The Other Side of the Wall
Cheuk Lam Sharon Ho, Group 4: Fiction, St. Paul's Co-educational College
gust of wind sliced through the crisp, still autumn air, and in its wake, a trail of leaves began their
long descent to the ground, a whirl of ruby and topaz that fluttered like the wings of a newborn bird.
All this went unnoticed by the little girl, her clear brow set into a stubborn little frown as she grasped
limb after limb of sturdy mahogany. How could she notice, when her mind was set only on what
everyone called the greatest construction in history? They could even see it from the sun, they said,
so surely she could catch a glimpse of it from the tallest tree of her village? It was this burning curiosity that
pushed her forwards, made her ignore the face-scratching, cloth-ripping branches that seemed to want to block
her way.
One lost shoe, and a torn sleeve later, she finally cleared the summit. Out of breath, she stared in wide-
eyed wonder at what they called, the Great Wall of China. It was a sight to behold; a mighty dragon of stone and
clay and blocks that snaked its way over plains and valleys and mountains into oblivion. She leaned forward for
a better view.
CRACK!
The next thing she knew, she was lying on hard ground, all breath knocked out of her, her right arm
bent at an awkward angle.
Such was her first encounter with the Great Wall, which in her mind was mostly obscured by pain. The
Wall itself she had very little memory of, but she did recall the heavy wooden splint that she had to wear for a
month, and the mind-blowing agony when the village doctor popped her arm back into place. That she did
remember extremely well.
However, as was the case for most five year-olds, there was always a game to play, a butterfly to catch,
and she dwelled no more on the memory. She did shrink away whenever the adults mentioned the Great Wall,
though, as she had decided not to like it. After all, what was there to like when all it brought back was
unpleasant memories?
But time, merciless as always, flew by in leaps and bounds, and soon, the little girl was no longer a
little girl; worries and fears were no longer as simple as a tree to climb or a broken arm.
“
Mei! What are you doing off in your own little world?”
She started, brought back to reality with a resounding crash. Of course, there was always crops to be
watered, livestock to be fed; when was there ever time to dream? But she shouldn’t sound so petulant. She
should be thankful that she could finally go to school, could go to bed with a filled stomach every now and then.
“
Mei, it’s dinner time. Set the table and call for your father, alright?” But now, taking in her mother’s
haggard face and callused hands, she found it immensely difficult to be thankful in the least. She nodded and
stood up, to which the wooden chair emitted a loud creak of protest. Wincing at the bowl of deplorably thin
congee of sorts, she turned towards the door. If that raggedy piece of cloth could be called a door.
She should be thankful that the days of crowds of garish red roaming the streets, looting however they
liked and destroying the lives of whomever they pleased with talk of revolution and justice, were long past. The
worst was over, but it hardly felt that way, as she continued on her way to the fields. Beggars and famished
children littered the streets, and yet what could she do? Her own family was barely making it through.
Her parents told her that she is far too restless for a 12 year-old, that she should be focusing on her
studies and chores instead. How could she not be restless? Sometimes, the life she was living felt smothering,
the Great Wall just outside her village like the bars of a cage, locking her in, preventing her from escaping each
day that she had come to dread.
“
You old prune! Not so high and mighty now, are you?”
Startled, Mei broke from her thoughts. She had been called many names in her life, some maybe she
deserved, though she hardly thought that she warranted being called an ‘old prune’. Looking up, she realized
that the callous voices hadn’t been addressing her, but her father. He stood dejected, in the middle of the wheat
field, as a band of kids threw handfuls of mud at him.
The thing that happened in her childhood –the thing that none of them ever brought up- had broken him.
He was once a teacher, a respected scholar, now reduced to a mere farmhand that everyone laughed about. By
association, Mei’s childhood had been rough, but she knew that what she had been through was not even close
to what her father had to endure.
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