The following stories were written by some of my former students in China. Some of my students were simply refreshing their knowldege of English, others were graduate students, and still others were doctoral degree candidates. All were officers attending one of China's top military colleges. The assignment was to write about their most memorable childhood experience. I thought this would not only be an assignment that would move them to write reflectively, but would teach me about the people I was teaching. As I read their submissions, I became their student. Their stories
came from deep within. That took courage. And in the process I learned more about who they were through their struggles and perspectives as well as about recent famines, the Tangshan Earthquake, the The Cultural Revolution, and many other events in recent Chinese history. For this project posting, I changed the names of my students, and edited their stories, to shield their identities. If any American (from a land of plenty for many) wonders why the Chinese have such variety in their cuisine (which can include dog [delicious by the way]), one merely needs to read these stories to get a glimpse of the hardships and privations the Chinese have endured over the years. More importantly, it becomes clear from these stories that the Chinese are people with whom Americans should get to know, work closely, live at peace, and consider friends and family. Here are some of their stories.
Brad Houk
6 January 2009
An Unforgettable Thing
by Bai Tengle
Officer, People’s Liberation Army
From 1966 to 1976, we had the Cultural Revolution. During this time the workers didn't work the factories, the farmers didn't farm the land. There were few goods. There was little food. Everyone was hungry. Many were in bad health. The state was awful.
I was born in a village in 1972. When I was one year old, during a stormy night, I caught a bad cold. My fever increased severely a few hours later. We had neither medication nor any nearby doctors to call on. The nearest doctors were at the hospital. The hospital was far away. My mother needed someone to take me but my father had left the day before and she couldn't find anyone who could help. My condition grew worse with the storm, darker with the night. The hospital -- or any form of help for that matter -- seemed farther away than ever.
Just then the old man passed by. He saw my mother through the window and sensed that something was wrong. He entered our home before checking on me in my bed. Turning to my mother he shouted (because he had lost much of his hearing), "What's the matter?" In a gush of emotion my mother explained everything. Without hesitation, the old man picked me up in his arms and rushed me out of the house into the dark stormy night. He carried me the whole way to the hospital. He saved my life.
But the old man's efforts weren't made without a price: he was sick in bed for a long time after that and he never fully recovered. My parents were grateful to him. We took gifts to his home but he rejected the gifts saying, "Everyone has his own emergency. What I do is only what a man should do."
For a long time, this was all I knew about the old man who saved my life. But as time passed, I came to know his story.
He was a painter. He lived in a big city. He had a happy family ... that is ... until the Cultural Revolution. That's when he was accused of being a member of the capitalist class. His wife divorced him before taking his children away. Some people beat him so hard that he lost most of his hearing. Then he was sent to our village to correct his thoughts.
The old man had many books which my friends and I couldn't understand. We couldn't read them. But we could look at the pictures. We loved looking at the pictures. So much so that we stole some of his books. After that the old man didn't allow us to look at his books anymore. We grew to dislike him. Sometimes we cursed him.
Then one day a bad idea came into my head. It was to be a practical joke. I told my friends. We dug a hole in a path near the old man's home. That afternoon the news came to us that the old man had broken his leg in a hole. People cursed the bad man who had dug the hole. We were guilty, and we felt it.
During those days as the old man lay in bed, my friends and I wanted to admit our mistake to him, but we felt too embarrassed to do that in front of all those people who were always visiting. The closest we got was to see him through the window. A few days later, the old man died.
When I heard the news tears poured from my eyes. It was he who saved my life; but it was me who made him dead. I hated myself for making that practical joke. I hated myself for a long time.
Since then I've come to understand that I can't apologize to myself forever. Yet the old man's words continue to echo in my ears: "Everyone has his own emergency. What I do is only what a man should do." Even today I continue to do my best to help others in need if for no other reason than to try to reduce my guilt. My experience with the old man is the most unforgettable thing in my life, and it's my memory of this old painter that drives me forward.
The Egg
By Dong Huangxi
Officer, People’s Liberation Army
I was a kid during the Cultural Revolution. The Revolution divided the people of China into two classes: the good, and the bad. The bad were the capitalists, such as the landlords and all their descendants. The landlords and all their descendants became targets for criticism and punishment. My grandfather was defined as a landlord. So my childhood was filled with horror. But I do recall one event that wasn't horrible. It happened when I was seven years old. And it remains today my most memorable childhood experience.
In those years everyone in our village was poor. Landlord descendants were poorer than poor. We didn't even have enough money to buy salt. But my family was permitted to have a few chickens. Our chickens laid eggs and we used the eggs to trade for the things we needed. The eggs were our main source of income. Each egg only brought us five cents. We didn't have many eggs.
One day, my mother asked me to take an egg to the store and exchange it for salt. I was proud over the sense of responsibility that she entrusted in me. I was excited to run this errand for her!
With the egg secure in my hand, I ran as fast as I could toward the store. When I came to the round slippery rocks I didn't even slow down. That was a mistake! I slipped. And fell. I didn't mind the pain from the fall so much as the sight of the broken shell oozing yolk out between my fingers. I let my mother down. Surely she would be disappointed in me. I let my family down. Surely I would be punished. I didn't know what to do. I was scared. Lonely. I began to cry.
Just then, someone walked up to me. I raised my head and saw that it was my Uncle Luo. Uncle Luo was a hero from the Chinese Civil War and had taken part in The Long March. He was a member of the good class and was highly respected in our village. In fact, he was so highly respected that I practically never got the chance to talk with him.
"The egg is broken." he said, placing five cents in my hand, "There's no use in crying over it."
I couldn't believe it! I was so relieved and in so much a hurry that I can't remember if I even thanked him. I clutched the money in my hand and ran off to buy the salt.
Now, Uncle Luo has been dead for many years. And I have since earned enough money to buy millions of eggs. But I'll always remember his kindness which has inspired me to give my hand to others in times of trouble.
The Famine
By Lan Huling
Civilian Soldier, People’s Liberation Army
I was 10 years old during the drought. The sun withered the crops. The insects finished off what little was left. There was a famine. In some areas, the plague. Thousands of people died.
My family was lucky. We didn't live in the plagued areas, just the broader region of the famine. We were six altogether. And together as a family we managed to gather enough food to live. But our food amounted to no more than what one person would typically eat for oneself during times of plenty. We survived on wild grasses. Some people even climbed trees to eat their flowers. I never experienced The Long March, but somehow I have trouble imagining that our food was as adequate as theirs. For me, this experience was The Peaceful Long March. It lasted two years. Then international aid arrived. We were given food. The Red Cross came. I came to see the world as a great family.
Nine years have since passed. I look back and see the harm we suffered from this disaster. But to me it wasn't completely harmful. Part of it was good. My body endured and grew stronger. I learned to work hard. How to get enough food to survive. How to use my time effectively. How knowledge can change things.
China would never have suffered this famine had we not been so backward, so ignorant. So many people would otherwise still be living. We as a people -- and a nation -- have so much to learn. We can't let this happen again!
Little Chuqi
by Yue Ziqi
Officer, People’s Liberation Army
Chuqi is my niece, my older sister's daughter, an only child. I am her oldest uncle. I love Chuqi. She is so young, little and cute. She's more than cute, she's darling, no, she's adorable! She was born in July of 1990. Her family lives in my hometown, a small, beautiful town situated in the southeast hills of Jiangxi Province. Her mother works in a shop. Her husband is the head of a local government office.
I work in Beijing as a military officer, which is far away from my hometown. I only return to visit my hometown once every two or three years. When I return I usually stay for a couple weeks. Over the past few years Chuqi was so little that I didn't get to spend much time with her. So sometimes when I visited she didn't remember me. Maybe she knew she had an uncle in Beijing. Maybe she didn't.
Chuqi lived a happy life with her parents and grandparents. Chuqi was a little spoiled too. At meals she couldn't sit still, she ventured all over the house and yard so that my sister had to chase after her just to feed her.
A couple years later, as I was waiting at the Beijing railway station, I heard a young voice scream, "Uncle Ziqi!" Searching for the voice among the crowd of passengers I heard my sister yell, "Here we are!" I ran over and there standing before me was five-year-old Chuqi. Chuqi seemed shy at first but she had grown up so much! Her parents had brought her to Beijing for sightseeing.
Over the next 20 days I accompanied Chuqi and her parents to many scenic spots around the city, such as the Great Wall, The Imperial Palace, The Summer Palace, and so on. While touring around I took many pictures of Chuqi, recording her sweet smile, this beautiful little girl. Sometimes Chuqi and I went out for walks alone. We often played games. During her visit we really got to know each other. My affection for her grew. And I think she felt the same way about me.
On the 20th day we returned to the railway station. On the platform I told Chuqi that I expected her to be a good student in school, a good girl at home. She nodded with a smile. I remained on the platform after they boarded the train. We were able to talk through an open window where they were sitting until the train lurched and began rolling ahead. We said our final goodbyes. Yet even as the train disappeared into the distance I could still see Chuqi's little hand waving to me in the increasing distance. Had I known that this would be the last time I would see her I would've never let her go. I still have trouble letting her go.
But at the time everything seemed promising to Chuqi. After she returned home she started primary school. As an only child she received lots of love and attention. Her future was so bright. But a tragedy fell upon Chuqi, upon all of us which none of us had expected.
It was June of '96. My younger brother telephoned me. He told me that Chuqi had just died of Meningitis. The news struck me like dark thunder on a clear day. I couldn't control myself. I balled my eyes out. I couldn't understand why such a terrible fate had fallen on such a wonderful little six-year-old girl. I asked myself whose fault was this? Who's to blame? Who's responsible for Chuqi's death? I mean meningitis is a curable disease when it's diagnosed early. But the doctor in charge of Chuqi had diagnosed her as having the flu. So her condition grew worse and worse with the wrong treatments. Only when Chuqi had lost consciousness did they decide to transfer her to a larger hospital. But it was too late.
Was it the doctor's inability or limited knowledge that caused him to make the wrong diagnosis? Or were the conditions of the hospital too poor or just incapable of properly treating Chuqi? Any of these could be the case. But nowadays there are too many problems existing in our public health care system.
In the pursuit of profits, some hospitals have confusing diagnosis and treatment systems. In a few hospitals, if a patient pays for his own bill, doctors may write out a large prescription for him which may include unnecessary drugs and other things. If a patient gets free medical service from the government, the doctors may give him a prescription that contains less than what he needs to recover (because hospitals profit little from the government patients).
But it gets worse when certain doctors lack a sense of responsibility for their patients (as few they may be [but even a few are too many]). These are bad doctors. And these bad doctors may ask patients to give them money or other valuable things. In these cases, in order to get proper treatment, patients must give their doctor a "red packet". A "red packet" is a small package of money wrapped in red paper. If the patient refuses to give the red packet, his illness may be slowly treated or completely ignored.
Maybe a red packet would have saved Chuqi. As wrong as it is, as much as our health care system needs reformed, the red packet is such a small price to pay to save a life. I'd give anything to have Chuqi back. Maybe I could've saved her had I known she were sick. But I didn't know, not until it was too late. Maybe if we all knew more, fewer lives such as Chuqi's would be lost.
Lhasa's Sunshine
by Hu Xiaobei
Officer, People's Liberation Army
There is a mysterious place in the west of our country. It's called Xizang Province. Its capital, Lhasa, is the most charming place of all. I visited Lhasa two years ago. Although I was impressed by Lhasa's culture, religion, atmosphere, sky, and mountains, it was her sunshine that impressed me most.
Lhasa's sunshine touches your skin with warmness as it cleanses your soul. Pollution of any kind doesn't seem to be permitted here. Here, close to the sun, you feel reborn.
In the streets you can witness the packs of stray dogs roaming about. They congregate, play, feed, sleep, fight, make love, give birth, and live all in the sunshine. These dogs are not beaten by anyone. They are as much a part of Lhasa as anyone or anything. The people accept the dogs the way the sunshine accepts the people. The people see the dogs, like themselves, as the sons and daughters of Buddha who all have the equal right to live. When an animal gets hurt, someone looks after it. This is natural in Lhasa. But were the same animal to get hurt somewhere else in China, that animal might become a delicious meal in someone's stomach.
In Lhasa, the sunshine gives a distinct smile to the native people. Their faces are black-red, not smooth but healthy. Their smiles are ones of simplicity, honesty, friendliness and frankness. Their smiles fascinate me, especially after drinking a few cups of their barley wine. After the wine, the language, the differences, the distances all evaporate. The atmosphere, the people, are intoxicating.
But what I found most poetic in Lhasa was the Bathing Festival. In September (Xizang's calendar) the plateau was cold. Yet the day of bathing was full of warmth and romance. At this time the women came to the clear Lhasa River and stripped naked out from their skins and furs before washing their bodies and long beautiful hair under the warming sun. The sunshine slipped over their skin and illuminated their playful bodies splashing and sparkling. I watched, admired, from the banks of the river with many other onlookers, but the women bathing could care less who was watching.
Maybe their aim was not so much bathing but showing. Showing their love for life. A natural, loving life. I think if you were to witness what I did you wouldn't have any wicked ideas or impulses. These women were in no position to be humiliated. They held a loftier position. They were angels. Goddesses. Gifts from the heavens.
To experience Lhasa is to experience sunshine in every shape and form. It's to experience the warmth of life. To experience Lhasa is to experience the warmth of love.
[Note: The Han Chinese call Tibet: Xizang.]
Copyright © 2008 by Brad Houk, All Rights Reserved
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