Category Archives: Asian American

Where is Home to You

Where is Home to You?

My piece explores my evolving understanding of the concept of “home.” What began as confusion during a second-grade writing assignment has turned into a meaningful journey of self-reflection. Through literature, dance, and lived experiences across multiple cultures and countries, I’ve come to understand home not as a location, but as an internal sanctuary—something rooted in peace, expression, and emotional connection. I was inspired to share this story because I believe many young people around the world also struggle with this complex question.

—Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

The question, “Where is home to you?” is a deceptively simple yet profoundly
complex inquiry. Every individual has a unique interpretation of the question. For some, it may evoke a geographic answer, rooted in soil, and for others, it is a neutral blend of cultural heritage and personal experience. For many years, it remained an elusive enigma, a landscape shrouded in both familiarity and fog. At times, I found myself blaming my diversity and uniqueness for my confusion.

In the second grade, we were required to write an essay, and the prospect of my first major writing assignment filled me with curiosity and joy. My eyes were laser focused on the green basket, which contained a mix of cards. Each of them read a different prompt, and that promise of individuality planted a seed of anticipation and interest in all of us. I daydreamed about the type of subject I would be given. I lost myself in reverie, imagining every scenario possible that I could think of: all of which I knew fully what the answer would be. Would it be a fantastical prompt that required me to use my imagination, or a historical viewpoint that I needed to assert my opinions on?

My trance was broken when my teacher’s voice cut through my thoughts like a razor. With each step towards the teacher’s table, an unmistakable sense of nervousness rose within me, an almost tangible tension that coiled around my chest. When I finally read what was written, it put me in a place of unexpected confusion. What had once seemed so simple now felt like a labyrinth, where I was trapped in the maze lost in disorientation.

It read, “Where is home to you?” in bold unforgiving letters, and I found myself frowning as my footsteps grew shorter with a loss of hope. Thoughts buzzed around in my head like a swarm of restless bees, each one darting from idea to idea, stinging my mind with urgency.

The sharp chime of the bell sliced through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. As I
looked down, eraser marks and salty tears took the place of words that I prayed were there.

From then on, I subscribed to the conventional image that a “home” was synonymous with a tangible, physical space. I chose to take the easy way out, as I fantasized about a beautiful house, where the rhythm of belonging hummed softly to comfort me. However, each time my family moved countries, my picture-perfect image became increasingly fractured, like a mosaic of pieces that never quite held together. I wondered if my odd life was not deserving of something like a home.

I was met many times with silent criticism from others when I tried to answer the
question, “Where are you from?” Random words spilled out of my mouth, as if they too, were uncertain of their purpose and destination. I felt the unspoken implication that my origins, divided and shifting, were less valued than those steeped in singularity.

The more I bloomed into a more mature individual, I came to realize that I should not have pushed myself into the shadows as I lived in confusion of who I really am. This new perspective was the start of my own journey to sanctuary.

I began to fall in love with the world of literature, where I found a peculiar sense of home in the novels that I read and in the movies that I watched. I embarked on adventures with Huck and Jim and went on a frivolous journey with Chris, Gordie, Vern, and Teddy. The ink and paper seemed to embrace me with the warmth of familiarity that became a refuge where the chaos of the world fell away. The characters’ struggles, triumphs, and moments of reflection mirrored my own, creating an unspoken bond. A thread of shared experiences wove us together into the fabric of human existence.

Through this discovery, I often found myself perplexed. How could a mere assemblage of paper and ink evoke the sense of belonging that I had longed for? How could a world, spun from the loom of imagination, offer such a welcoming hand? It forced myself to confront my sustained belief that a home was a structurally defined place.

A home, as I experienced, can also take the form of an art style. I found shelter in a studio, with its polished floors and mirrored walls, which became a sacred ground. It was not the studio itself that gave me a sense of home, it was how it housed a place where I could express myself in ways that I had never before, where I was both the performer and audience. Through ballet, I learned an entirely new language that spoke to me in a way words never did.

The rhythm of my breaths and the breaths of others synchronized into one. It was a silent but meaningful indication that the mere art form of ballet had brought me both a place for sanctuary and fictive kinship.

The Oxford Dictionary defines a home as “a place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household,” which is a seemingly straightforward and static notion. Yet, I find myself at odds with this definition, as it enforces the idea that a home is a fixed place, an address, and a place in which an individual is anchored for a lifetime. Even as I challenge the dictionary’s definition, there are moments when I long for the permanence that it reflects and when I yearn for the comfort of knowing exactly where I belong. My own internal diversity has led me to this hard fought journey, where I am able to confront my own definition of where I belong. My belief continues to evolve, but for now, I live by my own definition that a home is not measured by the land beneath my feet, but by the peace within my heart.

By Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

Who I/Am

By Philip Shin, age 16, California.

(A poem expressing the duality of author’s heritage with authentic questions and observations.)

parts of a whole
parts with a hole
i am: of two places, of two minds, of two halves
of land and sea, of peninsula and coastline, of damp and dry, of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands

of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of R. of Korea, and
of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens
of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers, of beaches and business,
of So and Cal

two puzzle pieces, together forever, one tarnished, decaying, colors fading, cobwebs staining, fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself, i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears, my mother tongue of biology, not adoption

i recognize not; i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands, to scorched earth, to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives
my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself, this is my homeland, but it is not my homeland, but it is my homeland

i have:
a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another

i am:
incomplete, part of a whole, part of a red, white, blue whole
part of a red, white, blue, black whole, half faded, melted, evaporated, into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

By Philip Shin, age 16, Korean American, California. They write: “I have loved writing for my entire life. I write for fun, but also to better understand myself and my place in this vibrant, diverse, and multicultural world… I was spurred to write this poem after a trip to Korea.”

They Let Me Live in Sound

By Mahika Kapoor, age 14, Virginia.

I wrote this poem with a ten-minute timer to try to capture the frenzied mindset of the narrator in this poem. I wanted to see how fast I could capture the importance of the Holocaust, and how other people felt. I came up with this piece, “They Let me Live in Sound,” showing a child’s mind during the Holocaust, mostly based on the child Ellie Wiesel. Ellie Wiesel wrote the book “Night” to capture his dream of other people understanding the misery of the Holocaust. He will forever be remembered, and so will many other characters from the Holocaust period, such as Anne Frank. Anne had a dream to publish her diary she wrote during her two-year Holocaust hiding. These two historical figures both had dreams of people remembering the Holocaust, and for others to be able to vision how tragic their experience was through forms of writing.

The poem tries to capture how many people may have been feeling during the Holocaust in metaphorical ways.

—Mahika Kapoor, age 14.

I used to run away from the people and the sound
I used to seal my ears because my life was too loud
Running away, sealing my ears, hiding from what’s monitoring me
But what if I let loose my hand cuffs and decided to be me?
What if I decided to be free?

They would shut my eyes belligerently, making sure my eyelids wouldn’t dare to let the light in by even a slit
It’s not worth it
It’s not worth it
What would I do to be free?
What would I do to open the jar of experiences that are limiting myself to be me?
And then suddenly, I expose my ears
I expose my ears, submerge my feet in the bosom of the ground, and erase my tears
The world behind my eyes will vanish if I want the will to be free
But at least I will die knowing I can still be me

By Mahika Kapoor, Indian American, age 14, Virginia.

Is Convenience Worth the Last Drop?

By Mikaela Gee, age 16, New York.

As we walk from the sea to earth, along paths carved by rapids long ago,
It was Mother Nature’s tears that nourished and raised—
Our bodies, our cells, our kin who’ve begun,
To shape the earth with a boundless run.

And yet, we have forgotten our mother,
Who raised us through countless years.
Her lifeblood, pure and versatile,
Now depleted, unwaveringly so.
She gives us the sweetest fruits to savor,
Irrigates our crops to yield golden wheat,
And builds the grand towers that power our homes.
Yet we poison her roots, her veins,
Choking the motor, seizing the reins.
Our pipes leak lacquered oil into her seas,
From which we fish, then we eat.
Steel succumbs, its strength turned frail by decay,
Her hands unearth truths time cannot betray,
Empires crumble, bound by nature’s say.

And so I call upon you—
My peers, future generations, and past:
Let us pause and remember: the taste of water, sweet and crisp.
The refreshing rain that quenches earth’s thirst.
Without water, no harvest will grow,
No forests, no flowing seas—no us.

Let us act before time discreetly seeps away,
With hands that halt the careless streams,
And choices that honor the gift we’ve known—
So the rhythm of life may endlessly flow,
So that our cups will always be filled to the brim.

By Mikaela Gee, age 16, Chinese-Malaysian, New York. Mikaela explores life’s complexities through quiet reflection, capturing universal emotions in still moments—like gazing out a car window at the world rushing by. She’s eager to share her voice and connect with readers, blending personal introspection with themes that resonate widely. Expect to see more of her poems in near future.

Monsoon Rains

By Adhya Kidiyoor, 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, 13, Texas.

The steady, gentle pour of the rain
The hot steam spiraling from the cup in my hands
The soft creaking of the wooden swing beneath me
This takes me back to where I belong
This takes me home.

I linger there for a while, trying hard to piece myself back together

The thunder booms, shaking the rain-soaked earth, scattering my broken thoughts across the mossy ground.

The swing freezes midair.
My chai loses its last warmth.
Time seems to stand still.

Who am I?
I’m a girl who’s lost.
A girl in the glorious shower of rain
A girl remembering the soft, familiar canopy of past days
A girl falling apart in the monsoon, not yet ready to let it go.

A girl who longs to go back.

Sitting here without the warmth of my home, I feel so small.
Alone.

Lightning flashes, and for a moment, everything seems clear.

I breathe again, as the rain grows heavier and heavier
As the burden I carry feels lighter and lighter

I listen, for once, as the murmurs of life grow smaller and smaller
And the depths of my clarity grow deeper and deeper

I pause, in wonder as the tiny insignificant raindrop becomes a brilliant shower—
Something bigger.

The rain grows stronger, the steady stream washing away my confusion
For the first time, I can see clearly.

Alone, I would be swept away, just another raindrop swept away in the current
But I don’t have to be alone

The stories of pride and joy, so achingly familiar, keep me warm.
The whispered tales, so fondly believed, keep me company.
These are my roots.
This is my culture.

The rain fades away, as all moments must.
But I can find solace in this memory
I can find clarity in this moment
And in the rain, I find not just my answer but myself.

I am not just a drop, but part of a storm.
I am not just a person, but part of a nation.

I am not just a girl, but the spirit of what makes India beautiful.
And that is all I need.

* * * *

Somewhere between that last sip of chai and the weight of the rain, I stopped worrying and began to listen. The rain didn’t just fall—it spoke, in a language older than our names, dialogue that can be felt and heard. It tells me, tells all of us, that home isn’t always a place, but a scent, a story, or the rhythm our footsteps carve and the droplets copy. And sometimes, the storm doesn’t break you. Sometimes, it brings you back home.

* * * *

The steady fall of the rain
counters the frantic
thumping of my heart.

I am surrounded by the scent
of moss and earth
and all things green with life.

It was a dry period,
one without the flourish of nature
and the embrace of home.

But
monsoon
is coming soon.

I now sit on the swing
that has swayed the same since I was six—regardless of storm or season.

The sky weeps a wretched cry,
hungry to drown all that is familiar.

I must remind myself
this brutal storm is nothing new.

And the lifeless land will be ruined only momentarily—
hard and loveless destruction giving way to plentiful earth.

For days, the skies will wail
and the clouds will darken,
closing their weepy eyes.

I wonder if this storm will ever pass.

But
monsoon
comes every year.

So by now, I must know
the storm will waver eventually—
desperate, darkened skies shutting their curtains

to reveal the calm of the sun
the soft of verdant grass
And the saffron and marigold of the ripe aam
That I have been waiting for.

My little swing continues to rock
and the rain continues to fall
but I continue to breathe
Because the skies have promised

To epilogue into vibrant
orange, white and green,
that fills me with the spirit of India,
alive in every drop of rain.

Written jointly by Adhya Kidiyoor, and 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, age 13, Texas.

Adhya loves staying active—especially in the world of literature! Whether it’s volunteering, competing in Science Olympiad, or practicing tennis, she’s always doing something. When she’s not on the move, you’ll find her reading, listening to music, or working on her next big idea. She’s curious, motivated, and always up for a new challenge.

Maira has a passion for learning and creativity. She enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time outdoors. When she’s not volunteering with nonprofits, she’s either listening to music or practicing karate.

The Global Wildlife Center

By Keren He, age 16, grade 10, Louisiana.

In Louisiana’s heart, a lush embrace,
A sanctuary sprawls, a wild, open space.
The Global Wildlife Center, a haven graced,
Where creatures roam free, their freedom traced.

Nine hundred acres, a vast expanse,
Where wild hearts freely roam and dance.
A thousand beings grace this grand land,
In harmony, they live as if by chance.

Safari wagons roll through verdant terrain,
As guides share tales that educate and entrain.
Of habitats lost and efforts to sustain,
Of balance restored, new life to regain.

Zebras with stripes like an artist’s brush,
Kangaroos hop with a playful rush.
Giraffes bend low, their touch gentle, plush,
Camels sway by, their steps soft as hush.

Ostriches dart beneath the azure sky,
Emus stride through, their gait never shy.
Bison show strength as they wander by,
Antelopes leap, so graceful and spry.

Conservation’s call rings clear and true,
As visitors learn what they can do.
To protect these wonders, both old and new,
For future generations to cherish, too.

The Center stands tall, a beacon for all,
A refuge, a teacher, heeding nature’s call.
So come one, come all, let your spirit soar,
In this sanctuary of life—forevermore.

By Keren He, age 16, grade 10, Louisiana.

King of the Soup Dumplings: Yang Bing-Yi

By Fanny Wong, New York.

During the Chinese civil war in 1948, Yang Bing-Yi was an ambitious 21-year-old man. He decided to leave his home in southern China and embark on a new life. With only $20 in his pocket, Bing-Yi stepped into a boat to escape the war. He worried whether the rickety boat would make it to Taipei, the capital of Taiwan.

The boat arrived safely and Bing-Yi’s life changed.

He met and married a young woman, Lai Pen-Mei. They started a new business together.

Young and hard-working, the couple sold cooking oil in glass bottles. This supported their growing family, until oil in tins became popular and business slowed.

Bing-Yi worried. What else could he do to support his growing family? His education was disrupted when Japanese troops occupied China. Without a good education, he still could work hard and make something of himself. He started another business.

He recalled he had learned how to make noodles from relatives. That was something he did rather well. So he opened a store to sell noodles.

He made very good noodles. Business was brisk but there was a lot of competing noodle makers. What could he do to bring in more customers? How could his noodles stand out? He had no idea. Then a loyal customer encouraged him to make something else, a soup dumpling (Xiao Long Bao) that was popular in China.

“At first,” Bing-Yi explained. “I knew nothing about the skills of making dumplings, but I set out to learn.”

He had a lot to learn!

First, he created the soup with pork bones. Then he mixed the filling of pork, water, minced ginger, and then seasoned it with soy sauce and pepper.

The flour dough was easy to make. Bing-Yi rolled out each piece to a round disc about 3 inches in diameter.

The challenge was how to fill the dough with soup. He formed it into a pouch, but the soup was too thin. It didn’t stay inside.

He experimented and experimented with the dough. It was either too thick or too thin. Even when the dough was just right, nothing worked. But he persisted and came to the conclusion that the problem could not be the consistency of the dough.

He started to experiment with the soup.

He boiled chicken and pig bones for a long time until the soup was gelatin-like, which was easier to handle than liquid soup. He filled the soup gelatin into the pouch and pinched it close, making pleats on top. When he steamed the dumplings in a wok, the gelatin soup melted. Viola! Soup filled dumpling! After so many trials, he had found the solution!

The aroma made Bing-Yi’s mouth water. He waited impatiently for the dumplings to be cooked. He lifted the wok cover to check on the progress frequently. Finaly, dumplings were ready. He poked a hole on the top of a dumpling to let out the steam. He bit first into the skin, then delicately slurped up the hot soup. He closed his eyes to savor the soup and the filling. An explosion of flavors and texture! Delicious! His customers would love it.

Word of mouth from appreciative customers brought more people that overflowed his store front. In 1972, at age of 45, Bing-Yi took a bold step and opened his first restaurant in Taipei, Taiwan. He named it Din Tai Fung. He chose those words because din means a cooking vessel and tai fung mean peace and abundance. It was an auspicious name for a restaurant that would open branches first in Tokyo, then in Arcadia, California, and then in New York City.

Each restaurant uses the same high standard, down to the diameter of the dough and the weight of each soup dumpling. Each one must weigh 21 grams, about three-quarters of an ounce. Through glass windows in the restaurants, customers can watch the white-uniformed cooks prepare the dumplings in a brightly lit kitchen. They can see the amount of work and the technique of making a soup dumpling. Their consistent high quality of the dumplings and level of service bring new and repeat customers.

In 1993, the New York Times published a feature about the restaurant. In 2010, it received a Michelin Star, a prestigious award to a restaurant offering outstanding cooking. Food tasting experts have raved about the dumplings, spreading the restaurant’s fame far and wide.

In 2023, Yang Bing-Yi passed away at the ripe age of 96. But his two sons continue their father’s legacy, serving the popular Xiao Long Boa in Din Tai Fung restaurants in many cities all over the world.

Two years ago, I visited my brother-in-law in Taipei, Taiwan. He took me to a Din Tai Fung in a shopping mall. We had to take a number and wait on a bench outside. My brother-in-law ordered not only the dumplings, but also small side dishes and a cucumber salad. I still remember how delicious the dumplings were. Surely worth the 30-minute wait!

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

Why Permanent Standard Time Is the Best!

By George Nakajima, age 11, California.

Are you not tired of changing clocks twice a year? I believe we should adopt Permanent Standard Time for several compelling reasons: it aligns with our natural circadian rhythms, it is supported by scientific research on health, and it avoids the disruptions caused by Daylight Saving Time.

Los Angeles is located at about 34°N latitude. There are other countries on similar latitudes that do not observe Daylight Saving Time (DST), such as Japan, Taiwan, and Singapore. I chose to compare Tokyo (Japan) and Los Angeles as I have lived in both Tokyo and Los Angeles.

Right now, I live in Los Angeles, where we have DST. DST shifts the clock forward in spring and back in fall. This changes my body clock. In Tokyo, you do not need to change your clock, so you can live more naturally. But in Los Angeles, we need to adjust our clock twice a year—once in spring and once in fall. This is something we cannot easily get used to.

Only two U.S. states do not observe DST. They are Hawaii and Arizona. At first, I wasn’t sure if Utah and New Mexico used Daylight Saving Time. That’s because the Navajo Nation, which does use DST, covers parts of those states. I thought the rest of Utah and New Mexico might not follow DST. But after doing some research, I learned that both Utah and New Mexico do use DST, just like most other states. Several states, including Alabama, Colorado, Florida, Delaware, Georgia, Louisiana, Minnesota, Tennessee, and Wyoming, are trying to adopt Permanent DST. However, I believe we should keep Permanent Standard Time instead.

First, Permanent Standard Time is better aligned with our internal body clocks. According to the article, “Permanent Standard Time Is the Way to Go.”

Dr. Beth Malow, director of the sleep division at Vanderbilt University School of Medicine, explains: “Having light in the morning not only makes you feel more alert, but it also helps you go to bed at the right time at night.”

This highlights how waking up with natural light improves both our alertness during the day and our ability to sleep well at night.

Second, only a small portion of the world still follows Daylight Saving Time. Less than 40% of people worldwide observe Daylight Saving Time. Gabrielle Solis, a supporter of Permanent Standard Time, notes: “It first started as an effort to save energy, but research has found that the actual energy savings are minimal.”

This shows that the original purpose of Daylight Saving Time no longer applies effectively, making it less relevant in today’s society.

Many doctors believe that Permanent Standard Time is healthier. According to Gabrielle Solis, shifting clocks disrupt sleep and increase the risk of heart attacks and other health issues. By sticking to Standard Time year-round, we can create a healthier, more stable routine for everyone.

To conclude, sticking with Standard Time promotes a safe and healthy morning, aligns with our body clocks, and avoids the hottest part of the workday—something especially helpful for workers who dislike working in the heat. If you agree with my idea, please contact your local representative and support changing the law for good.

—George Nakajima, age 11, California. He will start middle school this fall.

Making Wontons

By Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California.

The cold water welcomed my fingertips as I dipped them into the bowl. I gently lathered the water onto the wrapper so I wouldn’t rip it. The meat inside of the wrapper felt like a golf ball—smooth, spherical and heavy for its small size. I connected the two opposite corners of the wrapper and folded the wonton* into an envelope.

I’m a third generation American and making wontons is something that connects me to my culture. My parents are pretty good at it, but I’m just starting, so sometimes I make small mistakes. We make them at random times. Sometimes I get home from soccer practice and the wontons are waiting for me, and other times, I get to make a couple of them, too.

Chinese cuisine is a lot different than many other cuisines in that you rarely ever get to eat the dish you ordered. Most of the time, you share all of the food with everyone at the table, even if you only ordered one item. When I share these meals with my parents, it helps me bond with them.

I set the wonton down on the platter where many of the wontons my parents had previously made were sitting. Journey (the music band) played in the background. My mom, who was preparing the vegetables for dinner, said something to my dad in Chinese which I didn’t understand.

As my dad pulled the first batch of wontons out of the pot, the aroma filled the room, and my mouth watered.

I refocused on my task, but I was having trouble closing the wrappers tight. So I dropped the wonton onto the plate, sat back in my chair, and crossed my arms.

My dad got up from his chair and crouched down next to me. He then calmly walked me through how to find the right amount of meat and how to seal the wrappers well.

When I visit China, I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t speak any Chinese. Whenever we’re shopping at street markets, vendors are shouting out items in Chinese, and at restaurants the menus are all written in Chinese. This makes me feel separated from my culture because I can’t do the basic things that Chinese people can do. But when we’re back home in California, making Chinese food is one of the only things that makes me feel Chinese.

“It’s okay,” my dad tells me. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

My mom, still standing over the boiling pot of water, says, “Yeah, as a kid, I didn’t understand how to make wontons right away. It takes time to learn new things.”

A smile crept onto my face. When the wontons were finished boiling, I made a sauce containing soy sauce, sesame sauce and rice vinegar. I bit into the first wonton and the juice from the meat burst inside my mouth in a flavorful explosion.

Immersing in Chinese culture isn’t just about speaking the language. Food and my parents are equally important things that connect me to it. In China, I may have felt awkward being around a lot of the people, but through participating in small cultural practices here in the U.S., I hope to fill the gap between Chinese culture and me.

* Wonton is a Chinese dumpling that is commonly found across many regional cuisines of China.

—Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California. Drew writes, “I’m Chinese-American, and I am the second generation of my family born in the U.S. I only speak English right now, but I used to be fluent in Chinese. The most important thing to me is my parents. They are the ones that support you and guide you through all aspects of your lifetime. My parents are my best friends and I wouldn’t be who I am without them. In the future, my dream is to become a professional soccer player. I am a very athletic kid, and sports are something that always cheer me up.”

The Girl who Saved the American Pilot

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York.

On February 11, 1941, Ah Ying watched a parachute float down from the sky. It draped the roof and the side of a small building in their village of Shatin, in the outskirts of Hong Kong.

The adults of the village were frightened and ran off. Ah Ying was nervous too, but she was more curious than frightened. She walked closer and saw a White pilot. She was relieved the pilot was not a Japanese. The Japanese had occupied Hong Kong and she was used to seeing them strutting around, sometimes on horseback.

His leg was hurt. He was limping. Could she trust him?

The pilot showed a Chinese flag sewn on the inside of his jacket. Ah Ying breathed a sigh of relief.

It was all right. He was not an enemy. He was working with the Chinese against the Japanese invaders. She must hide him from the Japanese soldiers.

Ah Ying led the pilot from the village to the cow pastures on a small path. As they climbed the steep path, he could hardly follow her with his hurt leg and a burned arm. They went up a steep path, Ah Ying pulling him by the good right hand.

There was no way of avoiding a Japanese sentry post below. They hurried as fast as they could. But the Japanese spotted them.

Crack! Wheeeee! Crack! Two Japanese soldiers fired shots and others were running toward them. They raced up a hill and down the other side. The pilot could not follow fast enough and Ah Ying lost sight of him. The Japanese soldiers were quite a distance away when she reached the top of a hill and raced down the other side. She looked back once and saw the pilot half hidden by a boulder surrounded by scrawny weeds.

For the next few hours, until the sun set, Ah Ying dared not look for the pilot. The Japanese soldiers were still searching for him on the hillside. She had to help him somehow. Her parents were against her going back to help.

“The Japanese is our enemy, not the pilot. If he’s caught, the Japanese will treat him cruelly,” she said to her parents, who knew too well the cruelty of the soldiers.

As Ah Ying searched the hillside, she sang a folk song to let the pilot know she was looking for him. He emerged from behind the boulder. She led him through bushes and grass to a tall shrubbery on another hillside. She pulled the shrubbery aside and shoved the pilot down a foot or two onto a straw floor in a hole about eight feet in diameter.

Ah Ying turned on a flashlight. The hole was underground. It must have been used as an oven for burning charcoal. The past fire had baked the walls into hardness and sealed off dampness. She pounded two nails into the rock at the entrance and hung a blanket to block the light from inside the cave.

The next morning, Ah Ying brought food. It was plain rice with pickled cabbage. She watched him scoop them into his mouth hungrily with the chopsticks.
The pilot wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand and pointed to his chest to introduced himself, “Donald Kerr.”

Ah Ying introduced herself he same way. She motioned with her palm that he should stay there and left.

It was too dangerous to visit the pilot in daytime. The next night, Ah Ying brought hard boiled eggs, boiled sweet potatoes, and a thermos of hot water. She pointed toward the outside and brought in an old man dressed in dark clothes and western hat.

Peering at the pilot through thick glasses, the old man said, “Good morning, sir. I am happy to know you. I am Y.T.”

“My name is Donald Kerr. I’m glad we can talk in English”

The children did not understand what the two men discussed in English. When the discussion was over, Ah Ying left with Y.T.

During the three days that Kerr hid in the cave, Ah Ying supplied him with food. On the fourth day, she brought along a young Chinese woman.

“Friend, friend,” the woman whispered, while removing the bushes and crawled in.

“My name is Miss Li,” she said. “I speak some English. Someone will come for you in a few days.”

She left with Ah Ying.

Several nights later, Y.T., the woman, and Ah Ying arrived with more food.

“Eat fast. We go to another place,” he said.

They hiked in silence up a long slope. At the top of the hill, water shimmered in the distance.

“Now you go with Ah Ying,” Y.T. said and disappeared with Miss Li into the darkness.

They walked and walked, up and down hills, on large paths and tiny trails. It was rough going. There were rocky patches and narrow gullies.

At the bottom of a hill was a town with dim lights. Ah Ying left him on the hill to sleep among the weeds, with his rolled-up coat for a pillow.

The weather was sunny the next day. After dark, Ah Ying came back to the waiting pilot with a note in English, “I bring you home now.”

They traveled silently into another valley and reached a long Chinese house. A wooden door opened a little to let them in. A room was full of people, young and old men and Miss Li.

“Who are all these people?’ Kerr asked.

“Guerillas,” Miss Li said. “We’ll keep you safe. The Japanese are only a few miles away. Sleep here until we are ready to leave.”

Around midnight, Miss Li woke the pilot sleeping on a bamboo bed. “We take you to China by boat.”

Miss Li and Ah Ying shook hands with the pilot.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Kerr said.

The pilot was taken to his base in Guilin, China. Back home in Shatin, Ah Ying never forgot the pilot and her courageous story became proud lore of her family.

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.