Where is Home? What is a ‘home’?

As I sit to type this at my all-purpose table used for dining, writing and teaching, morning sunlight filters through the leaves of the tall trees outside my windows, trees which I have grown to love like old friends. The sound of early morning traffic no longer irritates. It is strangely reassuring to know that people, some of them kind neighbours, are up and about as a new day begins. Faint birdsong can still be heard in this concrete urban space in which I have made my home after retirement.

What makes us feel we are home? Is this feeling constant, unchanging and rooted in a single locale or one geographical spot? To reflect further, I refer the interested reader of this essay to the diagram below, which I have used over many decades of teaching to help my long-suffering students analyse a protagonist’s development in a short story or novel.  

In a way, ‘home’ is defined by the relationships and forces which encircle us. We are defined by the circles which surround us ranging from the most intimate and immediate, family and close friends to other circles. Our own community, village or township is the next circle. Then comes the circle I have termed ‘society’ because it involves more clearly the forces of government like law courts, appointed agents of religious surveillance, even schools and so on. The last circle can be defined in diverse ways. This ‘numinous’ domain can be informed by the great religions. But for an atheist or others? Each person chooses his own definition of where his conscience lodges so that he may search for his moral compass.

The first circle of family and friends embeds memories of home which often reawaken our five senses of sight, smell, touch, hearing and taste. Food is such a wonderful conveyor of the comfort of home to the senses. I remember the delicious hokkien mee of my childhood. It was fried with a dark soy sauce piquant with a delicious mix of saltiness and sweetness, redolent of garlic, the prawns and pork slices mixed with a generous amount of lard (do not tell your cardiologist or he will have a heart attack!). For me, this mee is forever linked to one of my grandmothers whom I still see in my mind’s eye dividing one small packet of mee among four grandchildren, leaving herself only a few spoonfuls. It was from her few dollars saved that she spent one precious dollar on a treat for us. Thus, food is always linked to relationships and feelings, a realm which feeds our sense of belonging.

Close, trusted friends do nurture us in a mutual sharing of encouragement and in empathetic listening. I like the quote from George Eliot (pen name for Marianne Evans, British writer of the Victorian era) who says, “Friendship is the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words.” This is because, George Eliot adds, “A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one’s heart, chaff and grain together knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” With such friends, we feel at home.

In schools, if we are lucky, teachers can birth in us a sense of belonging when they encourage us to use our abilities to the fullest. From primary school to university level, I have had some wonderful teachers who guided me in my exploring of words. Both Malay and English were like vessels that helped me sail to a wider world while anchoring me on home shores too. My big regret is that I never learnt Chinese. I am confident that it is not too late for me to learn spoken Mandarin. As a Malaysian Chinese, it is pointless denying that I have cultural ties to China. In no way does this affiliation undermine my steadfast loyalty as a citizen of Malaysia, the land where I was born. My mother was born in China but because of family poverty was brought to British Malaya by a rich Chinese family (I would not want to say ‘sold’ but perhaps she was).

Her story, never fully told, came in bits of conversation from other lips. But when she was ironing clothes which she laundered for people to bring up three children, I saw her tears as she was listening to Rediffusion playing  The Wandering Songstress, a classic Mandarin song by the legendary Zhou Xuan. Did the plaintive voice and sad lyrics remind my mother of her enforced separation from family and home? The China she remembers underwent many social-political changes during her 80-over years of life.

Change is an unavoidable constant in life, so how do changes affect our sense of home? The circle in my diagram which refers to governments, institutions and social-political developments can be stable or volatile often depending on political winds. People have been driven into chosen exile or become refugees by unexpected social-political changes, war and violence. Others have chosen to remain and continue to struggle for what their moral compasses dictate. Even within families, change and conflict are inevitable. Older folk pass away, younger ones leave home for other locales. Disagreements in some families can destroy the sanctity of home as a sanctuary.

In this essay, I want to steer away from darker thoughts because at 78 years old, I focus on the enduring nurturance of home and a sense of belonging. Home is the sustaining essence of our personhood which we carry with us whatever geographical locale we travel to. We keep this sense of home yet shall not be afraid to add to it new elements carefully selected from other cultures we come to know well.

Reflecting anew on Alexis de Tocqueville’s timeless phrase “habits of the heart”, those unlegislated yet importantly crucial thoughts, feelings and actions which should guide us as citizens, I pray that equality, fairness, inclusivity and justice will never disappear even if power and greed continue to stalk our world. The enduring “habits of the heart” go beyond political control. These values call to the numinous in us and will echo resonantly in the core of human beings.

As I conclude this essay, the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the tall trees outside my apartment window has dimmed as small raindrops begin to fall. But it is still soothing to hear gentle raindrops. In remembering home, I prefer to draw delight, strength and tranquillity from memories of love and caring. In my imagination, I taste again the delicious chicken curry and potatoes cooked by my mother and savour once more the flavourful chai choy or vegetarian dish prepared by my sister every Chinese New Year.

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