I remember my early comrades of the Down-With-Imperialism Union who believed me an came to follow me on the hill at Huadian in the 1920s when there was no telling as yet if we would ever liberate our homeland, and then those splendid comrades who shielded me from the enemy's bullets and who laughed as they took their comrade's place on the scaffold. They never returned to the liberated homeland; they are now lying as spirits of revered memory in the fields and mountains of a foreign country. The many patriots who started on a different path of struggle but joined up with us in the end are no more by our side.

I, then six years old, also joined the ranks of demonstrators in my worn-out shoes and went as far as Pothong gate, cheering. It was hard for me to keep up with the adults who were thronging towards the city in angry waves. So, from time to time I took off my straw sandals, the sliding shoes became a nuisance to me, and ran after the ranks with the shoes in my hand. When the adults cheered for independence, I joined them.