The Stories Hidden in That Cowhide Backpack Are a Patriotic Heart and Love of Country Passed Down Through the Generations

Inheritance in a Tibetan Village ■ Qu Rong, Chen Lei (illustrator)

I was nine years old when my grandfather passed away. On the day of the burial, a fierce wind howled across the plateau. My father squatted before the grave and slowly poured highland barley wine into the earth. The wind swept past and scattered the scent of the wine in an instant.

Before he died, my grandfather had made a special point of leaving me a cowhide backpack. It was a pack issued in 1951 to the original Tibetan People's Regiment (原藏民团). The leather surface had been worn to a shine from years of use, and the damaged spots had been carefully mended. At nine, I did not yet understand the deeper meaning of a keepsake, but I never forgot the solemn look on my father's face when he received it.

From childhood I knew that my grandfather's left leg was different from other people's. His kneecap had been shattered by a bullet, and he walked with a limp. Every summer, grandfather would roll up his trouser leg and sit at the entrance of the watchtower (碉楼) spinning wool thread, and the sunken old scar on his knee would show clearly, like a piece of bluestone that had been chiseled away.

I once gently touched the scar and asked: "Does it hurt?" "Not anymore." "Did it hurt during the fighting?"

Grandfather set down what he was doing, was silent for a long while, then braced himself up and limped toward the hearth room (锅庄室, the central living area of a Tibetan village house). At the doorway he turned and said quietly: "Your second great-uncle hurt. He didn't come back."

I learned only later that the name of my grandfather's second younger brother had been carved onto a stone stele in a martyrs' cemetery. On every anniversary of second great-uncle's death, grandfather would take out the cowhide backpack, stroke it gently, and then put it carefully away.

Once, grandfather was busy at the entrance of the watchtower when his hands suddenly stopped. He gazed at the distant snow mountains in silence for a long while, then slowly began to speak: "Back then there were three of us brothers, plus two brothers-in-law — five of us enlisted together." He counted on his fingers: "Two became martyrs, two were disabled. Later the organization arranged official posts for us, but my third brother and I both declined. In our whole lives we never once asked anything of the organization."

That sense of awareness (觉悟) had its roots in 1935. In the deep autumn of that year, the Red Army passed through Danba on the Long March. The soldiers wore thin clothing and marched through frost and snow; at night they slept under the eaves of the watchtowers — they did not knock on doors, did not enter homes, did not take a single grain of food from the people. My great-grandfather, who at the time herded livestock for a tusi (土司, a hereditary chieftain), had seen the old armies plunder and oppress the people many times. When he first encountered this force, he was full of suspicion and wariness, and spent several days watching from inside the watchtower.

Later, a Red Army cadre whose face was covered in frostbite sores and whose hands were cracked and chapped found him and gripped his hands tightly. A tongsi (通司, interpreter or interpreter-guide) translated the cadre's words into Tibetan: "We have come to help you turn your fate around (翻身)."

"Turn your fate around" was a phrase my great-grandfather had never heard before. Gradually he came to understand it meant no longer being bullied, and living one's own life on one's own terms. What moved him was not only the words, but also those hands — hands that, like his own, bore all the marks of hard labor. After that, my great-grandfather set down his yak-herding whip, joined the Danba Tibetan Independent Division (丹巴藏民独立师), and followed the Red Army forward.

In the deep autumn of 1950, my great-grandfather had been bedridden for more than two months. Tibetan medicine simmering in a copper pot made a gurgling sound, and its bitter smell filled the entire room. His three sons kept quiet watch at his bedside.

My great-grandfather reached a hand out from beneath his chuba robe (氆氇袍子). Those hands, which had gripped a rifle for years, had thick knuckles and deformed joints; they trembled slightly as they hung in the air. His three sons rushed forward and took the old man's hands.

"Always… follow… the Party." My great-grandfather's voice came in broken fragments; he had to pause after each word. Then, with great difficulty, he forced out two more words: "Re… member."

The butter lamp flickered without ceasing. The three brothers knelt in silence and carved their father's instructions into their hearts.

My father is a grassroots cadre who spent years going down to villages and townships. When he came home, he would always sit silently by the fire pit drinking butter tea. Once, he spoke up — a rare thing: "Your father never served in the army, but like your grandfather and great-grandfather, I wanted the lives of ordinary people to get better and better. Your mother can't read, but she has kept firmly in her heart the names of every ancestor and martyr in our family. Don't forget your roots!"

When I was small, my mother bought me a set of children's clothing styled after a military uniform — a green jacket with red cloth collar tabs. I would pace back and forth in the small courtyard in front of the Tibetan village wearing it, feeling very proud.

In those days, my uncle would occasionally come back to the village on home leave, wearing a sharply pressed military uniform with a neat belt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal dark, muscular arms. I always stood beside him and looked up at him. That was the image I admired most.

Later, my mother told me that my uncle had taken part in major non-war military operations (非战争军事行动) many times. In the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake, my uncle led a team into the disaster zone. During the rescue, his ulcerative colitis flared up repeatedly; he fainted from the pain three times, and each time he came to he said only one thing: "It's nothing. Keep going." After the mission ended, he too collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. At the time, my uncle stood 1.8 meters tall, but his weight had plummeted to 110 jin (55 kilograms). When he returned home after being discharged from the hospital, my mother looked at the uncle before her, now so gaunt he was barely recognizable, and quietly went back to her room to brew another pot of butter tea.

In 2020, I placed first in every individual subject and first overall in the national defense student graduation examination at Kunming University of Science and Technology, and was named a "Provincial Outstanding Graduate." Faced with multiple options, I was uncertain. I took leave on my own and returned to Danba.

Back home, I took the cowhide backpack out of the wooden chest, set it on my knees, and ran my hands over it again and again.

My father walked in from outside and sat down by the fire pit.

"Have you made up your mind?" he asked.

"One organization has offered me very good terms," I said.

My father glanced at me, then turned his gaze back to the fire pit: "When your great-grandfather followed the Red Army, he never asked about terms."

I jerked my head up: "That's different! He had no choice back then — but I do now!"

The firewood in the fire pit crackled and popped. My father did not get angry. He slowly picked up his butter tea, took a sip, and then said quietly: "You're right. You have a choice." He paused, then gently patted the cowhide backpack on my knees and said: "When you've made your choice, put this back."

I stared at that backpack. The stitches mending it looked like silent scars, one after another. I thought of the sunken hollow on my grandfather's left knee as he spun wool thread, and of my uncle's frail body after he had collapsed from illness…

"Tomorrow I'll go back to Kunming. To the army."

My father said nothing. He reached out and added a piece of firewood to the fire pit. The flames leapt up suddenly, and the whole room was lit bright.

Not long ago, after finishing a comprehensive exercise (综合演练), my combat uniform was soaked through with sweat. Back in the dormitory, I opened a parcel sent from home — inside was yak jerky that my mother had dried herself in the sun.

That evening, my father called. Through the receiver came the intermittent sound of plateau wind: "Did you get the yak jerky? Your mother dried it herself. She asked me to tell you — everyone at home is fine, don't worry." A few brief words of parting advice, and then he hung up quickly.

I took out a piece of yak jerky and chewed it slowly. That distinctive salty, savory flavor spread through my mouth. That taste carried the concern and hopes of my family, and gave me the strength to put down roots in the military camp.