For this week’s edition of In This Together, we present a non-fiction text from the prolific Wuhan-based writer, Fei Wo Si Cun 匪我思存 (psudonym of Ai Jingjing 艾晶晶), who has been publishing a series of texts, collected under the title The Wuhan Battle Diaries, since the first day of the city’s lockdown. Xiao Yue Shan, the translator of this text, explains the significance of these diaries:
The news in China came at the end of the lunar year; a particularly ill-fated time, as the holiday season piques the highest rate of travel both within and outside of the country. We did not know then what we know now—how quickly the virus would spread, how drastic its impact would be on our daily lives, and how, in a brief few weeks, the whole world would come to experience the same fear, trepidation, uncertainty, and weariness that the people of Wuhan awoke to in the thick of its winter.
Fei Wo Si Cun is an incredibly popular writer; her works, largely tales of love and desire, have made her a household name and launched her into screenwriting as well as media production. When the lockdown was first announced, her’s was one of the first voices sounding in response, and it has since persisted in its accounts. Her intimate, informal language charted the city’s tragedies—sometimes pragmatically, sometimes despairingly, yet always indelible with the sense of survival, and interwoven with a sense of intimate locality.
There are cities that become synonymous with their devastation—Wuhan, which had previously occupied a low tier in the global consciousness, will likely be bound to the COVID-19 pandemic for the enduring future. Yet, in Fei’s tender depictions of the city, we become privy to its actualities; there is a redemptive grace that even the most devastated places may persist as a home, as somewhere precious. Many of us around the world are finding ourselves suddenly estranged from our localities, which have been cleared of their familiarities and comforts, but it is my wish, in translating this, that a Wuhan woman’s love for her city may remind us of what we cherished of these places, of what we wish now to save.
Awaiting Spring Under Quarantine
by Fei Wo Si Cun 匪我思存
These days, I’ve been staying up late. Yesterday, at around two in the morning, when suddenly news came online that Wuhan would halt all forms of public transportation—subways, airports, train stations, and any other method of leaving the city—my chest thudded. First arrived the knowledge that these measures indicated the severity of this epidemic, then came the disbelief, that I would actually witness a lockdown like this in my lifetime.
Within the moment, an innumerable number of ideas flashed through my mind, one of them being—should I immediately drive out of the city, since buying a plane ticket now is far too late? But this thought went as quickly as it came, and soon I was calm. I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I’ll stay. My whole family will stay. I won’t run, and I won’t be afraid. I still have faith in my city.
Went to wake up mama, to tell her that we have to go fill up the car with gas, because tomorrow the lockdown ensues, and there won’t be any way to get anywhere. She has no tolerance for being disturbed, and immediately begins to yell, but I quickly remind her that she also yelled when I went to buy face masks, but was quite thankful afterwards. So she sweetly shut her mouth, got dressed and out of bed, and came downstairs with me to drive out, masks on.
The gas station was ghostly, we almost thought it vacant, but a young man finally came out—also masked—to fill our tank up. I saw that the convenience store was still open, so we swiped up the rice and some snacks. He seemed a bit stunned, likely having no idea why we would buy such things at three in the morning.
Drove home and washed our hands as soon as we got inside. After going through some more news, I fell asleep.
Woke up the next morning and found that every single person in the city had gone to the markets in order to stockpile supplies. My mama too, having taken advantage of me being asleep (she knows I oppose her going out for groceries), bounded off to the stores in her mask. She said that prices have indeed gone up, but so far it’s not outrageous. So I ate the most expensive plate of caitai in my life. Normally, caitai is cheap, especially in Wuhan, where in winter, it’s basically the cheapest dish on a family’s table. Now it’s reached the highly offensive price of ten kuai for half a pound.
Mama rushed through her inflation-related complaints, then solemnly promised me that she would no longer leave the house.
The day is passing quickly as all the messages come rushing in, close friends from all over the world sending comforts from their distances, including a certain handsome actor and gorgeous actress—I won’t reveal their names, lest you all get jealous. Everyone asks: how are you? Do you need anything? I reply cheerily that everything is good. We need more masks, but there’s no packages getting through.
Friends from South America tell me all the masks there have sold out. Those from North America are also trying their best, but they’re afraid that sending post towards Wuhan is taking too long, upwards of two weeks. No luck in Singapore. The girls in Shanghai are also trying, stubbornly sending out express packages filled with masks and sanitizer, but it’s uncertain whether or not I’ll receive them.
A northeastern colleague, having just departed Wuhan, goes farther and farther. We send each other our good wills, promise to take care of ourselves.
In the afternoon, mama organized some of our stock. Still a few masks left. She comforts me, saying that we’re not leaving the house anyway, so we won’t have use for them.
I throw open all the windows in the house to let some air in, carefully noting the time, closing them when we hit curfew.
It’s very cold.
Our Wuhan is neither north nor south, so we shamelessly say that the south has no reception and the north has no warmth, and we’re the ones who have it good. But since the arrival of this new virus driving chaos, we’re now at the centre of the nation’s resentful attention.
I tell my colleague from the northeast to please avoid get-togethers. She says not to worry, she knows.
Thinking back, we were lucky. Even though she had stayed in Wuhan for quite awhile, we were so busy at that time, working in the studio day and night, hardly crossing one door, let alone two. The furthest we went was to take the elevator to the lobby, picking up takeout.
Yesterday was somehow both frantic and slow, spent the majority of my time browsing the news, finding out that many of the major local hospitals are critically low on masks, goggles, and other medical supplies. The anxiety of the doctors is palpable—I spread some of their calls for assistance, somewhat lulling myself into the belief that there has to be a solution.
Later on I saw that doctors from all over the country are flocking to Wuhan, giving the front-line medical personnel a chance to catch breath. This continuous battle has merged with the fight against fatigue, but finally help has arrived.
A little later, the official reports announced that a xiaotangshan-style (a rapidly built, specialized treatment centre built in Beijing during the SARS epidemic) isolation hospital will be built in six days.
Almost asleep, a friend in another time zone came knocking via text, asking after me. I said again, everything’s fine. No one is leaving the house, and we’re being careful to reduce our burden on the city. Staying clean.
She consoles me, saying I’m doing the right thing.
I went to sleep, then.
Today the good news is abundant. Woke up to find that hundreds of excavators are already at work on the new hospital, and donations nationwide have been streaming to Wuhan from all directions, and even JD.com has donated masks and other supplies via overnight delivery.
In the afternoon I felt that everything was getting better. Besides the official deployment, other social resources are also in the process of mobilizing, and a great many kindhearted people were volunteering products and time. For example, some citizens gathered to form a car service for medical personnel, and others who live close to the hospitals have opened their home to let those employees rest.
Today is New Year’s Eve, and the year passes amidst the sound of firecrackers. The spring breeze sends warmth through the eaves. A week ago, I couldn’t have imagined this feeling, passing the Spring Festival in Wuhan locked-down like this. It is an utterly unforgettable thing.
To speak for myself, an ordinary citizen of Wuhan, I am immensely grateful for all the support, all the aid, and towards all those who have kept Wuhan in their thoughts, I sincerely say, thank you. There have been moments where tears have fallen as a result of your kindnesses, for everything you’ve done.
To all of you reading this, I promise my family and I will endure this quarantine, to do it cleanly, to patiently wait for spring.
When the warmth of the coming season conjures its flowers, when the epidemic is over, I welcome everyone to Wuhan. We can see the cherry blossoms in spring, eat lobsters in summer, I’ll take you walking along my favourite street of Donghu in autumn, and we’ll climb towards Qingchuan Pavilion in winter, you can see the bounding river from there, and Yellow Crane Tower.
Will that the pleasures of life stay as green as mountains, that the moonlight never ages, and that the wonders of youth be never lost.
I’m in Wuhan, waiting to meet all of you again, to raise a glass together.
In this new year, may you find health and peace, may time bring you luck, may your desires prove their reality.
Translated from the Chinese by Xiao Yue Shan
Interested in submitting work to this Feature? We’re looking for literature in translation—specifically fiction, nonfiction, and poetry—that addresses the current pandemic. Send work under 2,500 words directly to blog@asymptotejournal.com. General submission guidelines apply.
Fei Wo Si Cun 匪我思存 is a pioneer of the Chinese romance novel, bestselling author, screenwriter, and the founder of Shuangqi Films. She is also the Vice Chairman of the Hubei Writers Association, the President of the Hubei Internet Writers Association, a member of the China Writers Association, and a member of the Hubei Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultive Conference. She has won the Mao Dun Literature Newcomer Award, as well as the Network Literature Newcomer Award. To date, she has published twenty-three works, including 东宫 (Donggun), 来不及说爱你 (Too Late to Say I Love You), 佳期如梦 (A Season as a Dream), and 千山暮雪 (Qianshan Muxue). Many of her works have been adapted into award-winning TV series.
Xiao Yue Shan is a poet and editor born in China and living in Tokyo, Japan. Her chapbook, How Often I Have Chosen Love, was the winner of the Frontier Poetry Chapbook Prize. She currently works with Spittoon Literary Magazine, Tokyo Poetry Journal, and Asymptote. Her website is shellyshan.com