Have You Eaten Yet?
The hunger I never inherited; the question that built a dream.
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I am Heidi, an Asian-Australian Christian woman who writes at the intersection of life, faith, and culture. Letters from Heidi explores topics such as identity, relationships, shame, womanhood, and healing from personal and family trauma. Subscribe to receive my monthly articles or follow me on Instagram for weekly content and book updates.
“Sik jor fahn mei ah?”
This Cantonese phrase translates to a simple question: “have you eaten yet?”
As an Asian Australian woman, I have learned to interpret this question from two different cultural contexts. While my English ear hears an ordinary question and conversational filler; my Cantonese ear hears an expression of care and concern, layered with love and sacrifice. What I hear depends on who is asking.
My maternal grandparents were first-generation immigrants from Hong Kong. Moving to Australia in the 1970’s, they left behind their culture, language, and community to build a better future for their children. Packing their lives into a couple of suitcases, they sacrificed their homeland for the Australian dream; one promising food, freedom, and financial security for anyone who would work to earn it.
My grandmother (“Por Por”) raised me, so though I am Australian born, my childhood was flavoured by authentic Chinese cuisine, my values shaped by Hong Kong media, and Cantonese was my first language in a Western world. Though confusing for me as a child, I have learned to appreciate my upbringing which blended the best of East and West.
A taoist and a stoic, my Por Por was a woman of few words, so there was never much conversation between us. There is however, one question she would always ask, and continues to do so over phone calls: “Sik jor fahn mei ah?” (“have you eaten?”). I always reply with, “Sik jor!” (“Yes, I have eaten!”) before the conversation fizzles and she rushes to hang up.
Though our words to one another are fair and few, I have never once doubted the strength of our bond, nor questioned her concern for me. I once wrote that her love for me is strong but silent; served in steam buns, herbal soups, and fried rice hand-delivered to my door. From young, I have always known that having a full stomach is of paramount importance to my grandmother. Recently, I learned the reason why.
My Por Por recently discovered photos from Hong Kong’s national archives—candid black and white still shots from her childhood era. Prompted by nostalgia, our phone conversations were suddenly littered with new words, as she shared her childhood memories to help bring each photo to life. Her stories opened my eyes to her past, and brought forth new questions that I never knew to ask.
“How much did you receive in food rations?”
“Why did you drop out of school?”
“Where was your father?”
I had met and heard many stories about my great-grandmother (“Tai Por”) as a child, but with both sides of my family led by matriarchs and single mothers, the absence of my maternal great-grandfather never piqued my curiosity. It wasn’t until my Por Por shared of her life as a child factory worker, labouring to provide for her mother and sibling, did I question the absence of her father.
My Por Por was only eleven years old, when she began working full-time, using her hands to make luxury gloves for those who could afford to warm theirs. Unable to afford the bus fare to work, she walked an hour each day in rain, hail, or shine—often on an empty stomach and very little sleep. Departing for work at seven in the morning, she wouldn’t return to her bed until past midnight.
Picturing my grandmother as a child labourer—vulnerable, tired, and hungry—made my heart sink. Why was it up to her to provide for the family? I soon learned her father had passed away from illness when she was only three years old. While she was too young to remember the man, she does remember clinging to her newly widowed mother as they navigated waters of hunger and homelessness.
Although my Por Por worked tirelessly, her income was still too small to cover basic living costs. This forced her mother to remarry an older man—a decision void of love, but one that promised provision and protection. It was only in this moment of the story, where she felt like she—the eldest daughter—had let her family down, did she begin to cry.
That day, I listened to my Por Por’s every word. In a rare moment of honesty, my normally stoic grandmother acknowledged past grief and hardship. I wept with her, and though our tears are incapable of changing the past, we both left that conversation feeling lighter—and many miles closer.
“Sik jor fahn mei ah?”
“Have you eaten yet?”
This is now a question I hear with new affection. With one conversation, my Por Por helped me to understand her concern for mealtimes, and likewise, the labour of love that she puts into every meal. Like many refugees and immigrants from the 1970’s and 1980’s, my grandparents’ resilience was born from the pain of an empty stomach and a determination that future generations never have to inherit such hunger.
“Sik jor fahn mei ah?”
“Have you eaten yet?”
Because of my Por Por’s sacrifice, there has not been a single day where I haven’t been able to reply with: “sik jor!” (“yes, I have eaten!”)
The Question that Inspired a Dream
When my Por Por turned 80 last year, I asked her if she had a childhood dream.
If she could rewind the clock and choose a career path for herself, what would she have strived to be? She was surprised by the question, since it’s not something anyone has ever asked her before. Her ambition was to help her family to survive. Her dream was to go to bed with a full stomach.
“Sik jor fahn mei ah?”
I may not have inherited my grandmother’s hunger, but as the eldest daughter of immigrants, I was born with a different craving—a hunger to realise all the things that the daughters before me missed out on, a passion to translate and tell their untold stories, and a determination to build a world where future daughters can dare to dream.
My debut book, Unmasking the Prodigal Daughter, is my life’s passion project—made possible from a lineage of survivors, cycle-breakers, and eldest daughters. In God’s providence, my illiterate grandmother raised an author. It’s a reality that I have learned to not take for granted.
I also stand upon the sacrifices of my mother, Mabel—an eldest daughter born in Hong Kong and who immigrated to Australia as a teenager. Since her parents needed her help to run Chinese restaurants, my mother had to drop out of school and never had the opportunity to learn English properly. In her twenties, she began working in Sydney’s Chinatown as a travel agent, and continued in the same role for over 30 years until COVID put an end to overseas travel. My mother recently turned 60. Her childhood dream was to run a boutique fashion shop.
I was born in Sydney, Australia in the 1980’s. I watched my parents share four jobs between themselves to raise my brother and I, and put us through school. Growing up, I failed to see their sacrifices and resented the pressure placed on me—the eldest—to succeed. I was the first child and woman on my maternal side to finish high school and hold a university degree. My childhood dream was to become an actress, work with animals, or to write a book. I published my first book on my 37th birthday.
My only daughter, Talitha, was born in 2021 in Australia—a miracle from God after 5 years of infertility. When she found out I was writing a book, she asked if she could help provide the illustrations. I told her she needed to keep improving her drawings because dreams take work—and she listened, practicing daily to write her name and improve her drawings with a fine line pen. She became a published illustrator at 4 years old.
Unmasking the Prodigal Daughter, is now available worldwide on Amazon, and thanks to my readers, is currently the #1 bestseller in the category of Christian Poetry! If you have been blessed by my writing, I would be so honoured if you supported my pen by ordering a copy of my book today: https://amzn.asia/d/ixe1vYV
Finally, if you loved the book, I would so appreciate an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads.
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Stunning how a simple phrase can carry so much weight across generations. The shift from survival-based hunger to dream-based hunger really captures something essential about immigrant trajectories. That detail about Por Por walking an hour to the glove factory at 11 hits hard, makes the daily "have you eaten" feel less like small talk and more like a lived reminder of precarity overcome.
Wow, what a legacy, transforming with each generation!
On the topic/title of this post, I wrote a poem not long ago, and called it "can i feed you?"
For many of us, food is possibly where love ends and begins. It's amazing how much significance carbs, fats, and protein hold, beyond the energy they provide.
Thank you for sharing this post!