Cultural Hardship Journey

Author: Yu Qiujiu
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-03-01
Features: At the gate of the Mogao Caves, there is a river. Crossing the river is a stretch of open land where several monk stupas are built at varying heights. The stupas are round, resembling gourds, and covered in white. From the dilapidated ones, we can see a wooden stake standing in the center, with the walls made of yellow clay, and the base built with blue bricks. The abbots of the Mogao Caves have never been wealthy, and this can be seen as evidence. As the sun sets and the north wind bites, this desolate group of stupas appears even more sorrowful. One of the stupas, being relatively recently built, is preserved in better condition. The body of the stupa has inscriptions. As I stepped closer to read them, I was suddenly shocked—it belonged to none other than Wang Yuanlu! Historical records show that he was the culprit responsible for the Dunhuang Cave Temples. I have seen his photo: dressed in coarse cotton clothes, with vacant eyes and a timid demeanor, he was a common Chinese civilian of that era. Originally a farmer from Macheng, Hubei, he fled famine and ended up in Gansu, becoming a Taoist priest. After several twists of fate, he became the caretaker of the Mogao Caves, taking control of the brilliant culture of ancient China. He accepted meager sums of money from foreign adventurers, allowing them to transport countless Dunhuang artifacts in boxes. Today, the experts of the Dunhuang Academy can only repeatedly humiliate themselves by purchasing microfilms of Dunhuang documents from foreign museums, sighing and walking to the enlarger. It would be entirely justified to pour a flood of anger upon him. But he was too humble, too insignificant, too ignorant. The greatest outpouring would be like talking to a cow, earning only a indifferent expression. To let this ignorant body bear the burden of this cultural debt would even bore us. This is a great national tragedy. Wang the Taoist priest was merely a clown who stepped forward in error in this tragedy. A young poet once wrote that on that evening, as a team of ox carts filled with boxes was about to set off, the adventurer Stein looked back at the tragic sunset in the west. There, the wound of an ancient nation was bleeding.