by You Jin
During this time, I lost all interest in writing. But this was still not the worst of it.
Once, when James went on a business trip to another city, Nini and I were alone in the house. After dinner, a sandstorm suddenly struck without warning, and Nini started wheezing. I gave him his medicine, using the inhaler to help him breathe, but no matter what I did, he did not get any better. Outside the house, wave after wave of sand crashed against the windows, banging heavily against the door like a wild beast. Inside the house, I had no phone to call the outside world. There was no one there to help me, and certainly no friend I could reach out to. Faced with my suffering child, I started to panic, and I cried uncontrollably, lips trembling and heart convulsing. Even now, when I think back on that moment, I feel miserable.
After the sandstorm, as Nini’s condition worsened rapidly, I took him to the hospital three times a week for injections and to renew his prescription, but there was no improvement. Gradually, he was unable to swallow solid food, and he slept with his mouth open so he could breathe. His scrawny little body suffered so much that he was reduced to a weak skeleton. When the doctor decided to keep him overnight in the hospital for observation, I immediately made the decision to fly back to Singapore and seek treatment there.
That afternoon, I booked our tickets. The next morning, we boarded the plane for Singapore. As the plane ascended, Nini could not stand the change in air pressure. At first, he opened his mouth to breathe, and then gradually, the sounds of his breathing turned to low moaning, then his nose and tears started running. Before long, he was wailing. My heart turned to a thin paper, torn apart little by little by his wretched crying. I patted his back and chest, but it did nothing to ease his suffering. As his distress intensified, when I was really at a loss, someone walked over to me and said, “My wife wants to pray for your child. Will you bring him over?”
At a glance, that poised, elegant woman looked familiar, though I could not think where I might have seen her before. At the moment, she was nodding at me with a beautiful smile.
As Nini screamed bloody murder, I did not spend too much time thinking, but just carried him over to the woman. She put him on the seat and took off his shirt, then put her hands on his chest. She closed her eyes and started praying fervently. It sounds strange to say this, but that inconsolable child slowly quieted down, his cries slowly fading into silence. She pulled out a bottle of medicated oil and started applying it to Nini’s chest, then gently picked him up and handed him to me. I was inexpressibly thankful as I took Nini back into my embrace, where he slept peacefully and quietly.
After we got back to Singapore, I rushed Nini to the children’s hospital, where he underwent numerous tests. Results showed that his bronchial tubes were filled with horrible pus. He needed to be admitted immediately and undergo an operation to withdraw the fluid.
The surgery went smoothly. The next day, the sun shone through the window onto Nini’s thin, sickly face. He was finally sleeping deeply, his expression peaceful. As I sat beside the bed looking at that morning’s newspaper, I flipped to the section on Malaysian news. An item there caught my eye, sending a chill over my whole body. According to the news, the wife of former Indonesian president Sukarno had flown to the holy city of Mecca for pilgrimage. On the way back home to Indonesia, she stopped in the Malaysian capital, Kuala Lumpur, and had died there of a heart attack. Looking at the picture of the woman, I remembered the person who had prayed for Nini on the plane. I immediately recognised the face. Tears filled my eyes, then quietly streamed down my cheeks.
After Nini stayed in the hospital for several days, he was finally discharged. During this time, I felt sick, dizzy, nauseated and had no appetite. That morning, I had vomited and suddenly, a thought came to my mind.
I went to see my gynaecologist. She confirmed my suspicion. Full of smiles, she said, “Congratulations!”
This announcement should have been a happy occasion, but at that moment, my face must have been filled with fear. My mind was like a frog jumping uncontrollably in a frying pan. I looked at the doctor, my face pale, and told her I had been taking sleeping pills and sedatives every day for the past month.
The doctor asked about the medications I had taken. Her face grew sombre as we spoke, and she finally exhaled and said, “I’m sorry, but you can’t keep this baby. The medicines you have been taking will have had many side-effects for the foetus.”
This comment cut me to the core. The words burned through my chest. Even now when I think of that moment, my heart aches with an inconsolable sorrow.
The doctor gently patted the back of my hand and said, “I understand how you feel, but pain in the short term is better than a lifetime of suffering.”
James hurried back from Saudi Arabia, and the night after I had my abortion, he took me to New Zealand, hoping the beautiful scenery of a foreign country could heal my broken heart. Many years later, I wrote a short essay entitled “Chisel”, expressing my feelings during that period:
There is a glacier in New Zealand, surprisingly large and indescribably ancient. It glows weakly with a light blue hue. I am squatting on the glacier like a tiny ant. It is the end of winter, and the beginning of spring; every inch of the air is a dagger, pricking me from all sides with its sharp point. As I squat, thinking, tears start to flow, and I cannot stop them.
That year, when I was thirty, I encountered many difficulties that I thought were unbearable. My heart was numbed by the pain, so on this desolate, frigid glacier, this cold and unfeeling place, I wept my heart out. My husband stood quietly on another part of the glacier. He let me cry to my heart’s content. His tall shadow fell on the glacier, like a long chisel. A chisel! I had read a short story about one before, and now it came to my mind. A man, judged guilty of some crime, was sentenced to two years in prison. When he was released, he could not shake off the shadow of his wrongdoings; he felt depressed and lost. One day, his wife suddenly said, “Your punishment is actually life imprisonment because you’re not able to walk out of the dark cell you created yourself.”
Was I not the same? I was letting this glacier freeze inside me, hardening, and if I did not use the rational chisel to break through it, it would freeze inside me and stay with me for the rest of my days.
That day, when we left the glacier, I lingered at the lake, where the waters flowed in a quiet, gentle stream like a moving sonnet. In that instant, I was enlightened. Glaciers and lakes are both scenic stops in one’s life. Whether you like it or not, you cannot escape or avoid them. You can enter the beauty of Jiangnan’s springtime, but you cannot stay there forever. So, at this time of inconsolable sorrow, I am picking up my chisel, and slowly chipping away at the glacier.
Still nursing a broken heart, I returned to Saudi Arabia. When we had been there several days, Nini had another asthma attack. Seeing his breathing so laboured, we knew that the climate in Saudi Arabia just did not suit him. For the sake of his health, James and I decided that I would bring Nini back to Singapore, while he stayed behind. And so I waved goodbye to this barren desert, where I had lived amid tears and laughter. Though I did not yet know it, the time I spent in the desert would become a stepping stone for my career to take off overseas.
Debut of Travel Journal
Not long after I returned to Singapore, the owner of Youlian Bookstore, Mr Zhou Liliang, met me, saying he would like to publish a series of travel pieces from my time in the desert. I gathered thirty fictionalised pieces I had written about Saudi Arabia and arranged them into a book. I named it A Little White House in the Desert 1, and Mr Zhou published it with the Singapore Press Pte Ltd in 1981.
After it was published, it was a big hit, going through three more print runs. When the third edition came out, Mr Zhou wrote a short introduction entitled “In Our Words”. He wrote:
A good book does not lack readers. The need for a third edition of A Little White House in the Desert is iron-clad proof of this. I’m very honoured to publish this book. You Jin employs her calm,
rational attitude to observe and understand, her sharp, intricate insight to explore and experience. Then, with her emotionally charged pen and in her natural, flowing language, she wrote this series of travel articles with Saudi Arabia as a backdrop, offering fresh, engaging tales for the reader.
Several well-known authors wrote reviews of the book, including the famous Taiwanese writer Zhao Shuxia, now living in Switzerland. Here is a short excerpt from her review, which gives a feel for some special features of this book. She wrote:
A Little White House in the Desert is You Jin’s memoir of the year she spent living in Saudi Arabia. This collection of short essays is written in a literary form hovering between travel narratives and short fiction, embodying a news reporter’s sharp insight and a fiction writer’s exquisite wordcraft. It is a very intriguing book. The scenery of the desert’s vast yellow dust, rolling winds, and sunset on the plains is of course an intriguing aspect of the book, but without the author’s insight or intricate brushwork, the reader would not be able to obtain as much delight and novelty, or feel all the wonders of life in the desert.
She also wrote:
Described by different people, the exact same scenery and place, present different feelings. A Little White House in the Desert draws the reader in through the power of the author’s deep insight and lively writing, and her love for novel things and people. If the author did not exude such warmth and empathy, we might only read about how hard, dull and lonely life in the desert was. You Jin’s pen opens up the vast reaches of the hot desert, turning it into a lush, beautiful landscape at which the reader can marvel. In this way, we are invited to see not only the wonders of the desert, but are also offered a rich look into the celebration of a Saudi wedding, the inner world of an Arabic girl, and the daily lives of various local people.
And finally:
It is not easy to write a travel narrative. If it is too detailed or serious, it becomes a journalistic account tasting like chewing wax. If it is too broad or exaggerated, it becomes unctuous, giving one the impression of a travel brochure. A Little White House in the Desert is neither a journal account nor unctuous, but it is appropriately solemn and humorous, bold and uninhibited in its detail, extraordinary in its realism and elegant in its simplicity, truly an extraordinary piece of writing. You Jin’s essays are imprinted with her unique style, her warmth and humility, her earnestness and honesty. All of this shines through, drawing the reader in close to her intimate tales.
The Taiwanese edition of A Little White House in the Desert was published in 1988 by the Taiwan Xidai Press. In 1991, the Mainland Chinese edition was published by the Zhejiang Arts Publishing House. Both editions have been in print ever since.
You could say that it was A Little White House in the Desert that established my reputation overseas. After this, my books were constantly published by overseas presses, which would not have been possible without the success of this little collection of travel narratives.
Many scholars who have written reviews of this book comment that I have very strong control of words. I personally do not see it this way. I don’t deliberately control words. My relationship with words is more like that between the famous horse tamer in ancient times, Bo Le, and a fine steed. I am the rider, and words the horse. The steed was able to realise its potential and show itself to be majestic because of Bo Le’s admiration. Bo Le, because of the steed’s dignity and self-respect, revered and loved it even more. In this way, the two had a dynamic relationship, bringing out the best in both horse and rider.
1. This collection was later translated by Jeremy Tiang into English, and published in April 2015 by Epigram Books as Death by Perfume.
CHAPTER 10
Like a Willing Ox,
I Serve the Children
Taking up the Teacher’s Lash
WHEN I RETURNED to Singapore from Saudi Arabia, I re-entered the hectic world of journalism and found myself at a crossroads. I was a wife and mother, but the busy, uncertain hours of a news reporter’s life made me feel I could not take care of my family responsibilities. I was like a fish caught in the bear’s maw, unable to escape, or even move. I was faced with a very difficult life decision.
I did not wish to be a full-time housewife, locked away behind four walls again, passing long dreary days amidst the cries of my children and the smell of cooking oil in the kitchen. Which meant I would have to take up a more stable career. This job had to be one I loved, because I had always believed that if one liked her job, she would respect it, and if she respected it, she could produce her best work.
So after careful consideration, I decided to go into education. From 1981 to 1982, I did a one-year programme at NIE, then joined Hua Yi Secondary School as a Chinese-language teacher.
At the time, the principal of Hua Yi was a writer named Wong Sun Fai, who wrote under the pseudonym Wei Xi. Notably, Mr Wong had extensive experience as the editor of a dictionary. He was practically a walking dictionary himself, so I sometimes consulted him about the best use of a particular word, and he always had an answer ready at hand.
To me, teaching was both easy and difficult. The easy part was that the long years I had spent reading and writing had allowed me and language to become one body, which made designing lessons and marking papers a breeze. The difficult part was that the students in each class all had their unique characteristics, and each group of students from each year had completely different personalities. I could not just ignore the differences and treat them all the same, but had to do what was suitable for the occasion, teaching students according to their aptitude and making no social distinctions. I had learnt the basics of teaching, but implementing them was a different matter. Each student was like a book written in a unique secret code, and we might never actually discover its contents.
I sternly reminded myself that I would never become a teacher who just mechanically repeated the same tired lessons each year. So I looked for new approaches all the time, continuing to learn—to up my game—every year.
I discovered that each little classroom has its own magic. The teacher is the magician who unlocks this power. Our approach has the power to bring out the laughter and enthusiasm in each face, and to really open the floodgates for learning to take place. It is our job to turn a report card filled with red to all blue, straighten each sprout, set wrong thinking right, and nurture each little spark into a red blaze.
Of course, the biggest difference between a magician and a teacher is that the magician uses illusion to fool viewers, manipulating smoke and mirrors as he works in the shadow. A teacher, on the other hand, creates. She turns shadows into reality. It is a much slower process, so she must have great patience in working her magic. It is like the ancient magic of a gardener who reaps what she sows. If she wants to grow a sweet, delicious gourd, she must plant, water and tend to the seed, then wait for it to mature. The secret to producing fat, juicy produce is love. And love is also certainly the secret energy driving effective education.
In education, love really has the power to turn the rotten and foul into the rare and ethereal. A teacher must love his work and love his students. Only then will he be able to make his students love the subject he teaches, and be effective in his work.
The first couple of years I was teaching, I gave all my attention to the students and their academic performance. I often adapted my teaching methods to their aptitude and interest, striving for freshness and relevance. But in the third year, something happened that shook me greatly. I discovered that helping a student get good results was just a basic responsibility for teachers. To a teacher, each student is like a tree, and her role is not just to make sure the tree grows strongly, but also to constantly part its leaves and look for hidden pests.
Xu Qinli (not her real name) was a student in my class. Her face was as pale as a soda cracker, and she wore square, thick, blackrimmed glasses. It almost seemed she was a cardboard person produced by a machine. If you noticed her at all, it was because she was so unusually q
uiet, as if words were as costly as gold and had to be held tightly. She seemed to pay close attention in class, but failed all her tests.
One day, I was talking with her, and she blurted out what was really on her mind. “I’m not interested in studying. I can’t absorb anything, no matter how much I study. I want to quit school and learn sewing, but my father won’t let me.”
She was already in Secondary 4, so I also encouraged her to finish out the year before pursuing something else. She really was not a naturally gifted student, and the added pressure from her father and from her workload was too much for her to bear, almost causing a mental breakdown. During the mid-year exams, her strange actions and talk invited gossip from others, and some people started referring to her as “the crazy girl” behind her back. I watched closely and discovered that something was really wrong. She sat like a dead fish in the classroom, her mouth opening and closing, but with no sound coming out. After class, she sat alone in one corner of the schoolyard, whistling various bird calls. Perhaps deep inside, she wished she could turn into a bird, spread her wings, and fly away into the great blue sky.
I called to make an appointment with her father, who sold fish in the wet market. He rode an electric bike to school, then sat in the office, a small middle-aged man. His hands fidgeted constantly and, though he smiled, he looked frightened.
I talked to him about his daughter’s situation, and asked him his opinion. He said without hesitation, “Of course she can’t quit school. Her mother died when she was young, and I have worked hard to bring her up on my own. I hope she will get a good education. Do you know that I have even saved money to send her to university? My own health is not good, and sooner or later I’ll be gone too. If she does not finish school, who will look after her when I’m gone?”
I tried my best to reason with him. “Qinli has two hands, and she loves to sew and weave. She won’t starve with those skills!”