留下 Staying

 

 

热带的忧郁，是你以为所有发光的物体都是有温度的。月亮，以及稀疏的星子，恣意狂欢的夜。你不曾告诉我，热带的孤枕，也有取暖的渴望。

二十年前，初来新加坡的一个不眠之夜，我写下了这些句子。

我的渴望，在三个月后必修课“元明清文学”的最后片刻，在那首“真心英雄”唱的“把握生命里的每一分钟，全力以赴我们心中的梦。不经历风雨，怎么见彩虹，没有人能随随便便成功…。”七十双热切的眼睛里闪着泪光，有纸条传来，写着：“希望老师陪着我们毕业。”得到了彷徨的回应。

我申请延长海外研修，直到期满，下定決心离开台湾。我给原来的工作单位和南洋理工大学中文系的同事们都发了电邮。邮件的题目就是：“留下”。我說：

“凡走过的，必留下痕迹。有的人留下的是珠玑；有的人留下的是垃圾。

而我，能留下什么呢？

这是我来到新加坡以后，才意识到，并且开始认真思考的问题。

决定留在南大，我以为一个学术单位不缺专业的研究人员，而师资尚未完备的南大中文系需要我的一点力量。尤其体会到，自己正在为南洋一带的华人文化与文学培养传承者，这是我在台湾教书时从未经验过的责任感。

人生无法重来，我希望我的人生抉择不是一厢情愿。”

那天是 2008 年 5 月 9 日，中文系准备从澳洲聘任新的系主任，我提出了自己的看法。5月11日，我特地去“参拜”了南洋大学的“真迹”牌坊，默默许愿。。

我留下，是因为相信。

相信一个刚刚成立不久的中文系，有望一起建设；相信华文教育在这个岛国，昂首迎向未来；也相信，一位教师除了研究与写作，还可以为一个文化共同体做一点事情。

如今二十年过去，我常常想，如果当年知道后来会经历的一切，我还会不会作出同样的决定？

后来，我经历过办公室政治，经历过误解与伤害；曾经为了维护自己的尊严与公义，不得不寻求法律的协助和保护。那些日子非常不好过，深深在我心底烙下阴影。

今天回头望去，我发现：当年真正留下来的理由，并不是预想一切顺心称意，而是因为所有的经历，都成为生命未知的一部分。

如果没有留下，我不会在2014年创发文图学；不会在2017年与志同道合的朋友们成立文图学会，也不会一路走到今天，让文图学从一个研究构想，逐渐成为许多学者共同参与、不断发展的学术视野。如果没有留下，我不会担任中文系主任，与同事一起规划中文系的发展。

这些年来，我最难忘的，并不是出版了多少本书，也不是获得了什么奖项，而是文物艺术导览或公众演讲结束以后，总有人走过来，对我说：“原来博物馆可以这样看。”“我竟然听得懂大学教授讲的话！”

还有学生告诉我：“我没想到会期待上您的古典文学课。”

每一次听见这些话，我都庆幸，当初留下来的决定，是值得的。

我渐渐明白，一个学者真正留下来的，不一定是自己的名字，而是别人度过人生的方式。或许，这正是我二十年来最大的收获。

新加坡给予我的，不只是一个谋生的职场，而是一种观看世界的立场。

它让我站在不同文化交会之处，重新理解中国，也重新理解东亚，更重新理解自己。

人年轻的时候，总想着到哪里去。

后来才知道，更重要的是，在哪里留下什么。

二十年前，我留下，是因为有人希望我留下。

二十年后，我还在这里，还有许多值得继续努力的工作；还有许多文化值得继续传承创新；还有许多人愿意和我一起相信，人文学并没有淘汰，阅读、审美与思考，依然能够温暖这个时代。

于是，我终于明白——“留下”，是在一片土地上，把自己慢慢活成一道风景；把一点点微弱的光，继续照亮前方的道路。

当年那个住进校园宿舍、望着热带夜空的异乡人，不会知道二十年后的今天，会写下这篇文章。而今天的我，只想轻轻对二十年前的自己说一句：“刚刚好，你选择了留下。”

 

——纪念2026年7月16日，移居新加坡20年。

 

2026年7月18日，新加坡《联合早报》上善若水专栏。

 

Staying

I Lo-fen

The melancholy of the tropics lies in believing that everything that shines gives off warmth. The moon, a scattering of stars, a night reveling without restraint. You never told me that even a solitary pillow in the tropics longs for warmth.

Twenty years ago, during a sleepless night shortly after arriving in Singapore, I wrote these lines.

Three months later, in the final moments of the compulsory course “Literature of the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties,” my longing received a hesitant response. As the song “True Heroes” played—

“Seize every minute of life,
Give everything for the dream in our hearts.
Without weathering storms, how can we see the rainbow?
No one can succeed without effort…”

tears glistened in seventy pairs of eager eyes. A note was passed to me. It read: “We hope you will stay with us until we graduate.”

I applied to extend my overseas research leave to its full term and resolved to leave Taiwan. I sent emails to my former institution and to my colleagues in the Chinese Division at Nanyang Technological University. The subject line was simply: “Staying.”

I wrote:

“Wherever we have passed, we inevitably leave traces behind. Some leave pearls and gems; others leave rubbish.

What, then, can I leave behind?

It was only after coming to Singapore that I became aware of this question and began to contemplate it seriously.

In deciding to stay at NTU, I believed that an academic institution would never lack professional researchers, but the still-developing Chinese Division needed whatever strength I could offer. Above all, I came to realise that I was helping to nurture those who would carry forward Chinese culture and literature in Nanyang. This was a sense of responsibility I had never experienced while teaching in Taiwan.

Life cannot be lived again. I hope that the choice I have made is not merely wishful thinking.”

That day was 9 May 2008. The Chinese Division was preparing to appoint a new head from Australia, and I offered my views. On 11 May, I made a special visit to “pay homage” to the “authentic” archway of Nanyang University and silently made a wish.

I stayed because I believed.

I believed that a recently established Chinese Division could be built together; I believed that Chinese-language education on this island could hold its head high and embrace the future; and I believed that, beyond research and writing, a teacher could still do something for a cultural community.

Now that twenty years have passed, I often wonder: had I known then everything I would later experience, would I still have made the same decision?

In the years that followed, I experienced office politics, misunderstandings, and hurt. To defend my dignity and uphold justice, I once had no choice but to seek legal assistance and protection. Those were extremely difficult days, leaving deep shadows imprinted upon my heart.

Looking back today, I realise that the true reason I stayed was not because I expected everything to proceed smoothly and according to my wishes, but because every experience would become part of life’s unknowable unfolding.

Had I not stayed, I would not have founded Text and Image Studies in 2014. I would not have established the Text and Image Studies Society with like-minded friends in 2017, nor would I have travelled this far, allowing Text and Image Studies to grow from a research concept into an academic perspective in which many scholars now participate and which continues to develop. Had I not stayed, I would not have served as Head of the Chinese Division and worked with my colleagues to plan its future development.

What I remember most vividly from these years is not how many books I have published or what awards I have received. It is that, after a guided tour of cultural relics and art or a public lecture, someone will invariably come up to me and say, “I never knew a museum could be viewed this way,” or, “I can actually understand what a university professor is saying!”

Students have also told me, “I never imagined that I would look forward to your classical literature class.”

Every time I hear these words, I feel grateful that my decision to stay was worthwhile.

Gradually, I came to understand that what a scholar truly leaves behind is not necessarily her own name, but the way other people live their lives. Perhaps this has been my greatest gain over the past twenty years.

What Singapore has given me is not merely a workplace in which to earn a living, but a standpoint from which to view the world.

Standing at the confluence of different cultures, I have been able to understand China anew, to understand East Asia anew, and, even more importantly, to understand myself anew.

When we are young, we are always thinking about where we should go.

Only later do we realise that what matters more is what we leave behind, wherever we may be.

Twenty years ago, I stayed because someone hoped that I would stay.

Twenty years later, I am still here. There is still much worthwhile work to pursue; there are still many cultures whose traditions deserve to be carried forward and renewed; and there are still many people willing to believe with me that the humanities have not become obsolete—that reading, aesthetic appreciation, and thought can still bring warmth to this age.

And so, I finally understand: “staying” means slowly living oneself into a landscape upon a piece of land, and allowing one’s faint glimmer of light to continue illuminating the road ahead.

The stranger who moved into a campus apartment and gazed at the tropical night sky could never have known that, twenty years later, she would write this essay. Today, I only wish to say softly to the person I was twenty years ago:

“It was just right—you chose to stay.”

—In commemoration of 16 July 2026, marking twenty years since I moved to Singapore.

 

18 July 2026, “The Shang Shan Ruo Shui Column,” Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.

 

《AIGC时代的人文学术研究方法》Humanities Research Methods in the Age of AIGC

 AI 工具会更新，方法带你走对方向。

如果你发现自己正需要 AI 使用原则、学术伦理边界、披露模板与研究方法，欢迎预购我的新书：

《AIGC 时代的人文学术研究方法》

Humanities Research Methods in the Age of AIGC

作者：衣若芬 I Lo-fen

本书不是一本 AI 工具清单，而是帮助你建立 AIGC 时代人文学术研究方法的书。

第一阶段预购同步进行中。

完成付款，才视为预购成功。

预购链接1：https://forms.gle/doqk2E2gKyEEaeZb6

预购链接 2：https://p.baominggongju.com/share?eid=6a428f9cb7b9e765a566b6f9

终于可以靠近壁画了 Finally, We Can Get Close to the Murals

 第一次真正“靠近”中国壁画，是在山西晋中的晋之源壁画艺术博物馆。

说“靠近”，并不是因为我第一次看见壁画。事实上，多年来，我去过敦煌、新疆克孜尔、山西大同，也在不同地方看过不少寺观壁画。真正的问题是：过去虽然看见了，却未必真的“看清”。

洞窟太暗，距离太远，时间太短，许多壁画又高悬于穹顶或梁壁之上。人站在现场，往往只能仰头匆匆一瞥。知道那里有飞天，有菩萨，有山水，有人物，却难以真正进入那些线条、色彩与细节之中。

晋之源壁画艺术博物馆展示的，并不是原作壁画，而是经过高清扫描后的数字输出图像。它以“中国壁画史”为脉络，将不同朝代、不同地区的经典壁画重新组织成一个可观看、可阅读、可比较的视觉空间。

有趣的是，正因为它不是原作，我反而第一次真正看见了许多过去没看见的东西。

我开始看见人物衣纹的转折，看见矿物颜料留下的层次，看见墙面裂痕之间仍未消失的笔触，看见飞天的眼神，看见永乐宫神仙队伍里不同人物的表情差异。我甚至第一次意识到，中国壁画原来有如此强烈的“运动感”。

过去在寺观或洞窟里，人们往往被一种“朝圣式”的观看方式所限制。人必须顺着空间移动，顺着光线移动，也顺着时间移动。壁画属于宗教空间的一部分，而不是单独存在的艺术对象。

但进入博物馆之后，壁画的观看逻辑改变了。它们从宗教现场进入展览空间，从建筑的一部分变成艺术史的一部分。

这让我不断思考一个问题：我们今天看到的，究竟还是“壁画”吗？或者说，它已经是一种经过技术输出转译后的“新文本”？

过去我谈的文图学，讨论的是各种形式的文本生产与诠释，而到了AIGC时代，我们开始面对另一种新的情况：任何图像，都可能经过扫描、计算、数据化与再生成。

于是，图像不再只是图像，它同时也是数据。

晋之源壁画艺术博物馆给我的震撼，恰恰正在这里。

我发现，数字技术并不只是“复制”壁画，而是在重新组织人与壁画之间的关系。过去，壁画的重点在“保存”；今天，壁画开始进入“传播”。过去，壁画强调原址；今天，壁画开始脱离原址，进入新的媒介环境。过去，观看是一种空间经验；今天，观看同时也是一种数据经验。

这些，其实都与AIGC时代的人类视觉经验非常接近。

现在许多人第一次看见艺术作品，并不是在美术馆，而是在手机屏幕上。甚至有些年轻人，是先看见AI生成的“敦煌风”“宋画风”，才开始对传统艺术产生兴趣。

有人因此担忧：数字化会不会让人越来越不在乎原作？但我在晋之源壁画艺术博物馆里，反而产生相反的感受。

正因为数字扫描让我看清了细节，我才更想去看原作。原作与数字图像之间，并不是取代关系。数字图像提供的是“可阅读性”，原作提供的则是“存在感”。高清扫描能够让人看见裂痕，却无法完全传达墙壁的厚度；能够让人看见线条，却无法替代人在空间中的身体感；能够让人看清颜色，却无法复制时间真正沉积于墙面上的气息。

真正的壁画，仍然带着一种时间重量。但数字技术却让更多人终于有机会“靠近”它。长期以来，中国壁画始终处于一种“看得见却不容易靠近”的状态。与卷轴绘画相比，壁画太巨大，也太遥远。它们存在于山中、洞窟中、寺庙中，甚至存在于普通人难以抵达的地方。某种意义上，中国壁画一直是一种“被遮蔽的视觉传统”。

然而今天，高清扫描、数字输出、人工智能图像处理技术，却开始改变这种状况。它们让壁画重新进入大众视野，也重新进入当代人的视觉经验。晋之源壁画艺术博物馆，正好提供了一个非常具体的现场。

在那里，我忽然意识到：我们终于可以靠近壁画了。

但更重要的是——当我们终于能够靠近壁画时，我们也正在重新学习，如何观看。

 

2026年7月4日，新加坡《联合早报》“上善若水”专栏

 

Finally, We Can Get Close to the Murals

I Lo-fen

The first time I truly came “close” to Chinese murals was at the Jinzhiyuan Mural Art Museum in Jinzhong, Shanxi.

By “close,” I do not mean that it was the first time I had ever seen murals. In fact, over the years, I have been to Dunhuang, Kizil in Xinjiang, and Datong in Shanxi, and I have also seen many temple and monastery murals in different places. The real issue is this: although I had seen them before, I had not necessarily seen them clearly.

The caves were too dark, the distance too great, and the time too short. Many murals were also high above, on domes or beams and walls. Standing on site, one often could only look up and cast a hurried glance. One knew that there were flying apsaras, bodhisattvas, landscapes, and figures there, but it was difficult to truly enter into those lines, colours, and details.

What the Jinzhiyuan Mural Art Museum displays are not original murals, but digitally printed images produced after high-definition scanning. Taking “the history of Chinese murals” as its thread, it reorganizes classic murals from different dynasties and different regions into a visual space that can be viewed, read, and compared.

Interestingly, precisely because they are not the originals, I for the first time truly saw many things that I had not seen before.

I began to see the turns of the figures’ garment folds, the layers left by mineral pigments, the brushstrokes that had not yet disappeared among the cracks on the wall surface, the eyes of the flying apsaras, and the differences in expression among the various figures in the procession of immortals at Yongle Palace. I even realized for the first time that Chinese murals possess such a powerful sense of movement.

In the past, in temples, monasteries, or caves, people were often restricted by a kind of “pilgrimage-style” mode of viewing. One had to move according to the space, according to the light, and also according to time. Murals belonged to a religious space; they were not independent art objects.

After entering the museum, however, the logic of viewing the murals changed. They moved from religious sites into exhibition spaces, and from parts of architecture into parts of art history.

This made me keep thinking about one question: what we see today—are they still “murals”? Or have they already become a kind of “new text” translated through technological output?

In the past, the Text and Image Studies I discussed concerned the production and interpretation of texts in various forms. But in the age of AIGC, we have begun to face another new situation: any image may undergo scanning, computation, datafication, and regeneration.

Thus, an image is no longer merely an image. It is also data.

The shock that the Jinzhiyuan Mural Art Museum gave me lies precisely here.

I discovered that digital technology is not merely “copying” murals, but reorganizing the relationship between people and murals. In the past, the emphasis of murals lay in “preservation”; today, murals have begun to enter “dissemination.” In the past, murals emphasized the original site; today, they have begun to detach from the original site and enter new media environments. In the past, viewing was a spatial experience; today, viewing is also a data experience.

All of these are in fact very close to human visual experience in the age of AIGC.

Today, many people first encounter works of art not in art museums, but on mobile-phone screens. Some young people even first see AI-generated “Dunhuang style” or “Song painting style” images before they begin to take an interest in traditional art.

Some people therefore worry: will digitization make people care less and less about the originals? But in the Jinzhiyuan Mural Art Museum, I had the opposite feeling.

Precisely because digital scanning allowed me to see the details clearly, I wanted even more to see the originals. The relationship between originals and digital images is not one of replacement. What digital images provide is “readability”; what originals provide is “presence.” High-definition scanning can allow people to see cracks, but it cannot fully convey the thickness of a wall; it can allow people to see lines, but it cannot replace the bodily sensation of being in a space; it can allow people to see colours clearly, but it cannot reproduce the atmosphere of time truly accumulated on the wall surface.

True murals still carry a certain weight of time. Yet digital technology has allowed more people finally to have the chance to “come close” to them. For a long time, Chinese murals have remained in a state of being “visible yet not easy to approach.” Compared with scroll paintings, murals are too vast and too distant. They exist in mountains, caves, temples, and even in places difficult for ordinary people to reach. In a certain sense, Chinese murals have always been a “concealed visual tradition.”

Today, however, high-definition scanning, digital output, and artificial intelligence image-processing technologies have begun to change this situation. They allow murals to re-enter public view and to re-enter the visual experience of contemporary people. The Jinzhiyuan Mural Art Museum provides a very concrete site for this.

There, I suddenly realized: we can finally get close to murals.

More importantly—when we can finally get close to murals, we are also relearning how to look.

4 July 2026, Singapore, Lianhe Zaobao, “Shangshan Ruoshui” column

 

在阅读中成长 Growing Through Reading

 

如果要选一生必读的两本书，我手边的是《小王子》和《苏轼选集》。

圣修伯里的《小王子》，童年时读，迷恋那奇异的星球与玫瑰；年岁渐长，品味狐狸说的：“真正重要的东西，用眼睛是看不见的。”人与人之间的连结，不在于占有，而在于用心。

王水照选注的《苏轼选集》，则是另一种陪伴。苏轼一生宦海浮沉，从朝廷重臣到荒远谪居，却从未失去对生命的热情与好奇。“不识庐山真面目，只缘身在此山中”，苏轼比《小王子》更通透，他告诉我们：即使用眼睛看不清，但是意识到自己就在这人生的大山里，随遇而安，处处能体会到美好的风景。

读《小王子》，发现意义；读《苏轼选集》，活出意义。我在阅读中成长，一次次遇见柳暗花明。

 

2026年6月21日，新加坡《联合早报》

Growing Through Reading
I Lo-fen

If I had to choose two books one must read in a lifetime, the two I have at hand are The Little Prince and Selected Works of Su Shi.

When I read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince as a child, I was enchanted by its strange planets and its rose. As I grew older, I came to savour what the fox says: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” The bonds between people do not lie in possession, but in the heart’s devotion.

Selected Works of Su Shi, edited and annotated by Wang Shuizhao, has been another kind of companion. Su Shi’s life was full of political ups and downs. He went from being an important official at court to living in exile in distant places, yet he never lost his passion for life or his curiosity about the world. “I cannot know the true face of Mount Lu, / because I am here within this mountain.” Su Shi is even more penetrating than The Little Prince. He tells us that even when our eyes cannot see clearly, once we realize that we ourselves are within this great mountain of life, we may settle into circumstance and discover beautiful scenery everywhere.

Reading The Little Prince, I discovered meaning; reading Selected Works of Su Shi, I learned to live out meaning. Through reading, I have grown, again and again encountering a path opening where the willows darken and the flowers brighten.

Published in Singapore’s Lianhe Zaobao, June 21, 2026.

 

人生海海漂情书 Love Letters Adrift on Life’s Sea

 

 

在新加坡华语电影节看《人生海海》，导演廖克发在放映后和观众交流，全场满座，气氛热烈。片中的场景、笑点、张力，观众几乎不需要任何铺垫，已经自然融入情境。

三个星期后，我在山西太原看《给阿嬷的情书》。据说这部片子在中国大陆是票房黑马，口碑爆红。不过那一晚，整间放映厅只有我和朋友三人，宛如包场。平时很少听见的潮汕话对我格外新鲜，可惜没有空调，我忍者闷热，边看电影边赶蚊子，又是奇特的体验。

两部电影都与华人南洋移民有关，呈现着不同的媒介与叙事逻辑。《人生海海》的核心媒介，是一具遗体。《给阿嬷的情书》的核心媒介，是一叠泛黄的书信——侨批。学者常用"离散（diaspora）"的概念套用在海外华人，仿佛飘洋过海，出国打拼，就自然带着乡愁与归根的渴望，然而这两部电影，恰恰在松动这种想象。

《人生海海》中，不知道父亲生前因为再婚，已经改信回教的兄弟俩，半夜去穆斯林墓园“偷回”父亲的遗体，被墓园警卫发现追赶，抬着遗体逃跑，跌跌撞撞，没想到遗体滚落丢失，他们认为是父亲要躲起来不让他们找到，也就放弃无所谓了。反讽似的，此时天空绽放璀璨的烟火，荒谬地扫清死亡的悲伤。

落叶要归根吗？根在哪里？电影里的台词说到：“根长在自己身上”，所以不必外寻。生活在有拿督公信仰和伊斯兰文明的马来西亚，一代代的华人落地生根，磨砺出随遇而安的心态。

《给阿嬷的情书》里面的“情书”侨批，又称“银信”，是1979年银行业务完善以前，华人从东南亚汇款回乡时附带的家书，既是情感的载体，也是跨海金融的凭证。相较于《人生海海》的无厘头诙谐，黑色幽默，《给阿嬷的情书》穿插了念书信的温馨缠绵和戏中人物的直爽明快，触发观众的情绪起伏及共鸣。

这是一个埋藏了18年的善意谎言。在泰国长大的谢南枝假扮已经意外过世的郑木生，持续给他的妻子叶淑柔写信和寄钱，直到叶淑柔的孙子到曼谷寻亲，才得知真相。所以电影题目的“阿嬷”，是用孙子的口吻称呼叶淑柔，北方人叫奶奶，潮汕和闽南人叫“阿嬷”，我很熟悉这样的表达。有趣的是，电影字幕的英文翻译，把“阿嬷”直接音译为“Ama”,不知道看英文字幕的观众能不能够理解。后来听说有人们争论“阿嬷”的“嬷”字应该怎么读，才注意到中国南北的差异。也许正由于我看的是潮汕话而不是普通话配音版，当天才缺乏其他观众吧。

情书，本是私密的，侨批历来有人代写，当代书者介入，将委托人的口语转为文字，便成为半公开的抒情。作为郑木生“替身”的谢南枝，是连接“木”和“叶”（淑柔）的中间守护者，让我联想汉代古诗十九首中《行行重行行》的“胡马依北风，越鸟巢南枝”，她家经营的旅店，正是过番南洋的打工人暂时栖居的巢。

《人生海海》的英文片名是“The Waves Will Carry Us”，很有随波逐流的放逸，我觉得比起“离散”的孤单无依，更合乎当下的情形。移动与漂流，已经是许多人的生活日常。我们有时停靠某一个港湾，落户安家；有时又因为理想、生计，或各种偶然机缘，再度启程。认同不是单一的，身份是可变的，只有自己能定义自己，不需要他人来贴标签。

《给阿嬷的情书》里的侨批，本质是联系亲友家人，但是谢南枝的角色提醒我们：真正将两地连接起来的，未必只是血缘与乡情，更可能是陌生人之间的义气，以及书写所创造的情感纽带。

在人生之海漂流，只要有人牵挂着你，无论是语音、照片、视频还是文字，那都是弥足珍贵的情书。

 

2026年6月20日，新加坡《联合早报》“上善若水”专栏

 

 

Love Letters Adrift on Life’s Sea
I Lo-fen

I watched The Waves Will Carry Us at the Singapore Chinese Film Festival. After the screening, director Lau Kek Huat spoke with the audience. The theatre was full, and the atmosphere was lively. The scenes, humour, and dramatic tension in the film needed almost no explanation; the audience entered naturally into its world.

Three weeks later, I watched Dear You in Taiyuan, Shanxi. I had heard that the film had become a surprise box-office hit in mainland China, with word of mouth spreading rapidly. Yet that evening, there were only three people in the entire cinema: my friend, another companion, and me. It felt almost like a private screening. The Teochew dialect, which I seldom hear in everyday life, sounded especially fresh to me. Unfortunately, there was no air-conditioning. I endured the stuffy heat, watching the film while swatting mosquitoes. That, too, became a rather peculiar experience.

Both films are related to Chinese migration to Nanyang, yet they present very different media and narrative logics. The central medium of The Waves Will Carry Us is a dead body. The central medium of Dear You is a stack of yellowed letters—qiaopi. Scholars often apply the concept of “diaspora” to overseas Chinese, as if crossing the sea and leaving home to seek a livelihood naturally meant carrying homesickness and a longing to return to one’s roots. Yet these two films quietly unsettle that imagination.

In The Waves Will Carry Us, two brothers, unaware that their father had converted to Islam after remarrying, go to a Muslim cemetery in the middle of the night to “steal back” his body. Discovered and chased by a cemetery guard, they stagger away carrying the corpse. Unexpectedly, the body rolls off and disappears. They decide that perhaps their father is hiding because he does not want to be found, and so they simply give up. Ironically, at that very moment, brilliant fireworks burst across the sky, absurdly sweeping away the sorrow of death.

Must fallen leaves return to their roots? Where, after all, are one’s roots? A line in the film says: “Roots grow on one’s own body.” There is therefore no need to search for them elsewhere. Living in Malaysia, a society shaped by Datuk Gong beliefs and Islamic civilization, generations of Chinese have put down roots where they are, gradually cultivating an attitude of adapting to circumstances and making peace with wherever life takes them.

The “love letters” in Dear You are qiaopi, also known as “silver letters.” Before banking services became more developed in 1979, overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia sent remittances back home together with family letters. These letters were both carriers of emotion and documents of transoceanic finance. Compared with the absurd comedy and dark humour of The Waves Will Carry Us, Dear You interweaves the tender warmth of letters being read aloud with the frank and lively temperaments of its characters, stirring the audience’s emotions and sense of resonance.

This is a kind-hearted lie buried for eighteen years. Xie Nanzhi, who grew up in Thailand, pretends to be Zheng Musheng, who has died in an accident, and continues to write letters and send money to Zheng’s wife, Ye Shurou. Only when Ye Shurou’s grandson travels to Bangkok in search of his relative does the truth come to light. The “Ama” in the film title is therefore the way the grandson addresses Ye Shurou. In northern China, she would be called nainai; in Teochew and Minnan, she is called Ama. I am very familiar with this form of address. Interestingly, the English subtitles render “阿嬷” directly as “Ama.” I wonder whether viewers relying on the English subtitles would be able to understand it. Later, I heard that some people were debating how the character “嬷” in “阿嬷” should be pronounced, and only then did I notice the difference between northern and southern Chinese usage. Perhaps it was precisely because the version I watched was in Teochew rather than dubbed in Mandarin that there were so few other viewers that day.

A love letter is, by nature, private. Yet qiaopi were historically often written by others on behalf of the sender. Once a professional letter writer intervened, transforming the sender’s spoken words into written text, the letter became a semi-public form of lyric expression. As Zheng Musheng’s “substitute,” Xie Nanzhi is the guardian who connects “Mu” and “Ye”—wood and leaf. This reminds me of the lines from “Xing xing chong xing xing” in the Han-dynasty Nineteen Old Poems: “The Hu horse leans toward the north wind; the Yue bird nests on the southern branch.” The inn run by her family is precisely such a temporary nest for workers who crossed the sea to Nanyang.

The English title of 人生海海 is The Waves Will Carry Us. It conveys a sense of drifting freely with the waves. To me, this is closer to the condition of the present than the loneliness and helplessness implied by “diaspora.” Movement and drifting have already become part of everyday life for many people. Sometimes we moor in a harbour and build a home; at other times, because of ideals, livelihood, or various accidents of fate, we set off once again. Identity is not singular. It is changeable. Only we can define ourselves; we do not need others to label us.

The qiaopi in Dear You are, in essence, a means of connecting relatives and family members. Yet the character of Xie Nanzhi reminds us that what truly connects two places may not be bloodline or nostalgia alone. It may also be the loyalty of strangers, and the emotional bonds created through writing.

As we drift upon the vast sea of life, as long as someone keeps us in their thoughts—whether through voice messages, photographs, videos, or words—each of these is a precious love letter.

Published in the “Shangshan Ruoshui” column of Singapore’s Lianhe Zaobao, June 20, 2026.