The Street of Hong Kong

This so-called mother of mine was a creature from hell whose anger, greed, and hatred, like a poison snake, succeeded in dominating the territory that we called home. I have never witnessed any kindness in her, except when she complained that her elder sister had no right to adopt a little girl only to beat her and burn her with cigarettes. How nobly oblivious to her own conduct she was, considering all her abuses and the satisfaction she drew from inflicting pain on me. She took pride in her caution to never burn me with cigarettes or hit me on the head. Under her care I learned of fear, but I was too young to know hate. But even then, I knew that there was nothing I could do for her. In fact, I got so used to her beatings that as time went by, no matter how hard she hit me, eventually I learned to deprive her of pleasure from the senseless violence by controlling my tears. The strategy worked, and the interval between the beatings gradually extended from weekly to bi-weekly, then monthly to bi-monthly. By then, I became increasingly withdrawn from the contentious family environment. To avoid being yelled at or beaten up at home altogether, I started to venture out into the world-- a neighborhood of working class families, infused with thousands of street vendors and shoppers in a market place that was extended to several long street blocks. I quickly befriended many street children. We walked or chased one another up and down the street market and alleyways as if it was a fairground. At night, I spent hours catching beetles under street lamps, then went to sleep atop empty fruit or vegetable stands under the stars. The market was my haven away from the abuse at home. That was especially true after I was introduced to those seemingly hardened characters like heroin junkies and street thugs. Their nods of acknowledgment signaled my acceptance into their crowds. For a time, our recreations were expanded into shoplifting, gambling, and beating up kids from outside of our neighborhood, though soon, I would bear witness to a seedy underworld that further altered my youthful innocence and complicated my views of humanity.

I had evolved into a street-wise kid and a runner-up gang member in a reputedly violent triad known as the Wo On Lok (Shui Fong). On one rare occasion, I met the patriarch, a big, tall, fatherly figure who was immensely powerful, but acted gentlemanly with his rather mild manner. I remember how he kindly advised us that a gangster doesn't engage in fighting... if not for the intention to kill. Then he went on to confirm that a war with a rival group of gangs had been scheduled to take place. And I was expected to participate on a certain day. The plan was to fill a couple of cars with weapons, such as swords and spears or sharpened metal pipes. For the purpose of avoiding being stopped by the police, fighters would be transported in other vehicles to the soccer field for the battle. However young and foolish I was, I secretly counted the days, but hid away from the occasion. To my relief, the fight was later canceled due to a truce with the rival gang. There was no consequence for me other than being told that I wouldn’t be initiated into a fully fledged member. This verdict didn't bother me at all, because in fact I didn't exactly like some of those tough kids, and I often found their conduct downright despicable. So I continued to move about the neighborhood afterward, no different than I'd always been. Playing tough and practicing kung fu on sidewalks was the escape and fun I needed to be away from home. Besides, there was always free lunch at loan sharks’ tables in fancy restaurants. Sometimes I hung out in illegal gambling joints run by mobs, where I could always get free food and drinks. On one occasion, I met several policemen who came into the gambling joint after midnight. Under the fanfare, they proudly showed off their new guns and batons to the bouncers and dealers. Later, the group of cops walked off into the night with piles of money. I heard that every policeman in the district would have his share.

It's fair to say that the Triad has a strong hold on the Chinese society high and low. However, they produced little obvious ill effects or dissent in the communities because of the age-old cooperation between gangs and police; thus, people consented to the mob rule, as we all knew who was really our common enemy: the British oppressors who ruled Hong Kong through racial inequality and continuous drain of Chinese resources. It is important to consider that the majority of Chinese in Hong Kong weren't exactly politically conscious citizens. As long as life remained a vanity fair, there was no need for rebellion. The Chinese majority simply retained its cultural unity and traditional values by keeping the foreigners in charge at bay, while outwardly participating in the colonial system out of economic necessity. As a result, secret ties and corruption were a way of life behind the foreign figurehead. I first learned about the collaboration between the police and the mob through a tragic incident in which my best friend, Shrimp Boy, died at the age of thirteen in a kung fu match called Zhang-Dar (Magic-Fight), a form of ancient martial arts most secretly guarded and passed on only to disciples through the rigid sanction of the master. Hence, little was known about it since the practice was not commonly taught in the mainstream martial arts schools even today. The reason for its secrecy may have been in the paradox of its fighting style. For unlike other forms of kung fu that required vigorous physical training, the fighting technique in Zhang-Dar emphasized the spiritual devotion to the ancestral spirit, a mythological figure or a certain deceased master in the paranormal realm who would serve as a source of power once the archetypal warrior spirit had been invoked in the disciple. Perhaps Zhang-Dar may be viewed as a form of Chinese voodoo because the participant would lose consciousness of himself as if possessed by a spirit. He became insensitive to pain and injury, capable of extraordinary strength and exceptional speed in fighting. Unfortunately, I cannot elaborate any more on this form of kung fu because of my limited one-time experience that ended in the death of a dear friend.

Shrimp Boy was a small kid compared to most teens of our age. We lived in the same apartment complex and became inseparable best friends for a few years before we mingled with the local gangs. He was a sweet and mischievous boy, well loved by the people on the street. No one knows exactly where he acquired Zhang-Dar. I heard that out of nowhere one day he started to demonstrate his fighting skills to friends. So it was on that fateful night when a large crowd gathered at the usual street corner. Soon, they were cheering him on for a Zhang-Dar demonstration. At first, he was reluctant to go forward, but eventually convinced himself because of the mock and laud generated at that moment. I was standing amongst a crowd of about fifteen youngsters whom we considered brothers. We were watching him intently as he quietly centered himself with shut eyes amid the commotion. Then he slowly moved into a posture with knees bent in a half kneeling “sitting horse” position, with both hands joined above his head and two index fingers pointing skyward. It seemed that he was murmuring or chanting something briefly. Then, with a sudden stomp on the ground, he began to breathe heavily, eyes rolled upward, moving around in confrontational poses. At this point, we knew that the spirit of the master had entered the body of Shrimp Boy. One by one, friends began to exchange blows with kicks and punches. For a while, no one could get near him or defeat him because he was exceptionally fast and strong. Then they started to fight him in threes, then five men all at once. Still, he stood his ground and remained unbeatable. Only then, one old friend, a heavy set teenager who stood nearly six feet tall, approached Shrimp Boy from behind, picked up the five feet two inches little Shrimp Boy by the neck, and at once dropped him down onto the pavement. Instantaneously, everyone came to a halt. The fight was over. All of us started laughing and joking about his defeat while Shrimp Boy lay there motionless. Then minutes passed and we began to notice that there was no sign of life from him. All the so-called brothers began to disperse into the night quickly. Soon, only a few of us were left on the scene. It was I and one other friend who finally took him to the hospital in a taxi. He was pronounced dead on arrival.

It was past midnight when the doctor on duty inspected the body of Shrimp Boy thoroughly and found that he was covered in bruises. The hospital staff called the police and we were immediately arrested on suspicion of murder. Back in the police station, we were questioned separately, and for hours we tried to explain what happened, repeating the events of the night in minute detail, except that we never mentioned the kid who was responsible for dropping Shrimp Boy to the ground. The Chinese inspectors were skeptical at first, but when they found that our separate testimonies matched, they eventually gave in and admitted to us that although they believed in the possibility of Zhang-Dar, they knew that the British court would never accept such explanation. So they simply said sorry and promptly locked us up in the jail without further questioning. For a couple of hours, we sat behind bars in the grimy basement, exhausted and in total desperation because of the death of our best friend, and fearing the impending charge of murder. Just when all hope was lost, suddenly we heard shouting coming from the distant hallway; as the shoving noises became louder and louder, finally a man in shorts who was unknown to us pushed his way to our cell, with two policemen hesitantly following behind him. The man demanded one of the police unlock the cell gate, and he commanded that we come out and leave with him. As the man led us away hastily, storming from the cell up the stairs to the station lobby, we passed by one policeman after another, and all of them were petrified, with their bewilderment over this tense situation evident in their eyes. Just as we were about to step out of the station door, a man in plain clothes suddenly appeared in front of us with arms outstretched in an effort to block us from going further. At once, these two men started yelling as if they were about to wrestle on the spot. The man who blocked the door shouted, “I am in charge here. You have no right to come here and take them out just like that!” Just as loudly, the man who had freed us shouted back, “I am the chief and I know these boys are best friends. This is no murder and I ensure you of that!” Then he gave us a hard push on our backs and we were out of the door in the open while they continued to exchange shouts inside the station. It was within only a minute that the police chief came out the front door alone. He drove us back to our neighborhood in his squad car and released us without saying a word.

By all means, I was just an average kid caught up in a tough environment. Since there was no place for me at home, I found refuge in the mean streets, where harmless vendors and violent criminals alike welcomed me into their companies. In school, I had the attention of several young ladies, and my classmates respected me because I was supposedly cool and well-connected. I also managed to gain the affection of a few teachers because of the good grades I earned in art and literature. I especially loved the art class, mostly because the teacher who taught Chinese ink paintings, unlike any Confucian stiff, was a free-spirited artist. He often walked into the class without uttering a single word, then just laid out the rice paper and started painting on his own. The class of forty or more students would begin to chatter and gradually erupt into sword fights with paintbrushes, throwing color tubes and splashing ink all over. It was always at that moment, just as we tried to stuff shoes and socks into one another faces, as things began to fly across the classroom, that our art teacher would let out an earth-shaking shout: “Quiet!” But he would never even bother to lift his eyes off the painting in progress. Perhaps I wasn't the rowdiest of the bunch. Once, a pencil portrait of mine actually earned third place in an art competition among three thousand students.

Unfortunately, the charms of my social life never made it across the threshold of my family doorway. Gradually, I stayed out more and more often. Eventually I returned home only during the day, when my parents were away at work. Then one day in the darkened apartment hallway, I crossed paths with my mother unexpectedly. Our brief exchange quickly turned hostile. Like many times before, again she swung her arm in an attempt to hit me. But for whatever courage I had, or maybe only by reflex, in a split second I caught her wrist in midair. As she struggled to shake off my grip, I held on ever tighter without uttering a word. Not until I sensed that she had finally admitted defeat and deflated like a balloon did I let go of the arm that had struck me so many times. It was at that moment I suddenly noticed that I had grown taller than she-- the crazy woman who had beaten me for years. From then on, she regained her compassion and never hit me again.

>> CONTINUE...

Artist As Young Dog, oil on canvas, 24x18 in.

1-- I Remember China >>

2-- The Family In Hong Kong >>

3-- The Street of Hong Kong >>

4-- Monsters Among Us >>

5-- The Wind of Change >>