This square fathom has held my life.
Now the goose flies away,
Chased by a Phoenix from the west.
How could one life encompass such change.
Truly we live more lives than one.
Soon she came out and climbed into the sedan chair. “It is already gone,” she said to Ibrahim. He handed her a gift, an egg painted red: happiness in the new year. She bowed her head. He nodded, and directed their little train to begin the journey west.
THREE
Waves Slap Together
The trip took over a month. The roads and tracks they followed were dry, and they made good time. Partly this was because Kang asked to ride in a cart rather than be carried in a palanquin or smaller chair. At first the servants were convinced this decision had caused some discord in the new couple, for Ibrahim took to riding in the covered cart with Kang, and they heard the arguing between them go on sometimes for whole days on end. But Pao walked close enough one afternoon to catch the drift of what they were saying, and she came back to the others relieved. “It’s only religion they’re debating. A real pair of intellectuals, those two.”
So the servants travelled on, reassured. They went up to Kaifeng, stayed with some of Ibrahim’s Muslim colleagues there, then followed the roads paralleling the Wei River, west to Xian in Shaanxi, then over hard passes in dry hills, to Lanzhou.
By the time they arrived, Kang was amazed beyond amazement. “I can’t believe there is so much world,” she would say to Ibrahim. “So much China! So many fields of rice and barley, so many mountains, so empty and wild. Surely we should have crossed the world by now.”
“Scarcely a hundredth part of it, according to the sailors.”
“This outlandish country is so cold and dry, so dusty and barren. How will we keep a house clean here, or warm? It’s like trying to live in hell.”
“Not that bad, surely.”
“Is this really Lanzhou, the renowned city of the west? This little brown windblown mudbrick village?”
“Yes. It’s growing quite rapidly, actually.”
“And we are to live here?”
“Well, I have connections here, and in Xining, a bit farther to the west. We could settle in either place.”
“Let me see Xining before we decide. it must be better than this.”
Ibrahim said nothing, but ordered their little caravan on. More days of travel, as the seventh month passed, and storm clouds rolled overhead almost every day, never quite breaking on them. Under these low ceilings the sere broken hills looked even more inhospitable than before, and except in the irrigated, terraced central flats of the long narrow valleys, there was no more agriculture to be seen. “How do people live here?” Kang asked. “How do they eat?”
“They herd sheep and goats,” Ibrahim said. “Sometimes cattle. It’s like this all over, west of here, all the way across the dry heart of the world.”
“Astonishing. It’s like travelling back in time.”
Finally they came to Xining, another little walled mudbrick town, huddling under shattered mountainsides, in a high valley. A garrison of imperial solders manned the gates, and some new wooden barracks had been thrown up under the town walls. A big caravanserai stood empty, as it was too late in the year to start travelling. Beyond it several walled ironworks used what little power the river provided to run their stamps and forges.
“Ugh!” Kang said. “I did not think Lanzhou could be beaten for dust, but I was wrong.”
“Wait for your decision,” Ibrahim requested. “I want you to see Qinghai Lake. It’s just a short journey farther.”
“Surely we will fall off the edge of the world.”
“Come see.”
Kang agreed without argument; indeed, it seemed to Pao that she was actually enjoying these insanely dry and barbarous regions, or at least enjoying her complaining about them. The dustier the better, her face seemed to say, no matter what words she spoke.
A few more days west on a bad road brought them through a draw to the shores of Qinghai Lake, the sight of which took speech away from all of them. By chance they had arrived on a day of wild, windy weather, with great white clouds floored by blue-grey embroidery charging overhead, and these clouds were reflected in the lake’s water, which in sunlight was just as blue-green as the name of the lake would suggest. To the west the lake extended right off to the horizon; the curve of its visible shores was a bank of green hills. Out here in this brown desolation, it was like a miracle.
Kang got out of the cart and walked slowly down to the pebbled shore, reciting the Lotus Sutra, and holding up her hands to feel the hard rush of the wind on her palms. Ibrahim gave her some time to herself, then joined her.
“Why do you weep?” he inquired.
“ ‘So this is the great lake,’ “ she recited,
Now I can at last comprehend
The immensity of the universe;
My life has gained new meaning!
But think of all the women
Who never leave their own courtyards,
Who must spend their whole lives
Without once enjoying a sight like this.”
Ibrahim bowed. “Indeed. Whose poem is this?”
She shook her head, dashing the tears away. “That was Yuen, the wife of Shen Fu, on seeing the T’ai Hu. The Great Lake! What would she have thought if she saw this one! It is part of ‘Six Chapters from a Floating Life’. Do you know it? No. Well. What can one say?”
“Nothing.”
“Indeed.” She turned to him, put her hands together. “Thank you, husband, for showing me this great lake. It is truly magnificent. Now I can settle, let us live wherever you please. Xining, Lanzhou, the other side of the world, where once we met in a previous life — wherever you like. It is all the same to me.” And she leaned weeping against his side.
• • •
For the time being, Ibrahim decided to settle the household in Lanzhou. This gave him better access to the Gansu Corridor, and therefore the routes to the west, as well as the return routes to the Chinese interior. Also, the madressa he had had the closest contact with in his youth had moved to Lanzhou, forced there from Xining by pressure from newly arrived western Muslims.
They set up their household in a new mudbrick compound by the banks of the Tao River, close to where it joined the Yellow River. The Yellow River’s water was indeed yellow, a completely opaque sandy roiling yellow, precisely the colour of the hills to the west out of which it sprang. The Tao River was a bit clearer and more brown.
The household was bigger than Kang’s old place in Hangzhou, and she quickly set up the women’s quarters in a back building, staking out a garden in the ground around it, and demanding potted trees to begin the process of landscaping. She also wanted a loom, but Ibrahim pointed out that silk thread would be unavailable here, as there were neither mulberry groves nor filatures. If she wanted to continue weaving, she would have to learn to work wool. With a sigh she agreed, and began the process on hand-looms. Embroidering silk cloth that was already made also occupied them.
Ibrahim meanwhile went to work meeting with his old associates in the Muslim schools and fellowships, and with the new Qing officials of the town, thereby beginning the process of sorting out and assisting the new political and religious situations in the area, which had changed, apparently, since he had last been home. In the evenings he would sit with Kang on the verandah overlooking the muddy yellow river and explain it to her, answering her endless questions.
“To simplify slightly, ever since Ma Laichi came back from Yemen, bearing texts of religious renewal and rectification, there has been conflict within the Muslims of this part of the world. Understand that Muslims have lived here for centuries, almost since the beginning of Islam, and at this distance from Mecca and the other centres of Islamic learning, various heterodoxies and error were introduced. Ma Laichi wanted to reform these, but the old umma here brought suit against him in the Qing civil court, accusing him of h
uozhong.”
[Deluding the people, a serious offence anywhere in China.]
Kang looked severe, no doubt remembering the effects of such delusion back in the interior.
“Eventually the governor-general out here, Paohang Guangsi, dismissed the suit. But that did not end matters. Ma Laichi proceeded to convert the Salars to Islam — they are a people out here who speak a Turkic language, and live on the roads. They are the ones you see in the white caps, who do not look Chinese.”
“Who look like you.”
Ibrahim frowned. “A little, perhaps. Anyway, this made people nervous, as the Salars are considered dangerous people.”
“I can see why — they look like it.”
“These people who look like me. But no matter. Anyway, there are many other forces in Islam, sometimes in conflict. A new sect called the Naqshabandis are trying to purify Islam by a return to more orthodox older ways, and in China they are led by Aziz Ma Mingxin, who, like Ma Laichi, spent many years in Yemen and Mecca, studying with Ibrahim ibn Hasa al-Kurani, a very great shaikh whose teachings are spread now all over the Islamic world.
“Now, these two great shaikhs came back here from Arabia with reforms in mind, after studying with the same people, but alas, they are different reforms. Ma Laichi believed in the silent recital of prayer, called dhikri, while Ma Mingxin, being younger, studied with teachers who believed prayers could be chanted aloud as well.”
“This seems a minor difference to me.”
“Yes.” When Ibrahim looked Chinese it meant he was amused by his wife.
“In Buddhism we allow both.”
“True. But they mark deeper divisions, as often happens. Anyway, Ma Mingxin practises jahr prayer, meaning spoken aloud. This Ma Laichi and his followers dislike, as it represents a new and even purer religious revival coming to this area. But they can’t stop them coming. Ma Mingxin has the support of the Black Mountain sufis who control both sides of the Pamirs, so more of them are coming in here all the time, escaping the battles between Iran and the Ottomans, and between the Ottomans and the Fulanis.”
“It sounds like such a trouble.”
“Yes, well, Islam is not so well organized as Buddhism,” which made Kang laugh. Ibrahim continued:
“But it is a trouble, you are right. The split between Ma Laichi and Ma Mingxin could be fatal to any hope of unity in our time. Ma Laichi’s Khafiya cooperate with the Qing, you see, and they call the jahriya practices superstitious, and even immoral.”
“Immoral?”
“Dancing and suchlike. Rhythmic motion during prayers — even the praying aloud.”
“It sounds fairly ordinary to me. Celebrations are celebrations, after all.”
“Yes. So the jahriya counter by accusing the Khafiya of being a cult of personality around Ma Laichi. And they accuse him of excessive tithing, implying his whole movement is simply a ploy for power and wealth. And in collaboration with the Emperor against other Muslims as well.”
“Trouble.”
“Yes. And everyone out here has weapons, you see, usually guns, because as you noted on our journey out, hunting is still an important source of food here. So each little mosque has its militia ready to join a scrape, and the Qing have bolstered their garrisons to try to deal with all this. The Qing so far have backed the Khafiya, which they translate as Old Teaching, and the jahriya they call the New Teaching, which makes them bad by definition, of course. But what is bad for the Qing dynasty is precisely what appeals to the young Muslim men. There is a lot that is new out there. West of the Black Mountains things are changing fast.”
“As always.”
“Yes, but faster.”
Kang said slowly, “China is a country of slow change.”
“Or, depending on the temperament of the Emperor, no change at all. In any case, neither Khafiya or jahriya can challenge the strength of the Emperor.”
“Of course.”
“As a result, they fight each other a lot. And because the Qing armies now control the land all the way to the Pamirs, land that once was composed of independent Muslim emirates, the jahriya are convinced that Islam must be returned to its roots, in order to retake what was once a part of Dar al-Islam.”
“Unlikely, if the Emperor wants it.”
“Yes. But most of those who say these things have never even visited the interior, much less lived there like you and me. So they cannot know the power of China. They only see these little garrisons, the soldiers spread out by the tens and scores over this immense land.”
Kang said, “That would make a difference. Well. You seem to have brought me out to a land filled with qi.”
[qi: in this case ‘malign energy.’ Sometimes translated as ‘vital essence’ or ‘psychophysical stuff’, or ‘bad vibrations’.]
“I hope it will not be too bad. What is needed, if you ask me, is a comprehensive history and analysis that will show the basic underlying identity of the teachings of Islam and Confucius.”
Kang’s eyebrows shot up. “You think so?”
“I am sure of it. It is my task. It has been for twenty years now.”
Kang composed her face. “You will have to show me this labour.”
“I would like that very much. And perhaps you can help me with the Chinese version of it. I intend to publish it in Chinese, Persian, Turkic, Arabic, Hindi, and other languages, if I can find translators.”
Kang nodded. “I will help it happily, if my ignorance does not prevent it.”
• • •
The household became settled, with everyone’s routine established much as it had been before. The same celebrations and festivals were held by the small crowd of Han Chinese exiled to this remote region, who worked on festival days to build temples on the bluffs overlooking the river. To these festivals were added the Muslim holy days, major events for most of the town’s occupants.
Every month more Muslims came in from the west. Muslims; Confucians; a few Buddhists, these usually Tibetan or Mongolian; almost no Daoists. Mainly Lanzhou was a town of Muslims and Han Chinese, co-existing uneasily, though they had been doing it for centuries, only mixing in the occasional cross marriage.
This twofold nature of the region was an immediate problem for Kang’s arrangements concerning Shih. If he was going to continue his studies for the government examinations, it was time to start him with a tutor. He did not want to do this. One alternative was to study in one of the local madressas, thus in effect converting to Islam. This of course was unthinkable — to Widow Kang. Shih and Ibrahim seemed to consider it within the realm of possibility. Shih tried to extend the time given him to make up his mind. I’m only seven, he said. Turn east or west, Ibrahim said. Both said to the boy, You can’t just do nothing.
Kang insisted he continue his studies for the imperial service examinations. “This is what his father would have wanted.” Ibrahim agreed with the plan, as he considered it likely they would return to the interior some day, where passing the exams was crucial to one’s hopes of advancement.
Shih, however, did not want to study anything. He claimed an interest in Islam, which Ibrahim could not help but approve, if warily. But Shih’s childish interest was in the Jahriya mosques, filled with chanting, song, dancing, sometimes drinking and self-flagellation. These direct expressions of faith trumped any possible intellectualism, and not only that, they often led to exciting fights with Khafiya youth.
“The truth is he likes whatever course allows him the least work,” Kang said darkly. “He must study for the examination, no matter if he turns Muslim or not.”
Ibrahim agreed to this, and Shih was forced by both of them to attend to his studies. He grew less interested in Islam as it became clear that if he chose that path, he would merely add another course of study to his workload.
It should not have been so hard for him to devote himself to books and scholarship, for certainly it was the dominant activity in the household. Kang had taken advantage of the move west to gather all the poem
s in her possession into a single trunk, and now she was leaving most of the wool work and embroidery to the servant girls, and spending her days going through these thick sheaves of paper, re-reading her own voluminous bundles of poems, and also those of the friends, family and strangers she had collected over the years. The well-off respectable women of south China had written poems compulsively for the whole of the Ming and Qing dynasties, and now, going through her small sample of them, numbering twenty-six thousand or so, Kang spoke to Ibrahim of the patterns she was beginning to see in the choice of topics: the pain of concubinage, of physical enclosure and restriction (she was too discreet to mention the actual forms this sometimes took, and Ibrahim studiously avoided looking at her feet, staring her hard in the eye); the grinding repetitive work of the years of rice and salt; the pain and danger and exaltation of childbirth, the huge primal shock of being brought up as the precious pet of her family, only to be forced to marry, and in that very instant become something like a slave to a family of strangers. Kang spoke feelingly of the permanent sense of rupture and dislocation caused by this basic event of women’s lives: ‘It is like living through a reincarnation with one’s mind intact, a death and rebirth in a lower world, as both hungry ghost and beast of burden, while still holding full memory of the time when you were queen of the world! And for the concubines it’s even worse, descent down through the realms of beast and preta, into hell itself. And there are more concubines than wives.”
Ibrahim would nod, and encourage her to write on these matters, and also to collect the best of the poems she had in her possession, into an anthology like Yun Zhu’s ‘Correct Beginnings’, recently published in Nanjing. “As she says herself in her introduction,” Ibrahim pointed out, “ ‘For each one I have recorded, there must be ten thousand I have omitted.’ And how many of those ten thousand were more revealing than hers, more dangerous than hers?”
“Nine thousand and nine hundred,” Kang replied, though she loved Yun Zhu’s anthology very much.