Who was responsible? Who made "science" so hateful that it became something that Maqiao people must shun at all costs?

All I can say is that perhaps it was not Ma Ming alone who was responsible.

: Out of the many Chinese dictionaries that exist, not one gives a pejorative sense for the word xing (awaken). For example, the Origins of Words (Commercial Press, 1989) defines it as "recover from drunkenness," "rouse from dream," "become conscious" and so on. Awakening is thus the opposite of befuddlement and confusion, and implies only rationality, clarity, and intelligence.

There is a famous line in Qu Yuan's poem The Old Fisherman, "Throughout the world all is muddy, I alone am clear; everyone is drunk, I alone am awakened (xing)"-a line which did much to boost the prestige of "awakened."

Maqiao people don't see things this way. Quite the opposite: Maqiao people have long used this word, spat out with a disdainful wrinkling of the nose and thinning of the lips, to refer to all kinds of idiotic behavior. "Awakened" means stupid. Someone awakened is a stupid fool. Could it be this custom dates from when their ancestors encountered Qu Yuan?

In c.278 b.c, Qu Yuan the Awakened, Qu Yuan the self-proclaimed member of the Awakened, unable to tolerate the drunken disorder prevailing throughout the world, resolved to make a martyr of himself, and to oppose evil through death. He threw himself into the Miluo River (the lower reaches of the Luo River) and drowned-in the area nowadays called Chutang township, where he went after having been condemned to exile. At that time in the state of Chu, which he had loyally served, "crowds of ministers vied jealously for success and toadied to gain advancement, while good ministers were dismissed and banished far from the hearts of the common people" (taken from The Record of the Warring States). He was thus no longer wanted in Chu. He looked back over the city of Ying, Chu's capital, composing aloud poems to vent his grief. His lofty aspirations thwarted, he released cries of deep melancholy to the heavens. If he was not to be the savior of this world, he could at least reject it. If he could not tolerate the betrayal and falseness that surrounded him on all sides, he could at least shut his eyes to it. Thus he finally chose to settle his suffering heart in the dark quiet of the riverbed. It is worth noting that his route to exile took him through Chenyang, Shupu, and so on, leading him finally to the edge of the River Xiang, which winds up to the land of Luo. In fact, this was one of the last places on earth that a dismissed Chu minister should go. This was the first place to which the Luo people had fled for refuge after being brutally routed by the mighty state of Chu. When the people of Chu had themselves been brutally routed by the even mightier state of Qin, Qu Yuan himself drifted there soon afterwards, following almost exactly the same route. History was repeating itself, simply with the roles switched around. Why revive old grievances between those who wander together in desperation through foreign lands?

Qu Yuan had been a top official in the state of Chu, in charge of official court documents, and so would naturally be very familiar with the history of Chu, and thus also be well aware of the rout of Luo by Chu. When he climbed mournfully up onto the bank of the Luo River, saw faces, heard words, or experienced local customs that seemed familiar, when he encountered all this that had by some lucky chance escaped all the executioners' knives of Chu, what thoughts and feelings were in the mind of this exile? I don't know. I find it even harder to guess whether, when the humiliated and impoverished Luo people faced the former minister of the invading state, when they silently approached, mutely grasping the handles of their swords, when finally they held out bowl and spoon, did the hands of the great minister tremble?

History has recorded none of this.

Suddenly, I feel that there are complex reasons for Qu Yuan's choice of final resting place, reasons that remain beyond our comprehension.

The land of Luo was a mirror which permitted him to see clearly the absurdity of concepts of rise and fall, of division and unity. The land of Luo was a dose of bitter medicine, sweeping away all self-control in the innermost being of this court official. The chill billow of the waves on the river made him question all his memories, not only his grievance against the state of Chu, but also his loyalty to Chu, his lifelong self-love, and his lifetime's devotion to these causes. This was not the first time he had had to endure rejection, and he ought to have had sufficient experience and psychological resources to cope with exile. He had already spent many days journeying through wild lands, and he should have been used to the hunger, cold, and hardship of exile. His eventual death at the side of the Miluo river, leaving behind a vast, empty riverbank, meant that he must have received some fundamental shock which induced in him a feeling of terror towards the yet vaster life that existed beyond life, a feeling of unassailable confusion at the yet vaster history that existed beyond history. The only thing he could do was to take a step into the unknown.

Where else could he have experienced such a dazzlingly rude-awakening?

Where else could he have come to understand better his long-prized sense of-awakening?

All this is conjecture.

Qu Yuan wandered barefoot far and wide through the land of Luo, wrapped only in flowers and grasses, drinking dew and eating chrysanthemums, greeting the wind and rain, conversing with the sun and the moon, sleeping alongside the insects and birds. By then, I think he can't have been quite right in the head. He had awakened (as he, as well as the later Origins of Words and the like understood it), and truly was awakened (as Maqiao people understand it).

His leap into the river generated a dual meaning for the word "awakening": wisdom and ignorance, heaven and hell, the physical present and metaphysical eternity.

The Luo people couldn't really understand the staunch loyalty of the Chu minister, but they empathized with a fallen enemy, and expressed their sorrow for Qu Yuan in the annual tradition of dragon-boat racing on May Fifth that later developed. They throw rice dumplings into the river, hoping this will persuade the fish and shrimps to leave Qu Yuan's corpse in peace. They bang deafeningly on drums and gongs, hoping to waken the poet from his deep sleep on the riverbed. Time and again they shout themselves hoarse trying to summon his soul: men and women, young and old all shout till their veins almost burst, their eyeballs bulge, their throats hurt, the sweat pours off them. Their shouts fill the heavens, obliterating their age-old enmity toward the Chu army, as they apply themselves only to saving the life of a man, of a foreign poet.

The earliest mention of this custom is in The Record of the Four Seasons in Jingchu, written at the time of the Southern Dynasties (440-589 a.d.) by Zong Bing, a man of Liang. Before this, no one spoke of commemorating Qu Yuan on the fifth day of the fifth month. In fact, dragonboat racing had long been a common sight in the south, a part of their ritual sacrifice to the spirits that lacked any verifiable connection to Qu Yuan. The link between the two was most probably fabricated by the historical fantasy of literati. It was done for Qu Yuan, but also for themselves. Therein lies the rationale of the ever more elaborate celebration of ritual sacrifices: aren't those who martyr themselves to civilization reassured by the promise of eternal glory as final compensation?