CHAPTER 151

2026-05-01

Although I was born into a time of peace, I did encounter a few public safety issues while growing up. To this day, I remain whole and unharmed, with all limbs intact—already a great blessing.

After settling in Canada, there were incidents of theft from my car. Working in Chinatown, such things were almost inevitable. The loss was minor, but replacing the broken window still meant paying a hefty deductible.

There was also the time when a troublesome boy from the neighborhood set fire to the notice board by the mailbox at our front entrance. Fortunately, it didn’t turn into a disaster. Later, his family moved away. And on the one day I happened to carry more cash in my wallet, I ended up “making an offering” to a thief in the swimming pool changing room.

Two years ago, I had a strange encounter—I was suddenly and viciously kicked for no reason.

It was Friday, January 5, 2024, at Lansdowne Centre in Richmond. My wife and I had just finished a dental cleaning. She went shopping for snacks, while I, as usual, sat down inside the mall to rest, watch over our belongings, and organize photos on my phone. The bench was positioned with a pillar to its left; in front-left was a dried seafood shop, and to the right of the bench was a small stall.

Absorbed in my phone, I lost track of time. Suddenly, I sensed a gray figure approaching from the front-left near the pillar. Out of habit, I looked up. The figure was already upon me—a middle-aged Asian woman in a dark long coat, no glasses, with a sallow complexion and shoulder-length hair. She glared at me fiercely, lips pressed tight, teeth clenched—and then, without a word, delivered a powerful kick to my left shin, about seven inches above the ankle.

After the kick, she immediately passed by my left side and hurried silently into the T&T Supermarket behind me.

An unprovoked attack like that is intolerable—I had to bring her to account. I grabbed my down coat, put it on, picked up my backpack, and followed her into the supermarket, shouting repeatedly in English:

“Lady in front! She kicked me for no reason! Call the police! Don’t let her leave!”

Shoppers looked startled. A few asked what had happened, but no one took action.

I followed about ten to twenty feet behind her. As we passed the bakery section on the right, she suddenly turned and warned me in English not to follow her. I stopped and stepped back a few paces, avoiding any physical contact or escalation.

She resumed her hurried escape. I continued shouting behind her. She turned right toward the checkout area, then left out the main exit. Before exiting the front door, she turned again and warned me once more not to follow.

Of course, I didn’t comply. Along the sidewalk outside the mall, I kept calling out as I followed her westward. She walked straight toward the SkyTrain station entrance but did not go in. Instead, she crossed southward at the intersection—already flustered enough to ignore traffic rules—then crossed No. 3 Road and continued west, seeming like a local resident.

By then it was already dark. To avoid being mistaken for a suspicious man in a long coat pursuing a woman with ill intent, I decided to stop the pursuit. I had followed her for nearly 500 meters, was sweating, and worried that my wife might be anxious if she couldn’t find me. I left her a voice message and returned to the mall.

My wife was waiting at the scene. The lady at the stall beside the bench had kindly watched over the snacks I had left behind. Seeing me return safely reassured my wife.

After a short rest, I reported the incident to mall security, who then contacted the police. Two young South Asian female security guards listened to my account and remarked that this was something new—they had never encountered such a case before.

Applying ice to my bruised and swollen leg, I judged that it wasn’t serious enough to require hospital care and planned to see my family doctor instead. The security footage matched my account. More than half an hour later, police officers arrived to take my statement. The process went smoothly, and they photographed my left shin as evidence—no need for me to appear on camera myself.

From the look in the suspect’s eyes and the force of her attack, it seemed she was driven by some deep-seated grievance, and I had become the scapegoat for her anger. As for why she chose me—whether due to hallucination, misperception, or some entrenched hostility toward men—there wasn’t enough information to determine the severity of her condition.

At the time, I thought: it would be difficult for a male victim to physically apprehend a female suspect in public. But I could at least gather enough evidence to aid future identification and capture. At the same time, I wanted to make such lawless individuals, who vent personal hatred through crime, face some immediate consequence.

If I managed to scare her into breaking into a cold sweat, prompting her to calm down and seek help, that would be good as well. I did what I could to deal with the situation and restore my own sense of balance. As for the bruised and swollen leg—it wasn’t fractured, and the discoloration faded completely after a little over a month.