Here For Xiao Zhan

I overheard my grandfather telling me stories from his youth.

His name was Mo Dexian. Originally from Nanjing, his hometown was destroyed by war. In order to allow his family to live a peaceful life, they settled in the idyllic town of Gezhi.

Day after day, he watched the children play hide-and-seek in the yard, his grandfather doze in his wicker chair, and his wife prepare hot meals. He felt that happiness couldn’t be more precious than this.

But then one day… while taking a walk on the hilltop, he bumped into three Japanese soldiers and witnessed one neighbor after another being murdered. He trembled uncontrollably. Who would they kill next? Nobody knew.

But more than his own safety, he feared the Japanese soldiers would harm his family, so he decided to be the first to rush out…

I am Mo Dexian.
I have a four-year-old child named Mo Dengxian.
I remember the day he was born. Outside, war raged, and despite the constant barrage of gunfire, my heart was warmer than ever.
I have built countless things with my own hands in my life, but only when I held him in my arms did I feel I had grasped the hope for the future.

But this joy is heavy,
weighing down my heart with pain;
I fear these hands cannot protect the child in my arms.

Now the Japanese have reached our doorstep again.
They want to destroy everything we have.
I’m afraid, not of death, but of Dengxian not being able to grow up safely.
So I have to go.
I have to fight for my family’s survival.

I don’t know if I can come back this
time, I don’t know if I’ll be able to watch him grow up.
If I am no longer here, I hope he remembers that I loved him.

My name is Mo Dexian. I was born and raised in Nanjing, but I had to leave my hometown amidst the flames of war, supporting my ninety-year-old great-grandfather.

My great-grandfather was born in the late Qing Dynasty and experienced too many storms in his life. We all said he was a magical person. Although he sometimes seemed confused, his inherent clarity never disappeared.

Wherever he went, my great-grandfather carried his memorial tablet. Those names and memories were tightly protected in his heart. He wanted to take “home” with him. What he protected was not just a few pieces of wood, but the roots of our Mo family.

I am even more determined to give my great-grandfather a warm home. As long as my great-grandfather is here, as long as the memorial tablet is here, our Mo family will exist.

I, Mo Dexian, escaped from Nanjing with my great-grandfather and settled down in Yichang. My wife is Xia Cheng, and my son is Dengxian.

Sometimes I can’t help but think how lively it would be if all the other members of my family were still alive, with five generations gathered together. But that winter, many members of our Mo family were unable to leave Nanjing.

My grandfather often muttered, “I want to go home.” I knew he wasn’t thinking about a particular alley in Nanjing, but rather the old Mo family home in that alley, where their children and grandchildren used to gather around them, their laughter never ceasing.

Going home is the path my grandfather walks, whether he’s awake or dreaming. My path, however, is to rekindle the family line in this foreign land, giving my grandfather, wife and children a “home.”