To the Ends of the Earth

The road had always been popular, even after the train was running regularly. It was not only the best way for Red Guards and revolutionaries to prove their ardor, but long walks were part of Mao’s political program—the “Forge Good Iron Footsoles” scheme. The idea was that all Chinese citizens were to have sturdy feet during the Cultural Revolution, because when the Nameless Enemy tried to invade China the evacuation of cities might be necessary. Mao filled the people with a war paranoia—that was the reason they were required to make bricks, dig trenches and bunkers and bomb shelters. They were also ordered to have hard feet and to take twenty-mile hikes on their days off in order to give themselves “iron footsoles” (“All I got were blisters,” my informant Wang told me). It was to this end that they trekked for four days on the road from Changsha to Shaoshan, sleeping in peasants’ huts and singing “The East Is Red,” “The Sun Rises in Shaoshan.” They also sang ditties that had been set to music from the Selected Thoughts, such numbers as “People of the World, Unite and Defeat the U.S. Aggressors and All Their Running Dogs!” with its stirring last line, “Monsters of all kinds shall be destroyed.” My favorite song from the Selected Thoughts, one I was assured had enlivened the marches along the Shaoshan road with its syncopation, went as follows:

A revolution is not a dinner party,

Or writing an essay, or painting a picture,

   or doing embroidery;

It cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle,

So temperate, kind, courteous, restrained

   and magnanimous.”

^*

A revolution is an insurrection,

An act of violence by which one class

   overthrows another.

They sang them on the trains, too. They flew flags. They wore Mao buttons and badges, and the red armband. It was not a trivial matter. It compared in size and fervor to Muslims making the Hadj to Mecca. On one day in 1966, a procession of 120,000 Chinese thronged the village of Shaoshan to screech songs and perform the qing an with the Little Red Book.

Twenty years later I arrived at the station in an empty train. The station was empty. The unusually long platform was empty, and so were the sidings. There was not a soul in sight. The station was tidy, but that only made its emptiness seem much odder. It was very clean, freshly painted in a limpid shade of blue, and entirely abandoned. No cars in the parking lot, no one at the ticket windows. A large portrait of Mao hung over the station and on a billboard was the epitaph in Chinese: MAO ZEDONG WAS A GREAT MARXIST, A GREAT PROLETARIAN REVOLUTIONARY, A GREAT TACTICIAN AND THEORIST.

That was delicate: nothing about his being a great leader. Mao’s dying wish (obviously ignored) was to be remembered as a teacher.

I walked through the village, reflecting on the fact that nothing looks emptier than an empty parking lot. There were many here, designed for buses; they were very large and nothing was parked in them. I went to the hotel that was built for dignitaries and I sat in the almost-empty dining room, under a Mao portrait, eating and listening to people spitting.

The tide was out in Shaoshan; it was the town that time forgot—ghostly and echoing. And so it fascinated me. It was actually a pretty place, a rural retreat, with lovely trees and green fields, and a stream running through it that topped up the lotus ponds. In any other place an atmosphere of such emptiness would seem depressing, but this was a healthy neglect—what is healthier than refusing to worship a politician?—and the few people there had come as picnickers, not as pilgrims.

Mao’s house was at the far end of the village, in a glade. It was large and its yellow stucco and Hunanese design gave it the look of a hacienda—very cool and airy, with an atrium and a lovely view of its idyllic setting. Here Mao was born in December 1893. The rooms are neatly labeled: PARENTS’ BEDROOM, BROTHER’S ROOM, KITCHEN, PIGSTY, and so forth. It is the house of a well-to-do family—Mao’s father was “a relatively rich peasant,” clever with money and mortgages, and he was a moneylender of sorts. There was plenty of space here—a big barn and roomy kitchen. Mrs. Mao’s stove was preserved (DO NOT TOUCH), and a placard near it read: IN 1921 MAO ZEDONG EDUCATED HIS FAMILY IN REVOLUTION NEAR THIS STOVE. And in the sitting room: IN 1927 MEETINGS WERE HELD HERE TO DISCUSS REVOLUTIONARY ACTIVITIES.