A journey along the literary Silk Road to attend the first Tacheng & Emin Literary Silk Road China and International Writer’s Exchange.
One of the things I was unprepared for as I began my literary career, was the extent to which I would become ‘the oil to be borrowed’, writing blurbs for other writers, hosting panels at events, and being invited on junkets, to help promote new ventures. It was in this capacity that I was invited by the China Writer’s Association to attend the first Tacheng & Emin Literary Silk Road China and International Writer’s Exchange. An opportunity to showcase the diversity of China’s heritage, and the opening of the Tacheng Literature Museum.
The event was held in Xinjiang, a region in which, due to the vast size of China, I had never set foot before, and whose reputation in the West filled me with some trepidation. Among the overseas attendees, my journey ended up being one of the longest, and hardest. Beyond planned 30 hours of travel, with stopovers and transfers, the sudden cancellation of the final flight led to an 8-hour impromptu road trip though the country roads of the province furthest from “The Brains” of China. A trip that, whilst I was able to ultimately endure, the car wasn’t, and we ran out of fuel before we reached civilisation. I was eventually bundled into a local taxi (forgetting my suitcase in the rush and panic), and finally arrived in Tacheng well into the early morning, missing the whole welcoming gala…But, after two whole days of travel, the bed was soft, I woke to my luggage finally arriving, and a busy couple of days ahead.
The heat of the Xinjiang summer was oppressive, but that, the exhaustion and the jetlag all melted away under the gratitude of arriving, and the stunning vistas. A region little discussed before it became a stick to beat China with, I felt blessed to experience this beautiful region first hand. Distinct from the central plains, the area is inherently Western Liao, a civilisation founded by the Khitan ruler Yelu Dashi in the 12th century. Both its uniqueness, and the cultural hybridisation with Han, were fascinating to discover, not only through the artefacts of the heritage museum, but in the everyday life of those around me. I was not at leisure to wander widely, as my time in the region was short, but, whilst modern Western media coverage has tended towards a narrow focus, it had obviously overlooked the several dozen ethnic groups that have historically co-existed. Integration is clearly encouraged, and what I saw of Tacheng was a sleepy, modern city, with Slavic and Islamic designs unassumingly blended into everyday architecture. Away from the official slogans, the locals who don’t bat an eyelid about their multicultural families, living with quiet ease in this melting pot. The rich hybrid cuisines serve as another delicious testament of this mingling.
On the old Emin Street now known as Yuliu Alley, the region’s historically multicultural nature is still reflected in microcosm, with about 30 households of mixed ethnicities, some going about their business, others chatting outside their homes, shaded by an elm and willow, whose trunks had grown entwined, each leaning on and in turn supporting the other. This century-old tree has come to symbolise union between different peoples, as has the pomegranate, its myriad seeds representing each ethnicity, firmly held in a single whole fruit. This powerful symbol lent itself to the title of He Jianming’s acclaimed work of reportage on the lives of the region’s people, a work which has earned its own dedicated room at the beautiful new Tacheng Literature Museum.
The museum itself, the product of a very chic Shanghai architectural agency, mirrors the region’s unique stylings, broad flat buildings, flavoured with soviet blockiness from the nations just beyond the border. Inside, the clean minimalism and soft curves seem almost like a deliberate contrast, and made me consider the relationship between the harsh structures of law, and the soft societal currents that make it liveable. As well as He, there were all the authors you’d expect to find there, such as Wang Meng, Zhang Wei and Jidimajia, but I was delighted to turn into a room where a splendidly hand-crafted large cyan orb nestled beneath a model satellite, as if floating over a carpet of starlight, the world of Tujia sci-fi writer Ye Mei. And then I realised why I’d been invited there.
These weren’t the only museums we visited. The ones on folk and local histories were just as interesting. I was fascinated by the stories of the challenging lives of Xinjiang’s 20th century modernisers, who became its early settlers. Careful agriculture, and frugal living, where linhuanhua comics, ‘80s pop and cinema, offered an escape whilst they built an oasis against the inhospitable terrain and inclement weather.
Of course, I was not the only ‘jiabin’ on this expedition, and what I always cherish most on such trips, is the individual connections I’d never otherwise be able to make. The face-to-face interactions, the shared moments of resonance and perception. On our way to the little Tartar Bakery in Tacheng, I was seated next to Yang Shoude, a rather retiring, elderly author who heads the quarterly magazine Silk Road People, and who regaled me with the lives and works of remarkable locals. Wandering through the breathtaking backdrop of the Yemili grasslands, I contemplated the future of Chinese literature overseas with Yan Sixue, senior researcher from the China Writer’s Association. At the home/museum of local character “Big Sister Ma”, the policewoman who adopted a found family of ethnically varied homeless, orphaned and abandoned, I sat with Jiang Rong, the deputy Secretary of the Xinjiang Writer’s Association. Knowing my interest in myths and monsters, she entertained me with legends of Altay’s own cryptid, a Chinese cousin of the Loch Ness Monster.
As I write, I glance up at the exquisitely carved gourd, which Xing Lingling, chair of the Emin Arts and Literature Association, so kindly helped me find from the artist’s archive, to match a dear friend’s zodiac. Even that all but surreal road trip, which I shared with fellow guest Alisher Rhakat, the Kazakhstani author, led to conversations facilitated by the driver, who spoke both Kazakh and Mandarin, and translation apps, when our vocabulary outstripped his, which kept our spirits up during the interminable drive through the bare-rock mountains.
One conversation that left a particularly deep impression on me, was with Patigül, a Shawan-born Weiwu’er author now based in eastern China. At first withdrawn, she became passionate and intense when speaking about her novel Bloodline, which fictionalises the dramatic family histories of great Weiwu’er and Hui clans she had been born into, giving voice to the less celebrated but nevertheless present aspects of ethnic mingling, the clashes and conflict, the domestic cruelty behind closed doors, and the patriarchal abuse exacerbated by difference in beliefs and customs. You may expect her to shy away from integration, but nevertheless, cultural blending is something Patigül wholeheartedly supports, “collision and clash are the prelude to integration”, she mused.
The multiple and disparate parts of my own Chinese heritage often remind me of the prismatic complexities of China’s cultures, and how fragile that umbrella term of “Chinese” can be. My own work is all about building bridges, whether it is creating an understanding of China’s cultures and society for the Anglophone world, or opening doors into its amazing literary innovations. It’s important work that I take pride in. My inclusion in this Literary Silk Road adventure, and being made a cultural emissary at the opening of its literature museum gave me a feeling of recognition that will fuel me to continue building these bridges.
Written by Xueting C. Ni. If you like this article, why not read: Xueting C. Ni Interview, Sinophagia and Chinese Horror
