The Wind Blows Over Beigu Mountain

I’m ten years old this year. Mother says I was born behind the stove. I cried once when I came into the world, then fell asleep, as if I already knew how bad things were and that crying any more would be pointless. Father says our Wang family has farmed for generations. None of us can read, and none of us has ever starved to death. But I remember last winter, when Father knelt outside Landlord Liu’s house, begging him to lower the rent. He knelt there all day, until his knees were raw. Landlord Liu never came out. He sent a dog instead. Back then, I didn’t know what “unfair” meant. I only knew that after Father’s knees healed, he walked with a limp. … The first person I ever heard explain how the world worked was the bespectacled instructor. He said, “Kid, do you know why you’re so skinny?” I said, “Because there’s no food.” He said, “Wrong. It’s because someone won’t let you eat your fill. You grow the grain, and someone takes it away. You build a house, and someone else claims it. The world should be one where those who farm have land to farm, and those who eat have food to eat.” I didn’t really understand. But I remembered one thing: when he spoke, he looked me in the eye, as if I were a person, not a dog. I’ve followed many people in my life. Some treated me like cannon fodder; others treated me like a brother. It took me many years to figure out who truly cared about people. By the time I understood, I was already an old soldier.