I did not come to know him through him.
I came to know him through his son.
It was at a close friend’s home in
Flushing. She told me she had a friend
from Dubai—Mr. Jackson Chen,
partner of New York real estate magnate
Mr. Lin Jianzhong. He was
planning to create a major international
film festival in Dubai—one that would
let the world see Dubai’s dream, and
also give the local Chinese community a
sense of pride.
After all, many of them had already
built their own hometowns in China, and
then left everything behind to help
build another country.
It is not an easy life.
“And besides,” she said, “the Family
Film Awards just aired on CBS.
You’re free now—come meet him.”
I arrived one day late.
We missed each other.
Instead, I met his wife and his son.
His son was preparing for graduate
school, and he had written a piece
titled
“My Father.”
There was no embellishment, no grand
narrative
—just fragments of small, precise
details.
But after reading it, I had a quiet
certainty:
This man can be entrusted with great
responsibility.
He can carry weight.
During our conversation, his wife
suddenly recognized me.
“You held an art exhibition in Dubai
last November, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We were there. You were hosting.”
And just like that,
I entered his world through his
family—before I truly met him.
On November 23rd last year, at Mr. Yu’s
exhibition in Dubai,
we passed each other once.
The exhibition was on the second floor.
I walked down one marble staircase; he
walked down another.
No pause. No conversation.
Just a brief crossing of paths.
At that moment, I had no idea that
within two months,
this man would step into my life—
and use both his life and his bank
account
to guarantee our project in Ras Al
Khaimah.
Here is what happened.
We needed a bank guarantee.
The project—a cultural real estate
development
—had grown out of that very exhibition.
At the time, I could not find the right
person.
Almost irrationally—without really
knowing him—I thought of him.
I asked for his help.
He came.
And only that day did I learn:
He had suffered a stroke the day before.
After signing the agreement,
he was taken directly to the ICU.
As I watched him being helped away by
others,
my world suddenly fell silent.
My world has always been loud—
from Flushing, New York to Chinese
communities in California.
Trying to get Hollywood to tell Chinese
stories is never easy.
If it isn’t loud,
who will hear it?
Hollywood is a place that often remains
“deaf” to Chinese narratives.
But in that sudden silence,
I realized something for the first time:
Some people make choices with their
bodies.
They carry responsibility with their
lives.
Today, we finally sit down to talk.
And I decide—not to begin with the
project.
Who are you?
I ask him:
“If you had to introduce yourself
without any title—who are you?”
He does not answer immediately.
“At a certain stage in life,” he says,
“it becomes difficult to define yourself
with one word.”
“In the beginning, you are someone who
does things.
Then you become someone who makes
choices.
Later… you become someone who carries
responsibility.”
“If I must say—
I am someone who doesn’t step back
easily when something happens.”
Who are you in your son’s eyes?
I tell him I first came to know him
through his son.
He smiles—slightly unsure what to say.
He had read his son’s essay while lying
in a hospital bed.
I ask:
“What kind of father do you think you
are in your son’s eyes?”
He pauses.
“Probably not an easy one.”
He rarely explains himself.
He does not express emotions easily.
And he is constantly busy—meeting Arabs,
Americans, Germans, Italians, people
from Beijing, local Chinese…
That hospital room was not a hospital
room.
It was a command center.
He was preparing for a “massive film
festival.”
But he hopes his son understands one
thing:
A person must be responsible for their
choices.
“Once you say you will do something,
you cannot step back.”
What were you thinking that day?
I bring it up.
“The day before you came to sign for
us—you had already suffered a stroke.
Why did you still come?”
This time, he does not avoid it.
“My body was already warning me,” he
says.
“But what I was thinking was not,
‘Should I go or not?’”
“It was—
‘You’ve already brought this to this
point.
Can I let it stop with me?’”
He says he was not trying to be heroic.
But at certain moments,
if you don’t carry the weight for
someone,
everything may fall apart.
This wasn’t even your responsibility
I ask him:
“This wasn’t even your project.
Why did you take it on?”
He answers simply:
“Whether it’s mine or not doesn’t
matter.”
“Mr. Lin is my partner in New
York.
And you are someone he trusts.”
“If I am in that position,
and I see it,
and I am capable—
why wouldn’t I help?”
⸻
And this film festival?
We finally arrive at the question
everyone is asking:
A $70 million film festival.
Even the Oscars cost around $60 million.
Many people do not understand.
Even those who have seen the world—
including Yue-Sai Kan,
who helped launch the first Shanghai
International Film Festival—
could not help but gently ask:
Why spend this kind of money?
(What she did not say, but meant:
film festivals lose money.)
I do not ask him directly about returns.
Instead, I ask:
“Is this a project?
A responsibility?
Or something else?”
He says:
“At first, it was just an opportunity.”
“But as you move forward, it changes.”
“Some things—you think you are doing
them.
Later, you realize—they are choosing
you.”
What if it fails?
I ask:
“If this project fails, what worries you
most?”
What I do not say is:
Is this just an expensive display?
He replies:
“I am not worried about failure itself.”
“I care more about whether it was done
well.”
“Some things are done for results.
Some things are done for time.”
“This one… may belong to the latter.”
If one day it disappears
I ask him one final question:
“If one day this film festival
disappears—
like a shooting star—
what do you want people to remember?”
He thinks for a moment.
Then says:
“That there was someone
who truly wanted to make it happen.”
“And to do it well.”
“He didn’t want the world to say—
wherever Chinese people go,
they only show off wealth
or quietly make money.”
Epilogue
After the interview, I did not
immediately整理 my notes.
I kept seeing one image:
A man,
whose body had already begun to fail,
still finishing a signature
for a friend of a friend.
And then—
being taken to the ICU.
Some people are not worth writing about
because they are doing big projects.
They are worth writing about
because—
at a critical moment,
they did not step back.
Sometimes,
just for someone worth trusting.
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