You have probably heard this line from a film circulating on social media: “You dream in a language I can not understand, it is like there is a whole place inside of you where I can’t go”. This quote is from Past Lives (2023, dir. Celine Song), spoken by the protagonist’s American husband, while she is Korean. That particular line feels pessimistic.
Perhaps he was genuinely pessimistic; after all, English was the tool that helped the couple eventually understand each other, fall in love, and get married. Yet, despite this, that line reminds us that there are remaining parts of his significant other—due to the language barrier—that he can never reach. Even in a relationship as close as theirs, there are still limitations caused by language that seem to disrupt their connection.
In non-English speaking countries, ethnic minorities might have a problem adopting the language the majority uses. As a result, some minorities are somewhat pressured to adapt to the culture of the majority, often under the pretext: “When in Rome do as the Romans do”. Through Southern Afternoon (2024), which was nominated for the Youth Jury Award 2024 at Minikino Film Week 10, Lan Tian, the writer, director, and a member of the She people (one of China’s ethnic minorities) shares his views on disparities faced by himself and others, portrayed through the eyes of a small Uyghur family living in Fujian.
About Saramu and His Small Family
Going back to the past to the Central Asian nomadic tribes, Uyghurs are a Turkic ethnic group living in China’s Xinjiang region. After establishing a mighty empire in the 8th century, Over time, the Uyghurs embraced Islam and developed a visible cultural identity.
In the 20th century, Xinjiang was incorporated into the People’s Republic of China, leading to ongoing tensions and international concern over the treatment of the Uyghur population; what is happening is believed to be systemic racism towards the Uyghur. The BBC reported that at least 12 million Uyghur families live in Xinjiang. China was often accused of committing human rights violations, possibly genocide on mostly-Muslim ethnic groups.
Southern Afternoon takes place on the other side of the region, specifically in Fujian. Saramu, a father, was talking on the phone aggressively, seemingly distressed while explaining to his wife that he had recently found a letter with a small flower attached to the cover. He believed it belonged to his daughter, Marhaba, and was convinced it was a love letter.
Incapability to Connect
Marching into the school, the father wanted to approach her immediately, but she was in orchestra practice. He was still agitated outside the classroom until he was called inside to sign a document related to her. This was when a subtle form of “discrimination” happened. The teacher called out the father’s inability to write in Hanzi (Chinese characters), saying that he had lived a long time in Fujian and somehow was still unable to write or read Hanzi.
It was such a heartbreaking scene to watch. She had to sign it on his behalf, crying—whether due to the frustration or perhaps embarrassment for his father. This went on to show that the minority often faces oppression in adapting to communication, and the father’s inability to connect and understand her struggles during it. Later, we saw the father practicing writing his name in Hanzi, an effort from him to integrate with the larger society.
For a moment, it felt like the whole ordeal of the love letter had been forgotten. It was not until the father brought up the topic of the letter in the car that she fell silent, cornered by his father’s sudden accusation and his prying into her privacy.
Losing Oneself to Translation
There are three people in the car now instead of two. With the new presence of Haliza, the youngest daughter, and the little sister, she was oblivious to what was happening before they got in the car. She listened intently to the conversation while often asking questions and making small, witty remarks. They had yet to reach their destination, but the father stopped midway through a field.
The first time I watched it, the father’s aggressive facial expression made me fear something worse was happening. The background scenery was undeniably appealing as if it worked as an antidote to tune down the tension between them. The scene now resembles an investigation in a detective film, with only the father and his youngest daughter together in the car, while the other sister is outside. The father asked her to read and translate the letter’s contents. She told him that it was not a love letter; it was just a friend’s hangout invitation.
In my last semester, I took a class on “Intercultural Communication”. One of the topics we studied was High-Context and Low-Context Communication. One of the TIL (today I learned) things in class is that most Asian Countries, including Japan and China, use High-Context Communication. This approach emphasizes more on body language and often involves more indirect or prolonged verbal communication (or, as we might call it, “sugarcoating!”) It is also usually more sensitive toward the feelings of others.
The reason I bring this up is that Southern Afternoon serves as a testament to this concept. The three characters, under pressure, resort to indirect communication. When the father tried to clarify the contents of the letter again to his daughter, the youngest kept cutting her off so she could try to cover up her lies. The youngest’s interruptions were not just a way to save herself, for me, it is another way to say that she cares for the well-being of her sister. The fact that it was done spontaneously suggests that the sisterly bond might be stronger than the father-daughter relationship.
After all the build-up, the final blow took an unexpected turn: Instead of getting mad and punishing his daughters for lying, the father made fun of his two daughters for not synchronizing their two versions of the stories. Everyone, including myself, was relieved. But here, the way the father chose humor over punishment not only demonstrates the complexity of the father-daughter relationship but also the unconditional parental love, where understanding outweighs the need for control. This scene encapsulates the challenges of high-context communication, where much is left unsaid, yet deeply understood.
The father realized that his inability to read and write Hanzi seemed to put a barrier between him and his daughters. Although he–and we as viewers–might never fully know the exact contents of the letter, we chose to let go of certain things. The father decided to embrace the idea of “losing himself in translation,” learning to accept that his daughter had her own life and that all decisions should come from her. His duty as a parent was merely to guide. His love was much bigger, and she had received it.
Through Southern Afternoon, we see that language acts as a double-edged sword: it can connect people but also create separations. Perhaps the issue is not solely the language itself but also the lack of intimacy that caused emotions to be bottled up and never communicated. In the end, the things that kept us connected are trust and acceptance, which ultimately bridge the gap.
We might never fully understand other people besides ourselves, even if it was not because of a language barrier. However, as long as we put forward our best effort to understand, accept, and compromise with others, that effort embodies the true quality of human coexistence.
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