But here I am in Italy. And this is the tourist I have become.

A Chinese restaurant run by Qingtian immigrants in Rovigo, Italy.

So before coming to Europe, I brushed up on my Chinese. Nearly all of my interviews have been conducted in Putonghua. And, getting around Europe using English has worked just fine. Until I got to Italy.

Maybe it’s just bad luck. But during our first week in Italy, we encountered at least five people who were upset we could not speak Italian and hostile when we tried, in vain, to communicate.

“Italiano,” said the man in Torino, minding the front desk that night. He glared at me sternly. It happened again in Monselice, a town near Padova. A man at the front desk of a hotel refused to try and talk to me when I inquired about hotel prices. And then again when we tried to buy bus tickets at a bar. I may not understand Italian, but I know when someone’s pissed off — it has often come in the form of one speaking rapid fire Italian to him or herself while rolling their eyes and throwing up their hands.

I should have a thicker skin. I’m a trained journalist and I know what it’s like to be sworn at, to have doors slammed in my face, to be hung up on, to battle other reporters in a scrum. Alas, it still gets to me when people are less than courteous.

To be fair, I have met a good number of nice Italians. Italians who saw us admiring a church in Verona, came over to ask where we were from, and said: “Welcome to Italy!” We have met wonderful hotel staff across the country. People who go out of their way to make us feel comfortable.

But we get shouted at a lot. “NI HAO”s in bars and on the street. Perhaps it’s just their way of being friendly. But I find it condescending. I feel, at times, I am a spectacle. For them to shout “NI HAO” and to get a response is a thrill. Sometimes, I respond with: “Hello.”

For sure, this kind of greeting doesn’t just happen in Italy. I was constantly called “China-man!” in Havana, Cuba. In China, foreigners are often greeted with a jeering: “HALLO! HALLO!” It can be really, really annoying. And when I was still living in New York — multicultural capital of the world — a friend and I were out for the evening and stopped briefly in the Times Square subway station to watch the performers who often gather just outside the famous Latin music store. A young, black performer came up to the crowd and asked everyone to take a step back. When he saw my friend and I (both Chinese), he pressed his hands together and bowed deeply to us, saying: “Konichewa!”

My friend was not amused. He stared the young man down and said: “Dude, I’m American.” The boy seemed surprised by my friend’s reaction, thought for a moment, then extended his hand and said: “Sorry, man, just jokes.”

Chinese immigrants are buying up bars in Italy. The new business venture gives them a chance to interact with Italians on a daily basis.

Growing up in multicultural Toronto, I’m used to seeing immigrants everywhere — in school, at work, on the bus, in the subway, at the parks. But here in northern Italy, I often find myself looking around and noticing ‘wow, I’m the only Asian here.’

So I have started to do something I thought I’d never do — I have, on several occasions, sought out Chinese restaurants in Italy. Please, before you start with me, just let me say: I love pasta! Rigatoni, Penne, Lasagna, Gnocchi, you name it. I love pizza! With a glass of wine? Heaven. And the fromaggio! Oh, how I do love cheese.

But there’s just something about having a warm, bowl of soup noodles and a nice helping of dumplings in my tummy. Or rice. A nice steaming bowl of fragrant white rice, with crispy stir-fried vegetables, maybe some garlic shrimp, and some spicy tofu. Slurping up the flavours! Biting into juiciness! But this isn’t only about comfort food. There’s something else: it is *so* nice to be able to go into a restaurant and order with fluency. No need for wild hand gestures. No need to second guess. No surprise dish showing up on the table.

A Chinese man pushes a cart-load of clothing in Milan's wholesale garment district.

So here I am, doing exactly what I think Chinese immigrants shouldn’t do when they are in a foreign country: Speak only to other Chinese and eat only in Chinese restaurants.

Chinese workers in a factory near Rimini sewing swim suits for an Italian brand.

It’s very easy to be unsympathetic. “Here are these immigrants coming to a new country and just building mini Chinatowns, with no regard or respect for the local language and culture…” But over the past few weeks, I have been given a small taste of what it must be like for these new immigrants, many of whom have little education and no grounding in any Western language. Already, I am at a huge advantage as a Chinese born Canadian. But I have experienced first-hand what it’s like to feel like an alien — isolated and alone. Not being able to speak Italian in Italy is a major impediment. And the urge to find someone who looks like you and speaks the same language as you, can be irresistible.

They lean over and chat with customers; they work the espresso machine effortlessly; and the coffee, the sandwiches and the patatas bravas are just as good as any other bar.

I always ask where the bar owners or waiters come from, and in almost every instance, they have told me: “I come from Qingtian.”

The phenomenon of Chinese-run bars in Italy and Spain is a fairly recent development, something that began in earnest about five years ago. Some of the earliest immigrants started off running restaurants, serving Chinese food catering to the local populations. In Spain and Italy, “almond chicken” seems to be a favourite and of course, everyone (whether you’re Italian, Spanish or American) seems to love the spring roll. Then, the Chinese started opening garment and shoe factories. As China’s manufacturing industry boomed, the import/export businesses proved to be a lucrative venture. The Chinese bring over shiploads of clothing and products that are “Made in China” and sell them for double the value in Europe.

But all of these markets are now saturated as migration from China has continued to flow to Europe.

So the immigrants are branching out. Now, bars seem to be the all the hype. I have met migrants who have left the clothing business behind for a life behind the bar. One closed down a garment factory in Rimini after more than 15 years in operation and moved to Torino this year to run a bar.

There has been some nasty talk in the streets and in the Italian and Spanish media about Chinese immigrants stealing business opportunities from the locals. But, the fact is, running a bar is hard work. The hours are long and you are always on your feet. Many young Italians and Spaniards don’t want this life, so family bars are sold to Chinese immigrants who are willing to take on this lifestyle.

The more interesting question is: What do the Chinese know about running bars? Coffee and wine are a way of life here in Europe. Can an immigrant be a part of this scene here in Europe?

I believe they can. But there are some common missteps Chinese immigrants should avoid. I sat down with a young Qingtian entrepreneur in Italy named Leo Chen. Chen has done a lot of research on the bar scene in Italy. Not only is he an Asian who can hold his liquor, he’s preparing to open a bar in Torino this month. According to him, here are some of the common mistakes Chinese bar owners make:

Kecheng "Leo" Chen, a young Chinese entrepreneur in Italy, will open a new bar in Torino later this month.

Mistake #1
Not turning on the lights. “I’ve walked into bars run by Chinese where there are 10 lights and the owners will only turn on two or three,” Chen said. “They just can’t bring themselves to turn on the other ones for the sake of saving electricity. It’s a problem because customers walk into a bar and it’s dark and unpleasant. They’ll turn around and walk right out of there.”

Mistake #2
Not turning on the heat. “Again, it’s a problem because many Chinese immigrants don’t even turn on the heat at home. They see it as a waste of electricity,” Chen explained. “I’ve also been in Chinese-run bars where the owner can’t bring himself to turn on the air conditioning during the summer.”

Mistake #3
No free food. “Italians expect that if they go into a bar and order a drink, there will be appetizers like potato chips, or bread and parma ham for them to much on,” he said. “In my bar, I hope to provide not only free appetizers, but also biscotti, and eventually maybe even sushi.”

Mistake #4
The owners won’t allow the bar tender to drink with patrons. “It’s important to establish a good rapport between bar tender and customer,” Chen said. “Running a bar is not just about pouring the drinks and serving them.”

I will be in Torino next week for the opening of Chen’s new bar. Let’s see how this young entrepreneur fairs in this new business venture!

Blue skies. An airplane prepares to touch down at the Toronto Island Airport.

One of them is helping my husband, a Dutch citizen, apply for permanent residency here.

A few days ago, we sent in an application to Immigration Canada. The package was nearly 50 pages long and it took us more than a month to assemble. There was a pretty extensive questionnaire, addendums to the questionnaire, supplementary documents like tax records, various forms of ID, results of a medical check-up my husband had completed here in Canada, and 70+ photos documenting our relationship, from our first date until present day.

We did it all with the help of a lawyer. It’s a pricey option. The forms can be completed on your own, for sure, but the lawyer served as a sort of supervisor, making sure we had all the right documents, telling us how to go about getting the right documents, and making sure all the forms were filled out correctly. Most of all, I think you’re really just paying for piece of mind.

There’s still more to be done — the most time consuming being police checks in all the countries he has lived in for more than 6 months (3 police checks are needed in three countries in our case).

And we’re told the process takes 13 months on average, from time of submission to end.

It may sound like a lot, but I know we have it easy compared to most. For the last 8 months I was on the east coast of China in a place called Qingtian. I spent most of my time listening to Chinese migrants tell me gripping stories of how they ventured abroad.

Some had traveled with snakeheads (Chinese smugglers), crossing borders in the moonlight aboard boats, in the back of vans, and sometimes even on foot. Others were lucky to get work visas. All of them had moved from town to town, restaurant to restaurant, factory to factory. Life was lonely and work was tough. Indeed, life was work.

It’s good to be home, here in Canada. I am reminded, especially after nearly a year living in the Chinese countryside, how good we have it here, and how many migrants risk life and limb for a chance at what we sometimes take for granted.

Reading Chua’s article, my Mom said, was like reading documentation of her own child rearing techniques.

“I still remember our fights,” she wrote in an e-mail to me before we spoke. “I was the terrible mom [who] always wanted my own way. We fought and we made up and we fought again … I remember the fights we had and yes, you did tear up a lot of things.”

I tore up piano sheets when my Mom – who had gone to take basic piano lessons herself so she could oversee my daily practicing – sat next to me, demanding I play the piece until it was perfect.

I threw books at my Mom, when she made me write book reports during the summer holidays while the rest of my classmates were away at overnight camps – camps I was not allowed to go to.

We were not the only ones discussing Chua’s book – due to be released on Tuesday. Her story is causing an uproar on blogs, on Twitter, all over the Internet. The excerpt is brilliantly timed marketing scheme. Love it or hate it, her book is now going to be a bestseller.

“Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” highlights the differences between Western parents and Chinese parents. Western parents are too overly concerned with a child’s self esteem, Chua argues, while Chinese parents will push their children to perfection – criticizing, not praising an A-minus grade. And what if a report card came back with a B? There would be “a screaming, hair-tearing explosion” followed by dozens of practice tests, Chua writes.

This kind of parenting apparently makes Chinese mothers “superior” to Western mothers. There’s no shame in threatening and punishing your child – it’s a way to make sure they are trying their absolute best.

And so Chua’s children, Sophia and Louisa (Lulu), were raised with these rules: no TV, no pets, no computer games, no sleepovers, no play dates, no grades under A, no parts in school plays, no complaints about not having parts in school plays, no choice of extracurricular activities, nothing less than top places in any school class except gym and drama, no musical instruments except piano or violin.

Myself and a lot of my friends could relate to having some of these rules imposed on them by their Chinese mothers. But Chua goes to all kinds of extremes.

In her book, she talks about the time she rejected her daughters’ homemade birthday cards, and the time she threatened to burn their beloved stuffed animals if their music didn’t show improvement. In the excerpt, she writes about the time she forced Lulu to practice a song on the piano called “The Little White Donkey.”

“Get back to the piano now,” I ordered.

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh yes, I can.”

Back at the piano, Lulu made me pay. She punched, thrashed and kicked. She grabbed the music score and tore it to shreds. I taped the score back together and encased it in a plastic shield so that it could never be destroyed again. Then I hauled Lulu’s dollhouse to the car and told her I’d donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn’t have “The Little White Donkey” perfect by the next day. When Lulu said, “I thought you were going to the Salvation Army, why are you still here?” I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she couldn’t do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.

In the end, after practicing over and over again, Lulu suddenly got it. And she was beaming.

Mother and daughter quickly kissed and made up. Afterward, they celebrated by snuggling and giggling about the whole thing.

“Western parents worry a lot about their children’s self-esteem. But as a parent, one of the worst things you can do for your child’s self-esteem is to let them give up. On the flip side, there’s nothing better for building confidence than learning you can do something you thought you couldn’t,” Chua writes.

I can totally relate to this model of parenting: Being forced to do something like piano or swimming until I got it right, and then being grateful to my Mother for pushing me to do so. But there were no threats made about giving away my toys to the Salvation Army, and certainly I was not deprived of food. Never would that happen. I don’t think my mother ever called me “pathetic” or a “coward.” That seems just too cruel.

Though the stories are lively and witty, the fights she describes and the words she exchanges with her daughters are horrifying.

Blog posts like this one titled “Parents like Amy Chua are the reason why Asian Americans like me are in therapy” questioning Chua’s assertion that her actions define the “Chinese way” of parenting and a seemingly premature conclusion that her own daughters are examples of her success.

And then a response by Taiwanese American Christine Lu, whose sister was a textbook case “success” story. But she killed herself in 2004 and Lu asserts that the pressure to succeed was just too much:

“Mine is an extreme example of course. But 6 years since her passing, I can tell you that the notion of the “superior Chinese mother” that my mom carried with her also died with my sister on October 28, 2004. If you were to ask my mom today if this style of parenting worked for her, she’ll point to a few boxes of report cards, trophies, piano books, photo albums and Harvard degrees and gladly trade it all to have my sister back.

As a responsibility to herself as a “superior Chinese mother”, I think Amy Chua should do a bit of research outside her comfort zone and help readers understand why Asian-American females have one of the highest rates of suicide in the U.S.”

There’s a difference between wanting the best for your child and wanting the best for yourself, my Mother said to me on Skype this morning.

“Did I want you to learn how to swim for my sake?”  My Mom asked. “How about your math tutor? Did I enroll you in those courses so I could feel better about myself?”

Clearly, the answers are ‘no.’ Swimming is not a hobby, it is a life saving tool that every child should learn. My Mom never learned to swim growing up in Hong Kong. She wanted to make sure I had such a skill. I even ended up being a lifeguard and swim instructor in high school. As for math, it’s never been my forte, but the tutoring prepared me for high school math classes that I otherwise would have struggled with if not for the extra curricular classes my Mom signed me up for.

So perhaps the most disturbing question that lingers is one about Chua’s motives. She claims to love her children, and I’m sure she believes she does. But a glimpse into her past reveals seeds that were planted long ago, perhaps influencing Chua’s methods today.

A review published by the Associated Press today tells the story of the author as an eighth-grader placing second in a history contest. She had invited her family to the ceremony where another student was given the first place award.

“Afterward,” Chua writes, “my father said to me: ‘Never, never, disgrace me like that again.’”

A child’s successes and failures are ultimately their own. For a parent to make pride and face the most important factor in a child’s motivation to achieve is selfish and pathetic and self-indulgent and all those things Chua said about her daughter when she worked so hard to play “The Little White Donkey” on the piano.

I can play the piano, I can skate, I can ski, I can swim and I passed Grade 12 Math. This is thanks to huge investments, emotionally, mentally and financially, from parents who cared about me and not about face. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Too studious? An Asian student, asleep at his desk in class

Maclean’s magazine – a reputable Canadian publication – published a story last week suggesting some of Canada’s top universities were “Too Asian.” Hm. What does that mean?

Well, according to Macleans, an “Asian school” has a reputation of being so academically focused that non-Asian students feel they can’t compete with the overwhelming smart and studious Asian student population.

The article describes Asian students as those that “tend to be strivers, high achievers and single-minded in their approach to university.” An “Asian school” is therefore no fun.

This story pissed a lot of people off. One reader wrote:

I mean my big thing is that assuming all asians are nerdy geniuses incapable of socializing because they spend all their time studying is pretty much the same thing as assuming all black men are violent crack-smoking felons or that all white people are rich prejudiced jackasses.

He has a good point.

But as a journalist myself, I’ve always believed that we shouldn’t kill the messenger.

So, my first instinct was: The two reporters who penned this piece are trying to write about a trend or a way of thinking that they believe many university applicants have adopted.

They are saying: “A lot of students these days are talking about something called the “Asian” factor when deciding which university to attend. These are the reasons – facts and research – why the schools may have developed such a reputation and here are some interviews with students across Canada, Asian and non-Asian, sounding off on the issue.”

They aren’t endorsing this stereotype, are they? Let’s start with the beginning of the story, which was of special interest to me:

The reporters talk to two girls from an elite private high school in Toronto, my alma mater, Havergal College.

I remember slapping my forehead with my hand in embarrassment. Then, I thought, “Well, these girls are pretty brave to be so blunt in their opinions in a national magazine!”

When I found out that the reporters didn’t use their real names (perhaps they somehow sensed there would be major backlash), well, “bravery” quickly disappeared from my list. I was left only with embarassment. Take a read:

When Alexandra and her friend Rachel, both graduates of Toronto’s Havergal College, an all-girls private school, were deciding which university to go to, they didn’t even bother considering the University of Toronto. “The only people from our school who went to U of T were Asian,” explains Alexandra, a second-year student who looks like a girl from an Aritzia billboard. “All the white kids,” she says, “go to Queen’s, Western and McGill.”

Alexandra eventually chose the University of Western Ontario. Her younger brother, now a high school senior deciding where he’d like to go, will head “either east, west or to McGill”—unusual academic options, but in keeping with what he wants from his university experience. “East would suit him because it’s chill, out west he could be a ski bum,” says Alexandra, who explains her little brother wants to study hard, but is also looking for a good time—which rules out U of T, a school with an academic reputation that can be a bit of a killjoy.

Or, as Alexandra puts it—she asked that her real name not be used in this article, and broached the topic of race at universities hesitantly—a “reputation of being Asian.”

The Macleans reporters then give the Havergals a chance to explain themselves.

“Alexandra” says that her way of thinking isn’t racist, rather, it’s simply the sentiment among many white students that competing with Asians “requires a sacrifice of time and freedom they’re not willing to make.”

[The White kids] complain that they can’t compete for spots in the best schools and can’t party as much as they’d like (too bad for them, most will say). Asian kids, meanwhile, say they are resented for taking the spots of white kids. “At graduation a Canadian—i.e. ‘white’—mother told me that I’m the reason her son didn’t get a space in university and that all the immigrants in the country are taking up university spots,” says Frankie Mao, a 22-year-old arts student at the University of British Columbia. “I knew it was wrong, being generalized in this category,” says Mao, “but f–k, I worked hard for it.”

I bold the parentheses because the reporters have interjected here with a thought many readers probably shared at this point in the article. Can’t compete for spots in best schools because you won’t make changes to your partying schedule?

At this point, I wasn’t thinking the article was racist just yet, but I was wondering when the reporters would start deconstructing the stereotype. The anecdote by Frankie Mao does help, leaving readers with a sense of injustice. But the reporters don’t ever speak up for Mao or for Asian students in the rest of the piece.

Instead, the reporters start listing examples, gathering quotes and talking to experts about the stereotype – further validating, further solidifying that the “too Asian” fear is real and a serious concern on campuses across Canada.

This failure makes the story weak, one-sided and seemingly “racist.”

It’s important for journalists to argue both sides of the debate with equal representation, especially when you’re writing about “emerging trends.”

A lot of people are wondering why Asians? And why Chinese in particular? Why single us out?

Well, the answer is simple. There’s a whole lot of us. There’s especially a lot of brilliant  scholars coming over from mainland China. Whenever China is concerned, the story will always include big numbers.

But as I am a Chinese Canadian, who does not fit this stereotype, it was disconcerting that the story would label us all “strivers, high achievers and single-minded in their approach to university.”

It also seems that the authors agree with one single definition of “fun”? If you don’t drink and don’t go clubbing, then you’re not a well rounded person, it seems.

I see a lot of this kind of reporting done in the U.S. In Canada, there’s the stereotype (someone should deconstruct this one) that people are nicer, polite, and more tolerant. So, I was a bit surprised to see this in Maclean’s.

But this isn’t the first time a story like this has come out. In 1979, CTV aired a news piece called “Campus Giveaway,” that inflated enrollment statistics saying Chinese Canadian students were foreigner invaders at Canadian universities. The story led to protests against the network the controversy was cited as the impetus for the formation of the Chinese Canadian National Council.

“I can find you white parents who are pressuring their kids to go to university too — Canadians all tell their kids, ‘Don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, stay in school’ and they encourage them to go to university; what’s wrong with that?” asked the Council’s executive director, Victor Wong. “What really bothers me is the Maclean’sheadline, ‘Too Asian?’ What does that mean? Not Canadian?”

The Council’s executive director said the story was “fear-mongering” (made me think about that silly “Chinese Professor” commercial. irrrrk)

“The trouble with this article is that is portrays Asians as academic-based automotons, learning machines that won’t interact with anything but a book. But no one is capable of that in four years of university. Is there pressure from parents (on kids to go to university)? Probably. Is it at a higher rate (among east Asians)? Maybe — but some of the commentary in this article is definitely racist.”

The article – and one of the Havergal grads – seems to try to redeem itself at the very, very end. But it’s too late. By the end of this very long article, Maclean’s has dug a deep, deep hole.

University of British Columbia president Stephen Toope says that all univerisities should encourage different groups to mingle.

And,

“white kids may not find it’s too Asian after all. Alexandra, who chose to go to Western for the party scene, found she “hated being away from home” and moved back to Toronto. In retrospect, she didn’t like the vibe. “Some people just want to drink 23 hours a day.” Alexandra says she still has friends at Western who live in an “all-blond house” and are “stick thin.” Rachel, Alexandra’s friend, says Western suits them—“they work hard, get good grades, then slap on their clubbing clothes.” But it didn’t suit Alexandra. She now studies at U of T.”

This kind of anecdote serves as a kicker – a nice way to end off a long story. But this is a point that should have been made high up in the story and explored.

Is she finding it “too Asian?” I’d really like to know.

It depicts a Beijing classroom in 2030 with a Chinese professor lecturing about the fall of great empires. The latest empire he makes an example of? The United States.

The message is that the U.S. government is spending way too much with stimulus and that will lead to the country’s downfall. And China – Well, China will be MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA laughing about it.

Geez-us.

Are we really going to be stirring up “foreign menace” fears right now?

Are we really stooping so low as to freak Americans out about stimulus spending with “China is going to take over the world” rhetoric? Worse – Are we going to back up this scare tactic with fallacies?

The Atlantic’s James Fallows writes: “…if you know anything about the Chinese economy, the actual analytical content here is hilariously wrong. The ad has the Chinese official saying that America collapsed because, in the midst of a recession, it relied on (a) government stimulus spending, (b) big changes in its health care systems, and (c) public intervention in major industries — all of which of course, have been crucial parts of China’s (successful) anti-recession policy.”

Take a watch and 1) be offended if you’re Chinese and 2) pissed off if you’re American because this ad is lying to you.

A young man who boarded a plane to Canada in disguise probably didn’t come up with the Mission Impossible-style ruse himself – he was probably helped by a human smuggler – his lawyer says.

I have exciting news – I’m going to be a regular correspondent for the Canadian Medical Association Journal.

The Journal, headquartered in Ottawa, has been around since 1911 and publishes original clinical research, analyses and reviews, practice updates, and of course NEWS and thought-provoking editorials.

Not to get all propaganda on you, but I’m really happy to be writing for CMAJ because the content is so very useful to science, to medicine, and to issues of global health.

What’s really cool is that the top level editors are doctors so everything, including the news reports I write, is vetted by someone who really understands the issues at hand.

And oh, one more thing – it’s open access, meaning the content is free and available for download on the Internet. Hooray!

Here’s my latest piece, published at the end of September. Another one is coming out this month about the state of China’s scientific publishing industry. Sound boring? It’s actually pretty fascinating. Stay tuned.

China’s “left behind” children often suffer health consequences

A Chinese gradmother works in a cornfield as her grandson sits nearby on the outskirts of Changzhi, Shanxi province. Photo credit: Reuters

Zhang Sheng Yi was just a few months old when he was sent from his home, outside of Venice, Italy to Qingtian, a mountainous county in China’s southeastern province of Zhejiang.

His father was a cook in a sushi restaurant and his mother a seamstress in a clothing factory. Struggling immigrants, overwhelmed and underpaid, they shipped their only son to China to be cared for by his paternal grandmother, Yu Mei Juan.

“There was no other option,” says Yu. “My son and his wife were working very hard in Italy. Here, you see a lot of grandmothers raising their grandchildren. Some even take care of three or four children at a time.”

Not just in Qingtian. Across China, millions of children have been left in the care of relatives in the countryside as their parents migrate to cities, or even abroad, to find work.

The rural exodus has been extraordinary. An estimated 130 million people have abandoned the countryside. In Qingtian alone, more than 200 000 have gone overseas — mostly to Europe — since 1979.

As a result, the Chinese government estimates that 23 million children under 14 years of age have been “left behind” in the countryside, usually in the care of grandparents.

Some groups, like the All-China Women’s Federation, claim that number is even higher — closer to 60 million.

Leaving children in kinship care is a cultural norm in China, where extended families play an active role in child rearing.

But there are indications that there are consequences in terms of physical, psychological and even social health.

A survey of the nutritional intake of over 700 “left-behind” children in several rural provinces throughout China found that the daily intake such children was notably lower than those raised by parents (Public Health Rep. 2008; 123[3]: 382–89).

They were also prone to higher rates of growth retardation and low body weight, suffered from stress as a result of prolonged separation from their parents, and frequently were left feeling indifferent and inferior. The authors indicated that the children were typical introverted, unsociable and prone to learning disabilities.

Another study, of 500 “left behind” children in central Henan Province, found that more than 50% were disatisfied with their living conditions and performed poorly in school (China Statistics 2005;1:59–60).

Leaving children in kinship care is “common throughout the developing world,” says Dr. David Hipgrave, UNICEF’s chief of health and nutrition in China. “If you’ve worked in Africa or India, you will know that if Mom or Dad has an opportunity to go study or earn money … basic material needs and opportunities like that are often given priority over something much less tangible like a relationship with a child.”

To redress some of the problems, UNICEF has helped develop and fund a number of programs across China to promote the uptake of social services in this group, such as childhood vaccinations.

“Sometimes it’s as simple as the grandma is too old or infirm or the aunt is unable, physically, to bring the child in for vaccinations,” Hipgrave says. “Kids who are left with elder relatives, who may be less well-educated or illiterate, could also be at a higher risk of the same kind of nutritional issues those elders experienced when they were growing up.”

Children “are not fed the right food or fed food that’s easy to prepare — packaged food that might be of low nutritional value, fast food, fatty foods, of foods that are full of carbohydrates,” he adds.

Experts also agree that reform of China’s household registration system, known as the hukou system, might help reduce the number of left-behind children.

The hukou is like an internal passport, which identifies the city, town or village to which a person belongs. This designation limits a person’s ability to find legitimate work or access social services in another part of the country.

Migrant rural workers may live in a city for years without an “urban hukou.” Until they get one, they aren’t entitled to subsidized public housing, public medical insurance, government welfare cheques or public education beyond elementary school. So most opt to leave behind their children.

Yet, in the eyes of some, such as Yu Mei Juan, there are no adverse consequences to these  children being left behind. Her grandson returned to Italy in late 2009 after more than a year in her care. She’s now hoping for the birth of a second grandchild, who’d also be expected to spend his early years in Qingtian.

“It’s better that my son sacrifices this time with his child to forge a stable life and future,” Yu says. “They’ve enrolled my grandson in school for the fall and he’s already picking up some Italian. He’s doing just fine.”



“I didn’t expect Hong Kong would be like this,” she told the judge.

“This” was to be a place where she could find work, make some money, and send that money home to the Philippines. “This” was supposed to be a safe place.

The woman was a foreign domestic helper, a nanny, who had recently filed charges against her employer for assault and attempted rape.

She was called to be a witness in the case, and today was the second day of cross-examination.

Her former employer’s defense lawyer exhaustively went over previous statements and testimonies to point out discrepancies in her recounting of the events.

Foreign domestic helpers, mostly from the Phillippines, Indonesia and Thailand, spread out across Hong Kong's public spaces on Sunday, their day off.

In this Hong Kong courtroom, interpreters murmured translations simultaneously. Beside the nanny, sat a woman who spoke Tagalog and English, and beside the nanny’s former employer, a man repeated the court’s proceedings rapidly in Cantonese.

There are approximately 140,000 Filipinos in Hong Kong. Most of them are domestic helpers, maids and nannies, who make the move to Hong Kong for a higher salary than they could ever make at home.

That salary is a minimum of $3,580 Hong Kong Dollars a month, about $460 USD.

The foreign domestic helpers must live-in with their employers. If, for whatever reason, a helper’s employment is terminated, she must find another job within two weeks or leave Hong Kong.

Advocates for migrant workers claim this is a form of discrimination, since this rule is not enforced on other foreign workers. Such a limitation, they argue, essentially silences many migrant workers who suffer abuse at the hands of their employers, but are too frightened to come forward because they don’t want to lose their jobs.

Once, during dinner with some family friends, I observed the way a domestic helper is treated in the home. The helper was responsible for taking care of an 8-month old baby in the house. And even though the helper will hold the baby, feed the baby, play with the baby, she is invisible. During dinner, she ate her food in the kitchen while the rest of us ate at a table in the living room.

I suppose, if you’ve hired help, you are paying a domestic helper for a service. You are not paying her to become a part of the family.

But for many families in Hong Kong, I think it’s easy for them to forget that these helpers are human beings.

This is a city where dog strollers are abundant; where volunteers take to the street daily to ask for a donation in the name of animal rights; and where ads in subway stations Photoshop cats and dogs so they are standing upright, and a caption in Chinese reminds us that “animals have rights, too.”

Sure. But what about the rights of domestic helpers? This issue is not in the minds of most Hong Kong people.

In 2008, the Mission For Migrant Workers handled an average of four clients a month who had filed physical or sexual assault complaints with the police.

There aren’t a lot of charities advocating for the rights of these people, but next week, I’ll be visiting Bethune House, a shelter for battered foreign domestic helpers.

The stunning Hong Kong Harbour from Kowloon

It’s called reverse migration. Years ago, my parents left Asia for America to find a better life, to get a good education, and to raise a family. They’ve now been in Canada so long, in fact, that they really don’t feel at home in their places of birth. My Dad left Taiwan when he was 10. My Mom left Hong Kong when she was 17.

I don’t remember my first trip to Hong Kong. I was a year old when my parents took my brother and I on our first overseas family vacation. I’ve heard the stories so many times, especially the one where I smash my face into a table and I lose my front baby tooth. That’s why, for years until my big teeth grew in, I had a big gap where my front tooth should have been. It made for pretty adorable toothless grins on school Picture Days.

I was a shy girl who grew up around excellent dim sum and frequent trips to Toronto’s bustling Chinese supermarkets. I went through years of painful Saturday mornings sitting in Mandarin classes. But we didn’t return to Hong Kong for another family vacation. I returned to this place when I started traveling on my own – first in 2002 when I visited Taiwan, and then in 2005 when I went on a college exchange program to Hong Kong Baptist University for a semester. It was after that exchange when I knew I wanted to spend more time in this “motherland.” In 2007, I moved to Beijing for a year to learn how to read and write Putonghua. I couldn’t have asked for a better China experience.

Days before the Olympics, I left to New York to start my Masters degree.

“Why do you want to go back to China?” I get that question a lot, especially from Canadian Chinese of my parents’ generation. There’s so much land in Canada, so much space and comfort. Things are cheap and abundant in Canada. We have cars! Blue skies! There’s good bread in Canada – whole wheat!

And ohhh, how I miss the whole wheat. (I went to three supermarkets today in search of good whole wheat bread. No luck.)

But maybe because I was born into such luxury that is whole wheat bread that I yearn for something else, somewhere different yet familiar.

So I’ve come back to Hong Kong – I arrived Saturday – and it’s here I’ll begin my Pulitzer Traveling Fellowship. I am going to be traveling throughout SE Asia, mostly in China, and I’ll be writing and blogging about it all.

My next post: Beheading a (dead) chicken.

Stay tuned!