Remembering Ah Kong

Sometime during the war, my maternal grandfather escaped from Malaysia to Singapore. He arrived in Singapore with no identification papers, not even a birth certificate. Growing up, he was never sure how old he was or what year he was born in.

I wish now that I’d thought to ask more questions about that story. I always assumed that he made it on his own. I have so many questions I’d ask now, if I could:

How old were you then?

Were you scared?

What was it like?

What did you do when you got here?

He passed away 7 years ago this week and I will have to add all the embellishment to this particular story on my own.

Memory is a funny thing. I remember being told that story, but I don’t remember who told me. I don’t even know if I’m remembering it correctly or if I’ve just made it up in my mind. It sounds good though, doesn’t it?

When I take the time to remember him, it’s funny snippets that I remember. He loved taking photos. Our times together as an extended family are well documented, thanks to him. I remember an occasion, perhaps it was Chinese New Year, where we dressed up and we took photos with a fancy artistic lens on his camera. I can still see the resulting photographs in my mind’s eye.

When he retired, he would spend his days taking the train to each end of Singapore, taking photos and exploring his backyard. He was never without a camera. I wonder how he’d feel about smartphones today.

Another memory: sitting at the bench in his camera store and him giving me spare change so I could go down to the arcade to play. (At least, I think it was him.)

English wasn’t his first language, so I don’t remember many conversations. But I remember the food and the exhortations to eat around the family table — Ah Kong, chiak! Ah Ma, chiak! Even when he was unable to verbalise much after his stroke, he was still providing us with recommendations for his favorite hawker stalls.

I remember a significant birthday, when we flew back to Singapore from New Zealand to surprise him. We managed to actually surprise him, and the joy in seeing us was immense.

(At least, I think it was a significant birthday. It’s funny how the small details of life pass you by as a child.)

Back to food, I remember being grossed out when my grandparents visited us in New Zealand sometime in the late 90s/early 2000s and they cooked pigs feet for dinner. I’d spent the last few years trying to make sure that I didn’t stand out in a town where there were pretty much no other Asian faces — at least not in my year at school. I think Ah Kong was disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm then, but I’ll never know for sure.

Other stories, second hand, that I’ll never get to ask him about now. About the restaurant he ran, when my mother was a child and the monkey they kept in its front garden. About his friendship with the Sultan of Johor.

I always took his faith for granted, because it wasn’t showy or over the top. Just a quiet belief in God. But it was enough for him to help his family start a church — one that still exists today. I wonder now about that journey, and what that was like for him.

One of the things I am most thankful about is that I video called him to let him see my then 3 month old just days before he passed away. Call that fortuitous or divine, but I will always be grateful that there was at least some connection thanks to the wonders of technology.

7 years is perhaps not that long, when compared to the number of years my memories span. But I think I took them for granted, never really appreciating who he was, but always expecting that he would be there, and there would be more time.

Mostly, I wonder about the conversations we could have had, now that I am older and perhaps a little more nostalgic for the past and for an understanding of who I am and the history that has, and continues to, shape me. I will have to move on with what I have, I suppose, existing on second hand knowledge, collecting the stories of the past to form a picture that I am just beginning to see the edges of.