He introduced himself when we met, but I didn’t bother to commit his name to memory. Sharing a ride to the airport, the chance we’d meet again after this 45 minutes was likely zero; yet he seemed in the mood to talk. I don’t know if it was the way I reacted to what he said or simply the fact that I seemed willing to listen, but this young stranger started telling me his story.
We were in his native city of Hong Kong and he loved it. He married a local girl and had two children, now 4 and 5 years-old. In a place where multiple kids are rare, he took pride that he could support and raise them. He wasn’t particularly well educated or even especially special. But he held a couple of jobs and seemed willing to do more if he could to help give his family an advantage. His wife, he beamed, was the same. They owned a small apartment and sent their children to a private school.
But now they had become so concerned of the increasing “destruction” of his city by their new Chinese overlords that they are hoping to send these children to live with relatives in Canada. The conflict of a loving father caring so deeply and fearing so much that he is wrestling with such matters weighed upon him. We talked. Really, I just listened.
When our time together ended, he regained himself, apologized for oversharing (in a characteristic Asia way) and shook my hand expressing sincere gratitude for my attention. Did I say anything to help him with his challenges? I doubt it. But, did his venting give him clarity? I hope so. His sadness, frustration, and compassion were breathtaking in their raw sincerity. Our freedom matters. And, he reminded me of it.