by Liao Yiwu
Liao: Turning the other cheek . . .
Zhang: Those guys had no idea what my aunt meant. We had to endure many more political meetings, but after a while the humiliating remarks or beatings didn’t bother us anymore. We became smarter. We learned how to protect ourselves. All of those campaigns, whether to denounce the landowners, Buddhists, Catholics, or intellectuals, were all the same. People would shout slogans—“Down with so and so!” “Beat Liu so he can never stand up!” “Long live Chairman Mao!” “Long live the Communist Party!” “Long live the victory of whatever!”—and each time, we were made to confess. It got so we knew it by rote; all we did was change a few words.
Liao: What was it like living in the village?
Zhang: The village put us in a stone house with two rooms, which were very drafty. It was more like a pigsty than a house. The new life was really hard for Bishop Liu and my aunt; they were both quite old. I was relatively young. So I went to the village leader and asked for pots and pans, some grain, and bedding. He made me sign a piece of paper, saying I would pay them back after I earned enough money.
What followed was hard labor. The farmwork wasn’t that difficult, but you had to have enough physical strength. I did most of the farming. My aunt and Bishop Liu assisted me. When there were no public denunciation meetings, we were allowed to live our life quietly. The village lent us an ox so we could plow the field. We also raised pigs and chickens and grew vegetables. We pickled surplus vegetables and would sell them, and eggs, at the local market. With the money we got, we bought vegetable oil, soy sauce, that sort of thing. Life was hard, but we got by, and soon we could breathe a little more easily.
Liao: Then, of course, came the Great Leap Forward . . .
Zhang: We all went up on the mountains to cut down trees to fuel the backyard furnaces making iron and steel. We were all told that if we worked hard, China could become an industrialized nation in two to three years. In the village, we had to hand over everything, including our cooking utensils. But nobody took care of the crops. Famine arrived. So many people died—it was really, really horrible. We lived on thin corn broth, almost as clear as plain water. Under the sun, you could see its reflection at the bottom of the bowl; it looked like an egg yolk. Bishop Liu used to joke that a drawing of an egg was better than no egg at all, and my aunt would cup the bowl in her hand and say, seriously, “We are eating the sunny egg broth offered by the Lord. I’m sure the broth in this bowl has more nutrients.”
Pretty soon, there was nothing left. We had to search for food in the mountains. We looked for wild vegetables, grass roots, moss, even tree bark. Some of the villagers were so desperate, they dug up dead bodies and feasted on the flesh. Even Buddhist monks hunted and ate rats. Let me tell you, there was chaos everywhere. Had the famine lasted much longer, I’m sure the villagers would have eaten us. Thank the Lord we survived.
We prayed—on the road, climbing a hill, at home. We had all spent many years reading the Bible, and God’s words were etched, stroke by stroke, on my mind and in my heart. No matter how hard the government tried, those words couldn’t be erased. When we felt dizzy from hunger, we never asked for help, because they couldn’t even save themselves. We prayed that the Lord would grant us peace.
One day, I joined other villagers combing an area in the mountains for food. Almost half a day had gone and I hadn’t found anything. I was exhausted and fell to ground and could not get up again. That’s when I noticed some colorful wild mushrooms near me. Those were the poisonous ones that nobody dared to touch. Hunger weakened my will and judgment. I snatched the mushrooms and put them into my mouth. I grew up in the region and knew the terrible consequences of swallowing poisonous mushrooms. Oh well, if I had to choose between death from hunger and death from poisoning . . . I simply picked the latter and prayed for God’s forgiveness. Several minutes later, I had a severe stomachache. I poked my fingers deep down in my throat, hoping I could throw up. But because there was nothing in my stomach, the poisonous mushrooms were digested and absorbed very fast. My hands and feet began to tremble. My whole body began to shake. I wrapped myself around a tree and kept praying. If I was going to die, I wanted to die in prayer.
When I woke up, the moon was out. I managed to stand. I was still very hungry, but my stomach pain had gone. “Amen,” I murmured to myself. “Amen. Thank you, Lord, for your protection.” I was alive when I know I should have been dead.
Liao: All three of you survived.
Zhang: During the Cultural Revolution, Bishop Liu was taken to somewhere in Haidong for more interrogation. He was beaten many times. His health deteriorated a lot. In 1983, when the Party reversed its policy on religion, we were reunited. The local Religious Affairs Bureau found us a two-bedroom house across the street from the old church. So the three of us moved in there and tried to persuade the residents and the school authorities to give us back our church and the church’s property. Bishop Liu cited Party policy in his negotiations and told them, “Even though we are old and feeble, we are not giving in—this is God’s church.” The residents told him, “To hell with your God.”
Next we tried to persuade officials at the local Religious Affairs Bureau. Carrying my aunt on my back, we went to the Dali Prefecture government building, but nobody wanted to talk with us. So I walked out of the building and put my aunt down on the stairs outside. I sat next to her, fasting and staging a sit-in protest.
Liao: How old were you then?
Zhang: I think I was seventy-five or seventy-six. My aunt was close to ninety. We would come home in the evening and go there again in the morning. My aunt had asthma and could hardly breathe. I told her to stay home, but she refused. “The Lord belongs to all of us, not to you alone, she said.” In the 1980s, the road from the old section of Dali to Xiaguan, the prefecture capital, was really bad. Every day, I would get up at the crack of dawn. I would pray first, then sweep the yard and cook breakfast. My aunt had become a nun at the age of twenty-one. She was a beautiful woman and kept herself up really well. She would scold me for being a tomboy. Well, I had to act like a man. I had to do farmwork in the field, raise pigs and chickens. I never had any time to myself. On the first morning of our official sit-in protest, my aunt told me to change into my new clothes: “We are staging a protest in the middle of the street. Don’t dress up like a beggar and embarrass the Lord.”
I carried her to the bus terminal outside the city’s south gate. Two hours later, we were outside the prefecture government building. I laid out a quilt on the ground and had my aunt lie down. I sat next to her and began praying. Soon, we were surrounded by a curious crowd. I told them what had happened. We were there every day. Rain or shine, we didn’t care.
All we knew was that there was a large crowd every day. Sometimes the crowd was so thick it was like a human wall. I felt a little uneasy. So, I would stand up, raise the cross above my head, and ask them to disperse. But more people would stop and watch. Some would get close to my aunt and whisper back to the crowd, “The old woman is still breathing. She is mumbling something to herself.” I would correct the person by saying, “She’s not talking to herself. She’s praying.” And they would ask, “What is she praying?” And I would repeat her words loudly, “Dear Lord, you put me here to test me in this secular world. Please forgive my sins and correct my thoughts. Please rescue me from the evil forces of this world. Amen.”
Liao: Did people understand?
Zhang: No, they didn’t. Many people said we were crazy. Some kindhearted people suggested we give up. “You should think from the government’s viewpoint,” they’d say. “They have a whole prefecture to run. It’s not easy. You should be patriotic and love your country.” I didn’t argue with them. We stayed outside the government building for twenty-eight days. During the day, I fasted. I would only drink some water. Considering my aunt’s poor health, I would feed her some noodle soup around noon. When the sun started to set, I would carry her to the bus terminal and we’d return home in Dali.
After a while, people on the street became used to our presence. Some would say hi to us when they passed by. There were no longer any crowds. A couple of children would hang out and play with us. But I think our presence must have reflected very badly on the government, because, on the twenty-eighth day, a senior official with two assistants showed up. He stood there for several minutes, then squatted down next to me, “Are you Zhang Yinxian?” “Yes,” I said. “And this is my aunt, Li Huazhen.” He was a bit sarcastic, and I said, “We don’t mean to make trouble for you. We just need a place to live.” He was puzzled by my answer and said, “You have a place. Isn’t the two-bedroom house big enough for you?” I said quickly, “We are not those childless old people who are on welfare. You can’t just throw us a house and shut us up. We want our church back. We need a proper place to worship the Lord.” He backed down a little bit and said, “Well, we will return the church assets, eventually. It takes time.” I became impatient. “Time? We’ve been waiting thirty-one years. I’m only seventy years old, so I can still wait, but what about my aunt? She is over ninety. She has many health problems. I don’t think she can wait.” The official became upset. He raised his voice: “Who do you think you are? You can’t threaten the government and tell us what to do. We’ve been working hard to make it happen for you, but it takes time. You will have to wait at least three or four years more.” My aunt was listening, half asleep, and now asked me to help her sit up. She said, “If that’s the case, I’m just going to die here, right on the street.” I added, “And so will I; the two of us are ready to die right here, in front of the government building.” The officer responded, “Do whatever you want.” He was angry, and before he left, he turned and railed at me, “Are you threatening the Communist Party?” I said calmly, “All I want is to get the church back. I won’t hold you responsible for our lives.”
Liao: What happened next?
Zhang: A couple of months after that confrontation, we were told we could have our church back—the old chapel, two rows of houses around the chapel, and the two courtyard houses. People in the old section were shocked. They would say, “Those two evil old women. They were so tough. Even the government caved in.” Well, it’s not enough. We’ve only gotten back one quarter of the church assets. The two schools across the street used to be part of the church. That property is as big as three or four football fields. We’ll never get that land back.
Liao: The three of you living in this big place; wasn’t it like a dream come true?
Zhang: The church doesn’t belong to us. We only look after it for the Lord.
Liao: How did you support yourself in those days?
Zhang: By then, the other two were old and sick. I raised pigs and chickens, grew vegetables. We could make ends meet. We were happy. My aunt died in 1989. She was ninety-three. Bishop Liu died in 1990 at the age of ninety. They are buried on Cangshan Mountain. There is a spot next to their graves for me. The day before Bishop Liu passed away, he told me that he wanted to hold a Mass in the church, but he had barely put on his robe before he fell down. I prayed over him, and as he took in his last long breath, his eyes closed. He was smiling. Dusk was approaching. I could feel the angels outside, flying into the setting sun. I felt a gentle breeze.
Now I was alone and felt very sad. I would sometimes catch myself looking for them inside the church, in the courtyard, and in places where they had spent time. One day, I closed my eyes. I felt that they were touching my hands. I was so happy. I woke up and saw it was a dog, licking my hands.
In 1998 things changed. We had a new bishop. A new generation of nuns, such as Sister Tao, arrived. I feel more relaxed now. I will continue to press them to have the government return the remaining church property. Even if we can’t get it back, we need to record it in the church history. Future generations should know what happened.
I’ve been waiting for the Lord to take me. I’m looking forward to reuniting with Bishop Liu and my aunt. While I was not looking, another ten years have passed. I’m going on 101 now. People around here are thirty, forty years younger than I am. What can I do?
Liao: What would you like to do?
Zhang: I would like to continue to praise the Lord. I would like to continue to make sure that our church gets back our land. I would like to continue . . .
Chapter 3
The Tibetan
Bars and nightclubs on Foreigner Street in Dali look different in the daylight without their flattering neon signs and the hypnotic thump thump thump of their music; I imagine a model woken up too early, without her makeup and glamorous outfits. The smell was different, too, in the fresh morning air: body odor and stale marijuana smoke. Beyond were the vegetable vendors, Bai women in their colorful dress calling attention to the fruits and vegetables from their land, their displays smelling earthy and real, leaves unusually lush and thick. I stopped to admire the bok choy and, out of mischief, asked if it was genetically engineered. The Bai woman looked at me through narrowed eyes, smiled toothlessly, and scolded: “You damn ghost from Sichuan.”
At a little after nine o’clock on August 3, 2009, I turned right on Renmin Avenue into a small stone-paved lane, following the directional signs for “The Catholic Church.” The door to one courtyard was open, and, from the lane, the “church” within appeared at first glance no different from any of the other old residential houses in the neighborhood. Though its eaves were carved with the birds and animals of Bai legends, reaching into the sky was a steeple topped by a cross painted gold. Inside, the ceiling arched several stories high, and the building took the shape of a butterfly, its wings stretched ready for flight.
Sunday Mass had just started as I slipped quietly through the waves of singing from the hundred or so parishioners and eased along a pew to join my friend Kun Peng. Not knowing how to sing hymns, I hummed the melody. At the altar, against the background of four big Chinese characters proclaiming God Is Love, a middle-aged priest and two young acolytes were immersed in an ancient ceremony. “For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him,” the priest intoned. I felt a little self-conscious about my presence in the church, a nonbeliever here to observe the behavior of believers. I knew the passage the priest was reading and hoped they did not think the betrayer was me.
The service had a rhythm of rising and falling, like the wash of the tide against a beach: standing to sing the hymn, sitting to hear the sermon, kneeling to pray, standing again to sing another hymn. Kun Peng had told me that with the repetition of each act, the heart became purer, more pious and more passionate. We all stood again when the organ began to play, and the congregation made a line in the aisle to receive Holy Communion, the wafer and wine that were the body and blood of Christ.
I was not alone in remaining seated; there was a smattering of other nonbelievers here out of curiosity or simply to enjoy the music. By eleven o’clock, the Mass was over, and Kun Peng took me to see the monastery next door. High walls divided the views of two traditional Bai-style courtyard houses, where plants and flowers grew in the garden, lush and in full bloom. The houses looked dilapidated. Nuns and monks shuffled in and out, some in robes, others not, going about their Sunday business. Among them was a young man who said he was twenty-four, Tibetan, Catholic, and a seminarian. Like most Chinese, I was under the impression that every Tibetan was a devout follower of Tibetan Buddhism.
Jia Bo-er was squatting under the eaves, washing his robe in a basin, his shiny, black, curly hair bobbing up and down in the sun as he pressed and kneaded the black cloth. He said his Christian name was Gabriel, and when he was done with his washing, we found some shade to talk. He sa
id he was from Shangri-La:
Liao Yiwu: Shangri-La? Isn’t that the famous paradise described in James Hilton’s novel Lost Horizon?
Jia Bo-er: Yes, yes. Most of my friends have read the novel. It was written in 1933, I think. The paradise that Hilton described in the book was supposed to be in the Cizhong region, Diqing Prefecture, part of Yunnan province. In the 1990s, leaders of the prefecture officially certified that our village was the “lost Shangri-La.” I think it was a stunt to attract tourists. I’m quite proud that my hometown is so well known.
Generations of my family have lived in the Cizhong area. In the old days, we were all Buddhists. About two hundred years ago, soldiers from the Lamaseries constantly engaged in fights against the Chinese troops. The war lasted many years and left many villages in poverty and chaos. Old folks would tell me that in the war-torn region, people died all the time. In the mid-nineteenth century, several priests with a Catholic organization called Foreign Missions of Paris arrived. They changed the lives of many ordinary people.
Liao: Are there more Buddhists or Christians in the Cizhong area?
Jia: I think it’s half and half. We all live in the same village, share the same skin color, wear similar goatskin coats, and herd goats and farm together. So it’s quite harmonious. When we get together for dinner with our friends or neighbors, they chant their Buddhist sutras and we say our prayers to seek God’s blessing. Then we toast each other with liquor. Occasionally, we would take off our necklaces and compare whose pendants are prettier, the cross or the miniatures of Buddha. You have probably read about the meeting between Pope John Paul II and the Dalai Lama? They praised each other warmly during their meeting. It is good to promote interfaith harmony, don’t you think? Four generations of my family have been Christians. I’ve been a Christian all my life.
