Tag:homesick

I have sat on plastic chairs outside churches in the Gulf on a rare Friday afternoon and watched Sri Lankan women laugh like schoolgirls for exactly two hours before returning to houses where they are employees first and human beings second. If you want to understand migration, don’t start with remittance graphs. Start with that bench. Sri Lankan domestic workers in the Gulf are described in economic language: “foreign exchange earners,” “low-skilled migration,” “housemaids.” Such tidy labels. They hide the fact that these are women who once stood in their...

I was there on that first morning — not in a white dress (please, Auntie prefers red), but standing outside a district office at 8:30 a.m., watching two nervous brides fix each other’s hair before stepping inside. One year later, I still think about their hands. They were shaking. Not because they doubted each other. Because they understood history was opening a door — and they were walking through it. Marriage equality, my darlings, is a strange beast. It looks simple: a signature, a certificate, a photo for Instagram. But...

Of course I tried it. Did you really think I wouldn’t? My dear readers, Auntie has lived in Asia long enough to know that if something exists between ritual and rebellion, between art and taboo, I will eventually find myself in the room — preferably wearing lipstick and asking inconvenient questions. Kinbaku? Yes. I was tied. And yes, I learned how to tie. Before you faint into your jasmine tea, let me clarify: this was not some drunken backpacker misadventure in a neon alley. It was a quiet studio, tatami...

Every time I go to Phnom Penh, I see them. They are not hiding. They are not statistics buried in a UN report. They are right there, under the blinding noon sun and the flickering neon of evening markets. A little boy trailing behind his disheveled mother as she balances a plastic sack of recyclables. A girl, no older than eight, pushing one side of a garbage cart while her skinny father strains at the handles. Two brothers playing barefoot near a gasoline station, inventing a football out of a...

Let me confess something mildly scandalous: I have lost money at mahjong. Not dramatic, life-ruining money. Just enough to sting. Enough to feel that sharp little cocktail of shame and adrenaline that keeps people coming back to the table. So when people talk about “Chinese women gamblers” as if they are some exotic sociological curiosity, I roll my eyes. Please. Chinese women have always gambled. We just didn’t call it that. We called it tradition. We called it New Year fun. We called it “just small stakes.” We called it...