Migrant. Who? Me?
But I’m Singaporean.
Migrant: Also synonymous with “Transient” or “Homeless person”. It is defined as being someone with no permanent residence.
As I did my scientific research for an academic paper I was writing up, I stumbled upon the word.
If that is true, aren’t Cliff and I migrants, too? Since we got married, we’ve rented homes, stayed in hostels, and house-sitted in 6 different homes in 3 different continents, over 3 years.
Born in Malaysia, I never tasted much of the country. Before I could walk or talk, my parents moved to Singapore. Yet for years, I held onto a Malaysian passport and a blue identity card- what was this country that I was supposed to be a part of but played little part in my education, worldviews or values today? Was there meaning in holding onto it, and what did did it mean?
Back then in primary school, I felt no different from my classmates. No one made fun of me- but I always wondered if my teachers knew, when they appointed me to lead the school in the National Pledge and National Anthem every day, that deep inside, I had an identity crisis- after all, my passport was blue, not red.
If I felt Singaporean and my heart belonged here, was that enough?
Afraid to ask, I never got an answer. So I kept my secret folded like a crisp, purple two-dollar Singapore dollar note, deep inside my pocket. What colour was Malaysia’s currency and how many did it have? I didn’t know.
Singapore was my world.
My time in Malaysia was limited to memories of Grandma and her big house, and the zhongzi (chinese rice dumplings) she cooked for us during the school holidays, before she came to Singapore in an ambulance for medical care. Now, only memories of my spoonfeeding her from her fine-china utensils in the room next to mine before she passed on linger. After she passed on, there was no one else for me to visit in that peninsula where her body lay.
So I decided I would be Singaporean. All these years when I learnt that race, language or religion were no obstacles to a people’s unity, I never felt like a foreigner. But when Grandma passed on, something in me changed, and I wanted the paperwork done.
More than 2 decades later, it was only just before we left for Uganda that I finally got my red passport and pink identity card. My first overseas stamp in this shiny new book? Uganda.
You only ever know who you are, what you believe in and where you come from, when you’re thrown in a completely different context. Years ago, when I travelled for various mission trips, people would raise an eyebrow when I mentioned my name or where I came from.
“Wai what? Jee-ya? Gee-ai? Chee-ah?”
“Wai Jia. It’s okay, you can call me Wai for short.”
“Where’s that name from? And where do you come from?
“Singapore.”
“Which part of China is that?”
“Oh, I’m not from China.”
“Oh okay, but you also look Myanmese. Or Thai. Or… Cambodian. Is Singapore somewhere there? ”
“You could say that.”
My name came from my parents, who came from Malaysia, whose grandparents are from China, and I kind of hold a Malaysian passport but deep inside, I’m Singaporean. Was that okay to say?
In Uganda, looking distinctly Chinese had its advantages. People associated Chinese people with Bruce Lee, which meant I automatically acquired martial-arts prowess, even while walking alone in high-risk areas. When we walked down the streets, shouts of “Korea! Korea!” or “China, China!!” would greet us.
Given few Singaporeans had been to Uganda, I did not expect people to know where I had come from, or where Singapore was. Little did I know that over the past 10 years since I went on my first mission trip, things had changed.
Singapore had changed, and so did how the world saw this little nation in the heart of Asia.
When Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew passed away, I was surprised by how many Ugandans came to me to shake my hands to convey their condolences.
“We are so sorry.”
“You had such a great leader.”
“Your country is amazing. Thank you for serving here.”
Those words, when said by people who said what they did because they knew Singapore and Uganda were at one point, at the same socio-economic level, held immense gravity.
I had tears in my eyes when I came home.
After a year in Africa, Singapore stayed the same in many ways: Katong still had the same retro-hippie feel. My favorite rojak & popiah stall was still where it was. The medical clinic called Healthserve which served marginalized migrants and sex workers in the red-light districts in Singapore where I used to volunteer at as a medical student was still there.
But things had also changed.
Before I left, I left a country known internally more for its ungraciousness than philanthropy, more for its complaining attitude than patriotism, more for its competitiveness and stoic front than compassion and joy.
When I returned, I saw a people who had surprised itself by its outpouring of tears and gratitude to our nation’s late founding father. I returned to a people who had wept days on end for someone and something they knew they had lost, and wanted to reclaim through moving forward with more verve, focus, compassion and love.
The trees looked greener, because Africa was so dry from the red dirt roads; the cacophony of crowded throngs seemed quieter, in comparison to constant loud tribal beats booming through the villages and towns; the people seemed less tense, because now, I stopped mirroring my uptight prejudices onto them.
Singapore had changed, but had also remained the same. Yet, the lens through which I saw my country had changed too.
When we came home without a home to live in, the gush of generosity from people touched us to tears- in less than 3 weeks, we were blessed from owning no residence, to a house, fully furnished from torrents of gracious giving which came in waves; When we came home, we saw a generation of young millennials brimming with excitement, eager to learn how they can make a difference to our community in Singapore and in nations abroad (and that’s no strawberry generation); When we came home, we saw communities of Singaporeans continually striving to serve and uphold justice for the migrants in our homeland.
Our infrastructure is state-of-the-art, we have paved roads and clean water, we have built our city from a fishing village. Yet, our towering skyscrapers and dazzling lights are built on the sweat and tears of migrants who seek a better life in our country.
While the loose definition of “migrants” could widely encompass people like Cliff and myself, as well as the foreign workers who are building our nation, it is a word which mirrors the constant flux of complex hybridization and deep acculturation, which so makes up our Singaporean identity. To continue being a society which upholds justice and equality means we must, as a people, continue to ensure fairness and equity for all, including our foreign friends.
Yesterday, as I went to visit a migrant’s dormitory at the opening of Singapore’s 3rd HealthServe clinic, I saw people from all walks of life coming to celebrate our diversity. Through health screenings for migrants, games and cheerful banter, I saw a multi-religious, multi-racial tapestry of people from diverse professions and societal backgrounds come together to serve and love one another.
What a way to celebrate Singapore’s Jubilee weekend.
In a country as small as a tiny red dot on the world map, at the center of global forces constantly demanding and exerting pressure, I am grateful for our leaders who have built our country on unchanging values such as justice, meritocracy and integrity, which have become the centrifugal anchor for our nation in trying times.
I know we are not perfect- our trains do break down; the continual immigration and emigration of people creates a continuous tension which must be carefully balanced; and if we are not prudent, we will lose our gastronomical heritage due to modern market forces. (Where are our hawker uncles and aunties disappearing to?)
Nonetheless, Singapore is my country, our home.
Since returning from Africa, I have never been so grateful for running water, electricity and being able to walk out at night without fear.
No matter where I am, Singapore is home.
I have a red passport, and a pink identity card. My favorite foods are rojak and popiah; my favorite national day song is “Home, truly”; my favorite childhood memory is of me eating kaya toast and teh-ping with my father at a coffeeshop of a smoky road, and my mum asking me to pass a fifty-dollar bill to the old grandma pushing a trolley of scrap cardboard across the street. My 2 closest friends are Indian, and Chinese with a Thai background because her parents were missionaries in Thailand. I married a Canadian who now serves in Singapore.
Although Cliff and I may have “no permanent residence”, and we are due to transit out of Singapore again in less than a year’s time, I know that this is where I can call it Home.
Home, not just for me, but for all the people all over the world who have chosen to live and love this little red dot on the world map.
Our home here may be transient or permanent depending on where the winds of life take us. But in some way, it really doesn’t matter, as long as Home finds its refuge and place in our hearts, wherever we are.
After all, we are all pilgrims on a journey, whether we call ourselves migrants or not.
Happy 50th Birthday, Singapore.
Photo taken from 50mmphoto
