by Liao Yiwu
On the afternoon of January 28, 1998, a couple from France, descendants of George and Fanny Clarke, were met in Dali by Wu Yongsheng. The couple had been inspired after reading Alvyn Austin’s history of the China Inland Mission, China’s Millions, and wanted to visit where their great-grandparents were buried.
That story reminds me of lines from a poem by Paul Valery, “The Graveyard by the Sea”:
But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble,
Under the roots of trees a shadow people
Has slowly now come over to your side.
The poet returns in his imagination to the cemetery of Sète, his hometown on the Mediterranean. He is sitting on a tombstone at noon, staring out on a calm sea, contemplating life and death. But things are rarely as we imagine them to be, and though the French couple may have been expecting a slice of China’s natural beauty, the scene they came across in 1998 was much the same as the one I encountered a decade later. No cemetery, no garden, just an empty, albeit rocky, field plowed for planting. Wu told me the villagers gathered around the French visitors and attempted to recount what had happened to the graves. One said that during the Cultural Revolution the Red Guards often used the cemetery as a target in their fight against foreign imperialists, waving red flags, shouting slogans, and singing revolutionary songs. They ransacked the cemetery, again and again, claiming that they would wipe out the ancestral graves of imperialists. Another villager recalled that the Red Guards had used explosives on the gravestones and blown them into pieces. Another said destruction of the cemetery started way back in the 1950s; with each political campaign, the cemetery became a target of hatred toward foreign imperialists. That didn’t take into account local pillaging; headstones and markers were recycled as pigsties, courtyard walls, and the footings for numerous houses. Even before the Cultural Revolution started, half of the graves had been leveled. The missionaries’ cemetery was one more desecration in the name of Communism that trashed China’s treasure troves of history.
The French couple didn’t find the grave of Fanny Clarke. But they had to have been heartened that she survived in the stories the local villagers told from one generation to the next. I’m moved to quote Paul Valery again:
The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live!
The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave
Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking
Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages!
Wu says the couple picked wildflowers and wove them into a wreath, which they placed in the middle of the cornfield. They had with them a small accordion, and the woman began to sing a song she said was Fanny Clarke’s favorite. When Wu told me about the song, I recognized it right away. It was from an 1805 poem by Thomas Moore that has remained popular with singers and composers and even Hollywood:
’Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh.
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.
Here I was at the same place eleven years later. It was approaching dusk. The song was in my head, and I swayed to the rhythm of an unseen accordion. “It’s time to go,” Ze said. We retraced our steps, back aboard buses, back through cannabis bushes, back to the highway. I could see the steeple of a church, and a new crescent moon had risen with the stars. I could hear hymn singing off in the distance.
Chapter 2
The Old Nun
Zhang Yinxian was fast for someone who was more than a hundred years old, and as I caught up with her in the churchyard in the old section of Dali, it occurred to me that she looked every bit like a piece of fresh ginseng, slightly crooked but full of life and energy. She ignored me as I followed her around, trying to ingratiate myself, and finally declared in words I found hard to understand that she was too busy to talk. “She’s quite a celebrity around here,” said the friend who had invited me and two other writers in August 2008 to Weibo Mountain to visit the old Roman Catholic church on Renmin Avenue, where an old school chum of his was a priest.
Sister Zhang stuck in my mind, and a week later I tracked her down again at the church, but it was soon apparent that her heavy Yunnan accent and partial deafness was going to make any meaningful conversation impossible. My shouting and gesturing drew the attention of some other nuns, the youngest I guessed to be in her seventies, and she began to interrogate me: Where are you from? What do you want? Are you a parishioner? Are you a Christian? I told her I was a writer and wanted to interview Sister Zhang. “Do you mean you are a journalist or something?” she asked and told me I would have to leave and get a letter of approval from the local Religious Affairs Office. Chastened, I left.
I visited Dali again the following year and, having learned my lesson, took a more cautious approach, spending a couple of days gathering more information about the church and Sister Zhang. I also enlisted the help of my friend Kun Peng, who was a Christian and well versed in theology. Kun had a contact, Sister Tao, who was in her midthirties and had bright eyes that beamed kindness. She took care of Sister Zhang and said she would try to arrange my interview and act as interpreter.
Kun and I returned the following Sunday after morning Mass and were directed to a conference room, where, after about an hour, Sister Tao appeared with Sister Zhang, serving as a fluent and necessary interpreter; I found it hard to understand Sister Zhang. “Sister Zhang has lost all her teeth,” Sister Tao said. “She is quick tempered and has a loud voice. For people from out of town, it does sound like she is yelling in a foreign language.”
Throughout the interview, Sister Tao sat close to her charge, a little behind and to her right. Sister Zhang was deaf in her left ear and the vision in her left eye was impaired, but it soon became clear she possessed an amazing memory, and on topics about which she had particularly strong opinions, she would stand and stomp her feet, reminding me a little of Shakespeare’s King Lear railing against the elements. Sister Zhang was mad, yes, but not from any madness.
Our conversation was fast paced, but when I suggested we take a break to let Sister Zhang rest, Sister Tao said it was unnecessary. “She’s much tougher than you think. Sister Zhang cooks her own meals and has a very healthy appetite.” At one point, when we were talking about her state of health, Sister Zhang went over to a large heavy flowerpot and moved it across the room. We all laughed and I noticed that Sister Zhang’s laugh was like that of a child, flowing freely, and the wrinkles on her face almost vanished.
Sister Zhang showed me three crosses that she carried with her, one she’d had for some sixty years. We spoke for two hours, at which point Sister Tao suggested we wind things up because it was time for lunch. Sister Zhang did not want to leave. When we tried to lift her out of the chair, she brushed us off and continued talking, repeatedly sweeping her hands through the air. I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say and turned to Sister Tao for help. “She is still pouting about the fact that a large plot of the land that had belonged to the church was seized by the government during the Cultural Revolution,” Sister Tao said. “She wants it back. She wants to witness the return of the land before she leaves this world.” One of those old sayings came to mind: “People with a quick temper have a short life.” I thought Sister Zhang was clearly an exception.
Liao Yiwu: I’ve been looking forward to talking with you for quite some time.
Zhang Yinxian: I’m here in the church every day, praying, cooking, exercising, gardening, loosening up the dirt for ants and worms. If I’m not around, it means I’m out buying vegetables at the market.
Liao: When were you born?
Zhang: I was born on August 3, 1908 in Qujingcheng, Yunnan province. I don’t even remember what my parents looked like. They died when I was only three. I was an orphan. I had a brother. He was taken away by a local warlord. I think he died on a battlefield. I was sent by a
n uncle to Kunming to serve the Lord.
Liao: Your uncle?
Zhang: He was a priest. In the Qing dynasty, under Emperor Tongzhi [1856–75], Catholic missionaries came to Yunnan from Vietnam. When I was growing up, there were many foreign missionaries, from France in particular. I was taught to read and write. I learned the Bible, attended Mass, and said prayers. Sometimes, I would do odd jobs. Around that time, people suffered terribly. The small monastery sheltered me from the chaos outside.
When I turned thirteen, I followed my aunt to Dali. Back then, the city’s old section had several churches. Then more Catholic missionaries arrived. They represented many different religious orders—Jesuits, Paulists, Franciscans, and so on. Our diocese expanded fast, into the Lijiang, Baoshan, Diqing, Lincang, Dehong, and Xishuangbanna regions. At its peak, we had more than eighty thousand parishioners from all ethnic groups—Han, Bai, Tibetan, Yi, Dai, Jingpo. Did I leave anybody out? Anyway, to accommodate the growth, the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart bought a large swath of land in the 1920s. They put a French bishop in charge. His Chinese name was Ye Meizhang. Under his leadership, the organization built a monastery, an orphanage, and this church here.
At that time, we had about four hundred people living inside the church, and on Sundays, local residents flooded in for Mass from all over. The church couldn’t hold that many people. Some ended up standing or kneeling outside in the yard. Children came with their parents. When they became bored, they would climb up the trees.
Since I joined the church at an early age, I knew all the hymns, and when the priest quoted a Bible passage, I could immediately tell you chapter and verse, and I knew all the stories associated with that reference. People always complimented me, saying how smart I was, but my aunt would give me a stern look and say, “Hey, don’t be such a show-off.”
Liao: I grew up in the 1960s. My generation was told that religion was the tool employed by the imperialists to enslave people and that the nuns conducted medical experiments on children in foreign orphanages.
Zhang: Lies, lies. At public denunciation meetings during the Cultural Revolution, we were accused of murdering orphans. They said the priests were vampires.
In times of famine or war, poor people would abandon their children on the roadside. Some would pick a nice moonlit night, cover the baby with layers of clothes, and leave it at the church entrance. When the nuns found the baby, they would take the child in, no matter whether the baby was healthy or ill. Some parents were quite shrewd. They would leave their child with us and come back after the hard time was over. But the majority of the children here were never reclaimed. Back then, people were poor, and it was common for one family to have many children. Parents treated their babies like little animals. If they were strong and survived, they would keep them. If the babies were sick, parents would abandon them to strangers or just leave them to die.
I have seen many such cases, especially baby girls. They were abandoned by the side of the mountain path or on the beach. Lucky ones were picked up by passersby, but many became the victims of wild animals, like dogs. For baby boys, if they were born with deformities or illness, they were subject to the same fate as girls. When nuns saw an abandoned baby outside, they would bring her to the priest or bishop who knew Western medicine. If the baby had been left out for a short time, there was hope. Those who had been left outside for a long time, their arms or legs would have been ripped apart by wild animals. The chances for survival were quite small. When a baby died, we would say prayers and then bury him or her in the Catholic cemetery. It’s on the south side of Wuliqiao Village, the one that has been destroyed.
Liao: I visited the cemetery. It’s a cornfield now.
Zhang: Actually, there used to be two cemeteries there, one for the Catholics and the other for Protestants. The two were located next to each other. Both have been destroyed now. We can’t even get the land back from the government. Many local Catholics were buried down there. So were the abandoned children we weren’t able to save. Those poor babies! We would hold a simple ceremony and give them a proper burial. In the cemeteries, we set up grave markers for everyone, whether you were a bishop, a priest, a nun, a monk, a parishioner, or an abandoned baby. On their tombstones, you would find inscriptions of their names, dates of birth and death, that sort of thing.
Liao: How would you find out the names of those abandoned babies?
Zhang: If it wasn’t with the baby, the nun who found it would come up with a name, be it Chinese or French. Then we would list when and where we found her.
By the 1940s, our church had adopted more than two hundred orphans. The majority of nuns became full-time nannies. Those who had medical training turned themselves into pediatricians. My job was to work in the kitchen, heating up milk, cooking rice congee. Sometimes, we would have four or five abandoned babies brought in on one day. They were so hungry. I think a couple of the former orphans still live around here. They’d be in their seventies or eighties now. But despite the changing political environment, they still won’t admit their relations with the church.
Liao: Why is that?
Zhang: They renounced the church during the Cultural Revolution, afraid they would be accused of colluding with foreign imperialists. Even now, despite the situation having made a turn for the better over the past decade, they are probably still afraid of being persecuted.
Looking back on the first half of my life, I was truly happy. Every day, the church would be hustle-bustling with people. In the fall, when the breezes blew the leaves off the trees—dear God—the ground was covered with a layer of gold. During prayers or Mass, the church was packed with parishioners, but at other times this whole yard was quiet, a place of happy tranquility. In the old days, our church was big, and I was so busy every day that my back hurt all the time. My favorite job was to clean the inside of the church, dusting the altar, the pews, and the statues. We had over a dozen priests from France, Switzerland, and Belgium. If I did something wrong, they would tease me by saying: “As punishment, you need to sing three hymns—solo.” They would join me, and we would have a hymn-singing contest.
Liao: What about the second half of your life?
Zhang: In August 1949, on the eve of the Communist takeover, a Swedish priest, Father Maurice Toruay—I can’t believe I still remember his name—traveled to the Cizhong region [near Tibet] to preach the gospel. He was shot and killed. The news hit us hard. It was like hearing the sinister caws of dark ravens. We could sense the danger lurking ahead of us. We all knelt and prayed for protection in the new era. During a special Mass, we braced ourselves for the suffering we knew would come. We were ready to follow the steps of Father Toruay and sacrifice our lives if necessary to glorify the work of the Lord. We knew the road ahead wasn’t going to be easy, but we were prepared.
Soon, the Communist troops moved into the city. People waved red flags and beat drums and gongs to welcome the soldiers. The whole country turned “red.” The mountains and the Erhai Lake turned “red.” Even the church was decorated with red flags and Chairman Mao’s portraits. Foreign missionaries were segregated in a row of small rooms with curtains drawn. The soldiers guarded their doors, and nobody was allowed to get close to them.
Liao: What year was that?
Zhang: It was in 1952. By February that year, all the foreigners had gone.
Liao: Did you hold a last Mass or something to see them off?
Zhang: No. The chapel was sealed and no one was allowed to enter. After the foreigners left, everyone at the church had to go through a political review process. Both laity and clergy were scared and quit in droves. They answered the government’s call and went home to farm. Some openly renounced the church. They said, “I will listen to the words of Chairman Mao and cut off all my ties with the Catholic Church which enslaves people.” The government targeted church assets all over China. Foreign bishops were forced to hand everything over to the new government, to sign documents prepared in advance. They said church property ha
d been obtained through the exploitation of the masses. Just like that, all the assets were seized.
I can never forget 1952, the year when the church was left empty. It used to be so glorious. Overnight, everything was gone. Rats took over the place. We used to have four hundred people working at the church. Only three were left—me, my aunt, and Bishop Liu Hanchen. We were ordered out. Bishop Liu argued and refused to leave. “The church is our home and we don’t have anywhere to go.”
Initially, they allowed us to stay. At the end of the year members of the local militia came with guns and took us to a village at the foot of Cangshan Mountain. Local officials held a public meeting, announcing that we would be put under the supervision of villagers there. They ordered us to engage in physical labor and reform our thinking. They built an elementary school and a high school on the land they had taken from the church and converted the monastery into housing for government officials.
Liao: So, you became a farmer.
Zhang: A low-class citizen trampled on by the masses.
Liao: For how many years?
Zhang: From 1952 to 1983. That’s thirty-one years, isn’t it?
Liao: How did you manage to survive?
Zhang: We grew our own crops and vegetables to support ourselves. When we left the church, we weren’t allowed to bring anything with us. We walked all the way to the village, and before we even had a drink of water, the local leaders dragged us to a public denunciation meeting. They paraded us around in the village, along with some Buddhist monks and nuns, Taoist priests, and several leaders of the local Protestant churches. We were ordered to stand in three rows in front of a stage. We faced hundreds of villagers with raised fists shouting revolutionary slogans. Some spat at us. Such hatred. As the leader worked up the crowd, a peasant activist came up and slapped Bishop Liu on the face. My aunt stepped forward. “How dare you slap him.” The activist used to be a poor farmer, and when the Communists confiscated the property of landowners, he was one of the beneficiaries. He pointed at my aunt and yelled back, “You are a counterrevolutionary and we have defeated you. You are the lackey of the imperialists who exploited us.” My aunt said, “We are not. We came from poor families and we’ve never exploited anybody.” The activist shouted again, “You are still stubborn and won’t admit your defeat. You need to be punished.” Fists were raised and the crowd began chanting, “Down with the counterrevolutionary nun!” My aunt wouldn’t back down. She said to her abuser, “Slap me if you want. If you slap me on the left side of my face, I will give you the right side too.”