I started teaching underprivileged children at a social services centre recently. Before you think I am doing it for the CIP hours, I'm not. I am a finance professional with full time employment in a financial services firm, and sometimes it honestly isn't easy to set aside the time to mentor these kids. Before I began, I informed my boss that I would be teaching these kids, and I would be doing so for several weeks, so I requested time off early so I could get to the centre on time.
I teach these children because I identify with them. I know what it is like to have to fight for opportunities in a world that scarcely gives you any if you come from the wrong side of the socioeconomic stratum. I don't do it purely out of the goodness of my heart, because whatever goodwill that comes that way will slowly be eroded thin, when you realise that what you are effectively giving up is 4 hours of your time on a weekday night, which can be very precious when you work long hours. It leaves me with barely any time to unwind when I'm done on those Tuesdays, but I always leave the centre knowing I made a difference.
I do all this because I sincerely believe that these kids deserve a chance. Anybody who is willing to put in the effort deserves a shot at happiness and a better life.
What do I mean by a better life? I was hurrying to the class last Tuesday, because I only get off at 6pm on teaching days so by the time I get to the centre I am usually about an hour late. I was rushing along the void deck, and just as I was about to approach the door to the centre, I was stopped in my tracks by a family. The father was pushing his young toddler son in a stolen supermarket trolley, picking cardboard off dustbins and any places that he could find them. The mother was accompanying them, and also entertaining the kid in the trolley.
As I approached them, I became distinctly aware that the father reeked of kerosene. I realised that he probably worked at manual labour as a painter for a construction firm, because he was also wearing clothes with paint stains on them. I also realised that he reeked so because the family was probably really poor, so poor that even soap would be an extra expense that could be better used to feed a mouth. The father saw me approaching, and he quickly apologised and moved out of my way, struggling with the trolley as he did so.
I remember being struck by the apologetic tone in his voice, when all I could feel was sadness and embarrassment on my part at having to witness a family struggling on such terms, while being unable to help them. A donation out of pity would have been an affront to the dignity of this family, still fighting to make an honest a living as possible given their circumstances.
This is the underbelly of Singapore that not many people see. While most of us are busy caught up in our lives, trying to eat at the fanciest restaurants, buy the nicest clothes and go for the nicest holidays, we don't realise that there are those who are left behind, eking out an existence so that the next generation can live a better life.
Even at the centre, when I teach the kids, they sometimes tell me things that make me realise I can never help them enough. They tell me about how they do not have an English dictionary at home, so they cannot learn the meanings of English words that they don't understand in their school homework. They tell me about how their parents are sick, and how their favourite place is home because it is the only place they know apart from school. They tell me about how their parents cannot find work, or about how they don't understand their homework sometimes but there is no one to help them.
I help them as much as I can, but sometimes I realise that it is a bridge too far to cross. But I do know that the three hours I spend with them on those nights is three hours more than anyone else would have cared to give them. And I know that every week, I give them three hours more. I try to show them that even if they don't have the best of circumstances, they can fight for their dreams.
And many of their dreams are simple. To be a chef, because they really like to eat. To be a doctor, because their parents are sick and they want to help them. To be a teacher, because they really like their teachers in school and they look up to them.
Working with these kids gives me a reality check every week. And it also gives me the strength to keep on fighting, so that one day, I can fight for them.