When Communism Meets Daoism

# When Communism Meets Daoism

Mr. Zhang lived next door to my grandmother. Before the Chinese Communist Party came to power in 1949, he had run a small business during the Republic of China era. Afterwards, he worked as a clerk in a state-owned traditional Chinese medicine pharmacy. But his history as a small business owner was labelled a criminal past, and his workplace slapped him with the title of "bad element." Whenever a new political campaign swept through, Mr. Zhang was the first to be publicly denounced.

He was always the first. Whenever a new movement began, before anyone even understood its official direction or who the primary targets were, the troublemakers knew it was safe to start with Mr. Zhang.

Some of his colleagues had been thoroughly poisoned by CCP political culture, finding twisted joy in tormenting others. Mr. Zhang, on the other hand, practiced Daoism and was deeply rooted in traditional Chinese values — benevolence, righteousness, wisdom, and trustworthiness. He regarded these troublemakers as moral waste. And over the years, he developed a set of gentle, flexible methods to survive them.

"Zhang, stand up!" Manager Tang, one of the primary agitators, barked during a company-wide mass meeting.

Mr. Zhang stood up calmly. "Even if you didn't call on me," he said, "I was about to stand."

The crowd laughed. He walked directly to the front and stood before the podium, as if he had been invited to give a speech.

Tang jumped forward, pointing and shouting. "What evil things have you done this year?"

Mr. Zhang turned to the audience. "I have committed many evil deeds this year — all kinds of bad things, in fact!" He paused. "But I can't remember the details clearly, so I invite the masses to expose them for me."

The crowd burst into laughter again. Through countless criticism sessions, Mr. Zhang had learned a key rule of survival: never say "no." No matter what absurd crime you are accused of, simply acknowledge it. Contradicting them would only get you labelled as "dishonest" and result in a physical beating.

Someone led the crowd in chanting slogans. Tang, embarrassed and frustrated by Mr. Zhang's relaxed attitude, wanted to slap him across the face. But not wanting to lose face in public, he joined in chanting instead: "Leniency to those who confess, severity to those who resist!"

Mr. Zhang raised his fist and chanted along. Completely unbothered. He hadn't resisted anything. They could label him whatever they wanted.

The struggle session ended in laughter and slogans. Deep down, Tang felt defeated. He lacked both education and ability, having risen to store manager solely because of his "revolutionary" family background. What he enjoyed most was abusing those who were better educated and more capable than him — deducting their wages or firing them gave him a sense of power. He also used his authority to pursue women in the workplace; female clerks who had disputes with colleagues would offer dates in exchange for revenge against their rivals. Tang felt deeply grateful to the Party for giving him such power, and in return, he felt obligated to make life miserable for "bad elements."

Frustrated by Mr. Zhang's soft resistance, Tang looked for a way to inflict real pain. He knew Mr. Zhang struggled financially. So he decided to target his pocketbook.

Mr. Zhang earned twenty-four yuan a month. He supported his elderly mother, his high-school-aged youngest child, and a wife suffering from severe lung disease who couldn't work. His eldest son worked for a construction company. His second and third children had been forcibly sent to the countryside as peasant labourers — and not only were they unable to contribute financially, they frequently returned home because there wasn't enough food in the countryside either. The family relied entirely on those twenty-four yuan just to keep basic meals on the table. There was nothing left for his wife's medical care. Meat was already a rare luxury.

Tang proposed cutting Mr. Zhang's salary by four yuan.

Four yuan doesn't sound like much. But those four yuan paid for the family's basic grain supply. Because Mr. Zhang was labelled a "bad element," no one dared to speak up for him. The wage reduction passed easily.

Despite everything, Mr. Zhang's Daoist faith gave him fortitude. He believed that the CCP's cruelty was a violation of the natural order — the Dao — and that such evil would inevitably face retribution. Every day after work, he would walk in the riverside park or gather with friends at a local teahouse to chat. When Mao Zedong passed away, they had to stop meeting at the teahouse; gatherings were easily accused of "plotting to subvert the dictatorship of the proletariat." But as soon as it was safe again, they went back.

Tang wanted to see Mr. Zhang beg for mercy. Mr. Zhang defeated him simply by never doing so.

Then his wife died.

She could not endure the financial hardship — the lack of medicine, the lack of nutrition her lungs needed. Mr. Zhang came home from the pharmacy one evening and she was gone.

According to tradition, a proper funeral honours the deceased and, through good feng shui, brings smoother fortune to surviving family members. Despite his poverty, Mr. Zhang was determined to give his wife a proper send-off. He owed her that much. He also hoped it might bring better luck to his children, especially the two in the countryside who were blocked from attending university, joining the military, or returning to city jobs — all because of his political status.

His eldest son came to him and held out a bundle of cash. One hundred yuan — everything the young man had painstakingly saved for his own upcoming marriage. Mr. Zhang took sixty and bought a simple coffin. He asked rural friends to help locate a burial plot with good feng shui.

His friends and neighbours — most of whom were also impoverished under the "black five categories" label — chipped in what they could. One yuan. Two yuan. Three yuan at most. They were biting their tongues to squeeze out whatever small gift they could afford.

After the burial, custom dictated holding a banquet to thank those who gave gifts. Mr. Zhang had forty yuan left from his son's savings, plus the monetary gifts. He couldn't afford a restaurant. So he hired a friend who was a chef to cook a home-style meal, and borrowed tables and chairs from neighbours.

For a man accustomed to social discrimination — a man who had stood before podiums confessing to crimes he hadn't committed, who had chanted slogans against himself — hosting a feast for people who cared about him was an emotional moment.

Overcome with feeling, he boasted to his guests that he had intended to buy fish. Fish was a rare luxury at the time. "I searched several markets," he laughed, his eyes bright. "But I couldn't find a single fish for sale!"

His guests laughed with him. They understood. The laughter at this table was nothing like the laughter at the struggle sessions. This laughter meant something entirely different.

Attending the feast was also a big decision for his impoverished guests. Neighbour Zhong chose to send his son, who had returned temporarily from hard labour in the countryside, so the young man could finally enjoy a decent meal with meat.

Relying on his inner strength, Mr. Zhang survived until the end of the Cultural Revolution. His "bad element" label was finally removed. His original salary was restored. Those who had tormented him eventually faced their own retribution.

In retirement, he gathered daily with old friends at the teahouse — the same teahouse they had been forced to abandon when Mao died. They discussed politics, history, and traditional Chinese opera. They lamented the moral decline in modern Chinese society, praised historical figures who had protected traditional theatre and culture, and condemned Jiang Qing and her faction for destroying traditional arts during the Cultural Revolution.

Before I went abroad in 1990, I visited Mr. Zhang one last time. He was surrounded by his children and grandchildren — the eldest son who had given up his wedding savings, the younger ones who had finally returned from the countryside. The family had survived.

We sat together and talked. He was old now, and moved slowly. But his humour was the same. At the end of our conversation, he grew quiet for a moment. Then he sighed.

"I'm old," he said. "I wish I could have contributed more to society."

This was a man who had been publicly denounced, humiliated, robbed of his wages, and stripped of his dignity for decades. A man whose wife had died because he couldn't afford her medicine. A man who had survived all of it by refusing to break.

And his one regret was that he hadn't done enough.