Before I became head of CNC operations overseas, I worked under an Indian national who ruled the hot-press lamination department. He had his assistant, and only pulled in floaters when manpower was short. Filipinos were not welcome there.
I went anyway.
OFWs are often praised as the best workers abroad. That praise is not entirely wrong. But here is the uncomfortable truth: we are often the hardest to work with because we struggle with hierarchy. We are fiercely competitive. Individually, we were great. Together, we were a joke. Everyone wants to lead. No one wants to slice the onion. Everyone is “the chef.”
The result? We finished last. Except for a few Filipinos who have established themselves because they were there first, everyone one else seems lost. It was not about being inferior, but because we could not move as one.
I had always been a leader. We siblings were raised that way. Years earlier before I went abroad, I met a wonderful woman named Tita Sam. She told me something I had never heard at home: a good leader is a good follower. That sentence never left me. Perhaps that was why my siblings and I—three generals in one army—could never march together. Too many ranks. No chain of command.
In Kuwait, I saw it clearly. Egyptians, Indians, Syrians, Pakistanis—they worked with cohesion. Team Filipino collapsed under ego. One by one, we drifted away into smaller, lesser jobs, becoming helpers and floaters.
That was how I ended up under Mr. Babu Raj—the operator of the hot-press laminating machine. He did not want a Filipino near him. I stayed anyway. Stubborn. Silent. Useful.
Eventually, persistence softened resistance.
We became friends. We shared food, stories, culture. He told me his view of Filipinos had changed after he met me. The ones he knew before, he said, were arrogant—confidence swollen far beyond substance. Under him, I learned again how to follow. I learned to say I don’t know, and I want to learn. And strangely, that humility sharpened my leadership.
Tita Sam was right.
One day, Mr. Babu invited me to his home. I met his wife and child. We shared a simple, home-cooked Indian meal—rich in flavor, richer in hospitality. That same man later told me I was wasting my potential helping in his department. He urged me to return to woodworking. Better pay. Better future. He was willing to lose help if it meant I could grow.
That is leadership.
Soon after, the production supervisor summoned me. Without warning, he handed me a pen and paper.
“Draw.”
He showed me a rendered concierge counter. “Elevations.”
I sketched the plan, section, and front—freehand. Before I could finish, he took the paper, studied it, and with a loud voice ordered,
“Go CNC. No more hot press. Learn CNC. I go there. I check. Yala, Benyamin.”
It wasn’t Benjamin anymore. It was a baptism—into something larger.
When I told Mr. Babu I was transferring departments, he said nothing. He only smiled. He was happy for me. He chose my progress over his convenience.
As I walked down the stairs toward CNC, it felt as though I was climbing upward—toward a future I had already given up on.
I once believed I would spend my life abroad, working until I could no longer stand. My confidence was gone. I have lost faith in humanity. Mr. Babu gave it back when he made me feel he believes in me.
That is why I teach.
I teach to empower—because someone once empowered me when I had nothing left to give myself. When I was ready to go down and be a nobody, he prepared ladders for me to climb up.
And perhaps the question we should all sit with is this:
If you cannot follow, are you truly fit to lead—or are you only standing in the way of someone else’s growth?
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters