Nian: Part Four, The New Year

As the beggar slept, I watched the rest of the village through the window, scrambling round like ants under glass. Many were on their third or fourth trip up the mountain, owning no mule or wagon to haul their possessions. On the other hand, some were so accustomed to the annual retreat, it’d become old hat; they’d prepared weeks prior, so could afford holding off until early evening.

Then there was me, standing there like a dope, flustered and shivering with nerves. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I tripped across the room, lifted the beggar’s walking stick from the ground and brought it to the sunlight for closer inspection. I’d assumed the characters engraved in the wood might tell a story of some kind, for the beggar seemed such a natural raconteur but, instead, written in a twist along the length of the stick were seemingly random words – love, fire, happiness, red, community, noise, joy, festivities, good fortune, and so on and so forth – words that ignited and resounded warmly in my chest. This was a walking stick of goodness. The goodness weighed heavily in my hands, making me feel light as a air.

The beggar slept and slept while I ran my fingers along the carvings, watching the villagers flee, waiting for darkness with a heavy heart. I was scared; yes, I was scared. But I no longer trembled as I held the walking stick; it seemed to me such a great comfort that I, too, fell under the spell of sleep, a sleep undisturbed by nightmares, and when I awoke, evening had crept up on the both of us. As if sensing the approaching darkness, the beggar stirred.

He took his time in sitting up. He was truly old, he wasn’t sprightly. But when on his feet, I felt his energy; his goodness was powerful. Spotting me in the corner, gripping his walking stick in the tightest of grips, he smiled.

“Maemae, do you remember what I told you earlier?”

I nodded.

“We will shower Nian in goodness, because goodness is what he fears most.” Approaching me, he reached for his walking stick, and I reluctantly returned it to him. But then he presented it to me with both hands, and said, “What do you believe is the greatest good, Maemae, the greatest above all else?” I realized he had no intention of repossessing the walking stick; he had only wanted me to choose which character, which word, best represented the greatest good. I pointed at the Chinese character for love.

“Love – yes, I’d agree with you there,” the beggar said with a twinkling smile. “And do you remember which element represents love and compassion?” He presented his walking stick again, and I pointed to the character for fire.

“Right again! Good girl! Love and compassion are represented by fire,” here he tapped his velvet bag with the walking stick and out jumped flames of fire. My eyes, round and bright as copper coins, followed the dancing light, which floated precariously above his hand. As if floating fire was as common as the noon hour, he set the flames a-timbre in midair, and then returned his attention to me.

“What do you think is the second greatest good?” the beggar presented his walking stick. I hesitated, then pointed out the character for happiness. “Beautiful, Maemae,” said the beggar, “and what color represents happiness?” My eyes casted over the walking stick until they found the character for red, and the beggar again tapped his bag and drew from it red sheets of paper, red lanterns, red decorations, everything red, red, red. “Nian greatly fears happiness,” he explained, setting the paper decorations a-float alongside the fire. “Red will frighten him back into his darkness.” The objects floated above me, revolving slowly.

“Lastly, I said you should never fear-“ before he’d finished, I’d found the character for community. The old man laughed. “Yes, Nian fears community and togetherness; he fears harmony. And what represents community?” Without hesitation, I pointed at “loud noises.” “You’re very sharp, Maemae.” Thus, the beggar tapped and drew from his bag sticks of fireworks and set them hanging in the air next to the paper and fire.

“All we need to frighten the monster is love, happiness and community. What could be simpler?” With a twist of his walking stick, the objects revolved more quickly and then multiplied, driven off in a dozen directions. The flames blew past my cheeks, the paper fluttered my hair, and I twirled, wishing my eyes could take in everything at once. The fireworks placed themselves for launching near the entrance to the door and out every window. The red paper plastered itself across the whole of the house, inside and out; the lanterns strung themselves across the trees encircling the house. Flames lit the lanterns, the candles, and every corner of the room, until it was brighter than high noon.

“One final thing,” the beggar said, tapped his velvet bag a fourth time; he pulled from it two marvelous red robes, one man-sized, one girl-sized. He flung his around his shoulders and, suddenly, he did not look the beggar he was, but rather more like an emperor. He flung mine around my shoulders and, suddenly, I did not look the coward I was, but rather more like a warrior.

Darkness had engulfed the village, but Wai Po’s house was bright as day. We sat waiting, the beggar laughing all the while as he told me tales of his gypsy travel, tales of the road. I laughed along with him, brimming over with happiness. Safe in my warrior robe, my fear had nearly vanished altogether.

As time would have it, midnight arrived, and the old beggar smiled down at me.

“When Nian approaches, he will be surprised and angry at our defiance. He will likely wish to attack the love and happiness he sees here, so you must blast his anger with community. When he becomes angry, we will set off the fireworks. Don’t be frightened,” he could see the slight tremble returning to my lower lip. “We will defeat the darkness.”

Cries of animals fighting until their last breath bellowed not too far off; Nian was fast approaching, the time was nigh. I crouched near the window, a candle held ready to launch the firework. The beggar stood near the front door, gazing out at the courtyard.

From the outside looking in, the house must have been a spectacle in the night, illuminated brilliantly and red as the sun. And this spectacle must have attracted the monster, because soon enough, I saw him; soon enough, I was face-to-face with the grisly creature once again.

Ugly as ever, Nian slither-scampered into view, but came to a halt as his yellow-slitted eyes absorbed the defiance. An ear-splitting howl reverberated from the monster, echoing like a pack of hungry wolves. For a moment, he stared angrily at the house then, with all his might, he charged, screeching furiously, baring every single one of his bloody teeth.

“Now!” the beggar commanded.

My heart in my throat, I lit the firework, and it launched into the sky, exploding with a cannon-like BOOM, scattering its fairy dust to the earth. Simultaneously, the beggar had set off a string of firecrackers, gun-shooting a staccato of sound in the valley. I peered at the monster over the ledge of the window. He was frozen still in fear, just as I had been at the sight of him three years ago, perched in my tree. I felt compassion for him, but my compassion would only make him see red, so I felt it ever the more, as the job was not quite done: he was still there. I shot another series of fireworks – BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM – into the sky, which set the monster trembling.

The beggar was laughing in his corner, as he too lit another fuse. While the fireworks were bursting, he gestured at me to follow him; we would present ourselves, in all our red-robed happiness to the monster. I came quickly beside the beggar, and we stood for a moment behind the door. The beggar whispered to me, “Are you ready?”

Taking a deep breath in, I spoke the first words I’d spoken in years: “Yes, I’m ready; ready to shower all the world’s evils in goodness.”

The beggar smiled down at me then, holding my hand, he flung the door wide. Like a firework, we burst at the beast, our laughter cascading in the sky. The monster took one look at the love, happiness and community emanating from the emperor and the warrior and, with a yelp, fled fast as he could back to the depths of the sea, to the darkest of darkness, to be consumed by his hate, anger and isolation.

(The following is taken from the true tale of the Spring Festival (http://www.china.org.cn/english/features/SpringFestival/200005.htm)):

The next day was the 1st of the first lunar month. When people came back from their hideouts and found everything safe and sound, they were quite surprised. The Wai Po suddenly realized what had happened and told the villagers about the old beggar’s promise.

The story was soon spread far and wide and everybody was talking about it. They concluded in the end that the old beggar was surely the celestial being who came to expel the calamities and bless the people, and that red paper, red cloth, red candles, and the exploding firecracker were certainly the magic weapons to drive out the monster Nian.

To celebrate the arrival of such good luck, the elated villagers put on their clothes and new hats and went one after another to their relatives and friends to send their regards and congratulations. This was soon spread to the surrounding villages, and people all got to know the way to drive away the monster Nian.

From then on, on each New Year’s Eve, each family sticks on their doors antithetical couplets written on red paper, blows up firecrackers, keeps their houses brilliantly illuminated and stays up late into the night. Early in the morning of the 1st of the first lunar month they go to their relatives and friends’ homes to send their regards and congratulations. These customs have been passed down through the generations, making it the most ceremonious traditional festival of the Chinese people.

Nian: Part Three, The Fear

The beggar led me into Wai Po’s house, set his stick and velvet bag aside, took up a sharp knife, and began to chop up the vegetables Wai Po had provided him. Watching the old man like an eagle hawk, I sat at a wooden chair at the table; all the while I could hear the rest of the village scrambling outside, reinforcing their homes as best they could and packing up their valuables, in order to amscray posthaste up the mountainside. In silence, the old beggar chop-chopped away, completely unperturbed. He fried up the vegetables, placed them in a serving dish between us on the table, and handed me a set of chopsticks. I looked at him; he looked at me, his eyes a-twinkle. We ate.

The old beggar eyed me over his chopsticks and, with a warm smile, asked, “Are you afraid, Maemae?”

My brow furrowed, I nodded at him.

“Do you fear death?”

I nodded again.

“The unknown?”

Again.

“The monster under the bed?”

Yes.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” the old man laughed gently. “I cannot placate your fears, Maemae, but I can offer you a fair amount of wise-old-beggar wisdom…and wisdom is, more often than not, reassuring.” I waited patiently for a healthy dose of wisdom, the rice slipping between my chopsticks, my mouth agape. “Death fears life,” he said. “Ignorance, the unknown, fears knowledge. And that monster under your bed – his fears fester too. You will see for yourself tonight.”

I waited on tenterhooks as the man continued to eat for a while, his eyes glittering brighter with every bite. Then he said, “Death fears life, because life is light, and darkness always fears light…have you noticed how the dark of night never fails to give way to the light of day? That’s because it’s afraid. Afraid of the sun-energy. Sun, fire represents love and compassion. At the sight of love and compassion, night and darkness melt away for fear.”

I nodded, my mouth hanging wide.

“Ignorance fears knowledge,” he continued, “for the same reason that death fears life and darkness fears light. Knowledge, the truth will set you free, while ignorance prefers to fetter, does not trust the openness and acceptance that results from freedom. Suspicious and jealous, green with envy some might say, ignorance insists on smothering knowledge with its stupidity and prejudice in order to maintain control. Red, the antithesis of green, has always been a prominent and important color in China. That’s because red represents happiness. And knowledge, wisdom, truth equate happiness.”

I nodded again, looking up at him in bewilderment. His eyes twinkled like stars.

“I’ve never feared monsters under my bed,” he said, smiling. “There’s no need to fear nonexistent things. No, under my bed is where I hide – I curl in a ball, huddled kneecaps to chest, in a ball under my bed…because the monsters in the real world are what frighten me. Under there, a person is alone. Under there, nothing worries, because nothing is there. But out from under, demons wear many masks, leering and shouting boo. People who are angry, people who are crazy, people who carry unfounded hatred in their hearts, ignorant people; people who want to hurt, hunt, eat away at a person’s good. Under there, I am only me. Under there, I am whole. But the monsters out in the world, they want to char your heart black, and they want to eat your soul. And, I don’t know about yours, but my soul does not want to be eaten.”

I was eleven years old. Never before had I been talked to in this manner, like a grown up. I nodded. Though I may not have understood everything, I understood most and, as I grew older, I remembered word for word. As I grew older, I would begin to understand all.

“But you,” continued the beggar, “you, Maemae, are more courageous than an old man. So do not be afraid. Fear nothing and no one. Do not fear community, regardless of the monsters who may reside there. Community can be joyous, represented by loud noises and festivities. Live your life among people, but remember to live a life of fortitude, a good life. I have faith that your soul will remain whole, unchanged and unchained by monsters. For you are brave and strong, much more so than you know.”

I looked doubtfully at the man; but still, I nodded. I’d been scared silent for three years. How could I be brave? How could I be strong?

“Tonight, Maemae, you will face your monster under the bed. Facing him will prepare you to face the monsters in the real world. You will see how easy it is to frighten them, because they fear so much. Above all, they fear good. So you will show them goodness.”

With a full belly and weary from traveling, the old beggar spread out on Wai Po’s bed for an afternoon nap and left me to wonder at how I would show Nian goodness. I sat on a stool in a corner of the room, wide-eyed and trembling. How in the world could I show goodness when I was so full of fear?

Nian: Part Two, The Beggar

At the east edge of the village, a Wai Po (grandma) was being hassled by an old, silver-bearded beggar, a purple velvet bag hanging from the wrist of his left hand and a great wooden walking stick in his right, carved up and down with Chinese characters. Though many such beggars passed through our village every year, I’d never seen this particular twinkly-eyed one and, as curiosity hadn’t quite killed the cat, but had only silenced it, I allowed my curiosity to again get the better of me. With a noncommittal expression plastered on my child face, I stepped behind a tree to eavesdrop. The beggar was pleasantly begging Wai Po for food and shelter, but this Wai Po was a very feisty Wai Po. She reproached him, beating the ground with her stick.

“Don’t you know what day it is? Have you no sense of time? You could not be asking for charity at a darker hour, when the village is on the brink of its yearly ransacking! I wouldn’t spare you a red cent anyhow – you’d only waste it on rice wine!”

People all around were shuttering up their houses, in the hopes that they’d be spared; Gun Wei and Ting Ting had begun to herd their sheep and cattle up the mountainside; family heirlooms were piled high in women’s arms as they rushed past. The beggar, with those twinkly eyes, gazed around at the mayhem, and a smirk began to play upon his lips.

“What is all this?” he asked the Wai Po, gesturing at the commotion, though by the expression in his eyes, I’m sure he knew.

“Why – for Nian of course! Where do you live – under a rock?!” Though this Wai Po was indeed feisty, she was also known to have the softest of hearts and, thus, with a compassionate look, yet a still scalding manner, she thrust a sack of vegetables at the beggar and commanded, “Take it and flee to the mountains like the rest of us! Don’t be a fool!”

The man smiled and received the food graciously. “Generous Wai Po, continue in your generosity, and I will drive the monster away tonight. Allow me to stay in your home, and your village will never again come to harm at the hands of Nian.”

“You silly old geezer! You’ve got a screw loose, haven’t you? You’re out of your mind!” Wai Po laughed in the old man’s face. But the more she abused him and the more she looked deeply at him, the more incongruous were her insults with the expression of her face. She seemed to believe him. And, as I watched this exchange, I did too.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the beggar turned to me, as if he’d known all along I was standing there, hiding and watching and eavesdropping, though he hadn’t once before glanced my way. He stared at me long and hard and then said, “Young Maemae,” (how in the world did he know my name?), “would you help me rid Peach Blossom Village of its monster? Would you help me conquer the ferocious Nian?”

Despite the fact that everything within was urging me toward the safety of the mountain, and despite the fact that I hadn’t courage enough to speak, let alone to “conquer” the infamous Nian, I looked into those twinkling eyes, swallowed the elixir that is the strange smirking wisdom of a strange smirking beggar and, shaking like a leaf, nodded my assent. I was determined to face my monster yet again.

To be continued…(I can’t concentrate for the fireworks)

Nian: Part One, The Monster

Tomorrow is Chinese New Year or, as the Chinese call it, Spring Festival. It’s the first day of the lunar calendar, and the most important holiday in China, granting nearly everyone a ten-day vacation. All around Beijing, the Beijingers who’ve stayed behind for whatever reason (most prefer to spend the holiday at “home” with family) have hung red signs over every door, couplets emblazoned upon them in gold lettering. More red lanterns than usual are strung across town, and fireworks are being shot off constantly, making my heart jump into my throat every few hours…until I remember that guns are illegal in China.

All of these fun traditions are inspired by a folk story about a monster called Nian. During my stint at a middle school last December, I learned about the tale from my eighth graders and, after doing my own research, have filled in the blanks to the bare framework of eighth grade narration. So, without further ado, in the spirit of the holiday and in keeping with my new year’s resolution, I’ll continue my blog with a short story about this folk story, which I hope will entertain and educate. Enjoy.

I remember how it happened: how Peach Blossom Village vanquished the holy terror that was the monster, Nian. Nowadays, young folk don’t have the slightest idea what terror is. But I know. My generation knows. Every year, we were dealt this piercing feeling of foreboding; every year, when the first day of the lunar calendar rolled around, we knew it could be our last.

Nian was a ruthless monster…although, what other kind of monster is there, really? He destroyed whole towns, leaving broken shells of hutongs in his wake. He ate every living beast in sight and flattened crops, ruining our village’s livelihood. Before the fateful night of the vanquishing, I had seen him only once. And it was the last I’d ever wanted to see of him.

At eight years old, I was a slip of a girl, and thus very slippery; any absence in my family unit, which consisted of eight children, nearly always went unnoticed. I was also a curious child, some might say a bit reckless in my curiosity. On this account, I’d have to agree, because instead of joining my family and the rest of the village in fleeing to the mountainside, I hung back so as to catch a glimpse of him. A glimpse of the monster, Nian.

Oh, the tall tales I’d heard about Nian! The tales with which my parents and grandparents had teased my wild imagination. The tales passed down from generation to generation only in order to frighten little children into obedience. These tales couldn’t be true. Nian was only a ploy to get children to eat their vegetables or do their chores: “Maemae, finish your green beans, or we’ll feed you to Nian.” “Maemae, go work in the rice field, or we’ll sick Nian on you. You know how monsters enjoy feasting on the flesh of naughty children.” Being that I didn’t believe in Nian’s existence, these were empty threats. But I was soon to find out I’d been woefully mistaken.

The year I turned eight was my year, the year of the Tiger; a year full of promise, good luck and fortune, which I suppose is what gave me the white-knuckled courage, the bald-faced tenacity, the sense of invincibility, to hang back and face the demon monster. I wouldn’t believe until I saw for myself. Seeing is believing, after all; but did you know that believing is incredibly short-lived, because seeing is almost always certain death? The only thing that saved me from said death was a herd of unfortunate swine and my fast little feet. And perhaps the luck that came along with it being my year of the Tiger.

That year of the Tiger, on New Year’s Eve, my family had fled as they always did, to the remote mountainside, away from Nian’s destruction, while I hid away in a birch tree near the sea. Nian was said to be a water monster, so my perch near the shore was perfect for a sighting. Of course I wouldn’t see him. Of course not. I didn’t believe in him, after all…though, come to think of it, it did seem like an awful lot of work for the elders to invent this monster, “flee” to the mountains in the cold of January every year, and then destroy our village so as to make it appear as if Nian had wreaked such havoc, only to have to rebuild it again. But, as we all know, parents and grandparents must, at times, resort to just such great lengths in order to maintain authority over disobedient youngsters.

As I slouched in the birch tree, drifting off, my eyes growing heavy with sleep, my mental alarm clock suddenly rang midnight, and I jerked upright. My surroundings were inky black, and I heard not a whisper of sound. Stars studded across the sky, reflected in the sea, and the moon was a brilliant white orb overhead. At this point, I should have heard some of the elder vagabonds of our village creeping in to destroy it in Nian’s name. But there was no rowdy, laughing mob. Only silence. My pulse began to rabbit-kick in my chest.

The waves seemed to be growing louder, harsher upon the shore. I squinted my eyes so as to catch any disturbance in the water’s surface. My pulse quickening, I gripped the tree limb I sat atop and glared as the waves started to crash. When the horned beast’s head broke forth, I had to bite my bottom lip to stifle my horror.

Nian was the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen…and I’m well acquainted with some ugly creatures – have you met my cousins? But Nian would put even the ugliest of them to shame. Twenty-five feet in length, the monster’s skin – if you could call it skin – was a pale, wrinkly, decaying grey-brown which made one think of a mummified body, only slimier. Its eyes were two black wells with sharp yellow pupils. Prickly quill-like appendages stuck randomly from its body like a balding porcupine, a body which was long and serpentine, yet somehow protuberant in places like a misshapen blob. All of this was nothing to the terror that the creature’s mouth inspired. Its thick lips hung wide open, exposing two sets of pointed teeth; if I’d had time or sense enough to count, I’d bank on nearly a hundred pearly yellows altogether. The monster was monstrous to put it mildly.

As it slithered to the beach and began to scamper on its sharp little claws, I was frozen still in a silent scream. I could not have moved if I’d wanted to. Moving mightn’t have been the best plan of action anyhow, as the monster surely would have lunged at me had I flickered a finger. In some way, my frozen fear was a godsend for, when Nian glanced my way, though I can’t be sure, I imagine he assumed he’d have plenty of time to attack the frozen human pillar after he’d gorged himself on the dozen or so swine which had dashed to the corner of Chiang’s paddock upon his appearance. Whatever went on in that monster mind, Nian left me hanging there for dessert and, as a prequel to my own demise, I heard the shrieking squeal of a pig whose flesh was being torn asunder with a hundred pointed teeth; only, instead of freezing me further still, this prequel snapped me out of my shock, and I sprung from the tree, falling hard on my feet, and sprinted with all my fear up the mountainside. I didn’t stop until over an hour later, when I’d reached the villager’s gathering on the precipice. I was trembling so, my eyes wide, my face white, that my mother and grandmother didn’t even have the heart to give me the tongue-lashing and finger-wagging I most certainly deserved, but only hugged me tightly to them, whispering words of calm. But I wasn’t calm. I would never again be calm. I didn’t speak for three whole years thereafter.

Each New Year’s Eve following my Tiger year, the first villager to clamber up the mountainside in a panic was little Maemae. I’d pack my things and be on my merry way by dawn. My mother would often laugh at me, tell me not to worry so, that Nian wouldn’t attack until midnight, as I well knew. But I no longer wished to tempt fate. By the time night turned to day, I was off like a dart.

On New Year’s Eve three years later, year of the Snake, I was eleven years old, had not spoken since I was eight and, in what had become my New Year’s routine, was packed and ready to flee before the sun had crept into the windows of our hutong. But this time, my mother scolded me and forced me to wait until we’d at least had breakfast. So I sat at the kitchen table, drumming my fingers with impatience. Being that I was the youngest, I was always the last served, and it was 9AM before I was free to scurry off along the trail towards the mountain, which I did with a huff and a haste that must have irritated my mother, for she called after me that I’d better have the tent pitched by the time the rest of the troops arrived. But I was never to reach the mountain that day; it seems it was fate, not my mother, that delayed me. If I had left when I’d liked, I wouldn’t have met the old man, the unlikely hero of this tale, the beggar.

To be continued…

The Rape of Nanking

It’s a new year, and my resolution is to blog it. My life in China has not been as diligently kept in writing as my Ukrainian life, and I know I’ll regret that in the future, as I already do. So I thought I’d start out with a pretty horrendous subject that’s been on my mind: The rape of Nanking.

One of my favorite students is a business lady in her mid-thirties, named Nancy. I sometimes feel I’m stealing her money, because we simply talk, and I correct her grammar and expand her vocabulary (which doesn’t need much correcting or expanding). Actually if I could suggest as much without feeling disloyal to my company, I would tell her she needn’t pay for lessons, because I enjoy talking with her so much. We’ve actually become good friends, and we often stray off on strange tangents long after class is over. She’s taught me a lot about Buddhism (probably more than I’ve taught her English) and about many other things, such as the rape of Nanking.

During the early stages of WWII, China was in a state of civil warfare. The Nationalist party, the government in power at that time, led by Chiang Kai-shek, had been battling the Communist party since 1927. Not only was the country divided between Communists and Nationalists, but regional warlords split the Nationalist party into further division, making the seated government even more vulnerable to outside invasion due to its instability. The Japanese, who had long been eying China’s resources, chose to take advantage of this state of flux to expand their empire.

Prior to reading this book, The Rape of Nanking, by Iris Chang, I simply could not understand how a tiny island nation, like Japan, could even dream of attacking China, one of the largest and most populous nations in the world. One might expect China’s sheer manpower alone should have intimidated Japan and tempered its ego. But, as the author of this book suggests, Japan wanted greater international respect and influence; to take China would not only trigger submission in all of Asia, but would show the whole world that Japan was a country with which to be reckoned. During the early 20th century, Japan had already gained control of Taiwan and Korea. They signed a pact with Nazi Germany in 1936, with the hopes to continue in their empire’s expansion.

In 1937, Japan had officially declared war on China. When Shanghai fell, the Japanese army moved rapidly on Nanking (or Nanjing), China’s capital at the time, enacting brutally their “three-all” policy – kill all, burn all and destroy all. As the Japanese general, Nakajami, in league with Prince Asaka, gained ground, Tang, the general of the Chinese combatants on the front was ordered by Nationalist Party leader, Chiang, against his wishes and better judgment, to retreat. And he did so, abandoning his troops and leaving hundreds of thousands of civilians to be murdered in one of the ugliest massacres the world has ever seen.

I will not describe in detail, as the author, Chang, has, the ruthless acts of violence and torture committed not only upon the Chinese combatants, but the civilians as well. In short, I will refer to a few choice quotes from the book:

“From the Japanese military correspondent Yukio Omata, who saw Chinese prisoners brought to Hsiakwan and lined up along the river:

‘Those in the first row were beheaded, those in the second row were forced to dump the severed bodies into the river before they themselves were beheaded. The killing went on non-stop, from morning until night, but they were only able to kill 2,000 persons in this way. The next day, tired of killing in this fashion, they set up machine guns. Two of them raked a cross-fire at the lined up prisoners…The prisoners fled into the water, but no one was able to make it to the other shore.’”

“From Takokoro Kozo, a former soldier in the 114th division of the Japanese Army in Nanking:

‘Women suffered most. No matter how young or old, they all could not escape the fate of being raped. We sent out coal trucks from Hsiakwan to the city streets and villages to seize a lot of women. And then each of them was allocated to 15 to 20 soldiers for abuse.’”

Chang’s chilling descriptions of these rapes and murders, of this massacre of innocents, of the “killing games” will torture in your mind the age-old question: how can the human psyche (especially a collective human psyche) become so twisted that it begins to think this horrific treatment of his brother is justified, is reasonable, is normal, is so ordinary that violence becomes tedious? The same question entered my mind when a young man killed 26 people, including 20 schoolchildren in Newtown, Connecticut just weeks before I’d read this book. It’s terrifying how inhuman human can be. It’s terrifying the acts of depravity a person, any person, can commit. I am not saying everybody has a snapping point, nor that everyone is capable of such cruelty. But a person has no idea what he/she is capable of (neither the good acts nor the bad) until put in just such an extreme position.

Take the Nazi hero of Nanking, John Rabe. I suppose you’d assume the Nazi would be arm-in-swastika-banded-arm with his Japanese allies in this rape/killing spree. You’d be wrong in that assumption. Ironically, John Rabe helped found and lead an international “safety zone” in Nanking, where civilians could seek refuge from the invasion. In an agreement with the Japanese army, Rabe was able to pull his Nazi weight and label the people within this zone as “off-limits.” Though the Japanese soldiers often crept into the zone during the night to kidnap and/or rape women, Rabe tried his best to protect them and was often on surveillance without sleep for days on end. He put himself in harm’s way to stop many a rape-in-progress. As he was a Nazi, he was virtually untouchable, if not respected, by the Japanese. He even wrote a letter to Hitler, asking for his intervention in this massacre. A letter which went unanswered.

Another leader in the safety zone was an American named Minnie Vautrin, the head of the Education Department and dean of studies at Ginling Women’s Arts and Science College. She was known as “the living goddess of Nanking” for her courage and generosity during this dark time. She opened the doors of her college in the safety zone to thousands of refugees. Like her male counterparts, she went to great lengths to protect the women. She would often stand in the way of a Japanese soldier and his prey, and being not nearly as respected as John Rabe, on more than one occasion, she was physically harmed because of her interference. She saved many lives and the virtue of many women, but the violence she’d witnessed took its toll on her. She committed suicide shortly after her return to America.

The rape of Nanking is an event I’d never heard or read about prior to arriving in China. Though, prior to, I’d known Japan had attacked China in WWII, I was surprised to find the hostility boiling so fervently against Japan in the hearts of many Chinese still today. After reading this book, I now know, and I feel strongly for the people who were touched by this violence. There are some events that hurt even the hearts of those they do not directly involve. The Newtown massacre being one of those events. Humanity’s sad history of cruelty against itself being a scar no human being is without.

This particular history’s savagery, its sadness, and its splices of heroic valor, in the images of Rabe, Vautrin and those who protected the weak and innocent, should not be buried in oblivion. The 200,000 people (some counts double the number) who were killed in this massacre should not have died in vain. I believe as Elie Wiesel said, and as Chang recounts, “to forget a holocaust is to kill twice,” so I hope others who, like me, were ignorant to this history are made aware. This is a forgotten holocaust and, in fact, a largely ignored holocaust of WWII. Unlike the German government who has apologized and paid for its war crimes, the Japanese government refuses to acknowledge its inhumane treatment of the Chinese people during this wartime period; they even go so far as to claim the rape of Nanking never occurred, that despite photographic evidence, first-hand testimonials by the Chinese survivors and by foreign journalists, the diaries of the international “safety zone” leaders, and by Japanese soldiers themselves, the rape of Nanking is some sort of conspiracy cooked up by the Chinese. As I said before, I now understand the hostility. I understand.

The author of this book, Iris Chang, committed suicide in 2004. She was 36 years old. She had suffered years of depression, reportedly deeply disturbed by the subject matter of her research.

Guess who’s back…back again

Me and my best Chinese friend, Teah

For those of you who have, in my absence, abandoned the existence of Jessica to the ether of the earth, you could not be more wrong in doing so. This globe-trotting walkabout is currently walking about in Beijing, China, where the ether of the earth doesn’t exist, as it’s clouded by a pollution that hangs in the thick yellow air like a permanent sneeze. I’ve been living in Beijing for six months (after one in Shanghai) and have just realized I can hack into my blog, now that I have the top secret security code (don’t tell China). And so, I will be able to continue in my long-winded analysi (is that the plural of analysis?) of my life as an ex-patriot. I hate that term, but I suppose I am one and will be for the foreseeable future, not because I’m not a patriot, as the term seems to indicate, but rather because I find this life abroad infinitely more fascinating.

I love America, and though I didn’t mean to seemingly break permanently from my motherland in this way, I did this to myself. After volunteering with the Peace Corps, I discovered during my short return to America, that I was, quite simply, bored. Mom is going to laugh, because I always claim I’m never bored (which is largely true; I am easily entertained). But what I mean is, in returning to the States, I realized I missed the constant, subtle, nagging (although, sometimes screaming) conflict of living in a foreign country and culture; and the sense of purpose you feel in absorbing something which is alien to you. My time as a PCV, and my experience now, has infused my life with life. Regardless of the pollution poisoning my lungs, I’m so happy to be here, in China, and each and every day, I feel it’s surreal that I’m living out my dream of seeing the world.

I was asked repeatedly before I came here (and even now) – “why China?” My succinct answer was – “why not?” but let me elaborate. I am open to experiencing every country and culture – the good, the bad, and the ugly. I don’t care whether or not the country’s form of government is communism or whether or not the media is contrived by those in power. I’m American, so though the lack of freedom bothers me, I am experiencing the effects of this from the outside looking in, whether I’m living here or not. There is a badge of protection when you hold an American passport – a security blanket, if you will. And I am, indelibly, grateful for this. So, although I will always be experiencing this from the outside looking in, which is not nearly as painful as the inside looking out, I am still so much closer to the fishbowl that I can see their gills (which are, no doubt, fighting to breathe, for the pollution), which never fails to interest me. Whether good or bad, experience educates you, helps you grow – if you learn from it, that is. In fact, I sometimes think the “bad” experiences aid a person’s growth more than the good, so bring on the shit-storm, China!…..no, scratch that – please don’t. But be what you are, China, and I’ll just muse at our differences.

Anywho, to come more to the point, I chose China on a more practical point, because I knew I wanted to explore Asia next, and China offered the best opportunities for TEFL (teaching English as a foreign language). Granted, I did not stick out my contract with Disney English (long story), but I had a gajillion options to choose from when weaseling my way out of there, so for that reason, China was a great choice.

In researching my next move while in Ukraine, I had also became slightly infatuated with the economic growth of China. Although I just read today that it’s waning, the rate at which China’s economy has been growing over the past decade is quite astounding in a world of bankrupted economies. I wanted to see China for myself. The economy I see isn’t so beautiful, but isn’t as ugly as I’d been prepared for either. Will get to that in a later post.

The nature of the land, itself, is definitely enchanting. Recently, through the generosity of my friend’s mother, I was able to take a trip to Chengdu (west Sichuan province) and cruise up the third longest river in the world, the Yangtze. Sichuan province’s landscape would rival that of any great beauty in the world – green and lush and full of Giant Pandas. Pictures to come.

The culture is generally friendly and gentle. For the most part, I’ve been treated with respect and sometimes awe, which makes me a bit uncomfortable. The best thing about being foreign here is that strangers smile at me and try to help me out. They like my blonde hair and blue eyes, so I don’t get kicked around too much. They’re even fairly patient with my language inability and often laugh with me at myself, which is quite a contrast to the Ukrainian approach of scowling menacingly. So, all in all, I’d say the people are what I like best about China, and they’re what have made me want to extend my stay here.

I have so much to show and tell. So many things have happened to me, the stories would fill up a book…which, someday, I may become disciplined enough to write. But, for now, enjoy this short excerpt and check back for more, because now that I have the top secret security code, you’re going to hear a lot more from me. I’m sure you’re eternally grateful.

Love Letter to Ukraine

“When you live somewhere for an extended period of time, that somewhere injects itself into your bloodstream and becomes part of you” – Jessica Holom

Ukrainians and Russians often speak emphatically about the “Russian soul.” Some people have a tendency to roll their eyes at this declaration of soul, as they see it as a disingenuous affectation; but I believe in it. My favorite, Dostoevsky, attests that “the most basic, most rudimentary spiritual need of the Russian people is the need for suffering, ever-present and unquenchable, everywhere and in everything.” This “spiritual need” is most definitely a living, breathing omnipresence in Ukraine, almost as if the need for suffering is imbedded in the soil, imbibed in the land and enters you once you set foot upon it. Although western Ukrainians might argue their independence and national identity, which, I agree, certainly can and should be differentiated from Russia, I would argue that there is a (East)Slavic soul, rather than a purely Russian soul, and that Ukraine certainly embraces that soul as fervently as does Mother Russia.

Russia was once described by Winston Churchill as “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” and the same can be said about Ukraine. From the very first Russian novel I read, Crime and Punishment, I’ve been irrevocably attracted to this enigma; although, to me, it wasn’t altogether an enigma. I identified immediately with the passion of Russian characters, with the intensity of their emotions – their absolute rapture and their depths of despair – and I felt as strongly for the pride and intelligence of the high minded as I did for the sinful degradation and callous insensitivity of the low minded. Dostoevsky, particularly, paints these character portraits up so perfectly that you can’t help but love even the meanest and most loathsome of his characters. And it is the charisma of extremes that draws one to the enigma, as I’ve been drawn to the Slavic corner of my soul each and every day that I’ve lived in Ukraine.

It makes perfect sense that part of my soul is Slavic as, if you climb back a few limbs on my family tree, you’ll find that my grandma, Maggie Holom’s lineage includes a branch of Ukrainian ancestry. Living here has only illuminated the Slavic corner of my soul sevenfold and, as difficult and stubborn and fatalistic as that part of my soul can be, I kind of love it; because, simultaneously, it is sensitive, poetic, stoic and strong.

When you live somewhere for an extended period of time, that somewhere injects itself into your bloodstream, which is probably why, at this point, nearing my departure from Ukraine, from my home and family for two years, I feel as if my heart is being cleaved in two. The Ukraine in my bloodstream must be clotting in protest, blocking the blood from reaching my right ventricle, because not only does some part of my mind and soul belong to Ukraine, but so does some very real part of my heart and my blood.

Nevertheless, no matter how it hurts, I will cleave my heart, because there are more adventures to be had…
and more corners of my soul to illuminate.