On fear

Asian Provocation

A news headline reposted gained much response, “Woman slams selfish paragliders who 'made her think Hamas was invading Doncaster’—A woman panicked her village near Doncaster was under attack when she spotted a number of paragliders flying over her home and thought they were from Hamas.”

The photo: a group of paragliders above the green rolling hills. It disturbed me to think of this woman in Doncaster. But what was even more disturbing was my ability to empathize with her sentiment.

My family and I emigrated to Australia in 1992. We were encouraged to assimilate. In that process, one does not only learn the language but also the cultural norms (one brings an Esky, short for the derogatory exonym, Eskimo, to the beach with beers, and not hotpot), fears (tall poppy syndrome and being perceived as Un-Australian), and anxieties (the Chinks are invading and taking over the country).

When we arrived, I knew only one word in the English language: Apple. Through neocolonialism, however, I was taught the English alphabet. I made friends pretty quickly. My mother would encourage me to socialize with the whites and integrate. I was to be 大方, be generous with a sense of magnanimity, open-hearted and open-minded, Großzugigkeit or Offenheit.

I was fond of the first few months in Australia. We had escaped the industrialization of Taiwan, a Faustian pact with the devil (United States of America), by becoming the new factory slave of the world. In a matter of a decade, some would call it a rags-to-riches story, but at the cost of environmental destruction. But I was seven years old, and all I know is that no teacher or parent in Australia was legally allowed to punish me physically. No more beatings. No more canning. It felt like dying and going to heaven. The air was clean, and we’d spot kangaroos and koalas outside our house.

Our school held its annual fete that spring. I participated in the first sports event, a 50-meter dash. I was so excited because I was the first to cross the finish line, but when the award came, they gave first prize to Brenton, the white boy who finished behind me. I didn’t have the words yet to speak up. Dad consoled me and reminded me to be 大方. We walked by a stand where they were recruiting kids for the local Cub Scouts. Dad signed me up that day, and I started to attend on Tuesday nights.

I was the only one non-White kid in the scouts. I got a uniform and learned the scout salute. We raised the Australian flag and learned bushcraft. We ate vegemite sandwiches and swapped Australian bush stories. I became good friends with Andrew and Nigel because they were also in my class at school. Was I integrating? I didn’t know that word yet at the time. But I knew how to respond when Andrew would say to me with a smile, “See you at Scouts tonight?”

Yep, you bet, I’d say in return.

Not only did we go to the same school and attend Scouts on Tuesday evenings, but we’d also go camping on the weekends. I learned to kayak, start fires, and eat cornflakes with sugar and milk for breakfast. Badges accumulated on my sleeve as I sewed them on myself over time.

One day, Andrew invited me to ride over to his place after school with Nigel, which turned out to be only a few blocks away. We’d ride our bikes in circles and play street cricket until his parents called him in for tea. I remember the mustache of his father and his mum standing by the screen door. What does racism look like? The next day, I saw Andrew at the water fountain and initiated this time, See you at Scouts tonight?

Andrew looked at me with a new face and emotion I didn’t recognize. Perhaps now I could categorize him as expressing a state of psychological distress, distrust, suspicion, or fear. But I remember understanding what he said, “We’ve been invaded by the Chinese!”

Over the next few years, I would experience being sneered at by kids at school as a “Qing Chong Chinaman” which was strange because my grandfather was at war with China. I was even born on the infamous 八二三砲戰 (August 23 Artillery Battle), which made him very proud, as he saw it as an auspicious sign. My ancestor, Koxinga, fought against the Qing dynasty and saw them as the mortal enemies of the great Ming dynasty. And here I was, being sneered at as a Qing Chong Chinaman? I wanted to correct the kid and explain, but how? Just as I couldn’t say to the teacher, no, I was first, I was again unable to explain the absurdity to myself or the bullies.

It would take me another few decades to understand that none of this mattered, for reason and logic is not what can remedy the neurosis of racism. One cannot simply tell someone that the spaghetti man in the sky does not exist or that Hamas was not invading Doncaster.

But I was able to mutter back to Andrew, why?

“Because Chinatown,” he said.

Chinatown? At that point, my family and I had only made it out to Chinatown in Brisbane once or twice in the city. We lived in the suburbs, Eight Mile Plains, one suburb away from Sunnybank, where affluent Taiwanese emigres had bought land and set up strip malls similar to what can be found in Los Angeles. With all its exported “China” style, Chinatown in the city was the same concept exported from San Francisco, where the Chinese consulted a white man to design a style in hopes of bringing back white customers who once enjoyed Oriental products but were scared away because of the war and propaganda. That same Chinatown concept had made its way to Brisbane. But we did not shop there. If anything, as Taiwanese, we avoided anything Chinese during those years. Mother would insist that we tell people, “Tell them we’re Taiwanese! Not Chinese!”

But for Andrew, that didn’t matter. I was never invited back to his place after that. I would still go to Scouts, but I wasn’t close to Andrew, Nigel, or anyone else. I don’t remember the last Scouts evening I had. I never discussed this with my parents. I guess I just stopped going one day.

Today, I live in Berlin. I remember during the lockdowns when fear was stirred to a fever pitch. Donald Trump made his infamous statements about “Chinaflu,” which was transformed into Kungflu. One day, an old German woman at my local Biomarkt shrieked as she saw me; she vexed me like I was a vampire. Bleib web! Abstand halten! My German is worse than my English when I was seven years old. I was, once again, at a loss of words to respond. All I could muster up was, Lady! You’re the one walking towards me!

Anger would then protect me in the coming period, shielding me from the inevitable feelings of shame and internalized self-disgust. Obviously, no one would profess this kind of fear and logic, but slowly, I started to see fewer and fewer white friends. Was it me, or was it them? I remember one time seeing some friends and would notice that the white people hugged one another but would nod at me, keeping their distance. Is it them, or is it me?

It’s been a decade since I returned to Australia. When I did, I’d walk around the neighborhood after dinner with my mother. She would point at different houses and say, “You see that house? They’re Chinese!”

What are you saying, mum?

“You can tell by their gardens. They don’t mow their lawn properly, and their gardens are in total disarray. People tell me how great our lawn and garden is,” she’d tell me. I’d shake my head.

That’s pretty racist, Mum. And besides, do you think white people care that you’re Taiwanese and not Chinese?

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The number of facts we gather, the details we correct, and the propaganda we debunk don't matter. Who am I to think that facts and reason alone will deter fantasies of prejudice? Was Germany not celebrated as the pinnacle of reason right before they elected the Nazi Party?

I stare at the image of the airborne hobbyists over Doncaster. I smile, thinking about those who flew out of their cage. I can still hear their excitement.

Get full access to Ayoto’s Substack at ayoto.substack.com/subscribe