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My childhood was spent in war. As long as I can remember, I have been "hiding" constantly, living in extreme fear of hiding here and there all day long. Even under these conditions, my father, an illiterate farmer, still let me start school at the age of five. I clearly remember that it was raining heavily that day and the village roads were muddy. One of my cousins ​​​​carried me to the private school on the front platform. The private school is run by my second father and only has a few children. He squatted on the steps in front of the house early in the morning, holding a hookah and smoking, looking really scary. I don't remember what lessons my second father gave me, but it was probably the same kind of thing. But what impressed me most was the sacrifice to Confucius. That afternoon, the second father wore long robes and mandarin jackets, set up an incense table in the field in front of the door, lit incense and burned paper with great piety, kowtowed and chanted some words. We children also knelt in a row behind us, kowtowing and bowing. This is probably our happiest day.