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Uncle Li and Sarah Wong

n my work with women worldwide, I hear countless compelling stories of life
I
and death - and love. Human emotions are the same the world over. The
heartfelt yearning for understanding, forgiveness, acceptance and continuity of
generations is universal as revealed in this human drama unfolding in

Singapore - it could have been played out in the hearts of anyone anywhere in the world.

On this particular sundrenched morning, I made my way to my favorite coffee shop. Eating

breakfast in a coffee shop on the way to work is quite the norm in Singapore. I sat at my customary
table enjoying the steaming hot sweet coffee and pau. a popular Chinese bread. Screwing up my eyes
against the glare, I looked out the door where I could see the corner of the sidewalk.

Something was missing - the usual vendor was not there. He was always there - his dilapidated
bicycle propped up against the lime-green Chinese shops, his pile of newspapers stacked neatly by
his side. I’d miss his toothy grin, his cheery “Chou San” (good morning) if he did not arrive in time
for me to buy my morning paper.

Most of us regulars at the coffee shop felt a real affection for him and called him “Uncle,” the
Chinese term of respect. His seeming poverty did not hide his wisdom and graciousness. His wizened
frame and beard made him look like a sage. Uncle Li seemed to lend an air of stability and constancy
to my life. He may have been merely a newspaper vendor, but his cheeriness - like the song of an

earlymorning bird - set the tone for the day. His “Chou San” brought a smile to all who bought a paper
from him. Lighthearted banter constantly floated from his corner into the coffee shop.

Studying Uncle Li and his customers was my favorite morning pastime. A lovely young Chinese
woman was the most interesting of all. Always immaculately dressed, she’d park her black car by the
sidewalk, hop out, daintily run over to Uncle Li, buy a paper, and with a smile and greeting, away
she’d go.

The emotions that crossed Uncle Li’s wrinkled face when she appeared intrigued me. His smiling
face soft ened, and then gaiety gave way to a deeper emotion, one that I was familiar with yet could
not define.

So, each morning, like Uncle Li, I waited for the arrival of the beautiful young woman. Black
glossy hair, bobbed and fringed, encircled a creamy magnolia-colored, heartshaped face. Her dark
eyes gave her a demure look. The most striking detail of her beauty lay in her smile, which lit up her

face. Each day when she left, Uncle Li’s face looked like the sun shadowed by a cloud.

That morning, suddenly brakes shrieked, shattering my reverie and alarming the traffic on the busy

street. Commotion followed. I craned my neck for a better view. What had happened? Who was hit?
A crowd quickly gathered, obscuring my view. The babble of voices told me nothing, and I could not
determine what had happened.