I got lost in translation

I followed my dad to the cheap apartments beside my house. Because they have kedai runcits there, and my dad needed a packet of Bensons.

We were trying to find a way in.

The concrete stairs, the graffiti, the cigarette buds scattering the dirty hallways. I smoother my mini as we pass through the big maze, feeling uneasy, the indonesian workers eye us up and down.

Somewhere nearby, buildings are under construction. Now I know who are the workers and where they stay. The indonesians, legal or not, stay in this crap. I pass by rooms. Around 10 men stay in a room smaller than my bathroom. And I actually complained that my room is small. They have no bed, no furniture, no tv, no fridge, no nothing.

A towel as bedsheet, the hard cold floor as bed, and the wind slipping past the small windows is what they call fan. And one pathetic old lamp. They are all skinny but muscular. You know, like full of muscles. They wear clothes, so old and torn I would have thrown like, 6 years ago. It made me feel bad.

I felt a bit nauseous. What does it feel like, to travel to a foreign land, and end up like this. I wonder if anyone would care if they die out of disease, die during an accident in the construction land. I saw women too, wrapped in sarong, skinny and tan. More like black. They were smoking. I don't know if I'm silly, but I wonder if they have Aids or something.

Every morning, uncle picks me up and heads to ve kenn's place. We pass through this route. I see them every morning, squating beside the road, with jaded expressions, no, not jaded, more like numb. They wait for a white van to come. The van comes with cheap veges and meat. Leftovers, we picked out the better ones remember?

Uncle's van is white too. Every morning I look at them, their faces. No sympathy. They don't need it. They just need to live. And they look at me too, every morning. Looking at this white Van carrying a bunch of teenagers to school. How do they feel? I don't know. Maybe they wish to trade places with us. To go to school, get a good job, get a comfortable life. Haha. And we complain, that life wasn't good enough.

The Indonesian maid comes on Sundays to clean the house. I remember when we moved here. I packed a big box of unwanted things. Prepared to dump them away.She picked them up, ooohhhh and ahhhhed over every single item. She brought them home happily that day, she had this face like she's the luckiest person on earth. It makes me sad. All those things, so worthless to me.

She was mopping today and saw this really cute bag of my moms on the table.

Very nice horr she said. My mum gave me a look and I said "You can have it"

Listening to Summertime by Scarlett Johanson right now. A blue jazz kinda song that makes me feel surreal.

" ~ your daddy's rich and your mommy good looking,
~~ so hush little baby, don't you cry"

So cliche. Cry? What do we have to cry about?