Chapter 1
Ma On Shan, Hong Kong, 2019
At home, dawn begins at around 05:30 in December. It is 9°C out - I layer a hoodie and fleece on top of my uniform. I know once I get to school they’ll tell me to take it off. 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 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. I suppose the directions of home are always the same.
Chapter 2
Whitechapel, London, 2022.
It is snowing this morning on Whitechapel Road. There is something about this high street which breathes a resistance in the same language as my home.
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 than one could fathom… Nothing here is ordinary. Even the most mundane actions swell with heart. In some ways, being here helps me learn more about home. It opens my eyes about our endless fight against time.
I keep at least two rolls of film on me every day, even for the short walk to the hospital. I try to understand this resistance from nerve to skull. 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 communities as they try to find a place in the world, still smiling. I realise, it is my utmost duty as a doctor, a photographer, a human, to understand the communities that we serve. I just so happen to do that by carrying a camera around. Some volunteer, some write, some sing, some take a little extra time for their patients. They are all equally as inspiring.
Each roll of film is my salvation, it is my only avenue of forgiveness. This place has given me an endless warmth in the heaping snow. How could I ever let its stories be forgotten?
Chapter 3
East Ham, London, 2025.
It is a dry summer day in East London. It’s easy to forget what sweat feels like in this country, but today I seem to have received a solemn reminder. I stand before a tapestry of diasporic marvel - the smell of burning ghee, the sounds of bells and chants, and a kaleidoscope of rose petals and flames. Today is the day of Chandi Homam, a sacred Hindu procession of fire. A group of around 100 members of the local Tamil community gather tightly underneath a tent in the parking lot of the Sri Murugan Temple. The camera is my third eye and the locals seem to understand this too; I am welcomed with offers of food and drink.
A man named Jaspal stands in a quiet corner; observing, meditating. I am quite surprised at the sight of a Dastaar (Turban) on this occasion. Enveloped by his calm presence, we begin to converse. Despite being a proud Sikh he is endlessly knowledgeable about other faiths, and explains to me the purpose and history of today’s procession. We talk about my own faith, the Tao, and the Abrahamic religions. He says they are all connected by the number 7.
I learn that he frequents not only his local Gurdwara, but other sites of worship as well. He is brazen in his desire to experience religions and cultures outside of his own. “There is only one God. Why discriminate?”
The sunlight splits his face.
“Once you get the photo back, look in between the wrinkles of my forehead. There you will see my third eye. It is what brought us together. The colours are beautiful, aren’t they?”