Once Upon A Time In Xinjiang (Cont'd)
My ErJiu's Field of Dreams - Part Two
Continuing from last week, here is Part Two. Click here for Part One.
4. A Role Model Was Made … and Taken Down
The job of feeding a hundred people with limited food supplies and no prior experience was not an easy feat. But for Qiu-Yi, his creativity was unleashed and his will to prove himself was tested.
To make the canteen more self-sufficient, he devised different staff members to raise chickens and livestock, and to cultivate a vegetable farm, with what might be the only two resources that were in abundance—corn and land. Coming from a family of rich culinary traditions—a mother from Sichuan and a father from Ningbo, both places famous for their cuisine—Qiu-Yi became a natural at developing recipes and soon became the head chef. In a time when having hearty meals was the most important accomplishment after a day of hard labor, it was only a matter of time before Qiu-Yi made a name for himself.
And there was something else budding with his confidence in the canteen.
Being the youngest girl in the division, Ying was assigned to the food pantry key keeper’s job, a rotational role with relatively light labor. Quiyi received her and gave her a thorough and lengthy “orientation” of the canteen and its pantry. This was the beginning of a multi-year courtship.
The canteen soon became a success for its elaborate meal menus while operating within budget. Soon leaders from neighboring battalions and even the regiment were visiting Qiu-Yi’s canteen, inviting him to share his experiences with other canteens.
When it was time for the national recruitment event, Qui-Yi was selected to represent his battalion to be sent back to Shanghai, as an exemplary model of successful re-education. Back in his hometown, Qui-Yi and the team received warm welcome-home parties, and were provided accommodation in one of Shanghai’s most famous hotels—the Peace Hotel. (For those of you who followed the recent popular TV series Blossoms Shanghai, yes it was THAT Peace Hotel!)
Qiu-Yi felt he was on the top of Tianshan Mountain. He had finally proved his capability and built a path for himself!
But his culinary career ended as abruptly as it started. The wave of the Cultural Revolution spread across the country and hit the rural Great Northwest at last. With his father still wearing the “anti-revolutionary hat”, Qiu-Yi was taken off the pedestal of a “model youth” and from his post was also the battalion commander, who had been a supporter and sponsor of Qiu-Yi’s rise to stardom. Instead of sending him back to the canteen where his fame started, Qiu-Yi was sent to irrigate the farmland.
Rose at night when everyone was in sound sleep recovering from the day’s labor, and one by one, Qui-Yi opened the gates of the channels. The snowmelt of the Tianshan flowed into the cultivated corn and cotton fields. And a hapless feeling gushed through him.
He had returned to where he started, under the same starlit sky of Northern Xinjiang.
5. A Muted Love Story
One starless night, Qiu-Yi showed up at Ying’s dorm. He was quiet as usual, but Ying sensed something else was on his mind, weighing him down. She did not ask questions. She was used to being the youngest—no one ever seemed to care for her opinion. So, she just waited.
“Some guys told me that I should run,” when Qiu-Yi did speak, he surprised Ying. “They said nothing good would ever happen to me here. I am on night shift, it is dark, no one is around …” His voice trailed off; his eyes drifted as if staring into a void.
“Why run?” Ying asked, “You didn’t do anything wrong. If you run, it will make people think you have actually done something that warrants an escape.”
Qiu-Yi looked a bit surprised, maybe by her unusual assertion. Ying continued, “So what you have a ‘black’ family background. So do I. So do many of us here. That’s not the result of something you did.” She surprised even herself with the conviction.
“You are right,” something in Qiu-Yi’s eyes softened. He turned his gaze afar again, contemplating.
“I want to show you something,” still not looking at Ying, he took a letter out from his pocket, and handed it to Ying.
Ying took the letter, and gave him a puzzled look.
It was a letter from Qiu-Yi’s old girlfriend from Shanghai. In there the girl talked about how life together would seem impossible now; how she was trying to build a life of her own; and that she heard about the talks of Qiu-Yi and Ying together as a couple …
“Wait, was this his way of telling me something?” Ying quietly asked herself.
“Okay,” she returned the letter to Qui-Yi, and didn’t offer any opinion. Nor did Qiu-Yi appear to be expecting one.
“I always treated her as a sister, not as a girlfriend,” he put the letter back into his pocket as if the case was now closed.
“Okay.” Now Ying was sure that this was as close to a declaration of their relationship as she would get from Qiu-Yi.
Four years later, Qiu-Yi and Ying were married, their wedding officiated by the Company Commander.
By then Qui-Yi had settled down into a mechanical team lead position at a cotton processing factory1, after failed attempts to become a teacher in the school for children of local officials and migrant workers, because of his “black” family background. Ying had been transferred to the orchard next to the factory, tending the cultivated apples and pears.
Like corn and cotton, and melon and apple, Qiu-Yi and Ying cultivated their own life, a life together in a land that was fertile and harsh at the same time.
6. A Reunion at the Urumqi Railway Station
The vendors along the railway tracks were starting to clean up after the lunch crowd when Qiu-Yi entered the Urumqi Railway Station. It had been more than 6 years since he was last here in 1966, returning from his glorious Shanghai trip.
The platform was almost empty. Qui-Yi almost knocked off a vendor’s stool trying to get across. He cursed himself under his breath, “Don’t you be late!”
He was here to meet his sister Xinhui, who was returning from her home visit trip in Shanghai and was carrying baby gifts from the family—Ying was expecting. Qiu-Yi’s mom and Ying’s aunt had prepared baby clothes and traditional postpartum herb remedies often prescribed for new mothers.
Qiu-Yi had not seen Xinhui, who was two years older than him, since 1964 when he departed Shanghai for Xinjiang. Xinhui followed in his footsteps two years later but was sent to be settled in Kashgar, the largest city in Southern Xinjiang on the other side of the Tianshan Mountain. There was only one way to travel from Urumqi to Kashgar, a thousand-mile winding mountain road on a bus.
There, in the middle of the platform, stood Xinhui with a toddler in her arms. Even with the bulky winter coat, she looked tiny beside the two humongous denim bags. Qiu-Yi took a few big strides towards her.
“Xinhui! The farm truck took forever to reach the station! How long have you been here? How was the trip? Is this your baby boy?” Qui-Yi had so many questions.
“Oh, we have been here for … maybe an hour or so? The trip was alright, you know how it is. It’s great you are here because I was afraid you were not going to get here in time before the bus departed! And yes, this is Kang-Kang. He just turned one not long ago.” Xinhui was relieved, and happy to see her brother. Between the two of them, she was usually the fast talker, but the trip had taken a toll on her.
“When is your bus departing?” Qiu-Yi asked. He took the boy from Xinhui so she could rest her arms. Kang-Kang had a faint urine smell on him and looked frightened.
“He is very tired and agitated,” Xinhui’s voice couldn’t hide her own tiredness. “The bus probably will leave soon. Will you help me with the luggage and walk me over to the station? I want to make sure to have a good seat so Kang-Kang can get some sleep.”
“Of course!”
The bus station was not far from the train platform exit. There was already a line at the station and passengers were preparing for boarding.
“Are you sure you don’t want to spend a night here, to rest?” Qiu-Yi looked at Xinhui, concerned.
“We will be fine. Just one more day, we will be home. It’s too much trouble to spend an extra night here.” Xinhui reached into one of the bags and dug out a cloth package. “Here it is, from Mom. Please send my love to Ying!” She straightened up and took the boy from Qiu-Yi.
Qiu-Yi managed to get the bags onto the luggage rack atop the bus with the help of fellow passengers while Xinhui waited by the bus door with the boy in one arm and a duffle bag hanging on the other shoulder.
“You take care, okay?” He gently rubbed the boy’s head.
“Yes, and you too!” Xinhui smiled at him. She turned around before entering the bus, and with her free hand, waved at Qiu-Yi.
Qiu-Yi stood at the emptying station and watched Xinhui’s frail frame disappear from behind the closing doors. He suddenly saw the young and slim Xinhui, a girl who loved to dance and dreamed of being a ballerina, swirling across the room holding a pair of new ballet flats, beaming with happiness.
He felt a lump slowly rising in his throat, and tears blurred the sight of the bus fading onto the horizon.
7. The Cherished Land They Called Home
When Ying realized the sharp pain she felt was a contraction, she sent Qiu-Yi to look for the truck drivers in the cotton factory. The closest medical facility with trained staff was more than 30 kilometers away, so they would need to borrow a truck. Qiu-Yi returned almost an hour later. Beads of sweat were rolling off his face, although April in Xinjiang was still chilly.
“There is no truck,” he was panting from the running. “All I managed to borrow was a tractor.”
“A tractor?!” Ying drew a quick breath in. “The one for transporting cotton bundles? It will take forever to reach the hospital!”
“But that’s all we got. Let’s get going!” Qiu-Yi hurried her on. Then he saw the fear and pain in her eyes, “No worries, we will get there. You will be fine.” He was not sure if that was to reassure Ying or himself.
An hour and a half later, they reached the hospital; and more than 5 hours later, their daughter Wei was born. A bundle of joy and relief.
When it was time for the return trip, there was not even a tractor available. This time, an ox cart was all Qiu-Yi could manage to scour.
“We will have to make do with it,” Qiu-Yi said with a soft voice, trying to comfort Ying, who was in tears when she saw the ox cart.
Qiu-Yi helped Ying onto the cart, and handed her the baby bundled in an old but soft cloth. The owner of the ox cart had kindly laid a blanket on top of the straws that layered the wooden cart.
Just before they were ready to leave, Qiu-Yi felt the chill brought on by the dropping temperature. He looked up at the sky. Clouds were gathering. “Wait here,” he told Ying, and headed back to the hospital. A few minutes later he returned with a roll of plastic tarp. “Take this,” he handed it to Ying. “Just in case …”
The ox cart gently creaked and started moving. The three of them set off on the trip back to their dorm.
They were more than halfway when the sky darkened, and the wind was gathering its strength. It confirmed Qiu-Yi’s fear—a storm was coming. He contemplated taking a detour to a nearby village but remembered what he had been warned by the locals—it was bad luck for a family to receive a woman who had just given birth. He stopped the ox and climbed on the cart, pulled out the tarp, and secured it over both the mom and baby, just in time before the rain started to pour down.
It was a heavy rainstorm with droplets so big that they could be mistaken as hail. Ying listened to the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the tarp and nervously checked the blanket over and over just to make sure water had not made its way in.
Luckily, the storm lost its strength after dumping its water load, and it retreated just as quickly as it started.
Qiu-Yi pulled the cover back a bit to check on the baby and mother. Miraculously, they were both dry under the tarp. He breathed out a big sigh of relief and cracked the whip gently on the ox.
The cart wiggled but did not move.
He cracked the whip again, this time with some force. The cart still did not move.
The rain had made the unpaved road into a muddy path, and the wheels of the ox cart were stuck. Qiu-Yi got off the cart and pushed from behind. Still no movement of the cart.
He climbed back onto the cart. “I will have to run home to get some help,” before he could finish, he saw the panic on Ying’s face. “Don’t worry, I will be back as soon as I can. You stay here with the baby, okay? Everything will be fine!”
Ying looked at the baby, and then looked at the sky. In a few more hours dusk would set in. “Okay. But please be quick!” she pleaded with her eyes.
“Yes, I will be quick!” Qiu-Yi gave her hand that was holding the baby a tight squeeze and jumped off the cart. As soon as his feet landed on the ground, he started to run, splashing mud behind him.
Now it was just Ying and the baby. The ox lowered its head sniffing the roadside’s new spring grass, as if enjoying its everyday grazing. Ying tried to calm herself, but her mind was racing with many what-ifs: “What if it starts to rain again? What if Qiu-Yi can’t find anyone? What if it is completely dark when the help is here and they can’t see us? … What if, what if there are wolves?!” This last thought jolted Ying, “Oh Good Heavens! The wolfs!” She clenched the baby tight, “Please my baby! Please don’t cry!” As if the baby understood, she slept quietly.
To Ying, it felt like a lifetime had passed before she heard a faint motor sound from the distance. Qiu-Yi was back with the same cotton transporting tractor, just before the last light of the day faded into the horizon.
Later that night, when Ying and the baby were lying next to him in a sound sleep, Qiu-Yi was wide awake. His eyes searched the one-room dorm in the dark, and he felt a twinge of peace and comfort for the first time in a very, very long time.
“Our Xinjiang a beautiful place, the cherished land we call home.” Nine years after they set foot on that fateful train, Xinjiang had finally become home.
Today’s Shihezi, Xinjiang - a place that was built with the dreams and lives of my uncle and aunt’s generation.
Xinjiang was one of the major cotton-producing bases of China long before it became known as the cotton processing factory of the world.
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It is a huge benefit to document such intimate family history. Personal details get lost in history books, but their relevance does not diminish.
Your work intrigues me because as I grew up in the 60's and 70's, China was such a mystery. Mao's cultural revolution was something we read about but had no context for. It was just words. A theme with no stories. But the stories matter. A real person with a real newborn in an oxcart in a downpour not knowing when help will come - it can seem like fiction. Thank you for making it real.
I hope this isn't too forward, but I've attempted something similar with a book, Our Dinner Table, linked below, about our family. The setting was completely different, rural midwest, and resilience was tested in a different way. It was written for family, but has been surprisingly popular beyond for what I presume are similar reasons. If interested, I would be happy to provide you a complimentary copy.
https://www.amazon.com/Our-Dinner-Table-Memoir-1968-1973
My heart clenched at the storm scene and then got relieved at the end, i can actually feel the pain, despair, struggle, and resilience throughout the story. Well done 👍