A gaggle of
teenagers in school uniform wait at the Kowloon Tong bus stop just opposite the
tall red brick walls of our school. In the middle of them stands Akashdeep. A
scar runs across the side of his head and when he walks he limps, dragging his
one leg that is longer behind him. Several Indian boys circle around him, bantering
back and forth in Punjabi. When one of the Chinese or Korean boys or girls edge
their way into the group, they switch to English in an accent that fluctuates
between a clean British pronunciation to the American accents they pick up from
their North American teachers to the Indian-accented English they use at home
alongside their respective native Indian languages. They are all clearly happy
kids, self-confident, positive, determined. They all like to laugh and will
laugh at the slightest provocation.
“Hello Miss!” they call out cheerfully
as I approach, hurrying to get to the bus stop before the number 77 to Jordan
arrives.
It amuses me that our students at
the American International School of Hong Kong address all their female
teachers as “Miss” regardless of age. Sometimes that “Miss” is transformed into
an affectionate “Missy.” Our surnames are used only when we are formally addressed.
The double decker city bus arrives
and we all clamber inside as the impatient bus driver, steeped in the frenzied
tempos so typical of Hong Kong, jerks the bus forward into the constant river of
traffic on Waterloo Road. My colleague, Alan Lo, jumps inside the bus along
with the last few stragglers just as the bus speeds away from the curb. The
kids, with that specific enthusiasm of youth, which keeps us two teachers in
our forties young, but rushing to keep up, scurry up the stairs to the upstairs
seating area. Akashdeep takes the stairs along with them, not letting his lame
leg get in the way.
“Alright, you all know where to get
off right?” Alan calls out in his Australian accent.
“Yes we do, Mr. Lo,” the kids call
back, settling into the seats in the front that provide a bird’s eye view of
the crowded streets of Kowloon. The bus weaves aggressively in and out of
traffic, reminiscent of the Knight Bus scene in the Harry Potter film.
We exit the bus fifteen minutes
later in the neighborhood of Jordan. This is an area of Hong Kong populated
with the groups that in this multicultural city are labeled as “ethnic
minorities,” the Nepalese, Indonesians, Indians and Africans. This is where
Inner City Ministries is located, the Christian organization that provides
tutoring, prayer meetings, and a variety of classes, including sewing and
Nepalese cooking, to the local underprivileged communities of Jordan.
Alan Lo hits the street running and
takes off like a bullet, weaving his way around pedestrians on the crowded
streets, the rest of us breaking into a run just to keep up.
We stop short at a 7-11.
“Alright,” Alan says in that
peculiar way that only an Australian can pronounce the word, “Get yourselves a
snack, quickly mind, and then we’ll pick up our children.”
The kids rush inside the 7-11 as
Alan and I wait for them on the street. They reemerge just as quickly with
bowls of curry noodles. They hurriedly spoon the noodles into their mouths with
plastic take-away chopsticks as we continue our fast-pasted walks toward the
Inner City Ministries building a few blocks away.
We duck inside a building surrounded
by Chinese herbal medicine shops, street vendors, used clothing shops, and
Nepalese restaurants. This is a typical Kowloon street, vibrant with the lives
of many different cultures living side by side. One feels the poverty and the
prosperity, just by glancing around. A few handicapped people have parked
themselves on the sidewalks to beg. Street vendors hawk their goods, though not
at us when they see us surrounded by teenagers in uniform, not a very lucrative
prospect. All around construction is underway full force and over the blare of
street traffic the hum of cranes and excavators is constantly in the air. A few
blocks away is the Elements Shopping Mall, where we tutor the Nepalese children
in a classroom provided by the YMCA. The Elements Shopping Mall, and the luxury
apartment complexes built on top of it, like the Harborview Club, are
futuristic luxury indoor spaces that extend over more than a kilometer. Inside
the Elements one can find a full-size ice-skating ring, swimming pools, the
best cinema in Hong Kong, scores of designer shops, and fine dining
representing almost every major food culture on the face of the planet. One can
live inside the Elements and never step outdoors and have all of one’s needs
met. Of course, providing one has the money. And this is the where the contrast
lies. The children we tutor are among the poorest in Hong Kong. They are the
descendants of the Gurkha warriors, who served in the British Army while Hong
Kong was a colony of the United Kingdom, and which were left behind to fend for
themselves after the hand-over in 1997.
Each of our students takes a child
by the hand and we descend back into the busy streets of Jordan and head for
the YMCA classroom in the Elements. At the YMCA each high school student
settles in with his or her charge at a table. They pull Chinese language
workbooks or English language workbooks out of the children’s backpacks and
begin tutoring them. I settle into the back of the room with my laptop, pulling
each of our students aside, one by one, to answer my interview questions,
designed to get them to reflect on their experiences tutoring the Nepalese
children. Today I am going to talk with Akashdeep, who is sixteen and who is in
the eleventh grade.
Our school is an international
school and therefore many of our students have come to Hong Kong from a variety
of countries. However, our school’s definition of an international student does
not stop there. Many of our students are born in Hong Kong, but belong to
cultures that have their roots elsewhere, most predominantly India, Pakistan,
Indonesia, and Singapore. Akashdeep’s family are Sikh Indians. His father came
to Hong Kong at the age of nine in the sixties.
“I
am so proud of my father,” Akashdeep says. “He has had such a difficult life.
His family came to Hong Kong with nothing. They lived crowded in one room. He
had to learn English and Cantonese. Now he is a successful restaurant owner and
we live in a luxury apartment in Tsim Sha Tsui. I think that what I cherish and
live for is what my dad has provided me with. I live in the heart and center of
Hong Kong. I enjoy all the privileges
money has to offer. My dad came to Hong Kong with only $20 in his pocket. He
learned Cantonese himself and he learned business. These kids here don’t have
the advantages that I’ve had in life. They are like my dad. I want to help give
them the base they need to be successful in life as well. I’m lucky to study at
an amazing school. I have so many opportunities. These kids do not have these
opportunities. I want these kids to experience what I experience every day.”
“How
is your life in Hong Kong different than if you lived in India?” I asked.
“Our
family visits India about four times a year,” Akashdeep said. “But, and I know
that many of my Indian friends would be upset with me for saying this, in India
there is no freedom of speech. India is conservative while Hong Kong is open to
choice and opinion.”
I
realize in this moment that our teenage tutors, on the street level, have more
insights into the psychology of these Nepalese children than us teachers,
trained in pedagogy and psychology. They are an invaluable asset to these
children precisely because they can give so much and do it naturally,
intuitively.
I
asked Akashdeep, “What have you learned from these children?”
A look of delighted surprise comes
over Akashdeep’s face.
“Actually,
I have learned a lot. Although I come here to teach, I’m the one who has
learned a lot. Even though they do not have money, they have smiles on their faces.
They cherish their families, their every moment. They taught me to live in the present.
We have so much stress in our school lives, tests, striving for accomplishments,
and so on. They are free.”
“Were
you surprised that you could learn from these children?”
“Yes,
very much. When Mr. Lo asked me to teach I thought I’d meet horrible kids who
are spoiled and have no respect for elders. But I was surprised to find
beautiful children. Occasionally, they use bad words, but that is it.”
“How
have you contributed to these children’s lives?”
“I haven’t done much.
I’m not living with them 24 hours a day. At least for one hour when they are
with me they are smiling and they forget their stress. They look up to me and
they think they want to be like me.”
“How do you feel when
you donate your time to tutor the kids in Jordan?”
“I don’t see it as a
donation,” Akashdeep corrected me. “I
see it as a learning experience for myself. I want to make a change in someone
else’s life. I don’t want the credit, but I want them to say, ‘Someone taught
me a better way to live.’ I don’t want them to end up on the streets. They come
from the families of ethnic minorities. Their parents don’t have much to offer
them. If I can give them something useful, then I am happy to do so. Their
parents work at low paid jobs, like construction or security. If I give them
one hour of help, I feel as though I’ve done something for them.”
“Why do you think Mr.
Lo calls this Club the Jordan Leadership Club?”
“Because we are mentors
to these kids. We are the ones they will look up. If we screw around, then they
will learn from us to screw around. I want to be a leader. In our school the
grade twelves are our mentors. We look up to them. These little kids will
follow our footsteps one day.”
“Akashdeep, What does
it mean to be a leader?” I asked.
“Being
a leader does not mean bossing people around. It means having someone look up
to you. I have a really good mentor. I follow his talks. His name is Mr. Barack
Obama. I want to be like him. Even the way he drinks his water… I want to be
like him. I cannot be Barack Obama, but I want to be like him.”
“But
what does it take to be a leader?” I ask, knowing that this is one of Alan Lo’s
educational goals. He believes it is not enough to produce a student that is
proficient at achieving high grades as is the typical expectation in Asian
culture, but that we as teachers are called upon to build character. Alan likes
to say, “These kids are our future leaders.”
“It takes concentration
and patience to be a leader,” Akashdeep says. “These kids are difficult to work
with. My theory is that they are not comfortable with us. They have devastating
stories. Some are abused. Some lack attention. They are alone in their world. I
want to get through to them. That’s what a leader does. A leader communicates.”
“How can you be a role
model to the children in the Nepalese community?”
“I’m organized. I’m
very professional at what I do. I am training myself to be a leader. Although they cannot go to private schools, I
want them to look up to me so that tomorrow they can do the same for someone somewhere
outside. I want them to think, ‘This person taught me how to be organized.’
Test scores just show me what I need to learn more of. A bad grade means I have
not learned and must work harder. I believe that I write my own destiny. I
write my own destiny every day. I don’t believe in horoscopes. Indian people
put a lot of faith in horoscopes. My parents drag me to have my horoscope done,
but I don’t want to know. I want to forge my own future.”
A few weeks later Akashdeep invites
me and Alan Lo to dine at his family’s restaurant. Alan has other plans and
cannot make it, but I agree to go. I feel that it would be wrong to turn down
the invitation. After we are finished tutoring at the YMCA Akashdeep and I
board a mini bus to Tsim Sha Tsui, or TST, as Hong Kongers call it, and
Akashdeep tells me his story.
“My mother has told me the story of
how I was born. I was born full term, but I was not breathing. I was a still
birth. But medicine is very good here in Hong Kong and the doctors revived me.
I had a large lump on my lower back, so immediately they operated to remove it,
but during the operation they damaged my ligament and that is why I now have
one leg that is longer than the other. If that was not enough, they discovered
that half of my heart was missing. The doctors did not have the technology in
Hong Kong to correct that and asked my parents if they would agree to have the
operation done in Australia. My parents, of course, agreed and I was flown on a
chartered plane to Australia where I had open-heart surgery. This was followed
by a few more surgeries spread out over the next few years because it is
dangerous to put an infant under anesthesia for too long. I also had to have a
cancerous lump removed from my brain and that is why I wear this long scar
across my head. It is a miracle that I am alive.”
“Your poor mother,” I said.
“Yes, but we Indian people stick
together. We do not leave a family member alone in times of crisis. My mother
had strong support and prayers from our family and community. We are a joined
family, my uncle’s family and ours. We live together under one roof. I have an
older brother and three older sisters, however, some of them are really my
cousins, but we grew up like brothers and sisters and we see no difference
among us. Our grandmother also lives with us. She taught us to speak Punjabi
when we were little and she taught us about Sikh culture.”
We arrive in TST and step out of the
bus into streets so crowded that we can only negotiate them by pressing our way
past the throng of bodies. We walk to Chungking Mansions on Nathan Road, the
main thoroughfare that runs the length of Kowloon, connecting the various
neighborhoods. Chungking Mansions is supposedly a residential building, but it
is made up of many low-budget hotels and shops and restaurants. Local Hong Kong
people say that Chungking Mansions are like what the former Kowloon Walled City
used to be. Inside the building there are curry restaurants, African bistros,
clothing shops, sari stores and foreign exchange booths. Chungking Mansions
serves as a gathering place for many of the ethnic minorities in Hong Kong, particularly
Indians, Nepalese, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Sri Lankans, Middle Eastern
people, and Nigerians. It is known as the unofficial African quarter of Hong
Kong. We weave through booths selling cell phones, electronic goods, scarves
and saris and arrive at the elevator, which takes us up to the Delhi Club,
Akashdeep’s family restaurant, tucked far in the back of the building, a quiet
oasis in this maze of noise, chatter in a plethora of tongues, frenetic
bartering down at the stalls.
I
recognize the Delhi Club as one of our stopping points on a scavenger hunt
through Kowloon organized for new teachers by one of the school’s veteran
teachers, Andrew Chiu, a native Hong Konger and expert on every nook and cranny
of the city. On that day teams of new teachers raced around Kowloon in 90
percent humidity and intense heat, dripping in sweat, clutching clipboards with
clues and riddles, racing against each other to reach the scavenger hunt’s
final destination, the Dragon Mall in Sham Shui Po, deep in the concrete jungle
that is Hong Kong.
We enter the restaurant and
Akashdeep’s father and uncle greet us. Akashdeep’s father, tall, gray-haired,
fair skinned, dressed in a gray dress shirt and slacks, impresses me as an
intelligent and self-confident man, but also a man who carries with him the
spiritual humility of one who has practiced and followed his faith his entire
life. He is a self-made man with the wisdom and experience of hard work and
perseverance.
Along the way to the restaurant
Akashdeep had been telling me about his dream of studying in Switzerland. When
I ask his father about this, he smiles and says, “Yes, Akashdeep may have this
dream, but we cannot let him venture far into the world alone. You see, his
health concerns keep him tied to Hong Kong. Every week of his life he has
hospital visits.”
We
discuss the various opportunities the Hong Kong universities have to offer
Akashdeep and admissions strategies. As more customers file into the
restaurant, Akashdeep’s father excuses himself and says, “Order whatever you
like. You are our guest. Dinner is on the house.”
I try to protest, but to no avail. I
am a guest, a respected teacher in a culture where education is highly valued
and seen as a means of advancement into a better life. And this has been a
major difference in my experience thus far in Hong Kong. My word as the English
teacher is respected. I am held in high esteem, both by students and their
parents. Discipline issues are rare and mainly consist of Korean boys skipping
English class to hide in the Boy’s bathroom to cram for a calculus exam.
Although Sikhs are vegetarians, the
menu contains many meat dishes. I pick out a Seekh kabeb, but Akashdeep insists
that I have curry too, and a rice biryani, and garlic naan, and a mango lassi,
so much food, too much food. But I eat it all and it is delicious. I am sent
home with what I could not eat packed into a styrofoam box.
“Indians take meals very seriously,”
Akashdeep tells me. “To miss a family meal is to show great disrespect.” We
share a laugh over the Indian dinner scene that I developed with a group of
Indian students for our drama production, Friday
Night Live in Hong Kong.
“We also take prayer seriously.
Every evening we pray together in front of a shrine in our apartment, the entire
family.”
I ask what the shrine looks like and
Akashdeep explains that the shrine consists of photographs of Sikh temples and
a sword.”
“Each Sikh must carry a sword with
him at all times,” Akashdeep explains, clearly proud of the tradition.
“But how do you board a flight?” I
ask, half joking, thinking of the thorough security checks in Hong Kong.
“Well, these days our swords are the
size of nail files,” Akashdeep explains, “and we have a certificate allowing us
to carry them.”
Akashdeep explains that the other
identifying factor for a Sikh man, besides the obvious turban and long hair and
beard, is a solid silver bracelet worn on the right arm. Indeed, as I am eating
(Akashdeep refuses to eat with me, telling me it is against restaurant policy
and that he eats his fill of curry at home every night anyway) the waiter sets
down yet another dish and I notice a thick silver bracelet on his arm.
“Only Sikhs work here?” I ask.
“That is correct,” Akashdeep says.
“They can eat as much as they like and they can take whatever they need home
with them. It is a Sikh tradition to share food. In our temples we always
provide food to everyone. You should see our local temple in Hong Kong; after
services it is filled with all sorts of people who come to eat for free. You
will even see plenty of American and European tourists eating at our tables.”
Akashdeep and his father and uncle,
and indeed the waiters in the restaurant, do not wear turbans or long hair.
This detail is a matter of choice, but the miniature sword and the bracelet are
not. They are important identifying features. I thank the family for their
hospitality and go home that evening thinking about the many ways in which the
West has got things wrong. As my own sons were finishing high school, I felt that
it was important for them to break free and live and study on their own, even
in places as far away from home as California. This type of independence and
self-sufficiency is an important rite of passage in the West. And yet,
Akashdeep’s family and the families of my other students, have shown me that
independence and personal growth can be achieved within the structure of an
extended family that lives and works together. Akashdeep’s sisters, already in
their mid-twenties, university educated professionals, still live at home. In
Hong Kong Chinese culture men and women lived at home until they are married.
Granted, partly these living arrangements are a result of the exceptionally
high cost of rent and real estate in Hong Kong, but partly they are more psychologically
comfortable. Eastern cultures, for the most part, show that living together in
supportive extended family units can be psychologically comforting as well as
economically beneficial. Perhaps we in the West do let our chicks out of the
nest too soon?
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