Qingming festival in China: families reunited after strict travel restrictions

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  Sjoerd den Daas

  correspondent China

Linfen cemetery in northern China is very busy. A hundred thousand claps sound from all sides and flares go into the air. Fireworks are sold at the entrance, among other things to scare away evil spirits. But also paper money, fruit and other items that could come in handy in the afterlife.

It’s Qingming, the annual festival where people in the region remember their dead. For many Chinese, this day, which is celebrated and mourned, is different this year. After three years of strict travel restrictions, families are finally reunited and are allowed to celebrate their dead for the first time.

“Here grandma, grandpa, smoke a cigarette,” says one of Lü Jinfeng’s grandchildren, sticking two cigarettes next to a series of incense sticks in the sand at his grandmother’s grave. She died a hundred days earlier from the effects of covid. Until then, the 96-year-old Lü had survived everything: a civil war, the Japanese occupation, also the cultural revolution.

Not a matter of course: her husband died in the late 1960s, during the disaster years under Mao Zedong. A conflict between two rival factions became so high that he had to pay for it with his life. “There was shooting, blood was spilled,” says son Xu Xinnian of the faction targeting the Mao loyalists. “The building my father was in was even bombed.”

At least thirty people are said to have died, including father Xu Changgui. “My father’s loyalty to the great leader was great,” says Xinnian. “For example, he also did self-criticism for the statue of the leader. His death meant that my mother became a widow at an early age. She had to take care of six children on her own.”

“We lived in a cave on the loess plateau, it was not easy,” says daughter Xu Guanghua with tears in her face. “It was hard work. She was a model employee every year at the cooperative where she worked, always taught us to be frugal and law-abiding.” Mother Lü, who had been a member of the Communist Party even before Mao proclaimed the People’s Republic, remained loyal to the hammer and sickle to the end.

“She loves the party, 100 percent,” says daughter Xu Guanghua. “After the earthquake in Sichuan, for example, she deposited 500 renminbi in the party treasury. After the corona outbreak in Wuhan, she transferred another 200 renminbi,” she says, the equivalent of 65 and 25 euros. When her mother died, Guanghua was with her son in America. She couldn’t make it back in time for the funeral.

“Anyway, nobody dared to tell me at first, afraid that I wouldn’t be able to eat and sleep,” she says, tears rolling down her cheeks in her mother’s bedroom. Portraits of both her parents adorn the bedside table. “Two nights I was upset and indeed I didn’t sleep. I would have loved to kiss her again.”

The death happened in the transition period, right after the release of zero covid. To the surprise of many, the lockdowns suddenly came to an end at the beginning of December. The mandatory hotel quarantines for incoming travelers only ended a month later, but the almost daily corona test and the health app, which had long been more important than a passport, were suddenly gone. However, there was no solid exit plan.

It was during that period that Lü was vaccinated, says her son. Until then, many elderly people did not see the need for this: due to the zero-covid policy, the risk of infection was minimal for more than two years. One shot was too little and came too late, it turned out less than ten days later. “She had a bad appetite, didn’t eat her noodles and had a fever,” says son Xinnian. “Then I knew she was infected. That same night she died.”

According to the latest figures from the Chinese authorities, about 80 percent of the population has been infected since the turnaround, and 83,255 people died. Critics think the number of deaths is higher: everyone was infected at the same time, natural immunity was not there, and vaccination coverage was low. Hospitals were overloaded. Estimates range from several hundred thousand to possibly one and a half million deaths.

“If she hadn’t gotten infected, she wouldn’t have left so quickly,” Xinnian says about his mother’s death. He says he doesn’t hold a grudge. “Letting go is difficult, it takes time. But we can’t get stuck in it, my mother wouldn’t have wanted that.” Qingming is the time for them to celebrate her life. “She was already old, and we know that every life has a beginning and an end.”

One of the granddaughters throws a paper Mahjong game into the crackling fire at the foot of the grave. “So you can play with grandpa.” The eldest son sprinkles baijiu, Chinese grain wine, on the yellow earth. Once again everyone goes on their knees at the family grave. “Today is a holiday and alcohol is part of it. You also have to drink underground,” laughs Xinnian.