Crossing most of China, chasing after the lost History. Its departure echoes through the ages. I’ve read works of that era and analysis from the later generations, yet that sound feels as though I have never truly heard it. Is the Chang’an of dreams truly the ‘Heavenly Kingdom’ described in literature?
Fueled by a curiosity about ‘the ancient capital of thirteen dynasties’, ‘millennia of history’, and the ‘starting point of the Silk Road’, I set foot on this land. As the blazing sun seared on the ancient city walls, making them glow with a harsh brilliance, I found myself instinctively cringed. Was it due to the sun’s intensity, or due to the humbling presence of these bricks and stones which made me feel so puny? Shielded by an umbrella, I walk slowly, protected. The towering walls around me enveloped the heart of the city, bearing witness to countless dynastic changes. I can imagine the scene that a thousand years ago, in one early morning, horns and drums were resonating. Despite the numerous restorations, the moment I stepped on these stones, the passage of thousands of years was still vividly alive. I was eavesdropping on the explanations from the tour guide for a group of people beside me. It was not meant for me, just as I was an outsider to the history. Those traces had long merged with the land. What I could do was only eavesdropping on the footsteps of those who had walked here before, and trying to exchange the temperature between fingertips by stroking the bricks. Perhaps, I was standing in the same spot with history.
The city walls no longer served as barriers against invaders today, but more resembled a silent old man, watching over passersby with tolerance, guarding the weathered years.
The Big Wild Goose Pagoda stands proudly. As a mark of Monk Xuanzang’s journey to retrieve scriptures, the pagoda is not just a symbol of Buddhist culture, but a witness to the fusion of Chinese civilization and foreign cultures. Standing beneath the pagoda and gazing up, the sight was immediately drawn to the pinnacle, where it seemed to touch the clouds and reach the sun. Suddenly, an invisible force pulled it straight down. Accelerating, a sensation of weightlessness spreading throughout the body. Finally, gradually descended, safely caught by the pagoda, using its heavy, but soft base.
The breeze brushed against the eaves, carrying the dust and sand from the scriptures brought back by Monk Xuanzang. It exuded an ancient aroma under the scorching sun. The route of Xuanzang’s westward journey has desolated, but the soul of embracing the world was within the Pagoda. I once believed that history stood unshaken, even if eroded by wind and covered in cracks. But over the years, the Pagoda seems to tilt more. I wondered if one day it would suddenly collapse to the ground, or if it would stand forever.
As dusk falls, the bustling street market contrasted sharply with the ancient buildings, the Towers of Bell and Drum, creating two distinct rhythms on two sides of the border. Nowadays, the Towers have lost their original purpose as timekeeping instruments. However, they have also transcended to become bridges connecting the past and present. Because they were described as steadfast and profound, I really wanted to experience it firsthand, but the bridge was packed with people. Well, there are too many who wish to experience that magical connection. I left the serenity of ancient times and headed towards a new world: the vibrant street market.
The crowd moved forward, leaving some twisted pink clouds in the pale blue sky. As the sky darkened, more pink piled up, and spilled! In an instant, the blue and the pink blended together, filling the sky with purple. The contours of rooftops became clearer. The crowd flowed forward. When all the lights turned on together, it seemed the sky also bowed to the brilliance. I couldn’t see the distant lights clearly, only watching them spread from a small circle to a bigger circle, and then contracted again. But why do I need to focus on the distance, the splendor around me was enough for me to feel the greatness of the Tang Dynasty. I found a stall, sat down, and ordered a bowl of ‘lamb paomo’(cake soaked in lamb soup). Regardless of whether it was the most authentic in the eyes of locals, it didn’t matter. At this moment, I felt I was no longer a spectator, but one of them.
I reserved an entire day for the Terracotta Army. I thought I knew it well and could talk about it confidently, as we watched a full documentary before the holiday with our teachers. However, standing in front of the Warriors, I found myself at a loss for words. Rows of soldiers, each with a different expression, exuded solemnity and reverence. We stood high above, but the imposing manner of those terracotta figures remained undiminished. It was an overwhelming sense of pressure. The air was stifling, yet I did not want to leave. These silent soldiers, guarding the tomb of Emperor Qin Shi Huang for millennia, had an indescribable calm. If I had to name it, it would be a tranquility forged through countless wars and witnessed countless lives and deaths. It was as if they were frozen in a moment of history, but seemed to live forever in that moment. Fragments were scattered in the pits, and faint burn marks were still visible on the walls. What fate befell the craftsmen who toiled day and night to build this tomb? They have their own stories, but we have no way to find out. We can only listen to and experience the ancient and grand epic under their watchful gaze. Rise and fall.
Xi’an, this city, has never truly been silent. The whispers of the past are ever-present.
I had only three days trying to deeply experience its thousands of years of history. Flowers fall and dreams awaken, I captured this journey in my stamp album. A pagoda, a city wall, a stone tablet, and lines of enduring text, tell us in their own ways about, not just the history, but their tales. I blame my words for being too barren to express the emotions within. To me, Xi’an is no longer just a geographical coordinate but a witness to time. We gaze at each other. To quote ‘Histories’ by Herodotus, the buildings ‘reveal not the dead past, but the living essence of history’.
- Article / Tatiana Yao
- Pictures / Tatiana Yao
