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References

Toh, J. (2005). Framing History: Displaying the Singapore Family through Photography. The Heritage Journal, 2.

Haldrup, M., & Larsen, J. (2003). The family gaze. Tourist studies, 3(1), 23-46.

Hirsch, M. (1997). Family frames: Photography, narrative, and postmemory. Harvard University Press.

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And now we have come back full circle. Taken this February in 2018, our family reunited once more in Seremban for Chinese New Year. As I sat at the dinner table, I realised just how many things have changed since - my grandparents leaving this world, my aunts and uncles becoming elders, and all the children growing up into young adults with ambitions. But the ties that hold us together will always stay unchanging. I am proud to call them my family.

Distance makes no difference, the heart always finds its way home.

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Over the next few years, my cousins begin to visit Singapore more frequently, some of them for the first time. In the picture on the left, Xiao Ah Yee's immediate family spent a day at Universal Studios Singapore with us in 2014. On the right is something more recent - a we-fie of another aunt (we just call her Ah Yee) and her family with us at Harbourfront. We took on the role of tour guides and showed them around Singapore.

 It follows that tourist photographs of these get-togethers are a given. We "reflexively stage and perform sights, objects and social relations for the camera to produce narratives and lasting memories of blissful family-life" (Haldrup and Larsen, 2003, p.26). It was our way of telling ourselves that we are still together, no matter the time nor distance. In Hirsch's words, "tourist photography is part of the theatre that the family constructs in order to convince itself that it is together and whole" (1997, p.7). I might not have my grandparents around anymore, but I still have my aunts, uncles and cousins.

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With the two heads of the family gone, there was some anxiety over whether the family would continue to stay together. Ah Gong's house was considered our family 'headquarters' and their presence was the major factor behind reunions every year. We wondered if we would ever recover from our loss. I think it was at this point that technology really kept us together. Messaging applications like WeChat and WhatsApp allowed us to stay in touch. They were the platforms that helped us to overcome our grief together. Using them, my mother and her sisters proactively made plans to meet with one another.

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This was taken during Chinese New Year on January 25, 2012. It was also the last photograph we had with our grandmother. A year later, she became bedridden and went into a coma. Fate must have been at work that particular day. My uncle offered to drive us to the train station, but took a detour towards a nearby park. We never went to that park. For some reason, he felt compelled to drive us around instead of taking us straight to our destination. I will never forget the look on my mother's face when the phone call came. We all rushed back to see her. We called for her to wake up for the last time, but she never did. She passed away peacefully, surrounded by her loved ones.

My grandfather had left three years prior. I do not remember much about it. All I knew was that his death left my mother devastated. With the loss of my grandmother, she was completely crushed. I regretted the fact that because we lived so far apart, we could not spend as much time together. I could not imagine how it must have felt for my mother.

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To be honest, I have a closer relationship with my maternal family compared to my paternal side. Their kindness and warmth knows no bounds, especially in the case of my cousins who did their best to make sure my sister and I never felt alienated. Most of us were born around the same time period. Therein lies a shared experience of growing up and going through the years together, even if it took place miles apart. Sometimes, we get to celebrate these milestones in person, like this shot of a few of us during my cousin's birthday on July 14, 2001. There might be the occasional language barrier, like when they are laughing over Cantonese jokes, but they would never fail to include us.

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When you live across the border, travelling back and forth can be an expensive affair. Thus we were limited to festive periods, days that gave the perfect excuse to return. When we do, we treasure those moments, however short-lived. This photograph was taken in 1996 in the yard of Ah Gong's house. The message at the back was penned by my mother for one of my aunts - a bittersweet farewell when my mother had to once again return to Singapore. 

Celebrating Mid-Autumn Festival together was a yearly tradition when I was a child. Being a mischievous bunch, my cousins, my sister and I loved playing with fire (literally). We burned candles, limes, plastic, paper and poor ants. We would set off fireworks next to trees. We even built makeshift campfires. Where else would this be allowed? In Singapore, the last time I did it, the police came.

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Meanwhile, one might consider Malaysia 'backwards'. From personal experience, I cannot help but agree. Drive down Seremban and you will see poorly maintained roads, dilapidated malls, abandoned shops and litter lining the streets. However, I always look forward to going back. Perhaps it is partly due to the slower pace of life there, or the lingering sense of nostalgia because nothing much has changed. The house pictured here, which my maternal family moved into in 1995, has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. We nicknamed it Ah Gong's house. My second home.

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Distance, however, made no difference. Both my mother and her maternal family would always make the effort to visit one another. This photograph was of Ah Gong and one of my uncles when they took a trip down Marina Bay on February 27, 1994. Whenever they visited, they were always amazed by how quick our country developed. After all, juxtapose the skyline in this picture to what stands today and it presents a whole different landscape, created in just a little over a decade.

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Fast forward to 1992, and my mother officially registered her marriage with my father on April 9. This photograph, taken from my mother's drawer containing her most valuable belongings, was taken as they exchanged rings at the Singapore Marriage Registry. She met him when she crossed over to Singapore to work at Hewlett Packard. It marked the start of a new beginning, but it also meant leaving many things behind - her identity as Malaysian, her home, and her family.

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Life was cruel, but the bonds between my family withstood the hardships and only came out stronger. Thankfully, as my mother and her sisters grew up, their financial situation slowly improved. Pictured here are some of them with Ah Ma in front of a small garden. Not just any garden, but that of their new home in 1979. It may not be the most impressive house - just two rooms for eleven people - but it gave hope to my family.

Haldrup and Larsen spoke of the family gaze, and described how that "as a ritual of the domestic cult, families use the camera to display success, unity, and love; it is put to work to immortalise and celebrate the high points of family life" (2003). The otherwise ordinary-looking image becomes significant - a milestone of how they overcame all odds, a sign that there could only be better things to come.  

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With not a single cent to his name, Ah Gong worked as a karang guni man to make ends meet. My grandmother (Ah Ma) had to care for nine children. There was little money, so everyone relied on hand-me-downs. By the time bags or clothes were passed to my mother, it would be tattered and torn beyond recognition.

Yet when I look at this 1964 family portrait above - a depiction of the 'ideal' for the typical nuclear family - I see a stark contrast to their circumstances. "The photograph, as an object, resides in a space of contradiction between familial myth and the reality of the photographed family as it can easily show us what we wish the family to be, though this may not usually be the case" (Toh, 2005, p.53). This could never have been truer. Underneath the prim and proper exterior exists a longing to return to what was - a life out of poverty, a place to call home.

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Stacks of photographs were cramped into a drawer in the living room of my Seremban home. This was the only one of my grandfather as a child. I asked my mother about it and she told me of a past I never knew of. Back in the 1900s, the Lim family was considered one of the richest in the neighbourhood. Being the oldest son, my grandfather (Ah Gong) was set to inherit much of the wealth.

That was until my great-grandmother fell severely ill. An uncle, for reasons I do not know of, rummaged her closet and found a slip of 'sale' paper. One that revealed the horrible truth - Ah Gong was not of Lim blood. He was literally bought. A family from China sold him for a mere 100RM when he was a baby. 

Not being of the same bloodline meant no place being the eldest son. Ah Gong was chased out of the house, together with his wife - my grandmother - and his children. In one day, he lost everything.

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Distance makes no difference, the heart always finds its way home.

2018 offered the rare opportunity for me to travel back to Malaysia to reunite with my maternal family. For two whole years, life kept things hectic. School. Commitments. It essentially forced me into missing out on every gathering. I was initially troubled that they would become aloof, even evasive, towards me - a family member who seemingly did not value her ties enough to find time to return home. However, my worries were unfounded. Almost immediately, we were back to our good old shenanigans - teasing each other over finding partners, singing karaoke, playing banluck. It was as if nothing has changed.

Love knows no boundaries. This is a story of my family.