Demolition of the Family Home
On September 13th, my younger brother sent a video to our family group chat showing that our ancestral home in the countryside had been demolished.
The demolition, which we’d talked about for over a decade, became reality just like that. Over the years, this topic often came up. We usually hoped for it. Demolition, ideally, meant a good payout in a short time, or an improved living environment, or just having more financial flexibility. But seeing our home of over thirty years with doors and windows knocked out, the roof taken off, debris and broken tiles scattered all over—I was deeply moved. I wondered if our home was truly gone. It’s even harder and heavier on my heart than I imagined.
The house had two parts: old and new.
The old house, built around 1970 (we guess), was once used for the rural “educated youth” sent by the government. Locals called it the “Educated Youth Station.” It had seven or eight rooms with red bricks, black tiles, wooden doors and windows, some with dirt floors instead of cement. In 1989, my dad bought it for around 8,000 yuan. I was six at the time.
The new house came around 1993. It followed the then-popular style of two-story houses, three rows with hall-style doors, and white tile exteriors. Its structure was unique, entirely symmetrical. Each side had a main hall, bedroom, bathroom, and a staircase. Looking from the outside, anyone could see this was built by my dad for his sons’ future families. My dad said if we got along, the two sides of the house would be connected. If not, he’d put a wall between, turning it into two homes. In our village, especially among my parents’ generation, harmonious relationships among brothers aren’t that common.
In 1997, on the south side of the house, next to my brother’s half, we added a dining room and kitchen. That set the final shape of the house we lived in for so long.
Despite my dad’s simple plan for his sons’ future families nearly 30 years ago, life took us apart. My brother moved to Changsha’s city center after getting married. I moved to various cities after university and getting married. What was once our home turned into a short stop, a harbor for infrequent visits each year.
That harbor holds endless emotions and memories. The leeches in spring while planting rice that stuck to our feet, summer and fall harvesting rice with my parents under the hot sun, sneaking off with my brother to fish in a neighbor’s pond while parents napped, sleeping under the stars on bamboo cots, the peach blossoms and sweet peaches around the house, countless fishing trips at our pond, the never-changing homemade Hunan dishes from Mom, her tears when we left for long trips, neighborly conflicts over trivial matters yet still caring for each other… Of all, the clearest memories are the New Year days at home. In the blackened firewood kitchen, our family gathered around a fire pit, burning firewood prepared by my dad each autumn. Above the fire, various cured meats sizzled and dripped oil. Outside might be wind, rain, or snow, but inside, it was always warm.
Now, that geographical home no longer exists. For me and my family, we’ve gotten used to moving from one city to another, one residence to another. The physical space is just an outward form of home; more importantly, wherever we move, we’re always together as a family. But for my parents, seeing their lifelong home suddenly demolished requires some time to accept and come to terms with.
Because of my Christian faith, I fully believe we’re all just sojourners in this world, destined to leave one day—whether to heaven or hell—and can’t truly own anything tangible or intangible in this life. Reflecting on those years spent in the old home, it all feels like a fleeting moment, which only highlights life’s brevity. This life is so short, limited, flawed, and sinful. Comparatively, eternal life with Jesus is infinitely better. I pray to the eternal, holy, and good Lord who created and saved us to guide my beloved parents, brother, and his family to know Him and gain everlasting life.