Da Jilu/en/Band 4

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The Great Report — Volume 4

Development: assaulting the “kingdom of necessity” gradually enters “freedom.” Ship One took two years from commissioning to systematic firing; Ship Three achieved it in two months.

The youngest captain, Han Xiaohu, explained: “We achieved systematic operation upon commissioning, benefiting from predecessors' experience. We arrived early at factories, ensuring we could read blueprints, understand parts, make circuits work, eliminate faults. Training began immediately—firing within two months.”

Two years to two months—transformation! Currently over twenty captains like Han Xiaohu. This generation converses with foreign guests in foreign languages. Daytime firing in normal weather is unremarkable; they fire accurately in night, fog, rough seas—”all-weather.” They specifically choose harsh conditions.

Regulation-specified firing conditions don't satisfy—increasing distances, reducing targets still produces exceptional results. They hit both co-directional and reverse-directional moving targets.

Zhang, who once taught hand by hand, now focuses on tactics. Individual ship improvements demand tactical reforms. He listed eight aspects: “I'm finally doing my proper job. Initially Old Ding and I combined grassroots work with high school teaching—hard but not proper. My proper work is formation tactics.”

They've completed all formation training, including live-fire under electronic countermeasures. Standing in harbor watching warships, I recalled Deng Xiaoping sixteen years ago: “American materials on computers—initially the military rejected them, saying they didn't understand. Later, great determination pursued this, now equipping to regiment level. We haven't considered this. Solving it is difficult, but thinking must unify, gradually realizing command modernization—can't drag too long!”

Sixteen years passed; the strategist's vision partly materialized. But how far behind are our preparations! Spring arrived, yet many remain in winter. What Deng called “difficult”—perhaps most difficult is conceptual transformation, changing traditional military images to soldiers operating computers. Someday, every officer must deal with computers—silent comrades.

This flotilla took the first step well, setting an example. I stood at attention facing the sea, saluting the port—offering my admiring salute.

Air Force Chapter: The New Generation's Sky-High Pride

One “Rich Man” Each Hour

Special-grade pilot and flight squadron leader Shuai Yongli returned home in high spirits. “Make some good dishes,” he told his wife. “I want a few drinks.”

She wasn't surprised—her husband who ate flight meals rarely fussed about home cooking, but demanding extra courses today must mean something. “Did you win a commendation? Get promoted?”

“Ha! Commendations and promotions are nothing! I'm switching to new fighters—advanced fighters.” His pride was unmistakable.

“How advanced?”

He couldn't reveal technical parameters, nor dismiss her with “no comment,” so he answered cleverly: “These fighters absorb the world's latest technological achievements, leaping an entire era. They'll make every performance you've seen pale by comparison.”

“My goodness!” Her eyes widened. “Such news—why didn't you say anything?”

He had told no one, including colleagues and subordinates. Retraining on new fighters would vault units into leading ranks. This was long-awaited by every pilot, dreamed of by every soldier. But new fighters weren't flyable by everyone. They demanded high standards in scientific knowledge, skills, physical condition, and psychology. Pilots had to be selected from the entire air force—one in a hundred, strong among the strong.

“Am I qualified?” He had evaluated himself countless times, repeatedly wanting to apply, repeatedly hesitating.

Yet new aircraft's attraction was enormous—the ultimate expression of a pilot's self-worth. In the air force, becoming a pilot meant being the sky's pride; flying new aircraft first placed you at the front—pride among prides. The first few would become instructors—how glorious!

After repeated deliberation, he walked confidently to Division Commander Zhang Jianping's home.

Young Commander Zhang was famous for being “combative.” Intense ultraviolet rays at altitude couldn't tan his skin—he always appeared fair and dashing. Medium height, impeccable dress—clearly someone with education and breeding. But in aircraft or command towers, he became lion and tiger combined. A sharp blade in aerobatics and combat, a pioneer in breaking restrictions and filling gaps. He had driven unidentified aircraft from the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau across borders; led a five-aircraft arrow formation over Tiananmen for the 35th National Day parade; accumulated countless successful performances and tactical demonstrations. Both division commander and first-class pilot, he became regiment commander at twenty-seven, division commander in his early thirties.

Shouldering new fighter training, he first thought of honoring his unit's glorious history. His division, from formation in late 1950 to 1951 combat, trained less than a year with pilots averaging under 100 hours, yet shot down or damaged 111 enemy aircraft—87 destroyed, 24 damaged. Division pilots striking enemy aircraft comprised 71.4%, producing “Hero Wang Hai Squadron” with 29, Zhao Baotong's “Hero Squadron” with 17, first-class heroes Wang Hai and Zhao Baotong with nine each, Liu Yuti and Sun Shenglu with eight and seven, Fan Wanzhang with six, plus Yang Zhenyu, Jiao Jingwen, and Luo Canghai with four each.

Celebrating one hundred enemy aircraft, Chairman Mao personally wrote: “Congratulations to Air Force X Division.” The Central Military Commission sent commendations.

This glorious past pushed him forward like an invisible hand—almost unbearable weight. Early 1950s predecessors with only elementary education, minimum sixty hours flying, shooting down enemies—undoubtedly miracles in air combat history. Today's pilots were mostly college-educated, given the most advanced aircraft—could they recreate past glory?

After passionate excitement, he saw clearly: 1950s aircraft on both sides were primitive compared to now. Advanced weapons require higher-quality personnel and more training time. Illiterates could master cold weapons quickly; modern aircraft required extensive training even for graduates. Revolutionary enthusiasm should burn like fire; scientific attitude should be like ice. This dialectic qualified leaders must remember.

He concluded: the first step must be his own. As division commander, his techniques should be division's finest. Simultaneously, he needed aces for demonstration and instruction. Famous throughout the air force for leading aces—their faces flashed through his mind.

Just then, Shuai Yongli knocked. “I request first-batch retraining—I can do it.” Direct, without false modesty.

Zhang admired his courage, knew his level—completely qualified. But first batch meant only twelve—besides himself, just eleven. He weighed carefully: “I understand your request, but personnel decisions require party committee research and superior approval. Await notification.”

Shuai thought he'd failed, but soon received selection notice. He asked the regiment commander dubiously—who laughed: “You're in—prepare for aviation school!”

He kept the news to himself, rushing home for extra dishes. His wife understood—from now, he'd immerse completely in new aircraft, forgetting wife, children, even himself. She loved him deeply. Though only 1.66 meters tall, he was among the finest, pride of the sky, his brilliance making her radiant.

But pilots couldn't live like ordinary couples. As pilots' wives, engine roars, every silver eagle movement, even drifting clouds tugged their heartstrings. Nerves always tense—only when husbands appeared did hearts settle, affection doubled.

On holidays or during aerobatics, wives spontaneously visited airfields—not to comfort husbands but ground crews. “Thanks for your hard work”—with unspoken understanding: “Be extra careful—my husband's life is half in your hands.”

Shuai, like many pilots, understood but dismissed excessive worry as “scientific ignorance.” However much you explained, worry persisted. Especially retraining—how could she not worry?

Commander Zhang led eleven elites to aviation school. Superior performance meant complex construction and profound principles. Multiple theory courses opened simultaneously; study methods were extraordinary—after class, mentally recalling content equaled several closed-book exams daily. Even first-class physically fit aces were exhausted. Training until midnight, sleeping clothed from fatigue. The school was just ten minutes from downtown, yet ask about the city—these sky's prides knew nothing. They never entered town; all time, even dreams, toured the kingdom of scientific theory.

Fortune never deceives devoted pursuers. Being aces among aces, all twelve scored perfect on theory exams, each writing excellent reports. Shuai alone wrote sixteen, winning first prize in theory competitions.

Solid foundations enabled mastering aircraft—time for practical training.

“Once doesn't work, try twice; twice doesn't work, three times.” Common phrases for hard study. But for flight elites—completely wrong. Commander Zhang told everyone seriously: this fighter isn't gold, but better than gold. Instructor-led flight costs one “rich man” per hour! If once doesn't work and you retry, prepare another suitcase of money. Our nation is poor—limited defense funding allows no retries, no becoming “waste products” for recycling.

Everyone felt these words' weight. Pilots are trained with gold. Civil aviation captains cost gold equal to body weight; new fighter pilots cost more. “Time is money” applies equally here.

Elites had no choice—harden wings in minimum time. But science is honest—to save air time, pay ten or hundred times more on ground. “Ground hard training, air precision flying.” Thousands of data points memorized forward and backward; hundreds of actions practiced verbally and manually; cockpit components densely packed, circuits like spider webs—found accurately with eyes closed. Twelve pilots drew hundreds of cockpit diagrams from memory.

Going airborne amazed instructors: “I took a week to familiarize with cockpits—you did it immediately?”

How to explain? Only after familiarizing with everything did they get seats, maximizing air practice.

Twelve elites completed two-weather retraining—maximum twenty-eight hours, minimum Shuai with twenty-three hours twenty minutes. Conventionally, this level required over thirty. Saving time meant saving money—their savings in gold would be heavy for one person.

High-level talent value was thoroughly demonstrated. Human dignity is equal, but value is unequal. If this difference isn't obvious in low-level labor, in high-level work it's stark. National defense modernization's call for talent grows daily—do we hear it?

Zhang led pilots through clouds, piloting new war eagles home, beginning high-difficulty maneuvers thrilling enough to cause cold sweats. Wives were terrified.

Since that rich dinner, Shuai's wife rarely saw him. Though feet apart, it felt like mountains between. Unable to rest, she brought their child to find him. She saw him with notebook, eyes closed, muttering professional terms, hands moving as if in cockpit. Somehow, suspended hearts settled; tears flowed...

Shuai smiled—happily, confidently. “I'm working toward becoming world-class.”

Worthy of wifely pride? Yes! First batch to school, first solo flight, first high-difficulty maneuvers, first all-weather qualification, first instructor, first performer, first live-fire with all weapons... Even one first merited pride.

Let's watch his performance. Watching with us were senior generals from Central Military Commission, three headquarters, and all services. Besides Shuai, performer was Regiment Commander Zhang Baozhong—both special-grade pilots, outstanding first-batch representatives.

In a flash, two aircraft taxied, within hundreds of meters took off climbing almost vertically. Climbing rapidly, suddenly rolling halfway, inverting, reversing direction, flying over nearly touching the reviewing platform. Observers had no time to applaud—many felt cold sweat, hearts in throats. If slightly wrong...

Allowing no nervous hesitation, aircraft suddenly rolled 360 degrees, then climbed with 540-degree roll. New aircraft in sky were more agile than martial arts masters on ground—aerial acrobatics seemed insignificant. Dual aircraft began high-speed spirals separated by just meters—such speed, such spacing, such complexity. Without perfect mastery, how control so steadily?

After forward flight, inverted flight, straight rolls, horizontal rolls—dazzling maneuvers—lightning-fast aircraft suddenly became leisurely silver dragonflies, slowly passing the platform. Final action of twenty-four consecutive maneuvers—”low-speed flyby.”

Only then did thunderous applause erupt. These were our military's new-generation aircraft, our new-generation special-grade pilots!

Military Commission Vice Chairman Liu Huaqing summarized: “Today opened our eyes, raised our spirits, inspired us!”

Similar performances occurred over twenty times—each perfectly successful.

“Strong” Eat Beef, “Weak” Quit Smoking

Commander Zhang stood on new aircraft, waving to cheering crowds. Among them were Defense Minister Chi Haotian and State Council leaders. Zhang and another pilot had just performed heart-stirring demonstrations—300-meter takeoff, vertical pull, inside loop, dense parallel figure-8s, low-altitude horizontal rolls... Dual takeoff, dual landing—clean and decisive!

Yet the more praise he heard, the more quietly worried. Deng Xiaoping's words from seventeen years ago echoed: “When new equipment comes, will it work? Do you understand? Is command capability sufficient? Even if you're capable, what about subordinates? Without training, it won't work.”

Deng's prediction matched current reality exactly.

“Entering XX Division, everyone reduces salary; officers over ten years become recruits.” This jingle among officers portrayed some mentality. New aircraft had strong endurance—previous multiple sorties now completed in one. Flight time reduced, subsidies decreased—”salary reduction.”

Officers might joke without seriousness. But changing “recruit” status required complete transformation. Modern equipment demands modern personnel; cutting-edge equipment requires cutting-edge people.

Any technology, however advanced, might not be difficult for a few. Special talents might understand instinctively; solid foundations and diligence might sense change early. But producing one or two geniuses creates spectacular shows, not comprehensive combat effectiveness.

Now Zhang held trump cards, could perform dazzling combat—but making entire regiments become aces required clearing thorns and overcoming difficulties.

Many difficulties—some he'd addressed decisively, others he hadn't estimated. Regarding culture, physical condition, age, and experience, Zhang considered everything: university degrees, Grade A physicals, under thirty-five, over 900 hours flight time... Air force commanders granted every request. Personnel first selected within military region—if insufficient, from entire air force.

“Major blood change” adjustments made his team completely new—but earned him a “ruthless” reputation. Bringing new meant removing old. In such a large division, screening only a few? Years of subordinates transferred—both sides felt the pain. Especially cadres who'd struggled to transfer “home”—when new aircraft came, “driven” elsewhere, shedding helpless tears.

Regarding physical quality, Zhang hadn't expected such gaps. On new aircraft, some pilots tired after one hour; some experienced dizziness and dangerous “blackout”—momentarily seeing nothing. Physical quality wasn't adapting. In air force terminology: anti-G capability insufficient.

Fighter pilots differ from civil aviation—besides robust bodies, they wear anti-G suits. Otherwise, under strong G-forces, injuries occur; severe consequences are unthinkable. Aerobatics require higher anti-G capability. New aircraft require far more than old.

Poor quality—exercise! Officers ran 5,000 meters daily; played basketball and soccer ninety minutes. Anyone claiming insufficient training was lying. Conventionally, quality should improve, anti-G strengthen. Somehow, pilots felt more fatigued. Testing showed anti-G capability not improving but decreasing!

Aviation medicine experts were invited. Their explanations embarrassed organizers: “You're training endurance, not anti-G capability. Running and ball games are aerobic; anti-G requires anaerobic—oxygen-deficit movements like sprinting and weightlifting.”

Who knew exercise had such complexity? Ordinary people exercising conventionally strengthen physique; pilots with special requirements need special methods.

Experts formulated individual plans, increasing anaerobic training while reducing aerobic. Emphasizing sprinting plus coordinated exercises with dumbbells, barbells, pulleys, bicycles.

Well-equipped gyms existed but few visited—considered “aristocratic sports.” Seeing foreigners in gyms on TV, they mocked: “Playing fancy—need that stuff? Running outdoors breathes fresh air, saves money.”

Now they discovered they weren't “playing fancy”—they were “country bumpkins.” Enough cases of bumpkins mocking science? Not just exercise.

Experts also prescribed mandatory diets. Hunger and thirst are universally uncomfortable, but being forced to eat unwanted food—not everyone experiences that. Bitter medicine, you grit teeth for a few doses; forced eating continues endlessly.

Pilots were omnivores but had preferences. Some disliked beef, some fish, some butter, some milk. Now no choice—force-feeding themselves. If you played tricks, supervisors caught you.

This unit that started with millet, from Jinggangshan's red rice to Yan'an's millet and beans, commanders always worried about insufficient food—never imagining flight units worrying about forcing down high-energy foods. Though nutritionists called for scientific eating, Chinese people wouldn't surrender freedom to eat as they pleased. European soccer players enter fields like bulls, ours like noodles—many reasons, one being dietary ignorance. True dietary freedom is scientific eating.

Pilots took the first step, moving from satisfying mouths toward satisfying work needs. Scientific exercise and eating achieved unexpected results. Pilots felt energetic. Some previously tired after one hour now flew four without fatigue. Tests showed anti-G capability greatly improved.

Good medicine tastes bitter; illness cured brings sweetness. Now mess halls showed cheerful faces eating prescribed diets like fine wine.

New equipment changed eating habits. Using a popular phrase: “can't help but submit.” You want to control me? Train by my rules, eat by my rules!

Shock waves even changed personal habits. Alcohol was forbidden before flights. Without missions, drinks were possible. Holidays, some drank heavily. After retraining, even former drinkers abstained—not even beer. New aircraft demanded higher behavioral capability, requiring constant clear thinking, stability against oxygen deficiency, loading, and vestibular stimulation.

Smoking too. Previously, pilots exchanged cigarettes, distributed them at gatherings—normal social customs. Now, even offered, they refused. In dormitories, no one smoked—addicts “completely eliminated.” New aircraft warnings proved more effective than cancer warnings. Under three-dimensional G-forces, if windpipes had unnoticeable problems or chest muscles were insufficient, inhaled air might not exhale—no one could help.

Card-playing, once main leisure, also vanished. When new aircraft arrived, card enthusiasts disappeared. What instead? Gyms or books. High physical and cultural requirements forced abandoning pure entertainment.

New aircraft became omnipresent phantoms. Of course, the greatest test remained airborne. Though all graduates, familiarizing with piloting, navigation, fire control, knowing dozens of fault indicators, adapting to high-intensity requirements—every step demanded arduous effort.

Setting aside complex technical problems—black boxes. These were training monitoring systems recording everything pilots did and said. For individuals avoiding difficulties or faking maneuvers—stern referees.

Before retraining, examples existed: pilots with insufficient quality would fly wide circles every aerobatics lesson, watching time pass, then return. Since aircraft couldn't be sent to watch, leadership assumed conscientious training. Only assessments exposed them. One diary read: “I fear aerobatics—hearing it, I tremble...”

Painful lessons, but no solutions existed. Black boxes made monitoring practical. Quality—boxes showed recordings; leadership understood at a glance.

Regiment Commander Zhang Baozhong gave an example: landing required optimal angles. Previously, using eyes, if you said angles were too large, often unaccepted. Eyes aren't measurers—can they distinguish one or two degrees? Now no arguments—check records. One pilot landed at fourteen degrees, two over prescribed ten-to-twelve. No arguments—self-criticism, find causes, research corrections. Previously, another “headless case”—commanders decided, subordinates unconvinced.

When equipment arrived, Vice Chairman Liu instructed “fly quickly.” How quickly? Under Commander Zhang, Squadron Leader Shuai, and other instructors, they completed two-weather flying in two months. Not boasting—boxes provided evidence. Just the beginning.

Breaking “Bottlenecks”: A Small Card

Watching spectacular sky performances, perhaps we don't realize the bottleneck restricting rapid combat effectiveness isn't in the sky but on the ground.

However high aircraft fly, they take off from ground; however far, they return. Ground has ports—aircraft homes. Though ground crews can't rival clouds or sun like sky's pride, “when children travel far, mothers worry.” Departing, everything prepared; returning, welcomed and maintained. Even soaring, crews have no leisure—like kite flyers hoping for good winds while fearing broken strings. Every rise and fall, emotionally connected—mechanics' feelings for aircraft equal mothers' for traveling children.

Yet new aircraft created unexpected chasms. Though mechanics were also replaced with college graduates, diplomas alone couldn't bridge gaps.

Old aircraft fueling forbade powering up; new required power. This small change scared off one graduate from acting. What if problems occurred? Deep-rooted old regulations, like decades-old habits, resisted new.

One night flight, aircraft in sky, a mechanic ran sweating to report: “I under-fueled by several hundred kilograms.”

Short fuel—if pilots didn't notice, aircraft might not return. Immediate report to tower, notifying pilots to watch gauges.

Fueling should be simple—why mistakes? New aircraft calculated by kilograms (mass); fueling equipment by liters (volume). Each required conversion. This mechanic forgot, confusing liters for kilograms. Fortunately remembered shortly after takeoff. Remembering avoided danger—what if he hadn't?

This reminded Maintenance Director Wang Lunwen of statistics: 1986-1987 maintenance accidents, “mistakes, oversights, omissions” caused 28%. Core was “oversights”—what we called “didn't think of it.”

Old aircraft handled for years, rich experience accumulated, still had “didn't think of it.” New aircraft just arrived—how many more?

Old maintenance divided into four specialties: mechanical, ordnance, special equipment, radio. New suddenly increased to seventeen, including fire control, electronic countermeasures, missiles, flight parameters—previously barely encountered. Even traditional specialties added new content. Everything became computer-controlled. Maintenance personnel became computer engineers—detection, maintenance, repair inseparable from computers.

Previously, finding one fault in hours made you a “big shot”; not finding in days wasn't rare. Now computers needed minutes or seconds. If traditional maintenance relied on experience, now it relied on procedures. Standardized procedures couldn't skip steps—dangers from “oversights” grew. One “didn't think of it” could have unimaginable consequences.

Management experts had to eliminate “didn't think of it” through management. Previously, countless meetings analyzed causes—”insufficient proficiency,” “weak responsibility,” “poor control.” True, these caused problems—but why weak responsibility?

Experts Wang Lunwen, Xu Laihua, and Wang Changsheng questioned systems used for years. Core was “Work Diaries”—mechanics recording daily work. Leadership used this for technical conditions.

This consciousness-based system had obvious loopholes. “Didn't think of it” occurred constantly—expired components, periodic work, maintenance... Much “didn't think of it” alongside much unnecessary work.

Example: landing gear brake problems because new tires weren't adjusted after replacement. Who replaced? When? Searching diaries found nothing—headless case. Old systems required change.

How? Wang Lunwen spotted a magazine introducing foreign methods: all maintenance personnel need “check item lists” and “work cards”—former for inspection items, latter for task orders.

Simple introduction brightened his eyes—prescription for our problems, system targeting “mistakes, oversights, omissions.”

Learning Western advanced experience—superiors mentioned repeatedly, but many considered it local affairs, unrelated to themselves. When new equipment left old systems behind, this required attention.

Learning world-advanced methods went from maintenance meetings to party committee tables. Regarding old system backwardness, Commander Zhang had deep feelings since regiment commander days, personally presiding over reforms. Then, nearly one-third of aircraft were grounded from insufficient support. Investigating deeply, he grasped the crux: maintenance personnel allocated by squadrons—the squadron with fewest specialists determined deployment capacity.

Each squadron had weaknesses and strengths—accumulated weaknesses barely made ends meet. Zhang changed thinking, transforming individual battles into unified scheduling—Squadron A's strengths supplementing B's weaknesses, B's supplementing C's... Complementary advantages strengthened everything. Deployment rates more than doubled.

His reforms approached world-advanced levels but still had gaps in quality control. Besides not thinking meticulously, mainly constrained by old systems—not daring to discard decades-old “Work Diaries.” New aircraft brought opportunities—time to discard and replace!

Commander and commissar decided: “Reform!”

First, clarify what to learn. They found materials while sending people to consult local organizations. When Deputy Squadron Leader Wang Changsheng's group visited an airline, they found advanced support had long discarded “Work Diaries.” Two phrases: eye-opening, suddenly enlightened. Previously civil aviation learned from air force—now reversed. Without reform and opening, no way out.

After severe “birth pains,” a new system was born. Simply: small cards—”Maintenance Work Card System” of “Work Instruction Cards.” Ordinary people might find it charmless; management experts would find it beautiful.

See how roundly it closed management's loop. What to do? Who does it? How done? What problems? Cards came from quality control, returned to quality control—perfect circle, leadership saw clearly.

See how properly it constrained behavior. Cards specified tasks—sign each; mistakes couldn't escape. Maintenance changed from experience to procedure—follow card procedures. Cards treated forgetfulness.

See—practically a government with legislative, administrative, executive separation yet close combination. Instructions like legal provisions; personnel administered by law; inspection groups supervised, also signing. Interlocking, seamless.

This system achieved 100% information recovery, never erring in fifty-four periodic items and life-limited components. Even wanting “mistakes, oversights, omissions”—impossible.

Bottlenecks broken. Enlightenment could fill theses, but one point: modern officers need foreign languages. Over a century ago, Clausewitz and Jomini proposed this for international warfare. Now, setting aside overseas operations, just mastering weapons and management required languages. Simple reason: without reading foreign materials, how understand international information?

Seeing officers conversing in foreign languages, chattering in spare time—don't mistake for language institutes. Even Political Commissar Deng carried vocabulary cards, reciting when free.

Commissar Deng smiled: “Leading high-tech units with graduate subordinates—without some foreign language, involving foreign information is deaf dialogue. What leadership?”

He recalled adjusting maintenance personnel: “We wanted old technical school graduates as leaders. Why? They were obedient. But facts were merciless—they listened to leadership, but aircraft didn't listen to them. Superiors reminded: don't be one-sided, saying graduates don't listen. Modern equipment needs people with modern knowledge.

“Ideological corners turned; emotional corners harder. 'Old school' graduates contributed but had to be eliminated. Finally, only twenty-two qualified—all others transferred from outside. Relying on new people, aircraft wings were supported.”

He mentioned twenty-seven-year-old Technician Ji Yaoqin, who translated over 200,000 words, playing important roles.

As bottlenecks broke, training results rose sharply—many pilots flew four weather types; missiles and rockets scored excellent. Training content and difficulty created unprecedented miracles.

Matter is primary. Engels noted in Anti-Dühring that new weapons compel tactical changes. Actually, changes went far beyond tactics—comprehensive transformation.

Commissar Deng said philosophically: “Among transformations, changing concepts is key. If maintenance was the bottleneck for combat effectiveness, backward talent concepts are the bottleneck for modernization. When equipment forces breakthrough, it will seem late.”

Twenty: Not the Conclusion

Three Spring Flowers Bring a “Gift List”

Once thought modernization distant—unexpectedly she approaches step by step, embracing us unaware. Reports from army, navy, and air force are three spring flowers. Since spring has arrived, good dreams will come true—why passively pine? Why not prepare actively?

She doesn't welcome empty-handed suitors, so prepare meeting gifts. Three flowers brought a “gift list”—like a stubborn fiancée's demands. Don't follow, she says “bye-bye.” Unlike romance with many choices, modernization is unique; we must marry her to strengthen military and nation. Study this list honestly and prepare.

Current requirements (officer category):

A. Physical fitness: Strong. Navy, air force, and special forces in certain specialties must reach Grade A. (Never equate strength with fitness. Advanced equipment requires less strength but higher comprehensive fitness, especially mental endurance.)

B. Cultural fitness: Junior college minimum; special specialties plus navy and air force need university degrees; computers and foreign languages essential. (New equipment means computer control.)

C. Military fitness: Master own specialty plus understand related specialties and combined arms tactics. (Beyond individual weapons, everything is systems engineering—single-track officers cannot perform duties.)

D. Mental and psychological fitness: Firm will facing hard and soft attacks; both group and individual courage; single vehicle, ship, aircraft combat capability. (Advanced weapons mean higher self-integration, more independent missions, greater impact on outcomes.) Napoleon's “morale to material three to one” hasn't become outdated.

Meeting these requirements, people-weapon combinations become “loving couples”; otherwise “forced couples”—constant trouble. These units proved this positively and negatively.

Yet relying only on reequipping units is unrealistic. As Deputy Commander Lin Guomin worried: “If equipment comes in batches, where do I find people?” Rather than saying equipment challenges users, it's a macro challenge to military construction.

Challenge One: Officer training standards. After smashing the “Gang of Four,” we restored academy training—high, medium, basic levels. Numbers far exceeded pre-Cultural Revolution—complete categories, connected sequences—yet many graduates knew nothing about new equipment.

Naval officers had highest education. Almost 100% of destroyer officers had degrees; over 60% university graduates. Such levels should handle equipment—yet initially it didn't work. Schools had never seen new equipment; instructors never taught it. “One textbook for life” education—like Peach Blossom Spring people “knowing not of Han, let alone Wei and Jin”—far from requirements.

Gratifyingly, many naval academies adopted methods of instructors participating in manufacturing, receiving, and trial training, then on-site teaching—delivering talent ship by ship. Graduates controlled equipment upon graduation. Some army academies adopted correspondent teaching with equipped units. Yet sayings that “grassroots officers don't need culture” still interfered, affecting enrollment standards. Such views are pitifully shortsighted.

Challenge Two: Conscription standards. Current standards require high school for some specialties, middle school for most. All services proved middle school graduates couldn't master new equipment during service.

A female engineer who taught units said: “Simple problems, some soldiers couldn't understand. I tutored high school math and physics. Strangely, tutoring didn't help—their diplomas had 'water' too.”

Hard to imagine entrusting high-tech equipment to nominal middle school students with actual elementary levels. Beyond researchers' heartache, economics show huge waste.

A destroyer captain tested soldiers' cultural baseline—discovering two illiterates. Operating computers? Arabian Nights! Unable to teach them despite efforts, you can't blame them—they came enthusiastically to serve. Root problems: conscription demanded too little culturally; screening wasn't strict.

All services suggested at least equipped units require high school education with examinations. Otherwise, serious modernization delays.

Challenge Three: Support systems. First, “hard” support. Modern equipment is more complex to support than use—everyone turns on TVs, but repairing requires professionals. New equipment had long break-in periods. Besides personnel quality, support lag was equally or more important.

Missing spare parts had nowhere to requisition; funding was insufficient or absent; repair personnel understood nothing. In tank division X, repair units dismantled tanks but couldn't reassemble them—jokes. Malfunctions required finding manufacturers, but equipment involved over a hundred—difficulties imaginable. For rapid combat effectiveness, engineering support must keep up—essential.

Second, “soft” support. When equipped, corresponding procedures and training outlines should be issued—unfortunately often only manufacturer manuals existed...

Good dreams will come true; spring atmosphere is strong. Years compete for time, spring for minutes. How remain in spring slumber? The key to realization is ultimately in our hands!

(Originally published in PLA Literature, Issue 3, 1995)

Wisdom Storm (An Excerpt)

Wang Hongjia

Forward

Markets may be full of promise, but they’re just as full of pitfalls. You hear people talk about money growing from money—a sound as mysterious as it is elusive. Computers are taking the place of gears across countless industries, and the internet is giving humanity access to shared resources on a scale we’ve never seen before. The world is in the midst of a profound transformation.

Chapter One: Strange World (1948-1966)

Nothing influences your future more than understanding, and nothing shapes your life more than the choices that understanding enables. We grow wiser by learning to understand other people and the world around us. Understanding is the basis of every choice—the place where all futures begin.

I.  A Highbrow Myth

What is this?

The foundation of Peking University Founder’s laser typesetting system was knowledge itself. In the winter of 1975, Wang Xuan hunched over cold desktops, performing his calculations with painstaking precision. Even with his boundless mathematical imagination, he could not have foreseen that the high technology emerging from those formulas would one day make him the first person from mainland China to receive European patents. As knowledge turned into economic strength, Peking University Founder became a pioneering standard-bearer for the “production–study–research” model among Chinese university enterprises—a lofty, nationwide myth in its own right.

Within this myth, Wang Xuan evolved from an ordinary teacher into a “triple academician”—of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, the Chinese Academy of Engineering, and the Third World Academy of Sciences—while also serving on the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress and as Vice President of the China Association for Science and Technology. Yet to truly understand Wang Xuan, one must first set aside his achievements and honors.

In the autumn of 1954, winds rustled the leaves around Weiming Lake and lifted the hem of his white shirt. Newly admitted to Peking University from the south, Wang Xuan wore simple cloth shoes—he was still just a seventeen-year-old student. 

II. Lights of Qibao Town

When filling out his college applications before the entrance exams, Wang Xuan listed three choices: the Mathematics Department at Peking University, the Mathematics Department at Nanjing University, and the Mathematics Department at Northeast People’s University. Although he lived in Shanghai, he didn’t apply to a single school there. In this, you can hear the voice of youth in the 1950s.

It was an era filled with longing for New China—embracing the motherland and rushing toward a bright future were genuine aspirations shared by many. But when Wang Xuan arrived at Peking University, he quickly discovered that he was not exceptional. That year, the Department of Mathematics and Mechanics admitted more than two hundred new students, all mathematical prodigies from across the country. Among his classmates were even red-scarf-wearing “child prodigies”—back then, no one paid much attention to Wang Xuan.

Years later, Wang Xuan recalled, “A group of my classmates had greater mathematical talent than I did—some not just a little greater, but far greater. Like Zhang Gongqing.” It was then that he deeply felt: this is Peking University.

Twenty-four classmates shared one large room. There was no heating in winter, yet the room still felt full of warmth. In that cradle-like, humble space, one could see the abundance of talent in New China.

“My first major life choice came in the second semester of my sophomore year. I had to choose a specialty,” Wang Xuan later said.

I don’t doubt that this was an important decision—one that shaped what a nineteen-year-old would do in the future. But I still feel we cannot overlook an earlier choice he made, at age eleven.

At eleven, Wang Xuan entered the middle school division of Shanghai Nanyang Model School—Shanghai’s most famous private school. However, its middle school campus was in the suburban town of Qibao, which meant he would have to leave home, board there, and live independently. In 1948, Shanghai was engulfed by war and fear.

Wang Xuan was born on February 5, 1937, in Shanghai. During the “August 13” Incident, when Japan launched large-scale attacks on the city, he was only six months old. Raising him through wartime had not been easy for his parents—how could they now feel at ease letting him leave home alone?

“No, you can’t go,” said his eldest brother.

“You should go to the middle school near our home,” said his second sister.

Wang Xuan had two brothers and two sisters, and none of them agreed with him leaving home. But Wang Xuan insisted.

You can imagine how difficult that choice must have been for an eleven-year-old. Yet he made it.

The suburban school was surrounded by a rural atmosphere. Something yearning for autonomy began to grow within the young Wang Xuan. This was likely a life event worth celebrating—the emergence of a temperament that would support his future choices.

Qibao Town had no electric lights—the school dormitories relied on kerosene lamps. Through the image of a small oil lamp illuminating Wang Xuan’s face, I glimpse his parents.

His father, originally from Wuxi in Jiangsu, had come to Shanghai as a young man to study at Shanghai Nanyang University and later became an accountant at an international trading company. His mother came from a scholarly family—his maternal grandfather had once studied in Japan before returning to teach chemistry in late-Qing-era schools.

His parents’ cultural background ultimately led them to protect their youngest son’s individuality.

In 1948, another event relevant to Wang Xuan’s future took place: American mathematician Claude Shannon proposed information theory. While Wang Xuan was running laps on the school’s athletic field, information theory was developing into one of the fundamental theories of information science. That same year, at Bell Labs, Shockley, Bardeen, and Brattain jointly invented the transistor, launching the electronics revolution.

From age eleven to nineteen—just eight years—Wang Xuan would find himself choosing his academic path at Peking University while already hearing news about global advances in computers and space technology. But at that time, the most popular choice among his classmates was still pure mathematics.

III. Where Does Moving Creation Originate

At the time, pure mathematics was especially captivating. This likely traced back to 1952, when Peking University’s science departments were strengthened during the nationwide reorganization of higher education. Peking University moved from its downtown Shatan campus to the suburban campus of Yanjing University. Yanjing’s liberal arts, sciences, and law departments were merged into Peking University, while its engineering programs were transferred to Tsinghua. Renowned science professors from several universities came to teach at Peking University, and President Ma Yinchu placed particular emphasis on foundational courses.

Jiang Zehui, Cheng Minde, Ding Shisun, and other first-rate professors and lecturers taught the basic first-year classes. Teachers often repeated the idea that “God created the world according to the language of mathematics.” Engels wrote: “The degree to which mathematics applies to a science marks that science’s maturity.” In short, the brilliance of pure mathematics could illuminate every field of technology.

Mechanics, by contrast, was a discipline whose foundations Newton had established almost three centuries earlier. Computational mathematics was a relatively new branch—Peking University had only just created the program and didn’t even have proper textbooks. The field felt cold and desolate. What student didn’t want to pursue something broader and more established? Very few chose computational mathematics—yet Wang Xuan selected this “unpopular” path.

You might ask: why?

Years later, Wang Xuan encountered a formula by the American psychologist Jung: I + We = Fully I. His eyes lit up—he felt that this American had “abstracted” the decision-making pattern he had followed for years. In the formula, “I” represents the individual, “We” represents the collective—the sum forming the “complete self.”

He explained that he chose computational mathematics after reading China’s Twelve-Year Science and Technology Development Plan, issued in January 1956. “I saw that the plan listed atomic energy, automatic control, and computing technology as key areas for development. Premier Zhou Enlai also said computing technology was an urgently needed strategic field for our country.”

If Wang Xuan’s choice at age eleven reflected a strong sense of “I,” his decision at nineteen seemed to contain far less personal will—more like answering “the needs of the nation.” In reality, the value of this decision lay in bringing together his own path with the urgent national needs of the era, taking advantage of both favorable timing and circumstance. And if we think abstractly about “needs,” we can see that public needs often hold vast opportunities. As for a field’s “coldness and desolation”—that is precisely where it can be easier to shine. With fewer tall buildings around, the sunlight falls more directly on you.

The following year, the Soviet Union used electronic computing technology to launch the world’s first artificial satellite into space. Pride swept across Peking University, and campus songs echoed with excitement. But that same year, 1957, Wang Xuan’s father in Shanghai was labeled a “rightist.”

Wang Xuan was twenty. At twenty, the world suddenly felt unfamiliar.

His father, Wang Shouqi, had lived his life true to his name—law-abiding, meticulous, shaped by decades of accounting work. How could such a man become a rightist? Wang Xuan could not understand.

He remembered that during the Japanese occupation of Shanghai, his father refused to cross the Waibaidu Bridge for years. The bridge spanned the Huangpu River—normally a busy passageway, but now lined with Japanese flags that required all who crossed to bow. His father could not bear such humiliation and simply avoided the bridge.

He also remembered an incident when his sister bought Japanese pencils. His father was furious. “I said not to buy Japanese goods—didn’t you hear?”

“But Japanese pencils are cheap,” his sister argued.
“No matter how cheap, we cannot have them!” his father exclaimed, snatching the pencils and throwing them into the fire. The family watched them burn to ash.

Wang Xuan graduated at twenty-one, in 1958, just as China launched an enthusiastic campaign to develop computers. With a severe shortage of trained specialists, his chosen field turned out to be exactly what the country needed. Universities urgently needed talent—Wang Xuan was retained as an assistant instructor and became one of the key forces in hardware design. This was, in many ways, the first true harvest of his earlier life choices.

IV. Nothing Opens More Paths to the Future Than Interdisciplinary Research

To develop the medium-sized electronic computer known as the “Red Flag Machine,” Peking University created the “Red Flag Battalion.” Zhang Shilong, who taught Wang Xuan computer courses, was not yet thirty but already one of China’s pioneers in computer development, and he was appointed commander of the new team.

In the summer of 1959—just after Wang Xuan finished the Red Flag Machine’s logic design—Zhang Shilong was labeled a “rightist deviationist” and sent to the countryside. Before leaving, he placed a hand on Wang Xuan’s shoulder, unable to say a word. Wang Xuan felt a sudden, heavy responsibility settle on him.

That autumn, the winds around Weiming Lake lifted the leaves and tugged at Wang Xuan’s white shirt. He felt smaller than ever—truly insignificant. The feeling only strengthened his determination to merge the “I” into the “we.” He threw himself into the Red Flag Machine project and, for a time, seemed to disappear into the work.

In 1961, a growing recognition of his abilities led to the second major decision of his adult life: shifting from pure hardware to software—without abandoning hardware, but instead pursuing a truly integrated software-hardware approach.

At twenty-four, he quickly understood the value of that choice. “I had worked on computers for three years—if someone said I didn’t understand computers, could I deny it? But then I realized that only by understanding software could I really understand computers.”

What he embraced, in essence, was interdisciplinary research. Just as the interplay of yin and yang gives rise to life, innovation thrives on the meeting of different fields. The world’s first electronic digital computer, built in 1946, emerged from the fusion of mathematics and electronics. Its inventors, Eckert and Mauchly, succeeded precisely because they understood both.

When two centuries of industrial development pushed the world toward energy shortages and dwindling resources, the late twentieth century’s wave of low-consumption, high-efficiency technologies arose from interdisciplinary breakthroughs—opening new paths for humanity’s future. Without that interdisciplinary way of thinking, there would be no Wang Xuan as we know him today.

“I was suddenly enlightened,” he recalled.

Around the same time, he made another important decision: listening every day to a half-hour of BBC English broadcasts. He had studied English in middle school but Russian in university. Since computers were invented in the United States—and even though China and the U.S. did not yet have diplomatic relations—he instinctively felt that his research would need to draw on American work. Continuing to study English was essential. This decision would later prove invaluable and can be seen as the third major choice of his life.

This was a period when Wang Xuan devoured new knowledge while carrying out meticulous, in-depth research. Such moments often precede great inventions and major breakthroughs. But that summer, relentless overwork finally caught up with him.

He had poured his youth and strength into the Red Flag Machine. No matter how unwell he felt, he pushed on, never imagining how fragile the body could be. His illness sent him to several hospitals in Beijing, and even after more than a year he still had not recovered. Growing weaker by the day, he thought constantly of his mother.

In June 1962, at just twenty-five, colleagues and friends accompanied him from the hospital to a train. As the whistle sounded and carried him away, many felt as if they were witnessing a farewell.

V. In Life's Most Fragile Days

When his mother saw him at Shanghai Station, tears spilled down her face. But she quickly wiped them away and said, “It’s nothing—you’ll get better.”

Her surname was Zhou, her given name Miaoqing, born in 1901. Her father had chosen the name “Miaoqing” back when the Qing dynasty still existed, and it seemed to give her a certain inner strength. She lived her whole life with quiet determination.

Now she poured everything she had into saving her son. He was suffering from several complicated illnesses, yet even in Shanghai none of the treatments made any progress. Still, she never lost an ounce of conviction.

She had never had her feet bound—a rarity for women of her generation. At sixty-two, she rushed in and out of the house looking for doctors and medicines, coming home to boil herbal decoctions, bowl after bowl, which she carried carefully to her son’s bedside.

Lying in bed, watching her work tirelessly from summer into autumn, Wang Xuan felt a voice rising within him: You can’t let her down. Slowly, he felt his strength returning from some deep, hidden place.

Everyone has a mother, but what in this world is more selfless or more moving than a mother’s love? In her, one could still feel the ideals of the grandfather who had once studied abroad. This white-haired mother fed her son tenacity, perseverance, and love—drop by drop. In the weakest days of his life, she was truly his guardian angel.

After a harsh winter came spring. His health improved; he could get out of bed and walk again. In those ten months beside his mother, Wang Xuan felt as though he had been born anew.

The fields of Qibao Town and the green trees around Weiming Lake returned vividly to his mind. Life felt like a young bird with newly grown feathers, eager to take flight.

A thought took shape: he wanted to build a high-level computer programming language system. It was almost a fantasy. Research materials were scarce in both China and the West. It was like a sick, solitary goose wanting to soar back into the sky. But it was exactly the direction of interdisciplinary research he had chosen.

He began asking everywhere for materials. One day, a friend brought him a book titled ALGOL 60 Revision Report. When he opened it, the text seemed almost unreadable—like deciphering hieroglyphics. But he knew it was precious: an extremely rare foreign text on advanced programming languages.

“Who asked you to bring this?” he asked.

“Teacher Chen Kengzhu.”

Chen Kengzhu was a young lecturer in Peking University’s computational mathematics program. Wang Xuan realized he was no longer a lone goose.

Over the next several years, working from his home in Shanghai, he showed remarkable stamina and impressive design vision, collaborating with Xu Zhuoqun, Chen Kengzhu, Zhu Wansen, and others at Peking University to tackle this difficult problem.

In the summer of 1965, watching his mother pack his luggage reminded me of another scene—the moment when Pavel Korchagin’s mother prepared his bags as he returned to his unit. Children grow up and fly off one by one. They return to their mother only when wounded or sick, and the moment they regain strength, they are ready to leave again.

“Mom, the school has included our system in Peking University’s research plan. I should go back.”

Indeed, children ultimately belong to the nation. Once again, his sixty-five-year-old mother sent him off at the train station. The whistle blew, and she smiled through her tears.

She could never have imagined that this departure would lead to yet another ordeal.

Back at Peking University, Wang Xuan plunged into his work like a fish returning to the sea. With the support of more colleagues, the project finally succeeded and made an important contribution to the development of high-level programming languages in China. The achievement is now part of the history of Chinese computing.

For the first time, he saw their research put to real use. By then, Wang Xuan was one of the very few experts in China proficient in both software and hardware—an “amphibious” expert. As he later put it: “Knowledge and experience in both software and hardware were the decisive conditions that allowed me to design the laser typesetting system.”

His work was moving in the right direction, and the future looked as bright as the choices he had made. Then, all at once, everything collapsed. Overnight, he saw his name scrawled on walls and trampled underfoot. His crime was not what he said, but what he listened to: his daily BBC English broadcasts. He was accused of “listening to enemy radio.”

On the way to rural labor, he fell ill again, and all the symptoms from 1961 returned with renewed force. He was sent to the branch school at the Thirteen Ming Tombs outside Beijing. There were no medical facilities. Without treatment, he was like a fish stranded on dry land, weakening day by day.

Only one person from Peking University continued to visit him at that time: Chen Kengzhu.

“Wang Xuan, you can’t stay here and wait to die,” she told him.

He had no idea what else he could do.

She said, “Go back to Beijing. I’ll take care of you.”

He hesitated. “I can’t do that.”

She replied, “Then I’ll marry you—after that, who could possibly object?”

Contemporary News and Reference Stories

In 1938, the year after Wang Xuan was born, Bell Laboratories in the United States built the world’s first relay-based digital computer. In 1940, the basic concept of the electronic analog computer was introduced. And in 1948, William Shockley, John Bardeen, and Walter Brattain at Bell Labs invented the transistor—an invention I regard as the most important of the twentieth century. Only after the transistor existed could modern electronic computers emerge. And once they did, it was like the arrival of Watt’s steam engine: the beginning of a new economic era. Many years later, this would be called the “knowledge economy.”

(Alexander Graham Bell was born in Edinburgh in 1847. At the 1876 exposition celebrating the centennial of the American Declaration of Independence, he demonstrated the telephone he had invented earlier that year, ushering human communication into a new age.)

The world’s earliest electronic digital computer, ENIAC—created by Eckert and Mauchly in 1946—was a colossal machine occupying 3,000 cubic feet, weighing 30 tons, and containing 18,000 vacuum tubes. It consumed immense amounts of electricity, and cooling was a constant problem; the machine could not run continuously for long. That same year, Eckert and Mauchly left the University of Pennsylvania to establish a computer company and pursue their vision. In 1951, they completed UNIVAC, the world’s first general-purpose commercial computer, delivered to the U.S. Census Bureau. With this accomplishment, they carried electronic computers from the laboratory into real-world use.

Chapter Two: Taiping Village Fairy Tale (1954-1965)

In those years, rural teachers were like stars in the summer night sky—scattered across China’s poor villages and remote regions, lighting up the dream-filled childhoods of countless children. Without that light, Zhang Yufeng would never have gone on to become the chairman of Peking University Founder Group.

When he traveled from the countryside to the town to take the “complete primary school” examination, the twenty li of country road he walked felt symbolic—this was the first stretch of the long path toward Peking University that his teacher set him on. Their joyful, bounding footsteps were the rhythm of New China’s advancing education. 

I. Under the Locust Tree

The village where he was born was originally called Henan Village, because every family there had once fled from Henan Province. Nearby were Shandong Village, Anhui Village, and others like them. During China’s first national census in 1953, the census team said the village couldn’t keep the name “Henan Village.” Why? There were simply too many Henan Villages in the area, and the name had to be changed.

What should it be called instead? The team said that since the community had developed, it should no longer be referred to as a “village compound” but something more like a proper village. Someone proposed an auspicious name that everyone liked, and from then on their hometown was known as Taiping Village—Peaceful Village.

Taiping Village lay tucked into the low hills of the Weihe Plain. You couldn’t see a single tiled house—only cave dwellings carved into the earth. By the time Zhang Yufeng could run across the loess ground, he had learned that his ancestral home was Nanyang, Henan. As he grew older, he learned that in 1929, the eighteenth year of the Republic, his father had fled their hometown with his grandparents.

Even after Zhang Yufeng became president and chairman of Founder Group, people knew very little about him. Many thought he seemed “mysterious,” perhaps because he was never very talkative. In truth, even as a child he spoke little but watched everything. He never tired of standing beside the village elders as they played Chinese chess.

It was the only pastime the older generation had brought with them when they fled. The chess pieces were sliced from thin wooden sticks, the board etched into another piece of wood, and the pieces clicked crisply as they moved. Within this tiny square was all the wisdom the villagers had carried with them, a source of endless pleasure in otherwise impoverished lives. As the farmers moved their horses and chariots, they revealed a kind of everyday heroism. “A true gentleman observes chess without speaking”—that was probably Zhang Yufeng’s earliest lesson in character.

One early winter morning, the locust tree had shed all its leaves, and the wide loess ground lay silent. Sunlight glowed on strings of bright red peppers and golden corn hung outside the cave dwellings. Zhang Yufeng’s father said, “Set up the chessboard for me. I’m going to make tea.”

His father was known throughout the village as a formidable chess player, and people often came to challenge him. That day, an old man arrived. Zhang Yufeng arranged the pieces and sat in his father’s seat as if he were the one about to play.

“Do you want to play?” the old man asked casually, glancing at the child across the board.

Zhang Yufeng didn’t answer. He simply opened with a center cannon. The old man, thinking it was just for fun, made a move. Zhang Yufeng made another. Seeing that the boy played by standard principles, the old man responded again. Move by move, click by click, by the time Zhang Yufeng’s father had finished brewing the tea, the two were already deep into the middle game—and the old man was on the defensive.

“Wait,” the old man said when his father returned. “I have to finish this.”

Zhang Yufeng’s father became the silent observer. None of the three expected the old man to lose—but he did. Determined to regain face, he insisted on another game. To his shock, the same thing happened. After three rounds, the result was unchanged.

His father, Zhang Tongde, felt as though he had just witnessed an earthquake. He and the old man had always been evenly matched; it was never easy to tell who would win. Yet here was his seven-year-old son defeating him effortlessly—and silently.

Zhang Yufeng was born on April 18, 1946. By the time he turned seven, his father had never once seen him play chess. How, then, had he learned to win?

Zhang Yufeng was the sixth of nine children. The first five had never gone to school. Right then and there, his father made a decision:

“Next year, I’m sending the sixth one to school.”

II. Cave Dwelling School

In 1954, when Wang Xuan entered Peking University, eight-year-old Zhang Yufeng was setting off for school with another child from his village, each carrying a small bench.

The school was in Yangjiashan, more than a li from Taiping Village. In early autumn, the loess earth glowed gold under a high, clear sky. The two boys walked barefoot along the dirt road and happily arrived at Yangjiashan Primary School—a school housed entirely in cave dwellings. There were one and a half caves, four grades, sixteen students, and one teacher. The teacher, Zhu Zixin, was about thirty years old. He lived in the half-cave dug a little deeper off to one side.

The desks were made of packed earth; the seats were benches each child carried from home. The “blackboard” was lime painted onto the cave wall and then covered with black paint—when the teacher wrote on it, the white underneath showed through in patches. There was no school bell, only the teacher’s whistle. There wasn’t even a clock. Teacher Zhu relied entirely on the position of the sun to know when to blow the whistle.

Each morning, classes ended around ten-thirty, and the children went home for their first meal. Afternoon classes ended around three, after which they went home for their second—and last—meal of the day. Both children and adults lived on two meals. The loess plateau had little water; wheat and millet depended on rainfall, and harvests were poor. Farmers solved this by dividing their labor into three work periods but their food into only two.

How did the three periods work? Wake before dawn and work until about ten-thirty, then go home to eat. After eating, work again until three, then eat the second meal. Work once more after eating, and return at dusk without another meal. Then lie down on the kang before full dark—sleep dulled the feeling of hunger.

As a child, Zhang Yufeng didn’t even know some people ate three meals a day. The teacher’s iron whistle was, in his mind, a mysterious and advanced object—he thought it existed only for the teacher’s use and had no idea whistles had other purposes.

The newest things in the school, of course, were the textbooks. Placed on the earthen desks, each new page opened a distant world for the children. From those pages, Zhang Yufeng learned about Beijing, the five-star red flag, and Tiananmen. In that single cave dwelling, Teacher Zhu rotated among four grades. You can imagine how that worked.

Chinese, arithmetic, music, art, physical education—he taught every subject. Only music and PE were taught to all four grades at once. When eight-year-old Zhang Yufeng entered first grade, there were seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds in second grade. “Still in school today,” people would say, “married tomorrow and not coming back.”

No one knew exactly where Teacher Zhu came from—only that he came from far away. In all four years of primary school, Zhang Yufeng saw the teacher’s wife visit the village only once. He still remembers her blue cotton dress with white flowers and how she washed every washable thing in their cave room. Today, Zhang Yufeng’s daughter is earning a doctorate in America—could she ever imagine the cave dwellings of her father’s childhood?

His father’s cave-dwelling school may sound like something from a distant ancestral past, but it was simply his father’s own story. And like certain landscapes that stir deep emotion, the story holds a quiet, melancholy beauty and a mysterious power that urges one forward.

Zhang Yufeng’s first-grade class had six students—three boys and three girls. All six stayed in school through graduation, which was considered an impressive achievement for Yangjiashan Primary School. At the time, China’s education system followed the Ministry of Education’s 1952 regulation establishing a nationwide “five-year integrated system” for primary schools. Schools offering grades one through five were called “complete primary schools.” But Yangjiashan had no fifth grade, and neither did its affiliated Jingcun Township. At twelve, Zhang Yufeng would have to leave home to continue his studies.

In the summer of 1958, when Wang Xuan graduated from university, Teacher Zhu Zixin was leading Zhang Yufeng and five other students to the county seat to take the “complete primary school” exam under the bright Shaanxi sky.

“Going to the county seat!”

Who says there is no joy in hard times? The phrase “cheering and leaping” describes it perfectly. Six children, like six small birds, clustered around their teacher as they made their way toward the county seat. Even now, looking back on that walk, one can see the remarkable contribution rural teachers made in that era. China’s countryside was vast, and teachers like Zhu Zixin were like stars scattered across poor and remote villages, lighting up the dream-filled childhoods of countless children.

Those twenty li of country road became a symbol—of the first step on Zhang Yufeng’s long journey toward Peking University, a journey his teacher started for him. Their bright, bounding footsteps were the very rhythm of New China’s advancing education.

III. Beautiful Locust Flowers

The nearest city to his hometown was Pucheng. Pucheng County, in Shaanxi Province, was also the hometown of General Yang Hucheng. Zhang Yufeng and the other students were admitted to Beiguan Primary School, just outside the north gate of the county seat—the closest “complete primary school” to their village. At twelve, Zhang Yufeng began his life as a boarding student.

A single large room with a row of communal beds housed more than twenty boys. Not one of them had a straw mat—just bare wooden planks and a quilt. In winter, foot-long icicles hung from the eaves. There was no glass in the windows, only paper pasted over the frames, which someone inevitably punctured, letting the winter wind whistle through. From upper primary school until he finished high school, Zhang Yufeng boarded for seven years and never slept with a pillow. It seems unbelievable now, but that was his adolescence—the student life of a boy growing up in China’s northwest.

Before this, his mother measured time only in years, months, and days. Now she lived by a new unit: the week. Every Saturday, Feng’er came home. On Sunday, she would steam enough mantou to last him through the week, packing them into a cloth bag. In the afternoon, he would sling the bag over his shoulder and set out again on the road to the county seat.

The sight of children “carrying steamed bread to school” often returned to him years later when he ate in the Founder Group cafeteria. After the bell rang, the city kids went home for lunch, while “we who carried steamed bread took out our mantou and ate.”

“What vegetables did you have?” someone once asked him.

“We’d put salt in a clean ink bottle, tear the steamed bread into pieces, soak it in boiling water, and sprinkle some salt—that’s how we ate.”

“No vegetables at all?”

“That’s how everyone ate,” Zhang Yufeng said. “Our families ate the same way—one dish of chili peppers, one dish of salt. There wasn’t enough water to grow vegetables.”

“Was there boiling water?”

“The school had a boiling-water room.”

In winter, the western sun shone on a cluster of children outside that room, each holding their frozen mantou, softening it in hot water so it could be swallowed. In 1936, when American journalist Edgar Snow traveled through the Shaanxi–Gansu–Ningxia Border Region, he described this ancient land as having a 90 percent illiteracy rate. Now, these children of the northwest—carrying steamed bread, searching for knowledge, sitting in the sunlight of 1958 eating boiled mantou—were already creating poetry.

In summer, by Wednesday, the steamed bread grew moldy. They would wash it with boiling water and eat it anyway. From twelve to nineteen, Zhang Yufeng carried steamed bread for seven years—and ate moldy steamed bread for seven years.

Many classmates couldn’t endure it and dropped out. North of Pucheng lay a mountain called Yao Mountain, and Zhang Yufeng’s high school was named after it—Yaoshan Middle School. It had originally been founded by General Yang Hucheng. In 1997, Yaoshan Middle School asked Zhang Yufeng to write an article about his alma mater. The most vivid image that came to him was the locust blossoms.

Yao Mountain had many locust trees, their branches covered in white flowers. In his dreams, those blossoms magically turned into steamed bread. And on many real days, picking them and soaking them in water felt no different from soaking mantou. He said he survived on the locust flowers of his hometown.

He said that staying in school during that hungry, growing-up era was the greatest victory of his life. In a county of several hundred thousand people, when he entered high school in 1962, the entire county admitted only three classes. New China’s education suffered its first major setback during those difficult years—serious setbacks. Yet some people still persisted.

“Looking back now,” Zhang Yufeng said, “every teacher at my alma mater was excellent.”

IV. The “Turning Point” of Junior Year

At that time, most of the teachers at the school were men, and most of their families still farmed in the countryside.

Zhang Yufeng remembered that both teachers and students slept on bare wooden boards—no kangs, no bedding apart from a quilt. “The teacher who influenced me most,” he said, “was my junior-year homeroom teacher.”

His name was Ren, and he taught physics. On the first day of classes, he announced, “Zhang Yufeng, you’ll be the physics class representative.”

The assignment left Zhang Yufeng stunned. “Before junior year, I was nothing. I was the kind of student who made trouble for teachers. I never did homework—when I got home, I went straight to the fields.”

But being class representative meant collecting and handing out everyone’s homework notebooks. For a fifteen-year-old who had never been trusted with responsibility, something shifted.

“I suddenly wanted to study well.”

Before the year ended, he became a member of the Communist Youth League.

Teacher Ren had arthritis and struggled to move in winter, so the school built him a kang. When firewood ran short, Zhang Yufeng often led classmates into the hills to gather more.

“Come on, take off your shoes and warm your feet,” the teacher would say.

The boys would pull off their shoes, climb onto the kang, slip their feet under the teacher’s quilt, and sit in a circle, feet touching. In that small circle of shared warmth, Zhang Yufeng felt himself growing up.

It was a decisive turning point. Because of Teacher Ren’s trust, he developed a deep sense of self-discipline. At fifteen, he learned to set standards for himself. That, he later realized, was the real beginning of his education.

From junior year through graduation, whenever the school selected model students, Zhang Yufeng was always among them—not because teachers pushed him, but because he now held himself accountable. Before becoming class representative, he had never imagined he possessed organizational talent. Once appointed, a new world opened to him. The experience laid crucial groundwork for his later career in business management.

By senior year, he ranked near the top of his class. He approached his textbooks the way he approached Chinese chess: teachers could tell you this was a “horse” and that was a “cannon,” and teach you how they moved, but the real test was whether you could use them wisely. His academic strength came from something he had understood since childhood: every move is your own.

When it came time to fill out college entrance forms, his teachers urged him to apply to Peking University. So he did. After the exam, he went home to farm. He felt that failing would not be shameful—almost no one from the county made it into Peking University. “It wouldn’t be strange if I didn’t get in,” he said later. “It would be strange if I did.”

In the end, he became that “strange” case.

From upper primary school through high school, he had carried steamed bread for seven years and walked the school road for seven years. He had never ridden in a vehicle or seen a train. In 1965, he boarded a train for the first time—heading to Beijing for university.

If Wang Xuan’s arrival at Peking University had been quiet and ordinary, Zhang Yufeng’s was the opposite. Over six feet tall, wearing a brand-new shirt his mother had sewn by hand—cloth buttons included—he stepped off the train carrying a quilt stuffed with his cotton jacket and lighter clothes. And, of course, he carried a bag of steamed bread.

Contemporary News and Reference Stories

Shockley, one of the inventors of the transistor, left Bell Laboratories in the early 1950s—after significant advances had been made in transistor manufacturing—to join Stanford University. His move was not only because Stanford offered a generous salary, but also because the university had set aside land on campus to lease to nearby companies, forming an industrial park. This allowed Shockley to establish the Shockley Semiconductor Laboratory in Palo Alto, right next to Stanford, while also building a semiconductor plant. His approach of integrating scientific research with industrial production became the cradle for several pioneering groups in engineering and technology.

In 1957, in the United States, thirty-one-year-old Ken Olsen and twenty-eight-year-old Harlan Anderson founded DEC and began developing minicomputers. Since earlier computers were gigantic machines costing millions of dollars, Olsen dreamed of producing inexpensive, simple computers that could communicate through terminals and displays. The arrival of the minicomputer marked an important step toward making computing more accessible and socially integrated. By attracting a large customer base, DEC grew into a corporation worth tens of billions of dollars and was hailed as the “kingdom of minicomputers” and “a model of technology meeting the market.”

In 1949, China’s school-age enrollment rate was only twenty percent, and illiterate people made up ninety percent of the national population. By March 1965, Peking University had 9,398 registered students, including 7,291 men and 2,107 women. 

Chapter Three: Taking the First Step Right (1975-1976)

Can diligent study, hard work, and persistent effort guarantee success? Most people believe Wang Xuan was the first person in China to develop a precision typesetting system for Chinese characters, but that isn’t true. Before him, five domestic research teams were already working intensely on the problem. All five were highly capable, and all invested enormous effort.

So why is it that after years of heroic struggle, these five strong teams ultimately had to accept failure—while the team led by Wang Xuan succeeded?

I. Recognizing One's Own Inadequacy Leads to Adequacy

The ten years of the Cultural Revolution were also ten years in which Wang Xuan clung to life through illness. By 1975, at thirty-eight, he was still “on medical leave at home.” What more could he hope to accomplish?

And yet that very year, he made the fourth major decision of his life—a choice that would ultimately matter to every Chinese person.

China is the birthplace of printing, far earlier than many Western scholars once assumed. Seals were already in wide use during the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods. In 175 AD—388 years after Qin Shi Huang’s burning of books—Emperor Ling of the Eastern Han had the Confucian classics carved onto forty-six stone tablets so they could be copied accurately for generations. Later, to avoid the labor and errors of hand-copying, people created the technique of taking rubbings from the tablets. When rubbings were combined with seal printing, woodblock printing emerged.

The oldest surviving printed text in the world is China’s Diamond Sutra, printed in 868. Around the 1040s, Bi Sheng invented movable type. The earliest type was carved and fired clay; later came wooden, bronze, and lead versions. Movable type printing has nearly a thousand years of history.

But with the rapid development of electronic computers and optical technology, the West had already left movable type behind and adopted electronic typesetting. This new technological shift would reshape printing even more dramatically than anything from the previous millennium. If China stayed at the letterpress stage, how could it hope to keep up?

In August 1974, with Premier Zhou Enlai’s approval, China launched the “748 Project,” divided into three research areas: Chinese-character communication, Chinese-character information retrieval, and Chinese-character precision typesetting. One day, Chen Kengzhu happened to hear about it and went home to tell Wang Xuan. That was the moment the next chapter of his life began.

By 1975, Wang Xuan was still recuperating at home. Of the three topics, precision typesetting captured his imagination the most. Five domestic teams were already working on it. The Institute of Automation at the Chinese Academy of Sciences was pursuing it independently; the other four teams were joint efforts involving multiple institutions—sometimes dozens. All were strong. The national project already had its assigned teams. No one expected Wang Xuan to take part.

But he decided: I’m going to do it.

It wasn’t something anyone could simply choose to do. So what allowed him to succeed?

When I first interviewed Professor Wang, he told me, “When I was young, I felt inadequate in many ways.” He continued: “Konosuke Matsushita once said he had three weaknesses as a child: poverty, which pushed him to strive; lack of education, which drove him to study on his own; and poor health, which taught him he needed others. Matsushita turned these weaknesses into strengths—and it was the third one that inspired me most.”

His words were startling. Poor health? A sense of personal inadequacy? Could these really be sources of success?

Did Wang Xuan have other remarkable talents? Over time, I realized that the most striking ability he possessed can be expressed in one character—the character xuan, meaning “choice.” His mind was shaped by it. His ability to choose—boldly, clearly, and at the right moment—was consistently ahead of his peers. Especially in his later years, the way he navigated crossroads—roaming among possibilities, climbing one peak after another—offers real insight. When he said he felt inadequate growing up, it wasn’t false modesty.

Recognizing one’s own inadequacy is the first step toward becoming capable. There is wisdom in that. Only by seeing others’ strengths can we discover our own weaknesses, and only by admitting those weaknesses can we receive help. Today, people often say you must rely only on yourself. But even the most talented person is still just one lamp. Those who achieve extraordinary things do so not only because of their own abilities—they do so because many others helped light the way.

II. Sunlight Falls on Shoulders, A Song Flies Gently Toward the Future

In the spring of 1975, Wang Xuan pushed his still frail body to rally. Day after day, he took public buses to the China Science and Technology Information Institute to read foreign journals. The bus ride from Peking University to Heping Street cost three mao. If he got off one stop earlier, he could save five fen—and he always did. After ten consecutive years on medical leave, he received only a little over forty yuan a month in labor insurance. This trip wasn’t assigned by any organization; it was his own choice. There was no funding. At that point, saving five fen truly mattered.

But he didn’t mind. By spring, tree branches along Beijing’s streets were budding. When Wang Xuan got off at Heping West Street, sunlight fell across his shoulders. It was as if a faint song drifted through the streets, headed gently toward the future. He often had to stop and catch his breath on the walk to the Information Institute, but the foreign journals felt like oxygen to him. “I often found I was the first reader of those journals,” Wang Xuan recalled.

He learned that the world’s first typesetting machines were “manual,” appearing in the United States in 1946. In the 1950s, the United States developed second-generation “optical-mechanical” machines. In 1965, Germany released third-generation machines using cathode-ray tubes. By 1975, Britain was on the verge of introducing fourth-generation “laser typesetting” systems. Meanwhile, the five Chinese teams were pursuing second- and third-generation approaches.

“How should I choose?”

Wang Xuan made his decision by elimination: he could not do second-generation; he also could not do third-generation. So should he attempt fourth-generation? His approach was bold, even reckless, and at first only Chen Kengzhu understood it. She knew that given China’s circumstances, only a leap toward fourth-generation technology offered a real chance of success.

Why?

Years later, Wang Xuan heard a story. When Qian Xuesen first returned to China, neither the United States nor the Soviet Union had successfully launched an intercontinental missile. Qian suggested that China develop missiles before airplanes. Airplanes required extreme material precision and guaranteed safety—far beyond what China’s basic industries could support. Missiles, however, used expendable materials. The hardest part of missile technology was guidance, which relied on calculations performed through “electronics.” In Qian’s view, such calculations were intellectual problems—ones Chinese scientists could solve. History proved him right.

As soon as Wang Xuan heard the story, he grasped its meaning. His own decision to pursue laser typesetting rested on similar logic.

Because China’s basic industries lagged behind, developing second-generation machines would be plagued by mechanical precision issues. Third-generation analog storage methods would also be extremely difficult to master. Western typesetting dealt with twenty-six letters, but Chinese characters numbered in the tens of thousands, with about three thousand commonly used, and each required multiple fonts and sizes. The storage challenge was vastly harder than in the West. Without choosing an entirely different path, even a working second- or third-generation machine would still be outdated.

Where could a new path be found?

Wang Xuan was essentially forcing his brain to find an answer when no obvious answer existed.

It was difficult—extremely difficult.

If he chose the fourth-generation laser route, the “Chinese-character storage problem” would become even more severe. Cathode-ray tubes could instantly change light-spot diameter and focus; lasers could not. If every Chinese character required for printing had to be converted into dot-matrix data suitable for laser typesetting, it would require hundreds of billions of bytes of storage—an astronomical amount, nearly unimaginable. How could this be solved?

Chinese characters convey meaning; they do more than record language and sound. They embody the thoughts, emotions, and wisdom of the Chinese people. But now, confronted by modern electronic technology, would these ancient characters become obstacles to modernization? A challenge to Chinese characters was a challenge to Chinese culture. Some even questioned whether Chinese characters should be abolished. Should they be preserved? Should a replacement be considered for future generations? Even China’s highest leaders had debated this question.

Wang Xuan wondered: if he pursued fourth-generation machines, could mathematical methods break through the problem? After all, whether something was feasible could be calculated first.

In 1957, the Soviet Union launched the world’s first satellite—based entirely on Newton’s calculations formulated three centuries earlier: “An object thrown at 7.9 km per second will enter orbit around Earth and become an artificial celestial body.” This was the first cosmic velocity.

For months, Wang Xuan calculated tirelessly. At last, he proposed a complete solution—a brilliant “phased achievement.”

But would anyone recognize it?

III. Tomorrow May Bring Glory—But Who Helps Today?

Every world-changing achievement begins with a fragile beginning, and any help during that stage matters. The first person to recognize the potential of Wang Xuan’s idea was Huang Luping of the Mathematics Department.

The department printed and circulated what became known as the “Wang Xuan Solution,” which was then transferred to the Radio Department. Before long, it was listed as an official research project at Peking University. In November 1975, Wang Xuan took part in the national demonstration conference on Chinese-character typesetting systems held at Beijing’s North Latitude Hotel.

It was a gathering of major players. The five national teams and the Peking University group each presented their solutions. When it came time for Wang Xuan to speak, he was so weak he could barely manage a sentence, and Chen Kengzhu had to present on his behalf. Peking University’s proposal initially sparked interest for its originality, but was quickly dismissed as a “mathematical game,” a “fantasy of reaching the sky in a single step.” It was ultimately eliminated.

Being eliminated meant no access to state research funding. And for a high-technology project of this caliber, Peking University had no resources of its own to rely on. For Wang Xuan—who was counting every five fen—how could he possibly continue?

How did he survive that winter?

Day after day, he lay across a cold tabletop, calculating and recalculating.

He had no choice now but to drive his mind as far as it would go.

Then in December 1975, he made a decisive breakthrough. He created the “outline-plus-parameters” description method along with a series of new algorithms. Together they formed a complete system for compressing, restoring, and scaling high-density Chinese-character data—making laser typesetting truly feasible.

The West would not adopt the “outline-plus-parameters” method until the mid-1980s. Wang Xuan was the first person in the world to use it. Yet gaining recognition for this achievement proved extraordinarily difficult. Throughout 1976, his proposal remained rejected, and his superior method still awaited acknowledgment and support.

IV. Its Difficulty Was No Less Than Developing “Two Bombs and One Satellite”

We should remember Zhang Songzhi. As a staff member of the 748 Project office, he did not simply dismiss Peking University’s proposal—even though others had already labeled it a “mathematical game.” One day, he appeared before Wang Xuan and said, “Teacher Wang, I’d like to hear your thoughts again.”

He visited Wang Xuan repeatedly at Peking University, and then reported what he learned to Guo Pingxin.

We should remember Guo Pingxin as well. As director of the Computer Bureau in the Ministry of Electronics Industry—which oversaw the 748 Project—he listened to Zhang Songzhi’s report even though the precision typesetting task had already been assigned to other departments and part of the funding had been distributed. After investigating Wang Xuan’s idea for himself, he declared, “We need to change our decision.”

I have always felt that the stories of Zhang Songzhi and Guo Pingxin deserve to be remembered. No leader is infallible. Guo Pingxin’s willingness to reverse his own decision was admirable. And Zhang Songzhi—who had no official reason to revisit a rejected proposal—seemed almost like someone heaven sent to support Wang Xuan. Once Peking University’s plan was eliminated, the project no longer had much to do with him. Yet he remained uneasy, returning again and again to Peking University.

While preparing this book, I tried to interview executives at Founder Group. They were always difficult to reach. I asked Jin Ou, the company’s public relations director, for help. “Teacher Hong Jia,” he told me, “you don’t understand—we’re very ordinary people here. We can’t do much.” So I told him the story of Zhang Songzhi. Then I said, “Remember this: even if you are ordinary, the moment you are willing to help others, you become important.”

The next day, Jin Ou called me back. “Teacher Hong Jia,” he said, “I told everyone in our office what you said.” After that, whenever I visited the office, everyone greeted me with warmth. Once again, I felt the quiet wisdom that Zhang Songzhi’s example had left us. We cannot all be Wang Xuan, nor can we all be leaders. But any meaningful endeavor needs many hands. None of us knows when a small effort might become vital to a great cause.

Peking University continued to back Wang Xuan’s idea and assembled a project team led by Professor Zhang Longxiang. From his time as team leader through his later years as president of Peking University, Zhang Longxiang gave unwavering support to Wang Xuan’s research.

But choosing a fourth-generation laser typesetting system required something essential: a laser. In April 1976, Wang Xuan learned that the Hangzhou Communications Equipment Factory, under the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications, had built a high-resolution newspaper facsimile machine using video lamps as the light source. A thought struck him—could the video lamp be replaced with a laser? Wang Xuan knew little about optics, but he also knew when to seek help. He turned to Zhang Heyi, an optics expert in Peking University’s Physics Department.

Zhang Heyi replied quickly: “It’s feasible.” Later, based on Wang Xuan’s requirements for system speed, he designed a four-beam parallel laser scanning solution and, together with another expert, Li Xinzhang, brought it to life.

This period of deliberation lasted more than a year. Finally, in July 1976, Wang Xuan made the definitive decision: they would go directly to developing a fourth-generation laser typesetting system.

On July 28, 1976, the Tangshan earthquake struck, causing twenty-seven sections of Peking University’s walls to collapse and cracking sixty-six buildings. Even so, Wang Xuan continued his research from within the earthquake shelter. On September 8, the project—destined to reshape China’s printing industry and cultural landscape—was officially entrusted to Peking University.

Because his choice had once been dismissed as a “fantasy of reaching the sky in a single step,” Wang Xuan often reflected on the phrase “reaching heaven while standing on earth.” Over time, he came to see that modern scientific innovation must, whenever possible, pursue “heaven-reaching” technologies—that real progress depends on technological leaps. This, more than choosing laser typesetting itself, was the true brilliance of his fourth major decision: he chose leapfrogging as a principle.

At that time, few in China could understand just how important such leaps would be for the nation’s development.

But the next challenge was even harder. For Wang Xuan, conquering a “heaven-reaching” technology was one thing; turning it into a real product and earning a place in the global market was another. Years later, Qian Xuesen remarked, “For China’s high-tech industry to secure a foothold in the world, the difficulty is no less than developing the ‘Two Bombs and One Satellite’ back then.”

Contemporary News and Reference Stories

In the 1950s, Shockley’s model of integrating scientific research with engineering practice attracted a number of highly talented young technologists to join him. He himself won the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1956. The following year, eight of the young engineers who had come to work with him—including Noyce and Moore—left to found Fairchild Semiconductor.

In 1968, Noyce, Moore, and Grove left Fairchild and established Intel in what would become Silicon Valley. In 1971, Intel engineer Ted Hoff developed the world’s first 4-bit microprocessor, the 4004. Containing more than 2,000 transistors and no bigger than a fingernail, it served as the “heart” of early microcomputers. That same year, Don Hoefler, editor of the American newsletter Microelectronics News, coined the term “Silicon Valley.”

In 1972, Intel’s Federico Faggin led the development of the 8-bit 8008 chip. In 1974, the company introduced the 8080, whose processing speed was twenty times faster than the 4004—ushering in the true dawn of the microcomputer era. That year, a small firm named MITS in Albuquerque, New Mexico, designed the world’s first microcomputer based on the 8080. It had no keyboard and no screen; its front panel displayed only several flashing lights. Its name was “Altair.”

The birth of the microcomputer era was also the beginning of microcomputer software. In 1975, after seeing an advertisement for the Altair in Popular Electronics, twenty-year-old Bill Gates and twenty-two-year-old Paul Allen traveled to Albuquerque to start a small company and began writing software for microcomputers. That company would become the world-famous Microsoft.

Chapter Four: The Season When Red Leaves Dye Fragrant Hills (1977-1981)

The moment China opened its doors, an unfamiliar world rushed in at once. Suddenly, everything was right in front of us. If our technology could not be transformed quickly into real products, it would simply become obsolete. The Chinese characters created by our ancestors had unexpectedly become our final natural defense against British and American technologies—a Great Wall made not of stone, but of language. Yet the time during which we could rely on this natural barrier was rapidly running out.

I. Spring of 1978

Turning research into real products required factories to build them — and finding the right manufacturer was anything but simple. As Wang Xuan later said, “In trying to secure cooperating partners, Guo Pingxin and Zhang Songzhi really exhausted every option.”

To choose a main contractor for the typesetting system, they first evaluated factories in Shanghai, Suzhou, and Tianjin. Some military-production plants had strong technical capabilities, but they simply couldn’t take on additional work. By the morning of July 14, 1977, a decision had to be made. The entire research group gathered, and Xinhua News Agency — one of the project’s partners — sent its project lead to join the discussion.

The meeting took place in a cramped ten–square-meter room in Peking University’s Liberal Arts Building. A small blackboard at the front listed the basic information on each potential factory. Among the many options was the Shandong Weifang Telecommunications Instrument Factory. When Weifang came up, nearly everyone rejected the idea — they wanted the Suzhou Computer Factory to take the lead. Only Wang Xuan argued, unexpectedly and single-handedly, for choosing Weifang.

“My thinking is that enthusiasm matters most,” he said. “And Weifang has the strongest enthusiasm. If a team has enthusiasm, technical ability can be built up — and Peking University can provide guidance and support.” He added, “I believe our 748 Project team has held together through more than two extremely difficult years because the core members have extraordinary enthusiasm.”

In the end, the group accepted Wang Xuan’s reasoning.

A factory that lacks enthusiasm loses its creativity. Wang Xuan understood this instinctively. Weifang was not yet a computer factory, but its eagerness gave it the chance to grow quickly — and it embraced that chance.

In January 1978, Weifang sent its first group of engineers to Peking University to study the system design. They returned home just before the Spring Festival, then came back on the eleventh day of the lunar new year to begin full development. At that point, the National Science Conference had not yet convened.

From March 18 to 31, 1978, Beijing hosted the National Science Conference, attended by nearly six thousand delegates. Wang Xuan was one of them. At the conference, Guo Moruo delivered his famous written speech, “The Spring of Science,” arguing that science depends on imagination — that without imagination, one cannot break through constraints or push knowledge forward.

In 1978, Wang Xuan was forty-one. It’s impossible to ignore how much encouragement this conference gave him. It was a defining moment in China’s scientific history, inspiring researchers, scholars, and ordinary people alike. Back at Peking University, wherever Wang Xuan went, he sensed admiring looks. To many, working on the 748 Project felt like a dream assignment.

But in 1979, the situation suddenly changed entirely.

II. An Unexpected Predicament

As soon as China opened its doors, Western companies poured in. In the typesetting world, the first to arrive was Britain’s Monotype Company, inventor of the world’s first fourth-generation laser typesetting machine. From 1976 to 1985, their English-language fourth-generation system was the global commercial standard — unmatched anywhere in the world.

More than two centuries earlier, after the Industrial Revolution, Britain had already begun eyeing the Chinese market. In 1792 the British government sent its first diplomatic mission to China to meet Emperor Qianlong and attempt to access what they saw as Asia’s greatest prize. Now history was repeating itself: Monotype had set its sights on China’s enormous printing and typesetting market and had begun developing a Chinese-language laser typesetting system. In early 1979, they dispatched representatives to China, planning major product demonstrations in Shanghai and Beijing that summer in hopes of winning Chinese clients.

China had only just begun reform and opening, and most people still lacked any concept of a market economy. Meanwhile the British — with their “computers” — were already poised to seize the Chinese market. Soon, Japanese and American Chinese-character typesetting systems followed.

Until this moment, Wang Xuan had believed that if he simply worked hard and built good machines, he would naturally serve his country and society. But as soon as the nation’s doors opened, a world he had never imagined appeared right before his eyes. It was like waking up to find British and Japanese engineers standing at your doorstep, armed with advanced technology. If his system could not be transformed quickly into a working product, it would simply become scrap — worthless, unused, swept aside.

“In 1979, I was suddenly stunned,” Wang Xuan recalled.

“China has more printing factories than anything else, doesn’t it?” he said. “I can’t think of any other kind of factory that exists in such numbers.” But even this position — something China had held firmly for centuries — was slipping away. Wang Xuan could almost hear his own voice crying for help.

China desperately needed more talented people to join the effort. Yet the exodus abroad had already begun. Wang Xuan admired Qian Xuesen’s generation — scientists who, despite countless political obstacles, had fought their way back to China after training abroad. Now, in a complete reversal, many of China’s brightest were eagerly leaving.

Had the people changed? Or had the times?

Domestically, the new craze was writing books and publishing papers. Was there anything wrong with writing papers? In January 1978, right before the National Science Conference, People’s Literature published The Goldbach Conjecture, a novel that turned Chen Jingrun into a national hero of modernization. His greatest achievement had been publishing papers — and this became the model.

“Our project suddenly became a project no one wanted,” Wang Xuan said.

“Why?” I asked. And then I realized: people’s hearts were no longer with the project itself.

“At the end of 1978, Peking University restarted the system of evaluating professional ranks,” Wang Xuan said. “This was a good thing. But the evaluations depended almost entirely on publications. For applied researchers like us, this was extremely disadvantageous. Our laser typesetting system required enormous amounts of energy just to solve concrete, stubborn technical problems — we had no time to write papers.”

At Peking University, people often joked that becoming a professor didn’t mean much, but not being promoted meant you were nothing. Professional titles determined promotions, salary increases, and housing. After years of struggle, Wang Xuan had finally secured the typesetting project — only to discover that all he had really “secured” was the right to keep working. Without papers, his team ranked low in every evaluation. Who would want to join such a team?

Wang Xuan’s difficulties were not unique. Across China, writing papers had become a fever. Actual research projects — the kind that required long, focused, tedious work — were avoided like the plague. In spring 1981, Marshal Nie Rongzhen wrote personally to senior leaders, warning:

“Today, in promoting technical personnel, some departments emphasize only the works they have and the papers they have published. Under this influence, some scientific workers do not devote themselves to solving real production problems, but instead bury themselves in writing books and papers.”

Nie urged the country to correct this trend; otherwise, he warned, China would never achieve breakthroughs in national defense research.

In 1979, Wang Xuan found himself caught between two forces: foreign advanced technologies flooding into China, and domestic scientific talent flowing outward — or inward only toward paper-writing. He never imagined that at a university as large as Peking University, simply keeping a research team together would become nearly impossible just as the long-awaited “Spring of Science” had finally arrived.

III. A Nine-Deaths-One-Life Journey

While Westerners were eager to come to China, many Chinese were just as eager to “go out.” People at home said the West was advanced and prosperous. Westerners, meanwhile, looked at China — poor, undeveloped, full of gaps in the market — and saw the perfect place to get rich.

Yet amid this wave of departures, a small group of middle-aged teachers with real technical ability chose a different path. They gave up opportunities abroad, gave up writing books and academic papers, and stayed to work alongside Wang Xuan. It was in this period that Wang Xuan made the fifth major choice of his life: to fight directly in the market.

At the time, his main advantage was the information-compression technology he had invented. It allowed enormous numbers of complex Chinese characters to be stored in a computer and resized freely. The British could handle twenty-six letters with ease, but managing the vast, intricate landscape of Chinese characters was far more difficult. For a brief moment, the characters created by Wang Xuan’s ancestors became China’s final natural barrier against British and American systems — a kind of Great Wall built from language. But the time during which China could still rely on this barrier was rapidly disappearing.

Spring thickened around Weiming Lake, and summer approached. There was no time to rest. The few remaining members of the research group worked at full capacity — morning, afternoon, and night shifts. The British Monotype system was built with large-scale integrated circuits. Wang Xuan’s team had only small-scale domestic ones, and software and hardware conditions were extremely poor. The quality of domestic components was so unreliable that every time the machine was turned off and back on, a few chips would fail, seriously slowing progress. To avoid this, they often kept the machines running all night and worked through the night with them. Under such conditions, even working around the clock, could they really win?

On August 11, 1979, the front page of Guangming Daily ran a major banner headline: A Major Breakthrough in Chinese Character Information Processing Technology, followed by a subheading: China Successfully Develops the Core Engineering of Its Self-Designed Laser Chinese Character Editing and Typesetting System. The paper also published an editorial and included a photograph of a sample newspaper page produced by the system. The news landed like a bombshell, stirring excitement and debate across China’s newspaper, publishing, and printing industries — and among experts at home and abroad.

The sample page printed in Guangming Daily could withstand close inspection, even under high-powered magnification: the characters produced by China’s system were sharp, elegant, and flawless. This sample had been produced at Peking University on July 27. The next morning, Vice Premier Fang Yi personally came to the campus to see it, giving the researchers enormous encouragement. But that sample had come only after dozens of attempts. The system was far from complete; the hardware prototype had just been debugged and was still extremely unstable. At the time, the media considered the achievement too immature to report — which was understandable.

Still, once Guangming Daily published the report and the sample, Peking University’s “748 Research Group” immediately gained nationwide recognition. If someone had written “The Truth Behind Peking University’s Sample Page” or “Inside the Prototype,” revealing how crude the equipment still was, it would have sparked an entirely different uproar. Fortunately, no one did. In 1979, the spring of science really did bloom in people’s hearts, and under Editor-in-Chief Yang Xiguang, Guangming Daily’s reporter Zhu Jun wrote an article filled with enthusiasm. It not only inspired the research team; it stirred confidence across China.

People often say “time is money.” In this case, the Guangming Daily report bought time as precious as gold. It bought time for China’s domestically developed typesetting system to compete with foreign systems in the Chinese market.

What made this moment even more remarkable was that, as the sample page was being printed, Wang Xuan’s mind was clearer than anyone’s: “We decided to stop while we were ahead — not to pour energy into trial-producing this prototype, but to focus only on preparing for the evaluation meetings.”

This wasn’t an impulsive decision. Wang Xuan had deep feelings for that prototype. “Designing and debugging it was the most difficult, demanding, and creative work I’ve ever done. Some of the designs were truly pioneering,” he later said. “But because we started in 1975, we had to use entirely domestic components. The hardware only reached the level of the early 1960s internationally. Many of our so-called pioneering achievements were therefore meaningless.”

In September 1979, Wang Xuan shifted his energy to the second-generation model — a major step toward entering the market. He called it “the Type II machine, launched in a time of internal and external difficulties,” and described the path to the market as “a journey with nine chances of death and only one of survival.”

Autumn sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating that issue of Guangming Daily and the prototype that Wang Xuan had chosen to let go — a scene almost like a quiet farewell. Wang Xuan told the team: “We have to live up to this report. We must prove with facts in the future that this really was a major breakthrough — that the report was timely and entirely true.”

IV. Just When Pear Blossoms Bloomed Around the World

In October 1979, Professor Li Fan — a Chinese-American from MIT — came to China to help Tsinghua University establish a hardware laboratory and made a special trip to visit Wang Xuan.

MIT, founded in 1865, might be the university that best understands how to combine high academic ambition with the pursuit of commercial success. Under Li Fan’s guidance, his graduate students were studying high-resolution Chinese-character compression, using component-based approaches for forming characters. After Li Fan and his students saw the typeset film samples produced at Peking University, they immediately recognized the enormous potential of the system. They also saw clearly how backward China’s hardware environment still was, and how difficult it was to obtain components from abroad. Yet competition with Britain’s Monotype Company had already reached the point of direct confrontation.

Li Fan said to Wang Xuan: “You should come work at MIT for a while. I can apply for funding from the Ford Foundation. With America’s excellent hardware development environment, you could continue your research on Chinese-character laser typesetting under much better conditions.”

After careful thought, Wang Xuan politely declined.

Li Fan then proposed a formal collaboration with Peking University. President Zhou Peiyuan convened a special committee meeting and invited Wang Xuan to attend. Everyone present agreed with Wang Xuan’s view.

Had Wang Xuan accepted Li Fan’s invitation in 1979, turning his invention into commercial products in the United States would have been easy — and becoming wealthy would likely have followed. But he stayed, and his invention faced enormous difficulty in becoming a product inside China. In the fierce international competition of the time, it remained unprotected by intellectual property — a dangerous situation. Even Li Fan worried. China had not yet established a patent system. In November, Li Fan wrote to Vice Premier Fang Yi, urging China to apply for foreign patents on Wang Xuan’s invention and offering his help.

Vice Premier Fang Yi, President Zhou Peiyuan, and Wang Xuan all took his suggestion seriously. Zhou Peiyuan personally accompanied Wang Xuan to the State Science and Technology Commission’s Foreign Affairs Bureau and Achievements Bureau, where they received strong support. But in practice, China still could not navigate the process of filing patents abroad, and the plan had to be shelved. Wang Xuan’s invention continued to compete head-on with Western typesetting systems, completely unprotected.

Monotype delayed until October, then finally held exhibitions in Beijing and Shanghai. Chinese agencies began discussing whether the “Monotype System” should be imported. One meeting followed another, and Wang Xuan was invited to participate. Few could truly understand how he felt at that time.

Guo Pingxin and Zhang Songzhi firmly opposed full importation and prevented units under the Electronics Ministry from participating, fearing they would become “compradors” for foreign companies. Some leaders from the State Planning Commission, the Science and Technology Commission, the Electronics Ministry, and the Education Ministry also supported the development of domestic systems. But the pressure to import remained strong.

Meanwhile, an equally demanding task was underway: software design and debugging. This had always been Chen Kengzhu’s responsibility. There were no floppy disks, no displays — over one hundred thousand lines of assembly code had to be written under conditions today’s young developers can hardly imagine.

On the morning of September 15, 1980, they successfully typeset The Sword of Wu Hao. It became the first book in China to be set without lead type — a milestone that demonstrated the system’s capabilities.

President Zhou Peiyuan sent sample copies to Vice Premier Fang Yi, asking him to distribute them to members of the Politburo. On October 20, Fang Yi wrote enthusiastically on the accompanying letter:

“This is a gratifying achievement. Printing technology is moving from the age of fire and lead to the age of computers and lasers. I recommend support. Please ask Vice Chairman Deng for instructions.”

On October 25, Deng Xiaoping replied: “Support it.”

Their prototype passed ministerial-level evaluation in July 1981. Everyone was pleased, but Wang Xuan told his team, “This achievement is zero.” Passing evaluation did not automatically mean a product could be made. “If we relax now, everything will collapse.” Still, the evaluation mattered — it secured funding for the next stage.

Early that summer, Chen Kengzhu noticed blood in her stool. Thinking it was hemorrhoids, she continued debugging software without seeing a doctor. On July 7, while riding in President Zhang Longxiang’s car to the evaluation meeting, she suddenly began vomiting. She felt odd but blamed it on overwork. She didn’t think more about it — only felt apologetic for dirtying the car. After the evaluation came summer vacation, but she had not taken a real break in six years. She spent that vacation upgrading the software for the Type II machine and finally went to the hospital on October 5. The next day, she was diagnosed with rectal cancer.

It is impossible to fully describe Wang Xuan’s panic when he received the news. This was his wife. In the weakest years of his life, without Chen Kengzhu, there would have been no Wang Xuan — and no great enterprise. When they were young, Wang Xuan had focused on hardware; Chen Kengzhu had always been the unquestioned authority on software for Chinese typesetting. No one surpassed her. It was as though she had come into the world specifically for Wang Xuan and the work he had chosen.

No one can know what she felt then. Wang Xuan’s system had not yet succeeded. The results were still only prototypes, not products. And at that moment, Wang Xuan needed her desperately.

Chen Kengzhu was hospitalized. Wang Xuan returned alone to the small home they had only recently moved into after he was “exceptionally promoted” to associate professor. The apartment felt painfully empty. He wanted to cook something good for her, but there was nothing in the kitchen. It was the 1980s already, yet this couple — devoted to high technology day and night — had no refrigerator, no color TV.

Had Chen Kengzhu ever had a hobby? She, too, was from Shanghai. She had entered Peking University a year before Wang Xuan and stayed on after graduation in the Mathematics Department. Friends said she once loved music. In the 1950s, when radios played Beethoven’s Fate Symphony, she adored it, but because she had no radio, she would stand outside other people’s windows just to listen.

It was October, the season when Fragrant Hills glowed red. Chen Kengzhu was preparing for surgery. Wang Xuan went to care for her, and colleagues came to visit. Before they even reached the ward, they heard her singing old Soviet songs with the other patients:

“When pear blossoms opened across the world

Soft mist lay over the river

Katyusha stood upon the high bank

Her song as bright as the spring sunlight.”

Contemporary news and reference stories:

Soon after Intel introduced its microprocessors, major semiconductor companies such as Texas Instruments, Motorola, National Semiconductor, and Fairchild followed with their own. An era of microcomputers — a moment of “a hundred flowers blooming” — was about to begin. Just as the Renaissance emerged in Italy and the Industrial Revolution took root in Britain, a new information revolution was rising in America’s Silicon Valley, one that would transform the world.

Silicon Valley was full of “computer hobbyists” who spent their spare time wiring chips together to build small computers for fun or for their own use. When so many individuals are free to take part in technological creation, miracles are bound to happen. In 1976, twenty-six-year-old Steve Wozniak put together a microcomputer capable of color display — excellent performance at remarkably low cost. He took it to Hewlett-Packard, where he worked, but the company dismissed it as having no future. His friend Steve Jobs, then twenty-one, saw its potential, carried it to several electronics stores to “test the waters,” and received more than twelve hundred orders in just two days.

Encouraged, Jobs sold his car to raise startup capital, and he and Wozniak co-founded Apple Computer.

In 1977, they released the Apple II, complete with hard drive, display, and keyboard. Jobs designed its case in white, aiming for beauty and simplicity — creating a sense of warmth and approachability for a machine entering the home. That design set the stylistic tone for desktop computers around the world. Jobs is widely regarded as the first person to position microcomputers as “personal computers.”

Defining microcomputers as personal computers marked a major turning point on the road toward the knowledge-economy era. When technological creation focuses on the needs of the individual, the benefits can expand to their fullest. By 1980, the twenty-five-year-old Jobs had already become the youngest billionaire in the United States. In 1982, he appeared on the cover of Time magazine, and President Reagan praised him as a hero to American youth.

A new economic era opened with the birth of a tiny transistor, a tiny chip. But those stepping into the spotlight were not necessarily scientists or inventors — young Jobs and young Bill Gates were both examples. Why was that?

Chapter Five: Awakening Zhongguancun (1980-1985)

I believe that, in the twenty-first century, more and more people will recognize the rise of Zhongguancun Electronics Street as one of the most epoch-making events in the development of China’s productive forces in the twentieth century. Its defining feature was the integration of science and technology, education, and industry. It marked the moment when China’s scientific and technical intellectuals stepped directly onto the industrial stage, becoming representatives of a new and emerging productive force.

I. Market Education

This seemed destined to become a heroic undertaking. The struggle between Chinese innovators and Western competitors for the Chinese market already had more than a century of history. By 1984, China’s reform and opening-up took another determined step forward. Matsushita appliances, Mercedes-Benz cars, IBM computers — a flood of imported goods poured into the country. Chinese-character typesetting systems developed in the United States, Britain, Japan, and other countries also arrived, operating almost like an “allied force” with stronger technology than ever, launching a full assault on China’s newspapers, publishers, and printing plants.

Where was China’s own computing technology? Did China not have computers? Of course it did. In 1975, China successfully launched its first recoverable satellite. In 1980, we launched a carrier rocket into the Pacific. In 1983, we completed the “Galaxy” supercomputer system. These were real achievements. But we lacked market-ready products. Much cutting-edge research had never been turned into productive forces. Dozens of domestic computer models, once foreign machines began to arrive, simply sat in warehouses — uncompetitive, never reaching the market, essentially reduced to waste.

Meanwhile, Wang Xuan’s Type II typesetting system still could not operate reliably. People’s Daily convened a symposium of experts to decide whether to import foreign systems. The prevailing view was blunt: as China’s most important newspaper, People’s Daily could not afford any technical failures. Only equipment with proven reliability should be adopted. Almost everyone supported importation. Some experts went further: “Even if Peking University’s system were fully completed, it would still be backward.”

Wang Xuan was invited to the meeting. It felt almost cruel — was he supposed to stand up and argue against the very project he had devoted himself to? The room waited to hear his response.

Only one person voiced dissent: Fu Zongying of Xinhua News Agency. “I believe importing foreign typesetting systems is unwise,” he said. “We should have confidence that the 748 Project can succeed.” His remark was met almost with laughter, dismissed amid counterarguments. But his lone voice gave Wang Xuan the courage to speak. If he remained silent, how could he face Fu Zongying afterward?

When Wang Xuan stood, the room fell still.

From behind his glasses, he looked at the experts — at this moment in 1984 inside the offices of People’s Daily, at a time when China’s electronic products were being overwhelmed by imports. Wang Xuan spoke of the strengths of Peking University’s system. But nothing he said could change the meeting’s conclusion. That decision had been settled long before anyone walked into the room.

By then, Japan’s Shashin Kenkyusha had already won the contract for People’s Daily Overseas Edition with its third-generation machine. In 1984, their technology was widely praised throughout China’s publishing and printing industry. The 748 Project had been underway for ten years. Wang Xuan was now fighting with nowhere to retreat — competing with foreign companies for China’s own market at a moment when his team had almost no capacity to resist.

Although he had chosen to enter the market back in 1979, for years he had focused mainly on technology, believing that technical strength alone could safeguard China’s position. To protect China’s intellectual property, and with support from Qian Weichang and Hong Kong Galaxy Group chairman Huang Jinfu, he opened channels to file for European patents. In 1982, Wang Xuan became the first person from mainland China to obtain such patents. They proved that in Chinese-character typesetting, European teams had not yet surpassed him. Yet even with world-leading technology, foreign systems marched into China with ease. Why?

The most sobering realities began widening his perspective. He saw the power of groups — multinational corporations advancing with coordinated momentum. In contrast, his own team, though supported by several cooperating units, was still an informal alliance of research departments and factories. To expect such a loose organization to fight decisive market battles against multinational companies was almost impossible.

Foreign companies had specialized business teams smoothing the path for their products. Some even set aside entertainment budgets to host potential Chinese clients overseas. This was warfare — speed, surprise, direct strikes, turning defense into offense. Time advanced like the footsteps of an approaching army. Within a short period, dozens of Chinese publishers, newspapers, and printing plants had already purchased five different brands of American, British, and Japanese systems. Domestic systems seemed to have lost the entire field. Even Peking University’s cooperating units began withdrawing personnel. The hardware team dwindled from nine people to just Wang Xuan and Lu Zhimin.

Wang Xuan had always believed in the importance of relying on others — but now, where were those allies?

It was in this moment of crisis that he came to understand, more clearly than ever, the meaning of his fifth choice: the decision to fight a decisive battle in the market. And that understanding would soon compel him to make yet another major choice.

II. Silicon Valley's Inspiration

After 1978, many Chinese scholars traveled abroad on study tours. Among them, the physicist Chen Chunxian from the Chinese Academy of Sciences stands out—his trip is something worth remembering.

He went to the United States as part of the Sino-American scientist exchange program. Driving toward the flat valleys at the southern edge of the San Francisco Bay, his car looped around Moffett Naval Air Station, passed Palo Alto—where Shockley once founded his semiconductor company—and continued into the Santa Clara Valley. The days and nights he spent there left a lifelong impression. This was Silicon Valley. This was Silicon Valley.

It is difficult to capture in words what this Chinese scientist, trained at Moscow State University, felt as he stood in that valley. In the soft morning and evening light, watching Pacific mist wrap gently around the landscape, his thoughts drifted toward distant Sichuan, and his eyes filled with tears. Something in this place stirred an old, deep passion for home. He was so moved that when he returned to China, he immediately proposed building a “Chinese Silicon Valley” in Zhongguancun by adopting Silicon Valley’s model of technology diffusion. The date was October 1980.

That October marked a turning point in Chen Chunxian’s life. His emotions were restless—how could they not be? Born in Chengdu in 1934, he had graduated from Moscow University’s Physics Department at twenty-four. After returning to China, he helped establish the Institute of Nuclear Fusion and Plasma Physics at the Chinese Academy of Sciences. When the reality he saw in Silicon Valley collided with his years of experience, the impact generated enormous energy. He saw, vividly and painfully clearly, that if China’s scientific research remained trapped in the Soviet model, there would be no future.

What was the way forward? He heard a voice rising inside him: “Go, Chen Chunxian—go to the streets, start companies!”

But who could understand such a voice in 1980? A scientist proposing to start a business? Who would support him? Where would funds come from? He might be willing to take risks, but who in China could offer venture capital? The country was still moving cautiously from a planned economy toward a market economy. Could business leaders be anything other than government appointees? Could anyone become one simply by wanting to? In 1980, starting a company in China was a thousand times harder than in Silicon Valley. And Chen Chunxian himself had no experience running enterprises—failure and humiliation were very possible.

He was forty-six. At a moment when the “Spring of Science” had just arrived, he enjoyed status and respect as a scientist selected for Sino-American exchanges. Why leave all that behind to “go to the street” and take such a risk? Should he remain at the Academy, honored and secure—or step onto the streets of Zhongguancun? On that autumn day, sunlight falling on his shoulders, he stood at the crossroads between the Academy of Sciences and Zhongguancun with nothing in his hands but determination.

That choice would be the greatest of his life.

Patriotism must have given him strength. It was already the 1980s—someone in China had to do this. Since he had seen it with his own eyes, how could he not act?

Eventually, someone was moved by his conviction. The Beijing Science Association lent him two hundred yuan. With that symbolic two hundred yuan, Chen Chunxian opened a bank account, gathered fifteen colleagues from the Academy of Sciences, and on December 23, 1980, founded Zhongguancun’s first private science-and-technology entity: the Advanced Technology Development Service Department.

Was Chen Chunxian simply dreaming? Today, Zhongguancun draws attention from China and abroad. Just as Silicon Valley once attracted young Americans seeking new futures, perhaps someday you, too, will visit Zhongguancun. Before you do, it is worth understanding its origins—and its cultural power.

Historically, Haidian began as a shallow lake and marshland. Early settlers lived beside the marsh, giving the area the name “Haidian,” first recorded in the Yuan dynasty. After the Yuan established their capital in Beijing, the area developed quickly. In the Ming dynasty, officials built garden villas for outings and banquets. After the Qing entered Beijing, they established Banner garrisons and built grand gardens stretching from Haidian eastward to Fragrant Hills, including the Old Summer Palace and the Summer Palace.

As for Zhongguancun, the Beijing Encyclopedia notes that during the Qing dynasty, a mid-ranking palace eunuch owned farmland here—”Zhongguan” meaning “middle official.” Over time, the name evolved into today’s Zhongguancun.

In 1911, indemnity funds returned from the United States were used to build Tsinghua College beside the ruins of the Old Summer Palace, first as a preparatory school for study abroad, then as a full university by 1925. In 1919, Yenching University was built to the south, funded by American Christian missions. In 1952, Peking University moved into Yenching’s campus. The Chinese Academy of Sciences was headquartered at Wenjin Street, with most of the former Nationalist government’s research institutes also located in central Beijing.

In 1953, the government chose Zhongguancun as the site for “Zhongguancun Science City.” Soon a large number of national research institutes and universities moved here, creating a remarkable concentration of scientific, educational, and cultural resources.

A quick comparison: Haidian District covers 426 square kilometers; by the early 1990s, it housed 51 universities and 138 research institutions. Silicon Valley, at around 640 square kilometers, has sixteen universities in its surrounding area. Chen Chunxian declared in 1980: “Zhongguancun’s talent density is certainly no lower than that of San Francisco or Boston.” This was his confidence: Chinese Silicon Valley could be built right here.

He believed Silicon Valley owed its success to “technology diffusion.” That was what he aimed to cultivate in Zhongguancun. From the Advanced Technology Development Service Department to the creation of the Huaxia Silicon Valley Group—where he served as chairman—he pursued this ideal. At its height, the company held assets worth tens of millions, but ultimately everything was lost.

In 1978, Chen Chunxian had been exceptionally promoted to researcher at the Academy of Sciences—together with Chen Jingrun and fewer than ten others. Someone later told him: “If you hadn’t gone out to start companies, you would surely be an academician today.” He only smiled. Indeed, many of his former colleagues later became academicians. He did not. Having left the Academy, he held no labor benefits and seemed, in business terms, a passing figure. Today, Zhongguancun is full of traffic and energy. People know Wang Xuan, Liu Chuanzhi, Chen Jingrun. But how many know Chen Chunxian? To some who do, he indeed “failed.”

But what makes a hero? Heroes are not always the successful. Often, they are heroes because they fail heroically. A hero is someone willing to use their smallness to attempt what is immensely difficult—someone who presses forward knowing full well the risks.

By that measure, Chen Chunxian was unquestionably a hero. In the winter of 1980, his passion burned like a torch. True to his name—Chunxian, “herald of spring”—he was one of the first to bring the “Spring of Science” into the realm of the economy.

From that winter to the spring of 1983, did he fight alone? No. He formed technical partnerships with four collectively-owned small factories in Haidian, helping create the Haidian New Technology Experimental Factory and several technical service units. His idea of “technology diffusion” stood in sharp contrast to locking technology in safes or letting it gather dust on high shelves. What he practiced was the diffusion of dormant Chinese technology into real enterprises—an invaluable attempt to link scientists with productive forces.

Zhongguancun should also remember a Xinhua News Agency reporter, Pan Shantang, who in 1983 wrote an important internal report titled “Researcher Chen Chunxian’s New Technology Diffusion Experiment Shows Initial Results.” It noted that although Chen’s work was promising, some leaders still opposed it. The report caught the attention of central leaders, who issued instructions that brought municipal and district-level support, loosening policies for scientists starting enterprises. Zhongguancun gained its first breakthrough.

By then, many in Zhongguancun saw the spark Chen Chunxian had lit two years earlier. In May 1983, Zhong Qi and Fan Liangzao founded Kehai New Technology Company. In July, Wang Hongde and colleagues created Jinghai Computer Technology Company. In 1984 came Stone Company, then Sitong Computer Company. People soon spoke of the “Two Tongs and Two Hais.” That same year, the company that would become Lenovo also quietly emerged. Many of these daring entrepreneurs were from the Academy of Sciences. Tsinghua University followed with Haihua and Huahai.

These intellectuals—Chen Chunxian among them—embodied a generation’s deep patriotism. Though they were soon criticized as “money-oriented,” their vision far exceeded that of their critics. They recognized Silicon Valley early not as a destination to flee to, but as a model to build at home. It was senior scientists, not businessmen, who lifted Zhongguancun Electronic Street into prominence in the early 1980s.

In 1984, Peking University still had no company—Peking University had fallen behind. China’s most prestigious university was held back by tradition. I once wondered: why did the earliest enterprises in the reform era emerge from the Academy of Sciences? Why did Tsinghua move faster than Peking University?

The knowledge economy was humanity’s greatest twentieth-century innovation. Zhongguancun Electronic Street was China’s most forward-looking experiment in developing productive forces. Here was a group of scientists who trusted themselves, recognized the power of technology, and understood that only enterprises could unleash that power. They no longer waited for government funding. They formed teams freely, hired talent freely, and subjected both their products and their own futures to the test of the market. One after another—Kehai, Jinghai, Haihua, Huahai—companies with the character hai (“sea”) emerged in Haidian, and “going to sea” became shorthand for entering the market.

For intellectuals to “go to sea” was a direct collision with a thousand-year tradition of scholars avoiding commerce. Controversy was inevitable. Misunderstanding was inevitable.

Did Chen Chunxian fail? What he championed—building a Chinese Silicon Valley in Zhongguancun—was not empty talk: he was the first to act. His own companies experienced setbacks, yet Zhongguancun rose and continues to shape China’s economic future through its role in the knowledge economy.

No one can do everything. The truth is that by 1984, Chen Chunxian’s most meaningful contribution was already complete. To have envisioned such a mission, begun it out of love for his country, and watched it carried forward by others—that is a kind of fulfillment.

He may never be an academician. But what he pioneered mattered more than any one invention. History should remember Chen Chunxian—a small, forgotten figure today, an aging intellectual, yet a true pioneer who first advocated and devoted himself to building a “Chinese Silicon Valley” in Zhongguancun.

III. The Harbinger of “Industry-Academia-Research Integration”

Wang Xuan had already experienced Britain’s Monotype Company’s aggressive market push back in 1979. His realization—that technology must enter the marketplace and compete head-on with Western companies—came earlier than Chen Chunxian’s. What was even more remarkable was that, despite the steady influx of Western high-tech products, Wang Xuan managed to keep China’s independent technology at the cutting edge. The problem was turning that technological edge into real products capable of winning market share. By this time, Wang Xuan’s thinking about a “decisive market battle” had crystallized around one point: without enterprises, you could never reach the market.

In 1984, Wang Xuan stepped into Zhongguancun. He admired the boldness of the Chinese Academy of Sciences intellectuals who had ventured onto “Electronic Street” to start companies. On June 11, he could barely contain his excitement as he made a proposal to Peking University’s new president, Ding Shisun: Peking University should establish its own science-and-technology development company.

That afternoon, President Ding convened an expanded meeting of Peking University’s administrative committee—the university’s first meeting of the reform era dedicated to discussing university-run enterprises. It was held in Room 103 of the main office building, with full attendance.

Wang Xuan’s outline for that speech still survives. He began by speaking from the standpoint of teaching. Peking University’s mission, he argued, was to cultivate top-level talent. It should continue developing basic theory, but it also needed to invest in high technology—especially computer science. He reminded the room that during the Cultural Revolution, Peking University had actually flourished in certain high-tech fields, developing computers capable of millions of operations per second. But after the Cultural Revolution, hardware programs stopped recruiting students, software programs stagnated, and operational systems were scarce. Many teachers had never even touched a microcomputer, which hampered teaching quality. Therefore, Peking University must strengthen applications, support applied research projects, and establish science-and-technology development companies.

“This way,” Wang Xuan said, “we can gather Peking University’s scattered forces, build experimental bases, bring out our strengths—and also earn revenue.”

Peking University had run large university-owned factories once before, during the 1958 Great Leap Forward. During the Cultural Revolution, under the slogan of “learning from workers and peasants,” the university still operated several factories, but most disappeared afterward. Now Wang Xuan’s proposal reflected the new realities of the reform era. Several years later, Peking University would formally adopt the concept of “industry-academia-research integration.” In retrospect, Wang Xuan’s 1984 proposal—rooted in his educational vision—together with President Ding’s leadership and the committee’s discussion, can be seen as the earliest sign of that integration.

At the meeting, Wang Xuan even recommended candidates for general manager. But no one was willing to take the job. That same year, Zhongguancun’s Electronic Street already had forty tech enterprises.

Inside Peking University, families still asked: “Scholars—how can they run companies?”

At the same time, major newspapers and magazines praised scientists who were “not tempted by business” and who “devoted themselves to pure research, enduring loneliness.” Entrepreneurship was still seen as unseemly for intellectuals.

On August 24, Peking University’s Party Secretary Wang Xuezhen convened a standing committee meeting. The committee appointed standing-committee member and deputy director of academic affairs, Hua Wenting, to oversee science-and-technology development. On October 10, under President Ding’s chairmanship, the president’s office meeting approved the creation of a new “Science and Technology Development Department,” with Hua Wenting serving concurrently as director.

Hua Wenting, from Huaiyin, Jiangsu, had entered Peking University’s Chemistry Department in 1956. The new department consisted of only three people—Hua Wenting, deputy director Lu Yongji, and office secretary Wu Yuyan. Together they began the wide search for someone capable of running a university-run company.

Their first candidate was Lou Binlong, a senior engineer in Peking University’s Radio Department. Lou had helped develop a customs inspection instrument that was already being tested at a customs office. The General Administration of Customs planned to transfer him. Hua Wenting visited Lou and asked, “If you’re going to do scientific and technological work anyway, wouldn’t it be just as meaningful to do it at Peking University?”

But the offer from the General Administration of Customs was tempting. Lou hesitated. Hua Wenting told him, “We’ll wait for you.” And just like that, 1984 passed.

Of course, Lou was not the only candidate considered. After the Spring Festival in 1985, Hua Wenting and Lu Yongji walked into the small dormitory room of Zhang Yufeng.

“Why Zhang Yufeng?” I once asked Hua Wenting. He answered, “Because Zhang Yufeng had studied in the Radio Department, taught for years in the Physics Department, and conducted research—everything he did was closest to real applications. And most importantly, Zhang Yufeng could endure hardship.”

IV. Peking University’s First Trailblazer to Leap into Enterprise

“Dad, I want to sleep.”

His younger daughter’s voice rang in his ears again.

Zhang Yufeng looked over at the daughter who shared his desk and sighed. He put away the books. Their entire room was 9.8 square meters. It was the mid-1980s; the average living space for a family of four here was even smaller than the six square meters Chen Jingrun had to himself in the 1970s. Back then, Chen Jingrun had no desk at the Academy of Sciences—he used his bed as one. Now Zhang Yufeng’s daughter used his desk as her bed every night.

This was Room 209 in Red Building No. 3 at Peking University. The desk had originally been his older daughter Zhang Meng’s bed. But at thirteen, she no longer fit, so now nine-year-old Zhang Yan slept there instead. In a few more years, how would she sleep?

“Dad, when will the two of us get our own room?”

She had been asking this for years. The question had followed both sisters through childhood and adolescence, becoming their shared dream. As mentioned earlier, promotions, salary increases, and housing were tied closely to professional titles. After Peking University resumed professional title evaluations at the end of 1978, many faculty members buried themselves in books and papers, hoping for advancement. So what did promotions actually look like at Peking University?

By mid-1984, Peking University had completed three rounds of promotions, granting new professional titles to 2,890 people. Yet only 198 were promoted to full professor, and 31 of those were still pending official approval. Why, eight years after the Cultural Revolution, could so few people at one of China’s top universities become professors? Why was it so difficult?

Housing told another part of the story. In 1984, among the 193 professors living on campus, 158 lived in three- or four-room apartments (70–100 square meters). The other 35 lived in smaller units. On the surface, it looked as if achieving the rank of professor guaranteed decent housing. But in reality, the number of professors Peking University could promote was constrained by the university’s limited housing stock.

Looking at associate professors made this even clearer. Of the 539 associate professors, only 264 households lived in 70-square-meter three-room apartments. The remaining 275 still lived in cramped, incomplete one- or two-room units. Some associate professors were still in single rooms of around 10–14 square meters. Many were over forty, with children in their teens or older. Families of four shared one room. Older sons and daughters sharing a space caused constant difficulties. They were considered “disadvantaged households” among Peking University’s intellectuals, yet most felt too embarrassed to speak about it. Another 450 lecturers and teaching assistants were waiting for housing to get married—or living apart in men’s and women’s dorms even after marriage.

North of Zhang Yufeng’s hometown lay the Shaanbei plateau, where he had once heard folk songs—songs celebrating labor and love. No matter how hard life was, the melodies were simple and soaring, echoing across barren land like cries. In the crowded residential blocks of Peking University, you could hear a similar kind of quiet sorrow.

Seeing all this, one could understand why it was so difficult for Wang Xuan to keep a technical research team together when the “Spring of Science” arrived. Since promotions depended mainly on scholarly publications, and living conditions were so cramped and taxing, many faculty members wrote papers simply to improve their situation. In rooms so crowded that parents and children shared desks, producing original scientific work was not only exhausting, but heartbreakingly difficult.

“Dad, when will we move to a bigger place?”

In 1985, his daughter asked again—one year older, nothing changed.

Right after the Spring Festival in 1985, Hua Wenting and Lu Yongji came to visit Zhang Yufeng.

“Would you be willing to come out and run a company?”

“Let me think about it.”

He truly needed time to think. Zhang Yufeng was thirty-eight, once again choosing his future. At that moment, could his daughter understand what he was facing? Probably only his wife—also from Shaanxi—knew how difficult this decision would be.

Looking back, the journey from a cave-dwelling school to Peking University still felt like a dream. If he hadn’t passed the college entrance exam, returning home to farm would not have been shameful. But since he had passed, he felt he must honor it. His eight siblings had pooled the family’s entire strength to send him to university—his acceptance was the pride of the whole family and the whole village. Before he left, his mother had sewn him new clothes and cloth shoes by hand. On the morning of his departure, she rose early to steam a bag of bread for him. Their loess homeland was still so poor—what more could she send with him? In 1965, having enough grain at all was already a blessing. That morning, his mother stood at the clay stove, steam rising from the pot, tears falling down her nose.

The sun rose. Summer was fading, and the locust trees were still lush. Many villagers came to see him off. In his brand-new clothes, he stood out against the earthen landscape—something only seen on New Year’s or at weddings. Childhood study companions looked at him with envy. The villagers said he wasn’t going to Beijing to take exams—he had already passed. One last glance at the ancient cave dwellings of home, and he left determined to make his studies worthwhile.

After graduating from Peking University, he stayed on as faculty. After the Cultural Revolution, he taught while conducting research. In 1985, a semiconductor research project he worked on—”Interaction of Impurities and Defects in Semiconductors”—won a first-class science and technology progress award from Peking University. But the year before, he had seen IBM personal computers pouring into China, full of Intel’s cutting-edge semiconductor innovations. Compared to those, his own research—though award-winning—seemed impossible to turn into real products.

“My decision to leave teaching and run a company was mainly influenced by walking down Zhongguancun,” Zhang Yufeng later recalled. “And honestly, I’d been thinking about it since ‘Jinghai’ and ‘Kehai’ appeared in 1983.”

In early March, Zhang Yufeng reported his decision to Hua Wenting.

“We’re very happy,” Hua Wenting said. “Before the New Year, I never imagined the first person from Peking University to step out and run a company would be you.”

V. Embarrassing Beginnings

Soon afterward, Lou Binlong decided not to transfer to the General Administration of Customs. With that, Hua Wenting had a second person willing to step forward and run a company.

Next came Huang Wanju, a teacher from the Radio Department, and then Huang Luping from the Mathematics Department. Among them, Lou Binlong—nine years older than Zhang Yufeng—was the senior engineer with the strongest credentials and had already achieved notable results in technical development. Huang Wanju was roughly the same age as Lou. Huang Luping, one of the earliest people to recognize the value of Wang Xuan’s plan, was five years older than Zhang Yufeng. At thirty-eight, Zhang Yufeng was the youngest of the group.

This is how Peking University’s company began. At first, they didn’t even know they needed to apply for business licenses—but they did have a company seal: Beijing University Science and Technology Development Company. The school appointed Hua Wenting to concurrently serve as director of the Science and Technology Development Company.

Without licenses, it was technically an illegal company, yet they had already started “doing business” with outside partners. This required managers—Lou Binlong became general manager, with Huang Luping and Zhang Yufeng as deputy general managers. Peking University’s “company” began operating in this improvised way. Everyone felt quite solemn about it, but when they learned that a Party committee decision wasn’t enough and that they actually needed government-issued licenses, they couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed.

Today, when people recount Founder’s early entrepreneurial history, they often say, “Peking University only gave them a ten-square-meter office.” In reality, that “ten square meters” was Hua Wenting’s own office—the office of the university’s Vice Director of Academic Affairs. After Hua Wenting identified people to run the company, there wasn’t even a spare room to put desks. How could this possibly work? At that time, Peking University was so short on space that they couldn’t even free up a single office for a company—almost unbelievable.

But Standing Committee member and Vice Academic Affairs Director Hua Wenting had no alternative. He said, “I cleared out my office—including the telephone—and then I had no office for an entire year. I walked around the university every day with a briefcase, going from department to department.”

People also often say today, “The university gave them 400,000 yuan in startup funds.” But in the first year, the university didn’t give a single penny.

Why? Because the university was poor. In a report Peking University submitted in 1984 requesting increased gasoline allocations, they wrote: “Each vehicle currently receives only 70 liters of gasoline per month, which is far from sufficient. Each Peking University vehicle needs to travel more than 2,000 kilometers per month, requiring at least 300 liters.”

Where could they possibly find money to start companies?

Still, after discussions throughout 1984, they finally launched in the spring of 1985. Being able to decide to run companies with no funding at all was, in itself, an act of courage.

Contemporary news and reference stories:

IBM’s full name is International Business Machines Corporation, founded in 1914. It was a flagship enterprise of the industrial-economy era and remains the world’s largest information-industry company, with more than 200,000 employees in over 150 countries. It is one of the rare global giants that has managed to straddle two economic eras and still remain dominant into the twentieth century.

Ancient China described a mighty army as having “thousands of generals.” IBM has “thousands of managers.” All its managers traditionally wore blue suits, giving rise to the company’s nickname: the “Blue Giant.” IBM maintained formidable strength throughout the era of large and small computers.

When microprocessors appeared, IBM remained indifferent for nearly ten years. Only after Apple computers emerged and rapidly captured the market—shocking the “giant”—did IBM decide to enter the personal-computer field. In 1979, IBM created a development team in Boca Raton, Florida, to begin designing microcomputers. To compete quickly with Apple, IBM abandoned for the first time its long-standing practice of relying solely on in-house technology, choosing instead to adopt technologies already available on the market.

At the time, Apple computers used Motorola microprocessors—a choice that greatly fueled Motorola’s rise while leaving Intel, the inventor of the microprocessor, feeling threatened. Now, IBM decided to use Intel’s microprocessors. Standing on the shoulders of this world-class giant, Intel was able to accelerate its own development.

Next, IBM needed an operating system and programming tools for its new microcomputer. They first approached Professor Gary Kildall of the U.S. Naval Postgraduate School, the creator of CP/M—the first widely popular microcomputer operating system of the 1970s. Confident in CP/M’s market dominance, Kildall indicated he wanted $200 in royalties per unit.

IBM then turned to Bill Gates, who had developed a compiler they hoped to use. Facing this global giant, Gates immediately recognized an opportunity that would never come again—but the question was: how could he seize it?

Chapter Six: Knowledge is Wealth (1984-1986)

More than a decade ago, Shenzhen rang out with a famous slogan: Time is money. Today, we should raise a new one: Knowledge is wealth. If the era of “millions of workers flocking to Shenzhen” once drew the nation’s attention southward, then now our eyes should turn north. Zhongguancun has become the cradle of China’s knowledge economy—a place where new developments and fresh stories continue to emerge.

I. The First Hong Kong Businessman to Do Business in Zhongguancun

In November 1984, a Hong Kong businessman named Zhang Xuanlong arrived in Zhongguancun. At the time, he had never heard of Wang Xuan or Zhang Yufeng. Today, he serves as president of Founder’s Hong Kong–listed company, managing all of Peking University Founder’s overseas operations in the United States, Canada, Japan, Singapore, and Malaysia. Without getting into how he eventually reached that position, the question worth understanding is: why did he come to Zhongguancun at that particular moment?

It was the fifth year of the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone. Train after train of “migrant-worker specials” carried people from across the country to Shenzhen—more intensely than ever before. When the trains arrived, the whistles alone could shake you. And stepping off were not only rural laborers, but also professors, scientists, doctors, and graduate-degree holders from Beijing and Shanghai. In 1984, Shenzhen’s unique political and economic climate, its vast and inexpensive labor force, and its proximity to Hong Kong made it an ideal destination for Hong Kong investors. Countless people at home and abroad, hungry for opportunity and desperate to change their lives, fixed their gaze on Shenzhen.

But Zhang Xuanlong looked north—to Beijing. He became “the first Hong Kong businessman to do business in Zhongguancun.” Why?

I met him in Room 1711, on the seventeenth floor of the main building of the Yanshan Hotel at the Zhongguancun intersection. It was a large suite—the top floor—complete with a living room, bedroom, dining table, and small kitchen. In Hong Kong, Zhang Xuanlong owns the seventeen-story Golden Hill Building, and his office is also on the seventeenth floor. For years, every time he traveled to Beijing, he stayed in this same Room 1711. His attachment to this place was deep—as if it were his Beijing home.

Gradually I sensed that this reflected something deeper: a strong attachment his whole family felt toward their homeland. In their blood, in their weathered bodies, there was a wish—an insistence, even. They were more unwilling than mainlanders to see turmoil, and more eager for peace and stability.

“Before 1984, had you been to Shenzhen?”

“Yes. I knew you could make money by setting up factories there, but that wasn’t the kind of money I wanted to make.”

“Why not?”

“Mainland wages were already low—making money off physical labor doesn’t take much skill.”

“What kind of money does take skill?”

“Making money from high technology. If you have the ability to sell intelligence, that’s real business. The more advanced the technology, the more you earn—and the easier it becomes. And scientists working with me can also earn more. Both sides benefit. That’s the kind of work I’m willing to do.”

It was then that I began to sense there was something unusual about Zhang Xuanlong.

II. “Beijing's Golden Mountain”

Zhongguancun began as nothing more than a village in Haidian. When Zhang Xuanlong arrived in 1984, you could still see vegetable fields around what people called “Electronic Street.” Was his arrival a coincidence—or a deliberate, strategic choice? Once again we come back to choice. And for a businessman, choosing wisely matters far more than for someone with nothing to lose. In many ways, investment is the art of choosing correctly. One wrong decision can turn the rich into the poor.

“We follow mainland newspapers closely,” he said. In truth, entrepreneurs operating in a market economy often paid more attention to the political winds than many mainland officials did, fully aware of how politics shaped economic opportunity. In October 1984, when the CPC Central Committee’s Decision on Economic System Reform was published, Zhang Xuanlong recognized that a turning point had arrived. “I saw that urban reform had begun,” he recalled. Without hesitation, he headed to Beijing that November. He was twenty-eight.

“Chinese people are naturally bright, and the mainland draws its talent from a massive population. There are so many advanced technologies here—but no one has turned them into money. And Beijing has the most talent of all.” That, in essence, was why he came.

He arrived carrying IBM computers, printers, and Intel chips. His first deals were with the Ministry of Electronics, then the Ministry of Railways. When he came to Zhongguancun, he contacted Kehai and Haike, later Stone. In these early dealings, he let offices and companies use his computers first and pay later. He allowed Zhongguancun companies to sell his IBM machines on the same basis: sell first, settle accounts afterward. It was, essentially, extending credit to people who had none—a way to let them do business without capital.

At the time, no one knew that selling a few IBM computers was not his real aim. What he truly wanted was to use these transactions to identify the mainland’s most promising technology enterprises—and the most capable people. Before long, he chose Stone. At that point, Stone had existed for less than a year and was far from the best-known company in Zhongguancun.

“From my interactions with Stone, I could tell they weren’t like the ministry people,” he said. “They were quick-thinking, had a modern sense of the market, and their ideas were fresh. They also had flexible business methods. So I decided to work with them.”

That first Beijing trip gave him a crucial insight: Beijing residents were not conservative about new things—in fact, they were eager for computers. Their only limitation was purchasing power. When he returned to Hong Kong, he sat down with his father and siblings for a family meeting.

“IBM computers are too expensive. Government departments can still afford them, but schools cannot—and individuals definitely cannot. But if you lower the price, the mainland market becomes enormous.”

The family moved quickly. They bought microprocessors from the United States and began producing IBM-compatible computers in Hong Kong. They named the machine “Super,” meaning “super computer.” By the end of 1985, the first Super models were ready and shipped to Zhongguancun. This was Zhang Xuanlong’s first major creation after coming to Beijing.

At that time, an IBM computer cost more than 30,000 yuan in Beijing. Zhang Xuanlong had Stone sell the Super for just over 10,000. So naturally, people wondered: how could a machine so cheap still be so good? Who exactly was this Zhang Xuanlong? Zhongguancun began to find him mysterious.

“When we first started making computers, even customs officers hadn’t seen one before. At first I transported them by train; later, when planes allowed it, I switched to air freight. Stone was struggling—they’d go to the airport themselves with handcarts to haul the machines back.”

Stone didn’t have the cash to buy his computers outright. But from the moment Zhang stepped into Zhongguancun, he had decided it would be his base of development—his “Beijing Gold Mountain.” And the first thing he needed was trust. How do you get people to understand you? Advertising is one way. But Zhang Xuanlong didn’t advertise. As the old saying goes: “To take, first give.” He kept letting Stone sell the Super computers first and pay later.

Soon, long lines formed outside Stone’s doors for the Super machines. If the machines hadn’t been reliable, such scenes would never have appeared. But they did—again and again—because the Super always sold out. Stone’s phone rang nonstop with the same question:

“Have the Super machines arrived yet?”

III. A “Worker-Peasant-Soldier Student” and His Creation

In this way, Zhang Xuanlong arrived in Zhongguancun alone, relying on Stone’s staff to run operations and on customers to spread the word. And the situation he’d hoped for soon appeared. At the time, the most recognizable company in Zhongguancun wasn’t IBM—much less Microsoft—but a Hong Kong outfit called Golden Hill.

For Zhang Xuanlong, his biggest competitor in the computer market wasn’t IBM either. It was the Electronics Ministry’s Great Wall Computer Company and its Great Wall 0520 machine, the earliest domestically produced personal computer capable of processing Chinese characters. To understand this competition, we need to talk about the Great Wall 0520.

The emergence of the Great Wall 0520 was remarkable. Keep in mind that IBM-compatible PCs had only appeared in the United States in 1983. That same year, China’s Computer Industry General Bureau convened a national coordination meeting and decided that producing PC-compatible machines would be the direction for China’s microcomputer development. Of course, to pursue this path, China needed software that could support Chinese characters on PC hardware. That was a major challenge at the time. Reportedly, not a single one of the more than one hundred universities and research institutes nationwide was willing to take on the task. So what could be done?

For comparison, look at Japan. In 1984, NEC—the same NEC that ranked first among global semiconductor companies in 1987, far above Intel’s tenth place—asked Microsoft to develop a Japanese version of MS-DOS for NEC’s PCs. NEC simply handed the task to Microsoft.

How did China solve its problem? Surprisingly, the solution came from a technician with a “worker-peasant-soldier student” background—someone who didn’t even qualify to attend the 1983 national computer meeting. His name was Yan Yuanchao.

I never interviewed Yan Yuanchao myself. I learned his story from Liu Ren and Zhang Yongjie’s article “CC-DOS Yan Yuanchao.” In just five months, Yan developed CC-DOS, a DOS system capable of processing Chinese characters. “CC” stands for the initials of “Changcheng”—Great Wall—a symbol of China itself. I write about Yan because I believe he deserves to be remembered.

When people think of Bill Gates today, they think of “the richest man in the world.” Gates bought an existing DOS from Seattle Computer Products, modified it into PC-DOS and MS-DOS, supplied them to IBM and other companies, and entered the fast lane of wealth creation. Yan Yuanchao, meanwhile, not only built CC-DOS but later led development of the Chinese-character graphics cards for Great Wall computers, and served as the principal designer of the Great Wall 0520. For his work, he received an eighteen-inch color TV—a reward he treasured. In 1986, CC-DOS won a national second-class science and technology progress award, earning Yan Yuanchao 2,000 yuan.

Today, Gates is famous worldwide, while Yan Yuanchao remains little known. But in my heart, this man—whom I’ve never met—is someone I deeply admire. And I know he is not unique: China has countless gifted people whose talents haven’t been fully used. This is China’s vast, untapped potential.

For years, people liked to say that while China’s basic science lagged behind, its applied technology was strong. But if so many research institutes refused to take on CC-DOS, leaving the task to someone with a “worker-peasant-soldier” background, can we really say applied technology was strong? The truth is that CC-DOS wasn’t an impossibly difficult problem. The deeper issue was that much of China’s scientific research at the time had become completely disconnected from real production. Applied technology was deeply underdeveloped.

Even so, the fact that China could produce the Great Wall 0520 so soon after IBM-compatible PCs appeared abroad was one of the country’s fastest technological follow-ups of that era. And since the Great Wall’s Chinese-character system was better than its American counterparts—and its price far lower—IBM’s China-specific 550 model sold poorly. For a time, Great Wall computers nearly dominated the domestic market.

Against this backdrop, when Zhang Xuanlong arrived with his Super computers—also capable of processing Chinese characters—he made a strong impression on Zhongguancun’s tech community.

IV. Long Lines Before Stone

“I’m competing with Great Wall by doing computers with Stone.”

That was classic Zhang Xuanlong phrasing. By “doing computers,” he didn’t mean manufacturing them—he meant doing business. His way of speaking later influenced Zhang Yufeng and many intellectuals entering the market, whose vocabulary soon filled with phrases like “doing companies,” “doing enterprises,” and “doing markets.”

Zhang Xuanlong could go up against Great Wall because he had his own Chinese-character card. “Once you install the card,” he explained, “my computers can run Great Wall software.” In other words, his Super machines weren’t just IBM-compatible; they were also compatible with the Great Wall 0520. They could run any software built for Great Wall’s computers.

Why challenge Great Wall at all? First, because the Great Wall 0520 had already made IBM machines nearly unsellable in China. Second, because the economy was still largely planned: institutions buying computers needed approval, and once approved, regulations required them to purchase Great Wall machines. Great Wall held all the advantages. How could Zhang Xuanlong even wedge his foot in the door?

Only by using market tactics. Great Wall machines cost more than 20,000 yuan. If Super computers were only a few thousand yuan cheaper, no unit would risk violating procurement rules. But if the cost of one Great Wall machine could instead buy two Super machines of comparable quality, people began to hesitate—and then consider.

“My Super machines let many Beijing universities use computers earlier,” Zhang Xuanlong said later. “And frankly, I saved the country quite a lot of money.”

The deeper impact, though, was that the arrival of Super machines in Zhongguancun marked one of the first truly market-driven technology products in the area. Their price point made clear—visibly, concretely—the profit margins of high technology. This mattered for the growth of China’s computer market and for the rise of Zhongguancun Electronic Street. The long queues in front of Stone for Super computers captured a historic moment: Zhongguancun taking its first real step from “sky-high prices and high barriers” toward popularization. China was still poor—without lower prices, there could be no widespread adoption; and without adoption, no industry. For the future of the business, Zhang Xuanlong pushed computers toward affordability at the birthplace of China’s information sector. Historically, the role of Chinese businesspeople in economic development was often overlooked. But Zhang Xuanlong’s contribution to Zhongguancun deserves to be remembered.

The more I learned about him, the more I thought of The Merchant of Venice. In sixteenth-century Europe, advances in navigation—helped by the Chinese compass—energized commercial activity. Venetian merchant Antonio, sailing the seas for trade, brought vitality to Europe’s development. Shakespeare praised him as representing a new productive force. In a similar way, Zhang Xuanlong, with a Hong Kong businessman’s perspective, saw Beijing and Zhongguancun at the dawn of a new economic era. He came to build relationships and do business. How should we see him?

Lenovo’s first proprietary product, after all, was also a Chinese-character card, which won a national science and technology progress award in 1988 and played a crucial role in Lenovo’s early growth. No committee ever evaluated Zhang Xuanlong’s card, but it enabled him to build a flourishing computer business in Zhongguancun—and that was achievement enough.

He had developed an even earlier Chinese-character card for Apple-compatible machines. Before ever coming to Zhongguancun, he had already created Hong Kong’s first Apple-compatible computer—earlier than anything in mainland China. His contribution to China’s emerging compatible-machine market was significant.

It’s worth noting that Apple-compatible products were only Golden Hill Company’s second line. The first was the CMC-80—short for “Chinese Microcomputer.” It was created in 1980 in collaboration with the Zhuzhou Electronic Research Institute. Zhang Xuanlong brought American chips from Hong Kong; Zhuzhou researchers turned them into working machines, first as single-board systems and later as dual-board systems. The CMC-80 dual board received praise at the 1983 Sixth National People’s Congress, which urged national research units to learn from Zhuzhou’s example.

Zhang Xuanlong wasn’t a technical specialist, but he understood the value of developing technology—and understood how to turn knowledge into economic power. If we see him only as a businessman, his greatest achievement wasn’t selling computers but recognizing how to use capital to unlock the knowledge held by top researchers. His story shows that you don’t need to be a scientist to drive technological development. Businesspeople, using business methods, can also innovate—sometimes acting as catalysts or leaders of the entire process.

In the early years of reform, ministries still dominated procurement. Many companies sought access to ministerial purchasing power or influence over subordinate units. Zhang Xuanlong had enough credentials—the CMC-80 had even been praised by the National People’s Congress—but he didn’t stay fixated on that route. Among the three major forces he could draw on—government power, markets, and knowledge—he chose firmly to rely on markets and knowledge.

To make one company stand out, he chose Stone as the exclusive agent for Super computers. Arriving in Zhongguancun alone, he set out to make the community know him—and succeeded quickly. Later, Zhang Yufeng sought him out precisely because of that reputation.

Contemporary News and Reference Stories:

Bill Gates was born in 1955 to a lawyer father and a teacher mother. Gifted in mathematics, he encountered computers in his second year of middle school and learned BASIC. At eighteen he entered Harvard; at twenty he left to start a company. His first major product was a BASIC compiler built on the language he had learned as a teenager. By 1979, it had sold a million copies—enough to put him on IBM’s radar.

IBM’s visit in 1980 was the defining moment of Gates’s life. His later success did not stem primarily from his programming ability, but from his extraordinary instinct for recognizing opportunity. He understood—almost immediately—that if he could supply the operating system for a world-class giant like IBM, the future of the industry would shift dramatically. But he had never built an operating system. Still, opportunities disappear in an instant: what should he do?

Gates told IBM he was willing to design a custom operating system for them at a very low price. He added one condition: he hoped to retain the right to sell slightly modified versions of that system to other customers. IBM agreed without hesitation, and the deal was signed.

By then Gates had relocated his company back to his hometown of Seattle. He quickly bought an existing operating system—DOS—from the nearby Seattle Computer Company for $50,000. After modifying it, he delivered it to IBM. That single move allowed Gates to leverage both Seattle Computer Company’s prior work and IBM’s global marketing power, beginning his ascent by standing squarely on the shoulders of giants.

Gates was twenty-five that year—the same age as Jobs. Anyone who achieves great success in the world must excel at absorbing the strengths of others and knowing how to use them. Gates was a quintessential example of someone who mastered the art of borrowing power.

Chapter Twenty: The Great Convergence (1995)

Ancient wisdom says, “If you dig a well, reach the spring; if you raise the sail, cross the river.” Who doesn’t hope that scientific achievements can be transformed into economic gains? Yet for many years, eight or nine out of every ten scientific and technological results in China never translated into economic strength—what people called “rooster technology”: loud in crowing, but unable to lay eggs.

This was an era that needed pioneers—people willing to carve out new paths. Against this backdrop, in 1995, Peking University’s emerging productive forces finally found a route of their own.

I. Standing on Earth is Harder Than Reaching Heaven

1995 marked a turning point in Founder Group’s development.

On March 29 that year, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher visited Peking University Founder. The world’s first laser typesetting system had been created by Britain’s Monotype Company, and the first Chinese-character laser typesetting system to enter the Chinese market had also come from Monotype. Now that same “Monotype System” had been entirely displaced in China by the “Founder System.” According to those present, Mrs. Thatcher stood before the Founder equipment for a long moment, deep in thought, before saying, “The Chinese people are very clever.”

In June, as Yan Maojian completed his third year as president, Peking University began deliberating the question of succession. In private discussions, Zhang Xuanlong offered a suggestion: “Let the company’s people vote—everyone will tell you what they think.” Peking University adopted the idea in part, surveying more than 130 mid-level cadres at Founder Group. Over 90 percent recommended Zhang Yufeng as the new president. On June 29, Peking University formally appointed him.

During his three years in office, Yan Maojian had presided over the birth of Founder Group and devoted his full energy to driving its early growth. During his tenure, Founder received Party and state leaders including Jiang Zemin, Li Peng, Qiao Shi, Li Ruihuan, Wei Jianxing, and Li Lanqing, as well as heads of state from more than ten countries. In those years the company worked closely with the research institute, laying a strong foundation for deeper integration between “science” and “enterprise.”

That moment of full integration finally arrived.

When the new leadership team was formed, Wang Xuan proposed that the entire research institute be merged into the company. “I’m not good at business management,” he said. “And the key people in our institute aren’t either.” This was his answer whenever people asked why he didn’t simply start his own company. He also pointed out that Founder already had a strong group of capable managers. “A close integration between the institute and Founder Group, moving toward unification—that is the right choice.”

On July 1 of that year, Founder Group created the Founder Technology Research Institute, with Wang Xuan as its director. This was one of the major accomplishments achieved immediately after Zhang Yufeng became president, and it successfully united the research institute and the company into a single team.

As this milestone was reached, another point deserves to be recorded. Wang Xuan had once written: “Among overseas Chinese, there’s a metaphor: the Japanese work style is like playing Go, Americans work like playing bridge, and some Chinese work as if playing mahjong.” He elaborated: “Go focuses on the whole board—you sacrifice local pieces for overall victory. Bridge requires tight cooperation between partners. Mahjong is played alone—watching the player before you, guarding against the player after you, and staring down the player across from you. If you can’t win, you try to keep others from winning.” What Wang Xuan meant was clear: he was determined to merge fully with the company. That determination formed the spiritual foundation for this major choice in his life.

We can now say that this choice—to converge—was Wang Xuan’s seventh major life decision, and Founder Group’s sixth major strategic decision. It also embodied, in a nearly complete form, Peking University’s famed “industry-academia-research integration” model.

Wang Xuan had another name for the Founder model: “the reach-heaven-while-standing-on-earth model and integrated system.” The phrase “reaching heaven while standing on earth” is elegant and evocative, but many media misquoted it as “using technology to reach heaven and using the market to stand on earth.” That version sounds plausible, but it actually misses the core point.

Why?

Because when Wang Xuan first contemplated competing with Monotype in 1979, he also saw the importance of enterprise groups racing across the marketplace. The most insightful part of his saying is this: “use science and technology to reach heaven, and use enterprise to stand on earth.” Only when science and technology are combined with enterprise can both advance together into the market. To use another image: if the market is the sea, then your technology must have a ship. Or you transform your scientific research institute directly into a science-and-technology enterprise. In all cases, you must “stand on earth through enterprise”—otherwise, no matter how advanced your technology or how grand your vision, you will have nowhere to land.

Consider Wang Xuan’s research institute. It was a national key laboratory, a master’s and doctoral degree-granting institution, a postdoctoral station, and a national engineering research center—a true “four-star” unit. These four stars belonged to the realm of “reaching heaven.” Once the group company was added, Founder became a “five-star enterprise.” Building this integrated system—from cutting-edge research all the way to after-sales service—was Wang Xuan’s “reaching-heaven-while-standing-on-earth” model in practice. No wonder one of the major typesetting software products launched afterward was named “Soaring.”

It’s worth noting that Wang Xuan first urged President Ding Shisun to establish Peking University’s own companies back in 1984. His desire for a group company had been long-standing. In other words, his wish to “stand on earth” was not realized until 1995—a goal that took even longer to achieve than obtaining his European patent.

Perhaps the lesson is this: standing on earth is harder than reaching heaven.

II. A Background Full of Vicissitudes

Once the merger was complete, the first major task was to transform Hong Kong Founder—co-founded with Zhang Xuanlong—into a publicly listed Hong Kong company. The work was detailed and unfamiliar. One day, Zhang Yufeng met with Zhang Xuanlong to discuss the school’s decision on how shares would be allocated after listing.

Zhang Xuanlong asked, “What’s the new situation? Tell me.”

Zhang Yufeng replied, “You can only hold eleven percent.”

Zhang Xuanlong was stunned. “Are you mistaken? Are you joking?”

Hong Kong Founder, jointly owned by Founder and Golden Hill Company, had originally been a fifty–fifty venture. All of its overseas subsidiaries—Canadian Founder, American Founder, and others—had been built personally by Zhang Xuanlong. “How did I suddenly end up with only eleven percent?”

“No joke,” Zhang Yufeng said. “For the listing to mean anything, the Founder Technology Research Institute has to be included. Without strong research capabilities, Hong Kong investors won’t have confidence.” This point was something Zhang Xuanlong had once told Zhang Yufeng himself. Now Zhang Yufeng continued, “Wang Xuan has worked for more than twenty years—don’t you think he should hold ten percent?”

“He should,” Zhang Xuanlong acknowledged.

“And the research institute—Founder Technology Research Institute—shouldn’t it also hold ten percent? Shouldn’t Founder hold ten percent? Shouldn’t Peking University hold more than ten percent? There must also be public shares. That leaves you with eleven percent. It’s a loss, but you’re still the second-largest shareholder.”

How could the “second-largest shareholder” be listening to the school tell him what his allocation would be? What kind of rules were these? How could he accept it? Zhang Xuanlong later told me:

“People in the company teased me afterward, saying I was the one who suggested voting, that Zhang Yufeng got elected, and then came back to hand me this deal. I said of course I hoped Zhang Yufeng would be president—he was the right person. But if it hadn’t been him, who else could have come to me to discuss profit-sharing like this? Since he came, I had nothing more to say.”

Besides, any Hong Kong investor knows that a company without real scientific research strength has no future. What, then, was the situation of mainland enterprises?

Because of historical patterns, most Chinese enterprises lacked R&D capabilities. Research power was concentrated in institutes staffed by state employees whose work often revolved around results and awards. Under this model, eight or nine out of ten scientific achievements in China failed to become real productive forces—earning the nickname “rooster technology”: able to crow, but unable to lay eggs.

This failure to “lay eggs” was not only the institutes’ loss.

Modern enterprises cannot survive through small improvements to old equipment. Modern competition is driven by scientific and technological content embedded in products. As reform and opening advanced, China’s market became increasingly global. Western high-tech goods could arrive overnight and appear in major shopping centers the next day, where salespeople enthusiastically promoted them as “imported” and “original.” Meanwhile, most domestic enterprises had backward technology and faced overwhelming pressure on the commercial battlefield. Once a firm loses the market counter, the factory gate soon follows. In the twenty-first century, competition will revolve even more directly around high technology. Enterprises without innovation capacity will not just lay off workers—they will cease to exist. Among all possible reasons for enterprise decline, the single fact of “lacking research capability” is enough to bring them down.

Scientific research institutes also suffered, because their achievements brought almost no economic returns.

We need only look at the basic working and living conditions of the country’s most advanced research units. On January 21, 1999, Science and Technology Daily published Zheng Qianli’s report, “The Transformation of Zhongguancun Science City in Full Swing,” describing the situation in detail.

Zhongguancun Science City had 15,000 researchers from the Chinese Academy of Sciences. More than one hundred academicians of the Chinese Academy of Sciences and Chinese Academy of Engineering lived there; in 1998, its twenty-five institutes had 2,200 master’s and doctoral students and over 250 postdocs. As the Academy’s most important base for scientific research and industrial outreach, calling it the place with the nation’s highest concentration of talent was no exaggeration.

But the article continued: although established in 1953, Zhongguancun’s facilities were “grossly mismatched” with its status. Power supply, roads, and heating were severely inadequate. Even if all electricity were devoted to living needs, each household would still have less than one kilowatt. Roads were clogged; noise and pollution exceeded national limits; heating relied on scattered coal-fired boilers, producing heavy winter pollution. Fitness facilities were almost nonexistent, and premature deaths among researchers were frequent. Forty percent of housing dated back to the mid-1960s, with low standards and poor layouts. More than 1,500 households still lived in shared flats or dormitory-style corridors; over 300 families lived in temporary shacks. Many “homeless households” consisted of young technical staff.

You could read even more, but after setting down the article, it was hard to decide whether to believe such conditions truly existed.

After twenty years of reform and opening, we still saw living conditions like those of Chen Jingrun before 1978, and those of Zhang Yufeng before and after he began building companies at Peking University. Among these researchers, those with the greatest potential were the “young technical personnel”—precisely the ones most vulnerable to being recruited abroad. It was the end of the twentieth century, yet Academy researchers still lived like this. What more could be said? They had made extraordinary contributions to science and to the nation’s development, yet their immense potential remained unrealized. They had become the disadvantaged households of Science City.

I couldn’t help thinking of Qian Zhongshu’s Fortress Besieged: those outside want to enter, those inside want to leave. In the 1980s, many inside finally broke out. Zhongguancun Electronic Street was pioneered by Academy researchers—the first to ignite China’s high-tech industry. It was a magnificent beginning. Because of their heroic efforts, we can now say:

For years people repeated the saying, “Those who build atomic bombs can’t compete with people selling tea eggs.” Today, we must recognize a different truth embedded within it: in a market economy, sellers of tea eggs deal directly with the market.

This is not to suggest that all researchers should become entrepreneurs. The disconnect between China’s scientific research forces and its industrial sector has long been pervasive. That single disconnect has been enough to drag down both research institutes and enterprises—and enough to keep a nation poor and backward.

Why interrupt the story of Wang Xuan and Zhang Yufeng’s “convergence” to describe this background? Because in writing, one must paint the whole scene. This was an era in which China, after countless difficulties, searched for new paths. We struggled for years, detoured through many dead ends, and yet were advancing—step by step—toward hope. Wang Xuan and Zhang Yufeng met within this large historical canvas. It is a landscape filled with hardship, struggle, and aspiration. Only by painting it clearly can we appreciate how precious their “convergence” truly was.

After 1992, many people “went to sea”—professors and cadres among them. Anyone with three to five people could start a company. Zhang Yufeng once described it vividly: “Like a landlord hiring three long-term hands—that’s a company.”

Xinmin Evening News once reported, “The scattered forces of thousands of Shanghai universities cannot compare to one Peking University Founder.” In truth, even Peking University experienced a period of “every village lighting its own fire, every household producing smoke” after 1992. Ren Yanshen described it this way: “At first, universities treated enterprise-running like a magic gourd tied to the principal or department head’s waist. When they needed money, they shook it to get loose change. The path taken by Founder—combining scientists and entrepreneurs—brought conceptual transformation to Peking University. Its impact on the university’s science and technology sector was profound. Very quickly, Peking University moved from scattered fires to forming several large, internationally competitive group companies.”

III. Five-Star Scientists and Entrepreneurs

Zhang Yufeng had originally been chairman of Hong Kong Founder. When the company was preparing to go public, he proposed that Wang Xuan serve as chairman of the listed company’s board. “I’m not being modest,” Zhang Yufeng said. “Having Wang Xuan as chairman is better for the company.”

Just before the listing, on November 6, 1995, at 6:30 p.m., UNESCO awarded China’s Wang Xuan its annual Science Prize in Paris, recognizing his world-significant contributions to Chinese typesetting and printing.

The long-awaited day of Hong Kong Founder’s listing finally arrived: 9:50 a.m. on December 21, 1995. In the trading hall of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, traders in red vests sat in a straight line as the exchange’s president and vice president raised their glasses. Professor Wang Xuan, now chairman of the newly listed company, presented Founder to the world with an image defined by knowledge and technological strength.

He stood on the red carpet in the center of the hall and outlined Founder’s future. “We do not consider Chinese typesetting systems entering overseas markets to be true internationalization. Only when non-Chinese products enter developed markets on a large scale can we truly call ourselves international.”

Applause broke out across the hall.

If Napoleon could “shake the Alps” by stamping his foot, it was because a disciplined army stood behind him. Today, Wang Xuan stood on the red carpet, lifted his glass, and calmly declared, “In one more year, we will enter the Japanese market.” He spoke with confidence because Founder Group stood behind him.

His speech drew wave after wave of applause. Also standing on the red carpet was Zhang Xuanlong, president of Hong Kong Founder’s listed company—extraordinary in his own right.

One day, Zhang Xuanlong told me, “Later I found out that Zhang Yufeng made up a story that day to negotiate the share allocation with me. In fact, Wang Xuan didn’t have any shares at all. Neither the president nor the Party secretary had shares—only I did. So afterward they teased me: ‘Zhang Xuanlong, since you’re the only one with stock, you should work even harder.’”

I once asked him, “Zhang Yufeng said eleven percent made you suffer losses. What do you think?”

He replied, “These Founder people don’t own a single share, yet they work like this. I have so many shares—I should work harder. As for money, I already have enough for this lifetime. I couldn’t spend it all. Now Teacher Wang Xuan is my direct boss, and that makes me very happy. I want to open the Japanese market together with him. And in Japan, we’re not even doing Chinese—we’re doing Japanese. I have full confidence in him. We will succeed.”

In a country where research and production were long disconnected, could someone outside science make a real contribution? In Zhang Xuanlong, the answer is clear.

When he first arrived alone in Zhongguancun in 1984, his Hong Kong Golden Hill Company had no research capacity. Eleven years later, he had become president of Hong Kong Founder, a publicly listed high-tech company, and its largest individual shareholder. Meanwhile, Peking University’s Founder Technology Research Institute—led by Wang Xuan—had become a powerhouse of innovation for him. From the perspective of his life’s struggle, none of this came easily.

His experience deserves the attention of enterprise leaders, managers, and aspiring entrepreneurs. Though not a technologist, he discovered Qiu Bojun and later became “boss” to many of Peking University’s finest researchers.

Now, on this international stage’s red carpet, Wang Xuan and Zhang Xuanlong stood side by side, while Zhang Yufeng sat in the audience. Looking back on that moment, Zhang Yufeng said, “At that time, my eyes blurred with tears.” How should we understand those tears?

Years earlier, while on a business trip, colleagues repeatedly asked him, “When will you leave Peking University?” Coming from a teaching and research background, having opened the “Kangbeixuan” antique shop and founded “Beida,” he was someone who dared to act. But he did not leave the university. Instead, he set himself a different goal: to make Founder an international, publicly listed company. How many understood his ambition then?

Three years before the listing, choosing to work with Zhang Xuanlong was his first decisive step. During those misunderstood years, he told himself: one day, when I am responsible for Founder Group and we achieve this, I will find a quiet place and cry. Now he sat below the stage, tears blurring his vision.

A friend from the Northeast once told me: “If in life you accomplish something remarkable, the greatest happiness is pushing the partners you trust most onto the stage, while you sit in the audience applauding.” That day, Zhang Yufeng sat below the red carpet and applauded with tears running down his face.

Even today, some might still think that Wang Xuan should have established his own independent company from the beginning. One might also imagine that, at certain earlier moments, either Wang Xuan or Zhang Yufeng could have followed the example of Jobs or Gates and founded a private company sooner. It was not impossible—many early ventures in Zhongguancun resembled the partnerships that started Microsoft. But we cannot forget that the paths of Wang Xuan, Lou Binlong, Yan Maojian, and Zhang Yufeng were shaped by their era. In those years of institutional and technological difficulty, they supported, complemented, and strengthened each other. They struggled through what Wang Xuan once called a period when “relaxing even a little would mean complete ruin.”

Years later, Wang Xuan still said: “For Founder’s Hong Kong listing, Zhang Yufeng made tremendous contributions.” Even a century from now, the cooperation they forged in those hard years will remain as fresh and warming as morning sunlight.

By 1995, standing on that Hong Kong red carpet, one could see that the Founder model was not only the partnership between Wang Xuan and Zhang Yufeng. It also included the crucial role of Hong Kong businessman Zhang Xuanlong.

Wang Xuan, born in Shanghai; Zhang Yufeng, from Shaanxi; and Zhang Xuanlong, from Hong Kong—their alliance in 1995 was exceptional. Without any one of them, Founder would not be what it is today.

Zhang Yufeng said that having Wang Xuan as chairman was “more beneficial for the company.” Indeed, Founder appeared on the world stage with a strong image rooted in knowledge and technology. Within a little over a year of its listing, its market value rose from one billion to five billion Hong Kong dollars.

I often think that although the era of gunfire and cannons has passed, economic competition has not stopped for a single day. In an age when economic development is the main battlefield, who are the generals? Given the challenges facing China’s enterprises, this is an era calling for generals among entrepreneurs and scientists. Founder Group is known as a “five-star enterprise.” Calling Wang Xuan, Zhang Yufeng, and Zhang Xuanlong five-star scientists or entrepreneurs is not an exaggeration.

Today, most Chinese enterprises still lack true technological innovation, while most research from universities and institutes remains unconverted into productive force. Against this backdrop, Wang Xuan’s effort to “stand on earth” with technology that “reaches heaven,” and Peking University’s effort to merge its research strength with enterprise strength, offers deep lessons. Despite historical barriers between science and industry—and even when cooperation breeds tension or sharp conflict—the 1995 Founder story shows clearly:

Only when China’s scientific research and enterprise forces achieve real convergence can the nation rise from poverty and stand tall—reaching toward the heavens while firmly standing on the earth.

Contemporary News and Reference Stories:

If we look at Founder’s achievements through its sales figures, the impact of Wang Xuan and Zhang Yufeng’s convergence becomes clear. In 1995, the year they joined forces, sales reached 2.5 billion yuan. In 1996, this climbed to 4 billion. By 1997, sales had risen again to 6 billion yuan.

On August 24, 1995, Bill Gates gathered 2,500 guests and reporters at Microsoft’s campus to announce the worldwide release of Windows 95—simultaneously launched in more than ten languages and broadcast live by satellite to major countries around the globe. To promote the new system, Microsoft bought out every advertisement page in London’s The Times on release day and distributed 1.5 million free copies to the public. In New York, they spent heavily to cover the entire 102-story Empire State Building with Windows 95 colors and patterns. Altogether, Microsoft spent $500 million on advertising. The launch of Windows 95 became the most extensive product rollout in the history of computing.

Brad Silverberg—responsible for developing both Windows 3.1 and Windows 95—had himself joined Microsoft only in 1990, after jumping from another company. The hundreds of gifted engineers who built Windows 95 were young talents recruited from the world’s top universities. But this raises a crucial question: who brought all of these people in?

(Published by Xinhua Publishing House in 2000)

Li Bingyin ed.

The Great Report

China's Reform and Opening 40 Years

A Selection of Reportage Literature

Vol. IV/V

Li Bingyin (Hg.):

The Great Report. China's Reform and Opening 40 Years. A Selection of Reportage Literature. Vol. IV ; Bochum : Europ. Univ.-vlg. 2025

  ISBN 978-3-86515-609-9

ISBN: 978-3-869966-609-9, EAN: *9783865156099*

This is volume no. IV. ISBN of all volumes: I: 978-3-86515-230-5, II: 978-3-86515-607-5, III: 978-3-86515-608-2, IV: 978-3-86515-609-9, V: 978-3-86515-610-5.

Chinese Original: 《大记录——中国改革开放四十年报告文学选》李炳银 主编

Copyright © 2018.10 安徽文艺出版社 Anhui Literature and Art Press

Translation: Martin Woesler 吴漠汀 (Hunan Normal Universität 湖南师范大学), Xiaoyu (Emily) Wang

English Edition Copyright © European University Press, published December 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as expressly permitted by law, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

Bibliographic Information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek: The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data is available online at http://dnb.d-nb.de.

Translation and book were realized with Chinese state support. The content of the book does not express the opinion of European University Press or the translators. The book is a contemporary historical document of Chinese propaganda. It is made available for scholarly reception.

This edition was published in 2025 by European University Press

Europäischer Universitätsverlag GmbH Berlin · Bochum · Dülmen · London · Paris 2025

Table of Contents

Volume I

Preface, Li Bingyin 1

Goldbach’s Conjecture, Xu Chi 9

The Captain, Ke Yan 36

Infatuation, Li You 60

Chinese Girls, Lu Guang 119

Anecdotes of Sanmen Li, Qiao Mai 181

Tears of the Populus Euphratica, Meng Xiaoyun 195

The Wilderness Calls, Wang Zhaojun 212

Hot-Blooded Men, Li Shifei 233

Volume II

The Great Trend of Chinese Farmers, Li Yanguo 3

Theory Fanatic, Chen Zufen 57

A Record of Sacred Sorrows, Zhang Min 84

Dreams of a Strong Nation, Zhao Yu 124

Wake Up, Lumberjacks!, Xu Gang 179

Reflections on the Bu Xinsheng Phenomenon, Zhou Jiajun 227

Volume III

The Kunshan Path, Yang Shousong 3

Flying to the Space Port, Li Mingsheng 52

Spring Arrives on the Eastern Wind, Chen Xitian 123

When Good Dreams Come True, Jiang Yonghong 171

Wisdom Storm, Wang Hongjia 3

Volume IV

The Concern Between 40,000 and 4 Million, Zhang Yawen 3

Hong Kong’s Return to the Motherland: A 10-Year Retrospective, Chang Jiang 58

Kapok Blossoms, Li Chunlei 85

The Revolution of Rest, Wang Hongjia and Liu Jian 111

A Career Accompanied by Tears, Jiang Wei 162

Difficult Homecoming, Guo Dong 187

Volume V

Nation, He Jianming 3

The Dragon Explores the Sea, Xu Chen 86

Yuan Longping’s World, Chen Qiwen 135

The “Shenzhou” Highway to Heaven, Lan Ningyuan 211

Wings of Wisdom, Li Qingsong 254

Appendix: Outstanding Reportage Literature from Forty Years of Reform and Opening-Up 272

The Concern Between 40,000 and 4 Million — A Heart Unrestrained by High Office and Riches

Zhang Yawen

Dear readers, before I step onto the operating table, I must tell you what I have learned through interviews and personal experience, in the hope that millions of heart disease patients in China who, like me, hover on the edge of life may come to know the renowned cardiac surgeon Liu Xiaocheng.

May God grant me inspired writing, for otherwise I would be unworthy of my protagonist, unworthy of the thousands upon thousands of lives awaiting salvation, and unworthy of this heart whose fate remains uncertain.

Preface

Reader friends, when you see this report from the State Council, you will surely be thunderstruck.

“Cardiovascular disease is one of the greatest threats to human health and life. Our country currently has over 4 million cardiovascular patients waiting for surgery, yet the nation can complete only 40,000 cases annually. The opening of TEDA International Cardiovascular Disease Hospital will help improve cardiovascular treatment in our country and bring hope to the vast number of cardiovascular patients.” (Excerpt from Wu Yi's congratulatory message at the opening ceremony of TEDA International Cardiovascular Disease Hospital)

According to other reports, more than 10,000 people die daily in China from cardiovascular disease, cancer, and other illnesses. In Beijing alone, one person dies from cardiovascular disease every hour, on average.

China currently has over 4 million heart disease patients who need surgery, yet only 1% receive it. The remaining millions carry their “broken” hearts, hoping day and night that angels in white can save their lives. But whether due to prohibitive medical costs, inability to secure appointments or hospital beds, or misdiagnosis by incompetent doctors, many patients wait bitterly for three to five years, even eight to ten years, missing their optimal treatment window and dying prematurely when they could have lived for decades longer. Those unable to get appointments, secure hospital beds, or afford medical costs are mostly ordinary people without position, power, money, or connections, particularly poor farmers and laid-off workers.

This severe supply-demand imbalance deeply touched one doctor's conscience. His subsequent series of shocking actions shook the Chinese and international medical communities like earthquakes, stirring millions of lives urgently needing salvation and challenging China's medical system in desperate need of reform.

Facing one pleading life after another, he didn't know to whom he should deal this life-and-death card.

Beethoven said: “I will seize fate by the throat—it absolutely cannot make me completely submit! Oh, how wonderful it would be to live life a thousand times!” Life is beautiful, but for humans it comes only once—no one can truly seize fate by the throat.

In May 1987, spring surged from the distant horizon with irresistible vitality, breaking through harsh cold and scattering fresh life across the withered world. Beijing residents, having endured winter's cold and dust storms, stepped through spring colors along Chang'an Street in the early evening light, admiring gorgeous night scenes and savoring spring's gifts. But in a clinic room at Beijing's Fuwai Hospital, the nation's only specialized cardiovascular hospital, a commonplace yet heartbreaking scene was unfolding. A medium-height, sharp and capable middle-aged doctor with eyes full of kindness and wisdom was surrounded by desperate heart disease patients and their families, unable to leave work. This was Liu Xiaocheng, 38 years old, an attending physician who had returned from studying in Australia two years earlier.

“Dr. Liu, I heard you're from Jiamusi—I'm from the Hegang coal mine. We're fellow townsmen,” said a dark, thin miner holding a 3-year-old child, speaking with a Shandong accent as he desperately tried to establish a connection with Liu Xiaocheng. “Dr. Liu, please, for the sake of being fellow townsmen, save my wife. We can't wait any longer. She's nearly gone! Dr. Liu...” The man couldn't continue and bowed his head, sobbing. His thin wife beside him nudged him with her elbow, sniffling: “I won't get treated. I'll just go home.” But this earned a sharp rebuke from her husband: “If you don't get treatment, you'll die! If you die, what will happen to our two children? God...” The miner who hadn't cried even when a mine collapse broke his leg was now weeping aloud over his wife's illness. When he cried, the woman and child cried too.

Liu Xiaocheng was about to comfort the man when a middle-aged farmer in worn clothes with a weather-beaten face interrupted.

“Dr. Liu, I sold my house and borrowed over 10,000 yuan. My boy and I have made two trips to Beijing from Heilongjiang. If we can't get surgery this time, our whole family won't survive! Please, for the sake of being from the same hometown, save my son—he's only 14. My boy and I will kneel to you!”

“No, no! Please don't...” Liu Xiaocheng hurried forward to stop them, but it was too late. The old man and young boy fell to their knees before him with a “thud.” The boy, thin as a reed, stared up at Liu Xiaocheng with tear-filled eyes, looking utterly pitiful. The father let out heartbreaking wails: “Dr. Liu, please save my son! Save our whole family!”

Looking at this father and son, at these faces desperate for survival, Liu Xiaocheng's eyes moistened. Deep pain and sympathy gripped his heart—a heart that, though touched by patients daily, remained compassionate. He knew these ordinary people were already poor, yet afflicted with various heart diseases. They had sold their homes and land, brought their children and dependents, traveled thousands of miles to Beijing, queued all night to register, placing all their hopes in doctors. Yet he had disappointed them profoundly. They begged him bitterly, even kneeling before him—not for anything else, just for a small hospital admission slip, a “pass” for survival. How he wished he could write freely, giving each person an admission slip so they could happily receive surgery and live! But he could only write one admission slip per day, with authority for only 30 per month. An afternoon meant seeing fifty to sixty patients, many needing surgery. He truly didn't know to whom he should deal this “life-and-death card.” Over thirty years of hardship had never defeated him, but facing these weeping hometown folks, he was so distressed that he shed tears more than once. He felt unworthy of being called a doctor.

At this moment, pharmacy director Ding Fei entered with a packet of instant noodles, immediately scolding: “Dr. Liu, it's already 10 o'clock! Eat something! You torture yourself like this every day—you'll work yourself to death!” Director Ding had watched Liu Xiaocheng being “besieged” by patients pitifully every day and had been moved to tears several times herself.

But facing hometown folks for whom seeing a doctor was harder than climbing to heaven, facing heart disease patients who desperately needed surgery, Liu Xiaocheng couldn't bear to leave. What he would never forget was that 27-year-old girl. At this moment, she lay there like someone already dead, staring at him with beautiful but lifeless eyes, her gaze mournful.

“Why didn't you come earlier?” Liu Xiaocheng asked her.

Tears fell from the girl's eyes as she tremblingly pulled a yellowed hospital admission notice from her pocket, holding it carefully with both hands like a lifeline before Liu Xiaocheng, sobbing: “I came 8 years ago. I got the admission slip, but there were no beds. The doctor told me to go home and wait for notification, but I've waited 8 years without hearing anything. I really can't wait anymore!”

Liu Xiaocheng's head reeled as he quickly took the admission slip, worn and torn by 8 years of waiting, riddled with holes and frayed at the edges. He saw “April 23, 1979” written prominently on it. He couldn't help but sigh with shock and indignation: How tragic! Eight years—a heart disease patient holding an admission slip yet never receiving hospital notification! How could someone with severe congenital heart disease be expected to wait 8 years? How many precious 8-year periods does a person's life contain? Eight years—a blooming young girl had become a 27-year-old woman, yet her broken heart had lost its chance for treatment during those long 8 years. Now her heart could no longer withstand surgery—only death awaited her. But she needn't have died. She could have lived many more years, could have married and had children, lived a normal life. But all this had become forever impossible due to 8 years of delay.

This girl from the Heilongjiang countryside didn't understand Liu Xiaocheng's inner turmoil but pleaded pitifully: “Please, Dr. Liu, let me be hospitalized for surgery. I really can't wait anymore. I don't want to die—I'm only 27. I've already waited 8 years!”

Facing these eyes so full of longing for life, facing this hometown sister who had waited a full 8 years only to bid farewell to life prematurely, Liu Xiaocheng couldn't bear to tell her the truth. How could he tell her: “You can't have surgery. You can only go home and wait to die”? How could he speak such inhuman, heartless words?

At that moment, a painful thought arose in his mind: what if these patients were my brothers and sisters, my own parents? Watching them suffer from diseases that weren't incurable but were simply unable to be treated due to lack of hospital access, delaying again and again until they finally had to bid farewell to the world prematurely—what would my state of mind be? What agony would I feel? His heart suddenly erupted with angry questions: Why do patients from distant places, coming for their first consultations, already have surgical contraindications? Why do patients who still qualify for surgery have to fight for that small piece of paper sustaining life? Why do those who obtain this piece of paper have to keep waiting, sometimes until death? If I continue this kind of outpatient service, continue issuing these worthless pieces of paper, what's the point? Am I a doctor saving lives and healing the wounded, or a “culprit” destroying lives? Am I an honest, compassionate doctor, or a “fraud” constantly using lies to comfort patients and their families?

Rather Be Destroyed Again Than Stop Learning!

Liu Xiaocheng was born in Jiamusi City, Heilongjiang Province. Both parents were medical workers who had joined the revolution in 1945. His mother was an obstetrician-gynecologist; his father was Liu Pei, a renowned surgery director at Jiamusi Medical College. Liu Xiaocheng was the only boy among five siblings.

In 1968, Liu Xiaocheng went to work in the countryside at Baoqing County Production and Construction Corps. The harsh, oppressive life of a “sent-down youth” and excessive physical labor gave him tuberculosis—he developed a daily cough and persistent low fever. In the fourth year of his countryside service, he returned to the city early.

Soon afterward, his father, who had been labeled a “reactionary academic authority,” had his status rehabilitated. Liu Xiaocheng received a work assignment and faced a choice between becoming a worker or a laboratory technician. After much hesitation, he joined the ranks of the “stinking ninth category” intellectuals that people spoke of fearfully, becoming a laboratory technician in Jiamusi Medical College's physiology department. He wasn't following in his father's footsteps—he didn't want to be a doctor and didn't like dealing with physiologically unhealthy people all day. Since childhood, he had most admired Einstein and Edison. But as Marx said: when young people choose careers, society has often already decided for them.

A laboratory technician's job involved washing various test tubes and instruments and preparing rabbits, frogs, and mice for student experiments. But during off-work hours he could audit teachers' lectures—this was Liu Xiaocheng's real reason for choosing to be a laboratory technician. An old doctor who had also been labeled a “reactionary academic authority” during the Cultural Revolution angrily scolded him: “You still want to study? You could eat a hundred beans and still not know what they taste like!” But for Liu Xiaocheng, seeking knowledge had become his most essential spiritual sustenance. He would rather be destroyed again for pursuing knowledge than muddle through life aimlessly. He didn't believe China would remain forever like this, with knowledge being worthless. Without knowledge, on what could a country develop? On what could a nation advance?

He worked while studying desperately. Having learned Russian in junior and senior high school, he had to start learning English from scratch. At night he talked in his sleep, mumbling English vocabulary. A year later, in 1973—when Zhang Tiesheng famously handed in a blank college entrance exam—the medical college's basic research institute unanimously recommended him to enter Harbin Medical University. He became a 24-year-old “worker-peasant-soldier” college student. When he stepped through the school gates with lofty aspirations, ready to study diligently, he discovered that his long-dreamed-of university campus was filled everywhere with hoarse political slogans and increasingly bizarre “educational revolution.” The vast campus couldn't even accommodate a single peaceful desk.

In 1979, after the “ten years of catastrophe” ended, Liu Xiaocheng decided to take the graduate entrance exam. When everything was ready and he held the admissions guidelines, preparing to fill out his application that evening, his father suddenly suffered a cerebral thrombosis and was hospitalized. Soon after, his newly married wife suffered pregnancy toxemia and miscarried their first child at seven months.

Heavy blows came one after another. On one side were relatives needing care; on the other was the university's powerful calling. Facing this ultimate life choice, he couldn't sleep for several consecutive nights.

“Birth, aging, sickness, and death are life's natural laws. Don't worry about me—you must take the exam this year! To acquire skills and pursue a career, it would be best if you could get into a place like London or New York. That would be your greatest act of filial piety!” His father spoke earnestly to his son keeping vigil by the sickbed.

“Go take the exam. We'll have children later—don't worry about me. I'll do my best to care for the two elders,” said his wife Hong Yishu, his childhood classmate who had always been virtuous and kind, repeatedly encouraging him.

Liu Xiaocheng tearfully wrote three choices on his graduate application: First choice, Beijing Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences Cardiovascular Disease Research Institute Fuwai Hospital; second choice, Fuwai Hospital; third choice, still Fuwai Hospital! Fuwai Hospital was China's highest authority in cardiovascular disease research and treatment. He was determined to become an excellent cardiovascular surgeon.

In autumn 1979, 30-year-old Liu Xiaocheng entered the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences Cardiovascular Research Institute at Fuwai Hospital with outstanding results, becoming a cardiovascular surgery graduate student. He vowed he would be worthy of Fuwai Hospital and his advisor's acceptance, worthy of his parents' and wife's support, and especially worthy of his own choice!

Many of his graduate classmates, like Liu Xiaocheng, had experienced turbulent years and especially treasured this hard-won opportunity to study. Liu Xiaocheng held an even stronger thirst for knowledge, working day and night in the vast ocean of medicine. Even eating and sleeping became secondary—only studying was what life required most. He listened to English recordings until 4 AM and memorized over 30 English words on his way to class. He was determined to reclaim the time that had been wasted.

Three years later, Liu Xiaocheng completed his studies with excellent grades and stayed on at Fuwai Hospital to work. In 1984, Fuwai Hospital made an exception and sent him to Australia for advanced training.

You Are Human, I Am Human Too—Why Should I Be Inferior to You?

Former U.S. President Carter once said: “We can't all make great discoveries like Newton, Faraday, or Edison, or create lasting works like Michelangelo or Raphael, but we can seize ordinary opportunities and make them extraordinary, thereby making our lives more magnificent.”

Australia was beautiful—clear water, blue skies, scenic landscapes. But Liu Xiaocheng, stepping onto Australian soil for the first time, had no leisure to enjoy any of this. On the second day, he was in the operating room facing two major surgeries, serving as first assistant to the chief surgeon.

Entering the cardiovascular surgery operating room at Prince Charles Hospital in Brisbane for the first time, everything was unfamiliar—blonde, blue-eyed medical staff, a dazzling array of instruments, several chief surgeons each with different operating methods, unintelligible slang and dialects. Worse still, he felt like a screw removed from a slow ox cart and suddenly fastened onto a high-speed machine. From the start, he had to adapt to their fast-paced, high-efficiency work style, with no accommodation for being new and needing time to adjust. Moreover, the chief surgeon was domineering and immediately began scolding: “Get the forceps! No, no! Not scissors, forceps! Don't you understand English? If not, go study it properly before coming back!”

The scene was extremely embarrassing. He immediately experienced “culture shock”—what ordinary people call being utterly disoriented. Unable to understand what people were saying, he naturally didn't know what to do. According to surgical protocol, after the chief surgeon opened the patient's chest and established extracorporeal circulation, the assistant should have completed harvesting the great saphenous vein from the patient's leg and handed it to the chief surgeon for bypass surgery. But he hadn't finished taking the vein, and the chief surgeon immediately complained: “Too slow! Simply too slow!” This made Liu Xiaocheng even more flustered, sweating profusely and at a complete loss.

The chief surgeon, Dr. O'Brien, was a world-renowned cardiac surgery expert, while Liu Xiaocheng was just a Chinese international student—being scolded seemed unavoidable. But for Liu Xiaocheng, with his extremely strong sense of self-respect, it felt like the only time in childhood when his father had used his belt on him. His father's belt had struck his buttocks, but this time it struck his face—struck a Chinese person's dignity. He vowed: “I don't believe that what you can do, I can't! You are human; I am human too—why should I be inferior to you? I must master your techniques and absolutely will not disgrace the Chinese people!”

After surgery, he hurriedly recorded all of the chief surgeon's operating procedures, collected the remaining veins, borrowed surgical instruments from the head nurse, and returned to his dormitory to practice bypass surgery. He designed various high-difficulty anastomosis methods, suturing while contemplating, drawing diagrams. After several months, he had not only perfectly memorized all four doctors' different operating methods but had also combined their strengths and compensated for their weaknesses to form his own unique surgical approach.

During the day, he served as first assistant to four mentors, often so busy he couldn't even drink a cup of coffee. After one surgery, while the mentors went for coffee, he busily wrote surgical records, filled out cards, wrote post-operative orders, and reviewed films for the next surgery. Before he could finish, the next surgery's nurse would be calling him: “Dr. Liu, surgery is starting!” He participated in up to five major surgeries in a single day, from 8 AM to 9 PM. Returning to his dormitory, he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open.

During an aortic aneurysm surgery, when the patient suddenly hemorrhaged heavily, Dr. O'Brien inexplicably lost his temper at Liu Xiaocheng: “Who told you to hold that?” (referring to the blood vessel)

“You told me to hold it!” Liu Xiaocheng, having endured enough of his mentor's arrogance and abuse, talked back for the first time, thinking angrily: “What are you showing off about? Just because your country is richer than ours? What's so great about that! Our country will become rich sooner or later and will someday surpass you! You say you're a devout Catholic and that everyone is brothers and sisters before God, but you actually look down on me! Let me tell you, I'm human just like you, not a dog. Don't just open your mouth to scold me! I must teach you a lesson—mentors should also learn to respect people. From now on, I absolutely won't let you insult my dignity!”

The bleeding stopped. O'Brien took the initiative to make conversation with Liu Xiaocheng, but Liu Xiaocheng ignored him. The next day at work, O'Brien again tried to greet Liu Xiaocheng, but Liu Xiaocheng pretended not to hear. O'Brien was a devout Catholic. In the contest between authority and dignity, arrogance and respect, his psychology began to lose its balance. He apologized to Liu Xiaocheng: “I'm sorry, Xiaocheng. Yesterday was my fault. I apologize to you.” Then he said: “Xiaocheng, today you'll perform the surgery. I'll assist you!” Liu Xiaocheng couldn't believe his ears, because Australian law strictly stipulated that foreign doctors could only assist, not perform surgery as chief surgeon. “I'm letting you do it—I'll take responsibility for all consequences,” O'Brien said. Thus, in this world-famous Australian Prince Charles Hospital operating room, a Chinese doctor stepped into the chief surgeon position for the first time, breaking Australia's strict law for the first time and cutting open a Westerner's chest. When Liu Xiaocheng completed the cardiac bypass surgery with skilled technique—steady, accurate, swift, and meticulous—everyone present was stunned. O'Brien had never expected that this Chinese international student he had scolded multiple times would possess such excellent skills.

That evening, O'Brien invited Liu Xiaocheng to dinner. They became good friends from then on. “Xiaocheng, you're the most spirited and outstanding Chinese person I've ever met,” O'Brien said, raising his glass to Liu Xiaocheng. “I believe you'll become a world-class cardiac surgery expert.” “You're also the most outstanding cardiac surgery expert and most admirable mentor I've ever met!” Liu Xiaocheng replied. Though arrogant, O'Brien didn't insist on hierarchical dignity. Once, Liu Xiaocheng noticed that O'Brien was about to begin vascular anastomosis without cutting the easily overlooked thin intima and quickly reminded him. O'Brien thanked him repeatedly: “Thank you! Thank you so much, Xiaocheng. My oversight nearly endangered the patient's life.”

Here, no one's reputation mattered—what mattered was human life and how to perform every surgical detail well to maximize the chances of success. Several mentors also adopted Liu Xiaocheng's suggestions for surgical improvements, humorously calling them the “Liu Method.” The mentors' spirit of putting patients first and their meticulous scholarship greatly benefited Liu Xiaocheng and became his lifelong model.

From then on, O'Brien disregarded legal constraints, not only allowing Liu Xiaocheng to perform surgery on Westerners but also permitting him to do high-difficulty operations that even senior Australian doctors couldn't access. Within one year, Liu Xiaocheng participated in over 600 surgeries and performed over 50 as chief surgeon, completing twenty to thirty coronary artery bypasses alone, with patients up to 83 years old—not a single death or complication.

With his unique personal charm and superb medical skills, Liu Xiaocheng finally won his colleagues' love and respect. When his one-year study period ended, O'Brien personally took Liu Xiaocheng to the state health department to apply for an extension, allowing him to study for another year.

In 1985, when the International Cardiac Surgery Conference was held in Australia, the person who stepped onto the podium to make academic presentations on behalf of Australia's Prince Charles Hospital was none other than our outstanding Liu Xiaocheng. His fluent English and brilliant presentation amazed the entire audience, making him the first foreigner to receive this honor.

When his study period ended, O'Brien arranged for Liu Xiaocheng to bring his family over, offering to handle all the procedures himself. He said the conditions there were much better than in China and would greatly benefit Liu Xiaocheng's future development.

At Prince Charles Hospital, an ordinary doctor's annual income reached hundreds of thousands of dollars, while at Fuwai Hospital, a chief physician's annual income was only several thousand yuan. Moreover, the trend of Chinese international students bringing their families for accompanying study was flourishing. Many people dreamed of using this opportunity to board the train abroad and begin a new life journey. Doctors who had come to Australia from Fuwai Hospital had already brought their families and advised Liu Xiaocheng to do the same. But Liu Xiaocheng couldn't forget the stories his father had told him many times during his childhood about scientists like Qian Xuesen returning from America to serve their country. He couldn't abandon his bone-deep attachment to his motherland and hometown.

Once, while traveling with colleagues to Toowoomba Mountain, Australia's flower city, he saw coordinates at the mountaintop marking directions to various countries. Facing toward his motherland in the setting sun's afterglow, he sang songs of homesickness: “Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong...” As he sang, tears of homesickness unknowingly streamed down his face. He knew his heart would forever belong to that poor but unforgettable motherland, to that mother whom no superior conditions could replace!

“Mentor, China has too many patients who suffer too much—they desperately need doctors. If we all stay abroad after learning, who will save them? China has an old saying: 'A child doesn't despise his mother's ugliness; a dog doesn't despise his family's poverty.' Though conditions here are superior, you don't need me. Though my motherland is poor, she needs me, and I need her.” Liu Xiaocheng politely declined his mentor's attempts to persuade him to stay.

O'Brien was moved and said: “I understand you very well and approve of your choice. If you have any difficulties after returning home, just tell me. You're always welcome to come back and study. My invitation will always be valid for you.”

Returning with Liu Xiaocheng were two full boxes of extracorporeal circulation cannulas and connectors that were scarce in China. At Prince Charles Hospital, he had watched as these cannulas and connectors—so scarce in China—were thrown into trash bags after a single use, while in China they were used hundreds of times before being reluctantly discarded. He told his colleagues: “My country is still poor. Could you please not throw away these things? Let me collect them to take back home.” His colleagues not only didn't ridicule him but helped collect these items one by one, cleaning and sterilizing them for him.

When Fuwai Hospital's anesthesiology department head saw these two boxes, he was delighted: “Oh, excellent! This solves a big problem!”

“My Unfortunate Homeland, I Hate You, Yet I Cannot Help but Love You!”

This was Ba Jin's lament from years ago.

Like many overseas returnees, Liu Xiaocheng threw himself into his long-missed motherland and career with passionate fervor. His heart was like the rising sun, full of passion and longing—longing to dedicate all his medical skills to the motherland and its people, saving those patients urgently in need of surgery. But he soon discovered that facing Fuwai Hospital's slow-paced, low-efficiency work environment was like initially facing Prince Charles Hospital's fast-paced, high-efficiency environment—he felt equally out of place. He felt like a screw that had been running day and night until polished bright, suddenly fastened onto a slow ox cart—no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it go faster.

He felt pained and bewildered. A series of questions constantly assailed his sleepless heart: Fuwai Hospital could only perform 1,000 surgeries annually, yet had 14,000 cases queued up. At the current pace, many patients would have to wait over 10 years for surgery. Nationally, there were over 3 million heart patients needing surgery, yet fewer than 1% could receive surgery annually. Those over 3 million patients didn't know when they could receive surgery, and the vast majority would die waiting, never reaching the operating table. When could this acute supply-demand contradiction be resolved? In Australia, he could perform hundreds of surgeries per year. Back home, he—an attending physician managing four wards—could only perform 88 cases annually. From hospital directors to young doctors throughout the hospital, everyone wanted to work more and save more patients, but all felt they had energy yet couldn't use it. Why was this?

During the 1987 Spring Festival, Fuwai Hospital sent Liu Xiaocheng to lead a team to Mudanjiang City, Heilongjiang Province, to perform cardiac surgeries. Seeing hundreds of thousands of cardiovascular patients in his hometown with nowhere to seek medical care, in dire straits, he felt heartbroken. One day, a farmer braved wind and snow to find Liu Xiaocheng, bringing his 13-year-old boy who suffered from severe congenital Tetralogy of Fallot. He said he had taken his son to several hospitals but couldn't get surgery and begged Liu Xiaocheng to save his son. But when Liu Xiaocheng's team had departed, Fuwai Hospital had instructed them: when performing cardiac surgeries in places with poor conditions, avoid complex cases to prevent accidents. Liu Xiaocheng took down the father and son's address and advised them to go home first and wait for news. As soon as they left, Liu Xiaocheng immediately called his mentor at Fuwai Hospital, Director Guo Jiaqiang.

Director Guo asked if he felt confident. He said: “There's risk, but I'm still confident!” Director Guo said: “Then do it, but be careful and prevent post-operative complications.”

So Liu Xiaocheng, despite the wind and snow outside, took Vice Mayor Li's Mitsubishi jeep to immediately chase down that father and son. The jeep bounced along snow-covered mountain roads for three to four hours, nearly overturning into ditches several times. Around 9 PM, they finally found the father and son's home in a remote mountain valley not far from the “Seat Mountain Eagle” Weihu Hall described in the novel “Tracks in the Snowy Forest”—a dilapidated grass hut leaning precariously, with plastic sheets nailed over the windows and thick snow weighing down the roof. Inside, besides several gaunt faces, there was only a bean-sized oil lamp flickering in the darkness. Even many years later, Liu Xiaocheng couldn't forget this “home.”

At midnight, when the father and son returned home like snowmen after arduously traveling over ten hours by train and horse cart, the scene before them was like a lamp suddenly illuminating their nearly frozen hearts—this family that the world had forgotten.

The farmer grasped Liu Xiaocheng's hand, tears streaming down his face: “Dr. Liu, you're our whole family's lifesaver! We never dreamed this could happen!”

This family of five was already desperately poor, and the child's illness had made things even worse. They had kowtowed everywhere to borrow several thousand yuan, but it had all been thrown away on railway fares—two trips to Beijing for surgery without securing appointments. The farmer had been in despair, crying to heaven and earth without response, several times wanting to dash his head against Beijing's streets and die. But then he thought—if he died, what would happen to his family? Now, the Beijing doctor had come through wind and snow to their door to take his son back for surgery. Could there really be such good doctors in the world?! He couldn't believe this was real.

“Dr. Liu, you—a Beijing expert—using the mayor's car to pick up my son for surgery. I'm not dreaming, am I?”

During the Cultural Revolution, Liu Xiaocheng's father had risked imprisonment and withstood rebel pressure to rescue rural children whom doctors had given up on, children near death. Today, Liu Xiaocheng bore surgical risks and traveled over a hundred li on snow-covered mountain roads to find a rural child he'd never met. He knew what it meant for a child with severe congenital heart disease living in this extremely remote mountain valley, dozens of li from any other human habitation, if he couldn't receive radical surgery quickly. If this mobile medical mission couldn't operate on the child, who knew when the child might get another chance?

Liu Xiaocheng immediately brought the father and son back to the hospital and successfully operated on the child the next day. During this mobile medical mission, he successfully performed 8 cardiac surgeries in Mudanjiang.

The mobile medical mission soon ended, but the sight of hundreds of thousands of Heilongjiang cardiac patients unable to seek medical care and suffering greatly remained vivid in his mind, constantly troubling Liu Xiaocheng's heart.

For two years after returning home, his heart ached and struggled.

After countless sleepless nights of thinking, this overseas returnee boldly raised a profound question: What exactly causes this increasingly acute supply-demand contradiction? Is it merely because we're poor?

“No! We're not only economically and technologically backward, but we also suffer from low efficiency caused by remnants of feudal ideology and many other factors, plus invisible yet omnipresent internal friction! This internal friction manifests extensively in buck-passing, procrastination, and having energy yet being unable to use it. In big-city research units, how many people struggle desperately yet find it difficult to fulfill their potential? How many large institutions would rather hoard talent unused than let it go? How many masters teach three years of ironworking but only let apprentices make a fire poker upon graduation? Generation after generation, the cycle repeats. Sadly, our intellectuals are truly too few yet somehow 'too many'!

“Tan Sitong, to awaken the Chinese nation's consciousness, willingly sacrificed his life. At the execution platform, he calmly uttered those eternal words: 'To die for a worthy cause, how joyful!' Tan Sitong's righteous spirit and fearlessness in the face of death have moved countless people. If bourgeois revolutionaries could make such heroic sacrifices for country and people, can't we 20th-century Communists sacrifice something to cure the obvious chronic diseases and stubborn ailments?” (These passionate words are excerpted from a 1987 report Liu Xiaocheng gave at the Great Hall of the People to representatives from central agencies and research institutions as an outstanding national young cadre, titled “Life's Vicissitudes, A Loyal Heart—For Country and People, A Life Not Lived in Vain.”)

These heartfelt words that moved knowledgeable people were undoubtedly a challenge to China's medical system and traditional concepts. But he was too small—merely a returned overseas student doctor full of concern for country and people. He could only influence himself, not a national medical system that had stagnated for decades, far behind social development. So he posed himself a tremendous challenge: Why can't I return to my hometown and build a cardiovascular disease specialist hospital for hometown folks suffering from illness?

And so he made a major decision: return to his hometown and do what he could for the people there!

But he felt this was too unfair to his wife and son. He and his wife had been married eight years but separated for six. Now his wife had just transferred from Northeast China to Beijing Posts and Telecommunications Hospital, and their child was enrolled in the well-staffed Damucan Elementary School. Fuwai Hospital had just allocated him a two-bedroom apartment. The family of three had finally settled in Beijing and established a stable home. But now he wanted to personally destroy it all. Thinking of this, deep self-reproach gnawed at his heart: What right did he have to destroy all this? What right did he have to drag mother and child back into uncertain turmoil?

Another sleepless night. Liu Xiaocheng talked with his wife through the night.

“Seeing hometown people bankrupting themselves to run to Beijing looking for me, seeing their desperate situations with nowhere to turn for medical care—I often feel so incompetent. Think about it: if those people were our parents, our brothers and sisters, and we watched them unable to get appointments or hospital beds, their conditions worsening daily, what would our feelings be?” Liu Xiaocheng sighed deeply. “Ah, it's so hard for common people to see doctors. Especially in our Heilongjiang, with its bitter cold—cardiovascular disease incidence rates rank first nationally...”

His wife, Hong Yishu, stared at him with wide eyes, looking at him quietly for a long time without speaking.

She understood Xiaocheng's inner pain. She often saw him tossing and turning at night, sighing. But looking at this hard-won home, thinking of everything that so many people could only dream of, she really couldn't bear to abandon it. Yet she knew Xiaocheng's personality too well—once he decided on something, he wouldn't retreat even from mountains of knives and seas of fire. During the Cultural Revolution's mass pilgrimages, when a group of students boldly declared they would walk to Beijing to see Chairman Mao, only Xiaocheng and another male classmate had persisted to the end, walking until their feet were raw and bleeding.

Seeing his wife's prolonged silence, Liu Xiaocheng said: “I know you've sacrificed too much for me. How about this—you and our child stay in Beijing. I'll go to Heilongjiang alone.”

“Stop talking,” his wife interrupted. “Considering my work and our child's education, I really don't want to leave. But how can I let you go back alone? I'll take our child and go with you.”

Liu Xiaocheng was momentarily speechless. He embraced this wife whose actions always exceeded her words and held her close for a long time.

To be cautious, Liu Xiaocheng made a special trip back to Jiamusi to seek his parents' opinions.

Father—The Eternal Sun in His Heart!

Clinton once said: “Mother told me never to give up, never to surrender, never to stop smiling. No matter what terrible things happened, when I got up the next morning, Mother would stand before me smiling. She never showed her pain to others.”

Clinton had a great mother; Liu Xiaocheng had a great father.

Father Liu Pei was a renowned surgical expert at Jiamusi Medical College. His superb medical skills and noble medical ethics had benefited countless people. When the old man celebrated his 80th birthday, the Jiamusi Party Secretary brought the city's “five major leadership teams” to celebrate. In 1988, both Liu Xiaocheng and his father received the first batch of State Council special allowances.

Father was very strict in disciplining Xiaocheng. Once, upon learning that Xiaocheng had secretly taken two yuan from home to buy chestnuts and had lied to his mother about it, Father used his belt on Xiaocheng for the first time, turning his buttocks purple. Seven-year-old Xiaocheng never forgot his father's teaching: “Be honest! Don't lie—lying is the source of all evil!”

In Xiaocheng's memory, Father went to the wards for rounds at 5 AM every day. Father often squatted in toilets observing patients' stools to make accurate diagnoses. Xiaocheng couldn't remember how many times Father had him deliver dumplings to patients who couldn't eat, how many impoverished patients Father had given money to, how many eggs Father had secretly taken from home for patients—much less how many patients had knelt before Father in tearful gratitude. He only remembered the gratitude and reverence in patients' eyes when they looked at Father—like seeing God. This left an indelible mark on his young heart.

Years ago, when a Party secretary's wife developed a benign breast tumor and wanted to go to another province for treatment, she asked Father Liu Pei for his diagnosis. Father said: “No need to go out of province. No need to spend that money!” One sentence, and the Party secretary's wife was satisfied.

During the Cultural Revolution, a rare case involving a farm child with congenital malrotation of the midgut was abandoned by doctors, with the family told to prepare for the funeral. The child's parents held their dying child in desperate grief when Father—labeled “Japanese spy” and “reactionary academic authority” while sweeping garbage—hurried over saying: “Don't give up on the child. I can treat him!”

The rebels immediately questioned him: “Do you dare take responsibility for the consequences of this child's surgery?”

Father said: “I'll take full responsibility for all consequences!”

Suddenly thunderous slogans erupted: “Down with Japanese spy Liu Pei! Down with reactionary academic authority Liu Pei! If enemies don't surrender, we'll destroy them!”

Amid the chorus of “down with” and “destroy,” Father—surrounded by enemies and bearing the risk of ruining his lifetime reputation or possibly being sentenced or even executed for “harming” the revolutionary masses—removed his cleaning clothes and hurriedly stepped onto the long-missed operating table. The child was saved. Father returned to the “cowshed” to continue cleaning toilets.

“Compared to life, reputation is ultimately insignificant. When facing the choice between reputation and patients' lives, one must bravely choose the latter—this is what makes a good doctor.” This was Father's life creed and his instruction to his son.

Father's principles—neither flattering superiors nor despising inferiors, loving broadly and helping the poor, cherishing others' lives—became Liu Xiaocheng's lifelong model. During the Cultural Revolution, young Xiaocheng, having just learned to swim, risked drowning to jump into the Songhua River to save an endangered teacher. After becoming a doctor, he constantly modeled himself after his father and used his mother's deathbed instruction as his motto for strict self-discipline. When Mother was 73, suffering from severe rheumatism and unable to hold chopsticks, she tremblingly left her son this instruction: “Medicine is a benevolent art—conduct yourself well.” This instruction always hung in Xiaocheng's office.

“The Wind Whistles Bleakly Beyond the Frontier; the Brave Man Departs Never to Return!”

Upon learning of Liu Xiaocheng's decision to return to Heilongjiang for entrepreneurship, Father said something that greatly moved Xiaocheng: “I initially sent you out to venture forth so you could learn more skills. Now I support your return just as I supported you then—you should contribute what you've learned to the hometown folks.”

With Father's support, Liu Xiaocheng's determination to return to Heilongjiang for entrepreneurship became even firmer.

At this moment, China was in the midst of “going abroad fever”—countless overseas students were racking their brains to stay in America, Australia, and other developed countries. Of course, their choices were understandable—everyone has their own aspirations. China had been closed for too long and had fallen too far behind. Everyone had the right to choose their own life path. But we must applaud Liu Xiaocheng's courage to go against the tide and choose a difficult path. We must solemnly respect his commitment to “worry about the world's worries before others and enjoy the world's joys after others,” taking the world as his responsibility.

On the night of May 13, 1987, Liu Xiaocheng came to his son's bedside and stroked his sleeping son's face, whispering: “Son, perhaps Father is wronging you. Father has no right to deprive you of your current circumstances. When you grow up, you might blame Father—and then Father will explain to you.”

After two years of painful struggle, a noble heart finally found liberation. His state of mind became more open and calm than ever before—like the sea after a storm, vast and peaceful, like a ship with full sails anticipating new voyages. He began writing intensively, composing a “Transfer Request” to hospital leadership.

This wasn't an ordinary transfer request but a confession of self-examination, a report card on his life values, a declaration of war against the old medical system.

“At 20, I was troubled and searched for answers to the serious question 'Why do people live?' In that turbulent era, the light of hope in my heart was extinguished. I was once decadent and despondent. But I finally pulled myself up, became energetic, and struggled for 20 years on a bumpy road. Now, as a middle-aged intellectual of the 1980s, as a descendant of the Chinese nation, I painfully contemplate and earnestly explore the serious question of 'How should I spend the rest of my life?' Through life's bitterness, spiciness, and sweetness, I've come to truly realize that living for oneself brings eternal emptiness and dissatisfaction, while working and striving for the people brings fulfillment. This contemplation and exploration have purified my soul, making me abandon the small self to pursue life's true meaning.

“In 8 years at Fuwai Hospital, I've grown from an ordinary doctor at a grassroots hospital to a cardiovascular surgery attending physician. Recalling these 8 years, I'm filled with surging emotions and restless thoughts, my heart full of devotion—like that felt towards one’s own loving parents—for Fuwai Hospital and my enlightening mentors, with unforgettable gratitude and attachment.

“Our country currently has over 3 million heart patients awaiting surgery, yet nationally only several thousand cases can be completed annually, creating a serious supply-demand imbalance. Though cardiovascular disease isn't viewed as a scourge like cholera or smallpox, it mercilessly devours millions of lives. I wholeheartedly approve and support our hospital's current cardiovascular surgery clinical collaboration and national training center establishment, yet I also clearly see the difficulties in making current collaboration methods truly effective. I believe the only effective way for various regions to develop cardiovascular surgery is to establish cardiovascular specialty hospitals. Powerful large medical centers like Fuwai Hospital and Shanghai Chest Hospital should collaborate with and train institutions nationally—not like dragonflies touching water and flying away, leaving stagnant pools behind again, but like seeding machines sowing seeds across our motherland's fertile soil. Sacrificing several pawns, even several major pieces, will revive a dead chess game.

“Heilongjiang is my homeland. Due to its cold climate and backward economic and cultural development, both congenital and acquired heart disease incidence rates are higher than national averages, with 100,000 patients unable to access medical care. I'm determined to abandon Beijing's superior living conditions and leave Fuwai Hospital that nurtured me, in order to establish a cardiovascular disease hospital for hometown folks in dire straits, opening a new path for China's cardiovascular surgery. I deeply know my energy is limited, my time is limited, and my professional level and administrative ability are also limited—perhaps in this lifetime I won't fulfill my cherished wish. But I'm willing to be a paving stone, a human ladder, letting successors continue developing and climbing upward. My departure causes only temporary, partial loss to Fuwai Hospital but might change the destinies of millions of hometown people. I formally request that leadership: please plant me as the first seed!”

Ten pages of report, written in one breath.

He concluded: “With an unselfish heart, heaven and earth are vast. Standing at life's crossroads, my state of mind has never been as cheerful as now, my head never as clear as now, my determination never as firm as now. The wind whistles bleakly beyond the frontier; the brave man departs never to return!”

Written with a touch of tragedy, a touch of desolation.

This “Transfer Request,” unprecedented in Fuwai Hospital's history, was like a bomb that caused an uproar throughout the hospital. People speculated about Liu Xiaocheng's real reasons for leaving Fuwai—was it insufficient attention from leadership or inadequate family arrangements? Thinking carefully, Fuwai Hospital had treated him well—sending him abroad to study, exceptionally promoting him to oversee four wards, just allocating him a two-room apartment, transferring his wife to the Posts and Telecommunications Ministry Hospital. Moreover, academically, he had successfully completed the hospital's first posterior wall aneurysm removal surgery with two bypasses; he had revived a patient whose heart had stopped for 45 minutes post-operatively; he had participated in the national “Seventh Five-Year Plan” key research on “myocardial revascularization methods for coronary heart disease”; he had established a liquid nitrogen-preserved allograft valve laboratory and was first to apply these valves clinically, filling a domestic void. This project had received funding from both the National Natural Science Foundation and the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences.

“Xiaocheng, is the work unsatisfactory, or is leadership consideration inadequate? Hospital leadership has always valued you highly and hopes you won't leave,” Party Secretary Chen Delin said in a conversation with Liu Xiaocheng.

“Tell me, Xiaocheng, what's the real reason?” Director Guo Jiaqiang was Liu Xiaocheng's graduate mentor. Liu Xiaocheng was Director Guo's most accomplished student, and they had a good personal relationship. Director Guo asked directly.

“Mentor, Heilongjiang is a high-incidence area for cardiovascular disease. One hundred thousand cardiovascular patients urgently need surgery—they need me more than here does. I plan to build a cardiovascular disease hospital in Heilongjiang!”

“Oh, so that's it—not because of interpersonal issues or treatment problems...” Director Guo felt some relief. “I think you should keep your position at Fuwai. Go back and work for a while to see how things go. You can come back if it doesn't work out.”

“Thank you, Mentor, but I must burn my bridges and fight with my back to the water. Otherwise, my will might waver!”

“You should think this through carefully!”

Leadership was reluctant to let him go. Liu Xiaocheng could only seek help from Cao Zhi, the former Jiamusi Hejiang Regional Party Secretary who was now Vice Minister of the Organization Department. Cao Zhi wrote to Health Minister Chen Minzhang: “Liu Xiaocheng is determined to go to the grassroots level to relieve people's suffering—this spirit deserves support.”

Seeing Liu Xiaocheng's firm resolve to leave, Director Guo Jiaqiang reluctantly let him go. “Since this is the case, I won't force you to stay. Whenever you encounter difficulties in the future, just tell me—your mentor's door will always be open to you, Xiaocheng!”

“Thank you for Mentor's care!”

Before leaving, a group of low-income nurses pooled their money to treat Liu Xiaocheng to Peking duck at a restaurant. They had agreed that each would say a few words to him, but at the table no one could speak a word—only the sound of sobbing filled the air. At the middle management farewell meeting, a vice director said: “Xiaocheng, you thought of what we all thought about, but you made the decision that none of us had the courage to make.” Later, this vice director did indeed go to Hainan. A group of graduate students pulled Liu Xiaocheng into their dormitory for a farewell toast with a few glasses of weak wine: “Xiaocheng, you go first—we're seeing you off. If this path proves right, we'll return to our hometowns after graduation too!”

The equipment department sent Liu Xiaocheng large quantities of instruments, even changing the air compressor's motor in case he broke it with no way to get it repaired. The anesthesiology department head gave him a large bag of anesthesia supplies. The monitoring room head nurse, always known as a “tiger,” unprecedentedly gave him a pile of hard-to-find small instruments. Pharmacy department head Ding Fei tearfully instructed him: “Whatever scarce medicines you need in the future—if Fuwai has them, so will you, Xiaocheng!” Patients in the wards, upon hearing he was leaving, got up from their beds to bid him farewell.

People praised Liu Xiaocheng's wife, Hong Yishu, calling her remarkable for abandoning Beijing's superior environment to return to Heilongjiang with her husband to endure hardship—something ordinary women couldn't do. Liu Xiaocheng also thought his wife was remarkable, but on the evening before departure, seeing their formerly warm home suddenly become cold and empty with nothing left, Hong Yishu cried. He held her as they stood in the empty room for a long time. He knew this home no longer belonged to them.

The World Changes Because of Him

Phoenix TV Information Channel Editor-in-Chief Ruan Cishan said: “If a person is over 30 and the ideals in your heart still exist, you will certainly have a future. Even as a small citizen, you can choose what kind of small citizen to be.”

On June 14, 1987, Liu Xiaocheng departed for Heilongjiang. After deciding to return to Heilongjiang, his first choice had been his hometown Jiamusi. During the Spring Festival holidays, he had approached city government leadership, saying he wanted to return to Jiamusi to build a cardiovascular disease hospital and contribute to the hometown folks. The leader had rejected him, citing tight funding. Afterward, he went to Mudanjiang City, which was very close to Jiamusi. Mudanjiang's Dong'an Hospital had sent doctors to Fuwai Hospital to study cardiac surgery—he had trained their visiting students. During Spring Festival 1987, he had led a mobile medical team that performed 8 cardiac surgeries at Dong'an Hospital. This time, when he explained his intentions to Mudanjiang city government leadership, he was immediately welcomed and appointed as Dong'an Hospital's Party Secretary and Director. Thus, Mudanjiang City opened its arms wide to warmly welcome the return of this devoted son.

However, with the arrival of their family of three, rumors began to spread quietly like air. “He must have failed in Beijing—otherwise, why would he leave a major national hospital to work at this collective hospital?” “I heard they built him a villa at Mirror Lake. Otherwise, why would he come from Beijing to this poor place?”

Dong'an Hospital was a district-level collective hospital built during the Japanese invasion of China. After more than half a century of weathering, it had long since become decrepit. The walls shed whitewash at the slightest touch, and the floorboards sank when you stepped on them firmly. The entire hospital had only 2,000 square meters of building space and 70 beds, yet employed over 200 staff members. The hospital was desperately poor, burdened with hundreds of thousands of yuan in debt and lacking proper anesthesiologists, capable assistants, and decent equipment. Liu Xiaocheng's family of three was crammed into a small office. No wonder people asked: What on earth was Liu Xiaocheng seeking by coming to Mudanjiang?

But Liu Xiaocheng felt an unprecedented sense of liberation—finally free from all constraints, able to roll up his sleeves and get to work. The very next day, he stepped into the operating room. In this unbelievably crude hospital, in this operating room where bamboo poles held up plastic sheeting to catch falling whitewash and dripping condensation from the roof, assisted only by medical staff with basic training, he began performing the world's most advanced heart surgeries one after another, completing over a dozen cases in just one week.

The hospital frequently experienced power outages. When the electricity went out, the heart-lung machine would stop, forcing them to continue surgery with hand-operated pumps. Once, when two reporters from Health News came to interview him and encountered another blackout, the reporters—who had never witnessed heart surgery before—held flashlights with trembling hands to provide lighting so Liu Xiaocheng could continue the operation. Afterward, the two reporters, along with a group of patients' families, went to petition the mayor. The mayor specially approved dual power lines for Dong'an Hospital, finally solving the power outage problem.

News that heart surgery could be performed in Mudanjiang spread like wildfire, and cardiac patients from all over flocked there. The small Dong'an Hospital, previously nearly deserted, suddenly became incredibly busy. But Liu Xiaocheng knew well that even if he grew six arms and operated day and night without rest, it would be far from enough to resolve the serious supply-demand imbalance between doctors and patients. He urgently needed to train a group of cardiovascular surgeons capable of independent practice. However, the hospital lacked both money and talent—training a group of cardiovascular surgeons was easier said than done.

But in Liu Xiaocheng's eyes, all difficulties were merely pebbles underfoot, and life's path was composed of countless such pebbles. While personally teaching young doctors surgery hand-by-hand, he recruited talent from various places and lobbied leaders at all levels to establish a cardiovascular hospital. He instructed the young people: “You must take the world as your responsibility and mature quickly! Napoleon said that a soldier who doesn't want to become a marshal is not a good soldier. I tell you: an apprentice who doesn't want to surpass his master is not a good apprentice!”

In Liu Xiaocheng's view, everyone harbored passion deep in their hearts. As long as you could ignite that passion within them, everyone would burst forth with immeasurable energy. Only when everyone around you could approach both work and life with passion could a powerful core strength be formed, capable of achieving great things.

Liu Xiaocheng's arrival was like a flame that ignited the hospital that had been lifeless for decades and also ignited hearts that had lain dormant for years. Everyone was inspired with unprecedented vitality and energy.

The doctors there had never seen tetralogy of Fallot repair surgery, didn't understand valve replacement, and had never witnessed coronary artery bypass surgery—procedures that only a handful of doctors in the country could perform. Liu Xiaocheng would take everyone to the cinema and, during breaks between movie screenings, borrow the film projector to view patients' cardiac catheterization films. But as soon as the machine started, the film would suddenly catch fire, frightening the projectionist into quickly shutting off the equipment. It turned out that domestic catheterization films couldn't be handled by the projector and would ignite when pulled through. He had to take everyone to examine the films one by one under viewing lights with magnifying glasses, explaining various heart surgeries as they looked. It took six or seven hours to examine a single catheterization film. To strengthen the English skills of the medical staff, despite extremely tight funding, he ordered large quantities of foreign books and journals for everyone and invited the city's best English teachers to provide oral English instruction. He required medical staff to use English in daily conversations whenever possible. Moreover, with the help of his mentor Dr. O'Brien, this small collective hospital actually sent over 30 medical personnel to study at Prince Charles Hospital.

Liu Xiaocheng valued not only medical skills but also the medical ethics of all hospital staff.

He posed a question to all hospital employees: “If the patient were your parents, siblings, or children, how would you treat them?” He was the first to raise the slogan “Patients Are God.” When surgeries failed, he shared sleepless nights and loss of appetite with everyone. When surgeries succeeded, he celebrated joyfully with everyone. To save patients desperately needing blood transfusions, he unhesitatingly extended his own arm. For complex surgeries, he didn't leave the operating table for 16 hours. To save a patient's life, he went without sleep for three days and nights and collapsed in the operating room.

Whenever surgery ended and Liu Xiaocheng showed patients' families the pathological specimens removed from their loved ones' hearts, the medical staff seemed to understand the true meaning of life from the trembling hands of the families and their tearful, grateful gazes—the simple yet complex proposition of “Why do people live?” Indeed, what could be more noble, fulfilling, and valuable than saving others' lives and thereby making one's own life meaningful?

Liu Xiaocheng said: “Someone once said there are three types of people who are happiest: mothers watching their children bathe, adults watching children play in sand, and finally, we doctors who have cured our patients.”

One day, a 55-year-old farmer desperately begged Liu Xiaocheng to save him, saying he didn't want to die—his family had elderly parents above and young children below, and an entire household depending on him. But Liu Xiaocheng discovered that this farmer's heart was enlarged like a basketball, and any bypass surgery would be useless for his extremely weakened heart. To save his life, only a heart transplant would work. But given the current circumstances, where could they possibly find a fresh heart for a farmer?

Perhaps this farmer had accumulated some heavenly merit in a previous life, because just then news came that a condemned murderer had experienced a change of conscience before his execution and had requested that his organs be donated to society after his death. Upon hearing this news of uncertain reliability, Liu Xiaocheng rushed to the detention center and, after much effort, managed to see the criminal.

The criminal was in his twenties, male, with an expression of utter despair. Liu Xiaocheng asked him: “Have you really decided to donate your organs to society?” The young man nodded expressionlessly. “Why do you want to donate your organs?” “To atone...” “Don't you have any regrets about this decision?” “What's to regret? Once I'm dead, what use are they to me?” Liu Xiaocheng extended his hand to the young man, but the young man hesitated: “My hands are stained with blood...” “I'm a doctor—my hands are also stained with blood.” “But you save lives...” “I feel sorry for you because you were ignorant of the law. But I deeply admire your decision, and I want to thank you.” The young man stared at Liu Xiaocheng in confusion, hesitantly reaching out to shake his hand: “You... why do you want to thank me?” “Because you will save another person's life.” The young man gazed at Liu Xiaocheng with dull, dying eyes, bewildered and amazed, motionless for a long time.

Liu Xiaocheng befriended this young man who was about to leave the world, visiting him several times. The night before the execution, he even arranged a simple farewell dinner for the young man. “Dr. Liu, you've treated me like a human being. I can die content now.” The young man's eyes filled with tears as he drained his cup in one gulp.

On a misty morning, Liu Xiaocheng watched as the young man walked step by step toward the execution ground. The young man's final words were: “If I had met you earlier, perhaps I wouldn't have come to this.” Liu Xiaocheng felt profound regret—he had saved countless lives but couldn't save this young man. His only consolation was helping the young man fulfill his final wish. That very day, the 55-year-old farmer was granted a second life. The surgery was highly successful. The date was July 5, 1992.

Following this, Liu Xiaocheng successfully completed another heart transplant for a 38-year-old farmer. The medical staff nicknamed the two heart transplant patients “Big Treasure” and “Little Treasure.” After their recovery, Big Treasure and Little Treasure wore red armbands and served as security guards and patient guides for the hospital.

Building on his success with heart transplants, Liu Xiaocheng completed China's first combined heart-lung transplant, making the small Mudanjiang hospital one of only fifty hospitals worldwide capable of performing this procedure and placing China among the world's advanced ranks in cardiovascular surgery. The International Heart and Lung Transplantation Association invited Mudanjiang Hospital to join the World Heart and Lung Transplantation Association.

In those days, the story of “Eight Women Throwing Themselves into the River” had created blood-stained glory for Mudanjiang. Now, Liu Xiaocheng was making Mudanjiang famous again. His achievements shocked experts and scholars both domestically and internationally. Minister of Health Chen Minzhang wrote a letter of congratulations. Foreign experts and scholars extended helping hands. A German federal company donated 200 extracorporeal circulation tubes to Mudanjiang Hospital. Canadian friends persuaded the Canadian government to provide equipment worth 2.4 million yuan to Mudanjiang Hospital. Ten American friends, despite pressure from the U.S. government, came to Mudanjiang in September 1989 with $200,000 worth of donated equipment. The president of an American charity, Mr. Megan, asked Liu Xiaocheng: “Why do you sacrifice yourself both domestically and internationally?”

Liu Xiaocheng replied: “For millions of impoverished patients.” President Megan was deeply moved: “I've been to China 27 times. Many Chinese organizations have requested aid, but I've decided to put your name at the top of our list. Tell me whatever you need, and I'll support you fully!” Within five years, President Megan provided Liu Xiaocheng with medical supplies and equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on four separate occasions. Megan not only personally brought equipment to China but also sent his son to fly specially from America to China to deliver equipment and medicines to Liu Xiaocheng.

Australian friends used their vacation time to fly to Mudanjiang at their own expense to hold lectures and perform surgeries alongside Liu Xiaocheng in the crude operating room. The night before their departure, his mentor and the Australian friends insisted on visiting Liu Xiaocheng's wife and son. When they saw the famous cardiovascular surgeon's family of three living in a crude office, their eyes moistened, and they embraced Liu Xiaocheng tightly, saying: “We'll be back!” When they returned, they brought Liu Xiaocheng amazing news: through the efforts of Australian friends, the Australian International Development Assistance Agency had decided to provide specialized technical training for Mudanjiang Hospital personnel.

Jiang Zemin Said: "Xiaocheng, oh Xiaocheng, you truly understand how to build a successful career!"

October 6, 1989, was an extraordinary day for millions of cardiac patients. At 3 PM, invited by the State Personnel Ministry, 31 returned overseas students, full of vigor, walked into the small conference hall in Zhongnanhai for a discussion with General Secretary Jiang Zemin.

Liu Xiaocheng was among them. Since arriving in Mudanjiang, Liu Xiaocheng had been running around everywhere seeking massive funding to establish a specialized cardiovascular hospital.

Although leaders in Heilongjiang Province and Mudanjiang City strongly supported him and had invested 10 million yuan in building the new hospital despite extremely tight finances, this was still far from sufficient for creating a modern cardiovascular hospital. Just as he was worrying about funding, he suddenly received an invitation from the State Personnel Ministry to attend a discussion between General Secretary Jiang and overseas student representatives in Beijing. The astute Liu immediately recognized that an opportunity had arrived. So when Jiang Zemin sat down with a smile while the other 30 overseas students were still immersed in excitement and nervousness, Liu Xiaocheng, sitting in the front row, was the first to speak.

“I am Liu Xiaocheng, returned from studying in Australia, now working at Dong'an Hospital in Mudanjiang. When my mentor asked me to stay in Australia, I told him: China has an old saying—'A child doesn't despise his mother's ugliness; a dog doesn't despise his family's poverty.' Although Australia offers superior conditions, they don't need me. My country, though poor, desperately needs me. To serve my country, I returned from Australia to the motherland. To save more cardiac patients, I left Fuwai Hospital and returned to Heilongjiang. Currently, our country has three to four million cardiac patients needing surgery, yet we can perform only 1% of these surgeries annually, creating a serious supply-demand imbalance. Many patients wait desperately for surgery, but most will wait until death without ever receiving treatment. Therefore, we plan to establish a specialized cardiovascular hospital in Mudanjiang. Today, I ask General Secretary Jiang to support me, and I ask all the leaders present to support me in solving our funding problem! This is not about supporting me personally. It is about supporting the cause of returned overseas students serving the motherland, and supporting our efforts to relieve people's suffering!”

“Excellent! Comrade Xiaocheng spoke wonderfully!” Jiang Zemin immediately praised him. “I love what Xiaocheng said: 'A child doesn't despise his mother's ugliness; a dog doesn't despise his family's poverty.' If all Chinese people were like Comrade Xiaocheng, taking the world as their responsibility, China's development would accelerate dramatically! Comrade Xiaocheng, please rest assured—I will fully support you! Everyone present will fully support you!”

“Then on behalf of my hometown folks, I thank you. I thank General Secretary Jiang for your support!” Liu Xiaocheng quickly replied. The meeting had been scheduled for two hours but lasted over three. Finally, Jiang Zemin shook Liu Xiaocheng's hand, laughing: “Xiaocheng, oh Xiaocheng, you truly understand how to build a successful career!” Shortly after the discussion, the State Council convened and issued meeting minutes: “Support Comrade Liu Xiaocheng in establishing a cardiovascular hospital, with Li Tieying and Song Jian in charge of this matter.” The next day, People's Daily published the news: Liu Xiaocheng, an overseas student returned from Australia, had proposed establishing a cardiovascular hospital to General Secretary Jiang Zemin to relieve people's suffering and had received strong support from the General Secretary.

Later, Jiang Zemin praised Liu Xiaocheng multiple times in various meetings, and Hu Jintao also met with Liu Xiaocheng.

Upon learning of the State Council's meeting minutes that very day, Liu Xiaocheng and Vice President Wang Tielin stayed up all night drafting reports. The two men brought approval documents from provincial and municipal governments and rushed to Beijing to seek approvals from Song Jian and Li Tieying, working to persuade leaders from the State Planning Commission, Science and Technology Commission, Ministry of Finance, Ministry of Health, Ministry of Materials, and other departments. “Section Chief Li, I'm Liu Xiaocheng from Dong'an Hospital in Mudanjiang, Heilongjiang. This is our application to establish a cardiovascular hospital. To relieve the suffering of numerous cardiac patients who are tormented by illness and living in desperation, we want to establish a specialized cardiovascular hospital in Mudanjiang. We have General Secretary Jiang's support, and I'm asking for your strong support as well! You would not be supporting me personally, but rather supporting millions of cardiac patients who cannot get appointments or hospital beds, supporting our brothers and sisters, and supporting our medical cause...

After lobbying section chiefs came department heads. After department heads came bureau chiefs—one by one, talking until his mouth was dry and his feet were blistered, going days without proper meals. As people say, sincerity can move mountains. Their sincere dedication to solving people's suffering deeply moved everyone with a social conscience. Director Li Ming'an of the Ministry of Finance said: “Finance means managing money and participating in governance. Deciding whom to give money to and whom not to give it to—that's the essence of politics! You're wholeheartedly working for the people. Though our financial resources are limited, we must support you!”

Central ministries successively raised 20 million yuan in funding and foreign exchange for the new Mudanjiang hospital. Senior designer Pan Zhiying from Beijing Architectural Design Institute, whose heart valve Liu Xiaocheng had replaced, declared: “Even without payment, I must help Liu Xiaocheng design the hospital building.” Learning that the new hospital still lacked operating funds, Mudanjiang citizens voluntarily contributed money, cloth, refrigerators, and color TVs.

On July 31, 1991, China's second specialized cardiovascular hospital grandly opened in Mudanjiang. Cao Zhi, who had become Secretary-General of the National People's Congress, leaders from various ministries, and the Party Secretary and Governor of Heilongjiang Province all came to attend the ceremony. Though floods had washed out the railway, they couldn't stop Chinese and foreign friends from attending the opening celebration. Dr. O'Brien and Prince Charles Hospital Director Mr. Staberg brought plaques carved with maps of China and Australia connected by red lines symbolizing sister hospitals (an identical plaque hung at Prince Charles Hospital) along with 15 boxes of medical equipment, traveling specially to attend the new hospital's opening ceremony. Strangely, after days of continuous rain, the clouds suddenly parted and the sun shone brightly at 9 AM during the ribbon-cutting ceremony. People said even heaven was moved.

In his seven years in Mudanjiang, Liu Xiaocheng performed heart surgery on over 3,000 patients from 23 provinces nationwide, achieving a 98.6% patient survival rate. He completed 2 heart transplants in 6 days and China's first heart-lung transplant. He established China's second modern cardiovascular hospital and trained a group of cardiovascular surgeons capable of performing independent operations. He trained large numbers of comprehensive cardiovascular specialists for Heilongjiang Provincial Hospital, Harbin Children's Hospital, Harbin 242 Hospital, and Indonesia's Bandung Hospital.

In just seven years, millions of lives had their fates changed because of him, their quality of life improved because of him. However, no one knew the story behind Liu Xiaocheng's family life—he owed an irreparable emotional debt to both the deceased and the living.

On December 10, 1991, his dying mother called out for her son with a voice like gossamer: “Xiaocheng, Xiaocheng...” The old woman wanted to see her son one last time before leaving this world. But at that moment, Xiaocheng was crossing the sea to Japan, busy establishing new bilateral relations. When he rushed back to Jiamusi, all that remained for him was his mother's face covered by a white sheet.

“Mother, Xiaocheng came back too late! Xiaocheng has failed you!” Xiaocheng threw himself on his mother's body in inconsolable grief.

The son was a heart specialist yet couldn't help his own mother who had died of heart failure. The son had saved countless lives yet couldn't save the mother who had borne and raised him. Deep in the son's heart remained forever unresolved pain and regret. But the banner his mother had left him—”Medicine is a benevolent art; conduct yourself well”—like his mother's kind eyes, forever inspired her son, illuminating his magnificent career and encouraging him to always treat patients with a benevolent heart.

Mirror Lake was only about a hundred kilometers from Mudanjiang City, a place where the scenery was beautiful with mountains and water. Yet he never took his wife and child there. His wife worked in the ophthalmology department of Mudanjiang Second Hospital, working night shifts every three days. He was busy; she was busy. Their home was a mess with dishes and bowls scattered everywhere. Returning home at midnight, he would often see his son—small hands and feet still dirty—clutching a half-eaten piece of bread, curled up asleep on the sofa. He would quickly carry his son to bed, remove his shoes and socks, and tuck him in, feeling bitter inside and full of self-reproach: “Son, Father has failed you. If there truly is another life, Father will definitely be a good father.”

The next life is illusory; reality is real. His personality determined his life's choices and his life's destiny.

On a morning in May 1994, city leaders came to the auditorium of Mudanjiang Cardiovascular Hospital to announce news to all hospital staff: The Organization Department had issued a transfer order—Liu Xiaocheng was being promoted to Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences and Vice President of Peking Union Medical College.

The auditorium fell completely silent. Everyone seemed stunned.

Instantly, countless brilliant memories from the past seven years flooded everyone's minds, striking their sensitive and fragile nerves, and the sound of sobbing arose throughout the hall. What arduous yet exhilarating seven years they had been!

Spring's awakening, summer's struggle, autumn's harvest, winter's perseverance. The fusion of sweat and blood—not family yet better than family, both leader and mentor, both brotherly companion and strict “father” hoping for his “children's” success. How many people's fates had changed because of him? How many unfortunate families had been saved because of him? In people's minds, he was a towering, extraordinary peak that allowed people to glimpse a sage's bearing amid the filth and turbid air. He was also a rich book that people never tired of reading. However, he was about to be transferred away.

At this moment, Liu Xiaocheng sitting on the platform also had tears in his eyes. He couldn't bear to leave these colleagues who had weathered storms together. The entire hospital staff had followed him through seven years of relentless work and hardship. Now things were just beginning to improve, yet he was being transferred. He had just finished building 120 staff dormitories. The daycare center had just begun construction. He had wanted to create more benefits for the staff, but... He felt he had failed these colleagues who had shared hardships with him, yet he couldn't disobey orders from the central government.

The common people were even more reluctant to let him go. Many citizens, upon hearing that Liu Xiaocheng was being transferred, blocked the hospital entrance for days, wanting to see him.

Three months after the transfer order arrived, Liu Xiaocheng still hadn't departed. He handed over responsibilities to the new director one by one and watched as his young disciples completed their final difficult surgeries as lead surgeons. Before leaving, he gave his disciples the same instruction his mentor had given him: “Remember, whatever difficulties you encounter in the future, tell me. My door will always be open to you!”

On the day of departure, all hospital staff and patients saw him off with tears and songs: “Seeing off comrades on their journey... Revolutionary life means constant partings... Take care along the way...”

The songs were filled with brotherly affection and heart-wrenching farewell sadness.

However, no one expected that in the sixth year after returning to Beijing—in 2000—Liu Xiaocheng, just 51 years old, would submit his resignation to the Ministry of Health. Why couldn't high position and generous salary keep him? Just as before, people couldn't understand: Why did Liu Xiaocheng want to resign? Was it because he wasn't promoted, or was there discord with leadership, or did he want to go into business to make money?

At this time, Liu Xiaocheng was already Party Secretary and Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences, overseeing six major hospitals including Union, Fuwai, Cancer, and Plastic Surgery; over a dozen national research institutes; 30 academicians; over 2,000 professors; and tens of thousands of employees—an enviably vast sphere of authority. He was decisive, upright, and highly respected. He was also a doctoral supervisor. In 1994, he had established the cardiovascular surgery department at Union Hospital. In 1996, he had pioneered arterial heart bypass surgery domestically. According to international statistics, ten-year patency rates for venous bypass were 42-45%, while arterial bypass achieved 90-95%. His reputation in cardiovascular surgery was widespread. Beijing hospitals often sought his help when encountering difficulties with heart surgery.

During his six years in office, his work had been outstanding, earning unanimous praise. He was named “National Expert with Outstanding Contributions,” “National Advanced Worker,” and “Outstanding Returned Overseas Student with Significant Contributions.” The Cambridge International Biographical Centre in Britain and the American Biographical Institute in North Carolina included him in their “International Directory of Distinguished Leadership,” “International Dictionary of Biography,” and other authoritative international biographical publications. His story was made into TV documentaries “Quest” and “Backbone” as well as the feature film “The Returned Student.” He was elected as a representative to the Party's 14th Congress.

In 1995, the Ministry of Health sent him to the Central Party School for the first provincial-ministerial-level study program, known as the “Whampoa Military Academy,” where most participants were later promoted to provincial and ministerial leadership positions. Liu Xiaocheng was also listed by the Organization Department as a candidate for Deputy Minister of Health.

In 1996, the World Health Organization requested that China provide an Assistant Director-General. The Ministry of Health first recommended Liu Xiaocheng, hoping he could contribute to world health. The WHO Assistant Director-General position offered a $100,000 annual salary, allowed family accompaniment, and was located at beautiful Lake Geneva, Switzerland. Liu Xiaocheng went to Switzerland for an interview with Brundtland, who was about to become WHO Director-General. Ms. Brundtland asked him about his understanding of the World Health Organization, and Liu Xiaocheng discussed how WHO should contribute to preventing and treating human diseases and improving health levels. However, Ms. Brundtland then asked him: “How do you view gender equality within our organization?”

Liu Xiaocheng replied: “Gender equality is an eternal theme that human society and all international organizations should strive for, but it's not the primary concern the World Health Organization should address. WHO should focus on solving urgent problems threatening all of human health, not just the gender ratio among our staff.”

The naturally straightforward and upright Liu Xiaocheng never flattered or tried to please others. Whether before this distinguished Norwegian former prime minister or former U.S. President Bush Sr., he never compromised the dignity and character of a descendant of the Yellow Emperor.

In 1997, Liu Xiaocheng was invited by the American Eisenhower Fellowship to visit the U.S. with China's first group of 30 renowned young and middle-aged scholars and administrators. America provided $40,000 for each visitor to design their own study program and investigate freely throughout the country. Though called an “investigation,” it was actually indoctrination in American values. After two months of study, Board Chairman and former President Bush Sr. personally attended the graduation ceremony and allowed each visitor to ask one question for Bush to answer.

Liu Xiaocheng posed a challenging question for Bush Sr. He said: “Mr. President, to my knowledge, America's GDP is $10 trillion, with 14.5% spent on healthcare, yet 22 million Americans lack health insurance. Since America's founding, the Constitution has been amended over 20 times. The federal constitution and many state constitutions list education as a basic human right alongside food, clothing, and shelter. I agree that education should be a basic human right in civilized society, but I wonder how you view the relationship between education and health. If education is a basic human right, then shouldn't health be even more so? Without health, how can people receive education? How do you view this issue? How do you explain spending so much on healthcare while so many citizens still lack medical insurance?”

Bush Sr. smiled politely at this seemingly gentle yet independently minded Chinese scholar and said: “That's an excellent question, and it does reflect America's actual situation. But I know little about healthcare, so I cannot answer your question. I apologize!”

Liu Xiaocheng wasn't rebuffed; instead, he became one of the most welcomed Chinese scholars. He later became an examiner for Chinese visitors to the American Eisenhower Fellowship and the only advisor invited from China to serve on the International Advisory Committee.

But Ms. Brundtland was not Bush Sr. Liu Xiaocheng lost the WHO Assistant Director-General position. It was later learned that Ms. Brundtland was a feminist, though she did send Liu Xiaocheng a letter saying she greatly admired his character and ability.

At this moment, Liu Xiaocheng sat as Party Secretary and Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences, seemingly having everything one could want—reputation, status, an official car, spacious housing, attendants at his beck and call, unlimited prestige. And as long as he worked well without major mistakes, the Deputy Minister of Health position awaited him.

People couldn't help but ask: What more do you want, Liu Xiaocheng? What are you still dissatisfied with? What are you still struggling for?

A politician once said that everyone has their own principles for living. Only by understanding someone's unique principles can you comprehend the ebb and flow of their life, the rolling and unfurling of clouds; only then can you understand the mountain heights and dangerous paths they've chosen, their turbulent rivers.

His turbulent years had left him with more than just turbulence.

Qu Qiubai said before his sacrifice: “When light and flame drill out from the earth's core, they inevitably must undergo several trials, exploring their own path and strengthening their own power.” A person's experiences determine their emotions and their life.

In the winter of 1968, the northern border region of Heilongjiang was particularly cold at -42°C, and many “educated youth” from the south had their hands and feet frostbitten. At 2 AM—the hour people called “ghost grinding teeth”—in the most primitive and ancient lime kiln of the 21st Regiment of the 853 Farm of Baoqing County Construction Corps, a group of “educated youth” in yellow cotton jackets had already begun working.

In that era, wearing yellow cotton jackets was an honor, a revolutionary symbol. Only one thin young man wore a black cotton jacket. He was the first to jump into the still-scorching lime kiln that had just finished producing lime to begin “leveling the kiln.” This primitive lime kiln was shaped like a Japanese bunker, with limestone and coal filled from the top and burned lime extracted from below. The opening, several meters in diameter, served as both material inlet and chimney. “Leveling the kiln” meant jumping into the kiln that was spouting flames and thick smoke to manually arrange limestone piled like a small mountain. Outside it was -42°C; inside the kiln, 50-60°C—a temperature difference of over 100 degrees. The black-jacketed youth endured hellish suffering, desperately arranging stones. Others took breaks and went to rest, but he continued until the entire kiln was leveled, then climbed exhaustedly to the kiln top. His black cotton jacket shoulders were covered with thick, white salt deposits from dried sweat. His newly issued leather gloves were worn through with holes, exposing ten bleeding fingertips that hurt terribly at the slightest touch.

Suffering was like the hammer in his hands, while the young man's body was like the stones underfoot—becoming incredibly strong through countless hammerings, just like the “Lime Song” he and his comrades wrote on the lime kiln wall: “I fear not being crushed to powder; I want to leave my integrity in the world!”

During the Cultural Revolution, wearing the label of “black five categories' cur” was already suffocating, yet this young man wore three such labels: his grandfather was a landlord; his father was a “Japanese spy” and “reactionary academic authority.” After three house raids, his mother had her head shaved as a “ghost head”; his father was imprisoned in a “cowshed.” A perfectly good intellectual family was suddenly torn apart.

The successive blows caused great pain to Xiaocheng, who hadn't even finished high school. He desperately tried to prove through revolutionary action that he was revolutionary, desperately trying to change his fate as a “black five categories cur.” He cut his finger and wrote a petition in blood, urgently requesting to go to the Production and Construction Corps for reform. Because “black five categories” children had no right to join the Production and Construction Corps, he could only use a blood letter for self-recommendation. However, it wasn't the blood letter that worked but rather the 853 Farm 21st Regiment propaganda team's need for an accordion player. At that time, accordion players were extremely rare. Young Xiaocheng was talented and intelligent, not only playing excellent accordion but also singing beautifully. Even today, he occasionally plays his beloved accordion and sings “Troika.”

He became the lowest-class citizen in the Production and Construction Corps—all the dirty and exhausting work fell to him: burning lime, drilling blast holes, cleaning manure, logging. However, for a 19-year-old youth, the greater harm wasn't physical exhaustion but endless spiritual torment. Production and Construction Corps “educated youth” all wore wide belts and yellow cotton jackets in quasi-military style, but he alone lacked this qualification—he could only wear black cotton jackets. All 853 Farm propaganda team members could sing, dance, and perform on stage, but he alone had to hide backstage accompanying others, forbidden to appear publicly. Moreover, someone constantly monitored his every move.

His lonely, anguished heart wandered alone in the desolate, vast world, unable to find relief or joy. Only when the day's work ended and the moon rose would he carry his beloved accordion to the outskirts and play with abandon. A group of “educated youth” would come at the sound, singing Russian songs with tears in their eyes: “Vast grasslands, distant roads. There's a coachman who will die on the grasslands...” The songs were filled with desolation and sorrow. Only then could the loneliness and depression in his heart be released through the music. Only then could he feel the equality and harmony that should exist between people.

Adversity can make people rebellious and decadent, but it can also inspire invincible determination. Like many later successful “educated youth,” no matter how difficult or humiliating the circumstances, he never lost heart. Deep in his soul burned magma-like passion. It longed to erupt, longed for life's turning point, desperately awaiting opportunity. He grabbed every book he could find: “Selected Works of Mao Zedong,” “State and Revolution,” “Marx's Youth.” Most frequently read was “How the Steel Was Tempered,” which influenced several generations. Ostrovsky's famous words influenced his entire life: “A person's life should be lived so that when looking back, he feels no regret for wasted years nor shame for a mediocre existence.”

The turbulent years, life without dignity, physical exhaustion beyond endurance—all these threw this innocent youth to life's very bottom, making him intimately experience the hardship and suffering of the underclass, as well as the insignificance and yearning of the weak, thus forging a deep, inseverable emotional bond with common people.

This period influenced his entire life and determined his life's trajectory. This was one reason he repeatedly made shocking moves, challenging both himself and the medical system. His heart belonged to ordinary people, and no official position or amount of money could shake his original commitment.

The brilliant “glass pagoda” contained a suffering soul.

Eisenhower once said: “We must never waste our brief lives on meaningless fame and profit, nor impose restlessness and turmoil on our precious lifetime.”

In Liu Xiaocheng's view, while other industries had developed rapidly during China's 20+ years of reform and opening up, medical and health services had stagnated. The fundamental problems of people's difficulty in seeing doctors and obtaining surgery remained unresolved. Take cardiovascular disease: nationwide, over 4 million cardiovascular patients needed surgery, yet only 40-50 thousand surgeries were performed annually—barely 1-2 percent. Moreover, medicines were marked up layer upon layer, with kickbacks taken at every stage, inflating prices several times, dozens of times, even hundreds of times from factory to patient.

Treating a common cold cost hundreds of yuan. Hospital stays cost thousands or tens of thousands. Doctors prescribed expensive treatments and ordered extensive tests for patients. If you had a headache, they'd order CT scans and MRIs, warning of possible tumors—you wouldn't dare refuse. For sore throats, they'd prescribe hundreds of yuan worth of medicine. For surgery, beyond the expensive fees, you also had to give doctors “red envelopes”—thousands or tens of thousands of yuan. Some hospitals preferred not to accept medical insurance patients because insurance meant delayed payment; they preferred cash. They avoided treating difficult cases to avoid risks. Some hospitals performed cardiac catheterization without even basic skin preparation. Some doctors actually administered Demerol to angina patients for pain relief. People said that going to hospitals meant queuing at midnight for appointments and running up and down stairs—you'd get sick from stress even if you weren't ill to begin with. Moreover, only 8% of Chinese had medical insurance; 92% of laid-off workers, individual entrepreneurs, and 800 million farmers couldn't access medical insurance.

Doctors accepting “red envelopes” had become extremely common, an unwritten rule. Without “red envelopes,” doctors were unhappy and patients worried about receiving inferior treatment. A chief surgeon could become a millionaire annually. Consider those poor farmers and laid-off workers who scrimped and saved, sold their houses and land, even sold their blood to gather hard-earned money. Beyond the expensive medical fees, they also had to give doctors “red envelopes.” Some poor farmers couldn't afford doctors' “red envelopes” even after selling their houses and land. This wasn't treating illness—this was impoverishing people, extorting their very lives! Such shameless, undignified, blatant extortion—where was the “angel in white” spirit of healing the wounded and rescuing the dying? They were simply robbers taking advantage of others' misfortune!

How tragic, my colleagues! Liu Xiaocheng couldn't help but sigh with indignation: From Hippocrates to Li Shizhen, throughout history, medicine has been revered, doctors respected, and healing has always been work for people with souls. Why has our generation become so obsessed with money and so heartless?

However, Liu Xiaocheng was not someone who only saw phenomena without understanding their essence. He felt that simply condemning doctors for accepting “red envelopes” was unfair. Several National People's Congress sessions had raised the issue of doctors accepting “red envelopes,” but who had analyzed the underlying causes of this phenomenon? Who understood the severe imbalance between doctors' contributions and their compensation, and the profound social problems hidden behind “red envelopes”?

Liu Xiaocheng believed the “red envelope” phenomenon was caused by the medical system itself. As everyone knew, the folk saying about “brain-body inversion” had appeared back in the 1980s: “Those who make missiles earn less than those who sell tea eggs; those who wield scalpels earn less than those who wield razors.” Since the 1990s, reform and opening up had made many people wealthy—singers commanded tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands of yuan per performance; real estate developers quickly accumulated millions, tens of millions, even hundreds of millions; high-ranking officials, even without engaging in corruption, enjoyed substantial extra income, not to mention gray income. Yet a chief physician who saved lives earned only 3,000 yuan per month. This income was far below that in other countries worldwide, even below most developing nations in Asia, Africa, and Latin America—only higher than a few Asian socialist countries. Chinese doctors “ate grass but produced milk.” With such meager incomes, they still shouldered the sacred duty of healing and saving lives. Doctors are human too—they need to survive, raise children, support elderly parents, and live. Why shouldn't they be able to become wealthy like others? Could their psychology possibly be balanced? Doctors accepted “red envelopes” because their pockets were empty; patients gave “red envelopes” to buy peace of mind.

Liu Xiaocheng felt the “red envelope” phenomenon was merely a symptom of deeper problems in China's medical and health system surfacing. After over 20 years of reform, China's medical and health system had lagged far behind social development, plagued by serious problems. 1.3 billion ordinary people complained bitterly about it, and 6 million medical workers were full of grievances.

He felt that first, the government's classification of public hospitals was imprecise—should they be welfare-oriented, public-benefit-oriented, or hospitals combining both welfare and public benefit? Without clear classification, public hospitals were caught in an awkward dilemma.

Developed countries like Canada, Britain, Australia, and Singapore implement universal health insurance, where even patients' meal costs are subsidized during hospitalization. But China's government investment in public hospitals, aside from covering retiree wages, only funded 20% of active employees' salaries. Hospital directors, unable to make bricks without straw, had to announce to their staff: “Your wages and bonuses can only be earned by yourselves!” This obvious profit-driven mechanism inevitably led to insiders deceiving outsiders, procurement kickbacks, doctors accepting “red envelopes,” and hospitals defrauding patients! Moreover, most public hospitals carried heavy burdens, with many medical units having redundant staff comprising up to one-third of their workforce.

Second, the government paid insufficient attention to healthcare and invested far too little.

According to healthy social patterns worldwide, government investment in healthcare should increase annually along with national economic development, forming an upward trend. But in China, the opposite had occurred—government investment in healthcare kept decreasing. After the previous year's SARS outbreak, the new Minister of Health Wu Yi stated at the National Health Work Conference: “Since reform and opening up, the proportion of China's health expenditure in fiscal spending has declined yearly, dropping from an average of 3.1% in the 1980s to 1.7% in 2002—far below developed countries and also below most developing countries. In 2001, among the World Health Organization's 191 member countries, China's government per capita health investment as a proportion of total health expenditure ranked 131st. In 1995, fiscal allocations accounted for 75.2% of national disease prevention and control institutions' expenditures; by 2002, this proportion had dropped to 41.7%. China's government health investment does not meet public health development needs.”

The United States invests 15% of GDP in healthcare, Canada 9%, Japan 7%—and even many developing countries far exceed China. Moreover, China's medical resources are both severely insufficient and seriously wasted. The state has clear planning for urban construction and street layout but no unified planning for hospital construction.

In Beijing's Dongdan area alone, within less than 5 square kilometers, three major hospitals are located—Union, Beijing, and Tongren. Furthermore, central ministries and the Central Party School have all built beautiful hospitals (not mere clinics) equipped with high-end medical facilities. These hospitals have low utilization rates and largely duplicate services at a low level. This isn't enough—people continue building hospitals in Beijing at an even faster, more frantic pace. Based on Beijing's current medical situation, beds, doctors, MRI machines and other medical facilities per thousand people already exceed those of the Asian Tigers. Yet remote areas face serious shortages of doctors and medicines. In developed countries, state-provided medical institutions typically form a pyramid structure—besides national central hospitals, communities have primary and secondary hospitals, and patients can seek treatment appropriate to their conditions rather than queuing at Union Hospital even for common colds and fevers.

Third, the state lacks its own pharmaceutical science and industry committee, and insufficient support for the national pharmaceutical industry has led to large quantities of expensive foreign medicines and equipment flooding China's market, greatly increasing people's burden.

An imported coronary balloon dilation catheter costs over 10,000 yuan, a coronary stent costs 10,000 to 30,000 yuan, a heart valve costs 20,000 yuan, and the most expensive pacemaker costs over 100,000 yuan. Some people, in order to receive kickbacks, actively help foreign merchants promote sales, crushing Chinese pharmaceutical factories and making already inflated drug prices even more inflated. Heart disease patients undergoing stent or bypass surgery spend at least 40,000 to 50,000 yuan, or as much as several hundred thousand. Consider this: How many years have ordinary Chinese been able to eat their fill? Some regions still haven't solved basic problems of food and clothing—how can they afford these foreign equipment and medicines that are completely inappropriate for our national conditions and only affordable in developed countries? For ordinary families earning just hundreds of yuan monthly, what do tens of thousands of yuan mean? It means selling houses and land, borrowing from everywhere, with the whole family carrying decades of debt!

Expensive medicines, expensive equipment, plus substantial “red envelopes”—these “three mountains” press down on ordinary Chinese people. How many are crushed until they can barely breathe? How many already impoverished families face even worse situations, becoming desperately poor? How many families are torn apart by disease?

China has a powerful National Defense Science and Technology Commission. We can launch rockets into space and send spacecraft touring the cosmos. China has become the world's largest telecommunications nation, the sixth-largest economy, and a military power that draws global attention. Why can't we establish a pharmaceutical science and industry committee to allow ordinary Chinese people to enjoy high-quality, affordable domestic medical products?

Liu Xiaocheng felt that government management of healthcare featured only free competition without macro-control, failing to form an effective medical security system. Currently, rural cooperative medicine had been dismantled; epidemic prevention stations existed in name only; some infectious diseases that had been controlled were returning, becoming enemies of millions. Most of China's endemic disease prevention institutions had been abolished, yet endemic diseases in various regions remained quite serious. China's AIDS population had drawn worldwide attention, with Henan Province alone having 38 “AIDS villages.” China's AIDS development trend had reached a critical turning point—if not controlled, the consequences would be unimaginable. This series of problems could not but cause deep concern.

Liu Xiaocheng felt that China's medical and health system was one of China's most backward areas, most urgently in need of reform. It was like a decrepit ox cart turning slowly amid galloping horses, bearing people's complaints and condemnation, making no progress whatsoever. Years ago, when the central government asked various ministries to propose healthcare reform plans, eight major ministries submitted proposals for reforming China's health system—only the Ministry of Health itself submitted no proposal.

Liu Xiaocheng felt that healthcare related to the national economy and people's livelihood, to national security and stability, to people's basic survival rights and matters of life and death—mishandling could cost lives. Though in a high position, he wasn't someone who merely followed “official” directives. Facing abuses in the healthcare sector, as Party Secretary and Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences, he felt both responsible and obligated to report to his superiors. Therefore, he repeatedly advised both the Ministry of Health and central leadership.

He proposed: The state should strengthen macro-control of healthcare and establish clear medical security systems. The government should clearly classify public hospitals rather than allowing them to become commercial hospitals, because commercial operation inevitably leads to hospitals defrauding patients and doctors deceiving patients. The government should increase healthcare investment, changing the current situation of lagging far behind developed countries and falling short of many developing countries. Though the state was poor and lacked substantial investment funds, it could increase taxes on entertainment industries—dining, drinking, entertainment—and on real estate profiteering to solve citizens' healthcare problems. The state should establish a pharmaceutical science and industry committee to support national pharmaceutical industry development. Healthcare reform is “the top leader's project”—only with high-level central government attention, firm determination, and top-down reform could China's healthcare truly initiate reform mechanisms, change the situation of expensive medical care and difficult surgery for the people, benefit the populace, and return taxpayers' money to the taxpayers.

A strong sense of social responsibility powerfully called and drove him, causing him to repeatedly take extraordinary, shocking actions.

On April 28, 2000, Liu Xiaocheng—as Party Secretary and Vice President/Vice Chancellor of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences and Peking Union Medical College—together with the President and Chancellor, jointly petitioned the Vice Premier in charge of healthcare. They directly reported on certain former Ministry of Health leadership's “resistance to educational management system reform in the health system; foot-dragging on healthcare scientific and technological system reform; favoritism and unfairness; seeking fame and reputation; engaging in non-organizational activities; tolerating lawbreakers, making reform impossible at the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences and Peking Union Medical College” along with many other problems. They concluded their letter: “If Minister XXX's mishandling of China's health cause continues without restriction and correction, our only choice is to resign together in protest, to answer to the world!”

Liu Xiaocheng spoke frankly to the Vice Premier: “Some people don't take the world's affairs as their responsibility but merely 'follow superiors and books, not reality.' If things continue this way, China's healthcare will surely be ruined by these people! China's medical cause has reached a point where reform is absolutely imperative!”

Subsequent events fully proved his correctness.

In 2003, China experienced the world-shocking SARS outbreak, which awakened both the Chinese government and its people. The Minister of Health was dismissed. After SARS, the government attempted to remedy the situation by increasing investment, but still hadn't fundamentally solved the problems. Many insightful people urgently called out: “China's SARS outbreak was inevitable amid the accidental circumstances. China must strengthen healthcare system reform!”

On December 17, 2003, Reference News reprinted a Time magazine article titled “WHO Officials Believe China's Public Health System Needs Reform,” which stated: “A 1998 UN survey found that among China's population living below the poverty line, many became impoverished due to serious illnesses.” “Four thousand grassroots epidemic prevention centers nationwide must generate over 50% of their own budgets, while in most other countries, similar institutions are state-funded.” “Many infectious diseases that were basically controlled during Mao Zedong's era are now resurging—tuberculosis, hepatitis B and other infectious diseases are spreading again. Currently 5% of Chinese are hepatitis B carriers, compared to only 1% in America. A 2000 WHO report showed that among 191 member countries, China's healthcare system ranked 144th, behind Indonesia and Bangladesh. China's Ministry of Health statistics show that last year 810,000 Chinese were infected with schistosomiasis, almost double the 1988 figure.” “All international organizations in China have sent clear signals: China's public health system needs reform. But so far, we haven't seen any response.”

In 2003, the State Council issued “Emergency Regulations for Public Health Incidents,” “Traditional Chinese Medicine Regulations,” “Medical Waste Management Regulations,” “Village Doctor Practice Management Regulations.” Premier Wen Jiabao said shortly after taking office: “We must treat the problem of expensive and difficult medical care for the people as important work for this administration.”

All of this confirmed Liu Xiaocheng's appeals from three years earlier. But at that time, his many suggestions and repeated advice had disappeared silently into time without any feedback.

He could only sigh helplessly: “So difficult! Healthcare reform is too difficult!”

Comrade Deng Xiaoping once said: “Economic system reform must be synchronized with political system reform.” China's healthcare system reform would inevitably involve political system reform. This was far beyond what one Liu Xiaocheng alone could change.

He felt that though he sat as Party Secretary and Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences, he was still just a small pawn on the chessboard. Despite deploying all his skills, his thin shoulders still couldn't push this antiquated machine forward. He fell into indescribable depression. He felt he had gone to the countryside, been labeled “black five categories,” fully experienced the hardships of turbulent years, studied abroad, been received by the General Secretary, conversed with the U.S. President, experienced both great honor and great disgrace—at his age, he had come to see everything with equanimity, except for his calling as both a person and a physician.

The ancient saying goes: “If you cannot be a good minister, then be a good doctor.” He felt China's medical reform had a long road ahead. Already 51, he couldn't afford to waste more time. Rather than emptily consuming his life amid mountains of documents, seas of meetings, and trivial comings and goings, it would be better to use his remaining physical and mental energy to do what he could, to break new ground for China's healthcare cause, to bring some good news to cardiovascular patients suffering from illness, thereby making his life worthwhile. Since his thin shoulders couldn't push forward the development of the overall cause, he would go down to the grassroots and build his dream hospital, using practical actions to create real benefits for ordinary people.

On December 31, 2000, while people were immersed in millennial joy, this man who knew his destiny stood at the crossroads of the old and new millennia, facing thousand-year winds, and formally proposed two things to the Ministry of Health: first, resign from all official positions; second, request early retirement. Because merely resigning without retiring would still leave him constrained by personnel systems, unable to freely leave his work unit for other employment.

So once again, he challenged himself, traditional concepts, and the medical system. From central government to subordinate organizations at all levels, everyone tried to retain and persuade him. But all efforts proved futile. Leaders and employees held a grand farewell banquet for him.

Before leaving, he burned all his certificates of honor. The Party office director who was helping him pack his belongings watched as so many national-level honor certificates turned to ash and felt heartbroken, repeatedly crying out while trying to rescue them from the flames: “Oh my goodness! This is a National Advanced Worker certificate—what a pity to burn it!”

Liu Xiaocheng said: “What use is keeping them? Passing clouds—nothing matters anymore.” He only allowed the Party office director to keep one blue medical certificate: “Keep this one for when I get seriously ill.”

No official position meant a light burden; long live the common people.

In January 2001, a man who had broken free from systemic constraints, cast off fame and fortune, and shattered worldly fetters walked confidently out of his office into the new millennium's dawn, watched by eyes full of both regret and admiration.

In today's materialistic world, how many can resist the temptations of official position? How many can withstand money's allure? Conversely, those who bow before money and power, even sacrificing their lives for them, spring up endlessly like bamboo shoots after rain. By comparison, we cannot but praise Liu Xiaocheng's extraordinary life philosophy. We must cheer for him and offer him flowers.

I Can Discard Everything Except Patients

Liu Xiaocheng said: “I probably owed too many debts to others in my previous life, so I came to repay them in this life.”

When he returned from studying in Australia, he had dreamed of one day establishing a world-class cardiovascular hospital on Chinese soil, allowing his compatriots to enjoy world-class medical services and thereby realizing his aspiration of “universal love, helping the poor.” However, through years of vicissitudes and the blooming and falling of flowers, dreams had remained merely dreams. Now past fifty, the dream in his heart hadn't faded with time's passage. After resigning, he was determined to realize this dream. He quickly found kindred spirits—leaders of the Tianjin Municipal Party Committee and Government as well as the Tianjin Development Zone Management Committee fully supported his grand vision to establish a world-class international cardiovascular hospital in the Tianjin Economic and Technological Development Zone (TEDA).

The dream he had cherished for over ten years could finally be realized.

At 52, he was completely immersed in the excitement of realizing his dream. Just as he had 14 years earlier in Mudanjiang, with superhuman energy and fiery passion, he led dozens of employees in borrowing facilities from Tianjin Development Zone Hospital to perform heart surgery while simultaneously establishing the cardiovascular hospital.

“These two years have been unprecedentedly difficult yet unprecedentedly gratifying!” This was Liu Xiaocheng's deepest feeling.

One evening in late October 2002, the autumn wind rustled with penetrating chill. From Tianjin Tanggu's narrow train station emerged a haggard middle-aged farmer carrying an emaciated woman. They had taken hard seats from Mudanjiang for over twenty hours—he had held her for over twenty hours. The woman suffered from severe rheumatic aortic and mitral valve heart disease in its advanced stages, with third-degree heart failure. Unable to move and weighing less than 38 kilograms, her life hung by a thread like the autumn wind itself, ready to drift away at any moment. For over ten years, they had bankrupted themselves visiting many hospitals, with their heaviest gain being that thick medical record that sentenced her to death. This time, having finally learned Liu Xiaocheng's whereabouts, they had come with their last hopes from thousands of miles away.

As the middle-aged farmer carried his wife from the station, someone approached: “Are you from Mudanjiang?” “Yes. And you are...?” The middle-aged farmer was startled. “I was sent by Director Liu to pick you up.” Upon learning the patient couldn't walk, Liu Xiaocheng had sent Director Kong Xiangrong to drive and meet them. Hearing that Director Liu had sent a car for them, this desperate farming couple who couldn't even afford sleeper tickets were overwhelmed, and tears immediately welled in their eyes.

However, facing this critically ill patient who had been sentenced to death by multiple hospitals and could die at any moment, facing the limited conditions of Development Zone Hospital which had just started operations and hadn't yet received official approval for heart surgery—should this operation be performed or not? This major decision tested both Liu Xiaocheng and all the employees embarking on this venture together.

Performing it risked failure, with incalculable negative impact on both Liu Xiaocheng and the nascent enterprise. Not performing it—finding some excuse to send the patient away—would mean only one thing for the patient: death. Moreover, the patient's condition allowed no delay.

Liu Xiaocheng, with his countless similar experiences, didn't hesitate for a moment. He raised his hand and commanded: “Prepare for surgery!” This was Liu Xiaocheng's consistent style.

On October 27, the Tianjin Health Bureau organized an expert evaluation of the surgical conditions and promised to issue approval the following Monday (October 31). But the patient's condition couldn't wait. Liu Xiaocheng implored health bureau leaders and the expert group to exceptionally approve the surgery first, with paperwork to be supplemented later. His highly responsible spirit moved everyone, who tacitly allowed him to “break the rules” and operate the next day.

The anesthesiologist was borrowed, the perfusionist was borrowed, the OR head nurse was specially invited.

At 9 AM on October 28, all hospital staff gathered at the OR entrance, their grave gazes silently watching as the patient entered the operating room. This was the hospital's first heart operation, and everyone understood the weight this surgery's success or failure carried. For the entire hospital, she represented not just a single life but a beginning. From 9 AM until 11 PM—for 14 consecutive hours—all hospital staff's hearts remained suspended in anxiety.

A soul hovering near death lingered under the surgical lights. Liu Xiaocheng was performing aortic and mitral double valve replacement on the patient's heart, and due to her extremely poor liver function, bleeding wouldn't stop, preventing them from closing her chest. At 11:15 PM, death finally retreated, and the surgery achieved tremendous success.

October 28 thus became TEDA International Cardiovascular Hospital's commemorative day—commemorating the rebirth of an ordinary farm woman and the eternal flourishing of the lifesaving spirit at the International Cardiovascular Hospital. Post-operatively, 8 medical staff members took turns monitoring the patient day and night. The patient had no sweater, so head nurse Che Hui gave her own. Doctors and nurses brought extra meals for the patient's husband, who couldn't afford food. Days later, the patient recovered and was discharged. The farming couple held Liu Xiaocheng's hands and wept speechlessly for a long time before finally saying: “We can't repay you in this lifetime—only in the next!” Without meeting Liu Xiaocheng, without the hospital waiving over 20,000 yuan in medical fees, without the caring attention of all the medical staff, this desperate farming couple's fate would be hard to imagine.

Liu Xiaocheng had been a cardiovascular surgeon for 25 years, performing over 8,000 operations and experiencing countless such situations. Patient thank-you letters were too numerous to count. Former Mudanjiang Governor Chen Lei, an old Anti-Japanese United Army veteran, had given him a plaque inscribed “Understanding life and death, connecting past and present.”

But Liu Xiaocheng wasn't a miracle worker—he also failed to rescue some critically ill patients.

A 23-year-old young man had undergone heart tumor removal at another hospital two years earlier, but with poor post-operative results and recurrence, his life was now in danger. His family of three desperately begged Liu Xiaocheng to perform heart-lung transplant surgery. Liu Xiaocheng knew this surgery carried extremely high risks with very low success rates—especially with the late-stage tumor plus widespread adhesions from the first surgery, which further increased surgical risks. But without a heart-lung transplant, the patient would certainly die. Surgery might save him, though without complete certainty. If it failed, his reputation might be ruined, but he had to do his utmost—this was his principle. “I can't guarantee he'll survive, but I'll do my best,” he told the family honestly. On the day of surgery, the young man smiled as he said goodbye to his relatives, apparently prepared for all possibilities. The surgery lasted over ten hours, but unfortunately, death still claimed the young man's life. The body had already been loaded into the vehicle, but the family absolutely refused to leave, insisting on seeing Director Liu and ignoring all attempts to persuade them otherwise. Everyone worried for Liu Xiaocheng, thinking the family would blame him. They said: “Director Liu, you must stay strong!” Liu Xiaocheng replied: “There's nothing to stay strong about. We did our best!” Unexpectedly, when the deceased's parents saw Liu Xiaocheng, they fell to their knees and refused to be pulled up. “Director Liu, my son told me repeatedly before surgery that even if he died, I should thank you!” The father clutched Liu Xiaocheng's hand, grief-stricken: “Director Liu, I'm thanking you on behalf of my son. You did your best for him!” The scene was heartbreaking. Not for the sake of the living but to comfort the dead, they had come to thank a doctor who hadn't been able to save the deceased. “I regret not being able to save him,” Liu Xiaocheng's voice was hoarse, his physical and mental energy utterly exhausted. “Director Liu, please don't say that. You did your best. My son died without regrets!” Soon afterward, this family member named Zheng Mingchang sent a plaque to Liu Xiaocheng reading: “Benevolent heart and skill cure illness, wholehearted dedication to patients. Divine surgical skills crown the world; healing hearts benefits all living beings.” Family members of the deceased giving plaques to doctors—who has ever heard of such a thing in today's medical world?

China's Ordinary People Have Suffered Enough—Let's Accumulate Some Merit for Them!

Everyone who worked with Liu Xiaocheng acknowledged his extraordinary energy and amazing work efficiency.

On March 28, 2002, the new hospital broke ground. In less than a year and a half—on September 26, 2003—the 720 million yuan investment, covering 110,000 square meters and ranking as Asia's largest, TEDA International Cardiovascular Hospital held its grand opening ceremony in the Tianjin Economic and Technological Development Zone.

This hospital with 600 beds, integrating medical care, teaching, research, and rehabilitation, became another world-renowned enterprise in the Tianjin Economic and Technological Development Zone, joining 3,700 other companies including Motorola, Toyota, Yamaha, Nestlé, and Samsung.

Vice Minister of Health Zhu Qingsheng read Wu Yi's congratulatory letter at the opening ceremony: “Cardiovascular disease is one of humanity's greatest killers. China currently has 4 million cardiovascular patients awaiting surgery, yet the nation can complete only 40,000 cases annually. The completion of TEDA International Cardiovascular Hospital will help improve cardiovascular disease treatment in China and bring hope to vast numbers of cardiovascular patients.”

This world-class hospital perfectly embodied Liu Xiaocheng's ideals, will, and aspirations, filled everywhere with humanistic care. The hospital bore Liu Xiaocheng's lifelong motto: “Universal love, healing the world.” Corridors featured soft-padded handrails to prevent patient falls. Inpatient areas had sunshine rooms for patient rest. There were spacious, comfortable family waiting areas with sofas, coffee tables, and large flat-screen TVs. Patients could choose either high-end “presidential” rooms or double standard rooms for 50 yuan per day. All rooms featured original Japanese multi-function beds, telephones, small flat-screen TVs, bathrooms, hot water, purified water, and central air conditioning. The hospital also housed cafés, commercial streets, flower shops, valuables storage, 24-hour fast food service, business centers, and rooftop children's playgrounds.

The hospital was equipped with the world's most advanced high-tech instruments for detecting and treating cardiovascular diseases: dual-gradient MRI, 16-slice CT, ECT, flat-panel digital subtraction cardiac catheterization machines, 3D real-time color ultrasound... and the world's third, Asia's first electron beam CT that could diagnose heart disease without requiring arterial puncture for cardiac catheterization. Here, patients didn't need to carry urine and stool samples around searching for labs—the hospital had specially established specimen-transmitting restrooms. The laboratory featured a fully automated barcode scanning, transport, sorting, centrifuging, and sampling system—pressing a button sent specimens through automated logistics to the lab, where doctors could view results anytime through the information system. No film or paper was visible anywhere in the hospital—this was China's first truly digital hospital.

As hospital director, Liu Xiaocheng publicly promised society: “International Cardiovascular Hospital will implement open, transparent pricing caps for each disease, guaranteeing fees below the average costs per disease approved by medical insurance departments, guaranteeing quality service to relieve people's suffering. We will firmly eliminate kickbacks, red envelopes, excessive testing, and over-prescribing!”

The hospital stipulated that for poor patients who couldn't afford specialists, specialists would be actively arranged, with their compensation handled through the hospital's secondary distribution system and unlinked to patient payments. The hospital implemented open competitive bidding for all medical equipment and medicines. Due to the extremely low prices demanded from manufacturers, sales representatives pleaded tearfully: “Director Liu, your prices are too harsh—do you want our manufacturers to survive?”

Liu Xiaocheng replied: “Think about whether you want ordinary people to survive! These instrument and consumable prices ultimately burden ordinary people. China's people have suffered enough, selling their houses and land for medical care. Let's create some real benefits for them! We want no kickbacks and need no training. Reduce the inflated prices that burden ordinary people to the absolute minimum—then see if we can accept it!”

Wang Tielin was Liu Xiaocheng's university classmate and had co-founded Mudanjiang Cardiovascular Hospital with Liu Xiaocheng as sworn brothers. Upon learning Liu Xiaocheng was establishing another international cardiovascular hospital, Wang Tielin resolutely resigned as director of Sun Yat-sen University Fifth Hospital in Zhuhai to serve as executive vice director, building this hospital alongside Liu Xiaocheng. This Vice Secretary-General of the China Hospital Construction and Equipment Society and Associate Editor of China Hospital Construction and Equipment magazine enjoyed high standing in China's medical construction field. In building this international cardiovascular hospital, he set records including achieving the lowest cost of 6,000 yuan per square meter (including start-up costs) and completing a large modern hospital in under 1.5 years.

In equipment procurement bidding, Liu Xiaocheng and Wang Tielin played good cop, bad cop. Liu Xiaocheng was quick-thinking and eloquent; Wang Tielin was introverted and thoughtful. They separately coached dozens of vendors like Siemens and Philips, bombarding them in rotation, having vendors submit separate price quotes, negotiating from morning until 4 AM the next day.

The vendors had never encountered such hospital directors—others sought to profit greatly, but these two wanted nothing for themselves. The vendors couldn't help but be convinced by the directors' character and finally closed deals at jaw-droppingly low prices: a full-function operating table dropped from 180,000 to 100,000 yuan, with Liu Xiaocheng receiving two additional units free; 700 original Japanese full-function beds sold at a 25% discount plus two free presidential electric wheelchairs; a Siemens ventilator priced at $40,000 sold for $19,000.

In three days and nights, they closed deals worth 180 million yuan in instruments and equipment.

Here, patients didn't need to give doctors “red envelopes”—doctors absolutely wouldn't “gamble” with your life. Liu Xiaocheng not only led by example but also publicly declared: “Those 'specialists' who've grown fat on red envelopes, however skilled they may be, cannot step onto our stage, because our salaries won't satisfy their desires! Lifesaving work is for people with souls—those without compassion cannot engage in this profession! Any doctor found accepting red envelopes will be immediately dismissed!”

At Mudanjiang Cardiovascular Hospital, such an incident had occurred. Liu Xiaocheng discovered one disciple repeatedly demanding money from patients and criticized him repeatedly without seeing any reform. Finally, the patient borrowed money to buy two cartons of cigarettes for the disciple. Upon learning of this, Liu Xiaocheng told his disciple: “You're unworthy of being my disciple—I'm severing our teacher-student relationship! But I'll find you an outlet by sending you to Beijing China-Japan Friendship Hospital for training!” The disciple wept and repeatedly acknowledged his mistakes.

Liu Xiaocheng angrily replied: “The patient couldn't even afford the surgery fees and was eating steamed bread every day! Yet you actually extorted the patient's life-saving money—do you have any conscience at all? You're unfit to be a doctor!” They severed their teacher-student relationship but remained friends.

Liu Xiaocheng told all International Cardiovascular Hospital staff: “Everyone needs to earn money to support their families—this is a survival necessity. But don't forget that we hold others' lives in our hands—we cannot unconscionably earn dirty money! I want you to have dignity and character, legally earning the compensation you deserve through your work! I don't want you to refuse red envelopes only to be cursed by people as heartless, shameless ingrates!”

But in today's reality of rampant corruption, moral decay, and money ruling everything, many found Liu Xiaocheng's approach incomprehensible. Some even questioned: “He resigned to make big money. This international hospital must include his shares, or else why would he work so hard?”

Liu Xiaocheng smiled faintly and spoke frankly: “If I wanted to make money, wouldn't it be easy enough? I could go abroad or 'moonlight'—earning millions annually wouldn't be difficult! Why would I need shares? Besides, this is a government-invested, non-profit public hospital that doesn't contain a single penny of mine. Money is something external—you can't bring it when you're born or take it when you die. What's the use of having so much? People have different aspirations. I'm not interested in money—I'm interested in building hospitals. If needed, I could build several more such hospitals and greatly alleviate the medical difficulties faced by heart patients. I don't care what others say. Let whoever wants to talk, talk—facts will prove everything!”

Over the years, Liu Xiaocheng had consistently sacrificed himself, both domestically and internationally. Because of his sacrifice, how many patients' and families' fates had changed? Because of his sacrifice, how many doctors' fates had changed? His disciples are scattered across Guangdong, Xiamen, Dalian, Beijing, Mudanjiang, and many other cities, all having become pillars of local cardiovascular surgery. Union Hospital's Associate Chief Physician Miao Qi and TEDA International Cardiovascular Hospital's Cardiovascular Surgery Director Kong Xiangrong were both disciples trained personally, hand-by-hand, by Liu Xiaocheng.

Liu Xiaocheng was determined to build this international cardiovascular hospital into a world-class facility with modern technology, scientific management, and highly qualified personnel—making it a hospital trusted by the people, reasonably priced, and truly dedicated to healing and saving lives. Therefore, he needed both an outstanding specialist team and excellent management talent. With his unique personal charisma, he attracted large numbers of insightful people dedicated to lifesaving careers as well as medical elites from both home and abroad. His graduate classmate and anesthesia specialist Xue Yuliang, cardiology specialist Xiong Jianran, cardiology specialist Qi Xiangqian, radiology specialist Zhu Jiemin, his personally trained top disciple and cardiovascular surgery specialist Kong Xiangrong, ultrasound specialist Huang Yunzhou, OR head nurse Che Hui who had worked at Saudi Arabia's Royal Hospital... A group of returnee talents and medical specialists abandoned high salaries to join Liu Xiaocheng.

“Director Liu's shining qualities inspire and summon us, awakening the beautiful ideals hidden in our hearts and igniting passion for our careers. His charisma is like red dancing shoes—being with him feels like being under a spell, willingly exhausted yet happy.”

“Liu Xiaocheng's character shines brilliantly—he's a model for our times. I admire his knowledge and courage, and even more his character of neither flattering superiors nor despising subordinates, always thinking of ordinary people.”

“I came here not to make money but to realize a medical worker's life value and to support Director Liu's aspiration of universal love and healing the world. I appreciate the pure, simple interpersonal relationships here, free of internal strife—working here feels wonderful!” This was the voice of those who joined and their evaluation of Liu Xiaocheng.

At a dinner gathering, the shrewd and capable head nurse Che Hui toasted Liu Xiaocheng, saying humorously: “Director, if each of us holds up part of the sky, we'll lift your sun high. When your sun's rays shine back on us, we'll stay with International Cardiovascular Hospital forever!”

Indeed, Liu Xiaocheng spread the sunshine of universal love and healing to every corner of the hospital, to every patient and staff member. When patients had no money to return home, he quietly gave them funds. When the hospital called for blood donations, he was first to extend his arm. When new staff arrived, he arranged everything from housing and children's schooling to daily necessities like gas canisters, refrigerators, even door locks. Some say Liu Xiaocheng is a towering peak overlooking mountains, weathering wind and snow, extraordinarily steep. Others say he's a magnanimous gentleman with an open heart and heroic spirit.

But life always contains regrets—Liu Xiaocheng's greatest sense of guilt was toward his family. He said repeatedly: “If there truly is another life, I'll do nothing else—I'll just be a good father, a good husband, and a good son!”

In this life, he could never achieve this. His wife, working in Beijing, constantly worried about her workaholic husband because he too was a heart patient. Her expectations weren't high—she just hoped he would stay alive. Just being alive was enough.

To fulfill his filial duty, Liu Xiaocheng brought his 90-year-old father to the Tianjin Development Zone. Despite their close proximity, he could only call occasionally and pay brief visits to his elderly father once a week.

The Interviewer Becomes a Patient—Tomorrow I Enter the Operating Room

Perhaps this was fate. Liu Xiaocheng and I came from the same city but had never known each other. On October 8, 2003, Jiamusi was planning a reportage collection, and friends invited me to write about Liu Xiaocheng—this was my first meeting with him.

I too was a heart patient, having undergone cardiac stent surgery in September 2003, though I never felt well post-operatively. During the interview, I asked Liu Xiaocheng to examine my cardiac catheterization films. After consulting with several specialists, he told me that beyond the stent site, my heart had six additional lesions, with the most serious 90% blocked, putting me at risk of heart attack at any moment. To thoroughly resolve my heart problems, I needed five to six bypasses, and he recommended immediate bypass surgery.

Hearing this, I was completely shocked, overwhelmed by sorrow and despair. Imagine—a fist-sized heart with six blockages beyond the stent site. This wasn't a heart—it was a broken sieve! Puzzlingly, just a month after my stent procedure, local doctors had told me I had two other blockages but faced no immediate danger—they hadn't told me it was this serious! Moreover, beyond my fear of disease and death, the grievance and anger over what had caused this illness was even more unbearable than the disease's pain.

Neither of my parents had suffered from heart disease—both had lived into their seventies and eighties. As a former national first-class speed skating athlete turned writer, I had always been healthy with extraordinary energy. My husband affectionately called me his “live rabbit.” I had traveled alone to Russia, Ukraine, Korea, Belgium, the Netherlands, and many other countries for interviews—even to war-torn Chechnya. I had exercised my entire life, swimming 1,000 meters nightly even during the winter of 2000. Yet three years later, I had become a critically ill heart patient requiring emergency care. This enormous contrast was unacceptable.

I knew this had resulted entirely from creating the TV series “Chinese Women Under Gestapo Guns.” Long-term overwork combined with repeated copyright infringement and harassment, fighting three consecutive lawsuits—I couldn't bear years of torment with no recourse, crying without tears, and had developed severe heart disease.

Watching my three years of work from self-funded European interviews being stolen, who wouldn't fight desperately? But thinking about it now, compared to life itself, what was a TV series? Winning three lawsuits couldn't compensate for the enormous loss to my life! Those infringement incidents were merely despicable episodes in my life's journey—I should throw them in the trash and never let them disturb my precious life again!

When someone faces death, their interpretation and understanding of life takes on an entirely different meaning than before.

But life's greatest tragedy is awakening at dusk when everything is already too late.

I had come to conduct an interview but became a patient in need of rescue. This enormous contrast nearly destroyed me.

I felt that life could leave me at any moment, yet I still had so many creative plans unimplemented, so much beautiful life yet unexperienced! I loved life, loved creativity, loved living so much, yet now this broken heart was opposing me. I told Liu Xiaocheng: “I'm only 60—this is the golden age of creativity. I don't ask for much—just give me 15 more years. I love creating so much.”

But Liu Xiaocheng said: “Hand over that broken heart of yours to me. Fifteen years is too conservative—prepare to create for another 20 years.”

I knew he was comforting me.

Liu Xiaocheng arranged for Associate Internal Medicine Director Lin Wenhua to be my “health doctor” and gave Director Lin strict orders to guide my medication and ensure no accidents occurred before surgery.

I felt that this figure, Liu Xiaocheng, was too precious—truly as rare as phoenix feathers in today's medical world. I decided to finish this reportage before surgery—I needed to fulfill my obligation to the friend who had commissioned it. If I didn't walk off that operating table, that would be most regrettable. I wanted to tell my fellow heart disease patients who, like me, hovered between life and death: China has such a director, such a hospital.

So I carried this broken heart, enduring angina that could strike at any moment, using my tenacious pen and life's very ink to desperately write this reportage. Every day I walked on life's edge as if treading on thin ice, afraid that one careless step would shatter my fragile life and send me plunging prematurely into death's valley.

From that point on, I—who had always been lively, cheerful, and carefree, always accompanied by songs and laughter—could no longer laugh from my heart. I tried using President Roosevelt's famous words to wipe away my soul's tears: “Accept death as an unavoidable common fact, and you can forever escape the fear of death.” I also tried using the suffering of Hawking, that scientist who created human miracles, to dilute my own pain, using his willpower to strengthen mine. But I discovered I wasn't a great person—I was just an ordinary writer. I, who had always prided myself on being incomparably strong and never bowing to any hardship, was actually so fragile, so vulnerable. Life itself was so fragile.

In the evenings, my husband and I would stroll by the sea, watching the tides rise and fall, listening to fishermen's evening songs, watching beautiful sunsets, hearing others' joyous laughter—while I felt only sorrow and could only sigh. Ten thousand household lights couldn't illuminate my darkened heart. Strong sea breezes couldn't disperse my heart's melancholy. However, no matter how painful, I had to accept this cruelly desperate reality. This was fate.

During this time, I deeply felt a person's intense longing for life, felt patients' earnest hopes that doctors could save their lives, felt the despair and desolation that no one could dispel, and felt the loneliness and helplessness of someone hovering between life and death.

I experienced the indescribable painful torment suffered by 4 million fellow heart disease patients. While I only needed to endure for a few months, those 4 million compatriots had to endure for years, over ten years—even until death. What long, desperate, painful, helpless torment that must be!

My fellow heart disease patients, I understand you all too well!

On March 8, 2004, I finally finished the manuscript. That night, I wrote my husband a long letter. Though Liu Xiaocheng had repeatedly told me: “Sister Yawen, you should trust me—I will return life to you!” I knew that cardiac surgery carried great risks—I had to prepare for every possibility. Having finished what needed to be done and explained what needed to be explained, on March 9, accompanied by my husband, I was admitted to TEDA International Cardiovascular Disease Hospital—the very hospital I had just written about. On March 15, Liu Xiaocheng would personally perform my surgery. On the evening of the 14th, Surgery Director Xue Yuliang came to ask about my anesthesia history and allergies. Surgical assistants Dr. Wang Zhengqing and Zhang Gui asked whether I had a keloid constitution. Two operating room nurses also visited. Hospital regulations required that all surgery-related medical staff visit patients beforehand.

That evening, leadership from the China Writers' Association called. Leadership from both the Heilongjiang Writers' Association and the Literary Institute visited me. Many friends called to comfort and encourage me. Two university teachers from a foreign enterprise—my faithful readers whom I had never met—upon hearing I needed surgery, actually traveled specially from Beijing to Tianjin Hospital to pray for me. They and Associate Director Lin Wenhua placed their hands on mine, devoutly blessing and praying for me, blessing me to pass this life-and-death trial. That scene was so moving—it will be etched in my memory forever.

Dear readers, tomorrow I will carry the blessings of relatives and friends to the operating table. I cannot predict how deep my life's chasm is. I don't know whether my fragile life can cross this chasm. If I cross it, I'll gain new life. If I cannot, I'll become a wisp of white smoke, forever parting from this beautiful yet cruel world. Then this work will become my final piece.

Dear reader friends, whether or not I can see you again, please remember: here is a director, a hospital, a group of life's guardian angels. This place will bring hope for life to dying cardiovascular patients—whether you're rich or poor.

Farewell, my friends!

Postscript: I Finally Survived!

As I lay in the ICU with various tubes throughout my body, sleeping unconsciously, I felt someone pat my face and heard: “Sister Yawen! Today is March 16. Surgery is finished—we built you six bypasses and repaired your broken heart.”

I recognized Liu Xiaocheng's voice but couldn't open my eyes. My first reaction was: I'm still alive! But I didn't quite dare believe it—that surgery could finish so quickly seemed impossible. How could I know that over twenty hours had passed since 9:20 AM on March 15 when I was wheeled into surgery? The doctors had harvested three arteries from my arms and chest and constructed six bypasses for my heart—the surgery had been highly successful.

When I confirmed that everything was real, I cannot describe my gratitude to Liu Xiaocheng and all the medical staff. Any words would be pale and powerless. Only those who have truly “died” once and personally experienced receiving a second life can understand what life-saving grace truly means.

In the days that followed, when I was extremely weak with severe incision pain and unable to care for myself—coughing up phlegm, turning over, drinking water—I received tender care from the medical staff. From the ICU to the regular ward, from head nurses and nurses to aides, from Associate Director Lin Wenhua to my surgical attending physician Dr. Wang Zhengqing, everyone constantly monitored my condition, helping me take medicine, massaging my back, turning me over, washing my hair—caring for me meticulously. For the first time, I felt that patients were truly the masters in a hospital, not “daughters-in-law” who had to watch medical staff's faces or please them with “red envelopes.” Yet I remained somewhat doubtful: was it because I had interviewed Liu Xiaocheng that they were giving me special care?

A remark by Associate Director Lin Wenhua somewhat relieved my doubts. He said: “Here, contracts are renewed annually with a full staff appointment system. So everyone must show patients and their work their very best side.”

It seemed the system determined everything.

When I could walk around and saw many fellow patients enjoying the same treatment, heard patients endlessly praising the medical staff, and interviewed two foreign patients, my doubts finally disappeared completely. Albert, a 46-year-old Canadian working in China, had suffered a heart attack at 11 PM on March 22. At 2 AM, he was rushed by ambulance to TEDA International Cardiovascular Hospital's emergency room. He had severe chest pain, dropping blood pressure, and was in critical condition. Dr. Qi Xiangqian, the internal medicine director who had worked in Canada for years, immediately performed cardiac intervention surgery and inserted a stent. His condition improved markedly—he was walking the very next day. But to thoroughly solve his heart problems, he still needed bypass surgery. However, Canadian insurance companies didn't trust Chinese medical technology and refused to pay Albert's insurance. But Albert said: “Even if they don't pay, I'll pay myself! This hospital is excellent. In Canada, only my wife takes care of me, but here everyone cares about me—I'm very satisfied.” Later, the Canadian insurance companies called Liu Xiaocheng and finally agreed to pay Albert's insurance. Thus Albert became the first person from a developed country to undergo cardiac bypass surgery in China. Moreover, Canadian insurance companies formally signed a contract with TEDA International Cardiovascular Hospital—henceforth, Canadians suffering sudden heart attacks in China would be treated there.

But Mr. Chen, a Taiwan-born American Chinese, hadn't been so fortunate. The 51-year-old Mr. Chen worked at the foreign enterprise SMIC. At 1 AM on March 12, he had suffered a heart attack. At 2 AM, he was rushed by ambulance to a major Tianjin hospital's emergency room. They waited until 2 PM, when Mr. Chen was unconscious, before performing cardiac catheterization and inserting a stent. The doctors said his heart had diffuse lesions requiring bypass surgery, but the distal vessels were too fine—bypasses could only solve 80% of the problems. Mr. and Mrs. Chen felt anguished and confused, having very unpleasant interactions with the medical staff. The relevant insurance companies agreed to use helicopters to send Mr. Chen to Hong Kong or Taiwan for surgery but feared accidents en route. Then Dr. Li Yingxiong, a famous cardiac specialist from Taiwan's Chang Gung Hospital, called through friends and told Mr. Chen to immediately seek out Liu Xiaocheng. So they came to International Cardiovascular Hospital. After viewing the catheterization films, Liu Xiaocheng said: “I can solve all of your heart problems.”

Mrs. Chen immediately became emotional, tears flowing: “God! We've finally escaped from hell and come to heaven. I can't believe China has such good hospitals, such good doctors! I don't know how to thank you!” Liu Xiaocheng successfully constructed five bypasses for each of the two foreigners—both have now recovered. Later, upon hearing that the hospital had operated on an abandoned orphan, Mr. Chen sent 10,000 yuan as a sponsorship.

On the 19th day after surgery, carrying my weak yet “healthy” heart, carrying the Chinese “concentric knot” given to me by all the surgical nurses, carrying instructions from both internal and external medicine attending physicians, and accompanied by my husband and child, I embarked on the journey home.

Nothing could make one appreciate how wonderful it is to be alive more than this moment.

Sitting in the car, I felt as if I were in another world, finding everything outside both strange and familiar, with a greedy feeling of never seeing enough. Trees that had been withered and yellow 20 days ago had turned green. Rows of white poplars topped with goose-yellow new growth swayed gently in the wind. The sunlight was warm, the wind was soft, the trees were green—everything was so beautiful. The gray mood from before had completely vanished. Life belonged to me again. My heart was once more filled with new hope.

Throughout the journey, I kept congratulating myself on being fortunate—that heaven had allowed me to meet Liu Xiaocheng and this hospital. But another train of thought kept entangling me, making me think...

I thought: if that friend hadn't invited me to interview Liu Xiaocheng, I might have remained confused about my condition, perhaps suffering a sudden heart attack one day... If I weren't a writer enjoying medical insurance but merely a rural woman from the poor mountains or a laid-off female worker earning only 100-200 yuan monthly, unable to afford two surgeries costing over 100,000 yuan each, how would I have faced this disaster? What kind of ending would my life have had?

Then I thought: when will my 4 million fellow heart disease patients who, like me, hover between life and death, also be able to obtain surgical opportunities and live comfortably? When will the problems of expensive medical care and difficult surgery for Chinese people truly be resolved?

Finally, I want to tell my friends: cherish your lives well—life belongs to each of us only once!

(Originally published in Beijing Literature, Issue 9, 2004)

Hong Kong's Return to the Motherland: A 10-Year Retrospective

Chang Jiang

On August 29, 1842, a century and a half ago, a British warship named Cornwallis anchored on the Yangtze River at Jiangning and forced the Qing government to sign the unequal Treaty of Nanking. Britain took possession of Hong Kong and extracted 21 million taels of silver in reparations.

Ten years ago, on July 1, 1997, another British vessel—the Britannia, carrying Prince Charles, the last governor Chris Patten, and his family—departed Victoria Harbour at 12:47 AM and sailed away across the South China Sea, bringing over a century of British colonial rule to an end.

Hong Kong had finally returned to its long-separated mother's embrace. But what an arduous journey home it proved to be. History had artificially diverted a great river; over a century later, it allowed the waters to flow back to their original course. Hong Kong's scheduled return depended on Deng Xiaoping's visionary concept of “One Country, Two Systems,” a framework without precedent or previous practitioners. The Basic Law of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region stipulated that Hong Kong would continue implementing capitalism unchanged for 50 years after reunification, with “Hong Kong people governing Hong Kong” and a “high degree of autonomy.” These principles were easily inscribed in the Basic Law. Actual governance, however, proved far more challenging. How was it to be governed? What forces could control and balance such a society? More importantly, how could steady development today and continued prosperity tomorrow be ensured for a society with such a complex historical background and distinctive values?

The Chinese had set themselves a formidable practical challenge.

In 1945, Hong Kong's population stood at 600,000; by 2006, it had grown to 7 million.

Some claimed that no place in the world had thrived better after being recovered by its sovereign nation than it had before. The Chinese refused such defeatism and welcomed the challenge while the world watched. As the Chinese saying goes, mixing spring onions with tofu produces something perfectly clear—isn't that what you Chinese like to say? Indeed, ten years ago China made no grand promises to the world; ten years later, Hong Kong remained vibrant, robust, dignified, and confident on the international stage, with even brighter prospects ahead. The Chinese no longer needed to boast, for by this time nearly all skeptical voices had fallen silent.

I. The Finance Secretary's Joy in “Distributing Sugar”

On March 1, 2007, as CCTV's ninth permanent correspondent stationed in Hong Kong, I visited a building in Central on Hong Kong Island with an evocative name combining strength and grace: Murray Building. Because the entire structure was built suspended on a hillside, its white facade supported by massive square pillars, from a distance it appeared to stand on stilts.

My mission at Murray Building was to preview the 2007-2008 Hong Kong Government Budget that Finance Secretary Henry Tang would soon submit to the Legislative Council. At 9 AM I entered the Government Information Services conference room on the seventh floor. Tang's presentation wouldn't begin until 11 AM, giving me a comfortable two hours to read the materials carefully and prepare my report.

Henry Tang was Hong Kong's third Finance Secretary since the handover, a title reflecting both his position and the public's affection. He was shrewd and rigorous while making no secret of his personal interests, particularly his love of fine wine. He not only enjoyed drinking and tasting but also maintained an extensive collection—facts well known throughout Hong Kong. What kind of budget would he present in 2007? Hong Kong society had been speculating for months, because the economy had emerged from the doldrums in 2004 and improved steadily for three consecutive years. “Will the Finance Secretary distribute sugar this year?” That's what people were hoping for.

Indeed, I held a thick budget document while staff continuously brought additional data and supplementary materials. The news was welcome: Hong Kong's 2006 Gross Domestic Product had grown 6.8% over the previous year—”unexpectedly high growth,” in Hong Kong parlance. Three years earlier, the government had cautiously described the economic situation as showing “economic recovery.” By 2007, that phrase had evolved into “robust recovery.” To “share with citizens the gratifying fruits of economic prosperity,” Henry Tang boldly proposed that the Legislative Council approve measures in five major areas providing tax relief and one-time rebates: reduced salaries tax, new tax allowances for newborns, reduced rates for two quarters, and lower stamp duty on low-value properties. The government would spend over HK$20 billion on these initiatives.

After the 2007 spring season arrived, Hong Kong enjoyed an unseasonably warm period. On New Year's Day, I went out for interviews and found people so comfortable they'd removed their coats, revealing short-sleeved shirts underneath. Spring had arrived with such joy—surely this was no accident. Indeed, on March 2, all major Hong Kong media outlets reported Henry Tang's Legislative Council submission on their front pages with bold headlines. People called his proposed five benefits “massive sugar distribution” and “five major surprises.” The entire society celebrated—even opposition figures who typically criticized government policies candidly admitted it was “hard to oppose a budget that hands out money.”

In Hong Kong's tenth year since reunification, the economy had bloomed spectacularly. Hong Kong people rejoiced, the central government was pleased, and 1.3 billion mainland compatriots raised celebratory glasses for Hong Kong as well. Yet this flowering hadn't come easily. A brief look back: Hong Kong returned on July 1, 1997; the Asian financial crisis struck suddenly in 1998; SARS tragically chose Hong Kong as ground zero in 2003. The government's 2003 fiscal deficit reached HK$40.1 billion. In 2004, the situation improved, with the deficit dropping to HK$4 billion. The city finally caught its breath in 2005, when the government surplus first turned positive at HK$14 billion. The following year, 2006's comprehensive surplus surged to HK$55.1 billion. This enabled 2006's 6.8% GDP growth, with projections of 4.5% to 5.5% for 2007, and annual growth rates above 4.5% from 2008 through 2011.

Leaving Murray Building perched on its stilts that day, I felt both physically and spiritually uplifted. Outside, a brief shower had passed, leaving wet pavement under clearing skies. What a difficult decade Hong Kong had endured. How many had paid the price, made sacrifices, even poured their hearts and souls into today's achievements?

Some speculated idly: if Hong Kong hadn't encountered the devastating Asian financial crisis immediately after reunification, and hadn't suffered SARS's merciless assault in 2003, the economy wouldn't have weathered such a prolonged winter. But those making this argument overlooked one thing: precisely because they'd endured the bitter winter, people understood spring's preciousness and had witnessed how Hong Kong people achieved self-reliance through adversity—and who had extended helping hands to this island.

From February to April 2003, Hong Kong's unemployment rate stood at 7.8%; by the same period in 2006, it had dropped to 5.1%. The employed population exceeded 3 million, reaching record highs for six consecutive years.

In December 2006, the United Nations University World Institute for Development Economics Research surveyed global wealth distribution and found Hong Kong's per capita net worth had leaped to first place worldwide at US$202,189, exceeding Luxembourg by 10%, with Switzerland and the United States trailing in third and fourth.

Also in 2006, Forbes magazine published its list of Asia's top ten luxury residences—rankings two through nine were all in Hong Kong. That year the stock market soared magnificently, with the Hang Seng Index remaining at its highest level in five and a half years, climbing from over 15,300 points at the start to breaking through 20,000 by year's end. Experts predicted the market would remain bullish for three more years.

On March 2, 2007—the day after Henry Tang submitted the 2007-2008 Budget to widespread acclaim—I conducted an exclusive interview with the Finance Secretary. We naturally discussed his promised “five major surprises” and why the economy had performed so well in recent years. After explaining various technical measures, Henry Tang concluded: “2007 marks the tenth anniversary of Hong Kong's reunification with the motherland. During these ten years, with central government support and assistance from 1.3 billion mainland compatriots, Hong Kong people through their own tenacious efforts have welcomed an economic recovery that improves year by year. At the same time, Hong Kong people's hearts have been gradually returning to the motherland.”

Hearts also “returning”?

The Finance Secretary's words struck me powerfully. I sensed frank acknowledgment in his statement, along with a desire to express sincere gratitude to all mainland compatriots through our CCTV platform. This was gratifying and congratulatory, yet it left me pondering deeply.

II. Hong Kong's “Reverse Immigration”

Hong Kong's 1997 reunification—or more precisely, starting in 1995 when people heard the mainland would soon recover Hong Kong—sparked widespread anxiety. Many suffered from “1997 syndrome,” triggering a massive wave of emigration.

The middle class led this exodus, selling cars and houses, pocketing millions of Hong Kong dollars to flee to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Britain. Most found conditions abroad less favorable than imagined—unable to secure stable employment, treated as second-class citizens, facing discrimination. Many grew restless at home and began second-guessing their decision. Looking back at Hong Kong, they discovered it hadn't collapsed after reunification. Though it unfortunately encountered the 1998 financial crisis and a temporary economic downturn, that was a global catastrophe beyond anyone's control. Meanwhile, the central government hadn't abandoned Hong Kong's millions at this critical juncture but employed every possible means to support the city, enabling the economy to weather difficulties, slowly recover, and ultimately achieve robust growth, with people's lives regaining brightness and hope.

According to relevant statistics, approximately 400,000 Hong Kong residents emigrated overseas, but over 110,000 returned home in 1999, with returnees exceeding half the total by 2005. These people transitioned from “emigrants” to “reverse emigrants,” often experiencing career setbacks and substantially reduced incomes. Their faces showed the disappointment of having badly misjudged, like losing heavily in stocks or property—as if suddenly diminished.

I arrived in Hong Kong for permanent residence in late 2004 and immediately wanted to produce a documentary series titled “Hong Kong's Reverse Immigration.” I first heard a company boss joke about a capable subordinate: “Before emigration he was my superior—domineering, arrogant. But after reverse immigration, returning to Hong Kong and the company, I'd been promoted while he became my subordinate. This shift created subtle dynamics—he'd bow and scrape obsequiously whenever we met. I told him: 'Stop acting like this—you're making me uncomfortable!' But he could never reclaim his former self, never shake off that suddenly servile bearing.”

I began seeking “reverse emigrants”—or “returnees,” in Hong Kong parlance—to hear their stories. Friends said: “Easy—such people are everywhere around me.” But when I asked for introductions, everyone demurred. Why? Hong Kong people value face. Reverse immigration carries no glory; people don't want to mention it, much less be interviewed on television for public exposure.

In December 2006, through persistent effort and sincerity, I finally met someone willing to speak with reporters. His surname was Yu. On the phone I asked: “Would there be any problem with a CCTV interview?” He replied: “None at all—I went abroad, suffered considerably, lost many opportunities, but also learned much and gained new understanding of myself, Hong Kong, and China.”

We arranged to meet at the introducer's office. Upon meeting, I naturally wanted to know what this reverse emigrant had done before leaving Hong Kong and afterward, to understand the contrast.

Seeing my interest in his identity, Mr. Yu handed over a business card and explained he'd worked at banks before emigrating—”a Japanese bank, foreign-owned, middle management.” After reverse immigration? His work was “uncertain.” “What profession is 'uncertain'?” I asked. Mr. Yu replied: “Isn't 'uncertain' self-explanatory? Whatever I can do!” His humor immediately put me at ease.

Seizing this opening, I asked directly: “What was your annual salary before leaving? Can you still earn that much now?” Mr. Yu didn't dodge: “Of course not. Before leaving, my wife and I together earned over HK$1 million annually. After returning—you might not believe it—not even one-third.” “Really? Then knowing this outcome, why leave in the first place?” “Nobody anticipated emigration would end so awkwardly,” Mr. Yu explained. “You ask why I left—I wasn't afraid, just following the crowd. Many colleagues were emigrating and urged me to try. I submitted materials, and within three months Canadian Immigration approved me. Even I was surprised—just like that, I left.”

I believed Mr. Yu's account was essentially accurate. Before the 1997 reunification, many emigrants weren't motivated purely by anxiety but simply followed the trend. When later analyzing their motives, some identified “herd mentality”—a psychology that pervaded Hong Kong. Even today I see traces in mob-like incidents. But why did Hong Kong reverse emigrants earn so much less upon returning home, unable to command their original salaries? I found this puzzling.

Mr. Yu explained: “What's puzzling? Simply put, the positions were gone and I was older.”

“Did you know this before returning? If so, how did you muster the courage?”

“I had to return. Take me—in Canada, the first month seemed fun, novel; the second month I visited friends, continued resting; but by the third month, these good times were over. Why? An active person, previously busy in Hong Kong, suddenly idle with nothing to do—you go crazy. Plus economic pressure—you can't just sit and watch your savings dwindle.”

Mr. Yu's immigration story grew more detailed. I dared not interrupt, fearing he might lose interest if I touched on painful memories.

“To avoid wasting time overseas, after three months I started job hunting. But Canadian jobs aren't easy to find. Their labor market was already saturated with few openings. Moreover, Canada—I never expected it to be like our Eastern societies, all about relationships and connections. Employers often ignored my qualifications and English proficiency, immediately saying: 'Sorry, you lack local work experience—we can't hire you.' See? Clear discrimination against immigrants. Without opportunities, how could I gain local experience?”

So Mr. Yu served his “immigration supervision” in Canada (requiring 1,095 cumulative days over four years), working as a supermarket cashier and eventually obtaining security certification to work in property management. Many others, he said, “took restaurant jobs washing dishes—most permanently working part-time.”

“Too depressing, always idle without steady income—where's the future? You can't see any.”

For this reason, Mr. Yu decided to return home.

“But wouldn't returning damage your reputation?” I gently suggested.

“Yes, but there's no choice—people need to eat. Can you worry about face then? Besides, people don't live for face alone.” Upon returning, Mr. Yu tried through friends' connections to resume his banking career but met obstacles everywhere. Bank executives said: “My position isn't as senior as yours was—how can I hire you as my subordinate?” He explained this was the surface reason; the real issue was Hong Kong's economic depression, which meant no positions. “Otherwise, why would I accept lesser roles yet still find no bank willing to hire me?”

“Can you guess my first job after returning?” Mr. Yu asked. I shook my head. His expression turned wry: “Pest control worker.”

“Pest control worker?” “Yes, pest control,” Mr. Yu elaborated. “I worked for cleaning companies. Couldn't become a bank white-collar worker, so I put on a white lab coat instead, spending my days at hotels killing rats, chasing cockroaches, exterminating ants.” “Really? I didn't expect that.” Mr. Yu laughed: “You didn't? My family and parents were even more shocked. Everyone said: 'Are you serious? You were a bank general manager!'“

Previously in Hong Kong, Mr. Yu had been not only a senior banking professional earning tens of thousands monthly but also carried a company gold card in his suit pocket—special privileges allowing him to sign tabs freely, entertaining clients at will (naturally expecting returns). Yet years later, due to reverse immigration, not only had his past glory vanished, but Mr. Yu couldn't even afford to be picky about pest control work.

Mr. Yu's situation wasn't unique among Hong Kong's reverse emigrants. Some had owned prime real estate but could only afford remote small apartments upon returning. Some couldn't bear such contrasts, perpetually dejected and dispirited. A few extremists took desperate measures. But most Hong Kong people—I must emphasize this—didn't give up. They held one word in their hearts: “endure.” If they could be white-collar workers, they wore suits; if not, they wore work boots.

What Hong Kong people valued most in adversity was this belief: “start over from scratch.”

From 2004 to 2007 in Hong Kong, over less than three years, I encountered many restaurant servers—dignified men who spoke fluent English. Knowing their extraordinary backgrounds, they cheerfully served food and waited tables daily.

“It's a competitive society—people speak according to their circumstances. Whatever job pays, do it first—everything's transitional. Future prospects depend on personal effort.” At the interview's conclusion, Mr. Yu shared these final thoughts. Afterward, he seemed completely at ease. His current position—checking his business card again—clearly showed he'd become a pharmaceutical company's Business Manager.

III. CEPA and the Individual Visit Scheme

June 2003—SARS's shadow hadn't fully lifted.

On the 29th, the central government and Hong Kong SAR government signed a landmark agreement to take effect on New Year's Day 2004. This was the first major preferential trade policy between the People's Republic of China and one of its separate customs territories: the Closer Economic Partnership Arrangement between the Mainland and Hong Kong, abbreviated CEPA. Hong Kong people didn't immediately grasp the central government's intentions. Subsequently, during CEPA's first through fourth implementation phases, they gradually appreciated the agreement's benefits—not merely good medicine but highly nourishing, long-lasting tonic.

CEPA's provisions were comprehensive and substantial, encompassing not only liberalized trade in goods and services plus investment facilitation, but also mainland-Hong Kong-Macao cooperation in finance, tourism, professional qualification mutual recognition, and other sectors. For instance, regarding trade policy, after CEPA's implementation Hong Kong exports to the mainland of products with Hong Kong origin enjoyed almost complete tariff exemption—genuine zero tariffs. This sounded straightforward and made an impressive gesture, but few Hong Kong people realized such sweeping policy preferences would profoundly impact mainland manufacturers. In 2004, propelled by CEPA, Hong Kong's annual economic growth reached 8.1%; 2005 showed 7.3%. Hong Kong people were astonished, finally understanding they possessed sweet water with a deep well already dug nearby.

On June 22, 2006, Hong Kong's ninth reunification anniversary, then-CPPCC Chairman Jia Qinglin visited Hong Kong from June 21-29, attending the Mainland-Hong Kong-Macao Economic and Trade Cooperation Development Forum celebrating CEPA's third anniversary and conducting multiple site visits. Hong Kong business leaders thanked Chairman Jia: “Thanks to CEPA, Hong Kong's economic growth is robust. Over 1,000 products now enter the mainland with complete zero tariffs. Hong Kong's economy has returned to its peak since reunification.”

Reportedly, during CEPA's first two years, various preferential policies directly created approximately 29,000 new jobs for Hong Kong. By Q1 2006, the mainland's cumulative imports of tariff-free Hong Kong-Macao goods totaled US$494 million, with tax preferences reaching RMB 302 million.

Over RMB 300 million—this figure didn't sound dramatic at the time, but it represented a gateway to tax-free trade. Today Hong Kong exporters entering this gateway save hundreds of millions; tomorrow, previously required tax expenditures need no longer drain their coffers.

After CEPA's signing, the mainland and Hong Kong (including Macao) signed successive supplementary agreements permitting Hong Kong (and Macao) residents to establish individual businesses on the mainland in sectors including retail, catering, beauty services, healthcare, bathing services, appliance repair, and other household goods repair, stipulating that “Hong Kong-Macao individual businesses receive identical treatment as mainland individual businesses.” Following this policy's announcement, according to Commerce Ministry data, by late March 2006, 2,261 Hong Kong-Macao individual businesses had registered on the mainland employing 5,111 people.

Additionally, from CEPA's 2003 signing through 2007, the central government continuously lowered barriers for Hong Kong professionals in law, accounting, architecture, and other fields to provide services on the mainland, enabling many to expand there—not only finding new opportunities but also developing and leveraging Hong Kong's talent advantages.

One policy—both concept and practice—brought substantial benefits to people on both sides: the now-familiar Individual Visit Scheme (Hong Kong's term: “individual travel”).

In January 2006, CCTV launched a program reflecting Hong Kong social life called “Direct to Hong Kong” and invited me to interview former Tourism Board Chairwoman Selina Chow. Following Hong Kong custom, I addressed her as “Mrs. Chow” and asked how the Individual Visit Scheme originated. Mrs. Chow proudly recounted that in 2002 she met then-Premier Zhu Rongji on the mainland. “I'd pondered this issue for a long time, always feeling tourism between our regions was highly unequal, so I boldly proposed to the Premier: 'Hong Kong people can visit the mainland whenever they wish, very conveniently; but mainland people wanting to visit Hong Kong face tremendous difficulties. Could the country implement a policy allowing vast numbers of mainland compatriots to visit Hong Kong at will, so we'd have more tourists and revenue?'“

To develop Hong Kong's tourism and thereby drive the entire economy, Mrs. Chow “solicited patronage” at the highest level. “What was the Premier's response?” I asked. Mrs. Chow replied: “Very positive. The Premier immediately expressed support. Of course, the country was already considering this approach to help Hong Kong. The mainland has enormous population—once policy loosened, Hong Kong tourism would certainly flourish tremendously.”

On July 28, 2003, from that day forward, the mainland continuously approved “residents traveling individually to Hong Kong and Macao for self-guided tourism” from 49 major cities across 16 provinces and municipalities including Beijing, Shanghai, Guangdong, and Fujian. Among these, neighboring Guangdong Province had opened 21 cities by December 2006.

By late 2005, Hong Kong welcomed its 20 millionth visitor that year—Selina Chow personally greeted them at the airport. This “20 million” figure not only shattered Hong Kong's historical records but included a substantial proportion of mainland people arriving through the Individual Visit Scheme.

In 2006, mainland Chinese residents made 34.52 million overseas trips, with Hong Kong the preferred destination for many. During 2007 Spring Festival, mainland visitors entering Hong Kong through Shenzhen's Luohu checkpoint alone reached 600,000—undoubtedly related to the Individual Visit Scheme.

Through this scheme, mainland people dined, lodged, and spent lavishly in Hong Kong. The policy delighted ordinary mainlanders who no longer considered Hong Kong visits a luxury, while Hong Kong merchants' smiles have remained perpetually wide ever since.

IV. Can Hearts Return?

During Hong Kong's decade since reunification, the economy weathered repeated severe blows. The financial crisis and SARS—two unexpected disasters—seemed like fate's cruel tests. But Hong Kong endured. This great ship broke through fog, navigated treacherous shoals, and now sails again from Victoria Harbour toward the world. By now, nobody feared that Communist Party administration would disrupt Hong Kong's economy or destroy its ecosystem. Yet while sovereignty had returned, had hearts returned in tandem? This question lay not on the sea's calm surface but in its depths.

In 2004, shortly after arriving in Hong Kong, I encountered a University of Hong Kong public opinion survey. The questionnaire asked: “What are you?” with four variations: “Are you Chinese?” “Are you a Hong Kong person?” “Are you a Hong Kong Chinese?” “Are you a Chinese Hong Kong person?” I was completely puzzled: Why would HKU pose four questions with such subtle gradations? What aspect of Hong Kong people's mindset was it probing?

Later, accompanying Hong Kong's National People's Congress representatives on an inspection tour to Meixian, Guangdong, I happened to sit with a prominent university president. Apparently taking me for a senior CCTV reporter, he posed a challenging question: “In your view, what is Hong Kong's fundamental problem?” Without hesitation, I replied: “The economy—improving it quickly.” The president said: “Yes, but that's superficial, not fundamental. The core issue, I believe, is hearts.”

As president of one of Hong Kong's then eight universities (later nine), I knew this man was a genuine Hong Kong person who courageously acknowledged being Chinese. But why mention “hearts” to me, a mainland reporter? In 1997, Hong Kong returned as scheduled—”Hong Kong people” naturally, legitimately became Chinese people. What controversy could this possibly hold? Yet upon reflection, especially viewing things from Hong Kong people's perspective, I immediately understood the problematic nature: In 1997, Hong Kong bid farewell to over a century of British rule, returning to the motherland's embrace. From a national pride standpoint, people could hold their heads high, no longer embarrassed that while born and raised in China, their rulers bore foreign faces. But for decades, “Chinese people” commanded no respect on the world stage—considered “poor, backward, ignorant, even communized.” Hong Kong people harbored many doubts, or their outlook was intensely pragmatic. After reunification, if Hong Kong society remained stable, intellectual life remained free, economic development stayed positive, and living standards remained high, then former “Hong Kong people” wouldn't care much about identity labels. However, 1997's return was immediately followed by the devastating financial crisis, then SARS's brutal assault. By 2003, the economy had completely crashed. At this juncture, someone insisted on raising the most painful question, asking Hong Kong people to choose their identity—how could they answer? If asked, how would I?

Perhaps we could hypothesize: suppose the British still governed Hong Kong in 1997, encountering the 1998 Asian financial crisis, then suffering SARS's deadly rampage in 2003, with Hong Kong people's fate still in British hands—after these twin disasters, would Hong Kong people's living standards have differed?

Unfortunately, I can't expect every Hong Kong person to think as I do. History permits no hypotheticals. Hong Kong people's pragmatic outlook would dismiss such speculation, at least temporarily. Additionally, reality intervened: Before 1997, not every Hong Kong resident truly understood the mainland, the central government, or the attitudes and feelings of over a billion mainland compatriots toward Hong Kong—naturally hindering identification with the motherland.

In March 2007, during Beijing's annual National People's Congress and CPPCC sessions, a Hong Kong Economic Daily reporter at the March 16 press conference asked Premier Wen Jiabao: “This year marks the tenth anniversary of Hong Kong's reunification. Premier, how do you evaluate Hong Kong's performance over this decade?” I was in Hong Kong watching the live broadcast. I remember Premier Wen Jiabao responding calmly: “Hong Kong has indeed traveled an extraordinary path over the past decade. Throughout these years, the central government has unwaveringly implemented One Country, Two Systems, Hong Kong people governing Hong Kong, and high degree of autonomy, resolutely following the Basic Law, never interfering in Hong Kong SAR's internal affairs. The Hong Kong SAR government, uniting Hong Kong citizens, has overcome numerous difficulties including the Asian financial storm, achieving economic stability, recovery, development, and improved livelihoods.” Asking the reporter to convey greetings to Hong Kong compatriots, Premier Wen added: “On this tenth anniversary, I sincerely hope Hong Kong becomes more prosperous, more open, more inclusive, more harmonious. The bauhinia has bloomed—this year's flowers are red; next year's will be even lovelier.”

During Hong Kong's decade since reunification, the central government and 1.3 billion mainland compatriots never demanded that Hong Kong hearts immediately change. But objectively, during these ten years, Hong Kong hearts have been changing and continue accelerating that transformation. Returning to that HKU poll I encountered in 2004: then, the proportion answering “I am Chinese” to those four questions hadn't reached half. Many, upon introspection, preferred declaring only “I am a Hong Kong person” or ambiguously acknowledging “I am a Chinese Hong Kong person.” By 2006, however, the same questionnaire yielded different results. HKU's Public Opinion Programme's latest survey showed 56.3% of respondents gave positive evaluations of central government policies in Hong Kong—a dramatic 20-percentage-point increase from the previous year, while those maintaining negative attitudes numbered only 9.9%.

Hong Kong is a free society where people's thoughts, stances, and attitudes aren't imposed by external forces. What exists is what exists—facts are facts. Statistics contain relatively little distortion. Why did Hong Kong people, over this decade, gradually shift from suspicion and cool observation toward the mainland, especially the central government?

Because hearts are flesh and blood. During these ten years, the central government repeatedly introduced numerous pro-Hong Kong measures, not only addressing immediate crises but also planning Hong Kong's future comprehensively. Hong Kong people ultimately witnessed this clearly, personally benefited, and no longer denied their true identity or avoided being dignified Chinese people.

On April 4, 1990, the Seventh National People's Congress passed the Basic Law of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. After 1997, the Hong Kong government annually held major symposiums commemorating the Basic Law's promulgation. Throughout society, various “national conditions education” activities proliferated. These systematic persuasion and edification efforts were not only practical and objective but entirely organized by Hong Kong people themselves. Why did they actively embrace the motherland? Because they recognized Hong Kong's present and future followed only one path: “backing the motherland, facing the world.” Without backing the motherland, no foundation existed for facing the world. After 30 years of reform and opening up, the mainland's economic development had advanced dramatically. Changes in politics, economy, culture, and values increasingly enabled Hong Kong people to find common ground.

On May 4, 2006—Youth Day—Golden Bauhinia Square hosted a solemn flag-raising ceremony. Covering the event, I witnessed flags slowly rising to music—both the People's Republic's five-starred red flag and the Hong Kong SAR flag bearing the bauhinia emblem. Following the ceremony, a “National Anthem, National Flag, National Emblem General Knowledge Learning Plan” for continuous patriotic education of Hong Kong youth launched. Beginning that year, every May 4th, Hong Kong civil society has used such solemn ceremonies to enhance young people's identification with national spirit, national concepts, and Chinese identity. Nobody required this—their enthusiasm springs solely from yearning for the motherland.

The relationship between these two regions, isolated for decades, needed time for mutual understanding through interaction. Hong Kong's decade since reunification represents merely a brief moment in history's long river. Compared to over a century of foreign rule, this “moment” seems even more compressed—one couldn't expect overnight transformation, like spring winds instantly blanketing all pear trees in white blossoms.

There exists no baseless hatred in the world, nor baseless love. Mainland people opened their hearts awaiting Hong Kong compatriots' heartfelt embrace. Whether sooner or later, whenever this day arrives isn't a matter of time but inevitability—an inevitability now showing its first signs.

V. “Negative Assets” and the Renminbi

Still in the mid-1990s, Hong Kong's economy teetered at a precipice where everyone enjoyed benefits yet everyone feared, though nobody knew when the bubble would burst. Property prices soared daily, stock markets ran wild, government officials' salaries climbed steadily higher. The middle class and ordinary citizens alike easily filled their pockets through various schemes. Even today, many Hong Kong people nostalgically recall those “boom years.”

Before departing, the British created an enviable lifestyle for Hong Kong—icing on an already sweet cake. They were leaving and needn't worry about Hong Kong's future. But who would sustain this elevated platform? Who anticipated that within just one or two years, the property market would plummet, with values falling below bank loan balances? Thus Hong Kong society rapidly spawned a new class called “negative assets”—this bubble economy's offspring numbering up to 100,000 insolvent households.

Some argue: In Hong Kong, the bubble economy was accompanied by “bubble politics,” referring to the last governor's aggressive promotion of so-called “political reform” in the early-to-mid-1990s. This hastily launched, forcibly advanced “free political fast food” destroyed Hong Kong's political ecology, established radical transformation goals, bred deformed politicians, and triggered social confusion about democratic development.

Chinese people have always faced the world with magnanimous spirits. Through past centuries of internal strife and external threats, with weak populace and impoverished nation, we suffered bullying by powers, forced repeatedly to cede territory and pay indemnities, enduring humiliation. Yet after a century, this sleeping lion reawakened. “The tortoise and hare” served merely as spiritual encouragement. After the 1980s, Chinese people spent 30 years showing the world not only how a scarred great nation gradually rose through adversity but also demonstrating that China was fundamentally never a tortoise. Therefore, around Hong Kong's 1997 reunification, though storm clouds gathered visibly on stage and behind scenes, courageously undertaking what must be undertaken, the central government and over a billion mainland compatriots extended only duty-bound passion and unwavering helping hands to Hong Kong.

Before 1997, whether on the mainland or in Hong Kong, Hong Kong dollars commanded more prestige than renminbi. Everyone sought to exchange renminbi for Hong Kong dollars or U.S. dollars. Yet eight years later, this situation reversed dramatically—many began clutching renminbi tightly. Some with Hong Kong dollars hurried to exchange them for renminbi, quietly taking funds back to the mainland for savings or investment.

When I arrived in Hong Kong in 2004, the renminbi-Hong Kong dollar exchange rate stood at 1.06:1. By January 11, 2007, international market rates showed 1:1, immediately followed by “inversion.”

On November 19, 2003, with State Council approval, the People's Bank of China announced it would provide clearing arrangements for Hong Kong banks' personal renminbi business. On January 18, 2004, mainland UnionPay cards gained approval for Hong Kong use. On November 1, 2005, the central bank again expanded clearing arrangement scope for Hong Kong banks' renminbi operations, including raised transaction limits and permission for Hong Kong residents to issue renminbi checks for consumer spending in Guangdong Province.

From 1997 to 2007, renminbi-Hong Kong dollar exchange rates evolved. This didn't signal mainland competition with Hong Kong but naturally reflected the mainland's sustained rapid economic development over many years. More significantly, the state strategically planned mainland-Hong Kong cooperation within one comprehensive framework after reunification. This not only enhanced Hong Kong people's confidence in the motherland's strength but enabled the central government to leverage Hong Kong's international financial center status effectively, using Hong Kong as invaluable testing ground for the renminbi's destined global reach.

During Beijing's March 2007 Two Sessions, I produced a special Xinwen Lianbo segment in Hong Kong titled “Renminbi Business Continuously Relaxed in Hong Kong.” I arranged field interviews with mainland tourists at SaSa cosmetics stores—SaSa being mainlanders' favorite Hong Kong cosmetics chain—checking whether people used renminbi for purchases. At the store, I initially worried about not encountering such customers; the moment our cameraman readied his equipment, however, a Sichuan woman was withdrawing her UnionPay card. Later, SaSa headquarters' corporate communications director informed me: Over the previous two years, 70% of mainland customers at SaSa had switched from Hong Kong dollars to renminbi. During 2007's first two months, SaSa's turnover increased 8% year-over-year.

By December 2006, Hong Kong banks' renminbi operations had developed steadily with smooth clearing channels. Thirty-eight banks conducted normal renminbi business, with deposits reaching RMB 22.7 billion. Though representing a relatively small percentage compared to Hong Kong dollar and foreign currency deposits, who could have imagined a decade earlier that people would boldly use renminbi rather than Hong Kong dollars or U.S. dollars for Hong Kong banking?

National economic planning beginning with the Eleventh Five-Year Plan integrated mainland and Hong Kong development into unified blueprints. Continuously relaxing renminbi business in Hong Kong wouldn't violate Basic Law provisions for Hong Kong people governing Hong Kong with high autonomy, nor immediately impact or marginalize Hong Kong dollars. Rather, it could strengthen mainland-Hong Kong economic ties, facilitate mutual visits and tourism between residents, achieving mutual benefits and win-win outcomes. This was the original intention, the aspiration, and necessarily the future result.

VI. Hong Kong's Instinct

Opening relatively recent history reveals that Hong Kong and the mainland didn't begin interaction and cooperation only after 1997 reunification, especially in economic and trade realms. From March 9-15, 2007, the Hong Kong Trade Development Council held an exhibition titled “Trade Generations: Hong Kong Trade Over 40 Years” at Ocean Terminal Exhibition Hall. Visitors saw various vintage products from Hong Kong's manufacturing past—familiar old radios, televisions, large thermos bottles, wall clocks, plus dull plastic dolls and garishly colored plastic flowers. The 1960s marked Hong Kong's era of material scarcity—in local parlance, “eight people sharing one bed per family.” Then, industry was just beginning. Textiles, plastics, hardware, and toys led Hong Kong manufacturing. “We started from cottage factories—today stringing plastic flowers, tomorrow molding dolls, gradually establishing Hong Kong's diversified industrial system.”

When did Hong Kong's economy truly take off? The 1970s and 1980s. Why did history choose this era? In 1978, mainland China's reform and opening up opened the nation's doors. Hong Kong entrepreneurs, long constrained by labor and land shortages, suddenly discovered a vast new world materializing in the adjacent Pearl River Delta, thus beginning Hong Kong's “front shop, back factory” cooperation with the region. Hong Kong's emerging industries rose rapidly. Traditional industries updated management methods, pivoting swiftly toward high-quality, high-value-added production. Thus garment-making, toys, electronics, timepieces, jewelry, and other relatively small-scale industries magically became mainstream, propelling Hong Kong products toward international markets.

Today, mainland people with some Hong Kong knowledge recognize that as Asia's most vibrant free and service economy, Hong Kong wears at least three crowns: International Financial Center, International Shipping Center, International Trade Center. Additionally, many bright ribbons adorn her shoulders: Convention Center, Tourism Center, Talent Center. These accolades aren't self-promotion but backed by internationally recognized achievements. In finance and trade, Hong Kong not only occupies Asia's premier position but ranks second globally in fund-raising markets, most competitive economic systems, and best business cities. In transportation, Hong Kong, leveraging Victoria Harbour's natural deep-water advantages plus persistent effort, by the 1990s had become the world's busiest container port and among the world's busiest international aviation cargo centers.

In 2005, Hong Kong Chinese University invited Taiwan Kuomintang Honorary Chairman Lien Chan for a student lecture I covered. Mr. Lien Chan recounted his teacher's praise for Hong Kong years earlier—witty yet tinged with outsiders' envious jealousy: “Isn't Hong Kong just a rock by the sea? Yet over decades, millions have managed themselves remarkably well.” Hearing this, my mouth felt as if savoring hard preserved plums, the flavor lingering extensively.

So what constitutes Hong Kong's instinct? Ingenuity, boldness in thought and action, relentless resourcefulness. This instinct surfaces in their century of arduous struggle and in their confidence and wisdom through adversity over the decade since reunification, never conceding defeat. Let me illustrate through food. Like birds perching in Hong Kong, how can they survive without eating? Traditionally, Hong Kong's culinary culture has flourished—restaurants and food streets permeate Hong Kong and Kowloon, with nearly all world cuisines represented. For countless years, people conceived this notion: Hong Kong people seem to eat perpetually—morning tea, lunch tea, afternoon tea, plus late-night snacks after dinner. In essence, all of Hong Kong, considering only culinary matters, constitutes one enormous dining table. If Hong Kong is one enormous dining table, or Hong Kong has always been a world-renowned “food paradise,” couldn't it claim the title “world's culinary capital”?

Beginning permanent residence in 2004, when Hong Kong's economy hadn't fully recovered, how did Hong Kong people leverage “eating” for major impact? I couldn't imagine—couldn't foresee I'd later glimpse Hong Kong people's spiritual world through food.

During 2006 Spring Festival, Hong Kong staged a truly momentous “grand feast.” The event's name was extraordinarily bold: “Ten Thousand People Poon Choi Feast.” The venue was Central Hong Kong Island's Tamar Site, an empty lot roughly football-field-sized soon to accommodate new government buildings.

January 8th, mere dozens of hours before San Jiu (winter's third nine-day period), that evening Hong Kong's temperature plunged below 12°C. Such weather in Beijing, much less Harbin, would be trivial, but in Hong Kong it nearly froze people. Sure enough, next morning's newspapers confirmed: January 8 was Hong Kong's coldest day since winter 2006 began. Oriental Daily reported: Due to sudden cold fronts, “severe cold killed four people” in Hong Kong. Yet on such a freezing night, Tamar Site's vast empty lot defiantly began setting up 1,100 dining tables from afternoon onward, each seating 12 people—1,100 times 12 equals over 13,000 diners. Good heavens, a “Ten Thousand People Poon Choi Feast.” I suspected this aimed at Guinness records. Upon inquiry—indeed.

For coverage, we CCTV reporters arrived at Tamar around 5 PM. The scene was windswept—all paper and fabric items rattled violently. Standing before Ten Thousand People Poon Choi Feast banners, microphone in hand, thick coat notwithstanding, I shivered, doubting: Would over ten thousand people really brave this open-air venue for dinner on such a bitterly cold night? I'd heard the feast had attracted many Japanese, Koreans, plus Westerners.

Yet before 7 PM, over 1,000 tables were packed—Hong Kong people, mainlanders, foreigners. Everyone bundled in coats, scarves, gloves, hats, noisily awaiting in the wind, guarding their poon choi, anticipating organizers' excited countdown from the temporarily erected central platform: “One, two, three—dig in!”

Over 1,000 dining tables, over 10,000 mouths, over 20,000 chopsticks, bitter wind, music, steaming hot pots—what spectacular, extraordinary scenes.

Though Hong Kong's Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department, the feast's primary sponsor, claimed the Ten Thousand People Poon Choi Feast wasn't purely about eating—materials came mostly from local fishermen and farmers, thus first promoting Hong Kong's local products, second showcasing Hong Kong culinary culture's allure to attract domestic and foreign tourists.

To satisfy material needs, interviewing organizers revealed they'd prepared ingredients exceeding 20,000 jin (roughly 10,000 kg). Over 20,000 jin? Pork shoulder 3,850 jin, live chickens 2,750 jin, dragon garoupa 2,750 jin, radishes 3,850 jin, taro 2,750 jin, lettuce 3,300 jin—not including seasonings, broths, noodles, mineral water, etc. Which restaurant worldwide could procure such quantities for one meal?

On January 8, 2006, at Tamar's 1,100 tables, each featured one dish—placed in washbasin-sized pots, brimming, positioned centrally. Pre-meal, all were draped in bright red paper, gleaming. Many mainlanders might not know poon choi's origins—Hong Kong's customary food for New Year, weddings, religious offerings. Legend traces its history to late Southern Song (roughly 700 years ago), when the dynasty's last emperor, Zhao Bing, fleeing Jin soldiers, escaped south to New Territories. The exhausted emperor and defeated army arrived, but villagers didn't know the dynasty was ending. Hearing their emperor had arrived, everyone rejoiced excitedly. Every household brought their finest food to entertain the troops. New Territories people used nine dishes for deity worship—”nine” represented infinite devotion. Everyone hurriedly prepared a “Nine-Dish Grand Feast.” When dishes were ready, they discovered insufficient serving vessels. Frantically, households brought large wooden basins, washed them clean, layered the nine dishes—thus poon choi passed through generations.

I don't know who first conceived expanding Hong Kong's family-style traditional New Year meal to ten thousand diners. A steaming pot, one family gathering with chopsticks—unremarkable. But thousands crowding an open-air plaza with identical tables and dishes, collectively feasting in bitter wind—such magnificence was eye-opening, unbelievable, even frightening to contemplate.

“Frightening”? Had this become the standard for evaluating “world's premier dining”? I suddenly thought.

Spring Festival 2006, Hong Kong's Ten Thousand People Poon Choi Feast indeed shattered world records. In my view, over 13,000 diners assembling—the eating act itself was one record, while conceiving this idea to promote Hong Kong, create business opportunities, and drive tourism represented an even greater intellectual breakthrough.

Tightly linking business opportunities with dining reflected not only Hong Kong people's shrewdness but their spirit. Previously, dining tables served as negotiating tables; today, Tamar Site became a business venue. Fundamentally, Hong Kong people's expectations for eating transcended the act itself—the underlying content directly involved escaping adversity and revitalizing the economy.

That evening at Tamar, I delighted and ate heartily. After finishing, everyone discussed the meal's cost: Good heavens, each table's poon choi cost HK$1,800—truly expensive. But organizers had already defended themselves: “Expensive? Not at all. Do you realize what treasures everyone consumed tonight?”

Fish wasn't merely fish but symbolized “surplus annually.” Shrimp wasn't just shrimp but meant “hearty laughter.” (Hong Kong's “shrimp” pronunciation resembles “ha”) Meat wasn't simply meat but represented abundance and prosperity. Eggs weren't ordinary chicken eggs but symbolized reunion. Moreover, 1,800 definitely signified “prosperity, prosperity, prosperity.” Where worldwide could you find such affordable celebratory meals? Hong Kong's Ten Thousand People Poon Choi Feast was decidedly neither Beijing's “hodgepodge” nor Northeast China's “random stew.”

VII. “Learning to Speak”

Recalling my September 2004 arrival in Hong Kong, writing about the city seemed a distant luxury. The primary obstacle wasn't establishing grand ambitions and showcasing talents through bold prose, but rather not understanding the local language, unable to communicate, much less thoroughly explore this society. This stopped me cold.

I remember during initial days settling in, organizing items shipped from Beijing, property management staff kindly offered help, asking: “Which floor is your house on?” I was utterly confused—”house”? What “house”? Later I learned “house” was Hong Kong parlance for “home.” That evening, washing away the day's grime in the bathroom, seeing my foolish reflection, I seemed infantile, yet more than an infant with an adult's easily wounded pride. A Hong Kong reporter not knowing the word for “house”—how could I write about Hong Kong? Wasn't this attempting heaven without a ladder? No—I had to study, rapidly master Cantonese.

However, when mainlanders first arrive in Hong Kong, reading Cantonese text proves manageable, but speaking—suffocating. Long tones, short tones, open mouth, closed mouth—adults must exaggeratedly observe rules. Mandarin has four tones; Cantonese nine. Both have phonetic systems, but they're completely different. When speaking Cantonese, the more you rely on pinyin for pronunciation, the more confused you become, speaking chaotically, provoking helpless laughter from nearby listeners.

Without personal experience, I wouldn't believe how challenging learning Cantonese is for mainland people in Hong Kong. Yet facing similar difficulties, Hong Kong people weren't deterred. Since the 1997 reunification, over a decade, more Hong Kong people realized that understanding the mainland and conducting business with mainlanders required adequate Mandarin, so they began consciously learning.

On May 24, 2006, a summit titled “When China Goes Global: Chinese Private Enterprises Overseas Financing and Listing Summit” opened grandly in Hong Kong. This forum aimed to facilitate direct dialogue between Hong Kong's financial sector and mainland private entrepreneurs, offering mainland enterprises broader financing and listing channels globally. That morning's keynote address covered substantial content: By 2006 market value, Hong Kong's stock market ranked eighth globally, second in Asia; over 340 mainland enterprises were listed in Hong Kong, with total market value comprising 42% of Hong Kong's total. I wanted this speech's text for my news report, believing it would enhance quality, so I asked conference staff to photocopy the full address. Soon, staff summoned me outside, saying: “Ms. Chang Jiang, no need—the keynote speaker asked me to give you the original.” I accepted gratefully, returning to the hall and sitting again. Upon opening it—incredible. Thunder rolled in my head, accompanied by tragic symphonic music. Good heavens, this speech original could someday grace a museum: traditional Chinese characters, size-2 imitation Song font, every character thumb-sized, each topped with Chinese pinyin, every pinyin marked with tonal names—level, rising, departing, entering. Most astonishing, the opening page bore a bracketed reminder in traditional Chinese: “Words requiring tone changes when reading this text follow altered tone annotations.”

Page by page through this address, my head filled with rolling thunder and symphonies. No wonder the keynote speaker's onstage Mandarin had seemed so labored—his script bristled with mechanisms. Either he'd just begun learning Mandarin or was quite elderly (at least sixty-plus), making progress slow despite diligent study. But why would sexagenarian or septuagenarian Hong Kong elders struggle learning Mandarin? Why deliver Mandarin addresses at forums with hundreds attending? If this occurred on the mainland, asking sixty-to-seventy-year-olds to master another foreign language or dialect—how many would accept? If children explained the benefits, elders would dismiss them with a wave.

Before my eyes, in recent years, Hong Kong government officials, business leaders, taxi drivers, shop clerks, even street vendors—many people regardless of gender, age, or status—have demonstrated increasingly high enthusiasm for learning Mandarin, with rapidly advancing proficiency and remarkable results.

VIII. Does Hong Kong Have a “Moon” Face?

If being objective, if being bold enough, Hong Kong people's terms for mainland visitors a decade ago cannot be ignored.

Ten years ago, frequently used Hong Kong terms for mainland visitors included “Ah Can” and “Uncle Biao.” “Ah Can” originated from a 1990s Hong Kong film character—an unworldly, foolish, gluttonous mainlander constantly causing scenes. Hong Kong people viewing mainland visitors thus, whether openly or covertly, revealed contempt and disdain. “Uncle Biao” evoked Li Tiemei's line “My family has countless uncles” from The Red Lantern—the sarcasm and mockery carried even deeper significance.

In 1993, after interviewing in Korea, I transited Hong Kong returning to Beijing. Then, Hong Kong seemed genuinely foreign—I desperately wanted to stop, explore, shop. I got my wish but also received a rude awakening. As a poor reporter, I dared enter a gold shop. The greeting clerk initially mistook me for Japanese or Taiwanese, quickly approaching, guiding me to the counter, seating me on a small stool, and since it was hot, specially bringing Wong Lo Kat herbal tea to “slowly drink.” My goodness, I was so moved I vowed to write an article praising Hong Kong's customer-first service upon returning to Beijing, thinking I'd been treated royally in Hong Kong. But when this clerk stubbornly insisted I was Japanese and I protested—”I am Chinese”—his expression instantly transformed. He turned away, walked aside, completely ignoring me. I repeatedly said “excuse me,” wanting to inquire about a ring I liked, but he pretended deafness. Several other unoccupied clerks also played dumb, as if none comprehended my English.

This encounter over a decade ago stunned me extensively: How could Hong Kong shop clerks transform so rapidly upon identifying poor people? Instantly, poor people were stripped naked before the wealthy, without time to find cracks for hiding. Yet a decade later, returning to Hong Kong as a CCTV correspondent for permanent residence, obtaining a Hong Kong resident identity card, learning some Cantonese, sometimes, especially when strolling streets, I seemed a Hong Kong person myself. But I could never forget this incident. Several times I wanted to return with credit cards to that gold shop, absolutely determined to purchase the ring I'd admired. But after over a decade, where could I locate that little gold shop? Meanwhile, a voice always timely intervened to dissuade and mock me, insisting Hong Kong shop clerks' attitudes toward mainlanders had long since transformed. Now many mainland “Ah Cans” and “Uncle Biaos” returning to Hong Kong encountered not only no discrimination from shops of all sizes but many faces displaying the solicitude reserved for benefactors.

After 2006 New Year, I habitually entered a small Happy Valley shop purchasing chrysanthemums for Pu'er tea. I'd patronized that shop repeatedly, buying ten-dollar chrysanthemum packets multiple times. But that day, the shop's chrysanthemums had somehow jumped from ten to thirteen dollars per packet. What was happening? Happy Valley, as Hong Kong's upscale residential district, already commanded higher prices than elsewhere. I chose paying a few dollars extra rather than traveling far, considering time costs. So I asked the proprietor: “Didn't your chrysanthemums cost ten dollars per packet previously?” His face showed familiar friendliness but now displayed helplessness: “No choice—these chrysanthemums all originate from your mainland. Now the mainland is prosperous, the renminbi keeps appreciating. Without raising prices, I'll lose money.”

Homeward, with fewer coins in my pocket, something inexplicably welled up in my heart. What? Happiness. Why happiness? The shop owner certainly wouldn't grasp this. I hadn't pondered deeply myself, just feeling refreshed by joy, a tune rising in my throat, humming earnestly. Suddenly I stopped short, asking myself: “What was I just singing? 'You see, you see, the moon's face, the moon's face is secretly changing.'“ Heavens, how did this song spring forth? Who was reminding me of what?

On January 9, 2006, China's National Bureau of Statistics released an announcement regarding revised historical GDP data. According to recalculations: from 1979 to 2004, China's GDP had grown at an average annual rate of 9.6% for 25 consecutive years. Complementing this news, CCTV's China Weekly specially invited me in Hong Kong to interview Ms. Liang Hong, Goldman Sachs China's chief economist, from this world-class institution. Ms. Liang agreed. When we sat down, she immediately asked: “I wonder if you still recall that in 1957, China proposed a resounding slogan—'Surpass Britain, Catch Up with America'?” I said: “I remember—how could I forget? Many people born then were simply named Chaoying (Surpass Britain).” She confirmed: “Exactly, 'Surpass Britain.' Now, in 2005, China's economic strength has already surpassed Britain's, claiming fourth-largest-economy status globally, and in another five years, China's economy might even surpass Japan, currently ranked second worldwide.”

Homeward from buying chrysanthemums at the Happy Valley shop that day, I sang joyfully throughout, thinking more about the economic expert's good news regarding China “surpassing Britain” and the timetable for “catching up with America” (by 2041 at latest). The mainland motherland directly north of Hong Kong had already become a great tree for Hong Kong to lean against, capable of providing full shade tomorrow—what a comforting, proud realization. Spending three extra dollars, I was as elated as if discovering a windfall. Upon arriving home, I immediately brewed chrysanthemum Pu'er tea, drinking alone while laughing and pondering.

In 1993, that article I'd wanted to write upon leaving Hong Kong—now was the time. But what to write? Merchants “don't rise early without profit” and even “size people up”—fundamentally these aren't uniquely Hong Kong merchant problems. What merchant worldwide can escape this calculating mindset? But do merchants also possess foresight in sizing people up? Genuine goods at fair prices, no deception regardless of age—this naturally embodies humanity's traditional virtues. But the art of sizing people up also involves wisdom, vision, rationality. Suppose today a customer enters a gold shop unable to afford a diamond ring—what about tomorrow? Tomorrow represents such tremendous variables. Without considering tomorrow, the shop clerk naturally has reason to turn dismissively, ignoring this poor customer. But considering tomorrow, the situation could transform—the clerk wouldn't merely not turn away but would maintain a smile, because tomorrow the “poor customer” might remain impoverished, or perhaps they've prospered and returned specifically requesting a diamond ring—the largest available. Who could predict in advance?

IX. Don't Mainland People Deserve Some “Stimulation”?

During Hong Kong's decade since reunification, especially since implementing the Individual Visit Scheme in July 2003, increasing mainland visitors have boosted Hong Kong's vitality and assisted its economy—this goes without saying. But what did mainland people themselves gain? Satisfying the desire to “come see” ranked first; carrying back large and small packages ranked second. What about third? Harvesting more spiritual rewards—these included opening eyes, gaining knowledge, receiving inspiration and education, even experiencing comprehensive “stimulation.”

Let me first describe mainland people's most glorious aspect in Hong Kong:

Early 2006, four friends visited Hong Kong through the Individual Visit Scheme. Among them, only one was visiting Hong Kong initially; the other three had been repeatedly. These women in Hong Kong first dined and drank, second shopped, acting especially lavish everywhere, leaving Hong Kong people dumbfounded. For instance, once at an eyeglass store—because I'd previously selected attractive glasses there everyone admired—we decided I should guide them. At the store, good heavens, some bought one pair, some several pairs, and one whose “eyeglass desire” was inadvertently ignited ultimately purchased seven pairs in Hong Kong. Back at lodging, spread on white-sheeted beds were seven pairs of colorful big “eyes,” and she specially invited me to view. I was immediately stunned, uncertain whether to congratulate her or severely scold her as a spendthrift.

“When did you mainland people become so wealthy?”

After they departed, the shop owner asked me. I said: “Ah, are we mainland people richer than you Hong Kong people?” The owner didn't catch my irony and continued: “Of course. Consider—when do we Hong Kong people shop like this? We generally examine items, especially expensive brands, scrutinizing repeatedly, then awaiting store sales before spending money.”

The owner's description was essentially accurate. Though Hong Kong people are wealthier than mainlanders, they ultimately emerged from past poverty and thus understand comparison shopping, avoiding expensive items while seeking bargains, having formed habits. Mainland people's wealth, though only recently developed, could startle locals when spent in Hong Kong. This “big shot” posture wasn't merely proving wallets had indeed fattened but also contained psychological satisfaction—fortune's wheel turns, poverty and wealth represent two different worlds, a taste of “liberation celebration.” Though at home, they'd never be so extravagant nor need such displays.

Having illustrated mainland people's shopping joy in Hong Kong, I must discuss “being educated,” especially “being stimulated.” This kind of stimulation, I believe, can only be “enjoyed” through the Individual Visit Scheme. Were it official business, business travelers everywhere possessing status and position—wouldn't they need appearing as upright gentlemen universally?

Mid-September 2005, Hong Kong Disneyland opened, immediately followed by the mainland's National Day seven-day Golden Week. Therefore, many mainland tourists chose the October 1st period bringing young and old to Hong Kong to “play first for happiness.”

October Hong Kong remained very hot. After playing at Disney briefly, everyone was drenched in sweat.

Both suffering identical heat, Hong Kong people could endure while mainlanders couldn't—this was natural. But you mainland people shouldn't act wantonly in Hong Kong's civilized environment. Some people, unable to bear heat, found benches, sat, removed shoes, and thrust out big feet to breathe and cool. Such behavior on the mainland might not necessarily seem lacking cultivation—it's a public space, not an airtight room. But Hong Kong people couldn't tolerate it. So before the October 1st holiday concluded, many local newspapers ran consecutive daily articles criticizing mainland people for having “no public morals,” “no cultivation,” “removing shoes publicly,” “spitting everywhere,” even “one person monopolizing an entire bench lying down resting,” “some people, unable to locate toilets, simply letting children relieve themselves anywhere.” Oh my, Hong Kong people simply couldn't accept these behaviors.

Facing overwhelming criticism, I read newspapers and browsed online, feeling quite uncomfortable, but what recourse existed? Weren't Hong Kong people's criticisms factual?

Without the Individual Visit Scheme, without ordinary people from one society mingling among ordinary people of another society seeing each other and colliding, people might never realize that once everything compares, impressions deepen profoundly.

Several times I came home uncertain at whom to direct anger, constantly telling my husband: “Hmph, Hong Kong people really won't yield when right, as if they themselves didn't just emerge from backwardness and ignorance. Not mentioning anything else, just seeing mainland people coming to your Hong Kong 'spreading bad behavior' everywhere—why don't they acknowledge how many mainland consumers have brought Hong Kong society tremendous benefits?”

My husband didn't concur but remained very rational: “Hey hey, keep matters separate—don't conflate two different issues. Broadcasting this outside shows how defensive and petty we are.”

I understood my husband's reminder made sense—civilization and contribution are different matters on different levels. Regarding mainland tourists' various “low quality” behaviors, even if Hong Kong people didn't criticize, I myself often complained in friend circles: “Just coming out embarrassing everyone.”

Hong Kong had been back a decade, with increasingly frequent personnel exchanges between regions. In this process, people were destined to influence each other and create friction, but benefits essentially outweighed harms. The psychology of “lamenting that iron won't become steel” wasn't mine alone—Hong Kong people certainly harbored it too, just at different times, in different aspects, at different levels.

X. “Tearing Down Walls” Makes Us Even More of a Family

After Hong Kong's 1997 reunification, as a Special Administrative Region of the People's Republic of China, Hong Kong need not pay taxes to the central government annually—fundamentally this should represent tremendous good fortune. But I rarely heard people mention this topic after arriving. Conversely, the first weekend after stationing in Hong Kong in 2004, I remember wanting to shop with my husband for necessities. My husband said: “Remember, carry some loose change—today is Hong Kong's flag day. Otherwise, without small bills, we'll have to produce large denominations.”

“Flag day”? Then I didn't know what Hong Kong's flag day meant, nor did I know that Hong Kong charitable organizations, after applying for and receiving government approval, could take to streets once annually for fundraising. These activities generally occurred only Saturday mornings, called “flag day.” Therefore, with 52 annual weeks, every Saturday streets filled with middle school volunteers. These children carried large money bags and held several adhesive sticker sheets (originally small flags), asking pedestrians to “buy flags.” Then, pedestrians mostly gave them one or two dollars in change. They'd tear off stickers printed with charitable organization names and affix them to your collar or chest, indicating you'd shown compassion to society that day. Other charitable groups would let you pass upon seeing this.

I once sincerely admired Hong Kong's donation culture—its long history and high social recognition. People donated money and goods without considering their behavior earth-shaking or tear-worthy. Once a friend arranged evening business plans with me. Upon meeting, she immediately said: “So sorry, I need finding a bank ATM first.” I asked why. She said: “Just now a social organization was fundraising for mainland impoverished children. I donated all my pocket money and am now penniless, unable to do anything.”

Mainland people and Hong Kong people share common roots and ancestry, with identical passionate blood flowing in veins. Therefore, mutual integration wouldn't naturally create rejection. But Hong Kong people's support for mainlanders earned mainland people's deep gratitude. When mainland people showed brotherly affection to Hong Kong people, I don't know why, but I often felt in Hong Kong they wouldn't be easily moved.

After 2007 Spring Festival, my first post-Hong Kong book, Coming to Hong Kong One Hundred Years Late, was about to publish. My friend who could donate for mainland impoverished children until penniless visited my home. We discussed current Hong Kong-mainland relations. After hearing me say many complimentary things about Hong Kong, she became somewhat impatient, interrupting: “Ai ya, from your mouth I only hear flattery—why never a single complaint about Hong Kong people?” I said: “Really? Then fine, now I'll discuss you Hong Kong people's faults.” My friend listened attentively while I was equally direct. She never anticipated I'd say: “You Hong Kong people don't know how to appreciate kindness.” Afterward everyone fell silent. After a while, my friend straightened her gaze, nodded at me, and explained: “Hong Kong people don't like speaking and aren't good at expressing themselves.”

If making a brief summary, during these ten years since Hong Kong's reunification, even Hong Kong people themselves admit that Hong Kong people's lives have consciously and unconsciously integrated with the mainland in numerous aspects. In 2005, according to relevant institutional statistics, Hong Kong had 24,900 male citizens with “bachelor certificates” who married mainland women in Hong Kong, while Hong Kong women marrying mainland boyfriends approached 5,000—double the number from four years earlier.

In 2006, 30% of surveyed Hong Kong secondary school graduates expressed willingness to go “north” attending mainland universities. Why would Hong Kong children harbor such intentions? Because studying at mainland universities, their tuition and living expenses were not only far below overseas study costs, but Hong Kong students, whose parents earned local wages, could enjoy identical tuition standards and government subsidies as mainland university students.

Hong Kong government Planning Department surveys found: Before Hong Kong's reunification, settling on the mainland was simply inconceivable for Hong Kong people. However, after reunification, Hong Kong people relocating to mainland life gradually became a major trend, growing 50% every two years.

“Hong Kong people,” I continued telling my friend, “would be even better and more lovable if they could understand both self-improvement and appreciation of kindness.” My friend nodded increasingly frequently, saying: “Yes, you needn't say it—sometimes even I feel we Hong Kong people seem perpetually dissatisfied. Whether this psychology benefits or harms, I find difficult to conclude momentarily.”

I said: “Hong Kong's reunification will soon be a decade. Everyone has witnessed these ten years of Hong Kong-mainland cooperation achieving win-win situations. In future years, people from both regions shouldn't give each other cold shoulders anymore. Quickly join hands, work hard together, and chase Japan and America together—how remarkable would that be? Wouldn't this fulfill that line from The Red Lantern: 'Without tearing down walls we are one family; tearing down walls makes us even more family'?”

My friend said: “Exactly. Decades later when Chinese people possess greater stature and stronger presence on the world stage, China's population will not only rank first globally, but economic strength and comprehensive national power will also command the world's attention. At that time, raising glasses again, whether Hong Kong people or mainland people sit at the table, everyone will have reason to drink until thoroughly drunk and completely satisfied.”

My friend spoke so eloquently, touching my heart. Who says Hong Kong people “don't like speaking and aren't good at expressing themselves”?

Early April 2007, I consecutively interviewed and reported on several launching ceremonies for series activities titled “Enthusiastically Celebrating Hong Kong's Return to the Motherland's 10th Anniversary” organized by government and civil organizations. Later I learned: The government alone prepared spending HK$90 million on grand celebrations. Hong Kong society's various civil groups would also stage countless different celebratory events, with expenses certainly substantial. Don't Hong Kong people emphasize practicality and benefits? Why did everyone spare no expense for these tenth-anniversary commemorations, pouring in such enthusiasm?

It seems Hong Kong people's hearts remain warm—they're not tongue-tied but speak when it's time to speak, naturally becoming emotional when emotion is called for.

(Originally published in Beijing Literature, Issue 7, 2007)

Kapok Blossoms

Li Chunlei

When he took office in Guangdong, he was already sixty-six. His face was wrinkled like a walnut, his hair white as winter grass, and all his teeth had been replaced by dentures. His heart was plagued by premature beats and constant murmurs; his gallbladder ached with a dull, steady pain. Yet he clearly refused to accept old age. At 1.71 meters and 80 kilos, he was still solidly built, walking with a brisk, thundering stride that seemed to make the ground tremble beneath him.

Not far from the provincial committee compound stood a grocery store. Every morning at 3 AM, in the cold darkness, citizens clutching colorful ration tickets for fish, oil, sugar, and other goods would begin queuing for their purchases. Everything was in short supply. Guangdong produced fish and its people loved eating it, yet citizens received only half a yuan in fish coupons per person each month, with no guarantee of supply. The grocery store opened at 7:30 AM, but by then the queues stretched long—more people than fish. Exhausted elderly people at the front of the line, desperate to return home and sleep, would leave “substitutes” in their places: a stool, a hat, a vegetable basket...

A few days later one evening, he returned to Wenjindu port in Shenzhen. Gazing across the water, he could see Hong Kong under British lease—tall buildings ablaze with brilliant lights. On his own side? Darkness and silence, nothing but empty wilderness.

Just one year earlier, a shocking mass escape to Hong Kong had occurred here. Over seventy thousand starving people, carrying their belongings and supporting the old and young, had faced down armed border guards, risking death to break through and flee to Hong Kong. A village Party secretary cried out to the surging masses: “Come back with me! Come back with me!” Among those crossing the border river was his own wife, who had shared years of hardship with him. But what came back across the border was a curse harder and colder than stone: “Even after I die, don't let my ashes blow back to this side!” Hegel had called China a “disaster-stricken country,” while Adam Smith considered the living conditions of China's lower classes more miserable than those of European beggars.

The yellow autumn wind disturbed his white hair and troubled his worried heart.

This man was Ren Zhongyi, who in November 1980 became First Secretary of the Guangdong Provincial Party Committee.

The era of madness had passed. China, after so much suffering, had finally found its path. But Guangdong Province—bordering Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan—remained an economic backwater. Due to long-standing wartime thinking, the state had made virtually no industrial investments here. Transportation was backward: the Beijing-Guangzhou Railway ran on a single track throughout Guangdong. Travel from Guangzhou to Zhuhai or Shenzhen required four or five ferry transfers and took an entire day. Agriculture fared no better—the province was the nation's largest grain-deficit region. Though the state transferred in five hundred million kilograms of grain annually, people still went hungry. In 1979, the province's total industrial and agricultural output per capita was only 520 yuan, far below the national average of 636 yuan. Another figure proved even more embarrassing: this vast province, two hundred times Hong Kong's size, generated less than one-tenth of Hong Kong's annual foreign exchange earnings. Compared to Taiwan, the disparity defied comparison.

Across the Taiwan Strait, Chiang Ching-kuo kept proclaiming: let the Communists give him two provinces and see how the Kuomintang would govern them. Hong Kong and Macao were like two watchful eyes, coldly observing this uncertain, drifting mainland. Perhaps for these very reasons, the central government decided to establish experimental Special Economic Zones in Guangdong, taking the first step forward. After former Secretary Xi Zhongxun was transferred to Beijing, Ren Zhongyi was selected as his replacement.

Among the Communist Party's senior cadres, Ren Zhongyi was a rare talent who understood both politics and economics.

In his youth, he had studied political economy at China University. During the Anti-Japanese War, he served as principal of an Eighth Route Army military-political cadre school and edited the Party's first textbook on political economy. After the founding of the People's Republic, he served for many years as Heilongjiang Provincial Party Secretary—his achievements are still celebrated along the Songhua River. During three years leading Liaoning, a region devastated by the Cultural Revolution, he not only maintained political stability but helped propel economic development into the nation's top three.

But he was now nearly seventy and coming to Guangdong for the first time. Would Guangdong accept him? The provincial committee compound was filled with banyan trees—these southern citizens standing in the warm sea breeze, their fluffy beards hanging long and short, ancient yet youthful, much like him at that moment.

Amid this unfamiliar southern landscape, he seemed to prefer the kapok trees, standing tall, straight, strong. In February's chill, overnight spring winds suddenly caused thousands of trees to burst into life. Those large, full petals blazed red like flames. Though their time came and went quickly, they burned magnificently.

His blood surged like the Pearl River.

He touched his frost-white hair as if it were the vigorous spring buds of the south...

Consulting the China Statistical Yearbook: In 1978, Guangdong Province's economic output totaled 18.5 billion yuan, ranking twenty-third nationally. Yet by Ren Zhongyi's departure in 1985, Guangdong had risen impressively to first place. In just a few short years—what an extraordinary leap!

Over twenty years later, recalling that smoke-cleared battle, many stories remain shocking and almost unbelievable. Liberalizing prices, establishing a market economy, permitting private enterprises, selling land-use rights, separating government from business, implementing shareholding systems, allowing foreign banks—in that era of strict planned economy, all this was like playing with fire. Hidden landmines lay along every stretch of road, ready to explode at any moment.

Later in my life, in August 2007, I was invited to Guangzhou to interview Toyota Motor Company. That evening, drinking tea with Guangdong writers Wu Dongfeng and Bao Shi, our discussion of how Guangdong's economy had surpassed Singapore, Taiwan, and Hong Kong naturally turned to the late Ren Zhongyi, former First Secretary of the Guangdong Provincial Party Committee. Brother Wu Dongfeng sighed deeply: “Ren Zhongyi was Guangdong's great benefactor—someone truly should write his story.”

Outside, osmanthus fragrance drifted through the air while tea aroma wafted inside. My heart suddenly lurched, as if sensing the call of a sacred mission.

In Harbin, I had heard legends of how he personally developed and promoted ice lanterns, people there still reverently call him the “Father of Ice Lanterns.” I had also been to Liaoning, where his courageous rehabilitation of the martyr Zhang Zhixin was widely known. What those present didn't know was that Ren Zhongyi and I were actually from the same region, our hometowns were barely a 50 kilometers apart. His legend had long spread throughout our southern Hebei area.

So at year's end, I returned to Yangcheng (Guangzhou) to begin interviews about Ren Zhongyi.

Many Guangdong residents still vividly remember the “fishbone antenna” controversy.

When economic conditions improved slightly, many coastal Guangdong families began acquiring black-and-white televisions. But owning a television meant nothing without watchable programs. Mainland TV stations offered few channels, with unstable signals and excessively short broadcast times. Soon, however, someone discovered something good to watch—Hong Kong television programs. All it required was a fishbone-shaped antenna with an amplifier, extended skyward on a bamboo pole and pointed southeast, to receive programs directly. Suddenly there appeared delicious food, beautiful clothing, cheerful hosts, debates criticizing the governor, self-promoting advertisements, Teresa Teng's love songs, scenes of lovers embracing and kissing. So this was how Hong Kong people lived! This was capitalist society?

Within no time, every household was imitating this, and the practice spread rapidly throughout the Pearl River Delta. Even atop the buildings of downtown Guangzhou, both tall and short, dense “fishbone antennas” sprouted like bean sprouts, all facing southeast like sunflowers.

This coincided with fierce national public opinion attacks on Guangdong. The “fishbone antenna” incident added fuel to the fire, triggering a tsunami of condemnation. Moreover, the central leader responsible for ideological work was then preparing to launch a campaign to “Eliminate Spiritual Pollution”—a moral-political crackdown on “decadent” Western influences—making Guangdong the target of universal criticism.

“Hong Kong TV spreads poison every minute!”

“Guangzhou has been Hong Kong-ized!”

Newspapers across China denounced Guangzhou as having “turned revisionist and rotten,” characterizing this as “reactionary propaganda” requiring “resolute crackdown and severe legal punishment.” Many inland cities displayed slogans reading “Oppose Guangzhou's Spiritual Pollution.”

The “capitalist road” was ideological dynamite, the most sensitive political issue of the time. Under pressure, the Guangdong Provincial Party Committee and government urgently formulated measures strictly prohibiting watching Hong Kong television programs. They severely disciplined Party members and cadres who violated the ban and ordered localities to dispatch work teams with fire trucks to forcibly demolish antennas village by village, household by household. Especially whenever central leaders visited Guangzhou, a high-power jamming station in Dongguan would emit strong interference signals, filling television screens throughout the Pearl River Delta with static snow.

But the people devised a method they had once used against the Japanese: clearing the fields and emptying the houses. Before work teams entered villages or fire trucks were dispatched, every household would quickly take down their “fishbone antennas.” After nightfall, they would quietly return them to the rooftops—locals called this “raising the flag at night, lowering it in the morning.” When Party member and cadre households were caught, they had ready explanations: “My wife and children aren't Party members—their consciousness is low, they're the ones watching.” Unable to impose punishment, authorities could only confiscate the antennas. But that very evening, another “fishbone” would rise skyward amid vicious curses.

The people's complaints rang out like cicadas and frogs; fishbone antennas covered the mountains like spring trees. Hundreds of fire trucks throughout the province rushed about like ants on a hot pan, exhausted and frantic. Confiscated “fishbone antennas” piled up like woodstacks and were sold by the ton to smelting plants.

Foreign investors were even more displeased. At that time, so-called “three-capital enterprises”—joint ventures, cooperative ventures, and wholly foreign-owned firms—in Foshan, Nanhai, Jiangmen, Zhongshan, Shunde, Dongguan, and Huizhou were gaining momentum. Countless merchants from Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan, along with Southeast Asian overseas Chinese capitalists, had come to Guangdong in droves to test the waters. They all stood watching and waiting: if people couldn't even watch Hong Kong television programs, what kind of Special Economic Zone was this? How could they conduct business? Where would they get their information? Where would they find entertainment?

The “fishbone antennas” stuck in everyone's throat, immediately becoming Ren Zhongyi's most thorny and burning problem.

Zhang Zuobin, former Deputy Director of the Guangdong Provincial Party Committee Propaganda Department, told me that the provincial committee was truly caught between a rock and a hard place. The central government had repeatedly ordered strict prohibition and resolute demolition, while urban and rural masses complained bitterly with intense emotions. Continuing this way would not only further inflame conflicts between cadres and the masses but would seriously affect foreign investment. After much agonizing, Ren Zhongyi finally made his decision. One day, he called Zhang Zuobin and assigned him a special task.

One day in early May 1983, Zhang Zuobin took two cadres quietly to Shenzhen, checking into a hotel near Hong Kong. They found a television with clear reception and spent three days and three nights without sleep, recording every Hong Kong television program and writing a detailed investigative report for Ren Zhongyi. The report analyzed that Hong Kong's two television stations designed their dramas and variety shows to cater to ordinary Hong Kong citizens' tastes, naturally making them more attractive than mainland television dramas and cultural programs still in their early stages. Intellectuals preferred Hong Kong television's rapid news coverage, especially bulletins from CNN and BBC—CCTV either didn't carry these or showed them a day late. Vulgar and boring programs occasionally appeared, but there was almost no pornographic or reactionary propaganda.

Several days later one morning, Ren Zhongyi went to the Provincial Party Committee Propaganda Department and convened leaders from the propaganda and cultural systems to formally state his views.

During my interviews, I managed to find this recorded speech draft.

In this approximately five-thousand-word speech, Ren Zhongyi mainly addressed two issues. First was not advocating watching Hong Kong television, maintaining consistency with the central government. Second was doing everything possible to improve their own radio and television programs to enrich the masses' cultural and entertainment life.

It was precisely in this speech that he first articulated his famous viewpoint: eliminate pollution but don't exclude foreign things. Conscious elimination of pollution was necessary and wise, but one absolutely could not throw out the baby with the bathwater by blindly opposing all foreign thoughts and culture. Blind exclusion was wrong and foolish. Eliminating pollution required clear boundaries—one should eliminate real pollution. Not only should we not reject advanced science, technology, and excellent cultural achievements from capitalist countries, we should actively absorb and learn from them.

Throughout the entire speech, he never once mentioned demolishing “fishbone antennas” or jamming Hong Kong channels.

Soon after, CCP General Secretary Hu Yaobang came to Guangzhou and stayed at the Pearl Island Hotel. Following convention, service staff locked all Hong Kong channels on the television in his room. When Ren Zhongyi discovered this, he immediately ordered the channels unlocked and had all television channel listings printed and placed beside the TV for the guest's convenience.

For several consecutive days, Hu Yaobang raised no objections. From then on, Hong Kong television never suffered forced jamming during Ren Zhongyi's tenure. “Fishbone antennas” became a unique landscape across southern Guangdong (the Lingnan region), quietly yet powerfully awakening traditional local consciousness.

It was precisely at this time that the fermenting Pearl River Delta became like a huge, fragrant cake. Relying on the unique geographical advantages of neighboring Hong Kong and Macao, plus the cultural advantages of numerous overseas Chinese hometowns, it attracted massive direct foreign investment with relatively low land prices and abundant cheap labor. It especially attracted large-scale manufacturing transfers from Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan. Export-oriented enterprises using “three processes and one compensation”—processing supplied materials, manufacturing to supplied samples, assembling supplied parts, and compensation trade—spread rapidly throughout cities and countryside like wildfire. They formed star-like dense clusters and launched the first great economic wave after China's reform and opening up.

Moving Luohu Mountain and filling in the Luohu lowlands was the first major construction project for Shenzhen Special Economic Zone. But work immediately encountered various man-made obstacles, forcing Ren Zhongyi to personally visit the site for resolution.

Through this problem, he detected an even bigger issue: the Special Zone's leadership team lacked coordination and unity. This team couldn't break new ground, much less “carve out a bloody path.” After consulting with Provincial Party Committee members Liu Tianfu, Liang Lingguang, Wu Nansheng, and others, they decided on immediate adjustments.

After extensive investigation, he identified his choice: Liang Xiang, Provincial Party Committee Standing Committee member and Guangzhou Municipal Party Committee Second Secretary.

The burly Liang Xiang came from military background. When the People's Republic was founded, he had followed Ye Jianying south to take over Guangzhou. He was not only a pioneering practitioner but also intimately familiar with urban management and economic work. Most importantly, he brimmed with idealistic passion.

But the sixty-two-year-old Liang Xiang was a veteran provincial-level cadre with a fiery temperament. He stated clearly he wouldn't go to Shenzhen—he preferred to remain in Guangzhou.

After repeated talks, Liang Xiang remained unwilling. Many historical accounts record the same detail: Liang Xiang allegedly had a major argument with Xi Zhongxun over this matter. This must be either an error or misinformation, since Xi Zhongxun had already left Guangdong for Beijing. If such an incident occurred, the argument would have been with Ren Zhongyi. This would be a dramatically precious literary detail, but it lacks vivid description. During my interviews, I searched extensively, but since both parties had passed away and no one was present, I couldn't fabricate details and could only sigh regretfully.

However, Ren Zhongyi didn't give up easily. He arranged to meet with Liang Xiang once more.

During this conversation, Ren's secretary Ju Liming happened to be on duty. It was an evening in January 1981. The heavy-hearted Liang Xiang walked unsteadily into Ren Zhongyi's office—this could be seen in his worried expression and heard in his slow, dragging footsteps climbing the stairs. Ren Zhongyi smiled and rose from his seat to shake hands with Liang Xiang, personally poured him hot tea, then casually sat in a bamboo rattan chair nearby.

Ju Liming later recalled that Ren Zhongyi's office door didn't slowly open until after midnight. When Ju entered, the formal talks had concluded. The originally witty Liang Xiang had returned to his natural self—he seemed to have just told a popular Guangzhou joke. Ren Zhongyi suddenly burst into hearty laughter. He leaned back in the bamboo chair, rocking back and forth. Under the bright lights, his full, silvery laughter struck crisply against the walls and echoed, his strands of white hair seeming like conductive filaments flashing with brilliant light.

In February 1981, Liang Xiang generously took up his post. Subsequently, Ren Zhongyi selected groups of professionally qualified, talented elite cadres from various places, forging a particularly combat-capable leadership team for Shenzhen Special Economic Zone. From then on, Shenzhen's construction entered the fast lane, staging one shocking drama after another. But everything was experimental exploration—heavy barriers and thorns everywhere, breaking conventions, bursting through systems, handling special matters in special ways. Many innovations couldn't receive clear support even from the highest decision-makers, making Shenzhen's path particularly perilous.

To accelerate development required attracting global investment. To attract investment required providing attractive preferential policies—this was simple logic. Regarding this, Liang Xiang's “ant theory” was clear: only by letting the first ants taste sweetness could you attract more ants. Thus, through relevant legislative procedures, the Shenzhen Special Zone government formulated special zone land management regulations allowing foreign investors to participate in developing special zone land and pay land-use fees to establish enterprises. These were formally promulgated and implemented starting January 1, 1982.

This regulation shocked the nation immediately upon release. How could traditional, closed-off national consciousness accept such “traitorous behavior”? In an instant, public opinion lashed out. Newspapers denounced Shenzhen as capitalist except for “the entrance to Kowloon Pass still flying the five-starred red flag,” calling those responsible traitors who “sold national territorial sovereignty to foreigners.” Just then, the central government launched large-scale anti-smuggling campaigns targeting Guangdong, with Shenzhen deeply implicated. Even more shocking, relevant central departments specially issued a document titled “The Origins of Old China's Concessions,” directly targeting Shenzhen. The political atmosphere suddenly grew tense. At high-level meetings, certain leaders even declared intentions to “recover lost territory” and “execute some people.” As predicted, soon after, the Guangdong Haifeng County Party Secretary and a deputy secretary were executed by firing squad.

Liang Xiang, who had always dared to speak and act, who had always taken risks, now also grew timid. He frequently frowned tightly, fell silent, paced slowly, chain-smoking.

Liang Xiang's secretary at that time, Zou Xudong, clearly remembered that during the most murderous atmosphere lasting over a month, Ren Zhongyi—who rarely visited in person—surprisingly came to Shenzhen three times in succession: February 28, March 18, and March 6. Each visit, he met and talked with all members of the municipal party committee leadership team. Addressing doubts from Beijing and theoretical circles, he told everyone clearly: “Some comrades doubt whether establishing Special Zones damages sovereignty or might turn them into colonies. We must answer definitively: No! Quite the opposite—only by mastering sovereignty can we establish Special Zones. Establishing Special Zones exercises sovereignty and demonstrates its use.”

After these talks, he had heart-to-heart conversations with Liang Xiang, dispelling his inner concerns. The final heart-to-heart took place in Ren Zhongyi's hotel room with the door closed and strict orders against interruption, lasting three hours. No one knew the specific content of their discussion, but everyone vividly remembered the farewell scene: the two men shook hands tightly, gazing at each other wordlessly—one smiling like chrysanthemums, the other beaming with spring warmth.

From then on, Liang Xiang felt relieved and remained true to himself. Everyone knows that in these few short years, Shenzhen transformed with her unique “Shenzhen speed” from a remote fishing port into a bustling metropolis, becoming the most magnificent Eastern legend facing the world.

Years later, the sixty-seven-year-old Liang Xiang quietly stepped down. Standing at the municipal government building entrance, facing nearly a thousand reluctant Shenzhen residents, he said tearfully with choked voice: “If I must be born a thousand times, I want to be born in this place. If I must die a thousand times, I also want to die in this place!” That day was overcast with lightning and thunder, but everyone stood motionless, letting the cold rain pour down. Liang Xiang wept openly, suddenly threw away his umbrella, clasped his hands together, and vowed loudly: “I hereby establish my will: after death, my ashes shall be buried on Wutong Mountain!” At this point, all of Shenzhen wept uncontrollably.

History has proven that Liang Xiang was this city's hero. And the one who made Liang Xiang possible was precisely Ren Zhongyi.

They certainly had too many stories and secrets between them, now unfortunately impossible to explore. But one detail moved me deeply: years later, when Liang Xiang became seriously ill, the over-eighty-year-old Ren Zhongyi, despite his own age and frailty, visited multiple times. When critical condition notices were issued, Ren Zhongyi was receiving intravenous treatment at the hospital. Upon hearing the news, he immediately pulled out the IV needle and insisted his family help him to the ward. There he tightly grasped Liang Xiang's hand, speechless with emotion, tears flowing freely.

During my interviews, I also heard a story about Ren Zhongyi and Yuan Geng.

While Shenzhen soared, Shekou Industrial Zone in its western corner also attracted social attention through bold actions. Shekou Industrial Zone belonged to the Ministry of Transportation, with Yuan Geng, another veteran cadre, serving as director of its management committee. He had formerly served as Consul at China's Consulate General in Jakarta, Indonesia, and Executive Deputy General Manager of the Ministry of Transportation's China Merchants Group. This man was bold, knowledgeable, and daring. After extensive investigation, Ren Zhongyi recognized Yuan Geng as rare talent. Considering the Special Zone's excessive workload and Liang Xiang's dual positions, he recommended Yuan Geng to Beijing as deputy provincial governor and Shenzhen mayor. After going through relevant procedures, the Central Organization Department agreed with the recommendation and issued the appointment.

But unexpectedly, Yuan Geng refused to take up the post. He stated that Shekou's reform experiments had just fully launched and he was unwilling to leave. Another reason was his similar personality to Liang Xiang—two tigers on one mountain might create conflicts. Most importantly, he had no interest in being an official and was determined to make substantial explorations for China's economic and political reform.

After careful consideration, Ren Zhongyi understood and agreed to Yuan Geng's request. He repeatedly explained the situation to the Central Organization Department, ultimately withdrawing the appointment.

Soon after, Ren Zhongyi presided over a Provincial Party Committee Standing Committee meeting that specially formulated “Document No. 31” for Shekou Industrial Zone, granting Shekou four special privileges. This made it mainland China's first enterprise truly achieving separation of government and business, clearing the path for Yuan Geng's reforms. Indeed, Shekou soon became China's most pioneering and brilliant “reform test zone.”

If Shenzhen was the crown of China's reform and opening up, then Shekou was the pearl on that crown.

Shenzhen and Shekou, Liang Xiang and Yuan Geng—mutually accommodating and complementing each other, they became a beautiful tale in history.

That year, the young Zheng Yanchao was still a graduate student at South China Normal University, majoring in economics. At that time, he made an astonishing discovery: there existed a sharp contradiction between Marx's classic works and Guangdong's reality.

According to Marx's definition in Das Kapital, individual economies—small private businesses—could not employ more than eight hired workers. Exceeding this number meant it was no longer an ordinary individual economy but a capitalist economy, its nature being capitalist exploitation. Based on this principle, the 1980 “Central Document No. 75” clearly limited the number of helpers and apprentices in individual economies, forbidding the existence and development of individual businesses with more than eight hired workers. But Guangzhou's reality was vastly different. Centuries of commercial port history had accumulated rich business traditions here. With a slightly warmer political climate, China's first generation of individual entrepreneurs—represented by artisans and small vendors—had rekindled like sparks throughout the streets. Particularly in recent years, with increased connections to Hong Kong and Macao and the gradual entry of foreign enterprises, numerous family workshops and private factories—mainly in clothing, leather goods, electronics, and catering—grew larger and larger. Hired workers far exceeded eight people—some enterprises had over eighty, even eight hundred. What was the economic nature of this? Were they all emerging capitalists?

At that time, “private” remained a term that made people tremble in China. Official theoretical circles still insisted on Marx's position, speaking domineeringly and even murderously. They said individual enterprise expansion meant privatization, privatization meant private ownership, and private ownership meant genuine capitalist economy. Allowing private ownership economic development meant China was taking the capitalist road. Just then, on December 30, 1981, the State Council issued strict regulations controlling rural labor from entering cities for work, with public opinion contemptuously calling them “blind migrants.”

Facing this situation, Zheng Yanchao was deeply worried, yet this topic strongly attracted him. So this fearless young scholar quietly devoted a chapter of his graduation thesis to exploring this question. He walked the streets, investigating Guangzhou enterprises with more than eight hired workers through extensive surveys, and defined this emerging economic form as “private economy in socialism's primary stage.” This concept was far too sensitive and transgressive. Before his thesis defense, his advisor told him clearly that this chapter must be abandoned. If not, the defense would certainly fail, he couldn't graduate, and he wouldn't receive a job assignment.

Zheng Yanchao felt confused, pained, and unwilling to give up. Then he accidentally heard news: Provincial Party Committee First Secretary Ren Zhongyi highly valued individual economy development and had recently asked Guangdong academic circles to research this issue. So one day in May 1982, he had a sudden idea—he extracted this sensitive chapter, bought an eight-cent stamp, and mailed it via regular post.

To his astonishment, just days later, Ren Zhongyi's phone call came.

Ren Zhongyi personally called the graduate school office, saying he wanted to find young Zheng. The office staff had no idea the caller was the Provincial Party Committee First Secretary and said young Zheng wasn't there—what message could they relay? Ren Zhongyi said this matter couldn't be relayed; he needed to meet young Zheng in person. So he left a phone number for Zheng Yanchao to contact him that evening.

That evening, this normally shy young man from the countryside nervously dialed the First Secretary's office.

“Is this Secretary Ren?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Zheng Yanchao. Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, I called but couldn't find you.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I received your thesis and found it very good. I'd like to discuss this with you. Do you have time to come?”

“Yes, I'd also like to consult with you.”

“Come tomorrow, how about it? I'll have someone pick you up.”

“No need to pick me up, I can take the bus. I know where the Provincial Committee is.”

“You don't need to come on your own—I'll send a car. I'm inviting you; how can I let you come by yourself?”

Zheng Yanchao's heart pounded with excitement. He couldn't imagine what consequences would follow if the First Secretary's car picked him up at school—he simply didn't want others to know his secret. So he stammered explanations, insisting on coming himself. Finally, Ren Zhongyi agreed, arranging to meet at 3 PM the next day in his third-floor office.

That day remains vivid in Zheng Yanchao's memory.

This was his first time entering the Provincial Committee compound, meeting the First Secretary. For this rural-born young man, it was surreal and nerve-wracking. When he entered that mysterious office building, his hands trembled, his heart pounding. He was led into a spacious yet simple office where a white-haired, deeply wrinkled elder smiled and came forward, grasping his hand firmly. When Zheng Yanchao realized this warm grip and kind smile belonged to Ren Zhongyi, the panic in his heart suddenly vanished. He suddenly felt this kindly elder strongly resembled his own father back in the countryside. This kindly “father” told him that forty-six years earlier, when attending university, his major had also been economics. He had once been interested in theory and during wartime had even written a book called Political Economics. The conversation gradually unfolded.

It turned out that the Guangdong Provincial Party Committee, led by Ren Zhongyi, not only had no intention of “stopping” or “correcting” the emerging individual economy and hired labor operations but had been working hard to secure legal status for them. Late last year, the Guangdong Provincial Industrial and Commercial Bureau had issued the nation's first concrete measures encouraging and supporting individual economy development. Just over ten days ago, Foshan had established the nation's first individual laborers' association.

What Zheng Yanchao didn't know was that Ren Zhongyi was then troubled by the “Chen Zhixiong incident.”

Chen Zhixiong was a commune member from Shapu Commune in Gaoyao County, Guangdong Province. In 1980, he contracted 141 mu of fish ponds, with his wife participating in the labor while hiring one permanent worker and 400 temporary worker-days. In 1981, he contracted 497 mu, hiring five permanent workers and 1,000 temporary worker-days. The Guangdong Provincial Party Committee believed “the collective increased income while the contractor also benefited” and should vigorously promote this model. But at the national agricultural production responsibility system discussion meeting in early 1982, participants concluded that Chen Zhixiong's operation was no longer based on personal labor but on large-scale operation using hired labor, with obvious capitalist characteristics. A Xinhua reporter wrote an internal reference report titled “Guangdong's Shapu Commune Shows a Batch of Contract Households Based on Hired Labor,” attracting high-level attention. Days later, instructions from a central leader in charge of ideology reached Ren Zhongyi: “Attached is some material—I don't know how accurate it is. If true, I wonder what the Provincial Committee's view is? I personally believe that according to this material, this has departed from the socialist system and requires clear regulations to stop and correct it, with provincial notification. This concerns the overall situation of the rural social system, so I'm requesting the Provincial Committee's consideration.”

This instruction was an order to crusade against “hired workers.” It was precisely then that Ren Zhongyi received Zheng Yanchao's letter.

Zheng Yanchao combined research materials and specific cases to elaborate his viewpoints.

Ren Zhongyi said: “Right now, regarding the individual economy, we can only support it, not suppress it. But to support it, we must first give it proper recognition. If a 'capitalist' sword of Damocles forever hangs overhead, how can it develop? Marx had an 'eight-person regulation' regarding individual economy, but what should we call individual economies exceeding eight hired workers? We hadn't figured this out either. Your thesis provided a major theoretical breakthrough and innovation, offering a basis for our decisions. I support you! We'll also formulate policies based on your viewpoints, giving it an official name—how about calling it 'private economy'? Let it develop and grow.”

From then on, a completely new term was officially born in China's reform and opening-up history: private economy.

Next, Ren Zhongyi sighed deeply: “Doing scholarship in China isn't easy—there are risks.”

“Yes, my advisor warned me there might be trouble and that my defense might not pass.”

“You've already gone beyond Marx's books. Whatever people say you are, you become. Say you're anti-Marx and you become anti-Marx.”

“But I'm not opposing anything. Marx also advocated liberating productive forces. Lenin had the 'New Economic Policy'—why can't we learn from it?”

“But don't be afraid. Times are progressing. You should choose your research direction based on the materials you've mastered. Once you've chosen your direction, persist with it. Maintain your academic integrity—don't be swayed by any non-academic evaluations.”

Outside the window, kapok trees listened quietly, contemplating.

During their conversation, Ren Zhongyi's eyes continuously gazed kindly at Zheng Yanchao. According to many who saw him, Ren Zhongyi had a distinctive appearance, most distinctive being those prominent large eyes: fierce as fire when angry, deep as an abyss when contemplating, bright as lamps when excited. During the Cultural Revolution, rebels drew caricatures precisely capturing this feature—three strokes, five lines, and there was his portrait. Many years later, Zheng Yanchao still remembered those kind eyes—warm and bright, warming his heart for decades.

After this meeting, Zheng Yanchao's thesis defense passed smoothly. After graduation, he embarked on a path of economic research, eventually becoming one of Guangdong's distinguished economists.

That year, Guangdong's relevant departments specially convened a large symposium on the hired worker issue. Since this was the first time domestic theoretical circles publicly discussed this sensitive topic, it immediately attracted widespread attention, with relevant central ministries sending leaders to participate. After heated debate, the meeting concluded: In our country's current stage, hired labor operations have both benefits and drawbacks, with benefits outweighing drawbacks. Hired operations should be guided according to circumstances, promoting benefits while eliminating harm. The meeting further concluded that regarding new situations and contradictions emerging during reform and opening up, more investigation and research should be conducted. For issues that remained temporarily unclear, one should observe carefully rather than act hastily, and certainly should not arbitrarily criticize and ban them.

That year, Guangdong Province introduced further measures supporting the individual private economy, establishing provincial and municipal individual-private economy associations while organizing separate industry associations for leather goods, clothing, beauty services, dining, eyewear, and other sectors. Professional markets such as Xihu Road's night market, Yide Road's dried goods market, Wenyuan Electronics City, and Panyu Yifa Shopping Mall were successively established.

“East, south, west, north, center—get rich in Guangdong.” In an instant, Guangzhou became a paradise for individual private operators, the earliest playground for risk-takers and adventurers. The streets filled with out-of-town wholesale merchants speaking various dialects and carrying packages of all sizes.

Bell-bottom pants, jeans, sneakers, electronic watches, calculators, permed hair, discos, Teresa Teng... “Guangdong-style trends” triggered butterfly effects, sweeping through the nation's cities and countryside. They delivered the first burst of colorful fashion to one billion citizens emerging from turmoil and poverty.

According to incomplete statistics, by the end of 1985, individual private economy practitioners in the Pearl River Delta exceeded five million. These five million-plus workers, together with millions in “three-capital enterprises,” jointly launched the magnificent first wave of Chinese migrant workers—surging and continuing to this day. They brought fashion, wealth, vitality, and direction to traditional China.

That was a season of alternating warmth and cold. A seedling just testing heaven and earth's temperature had barely emerged—either to freeze in the wilderness or stand proudly against frost. As long as it survived the ice and snow before spring, it would be heaven's favored child, claiming the entire season.

That was an era when ideology was hypersensitive. “Public” and “private,” “capital” and “social,” “left” and “right”—these metallic, rigid concepts constantly collided in the sky, striking sparks, clanging loudly. Thick fog pervaded. Every tremor in the air could trigger thunderclaps and lightning.

In 1981, Guangdong's tourism departments began organizing mainland citizens' tours to Hong Kong—China's first eyes to be dazzled.

Also that year, Hong Kong singers performed in Guangzhou for the first time. Following years of established practice, singers could only stand dignifiedly on stage facing fixed microphones, performing as if delivering reports. But this time there was chaos. When excitement peaked, this famous singer named Roman Tam grabbed the microphone, pulled the cord, jumped and sang across the stage, gesticulating wildly, utterly intoxicated. This triggered public outcry. Newspapers everywhere opened fire, severely criticizing this “bourgeois decadent stage manner.”

The criticism grew louder, the atmosphere thicker. Ren Zhongyi had to make a public statement: “What did Marx say? Does standing while singing mean socialism while walking and singing means capitalism? Our Communist Party's Provincial Committee should only manage what people sing, not how they sing it.”

The Oriental Hotel opened the first commercial music teahouse, which proved extremely popular. Amid melodious music and flickering neon, young men and women sang, danced, and drank coffee. Guangzhou residents began enjoying warm, romantic evenings.

Fashion gradually arose and flourished. Hong Kong and Taiwan pop songs drifted through every street. In that rich romantic atmosphere walked people with permed hair, bell-bottoms, camouflage, high heels, miniskirts. Rumors spread throughout inland China: Guangzhou's streets were full of “American troops”—because the young men's camouflage uniforms with many pockets resembled American military uniforms. Reports claimed prostitutes were everywhere.

An inland vice-governor on a business trip to Guangzhou, seeing various scenes, angrily pounded hotel walls and wept: “I never imagined our socialist country would become like this!” Another old general stomped his feet, beat his chest, and sighed to heaven: “Relying on this generation to enlist and fight—how can our army win?” He wrote to Beijing denouncing Guangdong, firmly demanding they “recover the lost territory.”

In April 1981, State Council Vice Premier Wan Li came to Guangzhou to supervise port operations—Guangdong's import-export volume had surged while port capacity remained inadequate. Many foreign ships waited on the high seas, creating international disputes. Seeing the colorful world on the streets, even this pioneer of China's rural reforms grew somewhat worried and advised in friendly tones: “Zhongyi, you should still manage things a bit—there's much discussion in Beijing.”

Ren Zhongyi half-joked: “Comrade Wan Li, we should manage major affairs. These minor lifestyle matters should be left alone. Growing beards—our founding father Marx himself had a big beard. What's wrong with bell-bottoms? Our ancestors wore them during the Tang Dynasty. As for disco, isn't it just jumping around? Men and women don't even touch. When we used to dance ballroom, men and women held each other close. In Yan'an, didn't our Party leaders hold dances every weekend?”

White Swan was the first overseas venture to test Guangdong's waters.

This was mainland China's first five-star hotel, invested in by Hong Kong's Henry Fok, designed over forty stories high—Guangzhou's tallest building then. From groundbreaking day one, White Swan attracted heated debate: “How can Communists sign contracts with capitalists?” “Five-star hotels will allow brothels.”

White Swan was originally a foreign-related hotel serving overseas businesspeople. But to gather popularity and prosperity, Henry Fok decided to open it to all society during 1982 trial operations. Thus, the doormen's striped pants, hostesses' qipao dresses, silver utensils, exquisite toothpicks, indoor waterfalls—all shocked Guangzhou residents.

But good times didn't last—embarrassing incidents followed. Many Guangzhou residents had never seen toothpicks, napkins, and other disposable items, and casually took them. Toilet paper wasn't yet common, so the hotel's toilet paper became a hot commodity, requiring hundreds of rolls of replacement daily. What pained management even more was that some young men wore fashionable shoes with iron heel taps, casually tap-dancing on marble floors, leaving hard-to-repair marks.

The hotel established regulations: improperly dressed persons forbidden; those wearing iron-tapped shoes forbidden, with special tools and staff stationed at entrances to remove heel taps.

This triggered nationwide uproar. Inside and outside Guangzhou, northern and southern media launched attacks, fiercely besieging this newly hatched white swan as completely unsuited to Chinese conditions, advocating bourgeois lifestyle, discriminating against Chinese nationals—a replica of old China's “Chinese and dogs not allowed.”

Henry Fok worried himself sick, regretting his mainland investment. In his distress, he decided to host a banquet for Ren Zhongyi at White Swan, tentatively sending an invitation. Staff advised Ren against attending—once he appeared, tomorrow's Hong Kong papers would publish it and all of Beijing would know. “Eat one meal and people will say you're in bed with capitalists.”

While knotting his tie, Ren laughed heartily: “Guangzhou and Hong Kong aren't 'sworn brothers'—they're real brothers, not only wearing the same pants but drinking the same milk”—referring to both drinking Pearl River water. “Today real brothers are hosting—such a famous opportunity, why wouldn't I go? Besides, who made a rule that Communist Party secretaries can't go to five-star hotels?”

At the banquet, facing domestic and foreign journalists, the well-dressed Ren Zhongyi chatted with Hong Kong and Macao merchants like old friends, filling the hall with warmth. Henry Fok was overjoyed and called for brush and paper, requesting Ren's inscription. Ren surveyed the crowd: “What should I write?” After slight contemplation, he immediately wrote down Li Bai's romantic lines:

Though apes cry from both riverbanks ceaselessly,

The light boat has passed ten thousand mountains.

After White Swan took flight, other investments by Hong Kong merchants—Li Ka-shing's China Hotel, Gordon Wu's Garden Hotel, Cheng Yu-tung's, Lee Ming-chak's, and Lee Shau-kee's projects—successively settled in Guangzhou. Even the government-run Oriental Hotel expanded to five stars. In 1985, when China announced its first batch of five-star hotels—five total—the first four were all in Guangzhou.

A sudden storm nearly shattered Guangdong's spring.

It was early 1982. Guangdong's bold economic reforms, such as liberalizing prices, caused panic elsewhere. Under the law of value, originally scarce commodities flowed toward Guangdong. Surrounding provinces cried: “Guangdong is a Special Zone; we've become disaster zones,” setting up checkpoints at provincial borders to inspect goods and merchants. The Finance Ministry, Economic Commission, Planning Commission, Tax Administration, Industrial and Commercial Administration, Foreign Trade Ministry, Materials Ministry, and other organs complained endlessly. Strict planned economy was still practiced, while Guangdong's market economy represented a massive disruption. Ideological openness and freedom also made inland provinces view it like floods and plagues. All this caused repeated anger at high central levels. There were even severe rebukes: “Is Ren Zhongyi still a Communist Party member?”

The storm brewed violently. Accompanying rapid economic development, serious smuggling also appeared along Guangdong's coast. Thus, smuggling incidents became the fuse.

On January 11, 1982, the central government issued “CCP Central Committee Emergency Notice” as Document No. 2, directly targeting Guangdong with harsh language: “Regarding this serious problem that damages the Party's prestige and concerns our Party's survival, the whole Party must grasp it firmly, solving it with thunderous swiftness. Those seriously criminal cadres, especially criminal cadres in important positions, must be arrested and subjected to the most severe legal sanctions.”

After the document was issued, Central Discipline Inspection Commission leaders immediately led teams into Guangdong for investigation.

One can imagine that southern Guangdong then saw mountains and waters trembling, flocks of birds scattering.

The situation continued deteriorating. In early February, the Central Secretariat urgently ordered all Guangdong and Fujian Provincial Committee Standing Committee members to Beijing for centralized rectification. Receiving notification, Ren Zhongyi was shocked. The Party taking such severe measures targeting a specific provincial committee team had been unprecedented after the Cultural Revolution.

The meeting atmosphere was extremely tense. Central officials spoke one after another, believing this was “another frenzied attack by the bourgeoisie,” that they would “rather suffer business losses than abandon this struggle.” Since political movements had been discontinued after the Cultural Revolution, they called this “a movement not called a movement” that “absolutely cannot be soft-handed.” Since past regulations had no death penalty for smuggling, some proposed amending criminal law, preparing to execute people. A certain leader stated clearly that Guangdong had changed color—past concessions had been given to foreigners, and Special Economic Zones were like former concessions. Others said places like Guangdong followed capitalism's well-worn path and shouldn't use ideologically liberated people but needed tough, uncompromising ones. Why did Ren Zhongyi see so many incidents as normal? Some even proposed removing him as First Secretary.

Fujian Provincial Committee Secretary Xiang Nan, also attending, whispered kindly: “After two days I finally understand—Fujian came to 'accompany the condemned.' This meeting actually targets Guangdong.”

After the meetings, Ren Zhongyi carried his heavy, frost-white head, stumbling back to Guangzhou. As soon as he sat down, Hu Yaobang's phone call urgently followed, saying the Secretariat had reported to the Political Bureau Standing Committee, which believed Guangdong leaders' thinking still wasn't clear and some problems hadn't been explained. Explicit orders: Ren Zhongyi alone must immediately return to Beijing.

This was what became known as the “second palace entry”—a historical reference to being summoned again for punishment.

Upon meeting, Hu Yaobang, representing the Political Bureau Standing Committee, again severely criticized Guangdong, hoping Ren would stand firm and state his position clearly. Finally, he was ordered to write written self-criticism for the Central Political Bureau. Ren Zhongyi was stunned. Hu Yaobang spread his hands, sympathetic yet helpless: “I've already made my oral self-criticism.”

That evening, returning to his hotel, Ren Zhongyi sat in withered silence, his feelings like surging seas. In nearly fifty years of work, he had never written self-criticism. During the Cultural Revolution, he had suffered over 2,600 cruel struggle sessions, with whips drawing blood and spit covering his face. One winter, Red Guards poured stinking ink over his head, soaking his padded clothes completely—he was thoroughly painted black. Though his body suffered and his face was humiliated, his heart remained calm and innocent. But writing this self-criticism went against his conscience. It was a distortion. As a First Secretary experienced in political movements, he understood what this meant. But if he didn't bear this responsibility, not only would he fail to pass, but all of Guangdong's cadres would hardly escape disaster.

The night was iron-black, the moon like ice. Under dim lamplight, Ren Zhongyi's grass-like white hair and grass-like worries were reflected. Forty-seven years earlier, right here in Beijing, he had been a China University student secretly joining the Communist Party, dedicating his life to battle ever since. After the Republic's founding, from northernmost Heilongjiang to southern Guangdong, he had worked diligently for the Party his entire life. Surely he was still a qualified member? Would Beijing really expel him? His heart trembled and bled as he shakily picked up his pen.

In the days that followed, he constantly worried about this painful self-criticism. After retirement, he repeatedly applied to relevant departments, hoping to photocopy one copy as permanent memorial, but he died without fulfilling this wish.

The written self-criticism was submitted. Fortunately, leaders like Deng Xiaoping and Hu Yaobang didn't order punishment. But another difficult test awaited in Guangzhou. How should he transmit the meeting's spirit throughout the province? Guangdong's reforms had just begun, at their most vigorous. Even now, in many places Cultural Revolution slogans like “Never forget class struggle” still hadn't been completely washed from walls. People still feared that recently passed disaster. If he fully transmitted the meeting's realities downward, it would surely extinguish everyone's enthusiasm. Moreover, the meeting explicitly proposed investigating and executing people, but he firmly believed that except for extremely few bad apples, the vast majority of Guangdong's cadres were innocent. Facing these beloved, respectable warriors who cleared thorns and charged forward, how could he strike them down?

Several days later, a solemn provincial three-level cadre meeting convened. The atmosphere was tense; every shadow seemed threatening. Various officials had long heard insider information—many trembled as if facing catastrophe, some even bringing luggage, prepared for imminent investigation.

Yet against all expectations, at the meeting Ren Zhongyi remained calm and composed, talking and laughing naturally. While self-criticizing insufficient attention to “smuggling crimes” and stating increased crackdown efforts, he repeatedly emphasized “unwavering commitment to reform and opening up.” He formally proposed “three opening” policies: “greater opening externally, greater relaxation internally, greater power delegation downward,” hoping everyone would further liberate their efforts to accelerate development.

A slightly older veteran cadre in the team, hearing this, was secretly shocked. During the break, he quietly pulled Ren aside and said worriedly: “What time is it? How can you still say such things? Even Beijing papers have stopped talking about this.”

Ren Zhongyi stared at this well-meaning friend for a moment, then asked lightly: “Central documents didn't forbid it.”

Addressing everyone's most concerned issue—cadre handling—Ren Zhongyi suddenly stood. He gazed deeply at those present, his eyes bright as fire. Then, slowly but solemnly and decisively, he promised: “As long as no money went into personal pockets but work was done according to Provincial Committee deployment, even if problems occurred, the Provincial Committee takes responsibility—mainly I take responsibility.”

The entire venue fell silent. Then thunderous applause erupted, tears flowing freely.

That generation of Guangdong cadres still thanks Ren Zhongyi today. They say that if he had been a self-preserving bureaucrat or ambitious politician, he could have completely followed high-level intentions. He could have severely investigated ranks, put everyone through trials, dismissed people, sentenced people, even executed people. Not only could he have escaped unscathed, he could have won favor. If that had happened, Guangdong would certainly look different—wouldn't have its present.

This storm finally passed. But who knew what heavy price Ren Zhongyi paid?

That autumn, the CCP's 12th Congress was about to convene. With his qualifications, abilities, achievements, and prestige, he had originally been listed among candidates for central leadership, with strong possibility of assuming very important positions. But his actions after coming to Guangdong had caused too much controversy, angering a huge bureaucratic establishment. His name was ultimately deleted—and permanently deleted.

Historical reformers have generally been thus. While risking removal of social ills, they often also removed their own futures.

Praised one year, condemned the next, praised and condemned yet another.

In this tumultuous, bumpy journey stood the stubborn figures of Ren Zhongyi and the people of Lingnan (southern Guangdong).

After the smuggling incidents, Beijing withdrew foreign trade rights previously delegated to Guangdong. Many economic policy documents specially noted “Special Economic Zones are no exception” or “Special Economic Zones must also implement this.” Some inland provinces and cities also took measures, detaining and freezing as smuggled goods many materials transported from Guangdong. Guangdong's supply personnel conducting normal business in other provinces also received cold treatment—some were regarded as smugglers. In minor cases their documents were confiscated; in serious cases they faced unreasonable detention. Some provinces even explicitly stated that supply personnel weren't allowed to do business in Guangdong.

Postal departments nationwide also particularly targeted mail from Guangdong, arbitrarily opening and inspecting packages. In their consciousness, Guangdong was the national center for pornographic materials and spiritual pollution.

This phenomenon even penetrated ideological fields. In television programs and films shot during those years, an almost fixed pattern emerged—whenever negative characters from the economic sphere appeared, they were portrayed as Guangdong people speaking broken Cantonese. This phenomenon persisted even into later times.

For a period, Beijing buzzed with rumors about dismissing Ren Zhongyi and expelling him from the Party.

The idea for Special Economic Zones had been proposed by Deng Xiaoping, but over the years he kept observing and pondering—neither denying nor affirming, only saying: “Shenzhen Special Economic Zone is an experiment. Whether the path is correct still needs observation. Success is our hope; failure is also experience.”

Many overseas media sensationalized this, exaggerating CCP high-level divisions, saying Shenzhen was merely experimental, possibly sacrificial, ultimately certain to require executing someone as an example.

During those years, China's economic reform was in comprehensive exploration. Even State Council documents stated the need to “feel the stones while crossing the river.” Indeed, in that complex era, special environment, sensitive position, Ren Zhongyi needed to feel too many stones—not only economic but also political and cultural. Any carelessness could cause these stones to suddenly fly up and smash his skull mercilessly.

His secretary Ju Liming told me that gradual aging, extreme work demands, heavy psychological pressure, plus huge lifestyle differences caused Ren Zhongyi's health to frequently show warning signs. His teeth quickly all fell out, replaced with dentures—eating was inconvenient, they broke easily, and he constantly visited dentists.

In spring 1983, Ren Zhongyi clearly felt his heart rhythm was irregular. Hospital examinations shocked even doctors—his heart was experiencing thirty thousand premature beats daily. They advised immediate surgery. He smiled, said his body was strong enough, and refused. They advised working half days, resting half days, but this was impossible.

Ren Zhongyi's workload was unimaginably large. One detail reveals the whole—during his tenure he rarely rode in sedans. His official vehicle was a twelve-seat Toyota van. Why? To utilize travel time for hearing reports and holding discussions. The van was a mobile office, while he was a tireless machine, constantly operating at high speed and efficiency.

Controlling his weakening body, bearing heavy pressure, Ren Zhongyi was like a fearless lone hero, holding high the fire of his soul, overdrawing all his life's energy, resolutely walking across vast Lingnan. He explored a path, pursued a dream.

It was the people's blessing, civilization's smile, humanity's great way.

His gallbladder began aching with dull pain, increasingly severe, developing into abdominal distension, loss of appetite, unbearable pain. After New Year's 1984, he was hospitalized. Gallbladder stones with severe inflammation required immediate removal—otherwise his life would be endangered.

After surgery began, all doctors were stunned. Having performed so many operations, they had never seen such an abnormally enlarged gallbladder, distended like a ripe peach ready to burst. Opening it, the doctors were even more dumbfounded—inside were sixteen round stones: large ones like quail eggs, small ones like peanuts, soybeans, mung beans.

Oh, no wonder the old fellow was so fierce—his gallbladder was stuffed full of stones!

Václav Havel said: Politics is a way of seeking meaningful life, a way of protecting and serving people.

But in China, politics is a complex, dangerous yet also sweet and noble profession. Officials large and small mostly only use and enjoy political privileges and comforts, rarely understanding or fulfilling true political responsibilities. Noble credos like “seeking truth from facts” and “not following superiors or books, only reality” have been repeatedly studied in officialdom for decades, yet how many truly implement them? When the people's fundamental interests conflict with superiors' private interests, they often dare not persist in the former, obediently choosing the latter instead. This traditional, backward yet deeply rooted “official-first” mentality is a great sorrow of our nation's political civilization.

Actually, true statesmen aren't only those who wield state power and manage great affairs, but every civil servant—whether they fulfill their due social responsibilities in their positions. In this sense, the vast majority are deficient, while Ren Zhongyi was a great statesman. In his position as First Secretary, he exhausted all efforts, dared to step against adverse currents, didn't avoid danger. He established hearts for heaven and earth, established lives for the people, opened peace for Lingnan, fulfilling almost all the heavenly duties possible under the historical conditions of that time.

But he was also a clear-minded realist who had experienced all vicissitudes, achieved great enlightenment, understood worldly affairs. He knew what he could and couldn't do. This destined his life as both a brave pioneer and adventurer, and simultaneously a clear-minded solitary figure who experienced loss.

When Ren Zhongyi retired in 1985, Guangdong's economic output had leaped to first place nationally. The Lingnan land had fully fermented—abundant materials, prosperous people, beautiful mountains and rivers—while only he himself had withered. His weight had decreased by nearly thirty kilograms from when he took office; his height had also shortened by five centimeters. He had thinned into a withered, trembling Lingnan grandfather.

Before stepping down, he went to Shenzhen once more. Standing at Wenjindu port, gazing at the brilliant lights like stars on both shores, he smiled—his smile as brilliant as those stars.

Waving his hand, he was bidding farewell to this brilliant starry river.

This was a calm yet grand curtain call.

When Ren Zhongyi retired, Beijing had arranged for him to settle there. But his feelings had taken deep root here—he decided to give his remaining life to this land. Live as a Lingnan person, die as Lingnan soil. His body aged day by day like a rough, withered kapok tree, yet his thinking remained verdant and fresh, passion's flames still constantly spurting. Moreover, the later in years, the deeper his feelings, the fiercer his heart—fierce as fire, deep as blood. With trembling hands he held high his bleeding heart, offering his final sincerity to his successors and this nation.

He lamented that Deng Xiaoping's life regret was mainly not using his lofty prestige to conduct timely political reform when economic reform had basically succeeded. He boldly suggested that China could learn from the Special Economic Zones' successful experience to conduct political system reform experiments, then gradually promote them.

Regarding building a “harmonious society,” he also had unique insights: From the literal meaning, “he” (harmony) has “he” (grain) on the left and “kou” (mouth) on the right, indicating people opening their mouths to eat—first solving subsistence issues, meaning livelihood problems. “Xie” (harmonious) has “yan” (speech) on the left and “jie” (all) on the right, indicating everyone speaks fully—implementing democracy. One livelihood issue, one democracy issue—solving these two issues makes social harmony easy. Therefore, harmonious society's foundation should be economic development, prosperous living, social democracy, and free speech.

Oh, when people are about to die, their words are also good. Let us understand this respectable elder's great loving heart.

In his later years, Ren Zhongyi mainly associated with intellectuals. One day in March 2004, he suddenly ordered his son to saw off the courtyard's threshold—the family was shocked. It turned out his good friend Yu Guangyuan from Beijing was coming. Yu was one year younger but already paralyzed, requiring a wheelchair.

Yu Guangyuan finally came. The ninety-year-old Ren Zhongyi tremblingly pushed his wheelchair-bound friend, slowly strolling and chatting by East Lake. Two thinkers who had experienced all vicissitudes—their bodies were already aged, yet their hearts remained youthful. Their thinking's wings like two nimble birds flew freely in the high, distant sky. Unable to walk further, they sat down, quietly watching the crimson kapok flowers spreading like evening clouds beside the lake. Those were life's flames, years' sighs, also their eternal regrets and hidden pain.

On April 5, 2005, Ren Zhongyi, hospitalized at Guangdong Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital, met with Zheng Yanchao once more. Lying on the intensive care bed, his body covered with tubes, breathing roughly, he actually conversed for over three hours. At parting, he said with deep meaning: “Think boldly about problems; speak cautiously. We used to criticize Hu Shi's 'bold hypothesis, careful verification,' but he was right. Lu Xun and Hu Shi were both great. Lu Xun exposed darkness; Hu Shi lit candles in the darkness. Those who light candles in darkness are more important.”

Zheng Yanchao didn't expect this was Ren Zhongyi's academic testament to him.

In November 2007, when I went to Guangdong for interviews, Ren Zhongyi had already been gone for over two years.

I walked through bustling Guangzhou streets to pay respects at Yinhe Cemetery. Among the vast forest of tombstones stood quietly an ordinary stone monument with only his name carved on its surface. If one didn't pay attention, passersby wouldn't associate it with him at all. Yet his gravestone seemed like a strange magnet, attracting almost everyone's eyes and footsteps. People stood before it, bowing in silent tribute, or stepped forward to touch the stone, as if conversing with its owner, as if shaking hands with him. That fortunate gravestone had long been polished bright and smooth by countless touches, like an elder's kindly smiling face.

His son told me that at his final moments, Ren Zhongyi could no longer speak, but his consciousness remained half-clear. After finishing his last words, he seemed to still have concerns, so he used his finger as a pen, tremblingly writing on his son's palm, asking that his lifetime reading glasses, magnifying glass, radio, and fountain pen be placed together with his ashes.

Oh, lovable elder—even in heaven, he still cares for this land, gazes upon this nation. I believe that a thousand years hence, when Guangdong's descendants recall the twentieth century, they will still revere his name. Across Lingnan's territory stand countless kapok trees like huge torches, silently burning.

(Originally published in Guangzhou Literature and Arts, Issue 4, 2008)

The Revolution of Rest (Abridged Edition)

Wang Hongjia & Liu Jian

Preface

Humanity has experienced the ancient agricultural revolution, the modern industrial revolution, and the contemporary high-tech revolution. Today, supported by unprecedented productive forces powered by advanced technology, humanity can, and must, undergo a “revolution of rest” for the first time, opening new paths toward a better quality of life.

Yet this transformation is extremely difficult, because the economic development model forged by the capital-technology alliance since modern times still dominates the world. The greatest difficulties lie not in the economic sphere but in the spiritual sphere. Therefore, this is literature's concern.

“Rest” in ancient Chinese culture meant “recuperation and renewal.” From the end of the intense Qin unification wars through the Qin Dynasty's collapse, the Western Han adopted “rest with the people” policies, enabling economic recovery and social development while consolidating the unity of China's multi-ethnic nation. The social wisdom contained in this concept of “rest” remains relevant today.

Today's international financial crisis did not occur in isolation within the