How time flies! Through the mist of the years that had gone by, spanning a period of more than a century of estrangement with our relatives in China, the video call finally came through on a bright Sunday morning at 11am on 12 April 2026.
Literally, it was a dream come true.
As we gathered eagerly in my house in Petaling Jaya, Malaysia – my two children, my niece and my daughter-in-law, all waiting in breathless anticipation – I could hardly believe that this moment was finally here.
On the other side of the screen, our relatives in China were also gathered in a similar setting in a coastal village called Cheo Khoon in Fujian (福建) province.
Faces filled with excitement, curiosity and emotion waited to meet each other across generations and oceans.
And yet, none of this would have been possible without an unexpected discovery.
It all began with an old photograph.
A faded black-and-white image taken in 1957 – 69 years ago – showing our relatives in China. For decades, it had remained quietly among family keepsakes, its significance almost forgotten.
Then, in a twist no one could have predicted, a niece posted it on TikTok. From that single post, connections were traced, messages were exchanged and slowly, impossibly, long-lost relatives were found.
What followed was this moment.
My father had left his village in China in 1923, arriving in Malaya as a young 18-year-old on a Chinese junk, joining his aunt in Taiping.
Like many immigrants of his time, he was driven by the hope of a better life. Life in China then, he often told me, was harsh beyond imagination.
Families struggled to survive on small plots of land that had been worked repeatedly for generations. Meat and fish were rare luxuries, available only on festive days.
Even then, food had to be carefully rationed and preserved for harder times. Clothes were repeatedly patched until they could no longer be worn, while new ones were kept so carefully they were often damaged by moths before being used.
Despite these hardships, my father built a life in Malaysia, raised five children, and never regretted his decision to leave. He passed away in 1971 at the age of 66.
Today, the situation could not be more different.
China has changed dramatically, and so have the relationships between families separated by migration.
Where once overseas Chinese visitors were met with hopes of assistance, today they are welcomed as honoured guests. In fact, one of my nephews in China, now a dental surgeon, had already announced that he would close his clinic for a few days just to host us when we visit.
That warmth was already evident even through the screen.
During the video call, I was given the honour of introducing my family. At 85 years old, I had prepared carefully, writing my notes on a piece of paper.
As I do not speak Mandarin, I had to rely on my Hokkien, brushing up not only my vocabulary but also the familiar accent my relatives in China would recognise. It was not an easy task, but I did my best.
And I believe it was well received.
What struck me most during the call was not just the introductions, but the overwhelming sense of familiarity.
Smiles appeared instantly, some laughter followed, and in between, moments of quiet emotion that no translation was needed for. After more than a century of separation, we were finally speaking face to face.
Chinese culture, as I reflected during the call, places great importance on kinship and genealogy. Relationships are defined with remarkable precision – an elder brother of one’s father is Ah Peh (阿伯), a younger brother Ah Chaik, an elder sister Ah Khor (阿姑), and a younger sister Ah Ee (阿姨). Unlike in many cultures where all are simply “uncle” or “aunty”, these distinctions reflect a deep respect for family hierarchy and connection.
Looking at the screen, I realised how meaningful these distinctions truly are. They are not just words, but reminders of where we come from.
As the call drew to a close, I reminded my family that while we must embrace modern connectivity to ensure we are never again estranged from our relatives in China, we must also remember who we are.
Yes, we are proud of our Chinese heritage. But we are Malaysians first.
By the time the video call ended, it was almost time for lunch. And as true-blue Malaysians, we marked the occasion in the most fitting way possible – with nasi lemak from a nearby Malay restaurant.
A simple meal, but one that felt like a celebration of reunion, memory and belonging.
