A Letter to the Readers
Morning Sun in Wuhan
Dear Reader,
In the winter of 1987, I left my hometown of Wuhan, China, to study in the U.S. Even today, I still dream at night about playing in the hospital compound where my parents worked as doctors, shopping in the vegetable markets with my grandma, and taking long bus rides across the Yangtze river bridge to visit my friends.
At the beginning of 2020, I had my bags packed for a lecturing tour in Southeast Asia. My last stop would have been Wuhan. For months, my girlfriends and I chatted excitedly over WeChat, planning the fun activities we would do once I got there: an evening boat ride down the Yangtze river; dressing in traditional clothes and getting professional photos taken in a studio; singing Karaoke at a friend’s new apartment; visiting the famous Hubu Alley and sampling all the local delicacies. Most importantly, I wanted to visit my childhood home in the hospital compound one last time before it was demolished to make room for a skyscraper.
Then one late night in early January, I received a surprise call.
“Ying, you are welcome to stay at our home, but I can’t accompany you anywhere,” said my friend, whose husband held a high position in the government. She continued with an unusually high, chipper voice. “There is an unknown virus spreading around Wuhan, but it’s not transmitted between humans.”
I detected fear and caution in her words. Growing up during the cultural revolution, I became accustomed to people speaking in code. My mother used to tell me to pay attention to what was not being said. The next day, I canceled my flights. Two weeks later, Wuhan was placed under quarantine.
In the following months, I spent every waking hour watching the news, checking Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok, talking to family and friends in Wuhan, and following every development of the situation there. My heart ached every time I saw a photo or video of patients crowding hospitals, medical workers collapsing in exhaustion, and people being blockaded in their homes.
I retreated to the one thing that always brought me comfort: cooking. I cooked the Wuhanese dishes my grandma taught me and shared them with my Chinese friends. We exchanged whatever information we had from China and reminisced about our happy times with family and friends back home.
As the situation worsened, I couldn’t help but wonder how my father, a dutiful doctor, would have responded and how my younger self would have reacted. When I read about a young woman leading a volunteer group, cooking for frontline medical workers, it was like seeing a ray of sunlight through the dark clouds. The idea of preparing food for others resonates with me personally and culturally, as, in Chinese culture, food has always played an important role in binding communities together. I began following a blog written by one of the young volunteers. When I learned one of my friend's nieces was volunteering in the group, I interviewed her over WeChat.
The image of Mei formed in my mind. Her voice emerged naturally, as I, too, know what it felt like to act brave as a young girl, even when I was scared. I decided to write a book about the bravery and selflessness of these young people.
Although the pandemic has touched everyone in the world, few know what life was like in the epicenter at the start, and perhaps even fewer know the rich culture of Wuhan and its resilient people.
At its heart, Morning Sun In Wuhan is not merely a book about the pandemic but a tale about kindness, love, and community. It’s a love letter to my birth city and a reminder that one person’s actions have the power to make a difference, that the darkest times can bring out the best in people, and that young people can make an impact in the world.
I hope you will enjoy the book!
Best,
Ying
Dear Reader,
In the winter of 1987, I left my hometown of Wuhan, China, to study in the U.S. Even today, I still dream at night about playing in the hospital compound where my parents worked as doctors, shopping in the vegetable markets with my grandma, and taking long bus rides across the Yangtze river bridge to visit my friends.
At the beginning of 2020, I had my bags packed for a lecturing tour in Southeast Asia. My last stop would have been Wuhan. For months, my girlfriends and I chatted excitedly over WeChat, planning the fun activities we would do once I got there: an evening boat ride down the Yangtze river; dressing in traditional clothes and getting professional photos taken in a studio; singing Karaoke at a friend’s new apartment; visiting the famous Hubu Alley and sampling all the local delicacies. Most importantly, I wanted to visit my childhood home in the hospital compound one last time before it was demolished to make room for a skyscraper.
Then one late night in early January, I received a surprise call.
“Ying, you are welcome to stay at our home, but I can’t accompany you anywhere,” said my friend, whose husband held a high position in the government. She continued with an unusually high, chipper voice. “There is an unknown virus spreading around Wuhan, but it’s not transmitted between humans.”
I detected fear and caution in her words. Growing up during the cultural revolution, I became accustomed to people speaking in code. My mother used to tell me to pay attention to what was not being said. The next day, I canceled my flights. Two weeks later, Wuhan was placed under quarantine.
In the following months, I spent every waking hour watching the news, checking Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok, talking to family and friends in Wuhan, and following every development of the situation there. My heart ached every time I saw a photo or video of patients crowding hospitals, medical workers collapsing in exhaustion, and people being blockaded in their homes.
I retreated to the one thing that always brought me comfort: cooking. I cooked the Wuhanese dishes my grandma taught me and shared them with my Chinese friends. We exchanged whatever information we had from China and reminisced about our happy times with family and friends back home.
As the situation worsened, I couldn’t help but wonder how my father, a dutiful doctor, would have responded and how my younger self would have reacted. When I read about a young woman leading a volunteer group, cooking for frontline medical workers, it was like seeing a ray of sunlight through the dark clouds. The idea of preparing food for others resonates with me personally and culturally, as, in Chinese culture, food has always played an important role in binding communities together. I began following a blog written by one of the young volunteers. When I learned one of my friend's nieces was volunteering in the group, I interviewed her over WeChat.
The image of Mei formed in my mind. Her voice emerged naturally, as I, too, know what it felt like to act brave as a young girl, even when I was scared. I decided to write a book about the bravery and selflessness of these young people.
Although the pandemic has touched everyone in the world, few know what life was like in the epicenter at the start, and perhaps even fewer know the rich culture of Wuhan and its resilient people.
At its heart, Morning Sun In Wuhan is not merely a book about the pandemic but a tale about kindness, love, and community. It’s a love letter to my birth city and a reminder that one person’s actions have the power to make a difference, that the darkest times can bring out the best in people, and that young people can make an impact in the world.
I hope you will enjoy the book!
Best,
Ying
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