A Sense of Home

From a young age I was very aware of being different from the people around me because even though I was only three when we arrived in north Wales, we were the only non-Caucasian household in town. And that meant that I was the only non-White at my school, until the next year when my sister joined me, and the year after, my brother, and eventually my little sister, the only sibling born in Britain. 

On school trips abroad, like the time we went skiing in France, people would turn and stare or even shout out “Chinoise!” but now, Chinese tourists are everywhere, even here in Mostar. Back then, I thought I was Chinese because I looked different to my friends: they identified me as Chinese. And in our home my parents spoke Hakka to each other; at the restaurant where they made their living, everyone spoke Hakka in excitable, voluble tones. “Aiyah”was an exclamation heard, over and over again. You would think someone was about to be attacked, so heated were their discussions, village gossip, disagreements. Once, Uncle Chung (who was our cook, and who died of lung cancer while I was steadfastly reading a book, ignoring his imminent end), took up a cleaver and chased after a customer who had run off without paying; but I hasten to add that was the exception, not the norm. Generally, life was quiet and restricted in that small Welsh town. The tiny triangle of school, restaurant and home made up my life and I couldn’t wait to be 18 and free.

In those days, back in the early 80s, there just weren’t any Chinese people in my university, or in my workplace – school – and I forgot the Hakka of my childhood which I had only ever known passively. English was my mother tongue, and I became an English teacher. In London’s melting pot you can be anything you want; more so these days when we live in a time of liberal education and zero bullying policies. But I had promised my dad that I would learn Chinese. It was the least I could do having refused to marry a Chinese husband when he promised to find me one. It was a promise renewed regularly without any real intention until he became so old and frail, I knew I had to make a start.

Now, despite his death I’m on a quest to discover my Chinese identity. It’s a complex business. I never had any sense of Chinese community or belonging. I resisted all that throughout my childhood, escaping into my world of books. Now though I have many more Chinese friends – with whom I communicate almost exclusively in English. I have the internet, language apps, lots of Chinese textbooks and tapes; I’ve watched more Chinese drama in the last four months than in my whole life to date, Meteor Garden, Empresses in the Palace and Rise of Phoenixes, my favourite. I have Chinese Corner and the students here at UWC, and I actually voluntarily speak Mandarin with Meng Xiukun on our regular walks around the city, although she resists my attempts and I don’t really blame her. If you heard me struggle to speak… it’s a tiny step in what I know will be a long journey.

Howard’s End was the first book that made me envy those people with a sense of home, when I understood the concept of belonging to a place. Flint was a small Welsh town. It may have a tiny place in my heart, but it could never be my home. What if you don’t know where that place is? My father could recite by heart the names of the entire Chan clan through eight generations, probably from the time they arrived in the New Territories, but we never talked about it. I’ve never visited our family land. Now when I look out from my balcony, spread out below, I see red rooftops, bombed out buildings, mosques and churches cradled by rocky hilly slopes and a stark white cross asserting its Christian identity over the east side of the city. Home is where my feet carry me, home is where I lay my head, home is where I live with my husband. Right now, home is Mostar.

©️ Written by Suyin Chan 陈素茵