Recently, I attended the Philippine premiere of Dear You, a moving film about overseas Chinese pursuing a better future while remaining connected to their roots. Despite its modest budget, lack of major stars, and dialogue largely in the Teochew dialect, the film found a wide audience because its story felt authentic and universal. It reminded us that behind every immigrant journey lies a family, a sacrifice, and a hope for future generations.
As I watched, I realized I was not simply seeing someone else’s story. I was remembering my own family’s.
Growing up, my father, Charles Go Sing Tian, often shared stories about his angkong(grandfather), Wu Qihu, known in Fujian as Go Ki-ko. As I grew older, I realized they were more than family stories. They were lessons about business, responsibility, and the kind of reputation that cannot be bought.
Decades ago, my great-grandfather owned the Xinhua Inn in Xiamen, historically known as Amoy. Before returning to China, he had converted part of a warehouse along Sto. Cristo and Tetuan Streets in Binondo into a modest lodging house for newly arrived Chinese immigrants from his hometown and neighboring villages who were beginning their lives in the Philippines.
Many arrived with almost nothing. They carried little more than hope for a better future and the quiet sadness of leaving behind parents, spouses, children, and the only home they had ever known. They needed more than a place to sleep. They needed someone who understood what they were going through.
When they could not afford lodging or meals, my great-grandfather welcomed them anyway. He allowed them to stay and eat on credit until they found their footing.
His generosity did not stop there. Knowing that families back in China depended on those who had left, he advanced money and helped arrange remittances even before these immigrants had earned their first peso.
Through his relationships and standing within the community, he also helped open doors to employment, giving many newcomers a chance to rebuild their lives.
By conventional business standards, what he did was an extraordinary risk. He extended credit to people with no assets, no established livelihood, and no assurance they would ever repay him. Yet his decisions were not based on blind optimism. He knew the communities they came from, understood the strength of their relationships, and believed that character could be a more reliable form of collateral than possessions.
Looking back, I realized he was not simply helping people. He was investing in trust.
Long before banks called it credit assessment or businesses spoke of relationship capital, my great-grandfather understood that a person’s character often reveals itself before prosperity arrives. He recognized potential in people before they had the means to prove it.
Most eventually found work, repaid what they owed, and never forgot the kindness they had received. Trust, it turned out, created returns that no ledger could fully capture.
Long before these ideas appeared in management books, my great-grandfather understood something many businesses still struggle to appreciate: every enduring enterprise is built one relationship at a time. By helping people when they were most vulnerable, he earned a trust that lasted far beyond any single transaction.
People may forget the details of a business deal, but they rarely forget the person who stood beside them when they had nowhere else to turn.
A few weeks earlier, I found myself walking through Shanghai. Seeing China’s remarkable progress made me think about how far the country had come since my great-grandfather’s generation left in search of opportunity. Yet instead of making me feel less Filipino, the experience deepened my appreciation for the country where my family rebuilt its future, where my great-grandfather first welcomed strangers, where later generations built their lives, and where I found my own calling.
The Philippines gave me my career, my life, and my purpose. Like many Chinoys, I have never seen my Filipino identity and my Chinese ancestry as competing forces. They have always complemented one another. One gave me an entrepreneurial heritage; the other taught me empathy, resilience, and the privilege of serving a country I proudly call home.
Whether we call it karma or, as a Christian, God’s promise to bless those who bless others, the principle is remarkably similar. Kindness, integrity, and trust have a way of returning, often in ways that cannot be measured immediately.
My great-grandfather probably never imagined that his actions would still be remembered decades later. He was not trying to build a legacy. He simply saw people who needed help and did what he could. The business benefits came later.
Today, companies measure success through revenue, market share, growth, and return on investment. Those measures matter. But if you had asked my great-grandfather what success meant, I doubt he would have started with money. He would probably have counted the people who no longer needed his help.
As I left the theater after Dear You, I realized the film had become, for me, Dear Great-Grandpa. It reminded me that every generation inherits more than a surname, a business, or a family story. We inherit examples.
My great-grandfather never wrote a business book. He never attended a management seminar. Yet decades after he welcomed strangers into a modest lodging house in Binondo, his example continues to shape how I think about business and life.
His greatest investment was never the inn he owned or the credit he extended. It was the trust he placed in people.
Everything else was simply the return on that investment.
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About the Author
Josiah Go is a fourth-generation Chinese Filipino (Chinoy), business educator, author, entrepreneur, and Independent Director of Union Bank of the Philippines. He was among the inaugural recipients of the Outstanding Tsinoy Award given by The Manila Times, Kaisa, and FFCCII, and is recognized in the Kaisa-Angelo King Heritage Center (Chinoy Museum) for his contributions to the Chinese Filipino community.