Of course father didn’t like the revolutionary change in me. In his humble dictionary, shooting photographs was a stupid thing for a desperate loser. Doing multiple part-time jobs just put one at a disadvantage with no chance to build a favorable future. Like father, like daughter, being a cleaner was a disgrace, shame and indignity. It humbled him that no decency could be seen in my poor life. It angered him when being asked about my work, the answer was that I had no proper job. He was terribly bothered, disturbed, tormented by the fact that my change was unacceptable to him. He never liked the sound or the spelling of change. He was afraid of change. For him, every time you made a change, you created a passage to death. He made the fi rst change in his life from a rice fi eld to a factory, and it felt like slow death as fearful as being distant from his ancestors forever.