The Wall Between Us

My grandmother and I have an impeccable relationship.
We laugh; over the funny incidents that somehow cross the generation gap of what we individually view as humorous. We learn; she instructing me on the finer details of Asian cuisine. We enjoy; the simplicity of life and each others company in the pool as I supervise her aquatic exercises.
But we talk to ourselves, within our minds, as we struggle to overcome the language barrier between us. We find small holes in the wall here and there. Universal body language and a handful of words allow us to grasp at communication and understanding. Yet there are times when we both attempt to convey something, only to find misunderstanding, and endeavour to only share such thoughts with ourselves. From such a relationship it is conceivable that my knowledge of my grandma’s past is limited. Instead of diminishing my respect and interest however, it serves to intrigue me further. Divulging through my mother’s flimsy accounts of my grandma’s past led me to believe that my grandma is worthy of admiration.

My grandmother’s childhood was one littered with many hardships and difficulties. By the tender age of nine, her mother had already died; and her father, unable to bring up my grandma and her sister alone, had given her up for adoption. It was also the year the Japanese began their five year invasion and occupation of Malaysia spanning from 1941 to 1945. A significant period of time in her childhood was spent under Japanese occupation and she was thirteen by the time they left. It is undeniable that a childhood overshadowed by war would have a lasting effect on her. Even now she chooses to not disclose the details and recollections of what happened during that period of time. For reasons I can only begin to guess, she instead chooses to keep such memories buried in the sands of time.

However the past has an annoying habit of catching up with the present, and there are times when evidence of her past is apparent in her present behaviour. One of her more peculiar personality traits that were derived from the Japanese occupation revolves around a vegetable; the sweet potato. To put it straightforwardly, my grandma harbours a dislike against the innocent vegetable. While disliking a vegetable is nothing extraordinary, it is the reason upon which her distaste is based that generated my original interest. For those who may not exactly be experts of flora, the sweet potato is resilient, easy to grow and provides a quick produce. In other words, it is the ideal source of food when, as it was in my grandma’s case during the Japanese occupation, nothing else is available. Even the best foods become monotonous when they are the only meal available day after day. When sweet potato filled days turn into sweet potato filled months, which then develop into sweet potato filled years, I can almost sympathetically understand my grandma’s dislike towards the vegetable. I can even forgive her for regarding them as cheap and worthless.

It is here that I would idyllically expose to all that I learned all this from having deep, long and meaningful discussions with my grandma, but as you well know by now this would only be an extravagant lie and an unreachable illusion. Nevertheless, my view of her is far from disillusioned and my admiration and respect of her and how much she means to me have only grown in stature since I first decided tell her story…



…I only wish I could tell her that.