Not long after China Witness was published in 2010, I received a quite unexpected call from a family friend.
āXinran! Iāve just started reading your new book, and thereās something I simply have to tell you about ā¦
āFor the past year, Iāve been working at a retirement home looking after elderly cadres and their families. Not long ago, one of the old officers I look after fell gravely ill. Knowing he didnāt have long left, he made two final wishes: one was for us to go and visit his house; the other was to grant his wife one simple request.
āAnd so, after he died, another member of staff and I ended up visiting his widow in the home they had shared for Lord knows how many years. My colleague was grumbling the whole way over, saying that in the ten years heād worked at the home, heād never been invited into the old coupleās house.
āBut, in fact, no one had been. People who came to deliver letters or Chinese New Year gifts were made to leave them at the door. Even when one of them needed medical attention, theyād always wait for the ambulance outside. Behind their backs, the younger members of their work unit would whisper about them.
āWhen we walked in, we were the first visitors for many years. There was literally nothing in the house, apart from the old lady. We didnāt dare stay too long, and after a few minutes of polite small talk we got ready to leave. On our way out, the old lady thanked us for granting her husbandās dying wish, before very subtly slipping a pink envelope into my hand. āHis other wish is written inside,ā she said calmly. The envelope was sealed.
āOn the way back, my colleague spoke of nothing but that envelope and what it might contain. But on its front, in the most beautiful handwriting, were written the words:
Unless the spring has sprung, the flowers will not bloom.
Unless you received this letter, you must not open it.
āIt wasnāt until I got home that evening that I finally found myself alone. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of writing paper, beautifully emblazoned with a pattern of golden-red roses. On the page itself there was just one sentence: āPlease arrange for me to have a virginity test.ā The letter was signed āHan Anhongā.
āA virginity test?! I thought I must have misunderstood the message, so I went and found the internal phone book and dialled the old ladyās number. On the other end of the line, her voice was adamant: āYes, that was my husbandās other dying wish.ā
āāAnd do you want to have the test?ā I asked, because it was, after all, her body and not her husbandās.
āāYes, I do. I want for us both to have some sense of closure. Please make the necessary arrangements, and after that we can speak again. Thank you, and goodnight.ā With that, she hung up.
āNot long after, in accordance with her husbandās wish, I took the old lady to the General Hospital of the Peopleās Liberation Army (PLA) for a gynaecological examination. When I saw the results, I could barely believe my eyes.
āShe had never had sex with her husband.
āXinran, we all knew the old couple had no children, but I just canāt understand why, in sixty-one years of marriage, they had never had sex. Would you agree to interview her? I can help make the introductions. You should know, though, that the old couple were somewhat eccentric; they were never ones to join in any community events or talk to their neighbours, let alone invite people into their home. So itās hard to say whether the old lady will agree to this or not.ā
Since I became a radio talk show host in 1989, I have interviewed more than three hundred Chinese women, exploring the ways in which their lives and loves have been defined largely by external forces. It didnāt take long to notice a clear pattern in how these forces changed according to their age ā women from my grandparentsā generation were often forced into arranged marriages by their parents, while it was political turmoil that shaped the love lives of my parentsā generation. As for women of my own generation, money seemed to be the main driving force behind their search for a husband.
Many of their stories ended in tragedy ā Iād even heard of women in the countryside who had killed themselves in order to help their families ā but I had never before come across a story like the one just recounted to me. Without a momentās hesitation, I asked my friend to do everything she could to help put me in touch with this enigmatic old lady.
I started planning my visit the day I arrived back in China.
Our initial contact, however, was far from smooth. Our first telephone call lasted less than two minutes, with the old lady politely but firmly refusing to speak to me. It seemed completely out of the question that she would invite me into her home.
In my book China Witness, I explored the lives of the first two generations of modern China ā those born before 1950 ā and found the majority of them to have been silent, passive bystanders to the world around them. This was not just a result of the turbulent times they lived in, but also a remnant of ancient Chinese legal customs.
The concept of guilt by association was one of the most notable features of ancient Chinese law. Relatives and associates were held accountable alongside the criminal themselves, which not only led to fierce loyalty among individual factions and families, but also gave rise to a kind of āclan consciousnessā ā no one would dare speak out for fear of being implicated themselves. This became so ingrained in Chinese culture that it had a profound and lasting effect on the way Chinese people behave, making them inherently cautious and reluctant to take assertive action for fear of the consequences.
This āclan consciousnessā withstood the great social and political upheavals of twentieth-century China ā the collapse of the Qing dynasty, the chaos of the Warlord Era, the Sino-Japanese War, the Civil War and the Communist Revolution ā because in the unspeakable chaos of these times, China never gave its people the chance to learn how to be āconsciousā of themselves as individuals, or how to talk about their own feelings.
Only after the āReform and Opening Upā programme of economic reforms spread through China in the 1980s did these people sense that the doors were slowly creaking open ā between China and the world; between Chinaās past and its present; between individuals and the government; even between family members.
But this does not mean Chinese necessarily think and act like others do. Caution and restraint have governed Chinese public expression for so long that forty years is far too brief a time to bring about any meaningful change, and freedom of speech in China continues to be hedged by ignorance and fear.
The traumas that Chinese people have lived through over the past few generations have been caged in their memories. To get them to talk about what they have witnessed, one must first find a way to help them open those cages. No easy task, but thirty years of interviewing, listening, studying and understanding have strengthened my resolve. If they can record a lifetime of Chinese history, then why canāt I wait a few more days, months, or even years?
After numerous requests over the telephone, the old lady began to relent ever so slightly. āLet me think about it, OK?ā
āOf course,ā I told her. āI come back to China twice a year, and Iām happy to wait until next time, or the time after, or even the time after that. I gather these oral histories for the sake of our younger generations, so that they can better understand both the lives of their ancestors and the history of modern China. After a hundred years of chaos and upheaval in our country, historical records are lacking and subject to th...