This week, as I perused through my innocuous amounts of social media I found a whatsapp post in one of the groups I am a part of, the post was of a bunch of old scattered news papers. The colour was off yellow and tarnished just enough to know it was old. As I looked more closely it was actually a post from my mum with the comment “this is why we are here”. On closer examination I see that these are newspaper clippings that my dad had collected just over 30 years ago. Some of the clippings were already sorted printed on 30 year old fax paper. This led me to pause and consider for just a moment what this piece of history contained. It led me to think a little harder and a little deeper about what life was like just before the internet, before the time of instant news and copious amounts of information.
On June 4th 1989 martial law was declared to end the protests happening in Beijing through the 89 democracy movement. The later named Tiananmen Square Massacre had troops with assault rifles and tanks fired at the demonstrators and those trying to block the military's advance into Tiananmen Square. Estimates of the death toll vary from several hundred to several thousand, with thousands more wounded. As we approach the middle of 2020 protests continue to erupt in Hong Kong and around the world. A pandemic has changed our way of living. Devastation of bush fires still affects many. It seems that everyday reveals a little more that we are living in a world that seems to be broken, divided and clearly 'not yet’. Where is the hope? How might I participate to see Shalom lived out now?
As I reflect on this year's 31st year anniversary of the 6/4 Tianan Men incident I am also getting closer to my 30th birthday. This incident changed the course of my life, even though I was not yet born. So here are my reflections on what it means to me to be hitting Six 4 again. But before we get there it might be helpful to hear some of the stories of those who came just before me.
The Lau Family
My mother was part of the Lau family, born into a middle-class home, she was the youngest of 7 and grew up with 11 people living in the same apartment. The apartment was no bigger than 30m2. And the Lau family has always been proud of how harmoniously the family lived together even amidst my uncles practicing their wing-chun in the living room whilst others watched TV. In this apartment my great aunt would be helping to cook in a tiny kitchen in the next room. This kitchen was so small it would only be wide enough to cuddle one elbow flick of a wok. As a child I often stayed in this same home on visits from Australia. The room I stayed in with my father had a bunk bed that took up more than half the room. My suitcase would not open flat when I laid it on the floor next to me. When my father would unload his oversized luggage, the room would tighten up a little more. It seemed inconceivable this was the room that all my aunts and my mother shared for their entire childhood life. During my visits my grandma (Po Po) would wake up early with my grandpa (Gong Gong) to go to his clinic in downtown Mong Kok, a bustling epicentre of activity. His clinic was located up a flight of eerie narrow concrete stairs, a slightly quieter haven from the shoulder to shoulder contact downstairs. These stairs were always contrasted with my own excitement, I was the youngest son of the youngest daughter and was always fascinated by the business that sustained this family for more than half a century. Inside was a series of couches and chairs for patients to sit. There was always an extra uncle or old man sitting by the TV that seemed to be a member of the local community. The TV would always be playing in the background, contrasted by the road noise of car horns and sidewalk chatter spilling in from the slightly jarred window. The old uncles were never here to visit as patients, they often just stopped by to say hi or give some fruit or dried foods to Gong Gong. Upon receiving a $3 bag of oranges, Gong Gong would always reply “your next treatment is on the house! what a lovely gift you have given me!”. The uncles always spoke of their next check-up as a patient but I often just saw them as an over hospitable group of community loiterers that loved Gong Gong but would never be able to battle him in the quest to give the other person a more extravagant gift. If not engaging with these loitering uncles Gong Gong would always be working in his patient room. When he would come out, I often got a glimpse into his room, it would always give me the chills. It was what you would expect from a dental clinic; a cold chair, teeth moulds and sharp tools to be fed into the mouths of his next victim. Nonetheless, I was still captivated by the strong sense of honour that exuded from Gong Gong, he was always seen as a very well-respected man. He had certificates of appreciation and medals hung all over his walls. He was always praised by the family and community members for his long and positive contributions to the community. The dates on his medals would prove that he was this person far before I was born even before my mother was born. I often heard stories of how their little apartment, home to 11 would have visitors seeking shelter in the middle of the night. These were not just any visitors but dissidents from mainland China, fleeing the communist party. Often, they would arrive still soaked after swimming multiple kilometres from the mainland. Gong Gong would never refuse a guest, he would literally give visitors his own shirt and money to take with them. The guests always had top priority and were looked after well by the Lau family. In a bittersweet reflection I sometimes hear my mother and aunts reflect on their father. Remarks of his devotion to helping others even at the expense of his own needs and the needs of his family are still both treasured and honoured. They respected personal piety and awed at the blessing of being able to be a part of such a noble lifestyle. This lifestyle of self-sacrifice and personal piety for the Lau family not only transcends the cheap thrills of individualism, law and neighbourliness but is also firmly rooted in generations of deep philosophical virtues, found in Confucianism.
The Kung Family
My father was part of the Kung family, he was born as the eldest son of a newly wedded couple with nothing to their name. My grandfather (Ah Ye) was from a village in ShenZhen, he was privileged enough to have learnt to write before he peaked in his education as a primary school graduate. My grandmother (Ma Ma) was an orphan who lost both her parents during the Japanese occupation of southern China and Hong Kong. Despite the horrendous stories and experiences she endured as a child, she found new hope after marrying a young village boy who had followed the older boys in his village to go work in Hong Kong. They would eventually have a son who was destined to work hard and live out his duty as the superannuation for my grandparents. At the age of 12, my father was asked to follow in Ah Ye’s footsteps and graduate primary school so he could begin working. Ma Ma would often scold my father for continuing to study in high school and eventually completing university. "We need to feed your brothers and sisters, if you don't work you don't eat!”. My father would always reply “well i guess i won't eat then”. This is a stark contrast to the way Ma Ma would raise me for much of my preschool and early primary years. I recall her often telling me to stay in school and graduate just like my father so we could get good jobs in the future. When I hear stories of Ma Ma raising four kids with no money, I see the birthplace of the Kung family's street-smart resourcefulness as well as the craftiness of balancing education with feeding the family. Ah Ye on the other hand was always a passive man, often getting an earful from Ma Ma. My cousins and I would often hear stories of his work, adventuring out into the open seas on royal navy ships. He worked hard to provide for the family as a proud dry cleaner. He was the bottom rung amidst a sea of worldwide travellers and British officers that flaunted the might of the British navy. Often away for months at a time not knowing where he was going and when he will return. He lived a lavish lifestyle with all you can eat rice on ships, this was a stark contrast to a family of 5 struggling for their next meal at home, as they waited for the next injection of cash to return home from the seas. Paying bribes to get on more populated ships was common practice for Ah Ye. On these ships he could get private garments to wash from wealthy British officers. The thousands of uniforms that were washed during the day, was only the down payment for the real work done in Ah Ye’s own time. Despite this Ah Ye was proud to be a British citizen and even has his own claim to British heroism. This was an expedition he accidentally found himself on as the Balkan war broke out and he found himself travelling into a war zone on a cargo ship that was commandeered by the British navy. His 2 days of dry cleaning in this zone earned him a medal. A proud moment for a boy from a small village living in a crown colony of the British Empire, to the Kung family he is the master of the seas.
The Journey from The Crown Colony
Our family migrated to Australia when I was 4. My father continued to work in Hong Kong until I was 10. Our family in Adelaide was made up of Ma Ma and Ah Ye on my father's side and my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins on my mother's side. Big family dinners were a common occurrence, at least once a week. If it wasn’t at a Chinese restaurant then it would be at someone's house. My sister and I would always be the youngest, our cousins in Adelaide were all on my mother's side and were at least 10 years older and would have done most of their primary schooling in Hong Kong before they migrated. They spoke Cantonese well and knew how to be Chinese. We on the other hand did no schooling in Hong Kong and were always known as the white kids, that needed the extra order of sweet and sour pork. Our respect for elders was always just not quite respectful enough and when it came to Chinese New Year our greetings were met with giggles of not quite saying them right. We were labelled ABC’s (Australian Born Chinese) and whenever we travelled back to Hong Kong (which was frequent) we would be singled out for walking and moving like westerners. Local Hong Kongers would know we were not locals even before we spoke our usually fluent but not so fluent Cantonese. We were thoroughly Chinese but kind of not, we loved being Chinese but kind of not. I guess we were who we were and for many years we just assumed that this was how most people grew up.
I started kindergarten knowing no English, I found the adjustment very difficult. My mother still tells me of the years I spent yelling, kicking and screaming not to go. It was always a contrast to my sister who fit in much better. I remember hassling another Chinese girl in kindergarten, I often had no idea what was going on and pestered her in Cantonese to tell me what was happening. She didn't speak Cantonese well, so it was often still a broken conversation. By the time I was in year 2 my English speaking and Chinese speaking habits were beginning to flip and by year 3 English was my predominant language and “Australian culture” was my sought-after goal. A significant event that caused this flip was also my first encounter of racism in Australia. I packaged a hot lunch in a vacuum sealable container from my mother. Upon bringing out my rice other kids remarked at the smell, were disgusted at my food, they labelled it as dog, or dog food, I forget. I went home that day and insisted for my mother to pack me a sandwich like every other kid in school. I hated sandwiches; they were dry and flavourless, but I endured eating them every lunchtime until I reached senior school. This experience was one of many that would have me reconsider what it meant to live harmoniously at school. It led me on a journey to discover AFL, cricket, BBQ's, weather talk and what it means to be more Australian. I learnt to love this way of life and often looked back at my Chinese culture and wished it would catch up to my new way of living. It was not until my teen years that this internalised racism would begin to be challenged.
The impacts that June the 4th has had on my journey and the journey of my family. It has acted not only as the simple experience of learning something about the past but has also been a journey into the marginal parts of myself that I would often like to forget (and also have the privilege to forget). I know very little about cricket, and here is where I jump into another space about how I understand Hitting Six 4. (Hopefully this stretch of an image is a metaphor in itself for how I as a second generation Chinese person feel when trying to understand majority culture and its idioms.) Hitting Six 4 as a metaphor for me is about getting myself over and into the margins and the boundaries of the game. Discovering who I might be if I sat in that place for a little while. For me winning the game might be more about focussing on the boundary than at the centre...Jesus said something like this, if you look closely you might see that he also lived in this way too. Targeting the focus on the ball in the margins rather than the guy hitting the ball. (Think about that for a bit).
"The new normal" for myself and for my family after Six 4 was growing up in-between two worlds. It was seeing things from two perspectives and learning to listen to those whom you might not always agree with or share common values or experiences with. It was about Cheering for a six in the stands whilst revisiting paper clippings from a 30 year old tragedy. Hitting Six 4 again has been a place of marginality and in betweenness for me. A reflection of our being and our call to live out the gospel in multiple worlds. There is still more that I could say here and much more for me to continue to reflect on but the questions I would like to share with you all today are as follows:
With all that is happening in the world I wonder what it is that hitting six 4 again will mean for us in the future and the generation that is growing up in Australia now? Are there new migrants from a new era of migration that are also going to have to experience their own hitting Six 4 stories? Are there stories being told now that we do not hear? What about our Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander sisters and brothers who are still seeking a place and land that has been taken from them and given to others? Where is the place for us to hear the untold stories? Where is the place for us to reflect on our journeys to discover where it is that we stand? And whom it is that we stand next to? Who will listen and who will do the necessary work to dig deep and find the source of healing in the midst of our divided worlds?
Maybe some of these answers lie in the experiences of those who have grown up and are growing up in between multiple worlds and multiple worldviews.
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