Old soldiers receive badge of recognition

Mei Qing never really got to know her father until she was 41 and a stranger turned up at her door. The man told Mei that her father, who appeared anything but militaristic, was, in fact, a war hero.

"I was shocked, or maybe not so shocked at all," said Mei. "All through my life dad has been a mystery. He was as doting and protective as any other loving father, but he had a taciturnity that went beyond character, and an evasiveness that even a small child could sense."

Between 1937 and 1945, Mei's father fought the invading Japanese forces under the flag of the Kuomintang government. However, with the ensuing civil war, which lasted another three years, and the ultimate triumph of the Communist Party of China, the man, who is now in his early 90s, found himself dragged into a political maelstrom.

Over the next 30 years, as a former KMT soldier, Mei's father was stripped of all honors and dogged by the shadow of shame wherever he went.

He drew a curtain between himself and the rest of the world, behind which he wept and agonized.

All this came to an end during that strange visit on a sunny afternoon in 1995. "The man introduced himself as a volunteer from a nonprofit organization that concerned itself with the welfare of KMT veterans of World War II," said Mei. "As dad talked to him, it felt as if a ray of hope, long-trapped in a corner of his heart, was finally able to shine through."

Growing sympathy

During the past 10 years, a steady push toward historical truth has resulted in growing public awareness and increased sympathy for these neglected and long-suffering soldiers. The issue, first raised at grassroots level, has received an increasing amount of attention from the government.

In July, the Ministry of Civil Affairs decided to incorporate all surviving KMT World War II veterans into the country's social welfare network. Before that, they had been denied access to the system.

Sun Chunlong, founding director of the Longyue Charity Foundation, one of the country's leading advocators of improved welfare for KMT veterans of World War II, described the move as symbolic.

"It's not just about the money, although many of them did live in situations that demanded instant change," the 37-year-old said. "If you have ever met any of these men, you'd know that honor is what they truly, desperately crave. Recognition from the country for which they shed their blood in their youthful years - that's what has mattered for their entire lives, however little time they have left."

As a former newspaper reporter, Sun experienced this heartfelt desire for honor at first hand and found it heartbreaking. "During a reporting assignment in Myanmar, I met a KMT veteran, part of a unit that had been sent into the country's uninhabited tropical forests around 1942 to fight the Japanese and sever their supply lines," Sun said. "He was seriously wounded during one battle and was left behind when the troops retreated. He had stayed there ever since."

Deeply touched, the young reporter offered to help the old man to his hometown in China's Guangxi Zhuang autonomous region, but he refused.

"There can't be anyone left in my family, so don't waste your money," he told Sun. "The one thing I still want from this world is a war medal. Could you please let my country know and bring it to me next time you come?"

In the years that followed, as Sun traveled around China, not as a reporter but as a vociferous champion of his newfound calling, he heard the same request many times. On each occasion, it sliced through his heart like a razor.

The secret gravestone

"The search for surviving KMT veterans of World War II once led me to a man in an impoverished village in Guizhou province in southwest China. Rumors had been circulating among the locals that the old man, who had been tortured both physically and mentally during the "cultural revolution" (1966-76), had long had his own tombstone carved and buried underground," Sun recalled.

After spending several nights talking to the man, Sun and his fellow volunteers finally persuaded the 89-year-old to dig the tombstone out from where it had been hidden in the mountain.

The roughly hewn slab bore four hand-carved Chinese characters: Er Zhan Lao Bing, which means Veteran of WWII.

"I don't know how long it lasted, but we just stood there and let the tears flow," Sun said. "That man deserves a monument."

It is the same heartache, compounded by an enormous sense of guilt at being able to offer so little consolation to the men Sun calls "our national heroes" that motivates him and his fellow volunteers. Their number has grown from fewer than 100 to 2,000 during the past 10 years. Like Mei's father, many of them joined after being made aware of the wartime history of their own senior family members.

The announcement from the Civil Affairs Ministry gives them reason to hope for more. However, according to Fan Jianchuan, an amateur researcher into China's World War II history, it will take time for the changes, which didn't happen overnight, to have a real impact.

"The end of the 'cultural revolution' effectively put a stop to the harsh treatment of former KMT soldiers. And the country's reform and opening-up policy in the 1980s added yeast to this perpetually fermenting society, stimulating debate in all areas," he said.

"The turning point came in 2005, which marked the 60th anniversary of the end of World War II. In a landmark speech, the then Chinese president Hu Jintao paid a fulsome tribute to 'the frontline of the battlefield', where the KMT army collided with the Japanese, at huge human cost.

"On that occasion, the government had special commemorative medals minted and issued to the veterans, including KMT generals who were still living on the mainland, but not to the ordinary KMT soldiers," Fan said.

A self-proclaimed collecting enthusiast who funds his hobby through his real estate business, Fan eventually built a number of war museums in his native Sichuan province, where the Kuomintang government drafted 3.2 million young men, including his father, during the eight-year War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression. Nearly one-third of those men never returned home.

"I grew up having learned not to talk about it," 56-year-old Fan said. "But like a faint, yet persistent whisper, it has affected my life and the lives of those around me."

Since they were opened in 2005, the museums, including one dedicated solely to the Kuomintang's side of the story, have had more than 200,000 visitors a year, including leading members of the Chinese Communist Party and the KMT in Taiwan.

Fingerprint memorial

Walls of tempered glass have been erected in the square outside one of the museums. They carry the fingerprints of 4,000 World War II veterans, including 2,000 KMT soldiers.

"They fought together, the Communists and the KMT, and so they should be remembered together," Fan said.

One of the fingerprints belongs to You Guangcai, who joined the KMT army in 1938, a year after war broke out in China. He fought the Japanese on Chinese soil and in Burma, later renamed Myanmar.

Living quietly in a one-room apartment in Beijing, the 94-year-old has no wartime memorabilia, except for the fairly large number of English words he learned from US soldiers in Burma and the deep scar that runs across the right side of his stomach.

After the war, You's KMT background resulted in him being imprisoned several times before being sent to do hard labor in a remote farming village in his native Shandong province.

"I burned everything, including my military papers and the bravery award testifying to my courage during the war. Those memories remained sealed in the back of my mind," he said.

And there they stayed. When Xue Gang, a Beijing-based volunteer, first knocked on You's door two years ago, he was stunned by the vividness with which the veteran recalled every detail of his army experiences, even down to the mask he wore to fend off the vicious mosquitoes in the forests of Burma.

"His memory may have been gathering dust like a long-hidden mirror, but once someone took it out and wiped it clean, it shone like crystal," Xue said. "Believe me, after whatever they went through, these old soldiers will never choose to forget who they are."

Mei Qing knows all about that. Not long after the volunteer's visit, her father's memory began to deteriorate. Sometimes he even fails to recognize close family members.

"But whenever I mention his battalion number, or bring up the names of those he fought alongside, he looks at me, eyes sparkling, and nods feverishly," Mei said. "Even if his world descends into an unrecognizable swirl, he'll still be clinging to those glorious bygone days."

The volunteers paid Mei's father another visit on Aug 15, the anniversary of the Japanese surrender.

"A letter was read to him, in which the volunteers thanked my dad for 'saving the nation at its most critical moment'," Mei said. "Back in 2009, dad suffered a severe stroke, which left him largely unable to move or speak. When he listened to the letter being read, his face contorted and his lips trembled. We all thought he was about to cry out loud."

But the elderly man, who as a battlefield surgeon donated blood to the wounded almost once a week, just wept silently.

"You think we are exorcising these old soldiers of their post-war traumas and offering solace to aging souls?" asked Sun, as he reflected on his efforts. "No. We are simply redeeming ourselves from the huge mistake we committed against those to whom we are forever indebted.

"Every day they are denied that medal, it brings shame on every single one of us who lives in this country, breathes free air and calls him or herself Chinese."

'The Love Project'

In November, after years of work, Sun's charity, together with several local non-governmental organizations, launched The Love Project for KMT WWII veterans. The aim is to find the old soldiers and provide them with help, both financial and emotional.

A media conference was held at a hotel to publicize the project. As the cameras flashed amid rounds of applause, a heart-wrenching cry suddenly broke out from the front row, where an old man sat, his veined hand held over drooping eyes, frail shoulders heaving involuntarily.

It turned out that the man, a KMT veteran, had fought in some of the fiercest battles of the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression. He remembered one in particular.

"While the cannons thundered not far away, bullets whistled past me, hitting my dearest friend," he said, immersing himself in his memories. "I was only 16 and I was so scared.

"That's when my colonel, who was leading the charge, turned back and shouted at me, 'Come on, boy! You fight for your country and your country will take care of you when you are old'," said the man. "Those were his last words. He didn't lie to me."  

Jiang Xueqing and Wu Wencong contributed to this story.