Bilgee’s yurt.
Yang, a classmate who lived in Chen Zhen’s yurt, was the son of a famous professor at one of Beijing’s most prestigious universities. They had as many books at home as a small library. In high school, Chen and he had often traded books. They’d exchange views when they finished, and were best friends. In Beijing, Yang had been a shy, mild-mannered boy who blushed whenever he met a stranger. No one could have predicted that after two years of eating lamb and beefsteaks and cheese, after baking in the strong rays of the Mongolian sun season after season, he would be transformed into a brawny son of the grassland, with a face as sunburned as the native herdsmen and none of the bookish manners he’d brought with him.
Yang was more excited than Chen, and as he whipped the back of the ox he said, “I didn’t sleep at all last night. The next time Bilgee takes you hunting, be sure to let me go along, even if I have to lie there for two whole days. This is the first time I’ve heard of wolves performing good deeds for people, and I won’t believe it until I personally drag one of the gazelle carcasses out of the snow. Can we really take a cartload of them back with us?”
“Would I lie to you?” Chen smiled. “Papa said that no matter how hard it is to dig them out, we’re guaranteed a cartful, which we can swap for other things, like New Year’s items and some large pieces of felt for our yurt.”
Yang was so pleased he whipped the back of the ox until it glared angrily. “It looks like your two-year fascination with wolves is beginning to pay off,” he said. “I’ll have to start studying their hunting techniques myself. Who knows, it might come in handy in a real fight one day . . . What you said could be a pattern. Living on the grassland over the long haul as a nomad, it makes no difference which ethnic group you belong to, since sooner or later you’ll start worshipping wolves and treating them as mentors. That’s what happened with the Huns, the Wusun, the Turks, the Mongols, and other nationalities. Or so it says in books. But the Chinese are an exception. I guarantee you, we Chinese could live out here for generations without worshipping a wolf totem.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Chen said as he reined in his horse. “Take me, for instance. The wolves have won me over in a little more than two years.”
“But the vast majority of Chinese are peasants,” Yang countered, “or were born to peasants. The Han have a peasant mentality that’s impossible to break down, and if they were transported out here, I’d be surprised if they didn’t skin every last wolf on the grassland. We’re a farming race, and a fear and hatred of wolves is in our bones. How could we venerate a wolf totem? We Han worship the Dragon King, the one in charge of our agrarian lifeline—our dragon totem, the one we pay homage to, the one to whom we meekly submit. How can you expect people like that to learn from wolves, to protect them, to worship and yet kill them, like the Mongols? Only a people’s totem can truly rouse their ethnic spirit and character, whether it’s a dragon or a wolf. The differences between farming and nomadic peoples are simply too great. In the past, when we were immersed in the vast Han Chinese ocean, we had no sense of those differences, but coming out here has made the inherent weaknesses of our farming background obvious. Sure, my father is a renowned professor, but his grandfather and my mother’s grandmother were peasants.”
“In ancient times,” Chen said, picking up the thread, “the impact of Mongols on the world was far greater than that of the Han, who outnumbered them a hundred to one. Even now, people in the West call us members of a Mongol race, and we accept that. But back when the Qin and Han dynasties unified China, the word Mongol didn’t exist. I tell you, I feel sorry for the Han Chinese. We built the Great Wall and crowed about what an achievement it was,
Yang, a classmate who lived in Chen Zhen’s yurt, was the son of a famous professor at one of Beijing’s most prestigious universities. They had as many books at home as a small library. In high school, Chen and he had often traded books. They’d exchange views when they finished, and were best friends. In Beijing, Yang had been a shy, mild-mannered boy who blushed whenever he met a stranger. No one could have predicted that after two years of eating lamb and beefsteaks and cheese, after baking in the strong rays of the Mongolian sun season after season, he would be transformed into a brawny son of the grassland, with a face as sunburned as the native herdsmen and none of the bookish manners he’d brought with him.
Yang was more excited than Chen, and as he whipped the back of the ox he said, “I didn’t sleep at all last night. The next time Bilgee takes you hunting, be sure to let me go along, even if I have to lie there for two whole days. This is the first time I’ve heard of wolves performing good deeds for people, and I won’t believe it until I personally drag one of the gazelle carcasses out of the snow. Can we really take a cartload of them back with us?”
“Would I lie to you?” Chen smiled. “Papa said that no matter how hard it is to dig them out, we’re guaranteed a cartful, which we can swap for other things, like New Year’s items and some large pieces of felt for our yurt.”
Yang was so pleased he whipped the back of the ox until it glared angrily. “It looks like your two-year fascination with wolves is beginning to pay off,” he said. “I’ll have to start studying their hunting techniques myself. Who knows, it might come in handy in a real fight one day . . . What you said could be a pattern. Living on the grassland over the long haul as a nomad, it makes no difference which ethnic group you belong to, since sooner or later you’ll start worshipping wolves and treating them as mentors. That’s what happened with the Huns, the Wusun, the Turks, the Mongols, and other nationalities. Or so it says in books. But the Chinese are an exception. I guarantee you, we Chinese could live out here for generations without worshipping a wolf totem.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Chen said as he reined in his horse. “Take me, for instance. The wolves have won me over in a little more than two years.”
“But the vast majority of Chinese are peasants,” Yang countered, “or were born to peasants. The Han have a peasant mentality that’s impossible to break down, and if they were transported out here, I’d be surprised if they didn’t skin every last wolf on the grassland. We’re a farming race, and a fear and hatred of wolves is in our bones. How could we venerate a wolf totem? We Han worship the Dragon King, the one in charge of our agrarian lifeline—our dragon totem, the one we pay homage to, the one to whom we meekly submit. How can you expect people like that to learn from wolves, to protect them, to worship and yet kill them, like the Mongols? Only a people’s totem can truly rouse their ethnic spirit and character, whether it’s a dragon or a wolf. The differences between farming and nomadic peoples are simply too great. In the past, when we were immersed in the vast Han Chinese ocean, we had no sense of those differences, but coming out here has made the inherent weaknesses of our farming background obvious. Sure, my father is a renowned professor, but his grandfather and my mother’s grandmother were peasants.”
“In ancient times,” Chen said, picking up the thread, “the impact of Mongols on the world was far greater than that of the Han, who outnumbered them a hundred to one. Even now, people in the West call us members of a Mongol race, and we accept that. But back when the Qin and Han dynasties unified China, the word Mongol didn’t exist. I tell you, I feel sorry for the Han Chinese. We built the Great Wall and crowed about what an achievement it was,
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