October 1, 2026
“To forget one’s ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without roots.”
Traditional Chinese Proverb, frequently cited by survivors and genealogists discussing the deep psychological and cultural impact of lost lineage records during the Cultural Revolution era
Dear Friends,
I hope you have been well this past month! As I mentioned before, I went to the Roots and Refuge retreat at the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies, facilitated by Chenxing Han, Ryan Lee Wong, and Victory Matsui . Held within a sacred container and guided by thoughtful teachers, the retreat invited us into some deep and tender places through writing and reflection.
At one of the afternoon workshops, someone brought up the Cultural Revolution and its impact on those of us whose parents or families lived through that period. I was both surprised and deeply touched that the topic had come up. Later, nearly a third of the participants gathered around a table to explore it.
Until then, I had heard many stories from my parents’ generation and read books on them, but I had rarely explored this part of our shared history with people my own age. Sitting around that table, I realized how much of our parents’ experiences we carry without ever having had the space—or perhaps the language—to talk about them.
The Cultural Revolution deeply shaped my parents’ generation: their values, relationships, decision-making, and how they raised their children. Yet so many of their stories have remained untold, sometimes because of the pain of remembering, and sometimes because of the silence and censorship surrounding that history in China.
Yet when things are in the shadow, they cannot be healed and transformed, and they influence the next generations from a darker place. I am thankful that in the final years of his life, my father began writing down many of his stories, including his experiences during the Cultural Revolution. They carried pain and disillusionment, but also passion, poignancy, humor, and equanimity. He wrote about what happened to him, but also about what the experience taught him about being human.
One of those stories has stayed with me. It is about a young man, a poor farmer, and a bowl of congee. It is also a story about kindness—and about how a small act of humanity can stay with us for a lifetime.
I share it here to honor my father, and all those of his generation whose lives and humanity were tested and shaped by that extraordinary and difficult time.
—
July 28, 2026
One Bowl of Congee
When I was 19, I was planning to go to Times Square to celebrate New Year’s Eve. Learning about my plan, my father looked worried, “If possible, don’t go,” he said. “You never know when the crowd could turn irrational and you could be in danger.” His response surprised me and was uncharacteristic of my dad. He was adventurous and rarely discouraged me from anything.
It’s only in the last years of his life, when he finally wrote down many of his stories, that I finally connected his response to his experience during the Cultural Revolution.
At the age of 18, full of passion and idealism, responding to Mao’s call to “send ‘educated youth’ to the countryside and learn from the farmers”, he volunteered to go to a remote region of Guangdong province with his classmates. Outgoing and charismatic, my father was soon appointed as a student leader. In this land of virgin forests, full of red maple trees and fresh air, they sang, cooked, and worked on the land together. Life was simple but also joyful.
A year later, as the Cultural Revolution took on a fervent and dark tone, absolute loyalty to Mao became mandatory. When my father questioned the claim that “Mao’s thought is the pinnacle of philosophical development,” he was labeled an anti-revolutionary and was sentenced to one year of solitary confinement.
As there was no prison, he was sent to live with a farmer, isolated from the rest of the community. Each day they hung a wooden sign around his neck with iron wire and dragged him out to be criticized in public. His friends turned against him and denounced him one by one. It was a purity test, your survival versus mine. As he returned to the farmer’s house in the evening, blood stained his neck. The farmer was an old man with a daughter with epilepsy, barely had anything to eat for himself and his daughter. Yet, every evening, after the denunciation rallies ended, the old farmer quietly ladled another bowl of thin congee and pressed crushed herbs against the cuts on my father’s neck. The farmer was illiterate; he didn’t care for the political movement, the slogans or the labels. What he saw was a young boy being tortured and humiliated daily.
My father later told me, “Not only did this farmer save my life, giving me food and medicine, but it was his kindness, that kept me alive in the darkest year of my life. It made me believe that even in the darkest times, there was kindness in people, and in the world. And that kept me going.”
Throughout that year, my father never apologized for what he said or admitted that he had done anything wrong. He was released a year later and eventually redeemed when the Cultural Revolution ended. What moved me was that he emerged from this experience having more faith in the kindness of people rather than being embittered. Looking back, I wonder if every new immigrant he housed, every elderly neighbor he taught to use a computer, every friend he helped was, in his own way, another bowl of congee returned to the world.
As I read my father’s story, I finally understood his caution of crowds. He knew how quickly a crowd could lose its sanity and humanity. Yet he also knew that even in those times, kindness can be found. Sometimes it lives in a poor farmer with almost nothing to give, who still finds enough rice for one more bowl of congee.
—
After coming back from the retreat, I found the stories my father wrote in Chinese, tucked away in the back of a bookshelf. I feel they are calling me to translate them one day, to be passed down to my son and future generations.
May the red maple trees in the forest not be forgotten. May we root deeper even as we shed leaves in the fall.
Blessings,
Lin
Photos: My father Shi Dao Wang, left in the front row, northern Guangdong, circa 1965
GoFundMe: 2025 -2027 Spirit Rock’s Community Dharma Leadership Training
Pay it forward: I’ll be joining the next Community Dharma Leadership (CDL7) training at Spirit Rock Meditation Center. This program includes five retreats over two years and costs ~$14,000. Your contribution will help me cover these expenses. No contribution is too small—every donation is deeply appreciated. Thank you for your support!