Introduce My Hometown

I lived in a small town in the northeast of Inner Mongolia province, called Jagedaqi (加格达奇), before I started elementary school. It is located at the foot of the Xing’an Mountains. Although I spent many years there, I was too young to explore much of the town. I could barely remember what it looked like until one summer a few years ago when I had the chance to visit again.

On the train ride to Jagedaqi, the view from the window was filled with endless meadows. Occasionally, I saw boys riding horses. Just a few hundred meters away, they were galloping, shouting, and chasing one another for fun. I thought to myself, "This must be every boy’s dream." Riding a horse must feel like flying—on the boundless meadow, nothing holds them back. They can embrace the speed and freedom of horseback riding. City boys, by contrast, often seek thrills by speeding in cars—a dangerous alternative.

Another striking feature of the meadow was the river. Rivers in that plain never flow in straight lines; they meander endlessly, marking their courses with winding silver streaks across the landscape. At dusk, when the sun sank below the horizon, millions of golden light spots twinkled on the meadow, resembling a magnificent starry sky.

As the train neared the mountainous area, the scenery changed dramatically. Small hills began to appear. Even upon reaching the town, as it lies at the foot of the Xing’an Mountains, I only saw the smaller hills. Climbing one of them, I discovered that the town was nestled in a basin surrounded by these hills. To the north, I glimpsed enormous mountains in the distance, but they were far beyond my reach on this trip.

For about seven months of the year, snow blankets the Xing’an Mountains. I adore the graceful dance of snowflakes falling all day and night. After a snowfall, the world becomes brilliantly white—every mountain and meadow painted in that singular color. The silence is profound, with every sound muffled. Walking on the snow-covered ground, the only noise you hear is the crunch of your own footsteps.

As beautiful as snow is, winters here are tough. First, food was a constant worry. Winter offered few choices. We Chinese distinguish between staple foods, vegetables, meats, and fish. Before I became a teenager, corn was our main staple. Later, rice and wheat replaced corn, but there was a time when all we had was corn. I reached my limit during that period and swore I’d never eat corn again once I left. My cousins in Wuxi love corn, and despite my explanations, they couldn’t understand why I hated such a "delicious" food.

Vegetables were stored in the fall. Only Chinese cabbage, potatoes, and radishes could last through the winter. Every autumn, my family bought 300 to 500 pounds of cabbage and a few pounds of potatoes and radishes to store in our cellar. Like humans, animals such as squirrels, ants, and bees also stockpiled food to survive the freezing days. Thankfully, things are much better now. Thanks to the market economy and modern transportation, agricultural products from the south reach the north even in winter, providing us with more choices.

Winter also posed challenges for transportation. Snow-covered roads became dangerously slippery, forcing bus services to shut down. When the wind was too strong to ride bicycles, we had to walk to school or work.

Snowstorms were particularly perilous. Most residents of Qiqihar remember April 29, 1984, when a devastating snowstorm struck. That morning, many living in single-story houses found themselves trapped inside—unable to open their doors because the snow outside was over a meter deep.

A friend once shared his experience from that day. He was only eight years old. After school, he decided to walk home, but the snow had already buried the ditches beside the road. He accidentally fell into one, his entire body submerged in snow. Struggling to climb out, he remained unnoticed because few people were outdoors. His father, alarmed when he didn’t see him on the way home, returned to the school with his teacher to search for him. They eventually found him, numb with cold but alive. Fortunately, he recovered fully.

Not everyone found the storm frightening. One of my uncles was traveling home from another city by train. That morning, the train stopped miles away from the city center due to the storm. While most passengers stayed on board awaiting rescue, some young men, including my uncle, saw it as an opportunity to prove their strength. They jumped off the train and spent the entire day walking home through the snow.

All these stories about the storm were told to me by others—I have no memory of it myself. When I asked my father why I couldn’t recall anything, he laughed and said, "Oh, you were very happy that day. Classes were canceled because of the storm, and you had a great time playing at home with the neighbor boys."

And so, the conclusion is this: People tend to remember their hardships but forget their joys.