For generations, rural women have left their own homes to work, and so support themselves and their families, and provide a more secure start for following generations than they, themselves, experienced. From the 1920s, Cantonese women migrated in their thousands from Guangdong province to Hong Kong, Singapore and Malaya; with their distinctive white blouses and black trousers, they became the intergenerational mainstay of the families who employed them. From the 70s, domestic workers came from across Southeast Asia – the Philippines, Indonesia and Thailand were the main suppliers. Some migrants adapted better than others to their new surroundings; one such transplant was our amah, who has just retired to Thailand. She had a Thai name, of course, but that was only deployed for contracts, passports and identity documents. To us, she was Ah Kam; a literal Cantonese translation of her Thai name – Gold. To everyone else, from Shek Kong neighbours and Kowloon City goldsmiths to Kam Tin market people, she was Kam Jeh – “Sister Kam”. Ah Kam’s Cantonese was fluent – learned in northeast Thailand before moving to Hong Kong to work – so that was what we spoke at home. Beyond a few pithy phrases, she resolutely refused to learn any English; my own Thai remains rudimentary – food words and rude words, mostly, and all learned from her. Not that we particularly wanted her to know English; Cantonese as a home language added richly to the overall texture of life, and also offered a welcome measure of conversational privacy – or so we fondly thought. “Ah Kam understands much more than she lets on, no question …” my mother once muttered darkly, towards the end of a visit; and she probably did. Not that it matters. Language fluency and long years in Hong Kong did not, however, make her like its inhabitants; quite the contrary. Casual racism, petty discrimination and unfair treatment – the everyday lot of most migrant workers’ lives here – were never forgotten. Towards the Hong Kong Chinese “species” – as they were invariably described – her default attitude was wary suspicion, at least until individuals proved themselves worthy of trust. Europeans fared no better. Probably the biggest personal affront to Ah Kam – all the more amusing because she looked and sounded just like any other solidly built, plainly dressed, rural New Territories woman – was being mistaken for one. For more than 20 years, Ah Kam was a part of our daily lives. Blunt-spoken; meticulously honest; fond of an occasional beer; a robust eater – and fat as a chip, towards the end; where the eye couldn’t see, the broom didn’t reach; defiantly judgmental, inherently kind – and oftentimes, frighteningly right. Her shrewd assessment of various romantic partners was invariably expressed through food; the additional early-morning cup of coffee that wasn’t made said everything. Likewise, stupendous feasts found their way down the throats of those she eventually decided – on my behalf – were worth feeding. Younger friends needed to know their manners from the outset, or soon learned them, the hard way. Like any crabby old auntie, all was fine when she was jollied along. In good times and sadness, through deaths and other partings – Ah Kam was always there. Last week, a last delicious lunch was cooked. Several admonitions later, after a ceremony to farewell the spirits of the house, we set off for the airport. With much laughter and many tears, our lives finally separated. What does Ah Kam’s retirement hold? The Tang dynasty poem Coming Home poignantly sums up the returning migrant worker’s dilemma. I left home young; now old, I return care free. My tongue unchanged; my hair is now thin. Unknown I am, to the boys and girls I meet, Smiling, they ask, “where do you come from?”