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3. Runaway to warehouse


I dragged a metal cart for pick with a high vis vest and clunky safety boots on me. I looked like a truly pitiful  prisoner stripped of self-respect in a uniform that robs dignity. I lamented my situation. A samll mercy was that I was far away from the gossipy Korean expat community in Australia. I did not have to worry about those 'watchful eyes'. I had to use the muscles I have not touched before , so this labor—what Calvin once called “divine”—was making my whole body ache.

Things like racial background, the nationality, or the past career meant nothing at the workplace. All temp workers followed the same dress code, received the same rate, and did the same tasks. That equality built  a strange sense of kinship of the shared struggle, and most people treat one another without barriers. This setup, reminiscent of communism’s ideals of’ work together, share together’, ironically coexists with the capitalism—the very system that thrives on draining the lifeblood of the working class with its dazzling, exploitative finesse.                                                            

'Time to work. Once I logged in to the scanner , punched the task number, the detail of item appeared on the screen.   ‘Alright, let’s go on a journey.’ Walking to the pick location felt like a short trip for finding a hidden treasure. Along the way, I found the joy in meeting the workers from all over the world. When I listen to the soft rock ballad ‘Hard to Say I’m Sorry.’ from the portable speaker of Jesus, a Filipino, I shout out the band's name.  He responded with a smile. It was our way of connecting - through the pop hits of the 70s and 80s that shaped our youth. 

A short small talk with Ayla from Indonesia was ike sipping a fizzy drink to quench the thirst during a break.  “Can you believe it? I was almost late for the work today. When I turned the key,  the engine didn’t start. Cold sweat, I tell ya.”  “Oh no, really? What did you do?”  Her dramatic reaction was  a sign of genuine interest and respect. “I ran like hell. My eyebrows were flapping in the wind sandra!”    “From your house to here? Were you a track star?”  “It’s a five-minute walk.” Her confused face soon breaks into a bright, adorable smile. At some point, she started calling me 'Sir'. As I zigzagged my way like a circus act to the next pick location, 

I met Chasi, a young man from Nepal, bowed slightlywitha shy nod. 'That’s Korean etiquette.' Chasi astonishingly resembled a Korean both in looks and spirit ;  kKind-hearted, good-natured souls. Their manners were the virtues that lie dormant in their DNA, emerging naturally, different from the practiced ones of white-collar corporate culture. Though poor in material terms, they’re far richer spiritually and culturally. Yet they’re still often disrespected and discriminated against for being from so-called "under developed countries”—a reality as baffling as the baseless superiority flaunted by the truly good for nothing.

I believe this place is a school prepared for me by the fate to learn about people, including Indians. 

This blog was originally written in Korean by Young Hwa Son and first published on Brunch, a Korean writing platform. The link is provided below.  https://brunch.co.kr/brunchbook/heavenwarehouse 


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