The Diaries of the Great Wall
Lorraine Wong, Group 3: Fiction, Maryknoll Convent School Secondary Section
ith my two kids tugging at my pants, one at each side, and my wife holding my hand, it was
almost the perfect moment. Ever since I learnt to walk, I had always known two hands that were
always holding mine, and rubbing their fingers against mine. Those hands were my mother’s and
they were the only hands I had known until I met my wife. They were rough but gentle, small but
strong. I had never forgotten that feeling, and the way my wife held my hand had always reminded
me of that feeling. The hot sun was embracing us and made us warm on a cold winter’s day. Snow had not come
this winter although the whole city had been waiting for it to come ever since the winter solstice because the
snow had somehow always made every family come closer and warmed our hearts. The Great Wall standing in
front of us had marked the footsteps of the Chinese people and how far they had come. It made its way through
the great mountains of China like the way a great explorer made his way through the world.
My mother had always wanted me to bring my kids to the Great Wall. She said one did not truly become a
Chinese until one had visited the Great Wall. One must go there and walk in the footsteps of the civilians and
the soldiers, taste their bloodstains and smell their sweat. Therefore, I took the opportunity of the Lunar New
Year holidays to take my kids there. In my childhood, my mother had never read me storybooks because we
were far too poor to afford them. My mother had neither sung to me nor told me folk-tales that fascinated most
of the kids in my village because her mind was far too preoccupied with other things. All the stories I heard in
my childhood was the stories of my father. Those stories talked about the past but also the future. When my
mother spoke of them, affection and sorrow flowed through her words. Nobody could tell the stories more
vividly than my mother did, because she was also living in those stories.
From those stories, I learnt that my father’s name was Huang Yong. My grandfather was one of the
revolutionaries led by Sun Yat-sen so my father was made to fight for the Nationalist party against the
Communists in the Chinese Civil War. He left my mother when she was just pregnant with me. He never wrote
to us again. According to my mother, he just “vanished”, but as long as I knew he never really vanished. Our
hearts had always reserved a special place for our father, with the smallest speck of hope that he would return to
us someday. My mother was not a person who engaged in politics, but a person who engaged herself very much
in feelings. She always blamed herself for not being a good wife and drove my father away. My mother had
always imagined that my father had found himself another woman and that she had long been forgotten. I had
never believed it, but I could not find anything to convince my mother otherwise. My life had been full of
questions unanswered. I had sung a hundred songs of longing, but nothing had changed.
“
Papa, check this out! People have written their diary on here. This is so cool!”
The four of us turned to stare at those words on the Great Wall. My kids became exceptionally adorable
when I saw them standing in front of the Great Wall which was far taller than they were. The words were deeply
carved on the Great Wall. It was some unusual strength that made those words last until now. There were six
diaries entries all together, and there was a frequent reoccurrence of the name “Xia Ping”, which was my
mother’s name.
***
3
th August 1941
I don’t want to kill anybody, but I don’t want to get killed either. I have written hundreds of letters to you,
but I have nowhere to post them. I want to be with you, Xia Ping. I don’t want you to worry about me anymore,
but I don’t have anything to prove to you that I will remain well until the end of war. I know deep in my heart
that our love will keep me safe. This is the only thing that I can count on.
4
th August 1941
Xia Ping, I know that war will be over soon and I shall reunite with you the day this world gains peace. I
hope you will think of me when you give birth to our child. You should teach him my name and tell him my
stories. I shall be with you every day. I don’t even know why I am carving my dairy on the Great Wall. It is
ironic that my diary will be exposed to thousands of people every day, but you will never get to see it.
5
th August 1941
It is so dark that I can barely see what I am doing. Everything has been like a dream. Everything is so
unearthly that I can barely believe that all this is true. At least I refuse to believe it. Nobody wants war, but war
is always there and everybody is somehow fighting in it. Move on with your life Xia Ping. Don’t wait for me. It
will be too late and you will end up waiting for nothing. I want you to be happy.
6
th August 1941
W