Grieving Ching Ming Festival
The last time I was in Hong Kong was almost ten years ago. My family members told me I was wasting my day to make this trek to visit 爺爺嫲嫲 parental grandparents’ tombstones, but I insisted - and I am glad I did.
The journey was smooth. After getting out of the MTR station, I auto-piloted to the mini bus stop, got on the right route, navigated through the burial complex, and finally arrived at their tombstone.
BTW this is actually very impressive for me - I am typically helpless with directions.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I struggled to know the proper words for the 冥鈔 hell money and 紙紮祭品 paper-made sacrifice. At the store, I considered getting them an iPhone and a designer purse - 嫲嫲 would have loved that. Instead, I just grabbed a stack of gold papers/joss papers and a pre-assembled pack of paper sacrifice.
My family wasn’t religious, but we always made time to visit 爺爺嫲嫲 on 清明節 Ching Ming Festival and 重陽節 Chung Yeung Festival. I never had to order these items at a shop, older family members would arrange everything - I just followed them and carried the shopping.
During my visit, I wiped their tombstones clean, laid out some fresh fruits, egg tarts, and lit some incense. I lit some incense for my grandparents’ neighbours too. I sat there quietly and folded some 元寶 paper golden ingots and burned the sacrifice.
If I had known it would be my last time seeing them, I would have apologized.
Self-exile creates a strange sense of grief, it comes and goes. Some days I am in acceptance of the consequences - that I am to trade in mobility freedom for speaking up against the Chinese and Hong Kong government. On other days, I am incredibly jealous of fellow diasporic Hongkongers who go back to visit the city.
But today, I am feeling a strong sense of guilt and anger. I miss the ritualistic practice of tomb sweeping, to connect with my elders. My 婆婆 maternal grandmother had passed away in recent years and her tomb was erected. But I don’t even know where her tomb is.
Despite feeling crushed, I refuse to let self-exile strip away my culture. Even though I may not be visiting 爺爺嫲嫲婆婆, I remember and commemorate them. I lit some incense, an ocean away. But I think they can hear me and would be proud of me.
I doubt I will visit them in the next ten years, though I hope I am wrong about that.
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