An unexpected bridge
Every day since we moved into our apartment some twenty years ago, we smell incense that our Chinese-speaking neighbours offer to their gods faithfully three times a day. Whenever we walk past their home to get to our home, their open window allows us full view of the occupant in that room facing the corridor.
There are four adults in their five-room apartment. The corridor room is dedicated to a black-faced god. No one else shares that sacred room. Incense are lighted up in that room and on two urns along the corridor. We know whenever they are lit because the wind carries the woozy scent into our home. It’s just part of living as a HDB “kampung” (village).
Every Chinese New Year, we exchange bags of oranges, cookies, and nuts to wish each other blessings. The relationship is warm even if not many conversations are exchanged between us mainly because of language.
Mr & Mrs Y know we are English-speaking Peranakans and Christians. Mrs Y is warmed by the way I take care of Mum. I tried holding conversations with her but there is only so far that my Chinese can stretch. She is not comfortable in English just as I am not comfortable in Chinese.
I had on several occasions invited her to our church’s Autumn Festival or Chinese New Year celebrations conducted in Mandarin. She always turned me down. In the early years of Singapore’s development, we lived in kampungs where everyone knew everyone. There was always help close by.
Once the lock of my bedroom door got jammed. I was a prisoner in my own room. Mum asked him for help. Mr Y tried to help me out. In the end, I still had to call a locksmith to unlock my door. Nonetheless, I was grateful for my neighbour.
Neighbours are sometimes better than family because we live in such close proximity. I wondered how Mr and Mrs Y and their children would ever hear the good news of Jesus. Mrs Y said something like “we are Chinese.” In other words, Christianity is a western religion.
One day Mrs Y saw me rolling my luggage past her home. She said oh you just got back from a trip. I told her that I had just been to Malaysia where I spent four days learning TCM. She was shocked and extremely curious as to why an English educated Christian would learn something so Chinese. Suddenly she broke out in English. It was the longest conversation I ever had with my very Chinese Chinese neighbour.
The roots of the Peranakan culture is still Chinese with many layers of indigenous and western values, thinking and customs. TCM has helped me understand my Chinese roots better.
Mrs Y said, “you are better than me.” She said she could never see herself learning TCM. Suddenly I had become Chinese.