Still a Wonder: Thian Hock Keng in Singapore

I got lost. My flight had landed at Changi Airport only hours before. 

Did the fact that I lost my bearings particularly matter? In retrospect? Not really. After a seven-year absence from Singapore I correctly assumed that my initial explorations of the Lion City would be ill-predicted. By that I mean that I'd spend the first day or two wandering around and simply making up my journey along the way. 

The smell of "haze" from burning fires in Sumatra filled the air. But as I rounded a street corner lined with traditional shophouses the distinctive, pungent aroma of burning joss sticks filled the air -and then there it was: 158 Telok Ayer Street. 

Dignified. Splendid, yet understated. Exquisite in its exactitude. A meticulous connection to Singapore's engaging past like no other. 

The initial sight of Thian Hock Keng delighted me. At last! I would be renewing an acquaintanceship started nearly ten year before.  

As an historian I've toured many historic churches, synagogues and temples. My family even built a few, such as the Second Congregational Church in my ancestral home in Greenwich, Connecticut USA. The stories told and untold make for compelling analysis and exploration. Thian Hock Keng was clearly outside my traditional comfort -much to my satisfaction. 

In a city-state that bustles with action day and night this beautiful oasis of calm and serenity has been here since 1839. Once upon a time the nearby area was the waterfront. It was at this historic spot where early seamen and migrants from China's Fujian province would pay their respects and express their gratitude for a safe journey and arrival. 

I thought about my own ancestors in Connecticut and what their lives were like. Living in homes that still grace our roadways on land they farmed in relative safety, I juxtaposed them with the precarious, formidable journey faced by those early migrants from China to the shores of an island colony founded by Sir Stamford Raffles just twenty years before. It was a time when whatever semblance of law and order existed on the seas still posed severe challenges for those who risked it all for a better life in a young, struggling colony. I felt humbled. 

Not a single nail holds this temple together. Surrounded by modern skyscrapers and now far from the shore, the mysteries of this place were forcibly compelling to me, but in an inspiriting,

serene way. 

This Chinese guardian lion seemed to smile. These are found in pairs in front of temples. They are said to have robust, legendary powers -with safeguarding benefits! 

I consider this temple to be an architectural masterpiece. I loved the ornateness of the roof details, the Chinese scripts on the red columns, the red lanterns, the serenity and symmetry of the courtyards, such as the one pictured above. 

The most important element of this temple is that it is still alive with worshippers. Indeed, this is a functioning temple and not a tourist haven. Photography is not permitted in the areas where worshippers pay their respects, just as generations have done so here for 175 years. 

As I wandered among the courtyards, doorways and soaked in the cornucopia of Chinese traditions around me I found myself at time feeling emotional. At the time I was surprised and unsure why. 

But I came to understand that I was witnessing an intersection of my own, albeit indirect, reunion with Chinese civilization through my father. My wanderings triggered thoughts and buried feelings of my late-father, who passed on four years ago. 

Dad had never visited Singapore, but he was stationed in China after World War II. I could picture Dad in his youthful early-20s meandering among similar temples in Tianjin and Beijing. Years ago he told me stories of his wonder and astonishment at the ancientness of those temples, of an encounter with a civilization far older than our own. I felt teary-eyed at times in a way I have a hard time articulating in words. 

I also thought about my friends in Singapore and their ancestors who made the difficult, even treacherous journey to come here. I felt a commonality with them, with their progenitors and mine so long ago. The experience of reuniting with Thian Hock Keng reminded me that despite cultural, language and other characteristics we, together, are part of a chain of history that started so long ago. And, together, we had history to celebrate, to connect with through smiles, curiosity, and the exquisite pain of tears of separation and joy that proved to be an unexpected gift. 

It was all so poetic. As I departed the front gate and turned to look one more time I felt grateful. You encounter all kinds when you travel the world. One of the guides nodded and smiled as I re-entered the modernity of Singapore. He bade me a safe journey. That was nice.