Inside a home in Petaling Jaya, Wing-Sun, a 10 year old Chinese boy sits cross-legged on the cool tile floor, watching the delicate tendrils of smoke rise from the joss sticks his father has just placed in the family altar’s bronze urn. The flickering candlelight casts shifting shadows over the framed portraits of the ancestors, their solemn faces gazing out from another time. Wing-Sun's father, dressed in crisp slacks and a neatly pressed white shirt, murmurs a quiet prayer, his voice low and rhythmic. Beside him, Wing-Sun’s mother clasps her hands together in a quiet moment of respect before adjusting the jade bangle on her wrist. Their morning ritual is a quiet, practiced thing; one they perform, and Wing-Sun observes, every day.
Created by
resilientgiant187
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Inside a home in Petaling Jaya, Wing-Sun, a 10 year old Chinese boy sits cross-legged on the cool tile floor, watching the delicate tendrils of smoke rise from the joss sticks his father has just placed in the family altar’s bronze urn. The flickering candlelight casts shifting shadows over the framed portraits of the ancestors, their solemn faces gazing out from another time. Wing-Sun's father, dressed in crisp slacks and a neatly pressed white shirt, murmurs a quiet prayer, his voice low and rhythmic. Beside him, Wing-Sun’s mother clasps her hands together in a quiet moment of respect before adjusting the jade bangle on her wrist. Their morning ritual is a quiet, practiced thing; one they perform, and Wing-Sun observes, every day.

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Inside a home in Petaling Jaya, Wing-Sun, a 10 year old Chinese boy sits cross-legged on the cool tile floor, watching the delicate tendrils of smoke rise from the joss sticks his father has just placed in the family altar’s bronze urn. The flickering candlelight casts shifting shadows over the framed portraits of the ancestors, their solemn faces gazing out from another time. Wing-Sun's father, dressed in crisp slacks and a neatly pressed white shirt, murmurs a quiet prayer, his voice low and rhythmic. Beside him, Wing-Sun’s mother clasps her hands together in a quiet moment of respect before adjusting the jade bangle on her wrist. Their morning ritual is a quiet, practiced thing; one they perform, and Wing-Sun observes, every day.
Wing Sun is a 10 year old Malaysian boy. We see him from the back as he stands, looking down the street in the evening. The scent of mooncakes and burning lantern oil fills the air in the street in Petaling Jaya where Wing Sun lives. Everything is aglow with the soft light of lanterns, their colors reflected in the puddles left by the afternoon rain. At least 6 vendors have pulled their carts up onto the sidewalks on both sides of the street, selling moon pies and other special treats. Several of Wing-Sun's neighborhood friends, some younger than he and some a little older, were standing around in a circle, waiting for him to come outside.
Ji Wing Soon is a 12 year old Malaysian Chinese boy. This scene occurs at his home in Kuala Lumpur. Late that night, as Wing-Sun lay in his bed, he heard voices coming from his parents' room down the hall. He arose and opened his door quietly, then stepped into the hallway where he could hear their conversation. “Ah-Wai… I’ve been thinking about the path we're on. I’ve been reading the Bible again, like I did when I was younger. I remember the peace I felt back then. But now… everything feels so different. I believe we should honor your family, but things just don’t feel the same to me anymore.” Mei-Ling said softly but urgently. “Not this again, Ah-Ling. We’ve talked about this. Traditions are our foundation—our way of life. They’ve brought us good luck, success. Do you really want to upset things?” Hon-Wai said, a tone of impatience creeping into his voice.
Morning city scene in Petaling Jaya. A 10 year old chinese boy and his grandmother. As they weave through the narrow sidewalk, taxis zip by, buses screech to a halt at stoplights, motorbikes wend their way through the stopped traffic, trying to get a head start when the light turns green. People in the informal businesses set up along the sidewalks call out greetings in a mix of Cantonese, Malay, and English. The sky, still soft with the remnants of dawn, and yet already heavy with humid heat, hinted at another sweltering afternoon ahead.
Morning scene. A 10 year old chinese boy enters a train car at the platform on the MRT in Kuala Lumpur. We see him from the back. Other passengers are inside the train car and also waiting on the platform.
Morning scene. A 10 year old chinese girl and boy stand together talking in the schoolyard at a private school in Kerinchi neighborhood, Kuala Lumpur. Several teachers are also there. A circle of other children are standing off to the side playing games and comparing Pokemon cards, etc.
a group of school girls sitting on steps in front of a building
Inside a large office building in London, on the 5th floor, Wing Sun's father, a Chinese Malaysian man in his 30s, speaks to his counterpart in the company, and English man, about business. Other workers are seated at their desks and standing at a copy machine. There are some Black people, but mostly British. One whole wall of the room is glass and we can see something of London outside.
a painting of a boy and a girl sitting on steps
An indoor scene in at home. A Mom and Dad sit on the bed with their little girl, who is smiling. The mood is warm and secure. The little girl is about 10 years old. She's contented. Dad is about to tell a story.
At a private school in Kuala Lumpur, 10 year old Wing Sun and his friends play a game of soccer in the schoolyard. The school's main building is visible and some teachers are looking on. Some schoolgirls are standing nearby.
a painting of a woman and a child sitting on a bed
A sultry afternoon, moving into evening in the american south, circa 1970. I see a quiet home surrounded by trees near a river, and on the wide front porch an older man sits in a rocking chair talking to his younger friend. It's storytelling time. The house is white shiplap siding, and the porch is peaceful and quiet. An old dog lays down at the old man's feet. Glasses of iced tea are nearby. Life is good.
In Penang, Malaysia. Wing Sun's Grandmother is elderly and lives in Penang, on the island. Grandma's house is in a quieter part of the island, closer to the coastline where the sea breeze can be felt through the wooden windows. It's near the ocean, in Tanjung Bungah where there are old-style homes and a slower pace of life. There are many resort "homestay" hotels, and also some high-rise condos, but Grandmother's house has been there many years. Wing-Sun's mother grew up in that house, near the beach, with the ocean breeze. We see the house from down the street with Grandma standing in the doorway greeting us.
It's 6 AD. Inside a small synagogue in Nazareth Jesus stands to read from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. His disciples sit on the floor nearby, and about 40 people, all middle-aged to elderly men in period appropriate dress sit, some in chairs, others on the floor. The lighting is muted and the inside decor is sparse but warm and inviting. Light streams in through a single window opening on one wall and through the back door, where everything else is dark and cool. Outside the heat is beating down and the sun shines brightly. Outside the window some women and children are gathered, waiting for their husbands and fathers and grandfathers to finish. As Jesus reads, some of the men look at each other with surprised expressions. Others show acceptance.
a painting of a man on a cross with wings
Paint this scene fo rme: Siu-Zi is 12 years old, and her father lovingly calls her Ah Zi, meaning “little seed.” She has always been a quiet, observant child. In the bustling streets of Guangzhou, where her early memories shimmered with bright festivals and quiet moments by the river, life had once seemed full of endless possibility. Until two years ago. She could still see vividly the day her Mother had come home early from her job. She was ill, and while Siu-Zi had seen her ill before, it had never been like this. She remembered with painful clarity the days and nights when her Mother, and then her Grandfather, had lay in bed, hardly moving, barely able to breathe. And then the terrible sadness of the day they were taken by the doctors – were they doctors? They seemed more like policemen in white uniforms! – to the hospital. Siu-Zi never saw either of them again. And it wasn’t just in her home, but in many homes in her part of the city, and then, she learned later, all over the country, something her Father called a pandemic was breaking up families, making mothers and fathers, and grandmothers and grandfathers, disappear. Siu-Zi and her Father were locked in their apartment for a very long time, unable to go outside. They scarcely had enough water to drink, and not nearly enough food to eat. After those terrible days, a deep, silent sorrow had settled over the family.
In the California desert standing near one of the branches of the american canal, an Asian woman holds up a string of carp, asking an older American man who is standing in front of his 1960 Teardrop camper/trailer what to do with them. a young boy stands near the man. The whole scene is transpiring under the hot sun.