Home for the new year

Whenever my family and I talk about travelling to Hong Kong, by default we use the word 返 faan. The Cantonese verb meaning “to go back to”, “to return” or “to go home”; it’s never just “to visit”, “to come” or “to holiday”. It’s strange because I’ve never lived in Hong Kong, but I treat it as my second home. I was born and raised in the UK and have spent my entire life there, but Hong Kong holds significance. The verb faan holds a deep longing to revisit my parents’ old stomping grounds, where most of my extended family resides. Hong Kong homecoming trips encapsulate a chance to top up, to revitalise and to reacquaint.  

Being born to Chinese parents and raised in Wales confused my identity: I’m Chinese and Welsh, but I never felt solely either. My loyalty, if any, was to a place, not a tribe. I spent my Lunar New Years and summers seeing family in Sai Kung, Wong Tai Sin and Shenzhen: so Hong Kong Island, sightseeing and playing tourist were never really on the cards. It was always visiting relatives’ homes, “look how much you’ve grown” and “how is school going?” with a good cheek pull for good measure.

But I loved tagging along with my mum and aunties, shopping at wet markets for ingredients for home-cooked reunion meals: taking in the sights of caged frogs, fresh fish splashing about in shallow tanks, and a dizzying array of greens I don’t know the name of. Aside from filial grocery shopping duties, I always got roped into catching up over towering baskets of steaming dim sum and drinking tea at a snail’s pace, hopping from one restaurant to another. But Sai Kung is where my formative memories of Chinese New Year’s in Hong Kong reside. When I step into my grandma’s old home, I step over the raised doorstep that’s meant to protect us and block ghosts from entering. I light three joss sticks to tell my ancestors I’m home, and my mother places a fresh bunch of mandarin oranges, their leaves still intact, on the ancestral home shrine. I wish my forebears a happy new year and ask them to look over me and my family. 

Growing up, I never appreciated my journeys to Hong Kong and I took them for granted. They always felt like a chore, something we had to do as a family every year. Now, when I return with adult eyes, I understand my connection here, the importance of not forgetting your roots: I’m lucky to have two homes. To be in Hong Kong during Lunar New Year is to be here at a time that’s about connection, reflection and reunion with the ones you love. 

I see elaborate New Year decorations being set up everywhere I turn. Pretty red and gold lanterns gently swaying in the wind, huge gold ingot displays stacked on top of each other to represent wealth and abundance, and crowds following the banging of the lion dance drum, trying their best to catch a piece of lettuce that sprays over them for good fortune. The city’s already buzzing energy amps up to electrifying levels as everyone prepares for the biggest festival of the year. Plans are set in stone to make the most of the time off, and the market stalls are filled with red packets and people rushing to buy flowers and gifts ready for the Spring Festival.

This city will always hold a special place in my heart, but each New Year journey brings a certain hesitation. The obligations to fulfil filial duties, the rekindling of poignant childhood memories, the headache of switching between languages, and the physical challenge of packing a suitcase brimming with gifts (as per family instructions), only to return with an even bulkier load of items that exceeds our luggage allowance. So much changes every year, yet so much remains the same, exactly where we left off. Every trip to Hong Kong is clarifying and steeped in complexities. For me, there are moments of nostalgia, happiness and sadness, all rolled into one and tied to my youth. I try my best to savour it all, to retrace my steps, to cherish those memories – and to reunite with family once again, for another New Year.