The Wenshu Temple 文殊院 Dilemma

For thirty years, my mother and her sister believed they had secured their final resting places. They purchased spots in the basement columbarium of Chengdu’s Wenshu Temple, under the verbal agreement that they could share the space with their husbands. Because of this, only the husbands' names were placed on the spots.

When my aunt passed away at 88—having lived an extra 15 years after moving away from Falun Gong and toward Buddhism—the temple refused to let her join her husband. They claimed the policy had changed: one spot, one person. Since the bolt was sealed with only the husband’s name, she was denied entry.

Recently, my brother and sister faced the same heartbreak for our mother. Though my father’s ashes has been stored in another columbarium temporarily since 2020, waiting for my mom, the temple remains firm: our mother cannot join him. The facility is full, and we cannot buy more space.

My Father’s Regret: The "Pork and Beef" Story

My father never cared for a religious burial; his experiences with religion in the 1950s had left him with a lifetime of trouble. He shared this story with me only once, in the hospital before he died—a secret kept out of his autobiography and hidden from everyone else. It was a memory from his youth about his boss, a Muslim man married to a Han woman.

Fresh out of college and working for the state oil company, my father spent his days in the fields. Provisions were limited: there was no beef or lamb, only pork. While the crew ate what was available, the boss refused, viewing their food as "dirty." My father, moved by a young man's pity, would secretly hide pieces of meat under the boss's portions so he wouldn't go without protein.

But the boss’s constant condescension stung. During a rare holiday when a cow was finally slaughtered, the boss—buzzing with excitement—stepped into the kitchen for the first and final time. Determined that every detail be perfect, he spent hours scrubbing a cutting board with boiling water, desperate to purify it. In a moment of youthful defiance, my father waited for him to turn away, then swapped the "pure" board for a "pork board."

The boss never forgot the slight. He ensured my father remained an assistant director under him, never allowing him to rise any further for the rest of his career. Yet, their lives stayed inextricably intertwined within the company's self-sufficient world. The oil company provided everything—housing, dining, schools, and even the hospital—making them lifelong neighbors. Our mothers became good friends, living side-by-side for the rest of thier life.

Years later, as the boss lay dying in the hospital, he sang old liberation songs, unable to recognize the faces around him. My father was heartbroken when he passed, telling me simply, "I miss him." Despite the friction and the professional ceiling, that man had been a father figure—a steady guide for a young man who had lost both parents far too soon. Ultimately, my father knew the truth: he was a good man.

A Return to the Guan Farm

With the Wenshu Temple closed to them, we had to look elsewhere for my mother and aunt. I suggested returning them to the Guan farm, where over 2,000 descendants still live. The farm allows my mother and her sister to be buried there since their last name are Guan, they both Ju 举 Generation from our Zupu (族谱). But my brother and cousins do not carry the "Guan" surname. None of them married, nor did they have any children. I proposed a traditional solution:

My brother could sponsor or adopt a child from the farm to provide financial support. In exchange, my brother and cousins could be laid to rest beside their mothers. The Guan farm has given their approval. Now, it is up to my brother and cousins to decide. If the geopolitical situation stabilizes, I hope to take them all to the farm by the end of the year to finalize these arrangements.