In her shoes.

* Warning: This post is graphic and may be offensive.

Part your legs.

They didn’t even need to be told. It was a monthly routine, a patterned exercise, like a monthly period. Once behind the curtain, they knew exactly what to do. There was nothing to be shy about- it was necessary, that was all. Strip halfway down, open your mouth for the dreaded gag, part your legs and wait.

“Sabai, sabai,” the nurse would say. Even though they needn’t be told to part their legs, everyone needed coaxing to relax.

Sabai, sabai. It literally means “feel good” in Thai. The nurses coax the sex workers to relax as they come for their routine medical surveillance for sexually transmitted infections at the clinic for venereal diseases.

Throat swab. Anal swab. Vaginal swab. Medical stamp. Done.

They need the stamp to sell their services. If not, they get sent back.

It was an eye-opening day at the DSC (Department of Sexually Transmitted Infections Control). It was a glimpse of a part of life we don’t normally see.

This, is reality.

On the second floor of the clinic sat rows and rows of young, pretty women, all dolled up in cute jeans and leggings, with perfect makeup and highlights in their hair, sitting demurely waiting for their turn. Many were Thai, some were from mainland China. They came in groups, and watched me as I passed them in my white coat. For some reason, I felt out of place. “Shi xi de yi sheng,” one of them said in mandarin. “Doctors-in-training.”

You wouldn’t have been able to tell. I mean, they were pretty. If you saw them down the street, they looked like just another head-turner. The first svelte lady with legs which never ended and long, blonde hair was a sex worker coming in for treatment for a genital infection. But some of them were haggard, flogged and washed out by the gruelling demands of the job. They can take up to 20 clients a night. Each client is worth $50. Half goes to the brothel. Half is for keeps. 10 clients a night, for 6 days a week, with 5 non-income days for their menstrual period earns them $6500 a month.

That’s good money.

Downstairs, were rows and rows of men, of every ethnicity and nationality, waiting for their turn. (That’s Uniquely Singapore for you right there in the waiting room.) Within an hour, we had seen Life in all its garish colours. The second patient was a short, muscular man with HIV. Then strolled in a smart-looking man you would pluck off the street of Shenton Way (our central business district) seeking treatment because “my partner says he has gonorrhea”.

“He. He?”

“Yes, my partner. He.”

“I’m sorry I have to ask you some personal questions. How many partners have you had in your life?”

“One. Only him.”

“I mean, all your life?”

“Yeah. For the past 12 years, just him.”

“I see you’re very devoted. But he’s not so devoted to you, is he?”

He shrugs.

“Condoms?”

“Quite often. About 50% of the time.”

“That’s not often. That’s as good as not having protection. You need to have protection. Oral?”

“Yes.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Both.”

These questions matter. They affect treatment, and outcome.

Then came in another man with thick-rimmed spectacles and bermudas. After the usual brisk rapport-building came the questions which unveiled the gore beneath the surface.

“I need to ask you some personal questions. Who was your partner?”

“Social escort. From online.”

Online. Did he say online?

The doctor stops the clinic temporarily to read an email. There is letter written to him regarding the case of a 2-year old boy with genital warts. On investigation, genital bacteria was found in his anus and mouth. That only meant one thing.

“I got to send a letter to the Ministry. Sad, isn’t it?”

“It’s tragic, sir.”

We look at each other knowingly. Child abuse.

And then another good-looking young man with florid tatoos on his well-defined biceps swaggers in.

“Out from prison?”

“Yea, one week ago.”

“For what offense?”

“Drugs la.”

“How can I help you today?”

“I worry. Many many years, down there that one. KTV hostess la. Now my mouth got this one, very painful, can cut for me? Very irritating. Cannot take it la.”

Cold sores from herpes. Herpes type 1.

Upstairs are the girls who sell. Downstairs are the men who buy.

And then there’s me, stuck in the middle of two worlds, trying to bridge the gap between my world and theirs, and hopelessly failing because of my judgemental mindset. It reminded me of that night 2 years ago when we did some community outreach at the red light district over Christmas. We went at night, and walked down the alleys of Geylang, where the streets were studded with women clad in close to nothing, selling their football-sized wares. We, from the clinic at Geylang, gave out pamphlets to them, introducing them to the healthcare centre in the middle of that eclectic world. That world where wolves prowled and lamb waited, where different worlds overlapped and multi-coloured liquids blended in a tawdry mix- her home country. His home country. Her family. And his wife and children. Her infection. His infection. Her hole. His gun.

Someone dies. Someone always dies- and it is not necessarily one of them who does.

Later on, an angry wife comes barging in through the clinic asking for the cause of her vaginal discharge and finds out. They have children. Someone, if not, something in someone, always dies.

But I suppose, condoms save the day. A happy-looking cartoon character of banana plastic is pasted on a poster exhibit, next to a television screening a dramatic drama serial of a man who needs to disclose his HIV status to his family. Zoe Tay is crying.

“Here, take one, take five. Better to have more than less, they’re free. Take, take,” says the doctor. Because nothing stops this proliferative evil. Only a piece of plastic stands between evil and a greater one.

“Why do you like this job?” I ask the doctor. This is grimy work.

“It’s challenging, that’s why. You see people from all walks of life. Some infections are very treatable. And it’s a mix of clinical, research and public health work. “

Public health. Where the epidemiology department was wildly successful with their condom use campaigns. “ I don’t understand, how does one force one’s client to wear one? I don’t understand how this public campaign achieved so much success. I mean… you know?”

In the clinic, we ask direct questions.

“Oh, well. We train the sex workers. We give them practical techniques. Like putting them on using their mouths for clients.”

“Right.” Stupid question.

“Why else do you like it?”

“It’s colorful, that’s why.”

Green discharge. Red blood in urine. Yellow urethral pus. Colourful, indeed. It’s grimy work, but the doctors are there for a reason. These are the people who have are marginalised by society. These are people are scorned, but need help anyways.

I go upstairs, a little overwhelmed by all that has happened within an hour or so, and then I see a pair of white slippers with little sparkling crystals studded all over them. It strikes me, because I have the exact same pair- my good friends bought them for me for my birthday. They weren’t cheap.

I look up, and it belongs to a mainland Chinese sex worker in a purple off-shoulder top and leggings. She is apple-faced, with rebonded shiny black hair. “Singapore is a nice place,” she tells me in accented mandarin, “people here are polite.” We make small talk, but she is guarded. After all, how would I ever understand her world. How would I ever approve of what she did. I attempted to leap over from my cliff to hers, and found myself falling into an abyss.

Her slippers were the same as mine. And it only served to remind me, not to judge, because given her background, her family, her education, her circumstance, her temptations… it could have been me.

But it’s just that I’ve been born into a protective family. It’s just that when I was born, we moved to Singapore and I got sucked into, sold to the Rat Race. It’s just that I used other things to fill my hole- like working, like training, like doing projects. The people downstairs were broken too. Broken like you and me. So they found these things to fill their holes- online escorts, one-night stands.

But break us down to our elements, and this is who we are. We are the same, broken. We are broken, lonely people, desperately searching for love and companionship. Only in different places in different ways.

Placed in her shoes, it could’ve been me. Or you.

Tis a crazy world out there. And it made me realise, we need to fortify our minds, guard our hearts against all its craziness. What feels good for a moment only brings suffering, infection and sometimes, incurable disease in the end.

And the words Sabai, sabai ring in my ears, as the nurse asks the woman to relax as she sticks the swab in. Feel good, feel good.

Perhaps, we need to come to a realisation as to what truly feels good. Temporary pleasures, can bring eternal suffering. Temporary pleasures, are just what they are- temporary.

But our loneliness, our longing for love, is eternal. Do we understand that. Do we understand that this eternal longing set in our hearts signifies we weren’t made for this world, and hence only the divine can fill it. Do we understand that we need to look for love in the right places, not from an external source, but from somewhere deep within, a love that was poured out abundantly by His spirit for our sakes, a love which… satisfies.

I leave the clinic, past a row of men and they watch me like a hawk. I want to say screw you, old man, but I hold back. Compassion, compassion, rings in my ears. I see the pair of white shoes in my head.

Put yourself in their shoes, I hear a voice say. And I walk out of that place, in the middle of the red light district in broad daylight, and find myself thankful for entering that world, if only for a moment.

On wearing the right pair of shoes, I could leap from my cliff to theirs. That’s what the doctors there have to do, connect with them, take off their judgemental glasses. Even though the sin is so very evil, and the evil is so very great. Even though they must hate the sin. Even though they must love and care for the people in spite of the sin.

Leave these people to rot, they brought it upon themselves, says one voice. Another says, compassion, compassion.

It’s a crazy world out there. But with the right pair of shoes, and right pair of glasses, perhaps, just perhaps, with God’s grace, we could be a part of pouring out a little love to fill the holes in this broken world.