Fragment

In the crucible of my origin

My name is Chen Yaoqing. I was born in 1938 in Chao’an County, Guangdong Province, China. My father, Chen Xuanyun, was a native of Hunan. After taking part in the Xinhai Revolution, he followed the army through years of upheaval until he arrived in Chao’an, where he met my mother. They married and had five children: my eldest sister, Guiqun; my second brother, Yaohu; my third sister, Guilu; and then me, the fourth child. We also had a younger sister, Guixiang, but she died in infancy. I was born into a world already in turmoil. Not long after, the war with Japan erupted and soon consumed everything in its path. As the Japanese forces closed in on Chaozhou, my father was stationed at Dongjin, a small town near Chao’an. Meanwhile, our family fled to Xiatang, leaving behind everything familiar. Along the way, we witnessed the terrifying force of Japanese air raids—the deafening explosions, the plumes of smoke, the senseless destruction. I was too young to comprehend it all, but I knew enough to be afraid. I cried endlessly, my small body trembling, until my mother and older siblings soothed me as best they could. Eventually, we reached Xiatang, where my father had already arranged a place for us to stay.

But our refuge was temporary. The war pressed ever closer, and soon we had to move again, this time to Shibei. While my father held his post at Dongjin, the enemy advanced. He was shot and killed by Japanese troops. From that moment on, my mother bore the weight of our survival alone. With five children to feed, she scraped together a living—relying partly on a government pension, partly on whatever small business ventures she could manage. Life was hard, uncertain, and always shadowed by loss, but she endured, and so did we.

Seeking Refuge with Relatives in Vietnam

In 1945, with Japan’s defeat and the end of the war, we returned in triumph to Chao’an alongside the troops. Life did not return to what it had been, but we did what we could. My mother took up small business ventures, and my third sister, Guilu, began learning embroidery—both of them working tirelessly to support our family. The summer of 1947 heralded the graduation of my elder sister Guiqun. However, the ominous clouds of conflict between the Chinese Kuomintang and the Communist Party loomed large in the northeast, casting a pall over the southern lands. Panic ensued, industries withered, and job prospects dwindled. Guiqun, in a noble bid to alleviate the familial burdens, took up embroidery as well.

The symphony of fate orchestrated a meeting between Guiqun and Yi Heling, a demobilized officer from the 186 division. Love blossomed swiftly, and the echoes of marriage resonated in their hearts. With both families tethered by a military legacy, my mother bestowed her blessing upon their union. Amidst the backdrop of war's aftermath, their nuptials were a modest affair. Shortly thereafter, my brother-in-law's military obligations summoned him urgently to Shantou City, and he departed with my sister, marking a farewell we have not since reversed.

The familial saga unfolded with increasing strife. The initial county support for families of fallen soldiers waned, casting a somber note upon our abode. The specter of my younger sister's demise due to illness and my brother's reluctance to pursue education deepened my mother's sorrow. From that point onward, the family unit dwindled to a resilient trio—mother, sister Guilu, and myself—reliant on each other's strength. In a bid to economize, we sought refuge in more modest accommodations, a testament to the indomitable spirit tethering us through adversity. ×