Wang Jingchun: We should stand at a higher vantage point and look at things from a humanistic perspective. That’s how we see everyone as equal, with no privileges for or prejudice against anyone.
In the 1950s, my mother followed my grandpa to Xinjiang when she was a little girl. My father arrived there in 1964 to serve in an army unit in Urumqi, the regional capital. In 1969, as border clashes broke out between China and the former Soviet Union, my dad, out of loyalty to the country, volunteered to serve at the tough Hongshanzui Border Post. Each year, heavy snow sealed the mountain roads for over eight months, making it incredibly hard to go up and down the mountains. To get to the border post, soldiers first had to drive to Lamazhao, then ride on horseback to Xidanhe Dam before snowboarding up. My dad served at this difficult spot for 17 years. It was a time when people lived and worked together as a like-minded community with common ideology, where all individual thought was subject to control.
I was born and raised in Altay, where many Kazaks and Mongols, and relatively fewer Uyghurs and Huis, lived. My dad was open- minded and willing to befriend people of different ethnic backgrounds. He had a sworn Uyghur brother whose son later became my sworn brother. My dad’s Muslim friends visited each other frequently during Muslim and Han holidays. In those days people seldom ate out. They simply ate, drank, and played in the comfort of the home. My dad had a lot of friends with different ethnic backgrounds, including high-ranking officers who often came to our house to play chess and average horsemen in leather clothes who at times stayed with us up to a month. My parents speak fluent Kazakh, and used it when discussing something they didn’t want us kids to hear. Because he knew their language, my dad could maintain very good relations with the local herdsmen. Dad twice took me to the ice-covered mountain. Both times, we were invited to dine with his local friends and they cooked fresh-slaughtered lamb for us. Finally, due to a job transfer, Dad left his guard post on top of the hill for Urumqi. On his last day, all the local herdsmen waited on horseback for him to come down the hill in the evening. They invited him to visit them in their tent and killed a lamb for him as a farewell gift as part of their “common courtesy.”
“Common courtesy” is a phrase I would use to describe Xinjiang. The term was quite vague for me as a child and I often took it as codes of conduct or restrictions. When I grew up, I came to understand that it means “rules of courtesy.” Common courtesy requires that people act courteously and reasonably. There are specific rules governing treatment of friends, seniors, and children. For example, people would run to help when they saw a senior having difficulty walking on a street. If two kids are fighting and a senior asks them to stop, they would quit immediately. The people in my hometown in Altay is this way. They are eager to help anyone in need, even strangers. That’s my fondest memory about Xinjiang and it has had a great impact on my life.
As a child, I had no greater desire than getting a job in Xinjiang and leading a simple life. But I also loved the performing arts, especially dancing. As a teen, I dreamed of a performing career, but that dream was far away because my parents forbid me from pursuing it. Dad just wanted me to be steady and enroll in college, but I was a rebel and didn’t want to follow the route he set for me. I wanted to go my own way and learn movie making. I thought about going to a specialty college, but my friends argued against it. “Think about it,” he said, “how many outstanding applicants from across the country are trying to get into it? Do we Xinjiangers stand any chance? Just look at the enrollment requirements!” One of them said.
Luckily, I met Lang Chen, a Uyghur with a Han name. He told me I was cut out for the performing arts and suggested I attend a school of drama or a movie college. I said I didn’t know how to start and wanted him to help me. He agreed. That was 1993, when I was selling children’s shoes at a Xinjiang shopping center. Lang Chen tutored me and two of my friends as we prepared for the entrance exams. Two years later, in 1995, we all made it into Shanghai Theatre Academy; it was my first real departure, of my own will, out of Xinjiang. I had left Xinjiang only once before, in the 1980s, when I was still a small child. Dad stopped in Mom’s Hebei hometown on route to Beijing for a meeting. That’s all I remember about that trip. My first two plus years in Shanghai were very hard as I wasn’t used to the local food and climate. A good meal could happen only on weekends, when I would visit a Xinjiang restaurant on Zhejiang Road and order boiled lamb with noodles and soy sauce or pilaf with noodles. The climate in Shanghai is totally different from that in Xinjiang. Xinjiang has four distinct seasons while Shanghai has only two: winter and summer. With no heat, I couldn’t keep my bed warm unless I covered myself in four quilts plus my overcoat and bath towels.
The theatre academy broadened my scope of vision and I learned what art and theatrical performances are all about. As an honors student and regular winner of scholarships, I earned the opportunity to stay because Shanghai Film Studio hired me. The hiring process looked simple, but it was by no means a piece of cake. It took a lot of labor and sweat. Many people thrived on guanxi, while I could depend only on myself. No one showed any special care for me just because I was a Xinjianger. In college, I had acted, but not starred, in several movies. My first leading role did not come until after graduation. In 1999, movie director Gao Feng directed a movie titled The Journey, based on a true story about a PLA man’s leadership in fighting robbers in coalition with multiethnic passengers on a long-distance bus trip to Xinjiang. The movie was shot in Xinjiang, which gave me a totally different feeling because even the air felt familiar. One interesting detail was that instead of resorting to the customary inland practice of burning incense to the gods, the director prayed for the movie’s success per Muslim tradition through scripture reading and lamb sacrifice. The ceremony was totally Xinjiang and looked very familiar to me. The movie won awards because of its great presentation of the physical and spiritual beauty of Xinjiang. Still, I felt like a stranger in an alien land long after I settled in Shanghai. Long-established customs and habits just don’t die.
It appears our hometowns can’t be judged by anyone except ourselves. We have a natural bonding to, and a big heart for, the place we grow up. We are attached to our roots as children are attached to their parents and dogs are attached to their masters. Xinjiangers are no different and, in fact, due to numerous social prejudices against Xinjiang, can be more defensive about their homeland. I got into a fight with someone who kept saying bad things about Xinjiang even though he knew nothing about it. “Let me show you what Xinjiang is like with my fist!” I said, as I pushed over the table, beat him up, and left in anger. I couldn’t get over it because my action just proved him right and probably deepened his prejudice against Xinjiang.
Though I often tell people about the fruits and landscapes in Xinjiang, I feel that in this age of information globalization, people can get to know all aspects of Xinjiang through different means of communication. What is noteworthy is that people may have scant knowledge, and even misunderstanding, of life in Xinjiang. For example, even today, people may doubt it when I tell them I am from Xinjiang. “You don’t look like a Xinjianger at all, because your eyes are so small,” someone might say. I would then have to tell him or her that there are 13 ethnicities in Xinjiang, including Han, Uyghur, Kazakh, and Mongol. Ignorance about Xinjiang people can be attributed to issues in primary education and public relations. Publicity about Xinjiang tilts toward the simplistic, superficial, and primordial icons, such as singing and dancing and the desert, which have nothing to do with modern civilization. Despite being misrepresented, Xinjiang at least managed to maintain its unity and harmony until the summer of 2009 tragedy, which destroyed the peaceful relationship between Xinjiang and the inland provinces and even took away a loved one of my family.
I was the last person to hear of my aunt’s death. My mom told me on the phone that my uncle found his wife in a hospital mortuary. He was with her that night and they were on their way home when they heard rallies had erupted. They were not particularly worried because they thought Xinjiangers wouldn’t fight amongst themselves. By the time they reached Yanan Road, however, vehicles were being torched and whoever managed to get out were immediately beaten. When I met my uncle later, I stayed away from mentioning the sad incident. Just like my dad, my uncle has many ethnic minority friends and knew the riot was the work of a limited few. The entire incident was an abomination marking the beginning of a bad change. I talked about it with Lang Chen on the phone every day, and we continued talking about it when we met in person. I could feel he was equally sad, as if he had done something wrong, when he just happened to belong to the same ethnic group as the criminals. As long-time friends, we have always treated each other as brothers and never thought of ourselves as people of different races. It was a disaster, an agonizing event in which both Hans and Uyghurs suffered injury and loss of life.
In those circumstances, people took extreme attitudes, including fury, sorrow, and hatred. People began to develop gang mentalities and were torn apart by an invisible force. Since childhood, I have had multiethnic friends, including Hui, Uyghur, and Kazakh. After leaving Xinjiang, I still see all ethnic minority people as my friends. I never refuse to befriend people just because they are ethnically different. Xinjiangers were very much afflicted in those days because they had traditionally lived in harmony and amity with people of different ethnicities. It was a feeling people living in other areas may not be able to share. After the riot, Xinjiangers came to a sober understanding of the problem’s root. They could see things more clearly with an open mind because they didn’t want to stay in tragedy, even though the impact could last for generations to come. Two years ago, during Eid al-Adha, my niece sent a message to her Uyghur-speaking friends on WeChat, “Happy New Year to all Muslim friends!” However bitter one may be, one should not let hate multiply among friends, co-workers, and any other innocent people. People will not return to normal until the fames of hate die out. The sad thing is, even today, that fame still sizzles in bits and pieces here and there.
The other day, I reserved a roasted whole lamb at my favorite Xinjiang restaurant and went there to dine. The owner was very pleased to see me and served the whole lamb for free. He told me he had to close six other restaurants he was operating in Shanghai. “I have no way out. The landlords were under pressure to quit leasing properties to me. This remaining one has been around 15 years. We have a solid relationship with the lessor and they insisted on keeping us,” he said. I had a problem with what I heard. What harm can Xinjiang restaurants do anyway? They can only add to the melting pot culture of Shanghai. If Indians, Americans, and those from the Middle East can operate restaurants here, why not Uyghurs? Undue restrictions on Uyghurs can only create a vicious cycle. We should not only act as spokespersons for Xinjiang, but also need to stand at a higher vantage point and look at things from a humanistic perspective. We need to see everyone as equal, with no privileges for or prejudice against anyone. That’s what we should be doing.
Differences do not just exist among different ethnicities, even a married couple can have differences. My wife is a native of Chengdu, Sichuan Province, whose habits differ from mine. I like tea with milk, and she doesn’t, but she would never prohibit me from drinking that. I grew up eating lamb and pilaf, and my wife took a liking to them too. Even my mother-in-law, who was never into lamb, has fallen in love with lamb from Xinjiang. It is mutual respect and acceptance. Some people take all Xinjiangers for terrorists and erroneously think there is violence all over Xinjiang. They will find themselves wrong after some research and field visits. We cannot overemphasize respect either: Once we become suspicious, ritualistic, and overly sensitive, we will be hurt even more.
The fact is, all Xinjiangers carry a label that cannot be easily done away with because Xinjiang is their place of birth or origin. They may move to other cities, even foreign cities, and speak fluent local dialects or English, but they will never lose the memories of their growth or uproot their past. If that’s the case, why not just do something good for that label? Individuals do not just stand alone; they need to be pooled and grouped together to demonstrate the power of truth.
Whether in Shanghai or Beijing now, I have maintained my habit of drinking tea with milk. Every morning, as soon as I get up, I brew a pot of tea with milk. Every time I drink it my heart fills with a special feeling that causes me to long for the good old days 10 or 20 years ago, to see the things I used to see, to stay with the people I used to stay with, and to share the same joy and love we used to share.
(selected from Xinjiang: Beyond Race, Religion, and Place of Origin by Kurbanjan Samat, translated by Wang Chiying, published by New World Press in 2017)
