A remembrance of my father

Original 陈浩琛 琛思浅语 Edited by Sheila Chan

With his hand in mine, I could feel the warmth of his body, the small expressions on his face and the tempo of his breathing. This was where my father laid, peacefully in the hospital bed, with my sister, my wife and I by his side. It was all very still except with memories of my father’s life streaming in my mind. Father chose to work as a seaman in oil tankers because it paid well. He worked hard to earn his way up from a junior worker to supervisor in the engine room. His hands were rough and coarse. The little finger on his right hand was deformed because of an accident during work. Earning a living was always hard at that time.

Father was born in Daishi Panyu, a small village in Southern China. He fled to Hong Kong together with my grandmother, his sister and two brothers during the Japanese invasion of China. He got married to my mother, who was also a refugee in Hong Kong during wartime and coincidentally, they both came from the same hometown. It was just a perfect match for a fine young man who was determined, full of ambitions and hard working to marry a kind-hearted, virtuous and pretty woman whilst both of them were prepared to settle down and start a family in this new place that they now called home. The happy days after marriage were short. Father began to work as a seaman and had to part his loving wife before the “honeymoon” was over. His job required him to work continuously at sea for one to three years before taking a leave. He was always away during our childhood years. Even at the time when the three of us were born, he was unable to be at my mother’s side. This was one of mother’s, or perhaps father’s as well, biggest regrets in their life.

Post-war Hong Kong was very under-developed. The small island was a fishing village and resources were scarce. The vast majority of the residents were poor, displaced by war from Guangdong, Fujian and Shanghai with the exception of only a few who brought capital with them. Finding a job to make ends meet was simply most people’s goal of life. Many people were living in self-built wooden quarters at the hillside with no electricity or water. A disaster happened in the fifties when a fire broke out, destroying the whole living quarter and causing heavy casualties. Learning a lesson in such a hard way, the Hong Kong government initiated a housing project by building the “relocation quarter” and later the “low-cost public housing estate” — high rise buildings for communal living. These unique and innovative public housing projects marked Hong Kong’s first footprint in international news. After the housing problem was temporarily resolved, people of Hong Kong, inherited with the hard-working nature of the Chinese, began to devote their energy, step by step and persistently, in building their new hometown into a prosperous metropolis, an internationally renowned city and a financial hub of Asia. Land had always been a scarce resource in Hong Kong, so, in the seventies, the housing problem became serious again due to the rapid growth of the population. This had created a favourable environment for some smart real estate developers to become super wealthy tycoons. However, it did not help in resolving the living situation in Hong Kong. Housing problem evolved into a serious social problem when we advanced into the 21st century.

The first home of our family was in Wanchai, №138 Johnston Road. The famous “Dragongate restaurant” was our next-door neighbour and opposite to us was Madam Pei medical clinic and the Southern playground. Tram way ran along Johnston Road and the “ding ding” sound from the bell of the tram was like percussion music which accompanied me for nearly my whole childhood. 138 Johnston Road was a very old four-storey Euro-Chinese style pre-war building. Every storey was subdivided into small wooden partitioned rooms each of eight to ten square metres to host a whole family. The narrow corridor was also lined up with bunk beds on one side. Hanging up a curtain for some privacy, these beds then became “homes” for the singles. At the end of the corridor were a “primitive” toilet and a kitchen for the residence of the entire floor to use. Believed it or not, everyone had to queue up to use these common facilities during peak hours! My fifth uncle was lucky. The landlord allowed him to build a small loft in the balcony which then became his sweet haven and my little retreat. I could often hear him playing all the popular Taiwanese songs from the loft, still remember many of the oldies from Qing Shan (青山), Yao Surong (姚苏容), Feng Feifei (凤飞飞) that he had played. The room we lived in could only accommodate a double bed and a wardrobe. A folded-up table was put up in the small space between our bed and the door during meal times. When dad came back home during the holidays, my sister had to sleep with our grandmother in her bed on the side of the corridor. Although our living space became more congested when he returned home, dad’s homecoming got us all excited as he always brought us candies, dolls and other play toys from overseas that we had never seen before. Most of our childhood games could only be played in bed due to the limited space. One of our favourite games was jumping on dad’s tummy. Dad would use his strong hands to hold our little bodies up high in the air and then suddenly “dropped” us down onto his belly. We three took turns as riders while shouting and laughing out loud for the excitement and the world spinning around.

Dad’s short stay each time lasted for only a few weeks but he loved to take us out for day trips. We visited famous places where movie stars used to go for relaxation such as the “Yunglung” villa, Old Coffee Bay and the “Soldiers’ Park” (Hong Kong Botanical Garden). Dad looked handsome in his white coloured shirts and shorts. I guessed that must be the favourite outfit for a seaman and that made us feel smart and proud when walking with dad on the street. Dad had never been mean in caring and loving us. He was so willing to take us to an expensive restaurant, spending a little fortune, for a treat of a western meal. He ordered each of us a steak and a glass of pure orange juice and patiently taught us how to use a knife and fork and the etiquette of dining in a restaurant. Until now, the taste of the food and the scene of us having our first western-style meal are still so vivid in my memories. The time for a reunion was short and dad had to go for his sea trips again. At that time, I did not have a strong attachment to dad. In my mind, dad was just like Father Christmas who came every year to deliver our gifts. When I grew older, I finally experienced the sadness of departure. There was an observation deck on the top floor at Kai Tak airport where one could see their relatives walking across the field to board. When it was time to say farewell, my sister always put on her best dress to see our father off. The three of us went to the observation deck, jumping and waving to dad. With both hands carrying goods and luggage in those greyish blue bags, dad walked slowly towards the plane and his image became smaller and smaller until it diminished in the sunset.

In 1967, a riot broke out in Hong Kong. The government organized a series of community activities through the Recreation and Sports Department to ease off the tense atmosphere on the streets. Mum took us to the first celebration of the Hong Kong Festival in 1969. There was a sea of people on the streets and we were all jam-packed together. The children from other families were seen circled by the strong arms of their masculine father while we could only hold on to our mother. This was the time that I was desperately longing for my dad to give us shelter and protection.

More residents moved in but the old building could hardly hold up any more. It was in disrepair and dilapidated because of low maintenance. The government was going to classify it as a building of high-risk for dwelling. Fortunately, at the same time, our application to move into the government’s low-cost estate was approved. Although we had to move to Tsuen Wan, a remote area at that time, the whole family was very happy. Our new flat was spacious and one day, I did not know how dad managed to bring back a very old-styled stone grinder. He loved sweets so much and whenever we had time, Dad, Grandma and I would take turns to use the grinder to make sesame or almond sweet soup. I am still not sure whether having too many sweets was the cause of dad’s diabetes at his old age. After moving to Tsuen Wan, mum started picking up small jobs like sewing and packing. We also worked in factories as teenage workers during school holidays to earn some additional income for the family. The family’s financial situation had begun to improve. Sometimes, in the evening, we went to the food stall with a thermos flask to buy a bowl of wonton noodles for supper. The living cost was low at that time. A small bowl of wonton noodles cost us thirty cents, ten cents for a bowl of noodles without wonton and five cents for an icy pole. Food brought a feeling of satisfaction and contentment, earned through dad’s hard work and his sacrifice for leaving the family to take on the boundless ocean. My brother and I both finished a PhD degree while my sister had a graduate diploma after her BA. I believed the driving force behind our hard work was not only the desire for knowledge but the motivation of making our parents proud and happy.

To really get to know and understand dad came after he retired when I was going to graduate from university. Dad was very filial to his mother and mother in law. No matter how bad the weather was, he never missed going to grandparents’ graveyards during Ching Ming and Chun Yang festivals, when we had to pay respects to our ancestors. He also loved and cared for his brothers and sister. My fifth and seventh uncles did not earn much and dad had always been generous to give them money for support which earned him great respect from his siblings.

When the leaves fell, they always lied near to the root of its mother tree. Dad is a traditional Chinese. He always believed that one day he must return to his hometown, his motherland, China. My dad, mum, my fifth and seventh uncles put in a fund to rebuild the abandoned house in the village where my mum spent her childhood. A new three-storey house was then built and each sibling occupied one floor. The three brothers called themselves the three musketeers. Whenever they had time, they would go back to the house, their base in China, spending a few dollars to travel around by public buses. They always boasted in front of us about their grand plan to travel around China. Nevertheless, the great expedition was only a lovely dream in their minds as the three musketeers had never set their feet outside of Guangdong province. I had already migrated to Australia at that time but whenever I travelled back to China, I would certainly join in their expeditions. One day, dad invited me to have dinner in a small local restaurant in the village. We managed to find a table at the footpath since we preferred to sit in the open area. It was autumn and the air was cool and refreshing. Dad ordered crap or grass fish (another kind of fish was too expensive). For the first time, dad opened up himself and told me about his thoughts, his principles of life, his experiences as a seaman, his brotherhood with my uncles and aunt, relationship with friends … and I would never forget what he then said to me; “We are poor but we never begged for help from others. I worked hard to support the family with my bare hands and raised up you three. Money for me is only a tool to make a living and I am proud that I always live my life with my head up and a straightened spine”. I was deeply touched by the pride shown in dad’s face. Before that day, I had never expressed my feeling in front of my dad because of the silly arrogance of being a boy. On that night, I told my dad how much I appreciated and respected him! Grass fish had become my favourite dish from that night onward. Not because the fish is really that delicious, but it reminds me of the most intimate time spent under the beautiful starry night with my father. My brother, sister and I migrated to Australia one after another. As our parents were getting old, they also came over to join us. When I first arrived in Australia, I worked as hard as what my father did before. My only goal was to provide a lovely home for my family. It seemed like I was following my dad’s footsteps. It would always be my dad, who stood firmly by my side, supporting me in the pursuit of my dreams in Australia. Dad was already at his seventies but age had not stopped him from being active. He kept himself busy by raising chickens in the backyard, growing vegetables, building and painting fences in the front yard; transforming the ruined backyard into a paradise where we could sit outside and enjoy our morning and afternoon tea.

Dad loved mum unreservedly. It was not an exaggeration to describe it by the word “spoil”. He always stood on her side no matter whether she was right or wrong. Perhaps, dad wanted to compensate mum for leaving her alone for many years when he worked as a seaman. Titus was the favourite but expensive brand of watch that mum longed to have one for a long time. I still remember the award-winning advertisement featuring two lovers with Titus watches on their wrists who, looking at each other sentimentally with a background voice softly saying “Who cares whether it is for eternity, it is worthwhile to own it once in your lifetime”. Not sure whether dad was so “convinced” or inspired by the advertisement that he bought mum two different styles of Titus watches in one go. Mum was an adopted orphan, always feeling insecure and wanting to be pampered. No wonder dad’s love would have partly compensated the affection missing from her birth parents.

Although dad lived leisurely and comfortably in Australia, I know that he missed his hometown much because many of our conversations always centred on this topic. Due to the nature of my work, I needed to travel to China quite often. It then became a routine that I brought along my parents every year to visit the “three musketeers’ house” in Panyu. We visited friends and relatives, going sightseeing in the vicinity and trying out various local cuisines. Whenever we were back to China, dad was in high spirits all the time. However, age did catch up and dad’s physical health went downhill quickly. Older generation Chinese were mostly introverts and were very conservative in expressing their feelings and uncomfortable with physical intimacy. Sometimes, I wanted to hold dad’s arm to support him when he walked but he was reluctant to allow me doing it. One day, we went to Dongguan Qifeng Park where many Buddhists went for worship by burning incense and joss sticks. Dad also wanted to say a prayer and make a wish; suddenly, a firecracker was lighted up and exploded near him. Worried that dad would get hurt and frightened, I jumped, out of my instinct reaction, to embrace him from his back in order to block him from the smoke and fire. This was my first time, as far as my memory goes, that I was so closed physically to dad. Sarcastic enough but not too surprising for the Chinese, dad was already over eighty years old when this first intimate physical encounter between us happened! I was not sure whether it was because of the smoke, both of our eyes were misty. Looking backwards, in all these years, dad had surmounted difficulties and challenges to protect and shelter us from rain and storm so that we could grow up healthily. It is unimportant to try to find out whether dad did it out of his sense of responsibility or just his instinct. Dad’s love to us transcended any verbal explanation. Our homeward bound trips had lasted for many years until dad could no longer fit for long travels. The last time we went to China, he needed to be in a wheelchair.

Among the three of us, our sister Sheila was dad’s most favourite child. He was very closed to my wife and she had a lot of trust in him too. My wife even shared with dad her frustrations when we had arguments. Dad was very patient, supportive and a good listener. Dad liked fishing. We bought a holiday house near the seaside for him to enjoy the sun and the sea. Unfortunately, dad only stayed there for a few times and his deteriorating health did not allow him to leave home anymore.

Dad had an optimistic and humorous personality. He had lung cancer in his later years requiring radiotherapy treatment. In order not to get us worried, he always put on a smiling face amid all the pain and side effects of treatment. Every time we took him to radiotherapy, he would not forget to tell us, “I just love coming here as the hospital provides free coffee and biscuits that I liked most. You can have one too while waiting. I won’t be too long.” Whoever took dad to the hospital felt “teased” with a light heart as he would never make you feel that taking care of him was a burden or suffering. When the treatment was over, he made sure that everyone got invited for yum-cha, “To thank all my drivers, my treat.” he said.

Dad’s health got worse and had to stay in a nursing home. My sister, my wife and I took turns to visit him, talking to him and taking him out to the garden to bathe in the sun on his wheelchair. Dad was reluctant to talk much but I was sure he enjoyed our company. My wife used to bring dad sweet dumplings and deserts and he never forgot to leave some for me. He insisted not to put any family photo in his room. I thought dad must have a sense that he would not have much time left, looking at family photos would intensify the sadness and sorrow of leaving us.Less than two months into his stay at the nursing home, he was taken to the emergency of a nearby hospital because of multiple organs’ failure caused by in-articulated muscle movement when swallowing. When I rushed to the hospital, dad was breathing in difficulty. The doctor sought our opinions on options of treatment. I said without any hesitation that does whatever to reduce his pain and not letting him suffer. Strong pain killer went into dad’s blood through the drips, half-consciously, he held out his hand tightly holding mine and never wanting to let go. It was very late into the night; my brother was on his way from Hong Kong to Melbourne hoping to see dad for the last time. It was time to send our mother and the children home. My sister, my wife and I were the only three staying behind. I kept holding dad’s hand, silently counting the frequency of his breath, eight times per minute, six times, four times … until no more. Like being stabbed by a knife, the heartbreaking pain was indescribable. At the same time, a strange feeling of relief also crept in as I knew that dad has finally arrived at the end of his journey and would rest in peace. I managed to finish all the necessary procedures and documents calmly, but tears shed like rain when I walked out of the patient cubicle that lied my beloved father. The corridor in the hospital was deadly quiet, echoing with our lonely footsteps and the sadness to say goodbye.

Postscript: The moon was cold and silent, beams from the stars exemplified the loneliness of the night. The whistling of the inserts was the only sound that flowed around me. My mother also passed away this year. How much I wanted to bring them back to our hometown for one more time but it is not possible anymore. Four years have gone and I am still not able to watch the video of my dad’s funeral. Every time when I gathered enough courage to start playing the video, for only one minute, my eyes burst into tears and I had to stop. Today, I finally managed to finish this article as a remembrance of my parents.

(This article is finalised on 10 February 2020.)