Omala and Krison had arrived earlier with a team of volunteers to set up a booth near the escalator landing. Already they had spread out and engaged with shoppers, persuading them to sign the pledge cards. Jessica spotted Siow Har; Krison had introduced the two of them during the operational briefing the day before. Jessica thought it only fair that Siow Har be involved in the interview.
“Before we do that, we have a request,” the reporter from The Real Singapore said. “Can you stand next to the standee? We want to take some shots of you with the STAR team member who came to your rescue during the riot.”
Jessica’s initial thought was to turn down the request, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Once the videographers were satisfied, Jessica led them to where Siow Har was distributing fliers, swivelled the latter around and announced with a flourish, “This is the woman you should be interviewing. Her name is Hoh Siow Har and she has a heart of gold. For the longest time, she has been forking out her own
money to buy bicycle lights and giving them away free to migrant workers who cycle. I will let her tell her own story.”
For a moment, the group of videographers looked as confused by the sudden switch of focus as Siow Har was by the ambush. Jessica wrapped her arm around the blushing young woman and whispered an encouragement, “Don’t be shy. Do it for the migrant workers.”
Siow Har cleared her throat and launched into an account of how she had once had a head-on collision with a cyclist in the dark and ended up with injuries on her knees so severe that she required nine stitches. She was initially angry with the migrant worker called Khalid, who was cycling without lights. But Khalid sat looking so dejected in the treatment room that she ended up feeling sorry for him. But he had been injured too and his account confirmed her suspicions: a migrant worker was not protected by insurance for injuries outside the worksite and he would not receive any remuneration during his period of recuperation. It was a big blow for him. And that was how Siow Har came up with the idea of distributing bicycle lights for free.
Jessica thought it was a good story but for some reason, the videographers did not appear as enthralled. Two of the three halted their recording devices midway through Siow Har’s account, which disconcerted her so much she began to falter and stumble over her words. At one point, Siow Har glanced at Jessica with a thinly-veiled look of dismay.
“Do you know what I find fascinating about this story?” Jessica stepped up to answer the silent call for help. “Every bicycle light Siow Har distributes ensures the safety of a hardworking man earning money to send home to his wife, kids, elderly parents and siblings. That is how far a two-dollar bicycle light can shine when you apply compassion to it, across oceans to a village thousands of miles away in another subcontinent.”
“That is a beautiful analogy!” the reporter from The Real Singapore exclaimed as he switched his recording device back on. “Can you repeat that statement?”
The Riot Act Page 12
