The New York Times
China Witness: Voices from a Silent Generationby Xinran
Xinran, acclaimed author of The Good Women of China, traveled across China seeking out the nation’s grandparents and great-grandparents, the men and women who/i>/i>
China Witness is a remarkable work of oral history that lets us see the cultural upheavals of the past century through the eyes of the Chinese who lived through them.
Xinran, acclaimed author of The Good Women of China, traveled across China seeking out the nation’s grandparents and great-grandparents, the men and women who experienced firsthand the tremendous changes of the modern era. Although many of them feared repercussions, they spoke with stunning candor about their hopes, fears, and struggles, and about what they witnessed: from the Long March to land reform, from Mao to marriage, from revolution to Westernization. In the same way that Studs Terkel’s Working and Tom Brokaw’s The Greatest Generation gave us the essence of very particular times, China Witness gives us the essence of modern China—a portrait more intimate, nuanced, and revelatory than any we have had before.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
The New York Times
Beijing-born, London-based writer Xinran, traveling across the expanse of the Chinese Republic over the years, sought out those who had witnessed the rise of communism more than half a century ago. The result is this stirring, startlingly honest account of life under Chairman Mao and the current reformers revamping the socialist state. If the reader wants proof of how resilient and tough the Chinese people are, witness the incredible stories related by Lin Xiangbei, a loyal Communist later branded a counterrevolutionary, or Teacher Sun and her husband, former political prisoners, or Mr. Changzheng, a survivor of the infamous Long March. Xinran (The Good Women of China) does not leave out the average people who were the backbone of the republic, such as an acrobat, an oil explorer, a tea-house news singer, all of whom reveal a rich, multifaceted national history that celebrated individualism as well as collective achievement. Along with a series of love letters from comrades on the political front, the author puts a bow on these candid interviews with a final set of astute observations in an especially noteworthy book. Illus., maps. (Feb.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
"As Xinran crisscrosses the vast country, she proves herself to be a tenacious conduit for gently urging remarkable histories onto the page and even on film, recording the memories and lives of her elderly Chinese witnesses." —The San Francisco Chronicle
“Extraordinary in-depth interviews with a dozen unlikely survivors of the cultural revolution (the Policeman, the Acrobat, the Lantern Maker). This brilliant work of oral history—by a sort of Chinese Studs Terkel—gives a completely riveting glimpse of everyday life behind Mao’s bamboo curtain and subtly reflects on the politics of memory and what may be yet to come.” —The Guardian, Best Books of 2008
“Xinran doesn’t treat her subjects like something from a 1945 newsreel, the dutiful witnesses of history’s march. She pokes them and flatters them; she gets excited by their stories and on occasion cries along with them. . . . We see the red lines that many Chinese still draw for themselves in public discourse, or even privately, the boundaries they dare not cross even today. No other style of storytelling could have exhibited them with more clarity or greater rawness.” —The Times (London)
“Invaluable social history that textbooks don’t reveal.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A stirring, startlingly honest account of life under Chairman Mao and the current reformers revamping the socialist state. . . . Proof of how resilient and tough the Chinese people are. . . . Xinran does not leave out the average people who were the backbone of the republic . . . all of whom reveal a rich, multi-faceted national history that celebrated individualism as well as collective achievement. . . . The author puts a bow on these candid interviews with a final set of astute observations in an especially noteworthy book.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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Read an Excerpt
Yao Popo, or the Medicine Woman of Xingyi
Yao Popo or the Medicine Lady, aged seventy-nine, interviewed in Xingyi, Guizhou province, south-western China. When she was four years old, Yao Popo’s mother was killed and she was given away to a medicinal herb seller. She was married off to a musician, the foster son of the herb seller, and the three of them travelled around China, from the Yangtze River to the Pearl River between the 1930s and 1960s. She says the Cultural Revolution helped her: she made a home and a life from it because hospitals and medical schools closed down, and people came to her instead.
At 2.20 a.m., on 27 July 2006, after twenty-eight hours on aeroplanes, from London to Guilin, via Munich, Beijing and Xi’an, I found myself too exhausted to sleep. The two strong sleeping pills I had taken earlier gave me only three hours of troubled rest, full of dreams of getting on and off planes, checking in, reclaiming baggage, and running round and round an enormous circle, searching for its centre – the witnesses I wanted to interview.
The last part of my dream was linked to what my husband Toby and I talked about on the plane: China’s century-long quest for a new political and moral centre, following the 1911 revolution. Every time I go back to China, I look for the places that have been important to me in the past, but most of them have disappeared – everything is different. Sometimes, I find it hard to distinguish between my memories and my dreams. If the past is already this blurred for me in middle age, how do older people manage? Do their memories cease to become real? If so, does this cause them pain? Do the stories they hear from other people of their generation also start to seem unreal? How can they convince their uncomprehending or doubting children that stories and events that have left no physical historical trace really took place?
Returning to Guilin in the south – famous for its lush greenness and eerily beautiful limestone formations – for the first time in ten years, my heart grew heavy. As we continued our journey and the moment for approaching my interviewees drew closer, I felt underprepared, hesitant, overwhelmed by the speed at which China was changing. Everywhere I had been a decade ago seemed no longer there. I had nothing with which to orient my memories.
When I moved to Britain in 1997, I was very proud of the speed at which China, and its cities in particular, were changing. But after I saw how careful Europe was to preserve the traces of its past, I began to be troubled by the unseemly haste with which my country was destroying the old to bring in the new. I saw now that this millennia- old empire of ours was being rebuilt by mindless modernisers who took their cultural bearings from McDonald’s. In the two decades that Mao had been dead, modernisation had taken a heavy toll on every Chinese city, with arrogant local planners still gleefully bent on continuing this irresponsible destruction of the ancient past.
Xingyi, the capital of the Buyi Minority and Miao Minority autonomous region in the province of Guizhou (south China), is a typical example of a city being transformed by post-Mao modernisation. “Situated at the intersection of three provinces,” the local government guidebook informed me, “Xingyi has historically been a key communications, and collecting and distributing centre in the region. Surrounded by undulating hills and intersecting rivers, the area is notable for its limestone formations. With its beautiful countryside and temperate climate, Xingyi – the home of many illustrious historical figures – has much undeveloped potential as a tourist destination.”
Arriving in Xingyi, on our way from Guilin to Chengdu, felt like stepping into a time warp. Everything in the city reminded me of early 1980s Beijing and Shanghai: the streets, the clothes, the shops, and especially the municipal government guest house that we stayed in, with its shabby decor, malfunctioning room fittings and leaky bathrooms, its clueless receptionists, chambermaids who never changed your towels, and waiters and waitresses who ignored diners in the main restaurant to minister to raucous private rooms of local officials, its ceaseless din of karaoke and its noticeboards passing off romanised Chinese as English.
What really took me back twenty years was the yard full of high-priced cars and the self-important officials getting out of them. The only way to ensure the attention of the staff in a guest house like this is to impress upon them, the moment you swagger inside, just how important you are. Otherwise, your laundry will disappear, your breakfast token be misplaced, and your personal belongings get “tidied away”, never to be found again. Sometimes your room – for which you have already paid – will even be taken away for an official meeting, while your dinner will fail to materialise, because the cooks have knocked off after producing yet another banquet for government bigwigs.
In the two nights and three days that we spent in the city, Toby and I got the full Xingyi experience, with cockroaches, bedbugs and a violent midnight encounter with a roaring drunk, karaoke-singing cadre thrown in as special bonuses.
But, as Nietzsche once said, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. My original intention had been to start my interviews in Chengdu, in Sichuan province, western China, but while attending the wedding of the friend who translated my first book, The Good Women of China, I happened to encounter my first storyteller: the Medicine Woman of Xingyi.
Early one morning, Toby and I – just as we always do in China – were wandering about the streets, people-watching. A couple of hours before
9 a.m., the streets of Xingyi were already bustling with commercial activity: with peddlers and stalls run by local farmers and fishermen, selling various exotic local delicacies, including the mountain mushrooms for which the area is famous. We stepped into a dark, narrow lane running parallel to the main market street, and back through history: past the kind of dilapidated houses and shopfronts I associate with films depicting the “old” (pre-1949) society. What immediately struck me was that most of the shopkeepers and stallholders were women: in addition to those mending shoes, carving chopsticks, selling haberdashery, making burial clothes and paper funeral money, a great number were selling local speciality foods and herbal medicine.
My attention was caught, from some distance, by an old woman whose face shone with a particular, resolute intelligence. She was sitting in an open-front shop talking to a customer. Various kinds of dried herbal medicines were displayed around her: some hanging in bags, some on shelves, tied in bundles; others heaped on the ground at her feet.
I pointed her out to Toby. “She’s the only one on this lane who doesn’t look worn-down, demoralised by life. I wonder why she seems so different from everyone else round here.”
“Go and talk to her, I’ll wait. We’re not in a hurry.” Toby knows that I love these opportunities to chat casually with Chinese women – spontaneous encounters can yield unexpected information.
I waited until the old lady had finished with her customer, then walked over and started up a conversation. “Hello. Are these herbs all grown round here?”
“They are,” Yao Popo (Chinese for Medicine Woman) replied in a Hunan accent, without even looking up from the bunch of herbs she was binding.
“What about these? Where are these from?” I asked again, trying to get her to open up.
She finally looked up at me. “I don’t pick them myself. Local farmers bring me my stock.”
I climbed one of the two low steps in front of her shop. “You must be famous round here, then.”
“I’m just an ordinary old woman,” she smiled. “I’ve been here a long time, that’s all.”
“So when did you start selling medicine?”
“Oh, years ago. Was there anything particular you were looking for?” Yao Popo eyed Toby, standing a little way back from the shop. A foreigner would be a rare sight in provincial Xingyi. “Who’s that?”
“My husband,” I quickly explained.
The Medicine Woman squinted. “He’s tall. And handsome. My daughter married a foreigner too, a Taiwanese.” A lot of people in rural China think that anyone from outside the mainland counts as a foreigner – even if they are ethnic Chinese. “He treats her well, but he’s not much to look at.”
It was my turn to smile. “Are a man’s looks so very important?”
“Of course!” she frowned. “Or you’ll have ugly children.”
I smiled because I knew how to get her to talk to me now. “How many children do you have?”
She was delighted to be asked. “Two sons and five daughters, a dozen grandchildren and four great-grandchildren!”
Yet again, I was reminded of how much importance Chinese women attach to having children. “Goodness me. Lucky you.”
“How about you?” Yao Popo asked me, suddenly looking worried on my behalf.
I felt touched by her concern. “Just the one son. He’s eighteen.”
“Only one?” Yao Popo was unable to conceal her sense of regret. “At least you had a boy, I suppose. Back then, when I was young, we were told to have lots. If you didn’t, everyone said you were a bad woman.”
In the 1950s, ignoring the warnings of demographers and economists, Mao Zedong encouraged women to have as many children as they could, telling them it was a heroic thing to do. He thought that its enormous population would turn China into a global superpower.
I next asked a question to which I already knew the answer. “You’re a woman – do you really think sons are better than daughters?”
She stared uncomprehendingly at me. “It’s because we’re women that we need to have sons, to protect us. Before 1949, women who didn’t manage to have sons really suffered. Girls were always abandoned before boys. I almost starved to death myself. I wouldn’t be here today, if my father hadn’t taken pity on me.”
I climbed the second step. “I’d like to hear about your life.”
She batted a hand at me dismissively. “What’s there to hear? No one takes notice of what us old people have to say, not even my children. What good would it do you if I told you? Don’t waste your time, or your husband’s. Off you go, he’s waiting for you.”
Glancing around to check there were no other customers about, I sat down on a small stool next to her. “I’m not going until you’ve told me about yourself!”
She looked at me, surprised. “Do you really mean it?” she said, more
I nodded. “I want to be able to tell my son about people like you. He moved to England six years ago, when he was only twelve. He has no idea about ordinary Chinese people’s lives. Whenever I come back to China, I ask people I meet whether they know about their mothers’ lives. Most of them don’t know their mothers’ or their grandmothers’ stories. I want to write them down, for later generations to read. I don’t want everything your generation suffered to be forgotten. If our children don’t know how their grandparents suffered, they won’t know how lucky they are. Tell me why you seem so different from everyone else on this street, why you look so happy and calm.”
She shook her head. “I’ve suffered much more than anyone else round here.”
She told me she had been born seventy-nine years ago in Hunan. As her mother had died when she was four and the family was very poor, her father gave her and five of her brothers and sisters away to other people. She went to a travelling medicinal herb seller, to whom she was later apprenticed, and who also had a foster son, five years older than her, who could play the huqin, a kind of two-stringed Chinese violin. Because she was quick-witted, a fast learner, her adopted family took a liking to her. At the time, itinerant physicians used music and acrobatics to attract custom to their roadside stalls, and she quickly mastered various gymnastic tricks for the purpose – such as handstands, headstands, spinning jars on the soles of her feet. At the same time, the medicine man began passing on to his children some of his knowledge about herbal prescriptions. At the start of the 1940s, with the country torn apart by war, he decided to move the family over the mountains from Hunan to Yunnan, to escape the fighting. As they were too poor to travel by train, they walked and begged lifts wherever they could, on carts, railway repair wagons, and so on. Worried that, as an unmarried girl, his adopted daughter might be abused by passing soldiers, the father quickly married off his two children. After wandering about the mountains of Guizhou for a few years from 1946, in 1950 they arrived in Xingyi, which at that time had just been liberated by the Communists. The municipal government persuaded them to settle there, and helped them to open a Chinese medicine clinic for the local population, which had almost no access to medical treatment. Barely twenty years old at the time, the Medicine Woman looked after her growing family and sold prescriptions from home, while her father went out on
domiciliary visits and her husband ran the clinic.
“Life was hard in those years,” Yao Popo remembered, “with seven young children. Every day I worried about what we’d eat the next. Luckily, everyone listened to what Chairman Mao said, about it being good to have lots of children, and the government and the neighbours helped out when things got difficult. It’s not like now, when no one trusts anyone else, no one helps anyone. Back then, officials never took advantage of you. Or ever forced us to pass any medical certificate.” At the same time, she was gaining a reputation for her medical skills; some people even thought her prescriptions better than her husband’s.
“You probably don’t believe me, but I can tell what’s wrong with a person from the look in his eyes, or the colour of his face – even from the smell of his farts or burps. I’m best at curing headaches, stomach aches and joint aches.”
The idea was extraordinary: that she could see straight into you, like an X-ray machine. The fierce certainty on her face made me believe her though.
I very much wanted to know why she thought life back then was so different from China today. “What happened afterwards?” I asked instead.
“When? The sixties and seventies? I made a lot of money!” Yao Popo’s eyes glinted mischievously.
“You made money during the Cultural Revolution?” I thought I must have misheard. For so long, I had heard nothing but anger, grief and loss in recollections of this period. I had encountered so many victims that I sometimes wondered where all the perpetrators of this misery – the millions of violent, even murderous Red Guards – could have disappeared off to.
From the Hardcover edition.
Meet the Author
Xinran was born in Beijing in 1958 and moved to London in 1997 to write for The Guardian. She is author of The Good Women of China, a seminal book about the lives of Chinese women, and Sky Burial. Her charity, The Mothers’ Bridge of Love, was founded to help disadvantaged Chinese children and to build a bridge of understanding between the West and China.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Xinran is a gentle, non-pushy reporter, but her politeness gets the old folks to open up more than they would for their families. She is trying to record what the revolutionary generation really thinks, and what they are proud of. Mostly they are poor people, who've faced enormous hardships and abuses, while making more or less heroic sacrifices for others. My favorite is the shoe repair woman who put both her daughter and son through top ranked universities, after being barred from university herself by inherited guilt due to bogus records concerning her class background. These people are China's version of the wartime "greatest generation." Mostly they are, as Xinran says, "silent." They feel their sacrifices and involvements in mistakes of the past have rendered them irrelevant to their grandchildren. But they are the foundation of modern China, and Xinran wants to thank them. --author of A Galaxy of Immortal Women: The Yin Side of Chinese Civilization
Xinran honors several generations of silenced souls who lived through troubled times. She gets these witnesses to open up and share their observations. I wish I knew more about twentieth century Chinese history and geography. I'm embarassed at how shallow my education has been in this regard. I am grateful to Xinran for allowing me some small insight into the lives of my contemporaries in China.