We try to avoid them. As much as we can.

Don’t look at them, at least not in the eye. We drive in our cars with the music on. In our periphery, we can see them walking on the side of the road, in their polyester shirts and hard hats. We lock our car doors, but quietly. Better to be safe than sorry, we tell ourselves.

Is it just us, or do they seem to be everywhere now? Is our immigration department not doing its job? It’s bribery, it must be bribery, we chant. But who else would build our roads, or work sixteen-hour shifts without the need for additional wages? Our politicians plead. There must be a better way, we sigh.

Sometimes we are forced to let them into our homes. To clean, to fix, or to do the chores we don't want to dirty our hands on. Or even to take care of our young and our elderly. We shudder at this thought, but we can’t cope on our own. We have no choice, we say in unison. But they are lazy, we complain. Very incompetent. But cheap, we agree. Keep your gold, keep your jewelry, we remind our friends. You never know.

They eat so much, someone whispers over dinner. Buy them cheap rice, someone across the table says. The ones that only come in heavy sacks. Don’t feel bad, there’s barely any difference. Make sure you cook your rice separately from ours, we remind them, again and again.

Our church collects money for them. They’re living a hard life, far away from their homes. They need our help. We nod and nod and nod. It’s true, we must be kind, we tell our children. A meal’s worth of money goes a long way, we murmur among ourselves as we drop our donations into white envelopes, into the metal box at the front of the entrance. Yes, we will buy them food and essentials. And yes, we would like to sign the petition against having them sublet rooms in our neighbourhood. Why put ourselves at risk, we all agree.

Some months ago, one of them fell. From the scaffolding high up above. After an eighteen-hour shift, in the quiet depths of the night. What a tragedy, such an unfortunate accident. Let’s not make it a bigger deal than it is, someone in charge says. We follow because what else can we do? Someone has to scrub the tiles clean. We can’t leave it like this. Use something strong, something like hydrogen peroxide. Leave no stain behind, we instruct clearly. We bury them like we bury the story. We send the press more money than we send to their families.

Our children play in the swimming pool. The one with the water slide. Feet kicking lightly on a discoloured patch of tiles. Why is it like this? our children ask, bobbleheads dipped under the turquoise-blue water with pink-coloured goggles. What curious minds, we say, and shake our heads. They cross our minds for a moment, but it’s a beautiful, sunny day, and we go back to watching our children play in the pool, practicing backstrokes.