My father is a man who doesn’t show much affection to his children. That was how I perceived him when I was a child—he was a strict figure in the family. To my siblings and me (there are eight of us), our father was authoritative and fearsome. When he got angry, he only needed to stare at us and we would break down and cry. We hardly dared to go near him and spent most of our time with our late mother. Whenever our father came home, we would disappear. It was not our fault, nor was it his; he had been brought up in a traditional environment where love was neither shown nor expressed.
Nevertheless, I still remember the hardships my father went through during his younger days and while raising us. He started working as a construction worker at the age of 17. As the years passed, our family grew bigger with eight children. In those early years, when he had to fend for the family, he worked tirelessly and never stopped providing for us. We were poor, but he made sure we never starved. Our late mother used to tell us that when we were very little, we survived on porridge with soy sauce, and we moved houses frequently. At times, we had to squat at our maternal grandmother’s house. Gradually, my father learned construction skills and eventually became a B1-class (small-scale) building contractor.
Even so, life remained difficult and we barely had enough. My father was constantly under stress, wondering how to get more money to meet the family’s needs. He once told us that there were moments when he felt so overwhelmed that he contemplated suicide because of the tremendous pressure of daily life. Thank God he never gave up on us. Although we were merely existing, we were happy—partly because our parents never scolded or beat us even during tough times, and partly because we were too young to understand the hardships they were facing.
As my siblings and I grew older, our expenses increased, and that posed an even greater challenge for my father. Supporting a large family was no easy task. He started with small projects and eventually took on bigger ones. However, due to a lack of funds, he had to take loans from banks and from close family friends. Being an honest man, he repaid every loan. Money came in from completed projects, but it went out just as quickly to pay workers and settle debts. There was constant struggle, even though life had improved slightly. My late grandmother used to nag him to give away my younger siblings when they were small—thank God he never did.
One of my most unforgettable memories of my father was during a big flood in my hometown. When the water rose to knee level, my father—the hero—carried each of us on his shoulders, one by one, to higher ground. He fought the strong currents and danger to bring us to safety before the rescue team arrived. Another memory was our occasional visit to the Rest House. Once in a blue moon, he would bring us there for chicken chop—a luxurious meal for us. We looked forward to it, especially after he received payment for a project. At other times, he would buy us Hokkien Mee for supper, which we relished. Whenever we asked about the cost, he would say, “Just eat, don’t ask.” All he wanted was to see his children enjoy their food without worrying about money.
After many years of struggle, my father’s hard work finally paid off. He was persistent and tenacious, sacrificing his youth and energy for our family. We are grateful to our parents for raising us well and ensuring we completed our education. Except for my elder sister and me, the rest of my siblings managed to further their studies overseas.
My father was especially regretful about denying me the chance to study abroad. After Form 5, I wanted to go overseas like my friends, but he told me he didn’t want me to go too far. I later learned that he simply didn’t have the money, so he gave an excuse. I went on to do Sixth Form and later attended teachers’ training college. I only discovered the truth after I was accepted into University Malaya, following 13 years of service in a government school. I still remember how proud he was, going around telling everyone that I had gotten into UM. I told him I was no longer young, so there was no need to announce it to everyone. That was when he revealed the small secret in his heart—he had carried the guilt of not being able to fulfil my wish to study abroad, and that guilt stayed with him until I entered UM. I assured him that I had never been angry or disappointed. I am thankful that God gave me the chance to release him from that burden.
Until my late mother passed in 2014, my siblings and I did not have a very close relationship with our father. Our interactions were formal, respectful, and cautious. After her passing, we took turns spending more time with him. Over the years, we have grown closer and understand him much better. He has many regrets, but we always encourage him to count his blessings. He is blessed with eight successful children who love and care for him. Now, at 90 years old, he is still energetic and joyful. Thank God for his mobility and good health. Although he takes many types of medicine, he remains active—stretching and walking every morning, chatting with younger friends, and playing mahjong in his leisure time.
My father has worked hard all his life and is proud of his stories. Whenever he has the chance to share about his younger days, be prepared to sit for longer than you expect—he has countless stories. He will tell you about encountering wild boars at work sites, or how he had sleepless nights worrying about banking in money so his cheques wouldn’t “pop,” which would damage his credibility. He will also talk about the kind Samaritans who helped him along the way, and how God has watched over him and our family all these years. We always encourage him to write his memoir because his long, bittersweet stories are precious—stories of a courageous young man who persevered through life’s challenges. We are proud of our father. Like the song My Way—he truly did it his way.
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