吃飯了! – Time to eat!
Written by Jay C.
On Sunday, I work for the entirety of the afternoon. My attention shifts from my computer to my notebooks, jotting down notes of videos that play at 1.5x speed. To avoid being too comfortable, I pick perhaps the most uncomfortable chair, a blue satin one that keeps me on the edge of my seat. It keeps me restless, leading me to shift every five minutes when I feel pain flaring up my leg. Recently, I have tried to use the Pomodoro Technique, employing timed breaks during study to maximize efficiency — 30 minutes of studying without distraction and a strict, timed, five-minute break. Well, that five minutes turns into 10, then 15, then 30, and then into a period longer than the study section. I treat myself to a five-minute video on YouTube, but every time, the video suggestions beneath it seem more enticing than the one before. Eventually, the guilt sets in, and I drag myself out of bed, where I am practically lying down. I return lazily to my desk, and I've already lost all motivation to work. This happens over and over and repeats on end for a few hours. Eventually, while lying on my bed, I heard my mom shout from downstairs: ‘吃飯了!’ I've gotten used to it; the phrase is a routine in my daily life, and it's also an escape from the dreadful cycle of unproductivity and sluggishness.
When directly translated, ‘吃飯了’ means ‘it’s time to eat.’ We Hongkongers refer to this phrase in our family dinners, relaxed meet-ups with friends, or serious business and diplomatic meetings. As a people composed of distinctly different cultures – Guangdong and British – our status as an international hub has cemented a need for diverse communication and an openness to connect with people around us. The metropolis has been framed as a “unique melding of Eastern and Western influences,” balancing dynamic Western ideals with conservative Eastern traditions.
As with other Cantonese words and phrases, ‘吃飯了’ comes with its nuances and variations. There’s ‘喂,吃飯了,’ meaning ‘hey, it’s time to eat,’ denoting a rushed manner and is often said in cha chaan tengs, fast-paced eateries found on the side of bustling streets. When we say ‘喂,吃飯了,’ it means we’re on edge, and finishing our meal is our principal objective. Or, there's ‘吃飯了,大家,’ which translates to ‘let’s eat, everyone.’ We refer to this saying during big familial gatherings that include hours of interaction and networking, as a way of beginning and celebrating the occasion. To eat in Cantonese culture means to eat and to converse, to discuss, and to negotiate. They go hand in hand together. In the range of fast-casual diners to Michelin-starred establishments, there is always a bit of chatter or laughter, symbolizing that a meal has truly begun.
My mom’s variation of ‘吃飯了’ means the commencement of our family dinner. Divided by long hours of school and work, our family unites around a rule of sitting around the dinner table, even if only for 20 minutes. We share stories from our day. I’ll rant in an exasperated voice about the amount of college essays or something funny that happened in a club that day. My dad will share stories of his day in the office, which means what he had for lunch. Or, if we’re lucky, some office drama about a commotion that he overheard in the break room. On the other hand, my mom is in tune with the moment, explaining the dishes she just cooked or their nutritional value, reminding me why they’re necessary for my survival. Cooking is her way of acknowledging our challenges and providing us with what she can in hopes of making our lives a little bit more enjoyable. Rather than simply implying “It’s time to eat,” she’s telling us to put aside our struggles and foster our little community. I’m equally as excited to share my stories as I am to hear them. Despite the gap that’s grown between my parents and me as we age, eating together is a way for us to mend it and keep in touch with each other. Our dinners are a platform in which the stream of ideas and stories flows freely.
However, when my dad says ‘吃飯了,’ it’s a different story. A stern and candid man, my father isn’t one to invite conversation or engage in casual topics. He only ever calls us to the dinner table when he has something urgent to speak about. Recently, in light of the increasing gun violence in the States, he called us to discuss its implications for my potential move to the US. Another topic commonly brought up is the Chinese government, which always seems to spark a hidden fire in my parents. No matter the issue, these conversations are never light, only purposeful. They start with one idea and end with the same. It's a linear conversation. Sometimes, during our chats, when something funny or strange is brought up, my mom and I will glance at each other, holding in our laughs while my dad continues monotonously, occasionally looking over to see if we’re still paying attention to him. But, as I reflect and write, I realize that the applications of ‘吃飯了’ between my parents aren’t so different after all. While my dad's goals for our gatherings are more purposeful in the sense that he seeks inputs for issues he’s passionate about, both invite conversation. Both are representative of the importance of conversing while eating in Cantonese culture. Both are representative of the freedom to discuss important issues no matter what debate they may rouse. Both helped me maintain a rich connection with my parents. I don’t see it as a tension between the two applications; instead, I view it as a frictional equilibrium that is representative of the inherently different personalities that my parents embody.
However, in the context of the growing Chinese encroachment, the city is slowly acculturating back to its Chinese roots, and with it comes a loss of cultural identity. The National Security Law passed in the wake of turbulent protests in 2019 is evidence of this; it is a showing of Chinese power through the reclaiming of a once diverse and culturally harmonized city. As per Beijing's wishes, my home is set to be another mainland city – one where dissent and speaking out isn’t tolerated.
We Hongkongers feel our identity is more threatened than ever. The law outlaws our outspokenness, an inherent and rooted part of our identity. As described in a New York Times article, the draconian law “is devastating in that it appears to have no bounds,” and invokes practices common in the Chinese mainland: for defendants “to stand trial before courts in mainland China, where convictions are usually assured and penalties are often harsh.” Or, as put by Zhang Xiaoming, a deputy director of the central Chinese government office for Hong Kong, the law is “a sharp sword” over protestors’ heads, serving “as a deterrent against external forces meddling in Hong Kong.”
Recently in August of 2023, Societas Linguistica Hongkongensis (SLHK), an advocacy group promoting the use of Cantonese, halted its operations as its founder was threatened over an essay written in 2020, an essay that envisioned an authoritarian Hong Kong in 2050. While the work was fiction, such stories are still not permitted – evidence of increasingly intrusive infringements on Hong Kong’s autonomy. In response to this continual repression, Cantonese has been used as a political tool to push back against the rapid integration of Mandarin as the common language of Hong Kong. The national security law is being weaponized against the use of Cantonese, as “promoting it is now sometimes a criminal offense,” due to its use as a device of rebellion. As with other efforts to standardize language in autonomous regions such as Xinjiang, the Chinese government aims to “galvanize a uniform national identity.” However, this comes at the expense of language – but also tradition, character, and culture.
Although many of Hong Kong's residents have migrated overseas, our calls for resistance and autonomy haven't ceased. We still feel a distinct pride in being HongKongese, being of Eastern and Western culture, and being full of commotion. Preserving culture is no small feat, but I recognize that. My family’s usage of ‘吃飯了’ is our little way of retaining our cultural identity, showing that we speak on issues even if they are divisive or controversial. Inviting and partaking in debates and conversations in Cantonese is our way of reminding ourselves who we are and what Hong Kong means to us – whether initiated through my mom or my dad. It's part of a larger pushback against the mechanisms that try to silence the Cantonese voice, one that speaks freely and without hesitation.
