From Suffering to Freedom

Xiamen, in southeastern China, is a dream city for many people, myself included. I once hoped that I could make it in that big, bustling city in Fujian Province and return to my rural hometown in style and glory. Sadly, life is full of curveballs and often doesn’t turn out the way we plan or hope. In my case, an illness threw my life off track and made it difficult for me to continue working in Xiamen. I used up my paltry wages paying for my medical bills, but my illness, instead of taking a turn for the better, just grew worse. It was then that I knew my time trying to carve a path for myself in the city had come to an end.

Boarding the bus back to my hometown, I felt as if I were duckweed, drifting with the current, unable to control my own fate. Instead of being adorned with the trappings of success, I was returning home with nothing to show for myself, back to that poor, far-flung village in the mountains in Liancheng County, Fujian Province, back to live with parents who had toiled and moiled their entire lives but still lived in poverty.

My condition continued to worsen after I had returned home. Even walking became difficult. Lying in my bed, I watched one season give way to another. More than that, I watched as life passed me by. When I occasionally browsed through old photos, the hopeful, younger versions of me felt so far away—as far away and unreachable as the promising city of Xiamen.

The first time Tzu Chi volunteers came to my home, I thought they were government workers visiting impoverished households. Some of them were wearing yellow vests, others were dressed in neat, tidy uniforms of blue shirts and white trousers (for certified volunteers). I learned later through our conversation that they were from Xiamen.

I felt very awkward when they arrived, with my terrifying-looking skin in plain view. Then one of the volunteers, a female, went to sit next to my father at a table. Her expression was soft and gentle. Her manner of speaking seemed to possess a magical power, capable of dissolving any unease in the air. I learned later this was Sister Lin Xiufang (林秀芳).

She asked Dad for some details about our family and the typical yield of our farm. Then, rising from her seat next to my father’s, she came to sit by me. She lightly touched my hand, covered in reddish, scaly plaques, taking me aback. But in the same comforting manner with which she had talked with my father, she inquired about my condition and what treatments I had tried for it.

When the cars in which they had arrived took them away again, my life fell back into its usual, simple routine. My brother was out of town working, my parents were usually busy tending to our crops in the field, and my sister-in-law, being mentally disabled, wasn’t much of a help around the house. Thus, it fell to me to care for my young niece and nephew. When they cried, I held them in my arms to soothe them; when they wet their pants, I stripped off their trousers and changed them for dry ones. When they finally had a quiet moment, I’d wearily head back to my bed and lay down for a while to give my heavy, aching legs a rest.

A month after the volunteers’ visit, I heard from my brother that some people would be visiting us in our home in a couple of days. This time, I prepared before they arrived, putting on long-sleeved clothes so that less of my skin would be exposed. When the day came, a few cars pulled into our village. When they disembarked, I noticed that they were wearing the same outfits as the volunteers before: yellow vests, or blue and white uniforms. The ones in blue and white, I had come to learn, were from Xiamen, while those in yellow vests were from closer to home: Liancheng County. I was surprised they were visiting again.