The Familiarity and Foreignness of Hong Kong
Having grown up food shopping with my mom in Manhattan's or Brooklyn's Chinatown once a week for 18 years, I felt very comfortable in Hong Kong this past weekend. I interpreted Hong Kong to be the equivalent of Chinatown expanding beyond Canal Street and taking over the island of Manhattan. The sounds, the smells, the sights- it was all so familiar. I had the same Sunday brunch as I do in New York (dim sum! but better in HK of course). I rushed through the same, pushy (and shorter (woohoo! I'm considered tall in Asia)) crowd to make it onto the subway. I bargained in the same manner with the same storekeepers to collect the same knick knacks as sold on Canal and its extensive side streets.
I was incredibly surprised by this comfort. Spending a summer in Bangkok without much prior exposure to Thai culture has left me feeling scared and excited everyday to live and learn in a new and novel place. But in Hong Kong, I had this visceral reaction- I felt as if I were home. Even the HK buildings were as tall as those in Manhattan.
But, Hong Kong is not New York. For one thing, scaffolding in Hong Kong is made of bamboo, cut on the construction site to fit whatever need there is. Then, there are mountains surrounding the skyline, making it more like LA (which is definitely not NY).
Perhaps though most poignantly for me, Hong Kong is not New York because in Hong Kong, Filipino women congregate by the 100s in the Central area on Sundays, their day off from being a domestic worker for the more affluent of the city. Why Central? Why by the 100s? (1) They don't have much money, (2) they want to see their other Filipina worker friends, and (3) they have no where else to go- so stated matter of factly a Filipina overseas worker living in HK whom Lawrence and I chatted up when we accidentally stumbled upon this Filipino culture in HK. We ran into the HSBC building lobby to avoid the typhoon rains and found literally 100s of Filipinas who were basically picnicking indoors with each other. They brought blankets and cardboard boxes to sit on, playing cards, books, baon (snacks brought from home to satisfy one's own craving throughout the day), and the usual chismis (gossip) to share. In fact, in discussing this topic with a Filipina college friend later that day who has been living in HK, we learned that these gatherings are in a way supported even by the city government; city maintenance workers come and tie up the cardboard boxes every Sunday at 7PM after the Filipinas have left, perhaps saving them for the following week's gathering.
The scene in the HSBC lobby flooded me with mixed feelings. The same manner in which being in Hong Kong elicited a comfort in me, hearing Tagalog all around me did too. From my feeling of comfort with the familiar, however, I soon fell into a state of anger, shame, sadness, guilt, and hopelessness all at once. Hong Kong journalist Chip Tsao recently called the Philippines "a nation of servants" in an article he had written entitled "A War at Home" in the March 27th issue of the popular HK Magazine. In this same article, he even threatened to terminate his employment of a Filipina domestic worker to avoid committing an act of treason "by sponsoring an enemy of the State by paying her to wash my toilet and clean my windows". Though I've always known and been keenly aware that Filipinos, educated and otherwise, travel abroad to work in all sorts of jobs, I don't think it ever really hit me viscerally, even passionately, until I walked into the HSBC lobby that morning.
With all its familiarity, Hong Kong is no New York. It is not home. It may look like it, smell like it, and feel like it, but it isn't It. (NY will always be my home, for all its greatness and all its flaws.) Like no other place I've ever visited, though, Hong Kong did have the gall to open my eyes to the sad state of the country of my ancestors. So for all the angst I feel against the city for its attitudes, I can really only look towards the Philippines as the reason for the (in my opinion, forced) diaspora of its people and the only hope for ever turning things around for Filipinos in Hong Kong and everywhere.
I was incredibly surprised by this comfort. Spending a summer in Bangkok without much prior exposure to Thai culture has left me feeling scared and excited everyday to live and learn in a new and novel place. But in Hong Kong, I had this visceral reaction- I felt as if I were home. Even the HK buildings were as tall as those in Manhattan.
But, Hong Kong is not New York. For one thing, scaffolding in Hong Kong is made of bamboo, cut on the construction site to fit whatever need there is. Then, there are mountains surrounding the skyline, making it more like LA (which is definitely not NY).
Perhaps though most poignantly for me, Hong Kong is not New York because in Hong Kong, Filipino women congregate by the 100s in the Central area on Sundays, their day off from being a domestic worker for the more affluent of the city. Why Central? Why by the 100s? (1) They don't have much money, (2) they want to see their other Filipina worker friends, and (3) they have no where else to go- so stated matter of factly a Filipina overseas worker living in HK whom Lawrence and I chatted up when we accidentally stumbled upon this Filipino culture in HK. We ran into the HSBC building lobby to avoid the typhoon rains and found literally 100s of Filipinas who were basically picnicking indoors with each other. They brought blankets and cardboard boxes to sit on, playing cards, books, baon (snacks brought from home to satisfy one's own craving throughout the day), and the usual chismis (gossip) to share. In fact, in discussing this topic with a Filipina college friend later that day who has been living in HK, we learned that these gatherings are in a way supported even by the city government; city maintenance workers come and tie up the cardboard boxes every Sunday at 7PM after the Filipinas have left, perhaps saving them for the following week's gathering.
The scene in the HSBC lobby flooded me with mixed feelings. The same manner in which being in Hong Kong elicited a comfort in me, hearing Tagalog all around me did too. From my feeling of comfort with the familiar, however, I soon fell into a state of anger, shame, sadness, guilt, and hopelessness all at once. Hong Kong journalist Chip Tsao recently called the Philippines "a nation of servants" in an article he had written entitled "A War at Home" in the March 27th issue of the popular HK Magazine. In this same article, he even threatened to terminate his employment of a Filipina domestic worker to avoid committing an act of treason "by sponsoring an enemy of the State by paying her to wash my toilet and clean my windows". Though I've always known and been keenly aware that Filipinos, educated and otherwise, travel abroad to work in all sorts of jobs, I don't think it ever really hit me viscerally, even passionately, until I walked into the HSBC lobby that morning.
With all its familiarity, Hong Kong is no New York. It is not home. It may look like it, smell like it, and feel like it, but it isn't It. (NY will always be my home, for all its greatness and all its flaws.) Like no other place I've ever visited, though, Hong Kong did have the gall to open my eyes to the sad state of the country of my ancestors. So for all the angst I feel against the city for its attitudes, I can really only look towards the Philippines as the reason for the (in my opinion, forced) diaspora of its people and the only hope for ever turning things around for Filipinos in Hong Kong and everywhere.
posted by Christina at 7:21 AM
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