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发表于 2026-6-29 13:44
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此文章由 almondmilky 原创或转贴，不代表本站立场和观点，版权归 oursteps.com.au 和作者 almondmilky 所有！转贴必须注明作者、出处和本声明，并保持内容完整
昨天有人在微信群发了他朋友Margaret Soo 写得，很感动，分享一下。这位朋友用chatgpt 翻译成了中文，全文如下：
我的朋友Margaret Soo看了《给阿嬷的情书》的感想，原文用英文书写，我用Chat GPT翻译成中文供大家阅读,请往下看到最后。她同意我分享她的观后感。
Margaret Soo, my friend shared her thoughts after watching the movie “Dear You” :
*Qiaopi*
This afternoon, I went alone to watch “Dear You” at the cinema. I chose solitude because this much celebrated film is made entirely in the Teo Chew dialect, and few around me would understand or fully appreciate a made-in-China story about Teo Chew emigrants who journeyed to Nanyang in search of hard labour and survival.
The film tells the story of those early migrants who sent letters and remittances home, often concealing their hardships while expressing only one enduring wish: to reunite with their loved ones someday. These remittance letters, now known as Qiaopi, were recognized by UNESCO as a cultural heritage archive in 2013.
I was drawn to this film because I am Teo Chew myself. And because, without fully understanding it then, I too had become part of that long and tender history of qiaopi writing.
My father had nine children. I was the youngest daughter, with a baby brother two years younger than me. I was neither the smartest nor the most accomplished among my siblings. Yet, somehow, among all nine children, my father chose me to become the family’s monthly letter writer.
Beginning when I was in Primary Three, I would write the familiar letters to our relatives in China, asking after their well-being, sharing only happy family news, and signing off by enclosing 80 Singapore dollars. Month after month, year after year, from 1969 until the mid-1980s when I left home to study in North America.
Looking back now, I marvel at my father’s quiet discipline. His unwavering commitment to sending those 80 dollars every single month to his uncle’s family until the day he died was an act of generosity and responsibility few young people today can fully comprehend.
And then came 1966, during famine in the old country.
My father arranged to ship back tons of food, medicines and provisions, while my mother sat sewing dozens of cotton garments for my cousins, using my body measurements as her guide. I remember standing there as a child, watching all this unfold, but too young then to understand the weight of what I was witnessing.
Only much later did I understand.
In Buddhism, we speak of karma not simply as fate, but as intentional action whose consequences ripple outward in ways unseen, sometimes revealing themselves only decades later. At the time, my parents were simply responding to suffering with compassion. They were planting seeds whose fruits would ripen long after.
In 2015, guided by a map my father had once drawn from memory of the village he left in Shantou when he was just ten years old, I finally traced my roots back to southern China.
There, my cousins gathered around me and opened an old wooden chest.
Inside were all the letters I had written them since I was nine years old.
There were also photographs I had mailed home from Canada over the years, photographs my father had quietly redirected back to China, continuing the thread of connection I did not even know he was preserving.
Though I arrived unannounced, the village headman came to meet me.
He told me something I will never forget.
My father’s shipment of provisions in 1966 had helped save the entire village during difficult times. And because of his lifelong commitment to supporting the family he had left behind, his ancestral home remains untouched to this day. No one dares sell it.
All my cousins were married from my father’s room in that old house, as a gesture of reverence to the eldest son born to the eldest of three brothers in our clan.
My grandfather, himself the eldest of three sons, had left for Malaya with the youngest brother, leaving the second brother behind.
Neither ever returned home.
By the time I stood in my father’s birthplace in 2015, he would have been gone from home for more than eighty years.
Today, my three cousin brothers and two cousin sisters are all thriving and financially comfortable in China.
Yet they still remember their “Little Sister” in Malaysia, the child who wrote them letters and who somehow grew up speaking many foreign languages.
During major festivals, they still message me each time they offer prayers to our ancestors, as though to remind me that although oceans and generations separate us, the invisible thread connecting us has never broken.
In Buddhism, we are taught that nothing exists independently. Lives are woven together through countless conditions, relationships and acts of kindness. We belong not merely to ourselves, but to an intricate web of causes stretching far beyond what we can immediately see.
And perhaps that is what moved me so deeply watching “Dear You” today.
Only now do I understand why my father chose me to become the qiaopi writer.
It was never simply about writing letters.
Without my knowing, he was giving me something far greater.
He was teaching me gratitude before I understood gratitude.
He was teaching me that compassion travels across oceans.
He was teaching me that our roots matter, even when life carries us far away.
And most of all, he was leaving me a path back home.
Father, I finally understand.
You made me the keeper of those letters so that one day, through them, I would discover not only my family…
…but myself.
Perhaps this is what the Buddha meant when he taught that nothing is ever truly lost.
The seeds of love we plant, through generosity, duty and quiet sacrifice, continue ripening long after we ourselves are gone.
And somewhere across time, they always find their way back.
侨批
今天下午，我独自一人到电影院观看《亲爱的你》（Dear You）。
我选择一个人去看，因为这部备受赞誉的电影全程采用潮州话拍摄，而我身边恐怕没有多少人能够真正听懂、欣赏这样一个关于潮州人远渡南洋、靠劳力谋生的中国故事。
影片讲述了早期华侨南下谋生的经历。他们将血汗钱寄回故乡，同时附上一封封家书。信中往往隐瞒自己的艰辛与苦难，只留下一个始终不变的心愿——希望有一天能够与家人团聚。
这些汇款家书，后来被称为“侨批（Qiaopi）”，并于2013年被联合国教科文组织列入世界记忆遗产名录。
我被这部电影深深吸引，因为我本身就是潮州人。
更因为在当时毫不知情的情况下，我自己也曾成为这段漫长而温柔的侨批历史中的一部分。
父亲有九个孩子。
我是最小的女儿，下面还有一个比我小两岁的弟弟。
在兄弟姐妹之中，我既不是最聪明的，也不是最优秀的。然而不知为何，在九个孩子当中，父亲偏偏选中了我，成为家里每个月的“写信人”。
从小学三年级开始，我便代父亲写信给中国的亲人。
信里总是问候他们是否安好，分享家里的喜事和近况，只报喜、不报忧。最后再附上一张汇款单——80新加坡元。
就这样，一个月又一个月，一年又一年。
从1969年开始，一直到1980年代中期我离家赴北美留学为止。
如今再回头看，我不禁赞叹父亲那份安静而坚定的自律。
每个月雷打不动地寄出80元，几十年如一日，资助远在中国的叔公一家，直到生命终点。
这样的慷慨与责任感，是今天许多年轻人难以想象、也难以理解的。
后来，我才知道还有另一段故事。
那是在1966年，中国遭遇严重饥荒的时候。
父亲安排运送了整吨整吨的粮食、药品和生活物资回乡。
母亲则坐在缝纫机前，亲手为堂兄弟姐妹们缝制几十套棉衣，而我的身材尺寸便成了她制作衣服的参考标准。
我还记得小时候站在一旁，看着这一切发生。
只是当时年纪太小，根本无法理解眼前这一幕意味着什么。
直到很多年以后，我才真正明白。
佛教所说的“业”（Karma），并不只是命运。
它更是有意识的行为，而这些行为所产生的影响，会以我们看不见的方式不断扩散，有时甚至要经过数十年才会显现出来。
当年，父母只是单纯地以慈悲回应苦难。
他们种下了一颗颗善的种子，而果实却在多年之后才成熟。
2015年，我终于踏上寻根之旅。
依据父亲凭记忆画下的一张地图，我找到了他十岁离开时所在的汕头乡村。
在那里，堂兄弟姐妹们围着我，并打开了一个陈旧的木箱。
箱子里装着我从九岁开始写给他们的所有信件。
一封都没有遗失。
除此之外，还有许多我后来从加拿大寄回家的照片。
原来父亲悄悄把这些照片转寄回中国，延续着那条我自己都不知道存在的亲情纽带。
虽然我是不请自来的访客，但村长还是特地前来见我。
他告诉我一件让我终生难忘的事。
1966年父亲寄回乡里的那批物资，帮助整个村庄度过了艰难时期。
而且因为父亲一生都在照顾留在故乡的亲人，所以他的祖屋至今仍完整保留着。
没有人敢把它卖掉。
我的所有堂兄弟姐妹结婚时，都选择从父亲当年的房间出嫁或迎娶。
这是对我们家族中长房长孙血脉的一种尊敬与纪念。
我的祖父本身也是三兄弟中的长子。
当年，他与最小的弟弟一起远赴马来亚，而二弟则留守家乡。
从此以后，两兄弟再也没有回去过。
当我2015年站在父亲出生的地方时，他离开家乡已经超过八十年了。
如今，我的三位堂兄和两位堂姐都已在中国安居乐业，经济富足。
然而，他们依然记得远在马来西亚的“小妹”——那个小时候给他们写信、后来又学会说许多外语的小女孩。
每逢重要节日，他们仍会发讯息给我，告诉我他们祭祖了。
仿佛是在提醒我：
无论海洋有多宽广，无论世代相隔多久，连接我们的那条无形丝线，从来没有断过。
佛教告诉我们，没有任何事物是孤立存在的。
生命是由无数因缘、关系与善意交织而成。
我们并不只属于自己。
我们同时也属于那张庞大而复杂、远远超出我们视野的因缘之网。
也许，这正是今天观看《亲爱的你》时，最触动我的地方。
直到此刻，我才终于明白：
为什么父亲当年选择我来写那些侨批。
那从来不只是写信而已。
在我毫不知情的时候，他早已送给我一份更珍贵的礼物。
他在我还不懂得感恩之前，就先教会我感恩。
他在告诉我，慈悲能够跨越海洋。
他在告诉我，即使人生把我们带到天涯海角，根依然重要。
而最重要的是，
他为我留下了一条回家的路。
父亲，
我终于明白了。
您让我成为那些信件的守护者，
是为了有一天，
让我透过这些信件，
找到的不只是家族……
更是我自己。
或许，这正是佛陀所说的：
世间从来没有真正失去的东西。
我们透过慷慨、责任与无声奉献所播下的爱之种子，
即使在我们离开人世之后，
依然会继续发芽、成长、结果。
而在某个时刻，
穿越岁月与时光，
它们终究会找到回来的路。 |
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