Childhood echoes ring through Xiamen village
As an international student, my camera serves as my bridge between cultures — a tool for capturing fragments of the vast country I call my second home. Yet, when I stepped into that unassuming redbrick village on the outskirts of Xiamen, Fujian province, I did not expect to find pieces of my Malaysian childhood waiting for me around every corner.
The late afternoon sun painted the narrow lanes in golden hues as we began filming. Traditional Minnan-style houses, with their distinctly curved roofs, stood shoulder to shoulder, their walls bearing the patina of decades. The rhythmic clucking of free-range chickens provided background noise to our shoot, occasionally interrupted by the crunch of electric scooter tires navigating the winding paths. It was one particular scooter that made me lower my camera abruptly — a middle-aged woman in a floral blouse riding past with a basketful of leafy greens, her sandaled feet barely touching the ground as she slowed to exchange greetings with a neighbor.
In that instant, the scent of damp earth after rain transported me 3,000 kilometers south to my grandmother's village outside Kuala Lumpur. Though the architectural details differed — the Malay stilt houses versus Fujian's compact brick dwellings — the essence remained unchanged: that familiar village ecosystem where everyone knows each other's business yet respects each other's space, where shopkeepers remember your favorite childhood treats, and elders reprimand naughty children regardless of whose they are.
I remembered how, during school holidays, my grandmother would take me to the village shop on her rusty scooter. The ritual never varied: I would clutch a few ringgit coins in my sweaty palm, agonizing over whether to get the red bean ice cream or the rainbow-colored ice ball while she caught up on village gossip with Auntie Lim. Those flavors still linger on my tongue decades later, more vivid than any gourmet dessert I've tasted in those fancy Michelin-starred restaurants.
What struck me most about the Xiamen village was this exact unpretentious authenticity. At the corner store, the owner wiped his hands on his apron before weighing out portions of dried shrimp and mushrooms for regular customers. An elderly man repaired fishing nets in his doorway, moving his fingers with muscle memory. Two houses down, a young mother scolded her child for tracking mud into their home, her tone carrying that universal mix of exasperation and affection. These scenes felt neither foreign nor exotic; just profoundly human.
As golden hour approached, we filmed near the village square where elders were playing Chinese chess under a huge tree. The rhythmic click of the game pieces reminded me of my grandfather's chess matches back home. When one particularly animated player shouted a Fujianese phrase that sounded uncannily like our Hakka curses, I had to stifle a laugh. The universality of competitive seniors clearly transcended borders.
At dusk, as we packed our equipment, the floral-bloused woman from earlier passed by again, this time with a little girl perched behind her on the scooter. The child's arms clutched a bulging plastic bag, probably containing some treats from the village store. They disappeared around a bend where strings of laundry fluttered like colorful banners between houses. I did not press the shutter. Some moments are better imprinted directly onto the heart and mind.
That night, back at my dormitory, I reviewed our footage. The technical aspects were sound, and the shots were well-composed, showcasing "authentic Fujian village life" just as the assignment required. However, what moved me were the unplanned moments in between: the way the afternoon light filtered through a kitchen window where someone was stir-frying garlic; the sound of a radio playing Minnan opera, competing with crowing roosters; the sight of that scooter weaving through narrow lanes, like my grandmother's once did.
This is the China I have come to know. It was not just through its soaring skyscrapers and high-speed trains, but in these pockets of everyday life that resonate across cultures. As international students, we often focus on the grand differences between our homelands and adopted countries. Yet, it's these minor intersections of memory — a grandmother's scooter ride, the taste of childhood treats, the rhythm of village life — that create the most profound connections.
In that Xiamen village, I did not just document China. I rediscovered pieces of myself, and perhaps that is the greatest gift of studying abroad. We realize how much of home we carry within us, ready to be awakened by the scent of damp earth or the sight of a woman balancing groceries on a scooter. The world grows both larger and smaller at once, its borders softened by these echoes of shared humanity.
The author is from Malaysia, a third-year broadcasting and television student at Huaqiao University's School of Journalism and Communication.
