Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 361

Paintings of the Past
Carmel School - Elsa High School, Lustgarten, Lihi - 12
My name is Rain I’m only seven years old, I don’t know how to divide fractions, I don't know how to read a
book with four hundred pages and I don’t know how to bake a cake. But I do know that this is not normal: it’s
not normal to hide your beliefs; it’s not normal to ignore your traditions; and it is not normal to forget about
your culture, to forget about who you are. I was born here in the Great Bay Area, I was born eight months after
Hong Kong, China and Macau decided to merge into one big country. Hong Kong was an international city,
people from all around the world lived there, contributed to society with their own traditions. Everyone thought
that this would only bring good to the country, but it didn’t, it led to disaster. Cultures wrecked other cultures
and as a result there were protests every day, police everywhere, and anything that represented culture - like
museums or churches - were destroyed.
I try to stay positive, I try to be strong. I listen to my grandparents every night, they tell me about the past, how
it was before, when everyone could be themselves where cultures were respected and not ruined. I am always
fascinated with their stories; I always want to hear more. Since my grandparents don’t have pictures I always
imagine what it looked like back then, then I paint it. My room is filled with different paintings: of my family
eating a traditional dinner together, of kids happily running around in the park with no guards or a group of
policemen behind them, of the view that I see from my room without any controversial signs blocking the
buildings.
A few days ago I had a dream that has been keeping me awake for a while. I can’t remember much it all seems
very blurry when I think about it. In the dream I was with all my family we were all sitting together in a bright
room with beautiful decorations on the walls and a huge table with an enormous amount of food on it, it looked
like we were celebrating Chinese New Year, but it looked a lot different than the way we usually celebrate it. In
the dream we were laughing, singing loudly and talking non stop, watching the fireworks from the window
facing us. In real life we have to be quiet, other people can’t hear us, there are no decorations or light because we
don’t want people to see us and there are no fireworks because it is forbidden to do anything that is related to any
cultures. At the end of the dream a group of people came and destroyed all the decorations and food which made
all of my family devastated. After I woke up I made a painting about my dream. On the piece of paper you could
see that one side was red and one was white, there were people on the red side, pushing the people on the white
side and people on the white side are pushing the people on the red side.The two sides represent the different
cultures and the people pushing each other represents the way people destroy others religion.
● ● ●
It is getting worse, the protests are now next to my building. I can’t sleep at night with all the screaming and
yelling, in all different languages, arguing about what you should wear, what holidays you should celebrate and
what you should believe.
This morning my father called a family meeting, everyone gathered around together sitting on our old couch in
our small living room. My father walked around back and forth with a worried face holding a newspaper in one
hand and a phone in the other.
He began talking: “I just read the newspaper and it says that everyone in building 235 in central needs to
evacuate.”
“Why what happened?” my mother interrupted.
“It says that the building next to us is planning to set an old chinese antique store on fire and it could
cause a fire in our building too.”
“But I love that store and our home, I don’t want to leave,” I said trying to hold my breath.
My father’s phone rang, I ran to my room slammed the door and started crying. I couldn't believe that the one
thing that made me feel like myself was being taken away from me, my home. This was the only thing that was
left from my culture, my house was decorated with traditional chinese furniture that used to be my grandma’s;
every table, every chair and every box had a special story to it.