Are you a tourist or a pilgrim?
Reflecting upon my past 40 years after crossing the Pacific Ocean on a one-way flight when I was 27, I realized I had started out as a tourist, fixating on external appearances, admiring scenes and sights like clouds in the passing. In time, like a pilgrim, I focused more on my internal development, seeking deeper self-awareness through reflection and meeting other people. All along, one question kept nagging me: How does one know who they really are?
One day during my 2022-23 fellowship in Notre Dame’s Inspired Leadership Initiative, I went on an outing with two other fellows, Paul and Todd. We stopped at the Journeyman Distillery in Three Oaks, Michigan. After touring its Featherbone Factory, we sat at the counter and ordered a sampler of six Journeyman whiskeys.
Savoring the spirits, we pondered the meaning of the label. Later, Paul, a Catholic priest, wrote to me: “You are a manifestation of the presence of God. Be awake, for God is within you! Remember . . . you are a fellow Journeyman!” I had never experienced such a sense of identity so fittingly — I am a journeyman by nature, apt to seek meaning in life while on the road.
Yet the truth remains that I have often felt envious of my childhood friends from the re-education camp where I spent three years during Mao’s Cultural Revolution in the 1960s and ’70s. They remained in the places where they grew up or worked, leading simple yet contented lives. In contrast, I moved to the United States, worked in technology for AT&T and spent over 40 years traversing the oceans in pursuit of a fulfilling way of life. Yet I wonder now what that concept, a “fulfilling life,” means to me.
Like it or not, we are who we are. Since our genes and experiences shape our personalities, the exploration of our collective and personal pasts and our lives in the present can enable us to discern our true selves. These thoughts were on my mind after my year at Notre Dame, and they propelled me to travel to a remote, mountainous village in southern China. There I visited Zhencheng Lou, one of China’s most famous tulou, or mud castles. Zhencheng Lou is where my mother was born and raised.
My mother comes from a large, wealthy Hakka family nestled in the lush mountains of the Yongding district in Fujian province. Although many Westerners aren’t familiar with the Hakkas per se, you may have heard of China’s former premier, Deng Xiaoping, or Singapore’s longtime prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew, or Lee Teng-hui, the president of Taiwan during the 1990s. These men and many other statesmen all have one thing in common: their Hakka roots.
And yet despite their prominence and influence, the Hakkas are mostly misunderstood, within China and beyond. To outsiders among the Chinese, the Hakkas are rural mountain-dwellers. Their migrant past, beginning with their initial departure from northern China in the fourth century, suggests to some that they are little different from the nomads and intruders who have played such an important role in shaping Chinese history across the centuries. However, as a subgroup of the world’s largest ethnic group, the Han Chinese, Hakkas have many character traits that remain hidden from the outside world, me included. Contemplating my enigmatic and potent Hakka heritage has made me feel throughout my life proud and humbled all at once — I, too, am persevering, and yet not nearly as much as so many Hakka people, like my mother.
As a journeyman returning to the country of my birth, this visit to my mother’s homeland in the fall of 2023 became a way to investigate myself — and to comprehend the world.
In 2008, UNESCO designated Zhencheng Lou and a few other mud castles in Fujian as a World Heritage Site in recognition of their exceptional architecture, their manifestation of Hakka wisdom and the lifestyle they encourage, which is both communal and solitary.
My mother’s grandfather designed and built Zhencheng Lou in 1912. It rises four stories in a circular formation with 222 rooms and is made mostly of rammed earth, or compacted soil, which accounts for its common label as a “mud castle.” It remains today a home for my mother’s relatives while keeping its ground floor and grand central courtyard open for public exhibitions.
Ever since the UNESCO designation, tourists and scholars have poured into Zhencheng Lou daily. But during my two-week visit, I was more than a day-tripper: I aimed to connect with my Hakka roots and explore the profound dimensions of the Hakka identity.
Wu Shu Gong, my mother’s fifth uncle, has spent his entire 73-year life in Zhencheng Lou and is a well-known figure within the community. He finished his formal schooling in the fifth grade because of the Cultural Revolution, but he became a self-taught museum docent, receiving distinguished visitors. I had met Wu Shu Gong before, and he and my mother remain close even though she moved to Shenyang in northern China as a young woman; thus, we had no need for introductions. His warm greeting — “Welcome home!” — melted my heart instantly.
As we gathered around a long, wooden table in my grand-uncle’s living room, he served locally grown tea in tiny teacups. My other relatives, some close and many distant, came and went. In Zhencheng Lou, all the living rooms have double doors that remain open during the day, so everyone could drop in and grab a seat — a communal tradition already lost in most parts of China. Wu Shu Gong kept serving tea for whoever came to the table, like a Vegas poker dealer distributing cards to the players.
People cannot — and should not — be categorized based on appearance or origins but rather on personal qualities that genuinely define them, such as honesty, integrity and empathy, and how they act when facing adversity.
I begged Wu Shu Gong to tell stories, “starting with interesting ones about our mud castle.”
He began with the tale of an important visitor in February 2010. “I won’t forget about it,” he said, speaking in his fast-paced manner, mixing a strong Hakka accent with his self-taught Mandarin, which to me felt indigenous yet comprehensible. He has bright eyes and a round face with a Buddha-like smile — and an incredible memory.
“In the morning, I received a notice from the government: ‘Hu Jintao, the Chinese Communist Party’s General Secretary, will visit Zhencheng Lou today.’”
He spoke while refilling tea for everyone, as these tiny cups, part of the tea ritual in the area, were meant for only one sip.
It turned out that Zhencheng Lou has received many prominent Chinese dignitaries in recent years, including the current president, Xi Jinping, who was the deputy governor of Fujian at the time, as well as five central government commissioners, six generals, 12 lieutenant generals, nearly 200 provincial and ministerial leaders, and countless scholars. People come mostly to see the unique architecture of these buildings, which have shaped the resilient character traits that allowed the Hakkas to thrive.
Eastern cultures are collectivistic; Hakka traditions exemplify this trait. Ancestor veneration is the foundation on which the Hakka moral ecology preserves its family lineage and social harmony.
One peculiar phenomenon forged through the Hakkas’ long, tortuous migratory history is that people with the same surnames follow the same path — literally — generation after generation and settle together to form new villages. Zhencheng Lou is located in Hongkeng village, which has 500 households. All residents of the village share the same surname: Lin. In the next village, all the residents have the surname Li, and so on, throughout Yongding.
A family temple serves as the moral center of each village. Hongkeng’s Lin Family Temple was built by first-generation settlers during the Song dynasty, around 1279, to venerate their ancestors and in the hope their community would prosper. The villagers hold spiritual ceremonies twice a year, but my timing wasn’t right to participate. Fortunately, in the next village, the Lis would be celebrating their tradition, “A Great Blessing,” during my stay.
According to legend, around the end of the Ming dynasty in the mid-17th century, a plague ravaged the countryside. The villagers invited Taoist priests to perform rituals, but to no effect. One day, five village children went to the river to bathe. Suddenly they all jumped up and down uncontrollably and went to their ancestral temple, proclaiming: “The ‘Keep-Life Emperor’ will come on the 15th day of the ninth lunar month to reduce the epidemic. Everyone must fast for five days from the 10th and embrace the ‘emperor’ on the 15th.”
The villagers complied, and the disease was brought under control. They have hosted the “Great Blessing” celebration every third year ever since to pay their ancestors tribute for saving their lives and to ask for their continuing protection.
The ceremony started on October 24, the 10th day of the ninth lunar month, and lasted six days. During the first five days of fasting, entertainments ranging from operas, puppet shows and movies to choir performances lasted well into the night. On the sixth day, a gigantic, paper-mache image of the “Keep-Life Emperor” was ushered from the temple by a long line of people wearing colorful costumes, playing trumpets and beating drums, gongs and cymbals, all punctuated by the deafening sound of firecrackers.
Five hundred tables covered the village’s center plaza with food offerings to the “Emperor”: roasted whole pigs, sheep, chickens, ducks, fish, wine and fruits. However, all these food offerings were taken away once the public ceremony ended and family feasts began.
Since this was a fast-breaking day, every family had invited all their relatives and friends — and even friends of friends, like me — to join them. Each family could easily host 10 tables seated with 12 guests. The family who invited me had set 12 tables along the street. They hired catering, and I lost count of how many dishes they provided, since new ones kept coming up even after I was too full to eat.
People were cheering, eating and drinking, which, along with the colorful flags and balloons and banners everywhere, turned this thousand-household village into one giant fiesta, dwarfing even the Chinese New Year’s Day celebration. As an outlander, I was embraced by the grandest, oldest and warmest family. The mystical atmosphere was stunning and lavish. The people were all strangers, yet they became recognizable to me now — they have this hive mind developed through century after century.
In the end, an overarching theme bloomed in my mind about how events, whether historical or mythical, may shape the collective cultural identity of a community or a nation.
I, Cheng Wang, am a sort of jack-of-many-trades: a Maoist soldier by indoctrination, an economist by education, an engineer by profession, but a writer at heart.
Hakkas are known to be well educated. Yet how they have managed to earn this reputation is a mystery, and unraveling it would be a valuable step toward understanding them.
Despite their rural origins and lifestyles, their ancestors held one Confucian teaching in the highest regard: “Everything is inferior but literacy.” The children were raised with the motto: “Plow in the field and on the pages.”
No middle school was nearby when my mother lived in Zhencheng Lou. “Starting at 12,” she told me, “we had to walk for two days, over 25 kilometers on mountainous goat trails, to a middle school in Dabu County.” Usually, she and her brothers and cousins walked together, accompanied by three family porters.
“As we grew older,” she continued, “we would march to school in one day — 10 hours without stopping.” The porters would each shoulder a pole that bore two baskets filled with food and supplies for the term. During school breaks, the children returned home to help with growing crops and raising chickens and ducks.
Adversity can be a powerful tool in shaping character. Among those who walked on that goat trail to school in the old days was my mother’s eldest brother, who became Chiang Kai-shek’s vice admiral and who left mainland China for Taiwan with Chiang when they lost the war with the Communists in 1949. Her second elder brother became an academician of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, while one cousin became a philosophy professor at Renmin University in Beijing.
My mother, the only woman in her class at Xiamen University, became an editor for an influential Chinese magazine after she graduated from college in 1950. An educator for life, she still receives visits from a dozen of her students, some of whom are nearly 80 years old, several times a year. My mother completed her memoir last year at the age of 96.
I have had many chances to visit these relatives, and I cherish every moment with them, more so today than in the past. They, including my mother, are exemplars in my life, inspiring me to reconnect with my heritage.
Hakka women are the most diligent human beings I have known. Yet only Hakka men have gained worldwide recognition, while the women’s names cannot be found in scholarly papers — or even on genealogy charts.
A girl marrying into the Zhencheng Lou family was considered highly privileged, yet her life after marriage was anything but. Hakka men often leave their homes to seek better opportunities to support their families. As such, their wives are left to shoulder all the household responsibilities, including farming, serving the in-laws and taking care of the children. Upon their husbands’ return, the wives typically provide for all their basic needs, plus serve them tea and wine to enjoy with their friends.
“I am the luckiest man in my 50 years of marriage,” Wu Shu Gong told me, his face brightening. “My wife is a traditional Hakka role model. She puts my day’s clothes at the bedside every morning and asks me what time for breakfast, and then it is ready on time. When I receive visitors, two or three times a day, she brings me a cup of tea to moisten my throat. Sometimes, when a reception lasts longer, she will bring me a cup of warm milk to replenish my energy. Afterward, I must change into clean clothes she has prepared, often several times daily. In the evening, she will ask me when I want to bathe so she can boil the water in advance.” As he spoke, he gesticulated like a jeweler tallying his most treasured collections.
Whenever I met Wu Shu Gong’s wife, her genuine smile and our hugs conveyed everything she and I wanted to say, because she knew I couldn’t understand her Hakka dialect. During our dinners, she noticed me drinking her homemade rice wine nonstop and later asked Wu Shu Gong to give me several bottles to take with me. When I went to thank her, she responded with her usual pleasantness but no words, as if it were nothing.
I also conversed with my two cousins’ wives, who both said the status of women has not changed much in their time.
“To be the wives in this Lin family, we need to be the sturdiest — that is the tradition in Zhencheng Lou,” the older woman summed up. She spoke with a sense of pride rather than self-effacement.
Living conditions are significantly better since the UNESCO designation. The introduction of tourism has provided a new income stream in addition to farming. Newly paved highways and family-owned cars make daily tasks easier. And yet, Hakka women remain assiduous.
The elder of my cousins’ wives has two sons, both of whom have left for college — a huge achievement and a relief for her, allowing her to become a tour guide in and around Zhencheng Lou. The younger wife is following in her footsteps, raising her own two children who are in elementary and middle school. She spends two hours on the road every day taking them to and from school since the schools out in the district are much better than those nearby. She also performs the household chores while her husband runs a factory in Cambodia.
“No family wealth lasts more than three generations.” This Chinese adage means that leaving too much wealth to one’s children will only ruin their lives — while leaving them no family legacy. The saying has acquired new meaning in recent years as well-off Chinese families compete to acquire apartments and cars for their children, believing this will help them get ahead. And yet, how much these young people will exert themselves when things have come to them so effortlessly is another question.
Warren Buffet, an American billionaire, expressed a similar sentiment when he said he would give his children enough money to feel like they could do anything but not so much that they could do nothing. Family wisdom is like a baton in a relay race, one runner passing it — intangible moral values in this case — to the next to ensure his success in the race of life.
Similarly, Hakkas hold their ancestral family wisdom — not family wealth — in highest regard. While the renowned circular design of Zhencheng Lou appeals to the eyes, the traditional couplets that appear on its walls, wood engravings and pillars captivate the mind.
My great-grandfather served as a member of the House of Representatives of the Republic of China from 1922 to 1923. As the architect of Zhencheng Lou, he left numerous aphorisms for future generations. I have translated some of them into English, as a glimpse into my Hakka heritage.
Two columns of elegant Chinese calligraphy on either side of the main gate caught my eye: One says “Rejuvenating discipline” and the other “Aspiring for ethics.”
Beyond, I was drawn to the horizontal plaque on top of the second gate, which displays a saying written for Zhencheng Lou by the then-president of the Republic: “Inner richness elucidates outer prosperity.”
On both sides of this second gate appear handwritten messages: “Attending to state affairs” and “Comprehending scriptures of the sages.”
Confucian values put people into five categories: “sage, wise man, gentleman, scholar and little person.” Comprehending the sage’s thoughts is the foundation for becoming an influential person, a notion the Chinese have believed throughout their history.
Inside the tulou, I saw four pillars, each 22 feet tall, supporting the Western-style center hall. The inscriptions on the two middle pillars read: “Family standing lies within filial piety” and “Career realization comes from diligence and prudence.”
Nearby, two verses read, “Revive the spiritual power and universal truth” and “Achieve Buddhahood and enlighten Bodhi.”
Hakka tradition is imbued with Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism. People apply the practicality of Confucianism to regulate daily life, the wisdom of Taoism to govern the soul by connecting the human body with nature, and the contemplative nature of Buddhism to soothe the mind when confronting the transience and anguish of life.
Then again, inheriting a moral and spiritual tradition is not exclusive to Hakka culture. In The Road to Character, for instance, David Brooks describes the “crooked timber” school of humanity — the belief that life is a moral adventure and character is built in confronting our own weaknesses — as an inheritance that must be passed down from generation to generation in order to form an essential part of a cultural heritage. Without it, modern culture may become superficial, especially in the moral sphere.
Who are the Hakkas, really? Historical records indicate they formed as a distinctive subgroup of the Han people during and after the Qin dynasty (221-206 B.C.). Their displacement from the Central Plains was prompted by frequent wars, peasant uprisings and invasions by northern ethnic minorities. Consequently, the Hakkas, including royal officials and other elites on the losing side of these conflicts, moved their families and relatives to remote areas in the south. They would settle in one place only to move again, a journey stretching out over hundreds of years and across thousands of miles.
Since China’s household registration system was already in place, the new settlers, mainly those then living in China’s three sparsely populated southern provinces, were required to register as “guests” to distinguish them from the locals. These migrants became known as guest people: “Hakka” in the southern dialect.
Today, Hakka descendants have spread all over the world. As the saying goes, “Where there are Chinese, there are Hakkas.” However, not all Chinese people on the move can be considered Hakkas.
Generally, the term refers to people residing in Hakka regions who can track this lineage, with its quirky customs and, most importantly, its shared psychological identity. In a memoir, the British author Han Suyin stated that her ancestors were from Meixian, a typical Hakka district, migrating to Sichuan province around the end of the 17th century. Her father’s generation could no longer speak Hakka. Han was a British citizen, yet she considered herself Hakka.
My own feelings corresponded with Suyin’s until I examined what makes us human beings who we are, through my explorations at Notre Dame and at Zhencheng Lou.
After studying the humanities at Notre Dame through the ILI and then reconnecting with my heritage, my Hakka identity — if not the culture itself — actually lost its personal appeal. I found that the “distinctive” traits of the Hakkas, like those of other pilgrim people, are commendable but not unique. All those who have the perseverance to venture into unfamiliar territories become guests, pilgrims, journeymen. Despite our many differences, people worldwide share this kindred spirit.
Psychologist Carol Dweck has written about the importance of our mindset, which can be either fixed or growth oriented. Dweck encourages adopting the latter mindset. Regardless of our backgrounds, a growth mindset can empower us to explore new ideas, meet different people and gain broader perspectives. Especially when we approach major changes with care and tact while respecting our inheritances, we can discover richness and depth in our traditional cultural heritage, even carry it forward without being restrained by it.
By embracing a growth mindset that amalgamates Eastern and Western cultures, I have realized that people cannot — and should not — be categorized based on their appearance or origins but rather on those personal qualities that genuinely define them, such as honesty, integrity and empathy, and how they act when facing adversity.
Brooks’ notion of crooked timber highlights that our ultimate joys lie in the inner triumph of overcoming our own weaknesses and becoming better than we used to be. In my case, I have metamorphosed from a tourist into a pilgrim, informed by and cherishing but ultimately transcending my ancestral Hakka identity.
Thus, I, Cheng Wang, am a sort of jack-of-many-trades: a Maoist soldier by indoctrination, an economist by education, an engineer by profession, but a writer at heart. My daughter, Cintty, named after her birth city, Cincinnati, is a veterinarian. She had never shown any interest in our past until she read my memoir and began exploring her mother’s and my upbringing in China. This essay will pique her interest in Zhencheng Lou, the Hakkas, and how we as human beings form and reform our identities. My own hope is that we all embrace the journeyman’s spirit, exploring other cultures while remembering, as pilgrims do, that when it comes to the way we live our lives, there is always a why behind any how.
Cheng Wang was a 2022-23 fellow of Notre Dame’s Inspired Leadership Initiative and is author of a memoir, From Tea to Coffee: The Journey of an Educated Youth. He and his family have lived in North Carolina for the last 32 years.