Author: Noir
Translated By: Wks
Photo: Julia Wood

What were you doing on your last evening in Hong Kong? 

In unison, the couple answered, “We packed and cleaned our home till past midnight.” 

Aamosi and Jisitip has lived in their home for more than a decade since getting married and giving birth to their 10-year-old daughter Naangomai. A decade of sentiments and memories were embodied in objects on shelves and boxes.

Tired hands sorted through items that dated back to their youth: bookmarks with personal messages from friends, complete manga series, worn-out Haruki Murakami novels, decorative items, stationaries and keepsakes from various occasions. Some items they photographed before throwing them away, but there were simply too many memories, even for a photograph.

The hardest thing for Aamosi to let go of was the tortoise that lives beside his desk. Whenever Aamosi is buried in his work, the tortoise would crawl over to rest next to him, attracted by the light of his Aamosi’s desk lamp. The consolation was that they found new owners for the tortoises before they left.

Jisitip’s process of Danshari, or letting go, began with her most treasured piano. The alternating black and white keys symbolize her rhythm of disciplined practice as well as the absence of her playing. As her hands danced over the keys, the songs brought back memories of younger days with her parents.

She made more time for her parents in the days before leaving Hong Kong, mostly going to dim sum together at a favourite restaurant; her hands reaching over the table to pour tea one more time.

She also created a scrapbook for her parents as a parting gift. On the way to the airport, she passed this album of memories and wishes into the wrinkled hands of her parents.

The distance between Jisitip and her parents had grown in the past few years due to their political differences. The family’s departure adds thousands of kilometers to that distance. Jisitip understands that at their age, this goodbye may be a final parting, a thought she tries not to dwell on. “I know I’m going to miss them, but I’m also afraid to miss them. So I try not to think about it.”

The Danshari process was painful, sorting through what must be kept and what can be let go. But  Aamosi and Jisitip found that “there are too many things that they do not want to let go of but not many that they can bring with them.” Faced with people and things that cannot be taken away, Jisitip said, “Before leaving, you have to take care of yourself and say goodbye properly.” 

So they said goodbye to the community, to the street car and its ‘ding ding’ bells, to the ‘toy street’ and to the neighbourhood stores they frequented over the years.

Aamosi remembered going down the street to buy sushi one day and wondered if he should say goodbye (“see you but won’t seeing you”) to the shopowner. He once vowed to firmly support shops that share his conviction for the city, but he knows the city has changed since then. Now, “it is more important to find a way to live on and survive”.No matter how much planning or preparation takes place, departing is always in a hurry. They were almost denied boarding when they discovered at the check-in counter that Naangomai’s Electronic Travel Authorization was not valid, adding panic to the sadness of their departure.

Thinking back, Jisitip feels a bit of regret that she was unable to hug every friend that came to the airport to say goodbye, a goodbye with no ‘see you later’ in sight.

On this uncertain journey, the family insisted on traveling light but two items stayed close: the couple carried with them an icon and a cup bought in Taize, France, a place they had traveled to twice together. There, they both found a sacred connection with God. That connection anchors them in a calmness even as they wander into the unknown.