Bidding farewell to Father
outskirts of the city and difficult to reach at night. The room where Father’s body was placed was too cold. And it was not safe for me to spend the night there.
Looking at their exhausted faces, I couldn’t bring myself to argue.
Finally, my brother-in-law Minfu said, “Jian Ping, you’ve traveled a long way, and we haven’t slept since yesterday. Why don’t we all get some rest. I’ll take
you to the crematorium early in the morning. Four or five o’clock, you tell me the time.”
I nodded reluctantly.
I wiped away my tears and stared at Father’s image. His look was gentle, a hint of a smile crossing the corners of his mouth. I called out to him, keenly aware
that I’d never hear his response again. For the first time in my life, I felt I had lost my right to be a child. Despite Mother, the loss of him gave me a sense of
being orphaned, a feeling that had hit me during the long flight, and engulfed me again.
I adored Father and admired his resilience and enthusiasm. He was a strong man all his life. He joined the Communist Eighth Route Army when he was 18,
survived the brutal torture in the hands of the Japanese in 1940 during the Sino-Japanese War, and eventually rose to become a high-ranking government
official. Then the Cultural Revolution turned everything upside down. He was persecuted and beaten by his own people, the so-called revolutionary masses, and
was detained for more than two years by his own government. When he was “rehabilitated,” he was banished to manage a coal mine instead of being restored to
his former Deputy Governor position at the Baicheng Prefecture. But he didn’t complain. He worked with the same dedication as he had before. “We need to
move forward, not backward,” he said to us.
I found it hard to understand him — his resilience, devotion, and enthusiasm. Father was a chain smoker most of his life. Even his diagnosis of lung cancer
at age 85 didn’t change his habit. The ever-rising blue veil wafting around him seemed to be a curtain that shielded him from the outside world — including
me. Every time I asked him about his experiences during the Cultural Revolution and his feelings about them, he dismissed my questions with a wave of his
hand. “Liu Shaoqi died. Deng Xiaoping was persecuted. They were the true generals of China. What I went through was nothing,” he repeatedly said,
minimizing his own suffering.
At 5 a.m. the next morning , Minfu and I, together with my sister Wen and my cousin Yonggui, went to Chao Yao Gou Crematorium ahead of the rest of the
family. The drive was long and the exit to the site was difficult to locate. Once inside, we went directly to room 206. There he was, lying in a refrigerated coffin
surrounded by flowers. I could see him through the glass panel. His thin, silver hair was combed back, and his lips pursed in, as if he was about to say something.
The slight blush of rouge on his face, applied by his granddaughter Tingting, made him look alive. He looked so peaceful that I felt as if he were resting and
could rise to my call at any moment. Wen announced to him that I, his youngest daughter, was back again from the U.S., and told him a list of people who had
come to pay tribute the day before.
Despite my tears and blurred vision, I couldn’t help from noticing the bright red Communist Party flag over the coffin, with the yellow sickle and hammer
crossing each other on one corner. A pang of pain overwhelmed me. The night before, I had asked Wen the procedure for Father’s funeral and who would be
speaking. I had wanted to say something about Father, celebrating his life and reminiscing about the treasured memories I had of him. “There will be no
funeral,” she said in a soft voice. Seeing my bewildered look, she added: “It’s a government regulation. No funerals for high-ranking officials.” She explained it
was meant to set a good example for ordinary people. No lavish ceremony or extravagance of spending. “There will be a wake,” she added. “Family members
and friends will be able to say goodbye.” I swallowed hard. Father had devoted his entire life to the cause of the Communist Party. He deserved better treatment
from the party and the government.
At 7 a.m., all the people who came to Father’s wake gathered in a large hall. A representative of the crematorium read a list of the official positions Father
had held at various stages of his career. His voice was loud, but monotone, and his expression blank. My sisters, in-laws, a nephew and his wife, a niece and I, all
lined up next to his body according to our ranking. Mother’s high blood pressure had shot up to 190. Afraid that the final farewell might be too much for her to
bear, my sisters had taken her to say goodbye to Father the day before, and had arranged to have Wen’s mother-in-law, Ms. Liu, keep her company at home
today.
Father’s body had been transferred from the wooden coffin to an open cardboard box, elaborately decorated with a blend of fabric in burgundy, red and
gold colors. He was placed in the center of a large hall, once again, covered with the Communist Party flag, all the way from his feet to his chest. Earlier when
we were in the private room, I had placed the signed copy of my book under his pillow. I wanted it to accompany him in the last leg of his journey. Now,
standing in the large hall by his side, I gazed at him. After the speaker finished his announcement, all the attendees — Father’s former colleagues, family
friends, and representatives from different government agencies — filed in, walking in a semi-circle around his body to bid farewell, then they walked to us
family members, shaking hands with each of us to give their condolences. I moved my hands mechanically, murmuring “thank you.” In my heart, I silently went
over the words I wanted to say to him. Only the call from Minfu to line up at Father’s feet brought me back to the present. I stood side by side with my siblings
and dutifully knelt on the floor. We kowtowed three times to him.
Upon finishing the kowtow ritual, I didn’t want to stand up, knowing that Father’s body would be pulled away for cremation. My brother-in-law Zhicheng lifted
my arm to help me stand up, unaware I was delaying the process on purpose. But I couldn’t prevent the workers at the crematorium from whisking his body away.
I heard my sister Yan call out after him, “Baba, Nin Zhou Hao!” “Father, we wish you peace!” Yan and my sister Ping burst into tears. The door closed before I
could reach over to take a last look at him.
Two hours later, we received Father’s ashes wrapped in a piece of cloth and transferred them into a small wooden box. We took it to a memorial room
allocated to government officials. The room resembled a locker room, with metal frames lining the space from floor to ceiling, dividing storage space into small
cubes. Father’s resting place was waist high. My three older sisters gently covered his ash box with a party flag. I had noticed similar flags placed on top of most
of the ash boxes in this room when we walked in. Then, they took out an array of items from a handbag and placed them in the small cube: a pack of his favorite
Dazhonghua cigarettes, a pine tree that symbolizes longevity, two small towers, one “gold” and the other “silver” to ensure abundance in his next life, and a plate
of fruit. Finally, they made room for a plastic basket of flowers on the far left, and on the right a mahjong set, his favorite game. They finished the decoration by
placing a miniature jade “tombstone” in the middle. It said: “Father, At Peace Forever. Respectfully Presented by Your Children.” I stood at my sisters’ side,
wondering if they realized the conflicts of their offerings — a symbol of the Communist Party side by side with objects that had long been regarded as
superstitious.
I didn’t raise any questions. Instead, I lined up with my sisters and silently bowed to Father’s small photo on the ash box for a last farewell.
About the author:
Jian Ping is author of “"Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China." She has a BA degree in English from Jilin University, Changchun, China and a master's degree in
Film and a master's degree in International Affairs from Ohio University.
Looking at their exhausted faces, I couldn’t bring myself to argue.
Finally, my brother-in-law Minfu said, “Jian Ping, you’ve traveled a long way, and we haven’t slept since yesterday. Why don’t we all get some rest. I’ll take
you to the crematorium early in the morning. Four or five o’clock, you tell me the time.”
I nodded reluctantly.
I wiped away my tears and stared at Father’s image. His look was gentle, a hint of a smile crossing the corners of his mouth. I called out to him, keenly aware
that I’d never hear his response again. For the first time in my life, I felt I had lost my right to be a child. Despite Mother, the loss of him gave me a sense of
being orphaned, a feeling that had hit me during the long flight, and engulfed me again.
I adored Father and admired his resilience and enthusiasm. He was a strong man all his life. He joined the Communist Eighth Route Army when he was 18,
survived the brutal torture in the hands of the Japanese in 1940 during the Sino-Japanese War, and eventually rose to become a high-ranking government
official. Then the Cultural Revolution turned everything upside down. He was persecuted and beaten by his own people, the so-called revolutionary masses, and
was detained for more than two years by his own government. When he was “rehabilitated,” he was banished to manage a coal mine instead of being restored to
his former Deputy Governor position at the Baicheng Prefecture. But he didn’t complain. He worked with the same dedication as he had before. “We need to
move forward, not backward,” he said to us.
I found it hard to understand him — his resilience, devotion, and enthusiasm. Father was a chain smoker most of his life. Even his diagnosis of lung cancer
at age 85 didn’t change his habit. The ever-rising blue veil wafting around him seemed to be a curtain that shielded him from the outside world — including
me. Every time I asked him about his experiences during the Cultural Revolution and his feelings about them, he dismissed my questions with a wave of his
hand. “Liu Shaoqi died. Deng Xiaoping was persecuted. They were the true generals of China. What I went through was nothing,” he repeatedly said,
minimizing his own suffering.
At 5 a.m. the next morning , Minfu and I, together with my sister Wen and my cousin Yonggui, went to Chao Yao Gou Crematorium ahead of the rest of the
family. The drive was long and the exit to the site was difficult to locate. Once inside, we went directly to room 206. There he was, lying in a refrigerated coffin
surrounded by flowers. I could see him through the glass panel. His thin, silver hair was combed back, and his lips pursed in, as if he was about to say something.
The slight blush of rouge on his face, applied by his granddaughter Tingting, made him look alive. He looked so peaceful that I felt as if he were resting and
could rise to my call at any moment. Wen announced to him that I, his youngest daughter, was back again from the U.S., and told him a list of people who had
come to pay tribute the day before.
Despite my tears and blurred vision, I couldn’t help from noticing the bright red Communist Party flag over the coffin, with the yellow sickle and hammer
crossing each other on one corner. A pang of pain overwhelmed me. The night before, I had asked Wen the procedure for Father’s funeral and who would be
speaking. I had wanted to say something about Father, celebrating his life and reminiscing about the treasured memories I had of him. “There will be no
funeral,” she said in a soft voice. Seeing my bewildered look, she added: “It’s a government regulation. No funerals for high-ranking officials.” She explained it
was meant to set a good example for ordinary people. No lavish ceremony or extravagance of spending. “There will be a wake,” she added. “Family members
and friends will be able to say goodbye.” I swallowed hard. Father had devoted his entire life to the cause of the Communist Party. He deserved better treatment
from the party and the government.
At 7 a.m., all the people who came to Father’s wake gathered in a large hall. A representative of the crematorium read a list of the official positions Father
had held at various stages of his career. His voice was loud, but monotone, and his expression blank. My sisters, in-laws, a nephew and his wife, a niece and I, all
lined up next to his body according to our ranking. Mother’s high blood pressure had shot up to 190. Afraid that the final farewell might be too much for her to
bear, my sisters had taken her to say goodbye to Father the day before, and had arranged to have Wen’s mother-in-law, Ms. Liu, keep her company at home
today.
Father’s body had been transferred from the wooden coffin to an open cardboard box, elaborately decorated with a blend of fabric in burgundy, red and
gold colors. He was placed in the center of a large hall, once again, covered with the Communist Party flag, all the way from his feet to his chest. Earlier when
we were in the private room, I had placed the signed copy of my book under his pillow. I wanted it to accompany him in the last leg of his journey. Now,
standing in the large hall by his side, I gazed at him. After the speaker finished his announcement, all the attendees — Father’s former colleagues, family
friends, and representatives from different government agencies — filed in, walking in a semi-circle around his body to bid farewell, then they walked to us
family members, shaking hands with each of us to give their condolences. I moved my hands mechanically, murmuring “thank you.” In my heart, I silently went
over the words I wanted to say to him. Only the call from Minfu to line up at Father’s feet brought me back to the present. I stood side by side with my siblings
and dutifully knelt on the floor. We kowtowed three times to him.
Upon finishing the kowtow ritual, I didn’t want to stand up, knowing that Father’s body would be pulled away for cremation. My brother-in-law Zhicheng lifted
my arm to help me stand up, unaware I was delaying the process on purpose. But I couldn’t prevent the workers at the crematorium from whisking his body away.
I heard my sister Yan call out after him, “Baba, Nin Zhou Hao!” “Father, we wish you peace!” Yan and my sister Ping burst into tears. The door closed before I
could reach over to take a last look at him.
Two hours later, we received Father’s ashes wrapped in a piece of cloth and transferred them into a small wooden box. We took it to a memorial room
allocated to government officials. The room resembled a locker room, with metal frames lining the space from floor to ceiling, dividing storage space into small
cubes. Father’s resting place was waist high. My three older sisters gently covered his ash box with a party flag. I had noticed similar flags placed on top of most
of the ash boxes in this room when we walked in. Then, they took out an array of items from a handbag and placed them in the small cube: a pack of his favorite
Dazhonghua cigarettes, a pine tree that symbolizes longevity, two small towers, one “gold” and the other “silver” to ensure abundance in his next life, and a plate
of fruit. Finally, they made room for a plastic basket of flowers on the far left, and on the right a mahjong set, his favorite game. They finished the decoration by
placing a miniature jade “tombstone” in the middle. It said: “Father, At Peace Forever. Respectfully Presented by Your Children.” I stood at my sisters’ side,
wondering if they realized the conflicts of their offerings — a symbol of the Communist Party side by side with objects that had long been regarded as
superstitious.
I didn’t raise any questions. Instead, I lined up with my sisters and silently bowed to Father’s small photo on the ash box for a last farewell.
About the author:
Jian Ping is author of “"Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China." She has a BA degree in English from Jilin University, Changchun, China and a master's degree in
Film and a master's degree in International Affairs from Ohio University.
By Jian Ping
“Your Father is gone,” Mother said in a choking voice over the phone.
“What?” I asked incredulously. I had called my sister Wen earlier in the day and learned my Father had slept better
the night before and had eaten some solid food during the day. There was a 13-hour time difference between
Chicago and Changchun, China, where my parents lived. When I called again in the evening, Mother’s first sentence
froze me on the spot.
“What are you talking about?” I managed to ask, interrupting Mother’s sobbing.
“He was rushed to the hospital shortly after seven this morning and passed away in 10 minutes,” she said after a
pause.
I threw a glance at my watch and realized it was less than an hour ago. Father had been fighting lung cancer for
three years. I had just returned from a weeklong visit to him in Changchun 13 days before. Father was thin and weak
then, but he insisted on getting up each day to watch segments of the Beijing Olympic Games on TV in his study. He
had been a fighter all his life. I believed he could continue his battle with the disease for another year or so. I burst
into tears. I couldn’t find any words to comfort my eighty-year-old mother.
In the end, it was Mother who pulled herself together.
“You’ve just returned to Chicago,” she said. “No need to take the long journey to Changchun again. There is
nothing you can do now.”
“Your Father is gone,” Mother said in a choking voice over the phone.
“What?” I asked incredulously. I had called my sister Wen earlier in the day and learned my Father had slept better
the night before and had eaten some solid food during the day. There was a 13-hour time difference between
Chicago and Changchun, China, where my parents lived. When I called again in the evening, Mother’s first sentence
froze me on the spot.
“What are you talking about?” I managed to ask, interrupting Mother’s sobbing.
“He was rushed to the hospital shortly after seven this morning and passed away in 10 minutes,” she said after a
pause.
I threw a glance at my watch and realized it was less than an hour ago. Father had been fighting lung cancer for
three years. I had just returned from a weeklong visit to him in Changchun 13 days before. Father was thin and weak
then, but he insisted on getting up each day to watch segments of the Beijing Olympic Games on TV in his study. He
had been a fighter all his life. I believed he could continue his battle with the disease for another year or so. I burst
into tears. I couldn’t find any words to comfort my eighty-year-old mother.
In the end, it was Mother who pulled herself together.
“You’ve just returned to Chicago,” she said. “No need to take the long journey to Changchun again. There is
nothing you can do now.”
I told her I had to go back. Distance and jetlag were of no concern. I must see him and bid him
farewell.
I spent the rest of the evening searching the Internet and talking with airline representatives. I couldn’
t wait another day. Thirty-two hours after I heard the news, I stepped into Mother’s living room. It was 10
p.m. local time the next day. All my sisters and brothers-in-law were there. From their red eyes and pale
faces, I could tell they had not slept much.
I sat on Father’s black leather chair in his study and touched the frame of his photo that had been
set up on his desk. Less than two weeks ago, he was sitting on this chair while I wrapped my arms around
his shoulders. “Father,” I whispered into his right ear. “It’s time for me to leave for the airport ...” The
departure had been very difficult that time and I couldn’t finish my sentence.
Father nodded. Then he raised his head. “Nothing to worry about,” he said in a hushed voice.
“People die all the time.”
I was speechless.
“I wish you a good journey, and you should wish me a good one as well,” he continued after a pause.
I broke down. Through my tears, I could see he had put my recently published book, “Mulberry Child: A
Memoir of China,” on a shelf above his desk. I had signed a hardcover copy for him when I got home.
Father couldn’t read English, but he looked at the book and examined each of the family photos in the
book. He raised his thumb and congratulated me. His gentle smile warmed my heart. Now, the book still
sat in the same location.
“Where is the Chao Yang Gou Crematorium?” I asked my sister Wen. “I’d like to go and spend the rest
of the night with Father.” His wake and cremation were scheduled early the next morning.
My words were met with silence. Then, one after another, my sisters and brothers-in-law stated their
objections. They spoke gently, measuring their tone. They told me that Chao Yang Gou was at the
farewell.
I spent the rest of the evening searching the Internet and talking with airline representatives. I couldn’
t wait another day. Thirty-two hours after I heard the news, I stepped into Mother’s living room. It was 10
p.m. local time the next day. All my sisters and brothers-in-law were there. From their red eyes and pale
faces, I could tell they had not slept much.
I sat on Father’s black leather chair in his study and touched the frame of his photo that had been
set up on his desk. Less than two weeks ago, he was sitting on this chair while I wrapped my arms around
his shoulders. “Father,” I whispered into his right ear. “It’s time for me to leave for the airport ...” The
departure had been very difficult that time and I couldn’t finish my sentence.
Father nodded. Then he raised his head. “Nothing to worry about,” he said in a hushed voice.
“People die all the time.”
I was speechless.
“I wish you a good journey, and you should wish me a good one as well,” he continued after a pause.
I broke down. Through my tears, I could see he had put my recently published book, “Mulberry Child: A
Memoir of China,” on a shelf above his desk. I had signed a hardcover copy for him when I got home.
Father couldn’t read English, but he looked at the book and examined each of the family photos in the
book. He raised his thumb and congratulated me. His gentle smile warmed my heart. Now, the book still
sat in the same location.
“Where is the Chao Yang Gou Crematorium?” I asked my sister Wen. “I’d like to go and spend the rest
of the night with Father.” His wake and cremation were scheduled early the next morning.
My words were met with silence. Then, one after another, my sisters and brothers-in-law stated their
objections. They spoke gently, measuring their tone. They told me that Chao Yang Gou was at the
In a small cube that contained the wooden box
housing Father’s ashes, offerings included a pack of
his favorite Dazhonghua cigarettes, a pine tree that
symbolizes longevity, two small towers — gold and
silver — to ensure abundance in his next life, and a
plate of fruit, a mahjong set (his favorite game). A
plastic basket of flowers served as decor, and a
miniature jade “tombstone” in the middle said: “Father,
At Peace Forever. Respectfully Presented by Your
Children.”
housing Father’s ashes, offerings included a pack of
his favorite Dazhonghua cigarettes, a pine tree that
symbolizes longevity, two small towers — gold and
silver — to ensure abundance in his next life, and a
plate of fruit, a mahjong set (his favorite game). A
plastic basket of flowers served as decor, and a
miniature jade “tombstone” in the middle said: “Father,
At Peace Forever. Respectfully Presented by Your
Children.”