Stories of Our Families and The Past

A few months ago, I was commissioned by my uncle to research, investigate, compile and eventually write the history of our families (my father's side) dating back a few generation. There are a number of aspects involved, which I at times find overwhelming. ranging from the availability of sources (relatives that could still recall the good old days) to the geographical context of our ancestral villages in a particular era.

Curiosity was the main key of me saying yes. Family history is constantly a curious thing. Being a member of a conventional tribal group, you always hear these things around you. You know stories of relatives you're not sure how you're related to. You are always a part of the pride that links all your tribal members together and also sometimes privy to uncomfortable information.

It is always an interesting thing to belong. Your existence will always be attached to something in life, something abstract and absent that keeps on lingering in your mind. There is this strange hope inside me that wishes constantly for me to uncover common traits we might have missed out on. Perhaps sources of happiness and maladies did not occur randomly but are inherited from the previous generation to the next. To suffer alone is horrible, to suffer together is camaraderie.

I anticipate that the most challenging aspect of completing this task would be listening about the people who have passed away. They are gone and the only remnants we have of them are memories, which can be quite unreliable. Memories are the core of my curiosity - they sugarcoat reality and turn people into myths of everything that is good. They could be good in real life but is it possible for one to exist and cease to exist with only remembrances of goodness? If truly they were good, it meant that they were loved. If truly they were loved, it meant that they were grieved once they breathed their last. Grief, for me, is merely a manifestation of undying love. The chain continues, displayed by the anecdotes my elders and even my generation remember after all these years. Specific events with specific actions - each detail embedded somewhere in our minds. That's the amazing thing about us humans - some things we never forget.

I noticed that among the elders that I have interviewed, the profound sense of loss was hinted throughout our conversations. "He had always been like that..." "She was highly respected..." "People loved them for they were kind people..." It serves as a timely reminder of the fragility of our existence. People are born to live glorious lives and to die with an impact. We all have the chances to be great people but the journey remains temporary. You and I are just biding our time, trying to be as productive as possible. Today, someone will leave us. Tomorrow, we could be the one leaving.

Morbid, it certainly is. However, it gives me new hope every day. Stories to uncover, memories to preserve. The urgency in doing this is quite profound - I must get to the story-keepers (my elders who have been around for decades) as soon as possible before anything unfortunate occurs. I must get their voices in recording and transcribe the things they say. Then, I must try my best to link all these stories together, hopefully recreating the world my great-grandparents and my grandparents lived in.

What nickname should I give myself? Story-finder? Researcher? Or maybe a daughter quite desperate to find the remnants of her late father among the people he knew? Imagine if he had been alive, I could have asked him to answer all these questions I had in mind. Alas! That is the purpose of history, no? It is never the perspective of one person - all in the sphere must be included to get the most comprehensive version of the stories. Most comprehensive, so that future generations can read and rely on the information we have provided them.

It is important. They should remember us the right way and who we really were.

A black and white photo of my late father when he was a little boy.
The boy grew up to be a great banker, devoted to the only job he had ever known until his early death at the age of 51, leaving behind two wives, five biological children and five stepchildren.