home

home n. 1. a place where one lives; 2. an institution for the care of the elderly, orphans, etc.-adj. 1. of one’s home, birthplace, or native country; 2. sport played on one’s own ground.

“I am going to go to see a family nearby, do you want to come?” you ask me.

“Family? What kind of family? Not your family?”

“No. They are Bengalis.”

Is not very normal you want see other family. Because you not really like family concept. You say family against community. You say family is a selfish product.

It seems that you like other’s family more than you like your own. In this Bengali family, you know those kids for many years, since you worked as youth worker. In a house, between Brick Lane and Bethnal Green Road, old Bengali mother raises ten children. Is big three-floor house with ten little rooms. Five childrens are from same mother, and another five childrens are from another woman but with the same man. The father, a Bengali married man, came to London twenty-five years ago and remarried to this mother in London. He ran some business between England and Bangladesh. Then he died, left one family in London, one family in Bangladesh. But the five Bangladesh-living children want come to London, so they were brought here living with this London mother. These kids are from three to twenty-four. The youngest one was born in 2000. How strange a child born of that year! He only can say “bye-bye” in English. The oldest one just graduated from the Goldsmith College. He studied Politics and he wants become lawyer.

“I not understand how mother can raise ten children without a husband,” I say in little voice. “And she doesn’t have any job either!”

“That’s why I like this family. They just get on with their life without making any fuss. They have a small business making earrings and necklaces from home.”

“And two groups of children from different mother, they don’t fight at all?”

“No. They enjoy sharing life together, not like other families. I wish my family was like this.”

“Do you hate your family?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t like them. They are sad people. I broke away from them many years ago.”

You go into silent.

I can’t imagine what like to break up with my family. Even though my mother very bad temper and make me pain, my life relies on them, and I can’t survive without them.

“Do you want have family with me?” I ask.

“Aren’t we a family now?” you say.

“No, a real family.”

“What is a real family?”

‘“House, husband and wife, then have some children, then cooking dinner together, then travel together…”

“I thought the Chinese were supposed to be Communists.”

You seem like making fun. What you mean?

We look at each other, no more discussion on this.

You say salaam malai coom to the old mother. The mother, she is covered in old green Sari. Her skin is deep brown and lots of wrinkles on her face. She never any education and never speak one word English. She always smiles and very little talking. When her children talks in English loudly in TV room and watching BBC she just sit there, peacefully watching, like she understand they say. Bathroom flush doesn’t work and shower doesn’t work. There is not money to fix house. But it seem fine for them. It seem their life is not messy at all. They use cold-water-shower once a week, and they don’t use toilet paper because they always use water to clean then tip bucket down loo.

There are drug dealers doing business outside of their windows, and many drunkens pass by with bottles clunkling every night, but the family not get any harm.

In Chinese, it is the same word “

” (jia) for “home” and “family” and sometimes including “house.” To us, family is same thing as house, and this house is their only home too. “

,” a roof on top, then some legs and arms inside. When you write this character down, you can feel those legs and arms move around underneath the roof. Home, is a dwelling house for the family to live.

But English, it’s different. In Roget’s Thesaurus, “Family” related to: subdivision, greed, genealogy, parental, posterity, community, nobility.

It seems like that “family” doesn’t mean a place. Maybe in West people just move round from one house to another house? Always looking for a house, maybe that’s the lifelong job for Westerners.

I keep telling you I need a home. Your face look gloomy, and seem disappointed that you cannot make me happy.

“But I am your home,” you say.

“Yes, but you always move around, and you don’t want live in this house.”

“You’re right. I’m tired of living in the city.” Then you add, “I can’t see myself getting married either.”

“But I like city and like to have marriage. So that mean we can’t have a home together,” I confirm.

“No, I didn’t say that,” you say.

You look distant to me.

Love mean home. Or, home mean love?

The fear of without home. Maybe that why I love you? The simple fear?

I am building the Great Wall around you and me because I am too scared to lose the home. I been living in that big fear since my childhood.

You barely ask my childhood. To you it a blind zone. When I look back my childhood I realise how violence of my emotional world was.

We were peasants. My parents worked in rice fields. They not making shoes until I graduated from high school. After they understood they never earn money from their fields, they sold fields cheaply, and start making small business. I always being beaten up by big girls. In village people show their emotion by hitting and shouting to each other. My father hit me sometimes, also my mother. That was normal.

We were poor. The food was not enough. I was frightened to eat more than my mother expected in every meal. Occasionally there was some fried porks on the table, and it smelled like heaven. But I dared not to reach my chopsticks to the meat, which prepared only for my father. Man needs meat and man is more important than woman, of course. I looked at pork and my heart was squeezed by the desire. I give away anything for could bite one piece fried pork! My mother always watched out on the table. I hated her, but also frightened by her. She would beat my chopsticks if I reached that pork.

My mother had very bad temper. Maybe she hated me because I was an useless girl. She cannot have the second children because we have one child policy. Maybe that’s why she beated me up. For her disappointment. Life to her was unfair too. She was beated up by her mother for marrying my father. She was deprive everything which belonged to her since she married him.

When I grow up from teenage, I couldn’t trust anything and anybody. Maybe I even don’t have concept of “trust” at all. It not existing in my dictionary. First, I couldn’t trust my country. We told that we are proud of thousands of years history but next day we saw beautiful old temples being demolished into ruins. All old things have to be demolished and to be cleaned up. Does that mean our past value nothing anymore?

I need make my own home, a home with my lover. But I don’t know how keep that home, all the time, for rest of my life. I’m scared I will lose that love. The fear is like poison in the every corner in my heart. That what you dislike.

“You should trust me. I’m not going to fall in love with somebody else,” you say.

“But who knows? I can trust you, but I don’t trust when you are seduced by someone,” I say.

“But you have to trust me,” you insist.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you not fall in love with new person. You can trust me, but perhaps I fall in love with the new person. So what is trust really?”