In memory of my eldest brother Chin

It was always a taboo in our family to talk about the passing of my parents’ firstborn, my eldest brother, so I grew up knowing very little about what actually happened.

Haiphong, North Vietnam

In early 1978, tensions between newly reunified Vietnam and China led to a mass exodus. Around 150,000 ethnic Chinese fled Northern Vietnam for China due to fears of war.

In April and May 1978, my family fled to Guangxi, China, to a county called Ningming. At the time, my mother was already five months pregnant with my brother, Chin.

Ningming, Guangxi, China

Sometime in September 1978, my brother was born.

Six months later, in March 1979, my uncle sent a letter to my parents to let them know he had arrived safely in Hong Kong and had sought refuge there. By June 1979, when my brother was just nine months old, it was decided that my parents would also leave and become part of the “Boat People” in search of refuge in Hong Kong.

Hong Kong

The journey by boat took around two weeks across rough seas, and many passengers became severely ill.

By the time my parents arrived in Hong Kong, my brother Chin was already very sick. He passed away in hospital in June 1979, at just nine months old.

My parents were then placed in the Sham Shui Po refugee camp.

A woman who lost her husband is called a widow. A man who lost his wife is called a widower. A child who lost his parents is called an orphan. But there is no word for a parent who lost their child because there is no word to describe the pain

My parents were devastated. At the time, the handling of refugee deaths was managed by the Hong Kong government, so to this day I still do not know whether my brother was cremated or buried.

London, United Kingdom

I was about 7 or 8 years old when I first learnt about my brother Chin. I remember sitting on my mum’s bed when she told us that we had an older brother called Chin, and that he became sick on the boat and passed away in Hong Kong.

She told us she had a photo of him, but she refused to show it to us and said she had kept it somewhere safe.

After that, whenever I tried to bring it up, she would brush the question off. I also remember visiting family friends and relatives, and they would sometimes ask how Chin was, not knowing what had happened. This was because everyone had arrived in Hong Kong and later in London at different times.

We never really spoke about my brother Chin again until December 2020, when we were arranging my father’s funeral. The Taoist priest needed all of our names to be written down for the ceremony. My mum still sounded pained when she spoke about him. She told the priest that she had another son, but that he had passed away from illness before he turned one. The priest replied that he only needed the names of the living children and grandchildren.

The first time seeing my brother Chin

I became an orphan on 1st November 2021. The pain I went through - and am still going through months later - does not get any easier. I cannot imagine the pain my parents must have felt after losing my brother, when I can barely endure the pain of losing them.

On 31st December 2021, at around 8pm, I was sorting through my late mother’s belongings when I came across a photo of my dad holding a young boy.

Who was this boy? Was it my cousin?

I started trying to piece things together. From the photo, it looked like it had been taken in the same studio as my grandparents’ photos, which were dated July 1980. But my grandparents (on my dad’s side) had never been to Hong Kong, so this photo must have been taken in China.

That meant my dad must have taken this photo before he left for Hong Kong.

I asked my older sister how old she thought the baby looked, and she said around six months. So I started to wonder… could this be the only photo of our brother?

I sent the photo to my cousins and asked them to check with my uncle and aunt. My aunt said she was 99% sure it was my brother Chin and my dad. She had heard my uncle mention that when he came to the UK, he brought this photo with him from China as a keepsake for my parents. But she had never actually seen the photo herself, as she only married my uncle years later in the UK.

I was eagerly waiting for my uncle to finish work. By then, I was already quite sure this was my brother in the photo.

Then, around midnight, it was confirmed. This was the very photo my uncle - my dad’s younger brother - had brought from China to give to my parents.

My brother Chin Do. 杜益錢

I tried to find out as much as I could about my brother Chin through my aunts and uncles. But with memories now a little unclear, and the topic always being a taboo, very little had ever been asked or spoken about between them back then. Still, with their help, I was able to piece together this post.

Death has always been a taboo subject, especially when it comes to losing a child. In some traditions, it is believed that parents should not hold a ceremony or openly mourn their children, which I find really sad.

Since losing both of my parents, I have found myself thinking about the afterlife much more - and about my brother Chin.

What happened in Hong Kong? This is something I have thought about a lot.

Because my brother passed away shortly after arriving in Hong Kong as a refugee, I have never been able to find out exactly what happened to him afterwards. At that time, many refugee deaths were handled by the government, and families often did not have the means or information to arrange funerals.

I assume he would have been cremated, as that was - and still is - the most common practice in Hong Kong. But what happened to his ashes, I do not know. Were they placed somewhere? Were they scattered? Or were they handled along with many others who arrived under similar circumstances?

I have tried to look into this, but there is very little information available. Records from that time are limited, especially for refugees, and even more so for infants.

For a long time, this uncertainty was difficult to accept.

There is no grave I can visit, no physical place in Hong Kong where I can go to remember him.

But over time, I have come to realise that maybe remembrance does not always need a physical place.

We have created a place for him at home, alongside my parents and our ancestors. He is remembered, his name is spoken, and he is part of our family story.

And maybe, in its own way, that is enough.

~Dedicated to my brother Chin

Chin Do 杜益錢

September 1978 - June 1979