by You Jin
He must have been really feeling lonely. Prior to this, he used to say, “Come whenever you want.” But now he clearly wanted me to come soon, and was begging me to bring our son.
I told my mother-in-law that this was what I had decided. She could hardly stand to let go of the boy she had cared for over the last two years, but she also knew that this was a wise decision. So after Fung Yee celebrated his second birthday in Ipoh, she returned him to my care.
I applied for one-year no-pay leave from the newspaper, and on 9 July 1979, I took my two-year-old Fung Yee and flew to Saudi Arabia.
At Singapore’s Changi Airport, my mother-in-law, who was usually open-minded, was a completely different person. Her face was deeply sorrowful, her expression showing her heartbreak. When my son and I went to the boarding area, I looked back at her and saw that her face was completely distorted, and the tears she had tried to hold back were running like rivers over her numerous wrinkles. I could hardly believe it, but my rock-solid mother-inlaw was crying like a baby. My heart melted at the sight.
After an eight-hour flight, we arrived in Jeddah and made our way to the little white house on a hilltop. It was a very comfortable house, but my confused mind was like a garden overgrown with weeds.
What made me nervous and flustered was my two-year-old son. It was like he and I came from two completely different planets, speaking different languages and finding it difficult to understand each other. Fung Yee could only speak the Qiongzhou dialect, but I couldn’t understand a word of it. When he wanted something, I could not understand what, so he would cry to communicate his displeasure. When I wanted something, he could not understand, so I would punish him to show that I was unhappy with his behaviour. It was a nerve-wracking parent-child relationship.
What made the situation even worse was my sudden transition from an active news reporter to a housewife who stayed home all day. My friends and relatives were all thousands of miles away, so I faced the frustration of not having even a soul to talk to. Honestly, during that period, if a huge shiny gold bar had dropped from the sky and fallen at my feet, I would have looked at it sternly, not even cracking a smile.
Fung Yee and I were starting from scratch. I treated him like an infant who could not say a word, slowly introducing him to Mandarin one word at a time. It was a difficult and slow learning process for him, to learn a completely foreign tongue after two years of age. His Mandarin also had a heavy Qiongzhou flavour and, being a perfectionist, I corrected him repeatedly.
For instance, the most basic word “I”, pronounced “wo” in Mandarin, became “nong” for him, following the Qiongzhou pronunciation. He would change his pronunciation to please me, but after a few minutes, I would hear “nong nong nong” from his mouth again. Lacking parenting experience, my patience was very quickly worn thin by this. I actually lost control and yelled at a mere toddler, “If you say ‘nong’ again, no dinner for you tonight.”
He lifted his tiny head, looked at me timidly and said, “Nong want to eat dinner.”
I replied hotly, “Okay, if you say ‘nong’ again, you don’t get anything to eat tonight.”
“Nong want to eat,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Then eat air,” I said.
He replied innocently, “What is air?”
I stared at him, finding him both frustrating and funny. I could not think of a thing to say in reply.
This sort of extremely wrong-headed and impatient teaching method put a burden on my relationship with Fung Yee. I wanted him to change, but he could not do it overnight. I knocked myself out correcting him, and he put all his energy into messing up again. It was a cycle that left both of us in ill humour, creating a very tense atmosphere. Eventually, there was a long period of time during which he delighted in talking back. I thought, With the sort of experience he had growing up, this is inevitable.
In later years, when I had much more experience in life, I realised that patience and love are the best things for teaching. Without those, even the best educational material will not accomplish much.
Feeding my son was another trial I faced every day. All three daily meals were cooked by a chef and delivered to our house. Breakfast was scrambled eggs, bread, jam, cereal and fruit. It was the same every day, like a recording playing on a loop. Eating the same thing every day soon turned the flavour into wax. For lunch and dinner, there were always two meat dishes and one vegetable dish. Our chef was Thai, so the dishes were spicy and a little oily. Whether meat or seafood, they had a myriad of seasonings, and were not very suitable for a two-year-old.
I cooked porridge for my son. I had heard that chicken livers were good for strengthening the body, so I asked the chef to buy fresh chicken livers from the market for me every day. When I had cooked the porridge to a silky softness, I added the chicken livers pressed to a pulpy texture, making this his main dish every day.
I had observed how my mother-in-law played with him as he ate in Ipoh, sometimes taking two hours to get him to finish one bowl of porridge. I really did not agree with this approach. Now that I was the one feeding him, I was not willing to carry on this particular tradition. I made him sit at the table, not allowing him to run about while he ate, then fed him bite by bite. I had learned from my mother-in-law to make broth with anchovies, then cook high-grade rice in the fish broth. The porridge that came out of this combination was smooth as silk, and with the seasoned chicken livers, it smelled really good. My son liked it very much, and finished a whole bowl of porridge in no time. I was very proud, feeling my new method had been a great success.
I was not prepared for what happened next. Within a couple of days, the situation changed dramatically. He would not sit still. As soon as I put the chicken liver porridge on the table, he tried to climb down. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he started running around. I was not about to chase him. I thought, When he’s hungry, he’ll surrender and sit here obediently and eat.
But I was mistaken. He only cared about playing, never taking a second look at the porridge. It smelled so good when hot, but as it sat there cooling, it turned bland. I warmed it up again and called him, but he did not answer. I called again, but he just replied coolly, “Nong don’t want to eat.”
Running out of options, I picked up the porridge and squatted next to him, and prepared to feed him. I never imagined that he would leap up and run into the other room. He was fast. I ran after him, but I did not see any trace of him. I was puzzled, then I heard sounds coming from under the bed—the little monkey was hiding under it! I squatted beside the bed and pleaded, “Come out.”
He heard me, but did not budge. I leaned over and peered into the dark space below the bed. I saw his scrawny little form, still as a statue. I was deflated. Usually full of confidence in whatever I did, believing that a little hard work and determination would always bring about success, here I was now, unable to settle the simple task of feeding my child.
I suddenly thought of the little robot in the cupboard. The toy, given to us by a British friend, had a hard white body with black arms. It was battery operated and could walk with the press of a button. When it moved, piercing red rays of light would flash from its head and a rumbling sound came from its belly. I remembered the first time we turned on the robot and how it had frightened Fung Yee to tears, causing us to put it away in a cupboard.
A brilliant idea popped suddenly to mind. I could use that robot to scare Fung Yee, making him come out from his hiding place under the bed. I did not anticipate that this brilliant idea would have serious consequences for days to come. I took the robot from the cupboard and turned it on. Red flashes of light and strange noises erupted from the robot as it started walking into the space under the bed. Seeing it, Fung Yee let out a blood-curdling scream and raced out, his face shadowed in terror. Having succeeded in my mission, I said to my terrified, hyperventilating little boy: “Remember, if you crawl back under the bed, the robot will come find you.”
I made the mistake every parent makes at s
ome point: I had solved the small, fleeting problem in a way that damaged my child’s confidence. Using fear as a means of getting the results I wanted created even more problems after that day. And my own punishment came back to haunt me very soon after this incident.
Late that night, when I was sound asleep, the sound of a child’s bloodcurdling, terror-filled scream suddenly filled the house. I rushed into Fung Yee’s room and saw his hands gripping his little pillow, his feet kicking wildly. He was yelling and crying madly. Heartbroken, I pulled him to my breast, saying gently, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Mama’s here.”
He gripped my clothes with both hands. He buried his face in my shoulder, stifling his terror-filled cries. Thinking of that robot, I immediately regretted what I had done and reproached myself.
At first I just thought it was a single nightmare. I never imagined that he would continue to wake up, frightened and screaming, every night for several weeks. His miserable cries were all the more chilling in the vast desolate desert night. I became his cradle, holding him in my arms and walking back and forth in the house. The pale moonlight fell onto the wall, casting our dark shadows upon it like huge desert demons. Every night was the same. I turned into a startled bird myself, lying awake every night waiting in fear for him to let out the cries of terror. Obviously, this had an effect on my mental state too.
I took him to the doctor, but they could not find anything wrong with him, so did not prescribe any medication. As the situation dragged on, I started to feel helpless. I was miserable and exhausted, and on the brink of despair.
James coolly suggested, “From what I see, Fung Yee’s strange crying problem is a psychological issue. These things can’t be cured with medicine. Our soft approach hasn’t worked, so I think we should try something hard.”
I asked nervously, “What’s the hard approach?”
James said, “You have to fight fire with fire…” Seeing from my expression that my maternal instinct was kicking in, he went on, “Tonight when he cries, let me handle it.”
That night, like an alarm clock, Fung Yee’s cries again pierced the silence like a needle. James got out of bed, rushed to his room, and picked the screaming child up. He said loudly, “There’s nothing wrong. Stop crying.”
Discovering that it was his father carrying him instead of his mother, Fung Yee’s crying intensified. James shouted over the boy’s screams, “Listen to me. I’m going to put you outside until you stop crying. You can only come back in when you stop.”
Hearing this, Fung Yee cried all the louder, screaming as if to save his life. James opened the door and put him outside. I could not stand it. Rushing out of the room, I yelled, “You’re crazy! There are wild dogs out there!”
James said, “It’s all right, the gate to the garden is locked tightly. Nothing can get in. I just want to scare him.”
The boy banged on the door for all he was worth. Bam bam bam. The sound of his banging, coupled with him screaming as if he was being stabbed, made the tears pour down my cheeks. Oh, why was it so difficult to play the role of a mother? I rushed to the door again, and reached to open it, saying, “Let him in.”
Holding the door closed with arms of steel, James said, “Don’t interfere. Just go back to bed.”
Outside, the wild dogs started howling. Fung Yee, who was yelling at the top of his lungs, suddenly made a great effort to control himself. I heard him sob quietly as he said, “Daddy, nong won’t cry. Nong want to come in.”
When James opened the door, moonlight streamed in. Fung Yee’s little hands were gripping his blue-striped pyjama pants. The tiny figure was shivering, his face streaked with tears.
I picked him up, heart aching. Even now, so many years later, when I think of that incident, my eyes still fill with tears.
It was amazing that James’s “fight fire with fire” approach yielded such miraculous results. From that day on, we did not hear any more crying in the middle of the night, and all three of us slept peacefully.
The next morning, the chef sent breakfast to our house. The square tray yet again held a mound of scrambled eggs, bread, jam, cereal and fruit. My appetite fled. A spark ignited in my brain. I suddenly thought of the chicken liver porridge I cooked for my son every single day. No matter what the delicacy, if you ate the same thing every day, you would surely lose your appetite for it.
Chiding myself, I started to prepare his lunch. This time, I did not cook porridge but made him a sandwich. I made a tuna salad with mango and hardboiled eggs, mixed with delicious mayonnaise, and put it on soft bread.
I did not need to force him, nor even feed him. As soon as he had finished one piece, he said, “Nong want more.”
The next day I poured milk over cereal and raisins, and he again ate heartily. The day after that, I cooked noodles in chicken soup, and he happily finished a whole bowl. Once I started changing his daily menu, I no longer had any difficulty getting him to eat.
I learned a valuable lesson from this: when a child’s appetite is not good, his mother should first review her cooking skills. Once I learned this, I put a good deal more effort into preparing a menu, so that my children would salivate at the thought of my cooking.
Life in the desert was certainly looking up. It is fair to say that the year I spent there was the quietest, most settled period of my life. My husband and child were in close proximity. Our family and friends were all thousands of miles away. Once we closed the door of our house, it was just the three of us in our own little nest, and the bond between mother, father and child grew closer. The feeling of being together through thick and thin was beautiful.
I also found numerous opportunities to increase Fung Yee’s language skills. I found that, for children, real life experience yields better results than any amount of text and pictures. For instance, when we went to the fruit market, he learned the names of all sorts of fruit instantly. Even though we lived in Jeddah Harbour, which was in the desert, we did not want for fruits from all over the world. Fung Yee especially loved cherries. As soon as he finished one, he would reach out and say, “More.”
“More what?” I asked.
He pointed at the cherries and said, “That.”
“You mean cherries?” I asked.
He nodded. When he finished and wanted more, he would say immediately, “Cherries. Nong want more cherries.”
When we took him to ride a camel, he was extremely happy, going on and on about it even after we got home. The next morning, he got up and the first thing he said was, “I want to ride a camel.”
When language has a tangible value to it, the learner will have a strong motivation, putting forth all sorts of effort to pick it up, and learning will be accelerated. Fung Yee’s vocabulary grew rapidly in this way. Every time a new word came out of his mouth, he was pleased, and I was proud of him.
The desert was a multifaceted, fascinating place. When there was no wind, the mounds of sand dunes sparkled with golden light, gentle and charming, like the fluid glance of a lover. When a gale hit us, the scene changed, becoming savage and domineering, sand dancing and weaving wildly about. Every time a sandstorm came, our little white house became a flimsy shelter that might collapse at any moment. That unsettling fear was like a deep nightmare lurking inside me.
One day, I was sitting inside reading while Fung Yee played with his favourite toy train. I heard the sound of wind kicking up the sand. Looking out the window, I saw that the whole world seemed to have been swallowed up by sand. A sandstorm! Sand has no willpower of its own; it just whips around in whatever direction the wind blows it, like a beast that has lost all control of its senses and direction. It rolled against the house, again and again, shaking it.
While I was anxiously watching the scene outside, I suddenly heard something heavy hit the floor, followed by a cry that tore at my heart. Chilled with fear, I turned back to look. Fung Yee was on the floor, his thin lip split open by the sharp corner of the table. Blood flowed from the cut. I was so shocked I felt numb, and my
hands and feet grew cold. James was on a business trip in another city, and the nearest clinic was about a mile from our house. With the sandstorm picking up now, what could I do? I was supposed to be the shelter for my child. If I did not look out for him, who would? I quickly suppressed my own feelings of panic and rushed to get a towel. Fresh blood quickly drenched the towel. I put on my black hijab and opened the door. The fine sand engulfed me like waves, and the wind—that wind!—was so strong I feared it might pick us up and carry us to the sky. Leaning against the wall, I shuffled my way slowly along. I did not dare take my feet off the ground. That short mile-long walk felt like a thousand miles. In the clinic, the doctor stitched Fung Yee’s lip and prescribed him some antibiotics. My son cried himself into exhaustion and eventually fell asleep in my arms. I waited for the wind to die down and the sand to settle, then slowly made my way home.
The next day at the same time, the two of us were at home playing colouring games. I looked out the window at the vast clear sky. The desert seemed so serene. It was like a scene from a dream, making even the glow of the sun seem unreal.
When the hills and streams end and there seems no road beyond, amidst shading willows and blooming flowers, another village appears. These two lines of poetry by the Song Dynasty poet Lu You had come true for me at troubled times in my life, reminding me that, even when I reached the end of the line, there would be a way out.
After a year, a dark shadow fell over my desert life, forcing me to face a difficult decision.
My little Fung Yee got sick. It was not a little ailment like a cough or cold, but chronic sinus problems. What was even more frustrating was that his asthma attacks could strike at any time. When it happened, his chest sounded like a broken, hissing box fan, his whole face turned a combination of purple, blue and green hues, and his nostrils enlarged. He looked like he would hit the floor anytime and not be able to get back up.