Leaving Mother Lake Read Online Free Page B

people,” the soldier explained. “We are wholly dedicated to the liberation of the people and work entirely in the people’s interest. Do you understand?”
    The horseman shook his head. He turned toward the villagers and said that the Chinese were tired and hungry. Soon after, a woman made her way through the small crowd, carrying a tray with bowls of butter tea. After her, another appeared with a plate of barley cookies, and then another with walnuts and pears. The soldiers squatted on their heels and ate and drank gratefully. Meanwhile the villagers looked on and commented on the way they ate, on their soft, pale yellow skin, the short hair that stuck out from under their caps, the shiny guns, the dusty uniforms. Eight soldiers, they agreed, was not a big army. You couldn’t kill a lot of people with only eight soldiers.
    And since it was dark already, some volunteered to invite the Chinese into their homes, where they fed them chicken soup and told them to sleep near the fireplace.
    The next morning the soldiers were ready to get on with their revolutionary work. With the help of the horseman, they gathered the villagers and began speaking with great enthusiasm about the modern world beyond our mountains — the airplanes, the cinemas, the cars and trucks, and the Communist Party.
    “China has turned over,” the horseman said. “Chairman Mao will give you everything you need.”
    “Really, he will give me
everything
I need?” a young woman called out with a mischievous smile.
    The villagers laughed.
    In Grandmother’s village, there were no aristocrats or feudal lords to overthrow, and the people already had their fair share of the land, so the revolution was over quickly. But the Communists did not leave immediately. Instead they hung red banners with large Chinese characters that no one could read all over the village. Then they selected the largest courtyard, where they began to hold daily political meetings in order to reeducate the local masses.
    The villagers learned about many new things. For example, they learned that Tibet and Moso country had always belonged to China and that the Moso were no longer Moso but members of the newly established Naxi Minority Nationality, one of fifty-five official Chinese nationalities that made up the People’s Republic of China. * “Oh!” the people said. The Naxi are our neighbors in Lijiang, on the western bank of the Yangtze River, and although we do not speak the same language or eat the same food or dress in the same way, the Chinese had always insisted that we were the same people. Except that, up to the revolution, they had also insisted on calling the Naxi by the name Moso.
    “The Chinese have always had strange ideas,” the horseman explained.
    The villagers nodded their heads slowly.
    Overall, the meetings had a mixed success. The old people got bored, and the horseman soon grew tired of trying to find Moso words that did not exist, but the young people were captivated. The Communists said: “The young people are the most active and vital force in society. They are the most eager to learn and the least conservative in their thinking. This is especially so in the era of socialism.”
    My mother never missed a session. When she got up in the morning, she could hardly sit still long enough to eat her breakfast before she gathered her long skirt and, barely taking the time to take one last glance at herself in the pink mirror, flew out of the door. She made rapid progress in Chinese, learning to shout slogans against class oppressors and to sing revolutionary songs. She truly loved the songs. She can still sing all of them today. Their rhythms were so different, so inspiring: they made you feel like marching to the top of the mountains and going to see what was on the other side.
    Every night when my Ama came home from the evening meeting, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining.
    But Grandmother knew that this had nothing to do with love.
    Indeed, it