James Poy Wong 黃培正
"Yet we have never come to understand. Every year we look at others’ graves that could also be our graves. We like to change the world into a large graveyard, but the flower of freedom would not grow out from this skeleton because no one is willing to nourish it."
"Remembering Unknown Heroes" - 1946
记念无名英雄
有些死去的人一年一度被人说起来，在他的坟前放下易萎的花。有些人的坟墓长满荒草，没人照料，一年一度的巡礼也没有，可是他却天天受人纪念着。
我曾踏过许多坟场，看过许多孤独的墓 —— 墓永远是孤独的。 有些富人的墓修得很整洁，或者有着新鲜的花朵。有些是一坏黄土，穿着荒草的衣裳，做蟋蟀的巢穴。 可是同样的死去，有些留下永不抹灭的思想，有些遗下一座好看的坟墓，一些什么也没有。
人集居于大都市中，认识的人多了，做人的面具也加厚了。 真诚自然去了，剩下来的就正如超实现派画家所绘的血肉淋漓的图画。 让我们回到一个较小的市镇吧。
这里几乎是一个大家庭。 街上的人互相招呼，彼此认识，面具薄了，亲善了，仇恨的时候也少了。 东家失了一枚鸡蛋也是新闻，西家失火整个镇都活动起来，张家的儿子从军回来，人人都感到愉快，李家丧了亲，众人真心的同情，永远都不吝惜的。
这里近郊也有一个坟场，同样有新的旧的，大的小的，齐整的，荒芜的小丘。 就以黄家这座来讲，他是大户，有点财产，他的子女每年都遣人来打扫他的冢。 旁边那小小的一座，在荒草遮蔽中，二十年来都没有人来打扫过. 他是外来孤零的人，从来都不曾提及他的亲属。 这李某是和黄某同一时代的人，也是同年死的。 黄某生前登过许多报纸，李某却干过许多极微小的事。 现在没有人记得黄某，就是老人家也早把他的名字忘记了。 但是一提起李某，人人都认识他，像你谈起朋友来一样，谁知他死去有二十年了。
东家的儿子，从李某学习手提琴的，这孩子现在长大成名了。 当他演奏的时候，教师的幻像就在眼前。 这儿童游戏场都是李某一手建筑的，教堂的风琴是李某捐出的。 他不是富翁，他死去时没有半点遗产，也不许他的名刻在任何一块死物上。 然而他却生长在每个人的心中，他死去遗下的是思想，活的思想，人们不是一年一度才纪念他，是天天纪念他，可是他的坟墓是荒凉的，二十年来没有人打扫过。
还有许多人死去，没有自己的坟墓，没有自己的墓志铭. 有的只是被人公认为同一代表的思想，这是我们每年这天纪念的阵亡将士。 谁记得这许多人名，这人名的纪录与否又有什么关系？ 每年军队都列队到无名英雄的墓前纪念，有一天他们也躺在同一块地上给后人来纪念的。
我们纪念，一年一度纪念，重在仪式，忘了死者所遗下所代表的思想. 一年年来纪念更多被牺牲的人，有一天连自己也是被牺牲的一个。
我们没有觉悟，我们年年看着别人的坟墓，也是自己的坟墓。 我们喜欢将地球变成一座大坟场，可是这骷髅长不出自由的花朵，因为没有人愿意来培养。 我们扬名争声，比外国人寻求幸福还来得强烈。 我们建筑最大的坟墓，可是死后没有人来纪念，连自己的子孙也不来扫墓. 就算把坟墓修得皇宫般华丽，又有什么意思呢？
如果将人们生命的一点，画在时间和历史演进的表格上，就得到一条向上弯的曲线. 将人的生命和历史时间相比，怎样伟大的升降也不能在这曲线上显出突出的。 只要我们能够尽自己的能力，使这曲线永远向上，人最大的安慰就可以获得了。
纪念不是一年一度的，纪念的真义只有从心中可以找寻。 有些人死去，一切都跟着死去，有些人死去留下一座无意思的坟墓，有些人死去却能留下思想，不磨灭的思想。
Remembering Unknown Heroes
Some deceased people would be mentioned by others once a year, and their graves would be left with easily wilted flowers. Some people’s graves would be full of wild grass without anyone caring for them, not even an annual customary tour, yet they are being remembered everyday.
Many graveyards I have walked in and I have seen many lonely tombs - tombs are forever lonely. Some wealthy people’s graves are very neatly maintained, perhaps with fresh flowers. Some are just a pile of yellow soil, clothed with wild grass and are caves for the crickets. They had all died just the same, but some had left behind ideas never to be obliterated, while some remained with a good looking grave, and some left nothing.
When people cluster and live in a metropolis, they know more people and the human masks are being thickened. Sincerity naturally diminishes, and what remains is just like the blood and flesh dripping in paintings by surrealist painters. Let us return to a smaller town.
It is almost like a big family here. People know each other and they mutually greet one and another on the street. With human masks being thinner, they are friendlier and there is less contempt. A family losing an egg can be news, while another family’s house catching fire would bring the whole town into action. The son of the Zhang family returns from service and everybody feels joyful. When the Lee family lost a relative, they all spared no effort to show their genuine sympathy.
Near the outskirts of the city is a graveyard that is just like any others, with old and new, large and small, neat and uniform graves, as well as barren little mounts. As for the tomb of the Wong family, he had a big family whose members own properties, and his children sent someone to sweep his grave every year. Next to his is a small tomb hidden in wild grass, and no one has come to sweep it for the past twenty years. He was a loner from out of town, and he never mentioned his relatives. This Lee and Wong belonged to the same era, and they also died the same year. Wong was mentioned many times in the newspapers, but Lee has done some really small things. Now nobody remembers Wong, even old folks have long forgotten his name. But once someone mentions Lee’s name, everybody knows him. Just like talking about a friend, they are unaware that he had died twenty years ago.
The son of a family studied violin from Lee. Now this child has grown up and become famous. When he is giving a performance, the image of his teacher is in front of his eyes. This children’s playground was single handedly built by Lee, and the organ in the church was donated by Lee. He was not rich, and he left no inheritance when he died. He also did not allow his name to be carved on any dead object, yet he is alive in everyone’s heart. What his passing had left behind are ideas, lively ideas. People do not just remember him once a year; they remember him every day. But his grave is bleak and desolate, and nobody has swept it for the past twenty years.
There are still many other people who died without their own graves and without their own epitaphs. Some have been recognized as representatives of their own thinking. Every year on this day we still commemorate these soldiers who sacrificed in battles. Who could remember all their names? And what difference does it make whether their names are recorded? Every year soldiers line up and march to the unknown heros’ graves to commemorate them. They too will someday lie down on this same piece of land and be commemorated by the people after them.
We commemorate each year and every year with attention to ceremony, but we forget the ideas left behind by the deceased. Each and every year we come to commemorate even more people who were sacrificed. Someday we too will be sacrificed.
Yet we have never come to understand. Every year we look at others’ graves that could also be our graves. We like to change the world into a large graveyard, but the flower of freedom would not grow out from this skeleton because no one is willing to nourish it. Our desire to establish our names and popularize our reputation is stronger than the westerners’ pursuit of happiness. We build the biggest grave, but nobody comes to pay tribute after we die, not even our own descendants would come to sweep the grave and show their respect. Even if the tomb is built like a magnificent palace, what meaning does it yield?
If we take human lives as a point and draw on the chart of time and historical development, it will be an upward curve line. To compare the life of a person to history and time, no matter how remarkable the up and down are, it will not protrude from the curve line. As long as we can exert our effort to keep this curve line forever going upward, humans could then obtain the greatest consolation.
Commemoration is not just for once a year. The true meaning of remembrance can only be found in one’s heart. Some people died and everything died with them. Some people died and left an uninspired grave. Some people died, but were able to leave behind ideas - ideas that cannot ever be obliterated.