What the Chinese Don't Eat (18 page)

My mother’s heart attack has shattered our dreams of finally getting to know each other

I am in China with my mother, who had a heart attack three weeks ago. She is sleeping in bed number 37 in the 20th department at the First Hospital of Nanjing. I am watching her as I write: her breathing is more out than in – with five tubes linking hanging bottles and machines to her tiny body – and she is covered by a sheet.

You would not believe that in her 20s this woman was one of the best dancers at Beijing military base. Her grey hair is hidden in the pillow and looks so lifeless that no one could imagine it as it was in her 30s, shining black and stylishly wrapped in bright silk. Her skinny hands are punctured by needles, making it almost impossible to believe they drew many designs of modern engineering from the 1950s through to the 90s.

I delve into my memory to dig out the old, lively images I have of her, remembering the stories others have told me about her and what I have seen in photos. I have to keep reassuring myself that she is still alive by looking at those green jumping lines and the flickering numbers on the screen, the sounds of the oxygen supply and drops of medicine.

Never in my life have I had a chance to look at my mother so close up and in such detail. Thirty days after I came out of her womb, I was sent to live with my grandparents, like so many millions of other Chinese children. Then, when I was seven and a half, I was sent to a school at my parents’ military base. I lived with my parents for just two weeks before the
Cultural Revolution took place. They were both then sent to different prisons. As black-listed kids ‘looked after’ by red guards, my younger brother and I hardly saw them again over the next 10 years. Then I was educated and worked in cities far from where she lived.

Three years ago she rang me and said she had never given me a family birthday party and she wanted to organise one for me – her almost-50-year-old daughter.

Unfortunately, it is still a dream, like so many others we have: to make a trip together to see how China has changed since her childhood; to visit relatives in Taiwan and America, all of whom left China in the 1940s, and whom we heard about from family chat but never met; to go window shopping for toys and imagine what we would have liked to play with if she and I were both children now, because neither of us had a proper childhood (as a capitalist’s delegate daughter, she was caught up in the civil war between the National party and the Communist party); to sit down together to make tablecloths for her house in Nanjing and my flat in London, as so many Chinese women do, providing handcrafted works of beauty for their lovers and family members.

But, above all of these, what we really want is the time and energy to be brave enough to open up our past to each other. As mother and daughter, we have so much we do not know about each other. So many wheres, whats and hows from when we were separated for all those years by the Cultural Revolution. We have been scared to tell the truth.

It is much harder for my mother. I know one of her secrets: in a cupboard in her bedroom, she has many new dresses given to her in the 1970s – she refuses to wear them, so that she can forget her past when the beauty and bright was replaced by dark and suffering.

I do not know whether or not we could talk about our deep, hidden past at the end of her life because I am told by her doctor that she is too weak to have any emotional conversation.

Every morning, I wake her up quietly so that her temperature and blood pressure can be taken. She has very little breakfast, but I still go and get two or three newspapers and three bunches of lilies for her new day and a fresh smile. After her daily treatment we have a 10-minute walk while we talk about the news. I am so touched by her trust as she allows me to wash her hair and clean her body. She never complains, even though the first doctor made a big mistake and delayed her heart operation. Sometimes she even looks funny – like a child trying to steal a tiny bit of ‘forbidden meat’ from my plate for her ‘greedy happiness’.

Oh, my dear mum, please go on with your beliefs and your life for both you and me. I who dream of being your daughter wrapped in your arms.

I always feel that I never thank my family and friends enough. I would like to take this chance to thank the following people from my heart:

Toby – my husband, who knows what the Chinese DO eat and has shared so much Chinese culture with me.

PanPan – my son, who has started choosing his Chinese meals with the background of only five years of western education.

Clare Margetson – my editor at the
Guardian
, who lit my way to this book.

Lucy Clouting – my manager at the
Guardian
, who handled my work smoothly.

All
Guardian
ers – for allowing my words into your admirable paper.

Rachel Cugnoni – my Vintage boss, who has encouraged my writing so much and also encouraged me to have my old face on the front of this book cover.

Elizabeth Foley – my editor at Vintage, who helps me not only in writing but also with my charity MBL with her heart.

Audrey Fitt, Sue Amaradivakara and all the Random House staff, who have supported me a great deal since I became their author.

All of the volunteers of MBL (The Mothers’ Bridge of Love) in China, the UK and other countries, who have taught me and support my love for Chinese children with their hearts; I wouldn’t have been able to write these columns without their knowledge and information.

Since the publication of her books Xinran has received a huge number of letters from the adoptive mothers of Chinese children and Chinese mothers living abroad. In response to these letters she decided to create her own charity, The Mothers’ Bridge of Love, to help these women, their children, and the many children living in destitute conditions in China.

More than 55,000 western families have adopted Chinese orphans, mainly girls, since 1993. As they grow up, these children ask: ‘Why didn’t my Chinese mummy want me?’

Over 50% of the Chinese people live in poverty. Millions of children all around the country can only dream of a decent education. These children ask: ‘How can I ever go to school?’

Meanwhile millions of overseas Chinese children hardly understand their roots. These children ask: ‘What is Chinese culture?’

Xinran’s charity, The Mothers’ Bridge of Love, helps to find answers to these questions by building a bridge between China and the world; between rich and poor; between children’s birth culture and their adoptive culture.

Please do visit the charity’s website
www.motherbridge.org

MBL – The Mothers’ Bridge of Love Charity Registration No. 1105543

If you would like to send a cheque please use the following address:

MBL
9 Orme Court
London
W
2 4
RL
UK

If you would like to make a bank transfer or for online payment, please send funds to:

The Mothers’ Bridge of Love (MBL)
Sort Code: 400607
Account Number: 11453130
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Russell Square Branch
1 Woburn Place, Russell Square
London
WCIH OLQ
SWIFT Code:
MIDL GB2142E

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