Noon Kashgar - Zhang Chengzhi's Selected Xinjiang-themed Works

Author: Zhang Chengzhi / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-05-01
Features: Standing here, my heart is filled with melancholy. Fifteen years ago, I was still young. At that time, the ancient-style square had not yet been tidied up, and standing on it, one could see tradition, as well as the gathering places for goods and culture. The bustling market stalls extended all the way up to the steps of the grand temple, giving it a warm and approachable feel. That was the first time I saw a self-destructive beggar covered in blood yet still singing, the first time I saw a little girl as lovely as white porcelain, and the passionate music—those were flags of breaking free from alienation. Of course, there were also the enchanting glances that occasionally flickered over. On that day fifteen years ago, my heart was stolen. That time was an internship before graduation, but somehow, it felt as if I had taken the wrong path, crossing such a vast desert alone, and I ended up here. Since then, I could no longer stop thinking about it, year after year, spring, summer, autumn, and winter. While I was in a foreign land, a part of my soul wandered through these streets at every turn. Today, I followed the edge of the desert, passed through the oasis, and arrived here again. Today, seeing these dense black beards, long robes, and flowered hats reaching down to the knees, I am no longer surprised. Unbelievably, as I actually stepped onto the local dirt road, I found myself unable to suppress a strange sense of sadness in my heart. Today, I understand that this is Sunan, the sacred practice of imitation. However, how could a few pieces of Sunan attire transform into such a renowned image, into one after another of charming and vivid men—this left me deeply moved in silence. The women are even more so. Their indescribable beauty, their intoxicating dances, and their brown headscarves all belong to them in an inexplicable way. As if their mysterious female bodies, in their silence, hinted at complete joy and taboos. Everything is hidden deep within them. Now, I can analyze it a little more clearly; through time and experience, I have begun to guess the intricate patterns woven within. A faint sense of desolation wandered through my heart. I began to kindly understand: why must I also fight against superficiality? That is the last remnant of romance. The donkeys still stubbornly dragged their carts in the heat, trotting along the shaded paths through the fields. The deep green shade of the trees stretched far away—here, perhaps, is the largest oasis in Central Asia. The scenery and the people remain the same. You are still not interested in being enrolled in state-owned units, each busy in front of your own private shops. The loudspeakers still pay no heed to fashion trends, stubbornly pouring ancient melodies into the world. The leaves of the poplar trees are covered in dust, and the stalls are neatly stacked with golden-brown naan bread, fragrant and inviting. Young girls walk past in rows, their eyebrows dyed in dark green. The elderly spend their time under the poplar trees, their deep, thoughtful eyes lost in contemplation. I wandered along the famous alleys, stopping and starting. I can’t describe how much I love these strange little alleys. Of course, in the Central Plains where I grew up, people also built houses with mud, but the same mud, yet it piled up a different temperament. It must have been settled long ago in ancient times. A mysterious mood wasly assigned to this place, rising lightly from the smooth flat roofs of the pale-white mud houses, playful, flexible, intangible, and indescribable. It has been almost impossible to approach it for a long time, and whenever I thought that I might never be able to deepen my connection with it in this life, my heart would ache. Even with feelings or knowledge, even just to grasp a little trace of its form or scent. It was too difficult—its ethereal and ever-changing nature, its refusal to make promises, as if it were separated from the world we must live in by an insulating layer of air or mist. Every year, I thought: Is it already too late? Yet they smiled mysteriously. Like white, delicate dolls, girls who radiated vitality in every inch of their bodies, even men in tattered clothes who carried themselves with grace, plump and happy housewives, and elders with white beards and deep eyes—each with clear age steps, layer after layer, category after category, matured in these mysterious alleys. They always gently cast a smile from their admirable expressions. Alas! P3-4