Chapter 1
At home, dawn begins at around 05:30 in December. It is 9°C out - I wear a hoodie and fleece to school. At this time of year it is barely cold enough to blow mist. Back then I thought that this was the only winter I’d know.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, the minibus would come right away. I waited three minutes this time - exactly enough for me to savour my favourite song at the time, “Coming Back” by Domo Genesis. The static from my wired earbuds (I think they were from Apliu Street, they looked exactly like the Apple ones) kept me warm inside that brief moment of blue. I never understood the weight of those three minutes of misfortune.
School is only 4 stops away, around a 10 minute ride. The driver lowers the fare for me. I think I owe him $4 from the time I forgot to bring my spare change. Usually, the minibus is empty at this time. I sit on the single seat on the left, right behind the door. It flaps open as he drives. It makes quite a lot of noise, it’s an old minibus. Sometimes the speed meter blinks. What would it all be without these imperfections?
I call my stop. I didn’t always have the courage to say it out loud. He raises his hand and lets me off.
“唔該司機!”
It took me even more courage to say that each time. I wonder what changed? Perhaps it was the familiarity. The directions of home will never, ever change.
Chapter 2
It is winter once again - there is something about the haze of cold that seems to welcome thoughts of stillness amidst the chaos. It is snowing this morning on Whitechapel Road. Funny enough, this is the only place that reminds me of home. There is something about this high street which breathes a resistance in the same language as the wet markets, street stalls and such.
I’ve never seen the snow pile up to this extent during my time here; my friends agree that this is quite the unlikely sight. Yet, the sounds of routine continue to blair across the street, the sheets of tarp are raised at the same time just as any other day. That, I think to myself, is precisely the sound of resistance. We trudge along, each daily task holding a far greater weight. That weight may not be felt, but it exists within each and every soul passing by. It calls out - it is a heart that swells of love, of time, of strength, of tears.
I bring at least one camera and two rolls of film every day, even for the short walk to the hospital (I am a medical student, for context). I try to understand this resistance from nerve to skull. I feel as if my duty here is to capture this silent fight which continues year after year. It must not be forgotten. When you see patients, that is, those in dire need, those whose only light are their breath and waking eyes, you start to see the world differently. You see the aches that have pressed on these communities as they try to find a place in the world.
Each roll of film is my salvation, it is my only avenue of forgiveness. “做人要貼地”, my mum always says. To protect the community that has so warmly embraced me is the least I can do.