Quest Alumni Journeys Series

He began in 1962 with the simplest of tools: a broom in his hands and a sense of duty in his heart. His official title was “school attendant,” but over the decades, his work became something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of Queenstown Secondary. Generations of students and teachers came and went, but one figure remained steady: the man who prepared the workshops, swept the corridors, mended the benches, and locked the gates each night.

For more than fifty years, Uncle Kamaron’s service was not marked by fanfare or medals. His service was measured in clean spaces, safe classrooms, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing the school was always ready for a new day. He was not the voice that filled the classroom, but the hand that made every lesson possible.

The First Broom

When Uncle Kamaron first reported for duty in 1962, the school itself was still young. The days were long and the work heavy, but he never shrank from it. In those early years, the school ran on two sessions, morning and afternoon, and the classrooms and workshops rarely stood empty. Students streamed in and out from dawn till dusk, leaving behind dust, shavings, scraps, and mess. It fell to him to restore order.

He swept the corridors, cleared the staircases, wiped down desks, and ensured that every new group of students could step into a clean, bright, and welcoming space. Cleaning was not glamorous, but to him it was never meaningless. Every swept floor was a mark of respect to the students and teachers who would use it next. Every polished bench was his quiet contribution to their education.

To him, the broom was not a symbol of lowly work. It was a key to dignity. In every sweep, he reminded himself that order mattered, that young people learned better in a clean, well-kept space. This sense of duty stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Order in the Workshop

The workshop quickly became his domain. Technical lessons were at the heart of the school’s curriculum at the time, and students spent hours working with wood and metal. That meant sawdust on the floors, filings on the benches, and tools scattered across every surface.

Each morning, before the first bell rang, Uncle Kamaron prepared the space. He recalls that in the early days, when manpower was scarce, preparation was backbreaking work. Large blocks of timber and heavy sheets of metal would arrive at the school, and it fell to him alone to carry them, plank by plank, sheet by sheet, into the workshop. He would then cut them into smaller pieces, measuring and shaping them so that every student would have the right amount of material for class.

It was gruelling, physical labour. He remembers balancing long wooden planks on his shoulders, hauling them across the yard, and grinding metal down into usable parts late into the afternoon. But he did it without complaint, because he knew that without prepared materials, lessons could not run. His work was the unseen foundation of every technical class.

And still, when the lessons had ended, he set to work again: sweeping, wiping, repairing. The machines were checked, the benches cleared, the floor swept clean of every last speck. His sense of cleanliness was not just professional; it was personal. When we met him for this interview in his beloved workshop, a year after he retired and returned to the school, he insisted on wiping the table and the seats before we sat down. Even in retirement, his first instinct was to make others comfortable in a space he had made orderly by hand.

To hundreds of young Queenstownians, the workshop simply looked ready. But it was not readiness that came naturally; it was readiness born of his care and pride. His hands gave the room its order, his heart gave it its dignity.

More Than an Attendant

Though the workshop was his pride, Uncle Kamaron’s duties spread far wider. He cleaned classrooms, laboratories, and offices. When the science lab benches cracked, he repaired them. When the art easels splintered, he fixed them. When classroom lamps flickered or frames broke, he found a way to restore them.

Much of his knowledge he acquired quietly, by watching. During technical lessons, he observed the instructors teaching students how to weld, cut, and grind. While others saw lessons for teenagers, he saw opportunities for himself. By paying attention, he learned skills that let him repair things on his own. Soon, teachers trusted him to patch up furniture, wire fittings, and even craft frames for paintings.

In this way, the attendant became something more: part cleaner, part handyman, part craftsman. He was always learning, not for his own advancement, but to keep the school running smoothly.

He also joined in the life of the school beyond chores. When he was younger, he tied on his running shoes and joined the Annual Cross-Country Race at MacRitchie Reservoir, pounding the 4.8-kilometre route with staff and students. On weekends, he laced up his boots for soccer matches against teachers, trading his broom for a ball, finding joy in play and camaraderie. These events showed the other side of his service: he was not just the man behind the scenes, but part of the school’s living spirit.

A Second Home

When asked what kept him going through the decades, Uncle Kamaron would often reply, 

“The school is my second home, the teachers and students are like my family.”

He meant it. For more than half a century, his life moved to the rhythm of Queenstown. He spent more waking hours within its walls than he did anywhere else. His pride deepened when his own three children enrolled in Queenstown. They walked the same corridors he cleaned, sat at the same benches he repaired. In their education, he saw his labour take root in the most personal way.

Even the principals and teachers became part of this family. He served under 14 principals, each with a different style. In the early years, discipline was stern, authority firm, and rules enforced with little compromise. Over time, he witnessed a change: teachers more approachable, principals warmer, more respectful. The school softened into a place of care.

Through it all, his work never changed. Classrooms still gathered dust, benches still broke, and corridors still needed sweeping. He was the constant presence bridging the old days of discipline and the new era of respect.

The Last Key

Perhaps the image that best captures Uncle Kamaron is this: the man with the keychain at his side, moving through the empty school long after everyone else had gone. While students hurried home and teachers packed up their books, he began his evening round.

He swept the last of the dust from the floors, wiped down the last bench, checked the windows and lights, and made sure nothing was left amiss. Then, step by step, he moved through the canteen to ensure no one was left behind after the final announcement, until finally he reached the gates. Only when he had closed them with his own hands did he allow himself to leave.

It was never a short trip home. The trip from Queenstown to Sengkang took him an hour and a half each way. By the time he reached his doorstep, the sky was dark. Yet he never once let the distance deter him. For him, the school’s safety and cleanliness came before his own rest. Day after day, year after year, this was his rhythm: first to prepare, last to leave.

Now in retirement, his absence is felt in both small and great ways. The workshops are still in use, the gates still close each evening, and the floors are still swept. But something is missing. The man who made it his calling, who treated every day as another chance to serve, is no longer there.

Yet his spirit lingers. In the echo of sweeping at dusk, in the gleam of a well-kept classroom, in the order of a ready workshop, there is still a trace of him. Students may not know his name, but they walk through the spaces he shaped every day. Teachers may not see his hands, but they rely on the care he left behind.

Uncle Kamaron reminds us that greatness does not always stand at the front of a class or speak from a podium. 

Sometimes, greatness walks quietly behind with a broom, a rag, and a keychain, making sure everything is in its place.

We honour him for more than half a century of service: for the countless sweeps of his broom, the repairs no one else noticed, the hours spent after dark to keep the school safe, the long journeys home that never dimmed his commitment.

He will always be remembered as the man who kept Queenstown shining.

Mr Kamaron Yusof. Our Uncle Kamaron.