Rebuilding My Hometown

When he was still very, very young, he once came to Beijing — the capital — to receive an award.

That award, he said, changed the entire course of his life.

It was for writing an essay. He had won third place in a national competition.

That recognition carried him forward.

He was directly recommended to a top high school, and by the time he entered, he had already made up his mind —

he wanted to study journalism.

Later, he was admitted to the Department of Journalism at Nanjing University,

and from there he longed to work at one of the best media organizations in China.

Eventually, he joined Nanfeng Chuang (South Reviews)

He told me that in the short film earlier, we had already seen the village of Taomi —

a small place in the middle of Taiwan, only fifteen minutes by car from Sun Moon Lake.

In 1999, Taiwan was struck by a devastating earthquake — the “9/21 Earthquake.”

Taomi was hit hard. Most of the houses collapsed.

But beyond the physical destruction, what the quake also exposed was something deeper —

a long-standing decay that had been hidden under the surface:

aging populations, declining industries, and withering rural life.

The quake made the Taiwanese realize that, after decades of urbanization,

their countryside had become painfully poor.

He gave a small, vivid example:

that village once produced ma bamboo shoots,

selling for only two or three jiao per jin — not even half a yuan — and still no one wanted them.

After the quake, reconstruction began.

But unlike the post-earthquake rebuilding he would later see elsewhere —

where the focus was on constructing new, high-end schools and shiny new neighborhoods —

the people in Taomi prioritized human rebuilding:

rebuilding lives, communities, and the soul of the village itself.

It was during this process that a couple arrived —

Liao Jiazhan and Yan Xinzhu —

both were journalists from CommonWealth Magazine, one of Taiwan’s most respected publications.

They and their partners founded the Taiwan New Homeland Cultural and Educational Foundation,

to lead the villagers in recreating a charming new homeland from the ground up.

When he visited Taomi for the first time, in 2009 —

a full ten years after the earthquake —

he was astonished by what he saw.

The village had been reborn.

They had built more than twenty bed-and-breakfast lodges,

a rotating restaurant over the water,

and, most impressively,

a community development park.

Inside that park stood a beautiful structure — the Paper Dome —

a church made entirely of paper,

which had become a symbol of Taiwan’s community-building movement.

Every year, the place attracted over half a million tourists,

bringing in more than twenty million yuan in annual revenue.

He said, imagine it:

a ruined, impoverished village shaken out of the mountains in 1999 —

and in just ten years, under the leadership of two journalists and a group of farmers,

it was transformed into a thriving tourism village with twenty million yuan in income each year.

He paused when he told me this.

The impact on him, he said, was immense.

Standing there in Taomi, he began to ask himself a question:

“I also come from the countryside.

Could I do something like this?

Could I return to my hometown and lead the villagers to transform our traditional rural village into a tourism village?

Would that even be possible?”

He looked around the village and noticed something playful but meaningful — the frog.

The villagers called their home the “Republic of Frogs.”

That idea struck him deeply.

His own hometown, he said, was a beekeeping village.

So he thought, why not create a “Republic of Bees”?

Imagine — wherever people in China saw bees or drank honey,

they would immediately think of the island of Hainan —

a place with a “Republic of Bees.”

He smiled as he said, “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

In Taomi, he met someone who would change his direction —

a man named Zhang Guangdou,

the chairman of Taiwan’s Documentary Filmmakers Association.

He remembered asking Zhang:

“If I go home and try to do what Taomi did, will it work?”

Zhang answered with a simple truth that he never forgot:

“In Taiwan, if you’re doing something right,

and you keep moving forward sincerely,

you will definitely move others —

and they will help you complete what you began.”

He pressed further:

“But that’s Taiwan,” he said. “What about Hainan Island? Will it still work there?”

Zhang thought for a long moment before answering:

“Maybe it will.”

Then he asked again:

“You said people will help me — who exactly will?”

Zhang’s first answer was one word:

“The government.”

And he explained:

“You know, governments generally like success, not failure.

If you’ve already done something well — or nearly succeeded —

and then you invite them to come in and take part,

to decorate the finished work,

they’ll be happy to do it.”

He laughed as he told me that when he heard this, he immediately understood.

After all, he had been a political reporter at Nanfeng Chuang —

he knew perfectly well how politicians thought.

He said, “That really hit me.

Politicians love success stories.

If you’ve already done ninety percent of the work,

and then you let them step in,

spend a bit of money,

and receive one hundred percent of the credit,

they’ll gladly do it —

they’ll even say,

‘Under the wise leadership of the Party and the government,

we have achieved success!’”When I was still very young, I came to Beijing once to receive an award — a national third prize for an essay I had written. That small piece of writing changed the course of my life. Because of it, I was recommended for admission to high school without taking the entrance exam, and there I decided that I would study journalism. Later, I was accepted into the journalism department at Nanjing University. From there, I wanted to enter one of China’s top media organizations, and eventually I joined South Reviews.

In the short film shown earlier, you might have seen Taomi Village — it’s in central Taiwan, only about a fifteen-minute drive from Sun Moon Lake. In 1999, Taiwan suffered a massive earthquake, the “9/21 Earthquake.” That village was hit very hard — most of its houses collapsed. But what collapsed was not just the buildings; the earthquake also exposed the deeper problems: an aging population, decaying industries, the decline and emptiness of rural life. It forced Taiwanese people to realize that after decades of rapid urbanization, their countryside had become extremely poor. Take one example: the village produced a kind of bamboo shoot that sold for only two or three jiao per jin, and still no one wanted it.

After the earthquake, reconstruction began. What struck me most was how different their approach was from ours. They placed people — human lives, daily living — at the center of reconstruction. Unlike in Wenchuan, where post-disaster rebuilding focused on constructing luxury schools and upscale communities, Taomi’s renewal began with people. Into this process came a married couple, Liao Jia-zhan and Yan Xin-zhu, both journalists from CommonWealth Magazine, one of Taiwan’s most respected publications. Together with their partners they founded the New Homeland Foundation, leading local villagers from the bottom up to rebuild their “new homeland.”

When I first visited in 2009, ten years after the earthquake, what I saw stunned me. The village was beautiful. More than twenty guesthouses had already been built, and there was even a floating restaurant on the water. Most impressive of all was the community development park they had constructed — its centerpiece was the Paper Dome, a church made entirely of paper tubes. That Paper Dome had already become an icon of Taiwan’s community-building movement. The village attracted over half a million visitors each year, with an annual revenue of more than twenty million yuan.

Imagine that — a ruined “garbage village” born out of the earthquake, transformed within a decade by two journalists and a group of farmers into a tourism village generating tens of millions in revenue. I was deeply moved. I couldn’t help but ask myself: I, too, come from the countryside — could I do something like this? Could I return to my hometown and lead my villagers to transform a traditional farming village into a destination of vitality and hope? Would that be possible?

In Taomi, I noticed a symbol everywhere: the frog. The villagers called their home the “Republic of Frogs.” That gave me a great idea, because my hometown was known for beekeeping. I thought — why not create a “Republic of Bees”? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, whenever people in China saw bees or tasted honey, they would immediately think of Hainan Island — of our Bee Republic there?

During that trip I met a man who became a mentor to me, Zhang Guang-dou, the chairman of the Taiwan Documentary Filmmakers Association. I asked him, “If I go back home and try to do what Taomi did, would it work?” He told me something that I still remember word for word: “In Taiwan, if you are doing the right thing and you just keep moving forward, you will touch the hearts of others, and many people will come to help you accomplish it.”

Curious, I asked, “But that’s in Taiwan. What if I go back to Hainan Island — would it still work?” He thought for a while and said, “It might.” I pressed him, “You said many people would help me — who exactly do you mean?” His first answer surprised me: “The government,” he said. “You know, governments usually love success and hate failure. If you’ve already made something work, or at least halfway there, and then you invite them to come and add the finishing touch, they’ll be delighted to join in.”

I had worked as a political reporter for South Reviews, so I understood how politicians think. His words struck straight at my heart. I thought, he’s right — politicians love to take credit for success. If you’ve already done ninety percent of the work and let them add that last bit, they’ll proudly declare that under the wise leadership of the Party and the government, the project succeeded — and they’ll gladly support you.

Carrying that thought, I returned home to my village. We were still poor then. We didn’t even have a projector, nor a proper office — just the courtyard of my old family house, where we gathered to hold meetings. I carried our old TV set outside and used it to show a PowerPoint presentation — photos of the beautiful buildings in Taiwan — to the farmers, asking them whether we could follow a similar path.

But it didn’t go as smoothly as I had imagined. Most of the farmers had never even been outside Hainan, and those glossy images from Taiwan, so modern and international, frightened them. They said, “No, no, we can’t do that. It’s impossible.”

Then something truly miraculous happened. An elderly man in the village, over eighty years old, stood up and said, “Do it. We will succeed. As long as we follow you, this college graduate, I believe we can make it.” His words carried great weight, because in the countryside, everyone listens to the elders. The other villagers turned to me and asked, “All right, let’s do it — but how?”

I said, “We must do two things. First, we need to establish a council — a group of people to work together, not just one person, and then rally the whole village to join. Second, we must create one project that makes us instantly famous.” After thinking for a moment, I proposed, “Let’s build a mountain bike trail around our volcano crater.”

Once I said it, we started working right away. A few days later, I formed what I called a “cabinet”: more than twenty of the village’s most capable men and women, aged between their twenties and fifties, were appointed as council members, supervisors, chairpersons, and heads of committees like the farm-stay committee. I drew up a full list of names — our “cabinet” — and presented it to the whole village for a vote.

To my surprise, the farmers were filled with passion. When you give them a vision, when they believe in something, their energy is unstoppable. That day, the council election passed with over ninety percent support.

But that very night, an unexpected problem arose. I received a call from the head of the village committee saying that a developer was furious. Apparently, this developer had secretly acquired development rights for thousands of acres around our village, planning to invest thirty to fifty billion yuan to turn it into a massive resort complex with golf courses and villas. Our decision to build our own eco-village meant his plan would collapse. He sent a message through the village head demanding to negotiate, clearly wanting to suppress us.

I refused to meet him at home and told him, “If you want to talk, come to Shanghai. That’s where I work.” So he came. The moment we sat down he said, “Xiao Chen, your project — I haven’t slept for three nights because of it.” He had already given expensive SUVs to local officials, spent millions on planning, and now everything was falling apart. After our conversation, he realized he was out of luck.

To be honest, because of this developer, there were two opposing voices within the government — some against us, some supporting us. Fortunately, as a journalist from South Reviews, I had access to the right channels. Our project received written instructions of support from both the city and provincial Party secretaries. Those officials who had accepted SUVs ended up in prison.

Our project moved forward, and a group of conscientious officials decided to stand firmly by our side. One of them spoke to me with great sincerity: “Tongkui, Hainan’s development as an international tourism island cannot be driven only by big capital. If all the bays and forests are sold off, our islanders will be left displaced, pushed into the mountains — that can’t happen.” I told him I completely agreed. Without the participation of local islanders, when tourists from the capital come to Hainan they’ll only be exploited. Developers, chasing profits, drive out local farmers, overcharge tourists, and corrupt the environment. We had to change that.

With the support of those honest officials, we began. The first project was the mountain bike trail. Our farmers showed incredible dedication: they donated land, and they offered labor for free. But we truly had no money. The village head scolded me, “You just talk — I don’t have a cent! Even if the labor is free, paving the road requires crushed stone, at least tens of thousands of yuan.” Our executive chairman kept calling me in Shanghai, saying he was stuck, the road half-built, needing funds. Then the village head came up with an idea: “Borrow money — borrow from the villagers, and repay it later.”

I flew back from Shanghai immediately and called an emergency meeting that night. I told the council, “We must ask the villagers to lend money to finish the road. I’ll start — I’ll lend more than ten thousand yuan. Each of you, lend what you can. We have to lead by example.” Their response was moving.

One of my aunts, a woman I had always known to be very stingy — when dividing farmland years ago she fought fiercely for six-tenths of an acre instead of half — she was the first to raise her hand and offer three thousand yuan. I was touched. Then the old man who had supported me from the beginning spoke up. “The road is half done,” he said, “and if we leave it like this, we’ll lose face in town!” I added, “Yes — if we don’t all pitch in, we won’t even dare drink tea in the market again!”

That night, the villagers lent over seventy thousand yuan — enough to finish the trail. I promised them I’d guarantee repayment myself if no one else came to help; my salary was about ten thousand a month, and I’d cover the debt if necessary. But soon, our story began to move people. Donations poured in from society, and the government also provided funds, so we repaid everything.

Finishing the road was just the beginning — even greater things followed. We finally had our own cultural hall. Before, we were so poor we had nowhere to hold meetings. The district audit bureau came to help, and when the director came to unveil the plaque, he was surprised: the hall’s sign read “Boxue Ecological Village,” with calligraphy by Yao Ming. The director pulled me aside and whispered, “Tongkui, this is different. Usually when we help villages build halls, the villagers complain that they’re ugly. But here, your people helped, and now I get to unveil a plaque written by Yao Ming.”

It was hilarious — when the unveiling was reported by the media, people on Weibo mocked Yao Ming’s handwriting, calling it ugly. Later, when I met him, he laughed and said, “You set me up! If I’d known it’d be so public, I would’ve practiced first!”

Over the following years, the government funded more roads, waterworks, sports fields, and cultural centers. The Hainan Provincial Taiwan Affairs Office even encouraged us to form a “sister-village” relationship with Taiwan’s Taomi Eco-Village. We sent our village head and returned university students to Taiwan to learn, and they in turn donated an orchard to us.

But I worked differently from people like Wu Ren-bao. He built through authority; I did not. When the orchard was donated, I gave it directly to the farmers — whoever planted, harvested. None of the profit went through me. I wanted public facilities and private enterprise clearly separated, ensuring that villagers received direct benefits.

Then came an unexpected joy: a group of top Korean artists arrived at our village, bringing their tools and ideas. They stayed for two weeks, working side by side with our farmers to create art. Even local artists in Hainan doubted them — “You’re crazy,” they said. “It’s fine to go to Hainan University, but what can you do in a tiny mountain village? Farmers don’t understand art.” But the Koreans understood something deeper — that art must connect with the soil, with communities, with real lives.

The collaboration was beautiful — laughter everywhere, art blossoming from the simplest things. When the Koreans left, our farmers cried.

Community-building, I realized, is often misunderstood, but when it’s done with heart, it always ends in beauty and emotion.

In 2012, I invested about one million yuan to build a guesthouse called “The House of Rosewood.” What mattered most was not the money, but my younger brother, who had just graduated from university in the capital. He decided to return home, becoming one of our “returning youth.” He ran that guesthouse himself — every plant and tree around it was planted by his own hands, no hired labor. That’s what gives it its soul; he can tell you the story of every leaf, every branch.

The house was designed by Professor Wang Yong-ping from Nanjing Tech University, who, since 2009, has brought his doctoral students every year to help us with conservation planning. As these people came, our farmers began to open their eyes. They once thought the local stone was worthless, scattered everywhere — but now they know those stone houses have great value and deserve preservation.

Still, understanding is not the same as action. Many stone houses have deteriorated, collapsed, or crumbled over the years. It breaks my heart. Restoring just one costs at least fifty thousand yuan — too much for ordinary villagers.

So I came up with an idea: to build a new eco-park as beautiful as Taomi’s, using its profits to fund the restoration of our old village. The park would include the Kang Mu-xiang Art Museum and a conference center. Why a conference center? Because I wanted to turn my brother’s story — a single returning youth — into a movement.

Last year, together with several friends in Hainan, we organized the first National Forum for Returning College Students. On the third day of the conference, the provincial Party secretary called me personally, saying he was moved. I met him and said, “Secretary, we’d like to build a permanent venue for the Returning Students Forum, just like the Boao Forum for Asia, right here in Boxue Village. It will inspire more graduates to come home, attract more visitors to our eco-village, generate real income, and help us restore our ancient homes.”

He said, “That’s a great idea. If you lack funds, come to me.” So this year, from August 6th to 8th, we’ll hold the second forum on Hainan Island.

Across China, this quiet yet determined movement has begun. In Beijing there’s Shi Yan; in Shanghai, Jia Ruiming — people leading the return-to-the-land movement, often through natural and organic farming. Their goal is to revive agriculture and transform rural life. It’s a crucial force.

I believe these people can live happier lives by returning home, and through their happiness they can increase their hometowns’ happiness. When educated, creative minds return to the countryside, they help bridge the gap between rural and urban China — and that’s an extraordinary shift.

Just three days ago, I met the master woodcarver Kang Mu-xiang. I first met him in Taiwan in 2010. When he learned what I was doing in community building, he insisted on sending me a gift — he designed the beds in our House of Rosewood, each one worth more than 200,000 RMB, and he gave one to me for free. He went further, saying he would help us build the “Kang Mu-xiang Rosewood Art Museum” for our new park.

I asked him, “Master, we’ve just met — why are you giving me something so valuable?” He said, “Because I hate the idea of returning home only when you’re old. People talk about ‘returning to one’s roots’ after death, but that’s too late — you just take up space in the soil. Go back when you’re young, when you still have ability, wisdom, and resources. Then you’ll inspire others to do the same, to return and rebuild their hometowns. That’s why I support you.”

His words moved me deeply. They became one of the strongest forces pushing me forward. I hope our new park will soon be complete — and that more friends, more young people, more graduates will come home to start anew with us, so that our people can see prosperity again, and we can truly recreate a beautiful, living homeland.