Tao

I do not ask for your pity, but instead for your courage. It is a time of great sadness. I am one of many who are suffering from our country's internal fight for power and we are torn. Some just wish life to be like before, but there is no turning back now, I say, no, no turning back. Others embrace the new, joining the ranks of Mao Zedong, for world peace they say. What am I, but a small person in this big world? What am I? Who am I to say what is right or wrong for this country? For I do not truly know. My whole life has been about land, about land and peace. I do not wish for war, so please, end it.
Most of my family is gone or dead. So far, for many years, all we have had is war. Then, when there was a break taken, it was only to ward off the Japanese. Many of the beautiful farms, plains, valleys, and mountains are now bare and desolately destroyed.
I have a large family. My father's name is Dingbang . My mother was called Jun by all of the village women, for she was always very truthful. I had three older siblings: My older sister known as Jin to all of her friends, she was as pretty as a flower some would say; my older brothers were called Shing and Kuan-yin by everyone in the village that was not related to them. Then, when you finally get to me, I was called Tao which means peach or symbol of long life. I do not really know why they called me that. Do I look like a peach? Or is it because I was kind? I suppose that now I will never really know.
My family was lucky, until one night. It was the night when the horror and realization of war really dawned upon me. It was the time when, according to village laws and the laws of farmers rising early, I should have been asleep. Back into the past I take you: Snores from my parents did not annoy me, for I, Tao, was trying to draw a story on what was left of the paper that had been given me for New Years. I did not know how to write, and that one ignorance has bothered me for all time, even then I can remember the silent loathing of being poor entering my head. 'You should have learned, but you were not born to privilege, you were born to poverty.....' On and on the voice in my head issued complaints, while the true me tried to shut them out. All of the sudden there was banging on the door and I heard my father's familiar foot steps trudging towards it. 'Creak', the door opened. I stole off from my drawing to a crack in the door where I could watch the exchange of whoever it was that could be at the door. A gun was thrust at my father's chest and he was yelled at in some foreign tongue. Now I know what that man was yelling: “Give us your food, all of your food!!”, but we did not know what he was saying then. My father shook his head pleadingly, not knowing what else to do or what to say, only knowing that his life was at stake. There was a muffled bang and my father fell right before my eyes. Before he even hit the floor, soldiers burst in and started to ransack the kitchen. Hidden from their sight, I silently opened my door and tip-toed to find my mother before they discovered us. Huddling on her sleeping mat, my mother sat silently, eyes wide and a horrified expression on her face. I whispered to her, “Remember mother, the secret door. Grab everything that you don't want taken and bring it down quietly.” My reference to 'the secret door' was merely a series of planks in my parent's room that when either my mother's or my hair pin was thrust in between the fourth and the third plank, the movement would pull a string and the planks would slowly raise to reveal our cellar beneath. Ever since the war had started that had shattered our country and made even the best of friends rivals, we had been stowing most of our food and drinks down there. We kept only our food and water down in the cellar for safety, and so everyday we would go down there to refurnish our supplies.
I ran to my room and grabbed my backpack and carefully transferred the story and all the instruments that I was using to draw it in the bag, then I packed a few more qipaos, my favorite hair picks, incense, matches, a couple of candles, and then my bed roll. Then, slipping it on my shoulders, I padded silently to where my mother was in her room. I walked into an almost empty room. My mother had been hard at work, for she kept all of what little she had close to her. We were truly lucky to have the few extra qipaos that we did, not many in our village had but maybe two. She had a candle lantern with its dark shade, so that she could find her way in and out of the cellar to deposit things. There were a few things, of course, that we could not get at with the strange men about. So we allowed ourselves to be silently swallowed by the darkness of the secret.
Day by day, I listened and waited to hear if we could leave from our tiny prison. There were screams of terror and loud noises that made the earth shake. Finally, after one week in almost solid dark, there was complete silence from up above. The two days previous had been quiet in the house, but I had been able to tell that there were still people about outside and I did not want to risk it leaving our safety.
“Mother.” I said.
“Yes, my youngest daughter?” She replied.
“I am going to investigate and see if anyone is still up there.”
“Alright.” Her voice was strewn with grief. I could tell that she had been holding it in all these days, and that finally, with the strain of doing so and the reminder that we would not have to live our whole lives in this dark dismal place, she remembered that her husband was no more. So I climbed the little ladder to the entrance and placed my ear to the 'door' and listened for about five minutes. Nothing. There was complete silence. Then I ventured farther and pulled the string a little. My eyes hurt with the light of day. The sun shone complete, and there were no ugly boots or unfamiliar sights to block my way. Then I entered the once well-known room that now seemed strange. My foot steps echoed down that small hallway, and it left an empty feeling to the once held dear memories that I had kept locked tight inside the little box inside my heart. My mind traveled back to that sad image on that day that now seemed so far away. Nothing was truly harmed or damaged, the small table was overturned, and a few pots were broken. I felt a sigh of relief escape my lungs. At last, I went to check our large plowed field.
My feet touched wet earth and a sob filled my lungs, bubbling over into my throat and escaping through my mouth. Knees fell and touched the soft earth. It was destroyed. The once simplistic field that held all of our livelihood was no more. The earth was a bomb field, and now there was no way to reverse the damage. I didn't know how I would tell my mother, but I knew that we were lucky that we were still alive. That was what all those loud sounds in the night had been. Looking to my right, I noticed that the whole wall that made the outside of our small dwelling on the kitchen side was gone.
It had been burnt completely to ashes. Tears filled me, and I felt like a hail stone sinking into the earth after plummeting from heaven.
That was about two years ago from today. My mother and I patched and fixed the wall as best we could, but it was a poor comparison to what it had once been. Now life is so lonely, war has destroyed much of all that I had ever held dear. Shortly after we patched and fixed our house my mother became ill. I tried to care for her as best I could, but I truly believe that she was ready to give up. My mother died of the grief encompassed by a broken heart. So now I have no one by my side, no family alive that I know of. I am Tao and this is my life.