Category Archives: Asia

2025 Civil Rights Art Contest Winners

Hindus for Human Rights Has Announced the

2025 Civil Rights Art Contest Winners!

HIGH SCHOOL DIVISION (Grades 9–12)

Contest Theme: For centuries, people in South Asia have used art—like folk paintings, music, and dance—to speak out against injustice. These art forms have helped communities resist colonial rule, caste discrimination, gender inequality, and government oppression. How do you see that same spirit alive today?

First Place Winner:

“Chardi Kala: Resilience in Action” by Tara Kodial, grade 12, New York.

2nd Place Joint Winners:

“Roses and Thorns: A Bengali Woman’s Journey in Film” by Grace Saji, gr. 12, California.

“Dance Captured Through a Screen” by Eshita Lahiry, grade 12, Louisiana.

3rd Place Joint Winners:

“Dancer Breaking Free” by Aditi Karthik, grade 9, Georgia.

“Financial Freedom Teachings through Mehendi” by Zainab Habeeb, gr. 12, California.

“A” Series of Journeys: The Story Behind the Board

By Kate Han, age 16, from South Korea, studies in Canada.

‘A’ Series of Journeys by Kate Han, age 16, Canada.

I’ve always struggled with the question, “Where are you from?” It’s not that I don’t know; the answer has never felt complete. I was born in Korea, spent much of my childhood in India, and now study in Canada. Each country left something inside me, not just as memories but as layers of identity. My artwork (see above) , ‘A’ Series of Journeys, emerged from this sense of fragmented belonging. But without the backstory, I realized the artwork feels like a silent map—colorful but unexplained. This is the narrative behind that map.

From Korea to India: My First Migration

I was five when my family moved from Seoul to Bangalore. What I remember most from those early days was the constant feeling of being “new.” New sounds, new smells, new alphabets. Even at that age, I knew I wasn’t just visiting—I was being asked to live someone else’s normal. In school, I was the only Korean girl. I didn’t speak Kannada or Hindi, and I barely knew English. But children don’t wait for fluency. I played tag with my hands, not my words. I watched others tie their shoes, share lunch, and greet teachers. I mimicked until it became second nature.

India gave me my first lesson in courage: that you can belong without blending in thoroughly. My neighbors wore saris and spoke a language I didn’t understand, but they treated me like family. We celebrated Diwali together, and over time, the questions stopped being “Where are you from?” and started becoming “Are you coming to dinner?”

India didn’t erase my Korean self. Instead, it added to it. I still spoke Korean at home, wrote Hangul in my diary, and celebrated Chuseok with food parcels from my grandmother. But the girl who lit sparklers on the rooftop during Deepavali wasn’t pretending. She was expanding.

Canada: A New Kind of Destination

Years later, I moved again—this time on my own, to a boarding school in Canada. If India was about cultural immersion, Canada was about cultural comparison. I had more words now, and more awareness. I could see how my classmates viewed “Asia” as a single block. I could also see how they saw me: someone exotic, sometimes confusing, occasionally admirable. Someone told me, “Wow, your English is excellent.” It was meant as a compliment, but I felt the space between us widen.

Boarding school life sharpened my understanding of identity—mine and everyone’s. I met friends from Nigeria, Ukraine, Mexico, and Australia. Some had never left their home countries before.

Some, like me, had already moved across continents. We bonded over strange cafeteria food, homesickness, and midnight conversations about who we were becoming.

Canada taught me that identity is not a finished product. It’s in constant motion. You carry your past, but you also build your future with every choice—what you say, how you listen, which memories you protect.

Why I Made the Board

‘A’ Series of Journeys started as a personal project to visualize this idea of motion. I used pins and thread to create intersections, connections, and collisions. Each line on the board represented a person, a place, a story, or a version of myself. The foam base—soft yet firm—symbolized the adaptability I’ve had to develop. The photos marked moments in time that still speak to me. Together, they formed a chaotic and orderly piece, much like my life.

But something felt unfinished. It was only after receiving the Skipping Stones Editor message that I understood why. The board is a conversation starter, but it needs a voice. The images are full of meaning, but only when paired with a story. Without this reflection, the piece may be a decorative design, not a lived experience. That’s why I’m writing this—to give the work its missing voice.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that home is not a location—it’s a rhythm. It’s in how you wake up, how you say goodbye, what you find strange, and what you start calling your own. In India, I learned to listen before speaking. In Canada, I learned to question people’s meaning by saying “diversity.” In Korea, roots can deepen even when far from the soil.

Another lesson: People are much more than the labels we use. The word “immigrant” doesn’t tell whether someone is hopeful or scared. “International student” doesn’t reveal how many languages people hear in their dreams. I’ve learned to ask better questions. Not “Where are you from?” but “What feels like home to you?”

Above all, I’ve learned that my journey is not a detour—it’s the main road. My experiences are not interruptions to everyday life; they are my life. And through them, I’ve gained a sense of the world and a stronger sense of self.

Why This Matters

For young people like me, art is more than expression. It’s a translation. It’s how we turn complexity into something we can share. I hope ‘A’ Series of Journeys speaks to anyone who has felt between places, languages, or versions of themselves. I hope it shows that confusion can lead to clarity and discomfort can lead to growth.

This write-up is not the end of the project—it’s part of it. The series continues as long as I live, move, reflect, and create.

By Kate Han, age 16, grade 11, originally from South Korea, currently studies in a boarding school in British Columbia, Canada.

A New Chapter of My Life

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida.

Another box. Then another. My black hair, usually silky, was sticky with sweat as I packed up all of my earthly belongings.

“Ming, get ready.” Under my mom’s authoritative voice, a note of trepidation quivered. “We’re about to go to the airport.”

“Ok, fine,” I replied, as reluctantly as I could.

I had lived in the buzzing streets of Shanghai for my whole life. I haven’t taken one step out of the comfort of my country. Now, all the sudden, my parents had decided to move to America, where my dad could find a better job. I’d have to leave all my friends, teachers, and even my tennis coach, who taught me how to swing a racquet before I could write my name. So, as you can see, I absolutely do not want to move to America. But, according to my parents, “Ni zhang da yao sheng huo hao, shiao shi hou yao mian dui tong ku.” That basically translates to, “If you want to live a good life when you are older, then you have to suffer when you are young.” They also said something vague about staying true to yourself and your dreams even when moving to another country—which I never really understood. My dream had always just been to enjoy my life in China.

“Are you ready?” my mom called.

“Yes, just one more thing to pack,” I replied, my heart racing like an F1 driver. I carefully placed my last precious item, a picture of my family and me, into the final box.

Then, I hurried down the stairs. With a heavy heart and dragging feet, I slowly made my way to the door. I tried to savor that short amount of time, but just knew it was going to make me more devastated. I briskly walked into a bluish, gray car with shiny windows. The driver was my Dad’s best friend, Uncle Tong. Yet another friend we would lose when we move to America. The car was about to burst with our luggage—we all held our breath to see if everything would fit until the trunk finally slammed shut over the last suitcase. The driver began to turn the key to start the car and stop my heart, my breath, and everything about my life for all twelve years of it so far. I took one long, regretful look at our apartment as we began to drive away, the engine humming, into my new life.

It’s not an exaggeration when I say the airport was extremely packed when we got there—it buzzed with more people than even the densest street of the crowded city I was born in. The hustle and bustle made me feel like part of a huge ant colony. Just as we made it through the final security checkpoint, an announcer called through the speakers: “Passengers of Flight 224, we will start boarding the plane soon for Miami, Florida.”

After endless hours of being trapped in the sweaty plastic chair along with all the other airplane passengers, finally, that same voice jerked me to attention from the stupor I’d fallen into. “Attention all passengers, please gather your belongings, we are approaching our destination.” We were here, in the dreadful place I had only imagined months before.

I peered out the window. America sure looked less crowded than home, but it was nothing like my home halfway across the globe. People started to file themselves out of the plane, and we followed. When we got to the airport terminal, my dad decided we would sit down and eat lunch. I expected soup dumplings, noodles or roast duck, but instead there were hamburgers and french fries. When I tried the bun, my taste buds were left disappointed by the lack of flavor. As I bit into an over-salted fry, this time, I also bit back tears.

A week later…

My stomach wasn’t just doing cartwheels now: it was double backflips, and handstands. I walked into the front doors of my new school. Everything seemed foreign. The school was a big cement building with newly polished windows, unlike the tinted windows in my old school. Kids turned around to look at me. They started magnetizing into groups and whispering. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the hallway while clusters of other kids gathered on the sides. I caught some people saying, “Who is she?” and, “ Is she a new kid?” I blushed. Then, a strange noise rang out and everybody started walking to different rooms.

Nervously, I cast around for someone to ask. I spotted another kid, who had almond-colored hair and blue eyes, similarly to many of my classmates. What she didn’t seem to have, and which set her apart, was friends. My throat dry, I whispered, “Why’s everybody leaving?”

The girl looked over at me. “They are going to their classes.”

What did that mean? I gave her an inquisitive look. She somehow understood that I was not American and I didn’t speak much English. Then, she all of a sudden said hi in Chinese.

“Ni hao ma?” She could speak Chinese?

At my astounded expression, she added, “Wozai xue Zhongwen.” I am learning Chinese.

I don’t know what triggered me to do this, but I started a full-blown conversation filled with laughs and smiles. We smiled at each other and went to our rooms. There! I had found my first friend. Already! Maybe this wasn’t that bad after all.

The rest of the day flew by. Amelia talked and laughed with me and we had a lot of fun. As we walked home together, I felt a warm feeling spread over me. This was the beginning of a new adventure.

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida. She writes, “Both of my parents are from China and so are my grandparents. I was born in the US. I regularly visit China to see my grandparents every year. I am fascinated by the cultural difference between the two countries. I imagine instead of being born here in the US, if I were born in China, how my life would be different. I sometimes dream about this. In school, I visualize and put myself in the shoes of students who came from China. Their life and perspective must be very different from mine. This multiple culture comparison fascinates me and drives me to write this story about Ming.”

Beneath the Shade of Truth

By Nasiruddin Hamid, Qadian, Punjab, India.

In the 19th century, on a pleasant afternoon in August, in the serene mountains of Kashmir, Abdul Kareem, 65, and his grandson, Abdul Rahim, were watching their goats and sheep graze on the lush green mountain grass. The air was fresh and crisp, filled with the scent of wildflowers and pine trees. A gentle breeze swept across the hills, rustling the leaves and bringing a cool relief from the warmth of the sun. They were both leaning on a large, smooth rock, resting beneath the shade of tall trees, with the distant hills providing a protective embrace. The sound of the breeze and the peaceful bleating of the goats and sheep made the scene feel timeless.

Abdul Rahim, who was around 15 years old, began the conversation in gentle voice.

“Baba (grandfather/ father), are we Muslims?”

“Yes, dear, why?” answered Abdul Kareem.

“Are we the best people in the world just because we are Muslims?” asked Abdul Rahim.

“I don’t know, son,” replied Abdul Kareem.

“Why don’t you know, Baba? Our master, Molana Sadiq, says we are superior to all human beings. We rule the world, and after this life, we will go to heaven because we are true followers of the Prophet. Others will go to hell because they don’t worship Allah as we do,” said Abdul Rahim.

“I don’t know about being superior, son,” said Abdul Kareem.

“Did Molana Sahib (sir) lie to us then?” asked Rahim.

“No, son. Actually, Molana Sahib doesn’t truly know Almighty God. That’s why he says those inappropriate things about God,” said Abdul Kareem.

“How so? Please tell me, Baba Jan (dear grandfather),” said Rahim.

“Son, Allah doesn’t work the way we say or believe. He is far superior to what we think. He made this world according to His plans and will, but humans have degraded Him according to their own greed and desires. Every Molana (Maulana, a Muslim religious leader), Padri (a Christian priest), or Pandit (a Hindu scholar) claims that their religion is the true one, and others will go to hell. But they use God’s name only to serve their own selfish interests. They have turned God into a figure to scare innocent people. The truth is, God is not as horrible as they make Him out to be. We don’t know God or His ways. It is His will that He made some people beautiful and others not, some rich and others poor, some healthy and others sick. We cannot have complete knowledge of Him. That’s why we create stories about Him based on our own desires. Allah (God, in Islam) is for everyone, whether we believe in Him or deny Him. He doesn’t care about religions; He cares about humanity. People who love and care for humanity are the true believers of God, and they will be rewarded in this world and the next, if there is one. So, my son, just be a good human and respect everyone if you really want to succeed in life,” said Abdul Kareem.

The cool breeze continued to swirl around them, carrying the smell of the mountains as the sun began to dip behind the hills, casting long shadows across the grass. After saying this, both sat in silence, contemplating the words of wisdom, until dusk settled in. Then, they gathered their sheep and goats, and made their way back home, the rhythmic bleating of the flock echoing through the quiet, peaceful valley.

By Nasiruddin Hamid, Qadian, Punjab, India.

Between Names

By Jane Helen Lee, age 17, South Korea.

I was a collector of languages before I even knew the English word for “language.” I would gently pluck foreign words from overheard conversations and save them like colorful marbles in my pocket—later turning them over, swirling their smooth coolness between my tongue, sounding out hola, nǐ hǎo, 안녕하세요 (annyeonghaseyo). Through the sun-dappled filters of childhood that gently curtained my vision, there was something quietly magical about being able to say “hello” or even just “thank you” to a stranger in their own language. It felt as if I were weaving a thread between myself and someone I might never meet again.

The complicated kanji, hanja, and hangeul forms a patchwork quilt of syllables and syntax, woven from the voices of street vendors, lullabies, movies, and late-night whispers between siblings. Even when I couldn’t understand the meaning, I could feel the emotion behind a sentence—the rise in pitch, then the tremble, then, finally, the laughter tucked like a baby in a swaddle between vowels. Language to me, is and will always be something so achingly human.

But at age eight, I nearly lost my mother tongue.

My first language was Korean, and I learned English at a pretentious little english-only, ridiculously expensive preschool where white teachers would give Korean children names like “Emma” and “Madison.” When I moved to the US at age 6, my mother (omma) was shocked by how fast I forgot that my name was 재인 (Jae-in), not Jane. Suddenly, 엄마 (omma) was mommy and 숙세 (sook-jae) was homework. This shook her and, so, she pulled me out of school for 2 weeks to teach me, to make me re-learn and make sure I never forgot. This is something I thank her for to this day.

I once came across a piece of writing that claimed we are different people to each person we meet. I suppose that is true. To my mother, I am “재인아”, to my dad, I am “peach”, to my brother, I am “누나” (noona), to my classmates, I am “Jane.” I am 寶貝儿 (Bǎobèi er), 헤레나 (hae-le-na), Janie, peanut…, and I could go on forever. But that left me wondering: who am I to myself if all the names and identities I answer to have been lost or borrowed as changing masks to wear when interacting with others? See, when someone calls me “재인아” (jaein-a), I reply “응?” (eung?) or “네?” (nae?) and I’m what you’d describe as mature, and if you discount my horrible posture, maybe even ladylike, but call me Janie and I will change to become ever so child-like. Say “누나” (noona) and I will be strong. But despite being all these things, all these people, at once, I am just me. To me, I have no name, no title. The voice that tells me “ooh you shouldn’t have said that” or “hey, you look kind of good today” has no name for me. The thoughts I think that you will never hear except through the filtered microphone of my many masks do not belong to any one person, they belong to me, the many “me”s that together compose a jar of water made murky with the mixing-ins of paintbrushes tainted with colors from all parts of my life: every memory I have lived, every word I have spoken, and every song I have sung. And I can only hope that my jar, rinsed so many times of all the colors I have lived and palettes I have used, is not a dirty gray.

—Jane Helen Lee is a Korean-American writer currently based in Seoul, South Korea. She has been recognized by YoungArts and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her work across screenwriting, poetry, and fiction and is an alum of the Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop. Jane also serves as Editor-in-Chief of Unseen, the academic journal of the Korean Youth Honor Society, and finds joy in writing, debating, and volunteering at her local rehabilitation center.

Jane adds: “I am a senior attending high school in South Korea, and pencil was to me, what a Barbie doll was to many others: my dream, and my lighthouse. While dolls came to life in the hands of others, my pencil became an extension of myself. I began writing before I could even speak, creating stories and songs with scribbles, translating the world around me into language. In its easily broken, soft body, I found power; in its worn tip, wisdom. The pencil was my voice when I had none, and my refuge when life felt too loud. Now, that voice continues to guide me as I explore the issues close to my heart through my writing.”

Who I/Am

By Philip Shin, age 16, California.

(A poem expressing the duality of author’s heritage with authentic questions and observations.)

parts of a whole
parts with a hole
i am: of two places, of two minds, of two halves
of land and sea, of peninsula and coastline, of damp and dry, of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands

of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of R. of Korea, and
of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens
of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers, of beaches and business,
of So and Cal

two puzzle pieces, together forever, one tarnished, decaying, colors fading, cobwebs staining, fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself, i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears, my mother tongue of biology, not adoption

i recognize not; i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands, to scorched earth, to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives
my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself, this is my homeland, but it is not my homeland, but it is my homeland

i have:
a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another

i am:
incomplete, part of a whole, part of a red, white, blue whole
part of a red, white, blue, black whole, half faded, melted, evaporated, into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

By Philip Shin, age 16, Korean American, California. They write: “I have loved writing for my entire life. I write for fun, but also to better understand myself and my place in this vibrant, diverse, and multicultural world… I was spurred to write this poem after a trip to Korea.”

Monsoon Rains

By Adhya Kidiyoor, 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, 13, Texas.

The steady, gentle pour of the rain
The hot steam spiraling from the cup in my hands
The soft creaking of the wooden swing beneath me
This takes me back to where I belong
This takes me home.

I linger there for a while, trying hard to piece myself back together

The thunder booms, shaking the rain-soaked earth, scattering my broken thoughts across the mossy ground.

The swing freezes midair.
My chai loses its last warmth.
Time seems to stand still.

Who am I?
I’m a girl who’s lost.
A girl in the glorious shower of rain
A girl remembering the soft, familiar canopy of past days
A girl falling apart in the monsoon, not yet ready to let it go.

A girl who longs to go back.

Sitting here without the warmth of my home, I feel so small.
Alone.

Lightning flashes, and for a moment, everything seems clear.

I breathe again, as the rain grows heavier and heavier
As the burden I carry feels lighter and lighter

I listen, for once, as the murmurs of life grow smaller and smaller
And the depths of my clarity grow deeper and deeper

I pause, in wonder as the tiny insignificant raindrop becomes a brilliant shower—
Something bigger.

The rain grows stronger, the steady stream washing away my confusion
For the first time, I can see clearly.

Alone, I would be swept away, just another raindrop swept away in the current
But I don’t have to be alone

The stories of pride and joy, so achingly familiar, keep me warm.
The whispered tales, so fondly believed, keep me company.
These are my roots.
This is my culture.

The rain fades away, as all moments must.
But I can find solace in this memory
I can find clarity in this moment
And in the rain, I find not just my answer but myself.

I am not just a drop, but part of a storm.
I am not just a person, but part of a nation.

I am not just a girl, but the spirit of what makes India beautiful.
And that is all I need.

* * * *

Somewhere between that last sip of chai and the weight of the rain, I stopped worrying and began to listen. The rain didn’t just fall—it spoke, in a language older than our names, dialogue that can be felt and heard. It tells me, tells all of us, that home isn’t always a place, but a scent, a story, or the rhythm our footsteps carve and the droplets copy. And sometimes, the storm doesn’t break you. Sometimes, it brings you back home.

* * * *

The steady fall of the rain
counters the frantic
thumping of my heart.

I am surrounded by the scent
of moss and earth
and all things green with life.

It was a dry period,
one without the flourish of nature
and the embrace of home.

But
monsoon
is coming soon.

I now sit on the swing
that has swayed the same since I was six—regardless of storm or season.

The sky weeps a wretched cry,
hungry to drown all that is familiar.

I must remind myself
this brutal storm is nothing new.

And the lifeless land will be ruined only momentarily—
hard and loveless destruction giving way to plentiful earth.

For days, the skies will wail
and the clouds will darken,
closing their weepy eyes.

I wonder if this storm will ever pass.

But
monsoon
comes every year.

So by now, I must know
the storm will waver eventually—
desperate, darkened skies shutting their curtains

to reveal the calm of the sun
the soft of verdant grass
And the saffron and marigold of the ripe aam
That I have been waiting for.

My little swing continues to rock
and the rain continues to fall
but I continue to breathe
Because the skies have promised

To epilogue into vibrant
orange, white and green,
that fills me with the spirit of India,
alive in every drop of rain.

Written jointly by Adhya Kidiyoor, and 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, age 13, Texas.

Adhya loves staying active—especially in the world of literature! Whether it’s volunteering, competing in Science Olympiad, or practicing tennis, she’s always doing something. When she’s not on the move, you’ll find her reading, listening to music, or working on her next big idea. She’s curious, motivated, and always up for a new challenge.

Maira has a passion for learning and creativity. She enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time outdoors. When she’s not volunteering with nonprofits, she’s either listening to music or practicing karate.

King of the Soup Dumplings: Yang Bing-Yi

By Fanny Wong, New York.

During the Chinese civil war in 1948, Yang Bing-Yi was an ambitious 21-year-old man. He decided to leave his home in southern China and embark on a new life. With only $20 in his pocket, Bing-Yi stepped into a boat to escape the war. He worried whether the rickety boat would make it to Taipei, the capital of Taiwan.

The boat arrived safely and Bing-Yi’s life changed.

He met and married a young woman, Lai Pen-Mei. They started a new business together.

Young and hard-working, the couple sold cooking oil in glass bottles. This supported their growing family, until oil in tins became popular and business slowed.

Bing-Yi worried. What else could he do to support his growing family? His education was disrupted when Japanese troops occupied China. Without a good education, he still could work hard and make something of himself. He started another business.

He recalled he had learned how to make noodles from relatives. That was something he did rather well. So he opened a store to sell noodles.

He made very good noodles. Business was brisk but there was a lot of competing noodle makers. What could he do to bring in more customers? How could his noodles stand out? He had no idea. Then a loyal customer encouraged him to make something else, a soup dumpling (Xiao Long Bao) that was popular in China.

“At first,” Bing-Yi explained. “I knew nothing about the skills of making dumplings, but I set out to learn.”

He had a lot to learn!

First, he created the soup with pork bones. Then he mixed the filling of pork, water, minced ginger, and then seasoned it with soy sauce and pepper.

The flour dough was easy to make. Bing-Yi rolled out each piece to a round disc about 3 inches in diameter.

The challenge was how to fill the dough with soup. He formed it into a pouch, but the soup was too thin. It didn’t stay inside.

He experimented and experimented with the dough. It was either too thick or too thin. Even when the dough was just right, nothing worked. But he persisted and came to the conclusion that the problem could not be the consistency of the dough.

He started to experiment with the soup.

He boiled chicken and pig bones for a long time until the soup was gelatin-like, which was easier to handle than liquid soup. He filled the soup gelatin into the pouch and pinched it close, making pleats on top. When he steamed the dumplings in a wok, the gelatin soup melted. Viola! Soup filled dumpling! After so many trials, he had found the solution!

The aroma made Bing-Yi’s mouth water. He waited impatiently for the dumplings to be cooked. He lifted the wok cover to check on the progress frequently. Finaly, dumplings were ready. He poked a hole on the top of a dumpling to let out the steam. He bit first into the skin, then delicately slurped up the hot soup. He closed his eyes to savor the soup and the filling. An explosion of flavors and texture! Delicious! His customers would love it.

Word of mouth from appreciative customers brought more people that overflowed his store front. In 1972, at age of 45, Bing-Yi took a bold step and opened his first restaurant in Taipei, Taiwan. He named it Din Tai Fung. He chose those words because din means a cooking vessel and tai fung mean peace and abundance. It was an auspicious name for a restaurant that would open branches first in Tokyo, then in Arcadia, California, and then in New York City.

Each restaurant uses the same high standard, down to the diameter of the dough and the weight of each soup dumpling. Each one must weigh 21 grams, about three-quarters of an ounce. Through glass windows in the restaurants, customers can watch the white-uniformed cooks prepare the dumplings in a brightly lit kitchen. They can see the amount of work and the technique of making a soup dumpling. Their consistent high quality of the dumplings and level of service bring new and repeat customers.

In 1993, the New York Times published a feature about the restaurant. In 2010, it received a Michelin Star, a prestigious award to a restaurant offering outstanding cooking. Food tasting experts have raved about the dumplings, spreading the restaurant’s fame far and wide.

In 2023, Yang Bing-Yi passed away at the ripe age of 96. But his two sons continue their father’s legacy, serving the popular Xiao Long Boa in Din Tai Fung restaurants in many cities all over the world.

Two years ago, I visited my brother-in-law in Taipei, Taiwan. He took me to a Din Tai Fung in a shopping mall. We had to take a number and wait on a bench outside. My brother-in-law ordered not only the dumplings, but also small side dishes and a cucumber salad. I still remember how delicious the dumplings were. Surely worth the 30-minute wait!

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

Making Wontons

By Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California.

The cold water welcomed my fingertips as I dipped them into the bowl. I gently lathered the water onto the wrapper so I wouldn’t rip it. The meat inside of the wrapper felt like a golf ball—smooth, spherical and heavy for its small size. I connected the two opposite corners of the wrapper and folded the wonton* into an envelope.

I’m a third generation American and making wontons is something that connects me to my culture. My parents are pretty good at it, but I’m just starting, so sometimes I make small mistakes. We make them at random times. Sometimes I get home from soccer practice and the wontons are waiting for me, and other times, I get to make a couple of them, too.

Chinese cuisine is a lot different than many other cuisines in that you rarely ever get to eat the dish you ordered. Most of the time, you share all of the food with everyone at the table, even if you only ordered one item. When I share these meals with my parents, it helps me bond with them.

I set the wonton down on the platter where many of the wontons my parents had previously made were sitting. Journey (the music band) played in the background. My mom, who was preparing the vegetables for dinner, said something to my dad in Chinese which I didn’t understand.

As my dad pulled the first batch of wontons out of the pot, the aroma filled the room, and my mouth watered.

I refocused on my task, but I was having trouble closing the wrappers tight. So I dropped the wonton onto the plate, sat back in my chair, and crossed my arms.

My dad got up from his chair and crouched down next to me. He then calmly walked me through how to find the right amount of meat and how to seal the wrappers well.

When I visit China, I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t speak any Chinese. Whenever we’re shopping at street markets, vendors are shouting out items in Chinese, and at restaurants the menus are all written in Chinese. This makes me feel separated from my culture because I can’t do the basic things that Chinese people can do. But when we’re back home in California, making Chinese food is one of the only things that makes me feel Chinese.

“It’s okay,” my dad tells me. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

My mom, still standing over the boiling pot of water, says, “Yeah, as a kid, I didn’t understand how to make wontons right away. It takes time to learn new things.”

A smile crept onto my face. When the wontons were finished boiling, I made a sauce containing soy sauce, sesame sauce and rice vinegar. I bit into the first wonton and the juice from the meat burst inside my mouth in a flavorful explosion.

Immersing in Chinese culture isn’t just about speaking the language. Food and my parents are equally important things that connect me to it. In China, I may have felt awkward being around a lot of the people, but through participating in small cultural practices here in the U.S., I hope to fill the gap between Chinese culture and me.

* Wonton is a Chinese dumpling that is commonly found across many regional cuisines of China.

—Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California. Drew writes, “I’m Chinese-American, and I am the second generation of my family born in the U.S. I only speak English right now, but I used to be fluent in Chinese. The most important thing to me is my parents. They are the ones that support you and guide you through all aspects of your lifetime. My parents are my best friends and I wouldn’t be who I am without them. In the future, my dream is to become a professional soccer player. I am a very athletic kid, and sports are something that always cheer me up.”

Adam Bobrow, the Voice of Table Tennis

Adam Bobrow, the Voice of Table Tennis*

By Viraj Ajgaonkar, age 12, grade 8, Mumbai, India.

Adam Bobrow sketch by Viraj Ajgaonkar.

I am an emerging professional table tennis player, and I do my best to actively compete at Mumbai’s city level table tennis tournaments. There are multiple players whom I greatly adore and I always try to imbibe their techniques that help me to improve my game.

But there’s this guy who is quite unique, and he has created a meritorious place for himself as an official table tennis commentator in the UTT and WTT tournaments. When he was a professional player, he was popular for his signature snake serves and hitting the ball across the table.

Yes, you guessed it right. He is our very own the “Voice of table tennis,” Mr. Adam Bobrow!

He is also a successful YouTuber wherein he battles out professional players—from China’s Ma Long and Fan Zhendong to France’s Lebrun brothers or Brazil’s Hugo Calderano, right up to India’s Sharath Kamal or even USA’s Kanak Zha.

His humorous style of talking in his typical American accent, his colourful t-shirts and shorts, and his strong command over the language makes him very unique. He is truly fun-loving and seems to enjoy traveling to diverse places. For a recent Doha tournament, he traveled light—with just one backpack!

He has had played a pivotal role in spreading the passion for table tennis (ping pong) by challenging even the enthusiastic non-players of various age groups across the world through the solid platform of PingPod.

You will notice that he is a keen observer when you see him play against professional players in the challenge games. He tries to study their strengths and other technical aspects of backhand/ forehand strokes, chop, block, etc. He then effectively blends it especially in his English commentary. He often gives nicknames to many players—like Xuperman to Xu Xin or The Golden Girl to Manika Batra.

I’d like to take an opportunity through this article to invite you, Mr. Bobrow, to our city of Mumbai at Shivaji Park Gymkhana and Park Club. Mr. Bobrow, do come and challenge me and my other senior buddies, and let’s have a blast over here to create some unforgettable moments!

By Viraj Ajgaonkar, Age 12, Grade 8, Bombay Scottish School, Mumbai, India.

* Table Tennis is known as Ping Pong in many countries of the world.