by Ma Yan
The Diary of Ma Yan
The Struggles and Hopes of a Chinese Schoolgirl
Edited and introduced by Pierre Haski
Translated from the French by Lisa Appignanesi
The diaries were originally translated from the Mandarin by He Yanping
Ma Yan in 2002
Contents
I Want to Study
How It Happened
A Note on Names and Currency
The Diary: Part One
The Diary: Part Two
What Happened Next
Ma Yan’s Letter
How Things have Changed
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Ma Yan’s letter, translated on the facing page
I WANT TO STUDY
We have a week of vacation. Mother takes me aside.
“My child. There’s something I have to tell you.”
I answer, “Mother, if you have something to tell me, do it quickly. Tell me.”
But her words are like a death sentence.
“I’m afraid you may have been to school for the last time.”
My eyes go wide. I look up at her. “How can you say something like that? These days you can’t live without an education. Even a peasant needs knowledge to ensure good harvests and to farm well.”
Mother insists. “Your brothers and you add up to three children to be sent to school. Your father is the only one earning money, and it’s not enough.”
I’m frightened. “Does this mean I have to come home to work?”
“Yes.”
“And my two brothers?”
“Your two brothers will carry on with their studies.”
I protest. “Why can boys study and not girls?”
Her smile is tired. “You’re still little. When you grow up, you’ll understand.”
No more money for school this year. I’m back in the house and I work the land in order to pay for my brothers’ education. When I think of the happy times at school, I can almost imagine myself there. How I want to study! But my family can’t afford it.
I want to go to school, Mother. I don’t want to work at home. How wonderful it would be if I could stay at school forever!
Ma Yan
May 2, 2001
HOW IT HAPPENED
May 2001
The village of Zhangjiashu is a little like the end of the world; you don’t come upon it by accident. Travel to Zhangjiashu, located thousands of miles northwest of China’s capital, Beijing, is as much a journey through time as it is through space. Houses are built of brick and roofed with traditional tiles, and the village, spread unevenly along the hills, occupies a space far removed from the bubbling modernization of urban China. The village’s inhabitants were amazed that we had taken less than twenty-four hours to get there from Beijing. For them, the capital is light years away.
In this remote corner of China, children are unaccustomed to seeing strangers. An official had told me that I was the first foreign journalist to come to the region since the 1930s. The very sight of our small journalistic crew had created unusual excitement. Now, having reached the end of our visit, we were getting ready to leave. The road before us was long and difficult, and our driver was impatient to start.
At that moment a village woman wearing the white head covering of the Chinese Muslims approached us. She held a letter and three small brown notebooks covered in finely drawn Chinese characters. She insisted, as if her very life depended on it, that we take them. We left a few minutes later, carrying this mysterious and apparently precious bundle with us.
The barren landscape around the village of Zhangjiashu
A translation of just a little of what we had been given revealed a startling text, as well as the identity of its author. She was Ma Yan, then a girl of thirteen, in the midst of a crisis. In the letter, addressed to her mother—the very woman who had given us the notebooks—Ma Yan shouts a protest. She has just learned that she won’t be able to go back to school. After five consecutive years of drought, her family no longer has the money to pay her school fees.
“I want to study,” Ma Yan exclaims in the headline of the letter, written on the back of a seed packet for green beans. The letter had been scribbled in anger, as the various tears in the paper show. To pay for the ballpoint pen she used, we later learned, she had deprived herself of food for fifteen days.
The three little brown notebooks that came to us with Ma Yan’s letter contained her personal diary. These pages gave us an intimate sense of the everyday life of a teenager whose life mirrors that of millions of others in the Chinese countryside. Many share her passionate desire for the education that will allow her and her family to escape poverty; many are tormented, like her, by the anxiety that they won’t make the grade; many struggle against constant hunger and the sometimes harsh human relationships that can be part of an impoverished life.
Page by page, Ma Yan shows an increasing command both of her writing and of her feelings. Her first days as a schoolgirl in 2000, when she is thirteen, are the subject of the briefest, most understated notes. Then, before our eyes, Ma Yan gains in stature. Her life is a tough and fast teacher.
A month after our first visit, we decided to return to Zhangjiashu to meet Ma Yan and her mother.
We discovered that Ma Yan had returned to school. Her mother understood her distress and made the sacrifice of going off to do hard labor two hundred and fifty miles away to earn money for Ma Yan’s education.
When we finally met Ma Yan, we found a girl with short hair and a lot of character. She was simply dressed in a white shirt and red canvas trousers. Around her neck there was a small plastic heart on a chain, and she sported two silver-plated hoops in her ears. Lively and intelligent, she beamed at us, so very happy to have taken up her school life again. She didn’t hide her joy when she learned that we’d come because of her.
Without any sign of being intimidated, Ma Yan told us her story, recounting her great sadness when she thought she might never be able to return to school. She talked about the gratitude she owed her mother and about the hopes her family had vested in her, their eldest child. Her sense of duty to her family was linked with defiance. If she can only get far enough with her studies, she’ll be the first to escape from the dual burden of a harsh, desert soil and a strictly traditional society. She was fired up by the challenge.
Bai Juhua, Ma Yan’s mother, joined us. Her features were drawn. A white head scarf covered her long black hair. She looked at her daughter tenderly, and it’s clear that the two are very close. Tears streamed down her weary face. Her emotion was audible in her voice. “I’m a mother, but my heart was heavy. I knew that I couldn’t send my daughter back to school. Ma Yan gave me her letter, but I can’t read. She insisted, ‘Read it and you’ll know how unhappy I am.’ I had it read to me and I understood.”
Ma Yan’s mother is only thirty-three, but years of hard work have made her look twenty years older. She has had no education, she can neither read nor write, but she knows that her daughter’s salvation—like that of the rest of her family—depends on her being educated. On several occasions, she has taken Ma Yan out of school because she could not afford the fees. But at each point Ma Yan struggled to continue. This girl is stubborn, her father claims proudly.
Ma Yan is unusual in this village, where most of the girls never have more than three or four years of schooling, barely time enough to learn to read and write. Ma Yan is now in her seventh year.
“Others stop much sooner,” Ma Yan said sweetly. “I can only praise my parents.”
During our visit to Zhangjiashu, a Chinese friend, who had accompanied us from the re
gional capital, predicted a bleak future for Ma Yan. Adversity and the weight of tradition would bring the girl down, as they had done others in the village, he told us.
“A family as poor as hers can’t afford to pay for their daughter’s education. She’ll be engaged at sixteen, because her family needs the money her marriage will bring in to pay for their younger sons’ marriages. The boys will take precedence.” (In China, a man must make a gift of money to the family of his bride-to-be.) “Ma Yan is intelligent, but she can’t escape that fate. It’s her unalterable destiny.”
But Ma Yan’s mother denied this categorically. “I’ll fight to my last breath so that my daughter doesn’t have the same life as I had.”
When mother and daughter embrace, there’s more at stake than just strong emotion. The energy that flows between them is that of two women prepared to confront and challenge fate.
A NOTE ON NAMES AND CURRENCY
In China it is customary to list last names first. Ma is Ma Yan’s family name. It is also a common surname in this area of China, and although many of Ma Yan’s friends have the same family name, most are not related to her. Women in China do not change their names when they marry, so while Ma Yan’s father and brothers are named Ma Dongji, Ma Yichao, and Ma Yiting, her mother is known by her maiden name, Bai Juhua.
Ma Yan and the people around her frequently refer to one another as comrade, a term that became popular during the Chinese Revolution of the 1940s.
The main Chinese currencies Ma Yan refers to are the fen and the yuan. One hundred fen equals one yuan. In American currency, one yuan is worth approximately twelve cents.
Pages from Ma Yan’s diary
THE DIARY: PART ONE
The diaries of Ma Yan are divided into two parts. The first part runs from September 2 to December 28, 2000; the second from July 3 to December 13, 2001. The breaks are due to lost notebooks. The sections of this book that explain details of Ma Yan’s daily life were written by Pierre Haski.
Ma Yan started school at age eight, one year after most other pupils. Until then she had helped her mother with domestic chores and in the fields. Her first four school years were spent at the elementary school in Zhangjiashu. For her fifth year she went to middle school in Yuwang, a market town twelve and a half miles away from her home. At the time the diary starts, she’s living at the Yuwang school during the week and traveling home for the weekends. Her brother Ma Yichao is in the same class as Ma Yan.
When she wrote her first entry, Ma Yan was thirteen and in her last year of elementary school. Her diary stops when she is in the first year of middle school and fourteen years old.
Saturday, September 2 (2000)
It’s not very gray
Just like every morning, I wash my face then brush my teeth. Soon the bell rings, marking the beginning of classes. A teacher arrives. He’s wearing a blue jacket and black trousers and he has black leather shoes. He explains what he expects of us. I think he’s our Chinese teacher.
A second teacher comes in. He tells us never to take things that belong to others and to think very carefully about what we say. Then he starts the lesson and gives us exercises to do. We do the work he’s asked of us until class is over.
We go off to eat. Bai Xiaohua, in class three of the fifth year, brings in a pail full of water. We wash our faces and hands and then clean the dormitory. Bai Xiaohua sprinkles water on the floor. Yang Haiyan shakes out the beds. Ma Yuehua and I sweep the floor. Ma Juan has gone out—I don’t know where—instead of helping us. Having done the cleaning, we sit down to rest for a bit, until the bell rings again.
Sunday, September 3
A fine day
This morning while I was busy working in class, my father and mother came to visit. They came to Yuwang for the fair. Before going back to it, they said to me, “You must work hard in order to get into the high school for girls.” Then they went.
Monday, September 4
Light rain
This afternoon a teacher showed us some gymnastics. If we can’t do them, we have to get out of line and sing or dance. Then we have to start again, until we’ve managed to get through all the exercises. A few comrades, both boys and girls, finally managed it all, and the teacher congratulated them: “Those who’ve succeeded can go back to class.”
Finally we all got through and went back to our classrooms.
Tuesday, September 5
Fine weather
This afternoon the music teacher, a twenty-year-old woman with a braid over three feet long, taught us the “Song of the Long March.” She is our only woman teacher. First she sings with us a few times, then she lets us sing in chorus. Then she chooses one of us to sing alone, and another to dance in accompaniment. Everyone gets a turn, row by row. We’ve only reached the third row when the bell rings.
Wednesday, September 6
A gray day
This afternoon our Chinese teacher gave us an exercise to copy into our notebook. Two boys fought over a pencil,* as often happens. Before we even realized what had happened, the teacher had smacked them. I couldn’t help but be secretly pleased: these two are the nastiest boys in class.
Thursday, September 7
Fine weather
This morning we had Chinese. The teacher wrote a few questions on the blackboard and asked us to answer them. It’s a matter of summarizing a text. He explained to us that if we don’t know all the words, we can look them up in a dictionary.
I borrowed one from a friend because my father couldn’t buy one for me. I was so busy consulting it that I forgot to write down the rest of the questions, which were then erased.
I asked my cousin, Ma Shiping, to lend me her notebook so that I could copy them out, but she refused. She thinks this is a test, and she doesn’t want me to come in first.
It’s a little thing, but it makes me realize that I can count on no one.
Friday, September 8
A fair day
This morning during class, our Chinese teacher taught us that in life a man has to act according to two principles: his values and his dignity. This will ensure the respect of others.
At the end of class he warned us to be careful on the road on our way home. Those who have money can get a lift on a tractor for one yuan. The rest of us have to walk. But we mustn’t dawdle.
Ma Yan and her parents in front of their house
MA YAN’S FAMILY
Ma Yan’s family is large. In addition to her paternal grandparents, the village of Zhangjiashu contains the families of her father’s four brothers, whom Ma Yan designates according to their chronological age: “first uncle, second uncle,” and so on.
Ma Shiping is her mother’s cousin and is two years older than Ma Yan. Their stormy relationship is due to mutual admiration and jealousy. Despite her strong personality and good grades, Ma Shiping had to leave school at the end of the year and devote herself to domestic and farm work until she was married.
Ma Yan’s father and mother are quite different from each other. Very tall, with a bowl haircut and taciturn, inhibited manner, Ma Dongji comes from a very poor family. Bai Juhua, Ma Yan’s mother, comes from a more well-off family who lives twenty-two miles away. She is chatty and impulsive, with a ready smile and long hair hidden under the white scarf that identifies her as a Chinese Muslim.
Ma Dongji and Bai Juhua have three children; Ma Yan, thirteen in the year 2000, is the eldest. Her two brothers are Ma Yichao and Ma Yiting, ages eleven and nine in 2000.
Saturday, September 9
A fine day
This morning while we were watching a soap opera, my little brothers, who were playing outside, started to shout, “Our grandmother has arrived!”
My mother beamed. I went to join my brothers outside. We skipped rope and kicked a sandbag around. My grandmother and my mother stayed in the house alone. I don’t know what they were talking about, but they laughed in a strange way.
Sunday, September 10
It’s windy
This morning my grandmother and my parents went to the fair in Yuwang while I was still asleep. My little brothers turned everything upside down, and I was furious. But there’s nothing to be done.
Monday, September 11
A fine day
This afternoon my cousin Ma Shiping came to fetch my brother Ma Yichao and me for the walk back to school.
Before letting us go, Mother stopped us to say, “You need to work hard. Even if I have to wear myself out, I’ll pay for your studies, but on the condition that your grades are good.”
My mother’s words tug at my heart. I understand that everything she does is for us. I understand that we’re her only hope. Nothing else counts but us.
I have to study hard to make a contribution to my country and my people one day. That’s my goal. That’s my hope.
Tuesday, September 12
Lovely weather
This afternoon I went out with a couple of classmates to run some errands. They’re rich. They’re always chomping away at one goodie or another. I watch them, but I can’t afford to buy anything. Even chewing gum costs more than ten fen. That’s far more than I can manage.
I suddenly realize why Mother hasn’t gotten medical help before.* It’s so that we can keep going to school. School costs tens of yuan all at once. Where does this money come from? It comes from the sweat and hard labor of my parents. Father and Mother are ready to sacrifice everything so that we can go to school. I must work really hard in order to go to a university later. Then I’ll get a good job, and Mother and Father will at last have a happy life.
Wednesday, September 13