Aspiration: Retracing the Road of the National Southwestern Associated University

At last we have left the city like a fishing-net,

that city of stifling, arid, empty squares

forever hauling us away toward despair!

And today, this free and open plain

has gathered us in from the vast dim edge of the sky,

and we might almost float upon the deep green sea.

— Mu Dan, from “Walking on the Open Plain”

Walking

On April 8 we set out from Xujiadu station on the Yunnan–Vietnam Railway, passing through the four counties and districts of Chengjiang, Yiliang, Chenggong, and Wuhua, keeping company with the Nanpan River. We passed nine stations — Xujiadu, Dishui, Yiliang, Shuijingpo, Kebaocun, Fengmingcun, Yangzonghai, Daying, and Shuitang — passing twenty-six times from darkness into light within the tunnels, walking fifty-two kilometers in all, more than a hundred thousand steps, looking all the way at the mountains, the waters, and the villages, until we reached the National Southwestern Associated University.

Most of the time we walked along the Yunnan–Vietnam Railway — wooden sleepers, iron sleepers, concrete sleepers, alternating in turn, simple and repeating, keeping time with our breath. Under the blazing sun, into the light breeze, listening to the birdsong, watching the flowers open, we walked on.

But why walk at all? On the first evening we sat together on the ground, drawn close, and talked from the heart.

Someone said: that stretch of history at the Associated University fills me with mystery and longing, and to walk again the road they once walked is, as it were, to reach across time and clasp hands with those who lived it.

Someone said: I walk in silence, hoping to find a peace and calm long lost to me.

Someone said: life lies in experience and exploration; the experiences I have not yet had, my heart yearns toward.

Someone said: a friend told me you lose six pounds in five days of walking, so I came gladly.

Someone said: enjoy this walk — give yourself a chance to recharge.

Someone said: to walk with no purpose, to walk purely, is the one thing I ask of myself.

Every step of the walk is an adventure into the depths of the heart. When we break away from the clamor of daily life and the familiar surroundings, and set foot on the path that belongs to us alone, the windows of the soul open gently, and the self ordinarily kept hidden steps slowly out into the sunlight. This walking is like meditation: quietly listening to the harmony of footstep and heartbeat, until the feelings we had overlooked and the thoughts we had buried begin to grow clear, welling up like spring water.

This is not merely a dialogue with the self; it is a way of seeing the self — with no disguise, no interference from without. It is precisely in such pure self-reflection that we come, little by little, to discern our true feelings, to recognize our strengths and our limits, to lift the veil on the fears and longings buried deep within.

As each step carries us deeper, the body’s weariness steadily accumulates, yet the soul finds within that weariness a kind of transcendence. Every expenditure of the body seems to turn into nourishment for the soul. Each person’s stride has its own rhythm, like the imprint of a life’s character. Walking is at once a challenge to the body and a tempering of the soul.

As we walk, we search out the path in the embrace of nature, crossing one length of track after another. This simplicity and repetition is like a miniature of life itself — day after day, stride matching stride. Yet it is precisely within this seemingly monotonous repetition that we have the chance to explore the self more deeply, to discover the fine details ordinarily overlooked.

Just as in the practice of painting or music, repetition is the road that must be traveled toward mastery. In the repetition of walking, we begin to notice the inner voices we had never perceived, and to recognize what remains constant in us amid an ever-changing world. This awareness deepens our understanding of ourselves, and lets us find true knowledge within the simple and the repeating.

The deeper we go on this journey, the more we come to understand that the meaning of walking lies far beyond reaching the destination — it is to arrive at a freedom and vastness of the soul. In this process, our relationship with ourselves grows closer and truer. We come to realize that every step, every thought, is bound tightly to the next, and that together they weave the web of our self-knowledge.

Walking between the wide earth and sky, we are moving not only through physical space but through an adventure into the depths of the soul. In such solitary hours, what we face is our own inner world — no one observing, no one appraising, only the self in dialogue with the self. It is an experience infinitely precious.

Through our walking, we see ourselves, and we see heaven and earth.

The Writing of a Book

Along the way we came to Yanquan Temple, the quiet and secluded place where Mr. Qian Mu wrote An Outline of National History.

Under the gathering shadow of the War against Japan, in 1937, as Japan’s full-scale invasion unfolded, Qian Mu moved south together with Peking University, and after many turns of hardship reached at last the National Southwestern Associated University in Kunming. In this hour of national peril, Qian Mu found a particular sense of mission. In a quiet corner of Yanquan Temple in Kunming, he began an arduous task — the writing of An Outline of National History. This was not merely a book; it was his cry against the storm, a summons to revive the spirit of the nation.

In Yanquan Temple, Qian Mu faced a twofold hardship: on the one hand the outward ravages of war and the scarcity of resources, and on the other the inward weight of historical responsibility and the burden upon his soul. Though supplies were short and the conditions of life austere, he held fast to his writing in that humble setting — a perseverance born of his deep love and anxiety for his homeland. Through An Outline of National History, Qian Mu carried a profound reflection on China’s fate, seeking, through a sweeping view of history, to awaken his countrymen’s national pride, to kindle the patriotism of intellectuals and of the broad populace alike, and to supply the War of Resistance with an inexhaustible spiritual strength.

In the summer of 1939, the first draft of An Outline of National History — which set down the rise and fall of several thousand years of Chinese history — was at last completed in Kunming. Then, in June 1940, the work was formally published by the Commercial Press. Qian Mu’s work was not only a scholarly contribution but a clear testament, in that age of upheaval, to spiritual perseverance and cultural confidence. Like a beacon, it lit the hearts of a generation through years dark as wind and rain.

Qian Mu observed that “the first task in the study of national history is to seek, within the nation and the people themselves, the place where their unique spirit resides.”

This, then, was no book written by a scholar for the sake of his own name; it was a warmth and a reverence toward Chinese history and civilization. Qian Mu wrote: “To hold a certain warmth and reverence toward one’s country’s past history means, at the least, that one will not adopt toward that past a radical nihilism; and at the least, that one will not feel that we today stand at the very summit of all past history, casting off onto the ancients every sin and every weakness of our own age. Only thus does a nation have hope of moving forward once more.”

In the stillness of Yanquan Temple, Qian Mu immersed himself in the compilation of An Outline of National History. This quiet, secluded place was not only a refuge from the ravages of war but a sacred ground where he could hold dialogue with himself. Here he reflected on his own experience and thought, and this depth of self-examination allowed him to analyze history from a more objective vantage. Under his pen, history appears not merely as a record of the past but as an exploration of thought across time; in each chapter he sought to reveal a deeper understanding of, and care for, the nation and its culture.

Beyond the walls of Yanquan Temple, the earth and sky of Kunming stretched wide, and every walk among the mountains and waters was a cleansing of the soul. This intimate contact with nature let him bring to his book a perspective that transcends particular events: by depicting the grand scroll of history, Qian Mu let his readers feel the breath of history coexisting with the rhythm of heaven and earth, revealing the subtle connection and mutual influence between history and the natural world.

Mr. Qian Mu emphasized the importance of recognizing one’s own nation’s history and culture, pointing out that if a people lacks a basic understanding of and respect for its own history, it becomes a people without cultural inheritance or historical wisdom. If one does not deeply understand the cultural spirit behind a nation and a people, then the nation may vanish and the people may scatter.

At the same time, upon this land shaped by war, he witnessed the suffering and the hope of the people, and these experiences led him to portray the figures of history with great sympathy. Qian Mu held that every historical figure is a product of their age, and that their choices and actions are determined not by individual will alone but also by the profound influence of the society, the culture, and even the natural environment of their time. His touch is gentle and full of feeling; he sought to let readers see the light and shadow of humanity behind these figures, and so to prompt deep reflection on the present.

Through the writing of his book, Qian Mu saw himself, saw heaven and earth, and saw all living beings.

The Poet

He was a poet — but not only a poet of dazzling gifts; he was also a steadfast democrat and patriot. He was one of the more than three hundred teachers and students of the Associated University who walked 1,600 kilometers on foot from Changsha to Kunming. He was Wen Yiduo.

He said: “To walk a few thousand li is no hardship at all. Though I am a Chinese, I know very little of Chinese society and of the life of the people; now it is time I came to know my homeland."

"I cherish beyond measure the scenery along the way, but I must now press on toward a greater goal.”

The trajectory of his life — and above all the trek and migration during the years of the Associated University — carried him through a transfiguration of the soul: from the self to heaven and earth, and then to all living beings, his vision ever widening, his heart ever more open.

This experience made Wen Yiduo see, profoundly, that literature ought not to rest in the expression of personal feeling alone, but should shoulder a social responsibility, and cry out for democracy and for freedom.

From poet to democrat, from the individual to the nation — Wen Yiduo’s transformation reflects the awakening of an intellectual. He began to attend to social problems, to reflect on democracy and despotism, freedom and bondage. His poetry no longer merely sang of flowers and birds, wind and moon, but brimmed with anxiety for the nation’s fate and concern for the people’s suffering.

Wen Yiduo’s patriotism found its fullest expression in the years of the Associated University. He threw himself into the movement of resistance and national salvation, taking up the pen as a weapon and writing article after searing article, calling on the whole nation to unite and stand together against the foreign foe. His actions moved countless young students, kindling the blazing fire of patriotism.

Today we walk the little lane where Wen Yiduo was assassinated, where he fell at his own front door. Upon the silent flagstone path, the weight of history makes every step heavy. This once-ordinary lane will be remembered forever because a great warrior of the nation fell here. Every flagstone, every corner of every wall, seems to tell of the tragedy of that day.

Walking here, one cannot help but feel a nameless sorrow rise in the heart. Imagining Mr. Wen Yiduo’s steps homeward that day — bearing his love for the people and his hope for the future, not knowing that his own doorstep would be the end of his life. His genius, like those pages soaked through by rain, was laden with wisdom and feeling — and then, all at once, was closed forever.

Here we walk slowly, and it seems we can still hear the echoes of those years in our ears, feel the shock of each historical instant. This is not merely mourning for the passing of one man; it is a profound reflection on that age, and on that devotion to the pursuit of truth and beauty. In this little lane we learned more about cherishing, about courage, and about the ideal of keeping faith even in adversity.

Through his poems, through his last speech, through his blood and his sacrifice, Wen Yiduo saw himself, saw heaven and earth, and saw all living beings.

The Stele

On the final day we walked into the former site of the National Southwestern Associated University, to look upon its history, to visit its halls, to recite its stele inscription, and to remember the martyrs.

“Our nation, one of the world’s ancient states, dwelling in the Heaven’s-storehouse of East Asia, ought to carry on the great legacy of Han and Tang and stand foremost among the nations of its age; and when one day the building of the nation is complete, it will surely hold a place all its own in the history of the world.”

“The great enterprise of an age — the eight years of the War of Resistance have opened its scale and laid its foundation. Today’s victory has, for our nation, the merit of turning heaven and earth about; and the mission of the Associated University began and ended together with the War of Resistance.”

“The Associated University, in its spirit of all-embracing inclusiveness, shifted the temper of the society of its time; within, it raised up a framework of academic freedom, and from without it drew the name of a bastion of democracy — defying the yes-saying of a thousand men to speak the frank, outspoken word of a single scholar.”

The inscription was composed by Feng Youlan, dean of the College of Letters at the Associated University, and recounts in full the university’s course — from its formation in 1937, through all its wanderings and removals, to its dissolution after the victory of 1946. The “Lianda Stele” may be called a distilled history of the National Southwestern Associated University, and a witness to the Chinese people’s efforts to survive and to carry on where all seemed lost.

On May 4, 1946, the “Lianda Stele” was completed. Mei Yiqi, president of the Associated University, recorded the scene of that day: “In the forenoon there was rain. At nine in the morning we held the closing ceremony in the library. After my report, I asked the representatives of the three universities — Tang (Yongtong), Ye (Qisun), and Cai (Weifan) — to speak in turn; among the guests we had invited Ma Bo’an, Yan Xiecheng, and Xiong Dizhi; and at the last, Feng Zhisheng read the inscription of the memorial stele. After the assembly we went to the hill behind to unveil the stele, and then took a photograph before the library; by then a light rain had begun. No sooner had the photograph been taken than the rain suddenly grew heavy. We sat in the office about half an hour, and only when the rain eased a little did we go out. This may perhaps be the last time I shall come to this room.”

Sitting in the old lecture hall, reciting the inscription with one voice, it was as though we crossed time and space, and the tales of courage, sacrifice, and aspiration of those years rose again before our eyes. We felt the truth that “what makes a university is not its tall buildings, but its great masters,” and felt still more deeply the “resolute and unyielding” spirit of the National Southwestern Associated University.

Sitting in the classroom, it was as though we saw the masters themselves before us:

“Professor Luo taught without bringing a single sheet of paper. Not only could he recite Du Fu’s poems and write them out on the blackboard from memory — he could recite even Qiu’s annotations by heart.” (Luo Yong)

“Professor Shen’s teaching was extremely modest, extremely restrained. He used no gestures, adopted none of the declamatory tones of the stage, had not the slightest air of the showman playing to the crowd. He spoke with great sincerity, even great innocence. But if you truly ‘understood’ his words — ‘understood’ the meanings his words left unspoken, not fully drawn out — you would benefit enormously, and would draw on it for the rest of your life.” (Shen Congwen)

“Professor Wen taught ‘with picture and text alike.’ On whole sheets of rough paper he would draw in ink all manner of images of Fuxi and Nüwa, pin them to the blackboard with thumbtacks, and lecture with pointing hand — vivid and alive, tightly ordered, rich in literary grace, rising and falling in cadence, holding his listeners spellbound. Professor Wen was a fine actor. Fuxi and Nüwa are a rather dry subject, yet to hear Professor Wen lecture was to feel a kind of beauty: the beauty of thought, the beauty of logic, the beauty of genius.” (Wen Yiduo)

As the film Forever Young says, “what this world lacks is not perfect people, but the sincerity, the righteousness, the fearlessness, and the compassion given from the depths of the heart.”

The three stirring questions once put by Zhang Boling, then president of Nankai — “Are you Chinese? Do you love China? Do you wish China well?” — rang like a waking bell in our ears all through that day.

The National Southwestern Associated University, through its spirit, its aspiration, its responsibility, and its willingness to bear it, saw itself, saw heaven and earth, and saw all living beings.

Seeing

To see is a very common word, but often we look without seeing. We look with our eyes and we look with our minds, yet often we do not see with the heart. And this journey retracing the road of the National Southwestern Associated University taught us to see with the heart.

When we set out, we saw ourselves. As we walked, we saw heaven and earth. And when we drew near to Qian Mu, to Wen Yiduo, to the memorial stele of the Associated University and that perilous, impassioned stretch of history, we saw all living beings.

To see oneself is to see the true, the good, and the beautiful; to see heaven and earth is to see the universe and life; to see all living beings is to see aspiration, responsibility, and the willingness to bear it.

At last, as we walked slowly toward the journey’s end, we understood why we had set out. And when we closed our eyes and felt with the heart, we began “to see ourselves, to see heaven and earth, and to see all living beings.”