A Final Curtain Call

The Han army has conquered our land; 

Surrounded with the singing of Chu; 

My lord’s spirits are low; 

Why then should I live? 

-- Song of Consort Yu

I look down from the stage. 

A familiar sight of smiles, tears, looks of fascination and enjoyment. An audience which, through their cheers and applause, expressed the same satisfaction and approval of my performance that I had been fortunate enough to receive many times before. Perhaps I ought to be grateful, just as I have been all those times before, for the enjoyment of the audience is the performer’s greatest pleasure. However, this time, I felt no pleasure. 

I’m not usually one for sentimentalism. 

Perhaps this is odd, coming from a traditional opera performer known for passionate and touching performances, but I have always found emotions to be distracting and seldomly valuable. 

I grew up in a chaotic environment, during the final years of a 300-year-old corrupt and broken empire and in the midst of many wars, foreign invasions, and internal uprisings. I learned at a young age that emotions are a luxury -- you can’t afford to feel sad about the death of a friend when you are in constant need to worry about your own survival first. And to be honest, after living like that for a few years, I became numb. Numb to the point where I no longer felt my own heartbeat. 

That was why I took up performing in the first place. It was, in a way, an escape. An escape from numbness, and an escape from the coldness of the real world. I only got so good at portraying strong emotions because I wanted to feel strong emotions. Thus, the “greatest Dan performer under Heaven” was born. But no matter the amount of emotions I put into each performance, into each line, each gesture, and each look, I have always separated life on-stage and off-stage. As the invading foreign troops brought chaos once again upon my nation and my people, I distanced myself once more from my emotions. 

Sentimentalism is for the stage, and the stage only. 

Or so I would like to think. 

In the end, I turned out to be yet another human, who could not help but feel. 

I felt the joy of each audience member, sitting in front of the stage, paying no attention to the horrible massacres outside of the theatre. 

I felt the hesitation of the translator, clashing fiercely with his inner consciousness in every word he spoke to the nearby officials. 

I felt the anger of the young reporter who wrote a 1000-word essay criticizing my betrayal to the nation in the papers a week ago. 

I felt the regret of the old mayor when the city’s defense lines were broken through. I felt the fear behind every desperate cry of help, before innocent town folks whom I knew and loved and cared about were slaughtered like livestock. I felt the despair of the elders, who frequented my theatre, before watching their children fall to bullets and explosions. I felt the confusion of the children, who used to laugh innocently at every overexaggerated movement I made, when feeling the once lovely and lively embrace of their father and mother loosen and colden. 

And it’s in the midst of all these emotions that I felt something else. My own emotions, which I had thought to be long buried beneath layers of numbness, once again filled my heart. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

I felt bittersweetness when I stepped onto the stage for the last time -- something that seemed so distant a few months ago that the thought of it occurring anytime soon never even crossed my mind. 

I felt nervousness, for the first time in years, for this performance and for everything that will happen afterwards. 

I felt hatred towards every single person in the audience. Hatred towards their uniforms, their weapons, and their foreign crests. Hatred towards their foreign faces that appear so sinister even when filled with pleasure from my performance. Hatred towards every brutal evil deed they had done on this land. Hatred toward the very fact that they seem to feel no remorse from those deeds, and lighthearted enough to enjoy a Beijing opera performance. 

I felt pain. Pain from having to watch so many people perish who share with me the same culture and heritage. Pain from not yet being able to do anything against all of this madness. Pain from this past week of having a gun pointed at my head forcing me to perform for them. Pain from not choosing earlier to die rather than comply. 

But at the same time, I felt hope. Hope that my plan will work, and that it will give this town and this nation a chance to recover. Hope that, whether or not I succeed, my martyrdom will inspire others to find their courage and resist with all their might. Hope that one day, this nation will stand once more at the top of the world, just as it has for 2000 years in the past. Hope that one day, no foreign power will ever again be able to force its will upon my people, erase my culture, or devastate my land. 

And it was with this hope I sang my final tune: 

The invading army has conquered our land; 

Surrounded with the opera of Beijing; 

The Dragon’s spirits are low; 

Why then should I live? 

I glanced at the audience once more. The foreign officials, unable to understand the meaning behind these words, continued to marvel at my singing. Beside them, the translator stood with a pale face, his chattering teeth preventing him from clear speech. 

Perhaps the odd behaviour of the translator became apparent, perhaps my strange attitude revealed itself a tad too early, or perhaps the smell of gasoline was too noticeable, but the officials soon realized that something was off. They exchanged questioning looks and whispered to each other in their language, as panic quickly spread across their faces. 

But it was too late.

Flames roared from beneath the stage, quickly covering the whole theatre. Screams of fear, despair, and confusion came from the officials -- an all-too familiar sound, only with the roles reversed. 

Standing amongst the flame, I closed my eyes and smiled, enjoying my final curtain call. 

Perhaps, setting sentimentalism aside, this was not the best decision I could have made. Perhaps there were other methods that would have been less brutal and more effective in dealing with these invaders. Perhaps there was a way that I myself did not have to make the ultimate sacrifice. Perhaps there were even a few reasonably kind officials in the audience who had been opposing the terrible massacres in their military or secretly saved some of my people behind their leaders’ backs, and are now about to die from my hands. 

But honestly? I couldn't care less. 

I was a human after all. And I could not help but feel. 

These invaders have brought far too much suffering to my land. And I wanted -- I desired -- to return the favor. 

In the words of the immortal Lu Xun:

“Asking in vain the chilly stars to greet my people, 

I’m resolved to give my blood to my dear homeland.”

To my family, my friends, and my fellow townsfolk… 

Here is my blood.