ICONS: JULIE WONG

I never knew my grandmother, Julie Wong. I was only a child when she passed away at the age of 76. As with everything else she did in life, she died with impeccable style. She took breakfast, retired to her favourite armchair with a copy of the South China Morning Post, and stayed there till her body was found, like a woman who slips on her coat at the end of a long night and leaves quietly through the side door.

Born in Kobe, Japan to Chinese parents in 1915, she was raised speaking impeccable Cantonese, English and Japanese. Her parents engineered a match with a man of similar standing—Wong Chi Po, the son of a comprador who acted as the intermediary between foreign ships and Hong Kong’s commercial trade. The comprador had two wives and seven concubines, but only one produced the wished-for son, who was lavished with attention and riches. This was the man my grandmother married. They fell in love when she was invited to visit Hong Kong, over shrimp-catching in the New Territories.

Unlike the comprador’s nine women, my grandmother produced a son on her second try. Her husband followed in the comprador’s footsteps. Being an intermediary for British merchants meant keeping up with British drinking. He would stagger back to the house late at night, slurring his love for Julie and trying to make it up to her with expensive jewellery. She said “thank you very much” and returned it in the morning.

Japan bombed Pearl Harbour on December 7, 1941, and Great Britain surrendered Hong Kong on Christmas Day. The old comprador died of worry (or, possibly, opium withdrawal—my uncle still has his pipe). Julie’s father had already died in a Japanese prison, accused of being a revolutionary. There were three long years of occupation. Women cut off their hair and dirtied their faces to avoid the gaze of soldiers. There are no pictures of my grandmother from this time.

My grandfather’s British colleagues were taken as prisoners of war and held at an internment camp. Julie visited them frequently, her newborn son in her arms and smuggled food rations secreted on her person. When a Japanese soldier blocked her way, she replied in pleasant Japanese. He was pleased enough to give her baby an apple, at a time when most Chinese survived off grains of rice.

I only met my grandmother once, when I was a toddler. By this point, she was living in 30 Peak Road, a lavish house on the mountain that overlooks Hong Kong’s harbour. (Lucky for my family, the comprador’s son worked as hard as he drank.) She called me “Little Princess” because I cried incessantly and demanded the same woven slippers she had gifted my brother.

I have no recollection of Julie; all I remember from the visit is lying on the backseat of a car that glided up the lazy, looping road up to the Peak. Do I remember the smell of her hairspray, or is that just a false memory? Have I memorised the height of her beehive from photos, or is this a remembrance of something true and real? If your grandmothers are still alive, ask them about their lives – I wish I had. All I have now are photos.

Words by Zing Tsjeng

@miss_zing