The mainland Chinese film "Dear You: Love Letters to Grandma", which was released simultaneously in Hong Kong and various parts of Southeast Asia in mid-June, felt somewhat long overdue; this relates to the question of the audience. Originally, the film itself was nothing more than a simple tale of warmth and affection; yet it became a phenomenon both in mainland China and overseas precisely because of the immense social response it generated, which in turn gave rise to a variety of serious political interpretations. Whilst the social response and political interpretations are indeed genuine, they remain external to the work itself, representing the perspectives, personal reflections and self-examination of bystanders. The primary perspective must come from the Teochew communities both at home and abroad, as well as from other similar communities in the three provinces of Fujian, Guangdong and Hainan, and their overseas offshoots—with the overseas communities, in fact, being moved even more deeply and profoundly than those on the mainland. It is precisely this subjective perspective that serves as the indispensable key to unravelling the authenticity of the social response and political interpretations.
In mainland China, various aspects of the political interpretations are amiss
A low-budget film, a niche subject, an extremely unassuming theme, a regional dialect from a corner of Guangdong Province, and a low-key release—all of which clearly demonstrate the filmmakers’ modesty yet also their complete lack of ambition. Yet, within a very short period, it went from obscurity to nationwide sensation, moving everyone and receiving widespread acclaim; its commercial success was merely incidental and not without an element of capital seizing the opportunity. This phenomenon requires explanation.
The common explanation is akin to ‘taking calcium supplements when deficient in calcium’: in an era lacking in warmth, people yearn for it; in an era lacking in loyalty and compassion, people are deeply moved by such qualities. This is likely the case; after all, over the past few decades, China has undergone a process of urbanisation and marketisation so rapid it has left people reeling. People have grown estranged, even scattered; society has become increasingly atomised; and individual self-interest has become rife. Living through such times is indeed distressing, and what is even more terrifying is the shift from endurance to numbness and resignation.
Of course, this explanation has its limitations. People’s personal reflections ultimately still need to be triggered by the film’s own narrative and lyricism, whilst ‘going to Nanyang’ and the ‘qiaopi’* (with their stunningly beautiful prose) are real historical events that took place in this country; even if the story is unfamiliar, it still carries a strong sense of familiarity, and whether or not empathy is evoked depends on this sense of identification. Various political interpretations spring precisely from this sense of identification.
Firstly, certain ‘self-styled feminist’ critiques accuse the male lead of irresponsibility for repeatedly playing the hero and causing trouble, leaving the two female leads to bear the heavy burdens of family, community and history for the rest of their lives, thereby losing their sense of self; yet the film praises these very actions that ought to be condemned, and the audience’s engagement—or even their amplifying of this praise—reflects the pathological state of society from the past to the present.
Secondly, certain commentaries framed as ‘liberation narratives’ criticise one of the female leads, Xie Nanzhi, for acting on her own initiative to conceal the news of the male lead Zheng Musheng’s death; even if done with good intentions, this deprived the other female lead, Ye Shurou, of the freedom to seek love elsewhere and rebuild her family. The political implications of such ‘good intentions’ lie in the increasingly prevalent cultural conservatism of today, which prioritises order over women’s liberation—a stance that runs counter to the founding principles of the People’s Republic.
Thirdly, there is the ‘historical unreality’ argument, which takes the narrative of liberation to its extreme, criticising the film for implicitly evoking the spirit of ‘Scar Literature’ and arguing that, since liberation had already taken place after 1949, there was no longer any need to leave one’s homeland for Southeast Asia, nor to rely on remittances from overseas Chinese.
Fourthly, there is another extreme form of anti-liberation narrative based on historical unreality, which interprets the migration to Southeast Asia as a ‘flight from the Qin dynasty’, replaces the narrative of homesickness in the ‘qiaopi’ letters with the claim that the government extorts remittances, and asserts that those with overseas connections are inevitably persecuted.
In Nanyang**: Reactions of Resignation or Alienation
If the various political interpretations of this film in mainland China represent the perspectives of bystanders, then the viewing experience of the Chinese communities in South-East Asia should, to a certain extent, have been shaped by the first-hand experiences and reflections of those who lived through those events (or, more often, their close descendants). Judging by the extensive online coverage, this has indeed been the case; regrettably, however, there have also been comments that ignore or distort history, reflecting the political realities they face.
The film is primarily set in Bangkok; indeed, Thailand is where the overseas Teochew community has gathered. Yet, according to reports, the most intense reactions to the film have come from Malaysia and Singapore—in Malaysia, in the form of social reactions; in Singapore, through political interpretations. The social reaction is no longer merely the empathy of bystanders, but rather the re-emergence of long-forgotten memories. People recall scenes from their childhood spent with their grandparents and the influence of their native culture, whilst simultaneously realising, with a sudden clarity, the hardships their ancestors endured when they journeyed to Nanyang in search of a livelihood, and the difficulties they face today. This is cultural nostalgia and a remembrance of family ties—a natural and precious sentiment.
Singapore’s political interpretation, by contrast, seems rather bizarre. To accuse such a pure film of harbouring ‘united front’ implications is utter nonsense; it is a manifestation of inner anxiety and reflects a severely irrational reality. Since its independence, Singapore has emphasised ‘de-Sinicisation’. Leaving aside the political legitimacy of this for the moment, to take it to such extremes as to seek to eradicate even cultural DNA and the imprints of familial bonds is, by any measure, neither just nor convincing. As for the government’s requirement to approve whether the film is released in the original Teochew version or a Mandarin-dubbed version; the claim that the portrayal of an Indian villain in the film would undermine real-life racial coexistence; and the interpretation of ‘qiaopi’(overseas remittances) as implying extortion by relatives or even by the government—all these are manifestations of the same irrational reality. True multicultural coexistence and the reasonable reshaping of a nation’s identity should, by their very nature, aim to encourage and harness the fine cultural traditions and values of all ethnic groups; how can this be achieved through such suppression?
If we subject this to political interpretation, it could be said that Singapore’s nation-building orientation to date has been one of comprador capitalism, which, in cultural terms, manifests as the absolute dominance of (a certain pidgin-style) English culture—even to the point of tending to eradicate other cultures. If this was once a necessity born of harsh historical circumstances, then to continue with such a compromise—or even to intensify it—to this day constitutes alienation. By contrast, the Chinese community in Malaysia, facing political discrimination and oppression, has developed greater cultural autonomy as a matter of survival; this is a persistence born of necessity, akin to the resistance of a ‘desperate rearguard’.
Taking a political perspective, both Singapore’s alienation and Malaysia’s perseverance are premised on the existence of Chinese communities that remain self-sufficient and autonomous. This differs from other East and South Asian countries where there are, or once were, large Teochew communities or Chinese communities as a whole. In Thailand, the Chinese community has indeed been thoroughly de-Sinicised; whilst this is partly due to historical oppression, it is largely the result of their active integration into the local dominant ethnic group, whilst simultaneously becoming a significant force in reshaping the local culture. In Indonesia, de-Sinicisation is the result of blatant violent suppression—a form of cultural annihilation; in the three Indochinese countries, de-Sinicisation has led to the physical disappearance of the Chinese communities—a consequence of expulsion, resulting in their dispersal to places such as France and the United States.
All of the above cannot be attributed to individualised choices regarding film themes, nor are they merely the natural evolution of a single region, country or community; rather, they are the historical consequences of the entire East Asian region being swept up in the currents of modern global capitalism and colonialism.
Even in Hong Kong, though they have passed away, they remain
Hong Kong has not been absent from this historical process; rather, it has occupied a pivotal position to this very day. The elements relating to the Hong Kong dollar in the film are merely the tip of the iceberg; more importantly, they connect the communities of Chaozhou-Shantou and Nanyang, particularly the vast Teochew community.
Most of the generation who migrated to Nanyang in the 1940s and 1950s passed away around the turn of the century; their children have also been passing away in recent years, whilst the next generation—or even the generation after that—must still bear the heavy burden and trauma of history. Colonialism in East Asia and the resistance against it; the ethnic reshaping and the violence of nation-building in Nanyang; anti-Chinese sentiment; the return of overseas Chinese; the breakdown of families; the hardships of daily life in Fujian, Guangdong and Hainan—regions long serving as frontline defence zones—and the struggles of the families of overseas Chinese: the overseas Chinese community that drifted to Hong Kong has surely experienced all of this deeply.
During the festive season when people go to pay their respects to their ancestors, they will most likely be deeply moved by the endless rows of gravestones bearing the names of the departed from overseas Chinese communities across the region. Emerging from Ho Man Tin MTR Station, the entire neighbourhood is filled with funeral parlours; at certain moments, the air is filled with the sound of sutras being chanted, accompanied by the clatter of wooden fish, bell chimes, cloud boards and bronze bells. Wooden plaques bear the hometowns of the deceased, and people’s thoughts drift in and out.
(This article was originally published in Ming Pao in Chinese on June 26, 2026; translation provided by the author)
Dic Lo (Lu Di 盧荻) is Professor of Economics at Sun Yat-sen University and Professorial Research Associate at SOAS University of London. He is a native Teochew-speaker with deep family connections in Thailand and Singapore, having grown up in Hong Kong.
*僑批; “letters from overseas Chinese”, aka “remittance letters” as the envelops contained both a letter and a sum of money sent back to the respective emigrant’s home village.
**Nanyang (Chinese: 南洋; “Southern Ocean” or “South Seas”) is a historical and cultural Chinese term used to refer to Southeast Asia. The word is also used metonymically to denote the ethnic Chinese diaspora residing there.
N.B. Footnotes marked * and ** were added by The Macau Post Daily.
Photo of Dic Lo taken in Lisbon in 2022, provided by the author
Poster of “Dear You”, courtesy of Wikipedia.
