Author: CHUNG Yoon Ngan
Date: 07-02-08 02:36
祖父 Grandfather
I am a third generation Hakka Chinese born in Malaysia. Grandpa and Grandma
emigrated to Nanyang (南洋), the then Malaya (馬來亞) from the Old Mountain
of the Ancestors (祖宗的老山) at the beginning of the 20th century. Father
was also were born in Malaya.
When I was only a young child, Grandpa used to say,
"We will go back to Tang Shan (唐山) when we become rich".
Every time when Grandpa made that statement I would answer by asking him,
"公公, 甚麼是唐山 or What is Tang Shan, Gong Gong?"
Grandpa would answer me by telling me many fabulous stories about Tang Shan
and the family's ancestral village in the Old Mountain of the Ancestors.
It sounded like a land in paradise. There was a particular story that Grandpa
told me so often that I would always remember it.
Grandpa told me that the name of his ancestral village was Feng Gang (鳳
崗), a village mainly inhabited by the Hakkas. When Grandpa was a young
boy he wore a long pigtail as the Manchu government (滿清 Qing Dynasty)
had decreed that all male in the land must wear one or be beheaded.
Grandpa told me that there was a hill behind the village and near the village
there flowed a river, a life line that provided water for irrigating the
villagers' rice fields and vegetable patches.
Grandpa told me that one hot summer day, he, then was still a young boy,
and a group of boys from the same village went to the river for a swim.
Later, they were playing a game of mud throwing which required each boy
to dive down to the river bed to get the mud.
In one instance while Grandpa was fetching the mud from the river bed his
pigtail somehow got stuck to a branch of a submerged tree. Grandpa struggled
to free himself but his pigtail remained hopelessly stuck. Fortunately,
his pigtail was long enough to allow his face to appear above the surface
of the water; otherwise he could have drown. Grandpa cried out for help
for what seemed like eternity and he took in lots of water. Finally, some
adults came to his rescue.
The adults pulled and pulled to try to get Grandpa out of the water. The
attempts were futile because Grandpa's pigtail would not budge from the
branch. The adults had no alternative but to cut Grandpa's pigtail off with
a pair of scissors. When Grandpa was brought out of the water he cried and
cried because without his pigtail he could lose his head.
Great-grandparents and the village head took Grandpa to the village Yamen
(police station) and explained to the Yayi (policemen) how Grandpa lost
his pigtail. Grandpa was allowed to keep his head on condition that he
grew a pigtail again. Of course at that time I was too young to understand
most of Grandpa's tales of Tang Shan.
Grandma would only allow fruit imported from Tang Shan to be placed on the
family altar when prayers were offered to their ancestors. She said,
"Local fruit are only good for eating. They are not for offering to the
ancestors who must eat the fruit grown in their ancestral land".
When Father was born Grandpa was very happy because there would be someone
to take him back to his beloved Tang Shan when he grew old. However, when
I was born Grandpa was not very happy because he knew new roots were starting
to grow in a foreign land. Gandpa's chances of going back to his Tang Shan
became slimmer.
Every year on the 14th day of the 7th moon according to the Lunar Calendar,
members from my Hakka village would go to a big grave to pray. At first
I thought it must be my great-grandpa's grave. But the people from different
families, in the village, who were not my relatives, were also praying to
the same big grave. I was a bit confused.
Later, I learned from the village folks that nobody was buried in the big
grave. Only the clothing, water, soil, the ancestors bones of the village
folks and many other things brought from Tang Shan were buried there. The
big grave was the substitution for our Hakka villages in Tang Shan. Once
a year, the young and old alike, from our village would pay their respects
at the big grave and afterwards hold a grand feast.
Hanging on top of our family altar in our house was an old photo of a little
house. It showed our ancestors' house in Tang Shan. Sometimes Grandpa would
gaze at it for a long time. I thought it was just a little shack and would
ask,
" What's so great about an old photo of a little house, Gong Gong?"
Grandpa would lose his temper and scream at me. I became even more perplexed
about Grandpa's ancestral land.
Without fail every month Grandpa would remit some money to the village-head
in Tang Shan to upkeep our ancestors' little house. Grandpa always compared
the present house with his little house in Tang Shan. Sometimes Grandpa
sounded as if the ancestors house was a palace. I would have believed him
if I had not seen the old photo in the house.
Sadly, during the Cultural Revolution the ancestors' house in Tang Shan
was destroyed by the Red Guards because they considered it foreign-owned.
Grandpa stopped remitting money to Tang Shan. Grandpa's dream of going back
to Tang Shan to die was shattered. Grandpa was very old then. Grandpa was
so upset that he ordered the old photo to be taken down and burned. Grandpa
lost his will to live. Grandpa's last link to his village in Tang Shan had
been broken.
Roots grew firmly in my adopted country. Tang Shan was just another foreign
country as far as I am concerned. The country where I live now is my country
and becomes my only home.
Shortly after, Grandpa passed away without seeing his Hakka village and
Tang Shan again. Grandpa was buried not far from the big grave.
One year, I went back to my Hakka village in Malaysia. It was the occasion
that young and old went to the big grave to pay their respects to their
Hakka villages in Tang Shan. After the praying ceremony I went to pay homage
to Grandpa. I stood in front of Grandpa's grave and I said softly:
"Gong Gong, rest in peace. Your grandson had been back to your Hakka village
in Tang Shan in search of the fabulous things you told him. He also went
back to our ancestors old village hoping to hear the fabulous stories again.
The river next to our ancestral village was still flowing just like what
you had told him so often. Your grandson had even walked along the banks
of that same river where you nearly drowned in many decades ago when you
were young playing the mud throwing game. He saw groups of children swimming
in the same river as if he saw you among them. But they wore no long pigtails.
Your grandson visited the site of your old house about which you talked
so much. But alas, it had been turned into rice field.
Rest in peace Gong Gong. The hill behind your village was still young (evergreen)
. The descendants of your childhood friends were as happy as you were three
generations ago. Their lives seemed much happier and better off than you
were. No more they would venture out of their village to seek for better
lives in Nanyang (南洋Malaysia and Singapore). To them the grass is not
greener on the other side of the fence. Good bye Gong Gong".
That was the last time I visited Grandpa's grave. Presently I am residing
in a land which is thousands of miles away from Grandpa's burial place.
I do not know when I would go back to our little Hakka village and visit
Grandpa's grave again.
CHUNG Yoon-Ngan (鄭永元)
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