by Suzanne Ma
“You cannot learn a language if you do not want to.” Lia often said this to her students, especially when their faces went limp with apathy, sweaty brows pained by boredom.
The oldest workers on the farm, many of whom had grown up in rural China and barely attended elementary school, were some of the hardest students Lia had to work with. Lia had the painstaking task of teaching them how to properly grip a pencil and how to write their ABCs.
“We are too old to learn,” they lamented.
“You are never too old!” Lia insisted. But she saw how they “suffered” through her class—yawning, sighing, eyes wandering to the wall where the clock was ticking.
These older students, in the introductory language class, were indeed difficult to deal with. But it was one particular student in the advanced class who really tried Lia’s patience.
Mendim spoke Italian fairly well but could not read or write and was not interested to learn. He never brought his books to class and didn’t take any notes. Instead, he fraternized with Pei and doodled on the one piece of paper she ripped out from her own notebook to give to him. It was during a grammar exercise one afternoon when a normally patient Lia lost her composure. She was attempting to explain the difference between two verbs: “obligated,” io devo, and “want,” io voglio, when Mendim proudly said aloud: “I am obligated to come to your class.” Lia sighed, touched the palm of her hand to her forehead, and launched into a tirade.
“Next year, if we are still doing Italian lessons, I will only invite those who want to come. I can’t force people who don’t have the desire to be here,” she said in rapid-fire Italian. “Let’s leave Mendim at home and we’ll just have his wife come. She is very intelligent and we’ll put her with Pei next year because she needs to move forward . . . ”
“I can understand what you’re saying,” Mendim interrupted.
Lia turned to look at Mendim, but she only rattled on. “It’s not that you don’t understand. It’s that you don’t have any drive! It’s more than just understanding; you don’t have the desire to learn! No, next year I won’t teach Italian under these conditions . . . ”
“So I salute you and I’m off!” Mendim said, raising his hand to his head.
“Exactly, go be a waiter!” Lia shot back.
“Ah, but you have to remember to tip!” he quipped. Exasperated, Lia threw her hands up. She spent so much of her time teaching immigrants Italian. Next to her responsibilities at the mushroom farm, her local Catholic church organized a number of programs for immigrants, and Lia took part by tutoring children and helping adults obtain their high school diplomas in Italy. Through the church, she even housed immigrants in her own home when they were in between jobs or looking for work.
Lia’s church was perched atop a steep precipice overlooking a gorgeous landscape of green farms. When I arrived, the nuns rushed out to greet me, their chocolate-colored veils fluttering in the mysterious morning fog. They grabbed my hands in theirs, and instead of saying buongiorno, they spoke to me in Chinese. “Ni hao,” they said. “Welcome to our home!” And what a beautiful home it was. Monte Tauro, as the church was called, means “the tower at the top of the hill.” The tower and the church itself were constructed in the thirteenth century out of beautiful ocher-colored brick. The surrounding buildings, where the nuns and brothers live, eat, and pray, had pale walls, green shutters, and citrus rooftops. Nearby, the church gardens were lined with vineyards and leafy olive trees. The nuns and brothers of Monte Tauro lived at the church all year round and functioned much like social workers do. Some were skilled in physiotherapy and cared for mentally and physically disabled individuals who lived at the church with the sisters and brothers. They organized youth groups and went out into the community to provide tutoring and counseling services. On Saturdays, the church’s dining room was used as a classroom where dozens of people, mostly Chinese immigrants, gathered weekly for a free Italian-language class. Many of the volunteer teachers were Italian students or young professionals who had spent some time in China or had studied Chinese in school. The immigrants sat awkwardly at large wooden tables waiting for instructions. Most were preparing to take the mandatory language test required for the long-term residency permit. But once they had their permits in hand, they usually stopped coming to class. There were always a few people, a small minority, who felt the pull of the congregation and the power of the collective. These people usually wanted to know more about the church. “When I first came to Italy, I had no friends,” one Chinese parishioner told me. “My Italian didn’t improve because I was always surrounded by other immigrants. But here at Monte Tauro, I felt encouraged to learn. Here, I met so many friends and learning Italian came quite naturally.” Another woman told me she had been a Buddhist in China but converted to Catholicism after migrating to Italy. When I asked why, she quoted a Chinese maxim: Ru jing sui su—a Chinese saying that means “enter a village, follow the customs” and is often translated with the English saying, “when in Rome, do as the Romans do.” For many migrants, their faith began with a desire to belong rather than a yearning to proselytize. In the past decade nearly fifty Chinese immigrants had been baptized at Monte Tauro.
Pei and her family were wary of taking part in any church-organized events because they considered themselves Buddhist, though they had only occasionally gone to temple when they were in China. Pei’s mother, Fen, attended classes at Monte Tauro when she was preparing to apply for residency, but after she received her permit, she stopped coming. Pei’s brother, Mao, had done the same. Shen, Pei’s father, was the only one in the family yet to take the test. He had been in Italy nearly a year, but he could only manage a few words and he had a terrible accent. It was imperative he start learning Italian as soon as possible, but he often couldn’t make it to the free lesson because the family had no way of getting him to the church. Walking or cycling were not viable options since the hills were especially steep in and around Monte Tauro. The only time Shen could make it was when a friend offered to drive him. That didn’t happen regularly, and Shen preferred not to ask for favors. On Saturdays, if she didn’t have to work, Fen usually stayed at home to rest and Mao was almost always too busy playing video games on his laptop. It was Pei and her father who tried to get to the church whenever they had the chance.
Before the start of every lesson, the nuns invited a bespectacled Chinese man with a short and spiky haircut to the front of the room to say a prayer in Mandarin. He was in his forties, tall, and light-skinned, and his smooth hands clutched a Bible. When I looked a little closer, I noticed a black-and-white collar tucked underneath his sweater. Father Giuseppe Tong came from the Chinese city of Xi’an. He had been in Italy for nearly six years. At Monte Tauro, he acted as a liaison with the Chinese community. He tutored the nuns and brothers at the convent to help them improve their Chinese, met with young Chinese immigrants to help them with their homework, and helped organize events at the church’s Chinese-Italian Cultural Center. Father Tong spoke impeccable Italian, having studied the language as a young priest in China, and the church eventually posted him abroad. When he spoke Chinese, Father Tong had a distinct and sonorous voice that immediately told me he had come from Xi’an, an ancient city nestled in China’s central northwest region with more than three thousand years of history. It is considered the epicenter of early Chinese civilization, the starting point of the Silk Road and where Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s army of terra-cotta soldiers was unearthed.
“I tell the immigrants I hope they will stay after they have completed their residency exams,” Father Tong said. “This is all for their benefit. Italians are always saying the Chinese aren’t learning the language and the Chinese people aren’t integrating into Italian society. This is our chance to prove them wrong.”
Today, China’s government officially recognizes five religions: Protestantism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, and Taoism. Christianity ranks among the fastest-growing religions in t
he country, but for China’s more than twelve million Catholics, worshipping has been a complicated affair. When Beijing cut ties with the Vatican in 1951, it began ordaining some bishops without the approval of the pope. As a result, some people worship in “underground” churches loyal to the Vatican while others attend mass in government-sanctioned Catholic churches. When I was living in Beijing in 2007, attending Catholic mass had become a craze. I stood in line for more than an hour in order to secure entrance tickets for Christmas Eve mass at the city’s oldest Catholic church. Locals told me the church had become a popular venue for young people who wanted to impress their dates. On Christmas Eve the church was jam-packed like a rock concert. By the time I arrived, it was standing room only and all I saw was the back of people’s heads.
Three decades ago, religion was banned in China. During the Cultural Revolution, churches, temples, and mosques were closed down and converted for secular uses. Today, the situation is vastly different: one in three people in China describe themselves as religious, according to official surveys. Most of the Chinese migrants I met in Italy weren’t Christians. They often told me the only thing they had faith in was the euro. Now, with the crisis, even that was failing them. “It’s OK if you believe in the euro,” Father Tong would say. “You don’t need to let go of that belief. Money is important. But money cannot make you entirely happy nor can it completely satisfy you. Besides keeping your bellies full, people still have many other needs.” Father Tong often spoke about having faith in something bigger than all of us, but he admitted that kind of discourse often fell on deaf ears. Another way he and the sisters and brothers of Monte Tauro reached out to the immigrants was first by satisfying their immediate needs. “They say, ‘I don’t know the language,’ so we teach them. They say they don’t have work; we help them find it. They say, ‘We can’t find someone to rent us a house because the Italians think Chinese immigrants are dirty,’” Father Tong said. “So we help them find a home.” I remembered how one migrant called her own home an “eyesore” compared to her Italian neighbors, how many immigrants grew vegetables in their lawns instead of flowers, and how smoky and pungent the Chinese kitchen can be compared to an Italian one.
Father Tong told me the church was also a place of refuge. The very first time a Chinese immigrant came to the church was a little more than a decade ago. Maria Chiara, a nun at Monte Tauro who had kind brown eyes, remembers the day when a twenty-three-year-old man showed up at the church. His hollow black eyes seemed to be searching for something. Was it food? Clothing? Shelter? Maybe even faith? Words fumbled out of his mouth, and the nuns couldn’t tell if it was because he was in shock or because he could barely speak Italian. Slowly, Maria Chiara and the sisters of Monte Tauro learned of his plight: the man had come to Italy with the help of a snakehead. Enslaved in a garment workshop, he worked endless hours to repay his $15,000 debt. But the snakeheads continued to hound him for cash. Calls and visits turned into threats. With nowhere to turn and fearing for his safety, he came to the church. Maria Chiara was just twenty years old at the time, and she remembers forming an instant connection with the young man, despite not being able to speak Chinese and him not being able to speak Italian. She recalled how easy it was for her to start learning Chinese simply by conversing with the man every day. “It was my friend’s language, so I was motivated to learn it,” she said. Maria Chiara continued her studies with a Chinese tutor and now spoke Chinese more fluently than I did. She exercised her language skills by spearheading outreach into the local Chinese community. The nuns of Monte Tauro worked tirelessly, visiting schools, jails, and hospitals—wherever translators were needed—and many soon realized a trend among the migrants. Both the men and women worked long hours, much longer hours than Italians, and many Chinese families had either left their children in China or were sending their Italian-born children back to China to be raised by relatives. These kids were known as China’s “left-behind” children. The nuns decided to organize a series of after-school programs. They helped the children of immigrants with their homework and tutored them in Italian. When it later became apparent how important heritage languages were, they organized Chinese lessons for the children, too. The nuns hoped their efforts would help stem the number of “left-behind” children in China and convince immigrant parents that raising their children in Italy was indeed a viable option.
One Sunday, I noticed a young Chinese woman in her early twenties helping to sweep the floors of the church kitchen. It seemed she was always at Monte Tauro, and I wondered what her story was. I walked up to her and asked how long she had been a parishioner at the church. “I live here,” she said to me, hardly taking her eyes off her broom. “The church, the nuns, they took me and my mother in.” I asked Father Tong about the girl later. Who was her mother? Father Tong reminded me of a woman who had joined us for lunch earlier in the week. The one that stared off into space? Who spoke loudly and abruptly at times? Like so many Chinese migrants, she had come to Italy and worked in the garment factories, Father Tong said. “She worked so hard that she lost her mind. That’s when the church took them in.”
“What does Father Tong do all day?” Ye Pei’s family asked me. “Surely he must have another job?”
I told Pei and her family Father Tong’s job was to be a Catholic priest.
“But how does he support himself?”
“The church supports him and his work,” I said.
“What does he do all day?”
“He helps people.”
It was hard for them to believe that someone’s full-time job was to help others. Chinese migrants, especially those from Qingtian, relied heavily on each other. Money was lent to friends with no questions asked, but these acts came with the understanding that the loan would be repaid as quickly as possible and that the favor would soon be returned. So the question was: what did the church and Father Tong want in return? I was baptized a Catholic but have drifted from the Church for a number of personal and political reasons. At first I liked to joke about it, telling people, “Jesus and I are on a break.” Now, more than a decade later, my “break” has turned into an extended separation. At Monte Tauro, I was impressed with the clergy’s unfailing dedication and tireless commitment to help others. It was my first time hanging around a Catholic church in many years, and it seemed to me that Father Tong, Maria Chiara, and the nuns and brothers at Monte Tauro were asking for nothing in return.
It was already dark outside by the time Pei arrived home from her driver’s test. The multiple-choice theory exam had taken nearly an hour, and she had already telephoned home to tell her parents the results. Now they were preparing dinner in time for her return. Her father heated up the wok and watched the flames lick the black iron before he dropped in slices of ginger and garlic and a few chili peppers. The family liked to eat spicy. As the ingredients sizzled, the entire kitchen flooded with fragrance and flavor. He added a whole fish to the wok, searing it on both sides before pouring a brown sauce in the pan and covering it with a lid so the fish simmered in its juices. Then we heard the front door creak open. Face flushed and breathing heavily after the long trek uphill, Pei was still reeling from the day’s results. She pushed open the kitchen door and everyone looked up. Even Ye Mao took his eyes off his computer screen to look at his sister. Pei pulled off her thick winter jacket, unraveled her scarf, and threw it on the countertop. Seven errors; three mistakes too many. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she held the piece of paper that told her the results. She became groggy and thick-tongued when she realized she would not be getting her driver’s permit anytime soon. The family sat down to eat, and Pei spoke in a loud and loose voice, drunk on disappointment. She did not talk about the test; instead she launched into a diatribe, complaining about work on the mushroom farm, about the gossiping Aunties, and about a particular worker at the farm, Yanzhi, whom Pei considered a good friend.
“She has a boyfriend now, you know?” Pei huffed. “She poste
d a bunch of photos online. She didn’t even bother to tell me herself.” Apparently the Aunties on the farm already knew about Yanzhi’s new man and Pei was the last one to find out. “Aren’t friends supposed to share this kind of news with each other?” she asked glumly. I didn’t understand why Pei felt so slighted by news of her friend’s new boyfriend until I realized that Valentine’s Day was fast approaching. Pei was feeling as lonely as ever. She rarely heard from her boyfriend, Li Jie, who remained in Qingtian and expressed little interest in coming abroad. When she called him, he often seemed too busy for her and brushed her off. The next day, if he called back to apologize, Pei said there was nothing to talk about. At times, she thought about Li Jie a lot. She liked to talk about his height and reminisce about their carefree nights in Qingtian. More than once she showed off an expensive handbag or cell phone he had given to her as a present in Qingtian. Other times she forgot about him completely. Li Jie made sure to call on her birthday every year, but Pei usually forgot about his.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Pei moaned. “I need more Italian friends, not Chinese ones. I will never pass this test if I am speaking Chinese every day! That’s what I do at the farm, you know. I speak Chinese every single day!” Her parents looked at each other, and Pei continued. “And wow, guess what I’m doing for the next two weeks?” Too slow at picking mushrooms, her supervisor had reassigned her to cleaning duty. “I’m washing the toilets! That’s what I have come to Europe to do: WASH TOILET BOWLS!” Pei was yelling now. On any other day, Fen or Shen would have told their daughter to lower her voice. They would have been stern with her and reminded her to be grateful for the work. But today, they were tactfully silent. Pei ate more quickly than anyone else, shoveling the last bit of rice into her mouth, and then stood up abruptly to announce she was going to wash up.