伏龍芝故居感想

伏龍芝，是吉爾吉斯斯坦首都比什凱克以前的名稱。

這個名字，曾經(jīng)像一把烈火，照亮過我少年時代崇敬革命的心靈；曾經(jīng)像一面旗幟，飄揚在我青年時代充滿理想的胸中。在“十月革命”時期的那一代蘇聯(lián)革命領(lǐng)袖中，伏龍芝，這位唯一出生在邊遠中亞地區(qū)的革命者，曾有過那么多的傳奇、那么多不凡的經(jīng)歷，以至于那些傳奇至今仍讓我們激動不已。

今天，當我置身于曾以他的名字命名的這座大森林般的城市的懷抱中，特別是來到他的故居，尋訪他電閃雷鳴般的人生經(jīng)歷。新奇、敬仰、遺憾和失落——復(fù)雜的心情通過復(fù)雜的眼神，讓我進行和經(jīng)歷著這次遲來的參觀與訪問。

他的磚木結(jié)構(gòu)的陳舊而又矮小的故居，已被高大的花崗巖貼面的富麗建筑包裹著；他的巨幅畫像迎面掛在紀念館的正廳，他從事革命生涯的許多實物展示在精致的玻璃柜里。但是，來這里的參觀者卻寥寥無幾。

在那個歷史性的崢嶸歲月里，火山巖漿般噴射著的革命激情，此刻已經(jīng)凝固在這里了，凝固得那樣沉寂。歷史就這樣容易被忘記、被冷落？還是正被生存壓力驅(qū)趕得急匆匆的人們無暇光顧這里？

一位老太太拄著拐杖，由40多歲的兒子陪伴著進了大廳，寧靜的大廳里多了一點除我之外的輕微腳步聲。講解員們不知道都忙什么去了，大概她們已經(jīng)習(xí)慣于這里已不大需要她們來費神。能來這里參觀的大多不需要再講解什么了，他們來這里，只是為了一種懷念，一種寄托，一種追憶。

又來了一位坐輪椅的老頭兒，留著濃濃的灰白胡須，神情冷峻而陰沉，對著大廳正面的畫像，脫帽凝視良久。也許此刻他的心中正涌動著萬頃狂飆：疾馳的戰(zhàn)馬，閃亮的軍刀，熾熱的戰(zhàn)火，嘹亮的軍歌；在生與死之間，血與火之中，記憶最深的那一刻……

不需要詢問便知道他是常來這里的參觀者中的一個，不需要了解便明白他的大半人生都與這里的每一項陳列有著血肉般的聯(lián)系?？墒俏蚁耄@座城市中的每一個成員，哪一位的人生與命運不曾與這里的一切有著千絲萬縷的關(guān)系？是70年前克里姆林的紅燈，點亮了這里徹夜的華燈；是70年前阿芙樂爾的炮聲，化作了這里機器的轟鳴；是70年前斯莫爾尼的春風(fēng)，吹開了這座城市的花朵；是70年前鐮刀鐵錘的旗幟，嶄新了這里破舊的面容。

歷史的河流即使是改道了，也應(yīng)該懂得那生命之水曾來之不易；時代的季節(jié)輪換成盛夏了，也應(yīng)該銘記那春雨曾對秋花的哺育。我不相信，秋葉落了鳥兒會忘記這里曾有過的綠蔭；我不相信，春花謝了果實會失去對春風(fēng)的敬重。這里的人民，善良而真誠，有著很高的素質(zhì)和水準；這里的人民，成熟而深沉，很看重民族的榮譽和責(zé)任。

突然，大廳的玻璃門被猛地推開了，一大群少年兒童在老師的帶領(lǐng)下，吵鬧著、嬉笑著、喊叫著涌進大廳，打破了原先的寧靜。書包在躍動，領(lǐng)巾在飄曳；頓時，櫥窗前、畫像前、展板前，圍滿了好奇的眼神。

欣慰之中我也明白，也許他們是這個世界上最后一批之中最年輕的有幸把這里的一切留在心底的參觀者了?；蛟S下一個70年后，他們會用驕傲的口氣對兒孫們說：“小時候，我還趕上了能見到伏龍芝畫像的機會。那個故居現(xiàn)在早已不存在了，但在記憶中，那是個勇敢而又堅強的好人……”

這個預(yù)想并非缺乏依據(jù)，因為，盡管廣場上列寧的畫像似乎還在，但飄揚的已經(jīng)不是鐮刀鐵錘的旗幟；盡管兒童們還戴著紅領(lǐng)巾，但《國際歌》的音符對他們已經(jīng)很陌生。歷史的走向已經(jīng)無需我來預(yù)測了，但我堅信，最難以抹去的，是建在人們心里的紀念館；最有生命力的，是讓世人誠服的歷史真情。

如果有一天，這里被完全拆除，或成為廢墟，或被新的建筑代替，我想，這不應(yīng)該成為遺憾，不應(yīng)該被視為悲劇。因為不論是被拆除還是被代替，只不過是星落日升般的歷史過程，人類社會本身，不就是從不斷地被拆除、被代替，走向更新的被拆除與被代替嗎？沒有永存的建筑，只有永存的大地。冰峰是崇高而神圣的，因為曾有無數(shù)攀登者永埋在雪地；大海是偉大而迷人的，因為曾有無數(shù)遠航者斷魂于海底；坦蕩而又樂觀地看待這一切吧，即使是無影無蹤地消失了，也還畢竟是消失在大地母親的懷抱里。

伏龍芝紀念館，如果真有了這一天，我想你一定能給予人們這樣的啟迪……

游唐勒喬克市場

各色商品在這里匯集，各路人流在這里會聚，各類語言在這里交流，各種利益在這里交易。唐勒喬克市場，是比什凱克這座大都市展示給世人的一個活的櫥窗，是一顆正在加速著城鄉(xiāng)商品流通的心臟。

有人說：“不去唐勒喬克市場買點貨，就等于沒去比什凱克?！眮淼竭@個市場就明白了，此話不僅僅是一個一般意義上的認識和評說，更在于它包羅的內(nèi)容和展示的哲理非常真實、準確、深刻。其實，不論你買不買這里的東西，尤其是在星期日來這里一趟，你一定會有比最貴重的商品更有價值的收獲，會激發(fā)起你一種深長的思索。

這里是一支社會境況的體溫表，這里是一張人間世態(tài)的眾相圖，從腰纏萬貫的巨富，到社會底層的乞丐，都在這里有意無意間展露著他們的心態(tài)和處境，他們的意愿和現(xiàn)狀。不論是農(nóng)民、牧民、工人、商人、機關(guān)公職人員，還是城市普通市民，都在這里占有著一方維持生存的領(lǐng)地。眼神里有亢奮、期待、落魄、失望；語言里有雄心、譏諷、牢騷、惆悵。批發(fā)的、零售的，以物換物的，賤賣舊貨的；新鮮的蔬菜、陳舊的古董、時髦的服裝、各類的動物；小自破舊玩具，大到二手汽車，輕自幾片干椒，重到老式鋼琴……包羅萬象，無所不有。仿佛全城的勞什子都抽樣集中在了這里。

仿佛原野上的綠草全都在暴風(fēng)雪中枯萎了，只有這里的積雪下，還殘存著供畜群維持生命的的嫩綠，擁擠和吵嚷是必然的；希望和失望、無奈與幻想，全都在這些值錢與不值錢的家什中等待著機遇。

生活的水位跌落了，必然會露出各類沉礁，社會的風(fēng)雨襲來了，萬木必然會東擺西搖。唐勒喬克市場，我從你紛繁的交易中，感受到了水位跌落后沉礁的窘困，風(fēng)雨襲來后萬木的惶恐。也許，這是一個難以避開的生存規(guī)律；也許，這是一個無法逆轉(zhuǎn)的歷史過程。但畢竟你已經(jīng)成了這一切的一個絕妙的縮影。

大門前，一位孤獨的演奏手風(fēng)琴的俄羅斯老人，吸引了我們的視線，腳下翻放著一頂破舊的禮帽，里面有一些零碎的小錢。那曲調(diào)既不憂傷也不喜慶，不知是在祝賀著這座市場的興旺，還是在哀怨著它的出現(xiàn)與存在。穿著各色服飾的人們從他身邊走過，有無動于衷的，有視而不見的，有邊走邊看的，有好奇圍觀的，有欣賞音樂的，有施舍小錢的。從表情到舉動，就看出了大千世界的萬種心態(tài)在這里的流進與涌出是多么的豐富多彩。

而這位老人，也許在這里目睹的世風(fēng)變換、人間百態(tài)已經(jīng)太多太多了，只管拉他的手風(fēng)琴，已無意于向這紛亂的世間表露半句，他已經(jīng)深刻領(lǐng)悟了的、深切體味了的大半輩子曲折的人生。

眼下的唐勒喬克市場，正是這一切的生動說明。小市場，大社會，正在紛紛攘攘中提醒著人們：要生存、要發(fā)展，只有一條規(guī)律和原則——去平等、自由地競爭。

今天，千百個唐勒喬克市場，已經(jīng)像雨后春筍，鉆出了社會變型期的中亞各共和國古老而又肥沃的土層，成為一道時晴時雨、時興時衰，時而明麗、時而晦暗的風(fēng)景。不過，它還是個孩子，還很單純，不可能現(xiàn)在就要求它不合時宜地深沉；它還是個幼苗，還很稚嫩，不可能馬上就要求它變成參天的青松。但它畢竟讓我在這里看到了中亞地區(qū)未來經(jīng)濟大交流的雛形。

能應(yīng)運而生，就是正常的；是客觀存在，就是合理的。被迫也罷，自愿也罷，喜歡也罷，討厭也罷；參與也罷，觀望也罷，好事也罷，壞事也罷；畢竟，一個游牧民族，在眾多民族的參與下，開始了在市場經(jīng)濟大海里的航行。不論波濤多么洶涌，不論旋渦多么驚心，思維方式的改變，傳統(tǒng)觀念的更新已是勢在必行，像高揚著的風(fēng)帆，必將在海風(fēng)中向遙遠的彼岸行進。最終，會讓一個世世代代生存在深山大谷中的游牧民族，在一個更為廣闊的生存空間里再生。

鄧小平大街巡禮

走在比什凱克的這條大街上，需要把腳步放輕，需要把步子邁正；因為一個和靄可親、被世人敬仰的老人崇高的名字，和這里的每一塊磚、每一塊石、每一棵樹、每一扇門都有著密切的聯(lián)系。這里的每一個行人，都深知它的分量，懂得它的含義，看重著這份情感，自豪于這份榮譽，而我，就更應(yīng)該百倍地珍惜。

鄧小平大街，是佩掛在吉爾吉斯斯坦人民胸前的一條友誼的緞帶，飄揚著我們偉大祖國的風(fēng)采。

那雕刻著老人家頭像的莊重的花崗巖石碑，豎立在那里，像是這條緞帶上一枚神圣的佩章，高掛在中吉兩國人民的心上。

頓時，這條街成了黃河與黃山的縮影、長江與長城的象征。滿街的人流像壺口浪，滿街的綠樹像迎客松，滿街的車流像三峽船，滿街的高樓像八達嶺。走在大街上，親近和溫暖的感覺會涌滿你的周身。

鄧小平大街，你像是中華母親留在這里的一條溫馨的棉背心，讓我們在溫暖中感受著母親的體溫。

一個世世代代崇尚和平與友誼的民族，必然會被另一個熱愛和平與友誼的民族所敬重；一個祖祖輩輩堅守勤勞與善良的民族，必然會被另一個同樣勤勞與善良的民族所感動。鄧小平大街，其實是兩個民族、兩國人民數(shù)千年友好歷史的延伸。

從大街的這頭到那頭，只有4.7公里的路程，卻濃縮著一個民族從屈辱走向強盛的不平凡歷程，從被岐視到受尊敬的歷史見證。

我不知道當今世界上有多少城市的街道有這樣的命名，但在這里，讓我深刻地認識了一個友好鄰邦千金難換的赤忱和真誠。

赤忱應(yīng)該以赤忱來相報，真誠應(yīng)該用真誠來回贈。一個倍受尊敬的民族的每一個成員，就該有相稱的風(fēng)范、相稱的人品和相稱的自尊。這條街道之所以被人們看得那么鄭重，因為在這里，它成了中國人民的化身，體現(xiàn)著敢于主持正義的精神，肩負著善于幫助朋友的使命，從大街上涌動而過的是人們的愛戴、欽佩和信任。

但是，我不知道每一位來這里分享這種榮譽的中國人，是不是認真地惦量過自己的責(zé)任。因此，走在這條大街上，自豪之中并沒讓我覺得有絲毫的輕松。肩頭的責(zé)任像泰山一樣重。我期望所有來這里的中國人，讓我們每個人的言行，都能對得起這條街上的每一塊方磚、每一棵綠樹、每一縷陽光、每一聲鳥鳴。不要辜負了那尊重如千鈞的石碑——那份巨人的莊嚴和神圣。

鄧小平大街，你是一條山谷，一條開滿了世代友好情誼之花的山谷；你是一條畫廊，一條描畫著共同繁榮的美好前景的畫廊；你是一條長橋，一條凝聚著共造和平的堅定信念的長橋；你是一條長河，一條流淌著共同進步希望之水的長河。

今后，不論走到哪里，不論走到世界的任何一個角落，我都會對我的華人兄弟們說：只有祖國強盛，才是我們最大的人生目標和精神寄托，你才會感受到什么是國格輝映下的完美的人格。

不信？請到中亞地區(qū)吉爾吉斯斯坦的首都比什克凱，到鄧小平大街，來體味一下這種會讓你終生難忘的感覺……

在瑪納斯雕像前

一個響亮了幾個世紀的名字，在一個民族的心靈里傳遞；一個塑造了幾個世紀的形象，在一個民族的歌聲里延續(xù)。一個流傳了幾個世紀的故事，在一個民族的琴弦上充實；一個崇拜了幾個世紀的英雄，在一個民族的血液里的傳奇。

瑪納斯，一位神話式的人物，一個浪漫的民族悠久文化的超級載體，此刻佇立在這里，佇立在比什凱克文化宮廣場上，像一座偉岸的豐碑，讓我情似浪涌、思如潮起……

在我很小的時候，我就知道了你，瑪納斯，那是在一位柯爾克孜流浪老藝人豪邁的歌聲中，在他養(yǎng)好了身體后的活躍的情緒里……

在一個大雪彌天的冰冷的日子里，一位身穿光板皮衣的柯爾克孜老人臥倒在了我家的門前，山羊胡須上掛滿了冰珠。盡管臉色蠟黃，身體虛弱，但卻將一把庫木孜琴緊緊抱在懷中，他斜靠在門板上已經(jīng)沒有了說話的氣力，顫抖著的嘴唇只輕輕吐出了一句：“我是個阿肯，病倒在了這里，已經(jīng)三天顆粒未進……”

父親知道什么是阿肯，趕快抱著他進了我家的屋門。母親端來了熱騰騰的湯面，父親趕快請來了醫(yī)生。不諳世事的我，只是睜著好奇的眼睛觀望著這些奇妙的情景。當晚，阿肯在溫暖的房間里入睡以后，父親悄聲告訴我：“阿肯，就是最有學(xué)問的人，也是最受尊敬的人；他，是柯爾克孜民族史詩《瑪納斯》的一位彈唱藝人。”

望著他沉睡的神態(tài)，慈祥的面容，我明白了，沒有學(xué)問，他不會到了這種境地才來求人。但我不明白，他胸中蘊藏著大海般的文化寶藏，堆集著高山般的精神食糧，為什么竟會淪落到挨門乞討的令人心酸的悲慘境地。淚水，在我童年只懂得善良的心底里涌動，在我只懂得同情的眼眶中閃動。雖然那時，我不可能懂得什么是《瑪納斯》，也不可能懂得什么是世間最有價值、最有意義的藝術(shù)。但是我相信搭救一個落魄的人于危難之中，本身就應(yīng)該是人類最美好的情感——它才能承載最珍貴的藝術(shù)。

人民的藝術(shù)，在黑暗的世道里不可能有多少立足之地，窮困的藝人們?yōu)榱怂?，奉獻了多少癡情，多少才情，多少熱情。

生命的燈火在追求中熬滅，才藝的心血在酷愛中耗盡?！冬敿{斯》，你是千千萬萬個這樣的人民藝術(shù)家用心靈塑造而成的，你是世世代代的人民群眾用集體的智慧在歲月中錘煉而成的。

此刻，你聳立在這里，聳立著的是一個民族一代代歌者的英魂，一個民族千百年不屈的精神，一個民族艱辛中閃爍的靈感，一個民族苦難中創(chuàng)造的自尊。

撫摸著這花崗巖雕成的巨型雕像，我仿佛揣摸著這個民族堅毅的性格。沒有這性格，就難以打磨出震驚世界的藝術(shù)杰作；沒有這性格，就難以高吟出舉世仰慕的英雄頌歌。

車水馬龍的大街上已華燈初上，晚霞映紅了這里的樓房、綠樹與廣場。一位大胡子老人領(lǐng)著小孫女在這里徜徉，像太陽牽著一輪俊美的月亮。

孫女問：“爺爺，據(jù)說死了的人才有這樣大的雕像，他死了么？”

“不，他永遠活著?！?/p>

“那他為什么不騎著那匹駿馬，從那高座上走下來呢？”

“走下來就會融化在我們之中了?！?/p>

“為什么呢？”

爺爺沒吱聲，半晌，只說了一句：“你看天上，太陽不是被星星們?nèi)诨嗣?？因為它是由無數(shù)個星星的光亮和熱能組成的?！?/p>

孫女兒努著小嘴說：“不，是太陽的光輝照亮了星星?！?/p>

爺爺笑著沒言語，少頃，只默默說道：“不過太陽的確是由無數(shù)個星星凝聚而成的。然后，它又照亮了星星?！?/p>

瑪納斯紋絲不動地佇立在那里，沒有表情，沒有回音。他已把一個偉大而又雄奇的傳說沉淀在一個民族深厚的心底了，這本身就已是一個永遠也訴說不完、研究不透的話題，任人們談?wù)摗?/p>

而他，只是在這里默默地傾聽……

致廣場賣花女郎

碧色的眼睛，金色的頭發(fā)，白晰的皮膚，紅潤的臉龐——你，本身就像是一朵鮮花在那里開放，還需在這百花盛開的廣場，再開一座鮮花商店，后面還連著一座蔥郁而又絢麗的花房？

我覺得這里的芬芳，似乎不是來自那些滿目爭奇斗艷的花朵，而是來自你高雅的風(fēng)度、深厚的教養(yǎng)、甜美的微笑和心底的善良。

你頭扎花頭巾，身穿“布拉琪”，亭亭玉立在鮮花旁，讓我一下子就聞到了俄羅斯文化的芬芳——那種從白樺林木屋旁的小茶爐里飄出的芳香，那種從擺著雕花木碗、木勺的餐布上飄出的烤面包和酸牛奶的芳香，那種從歡快、幽默的俄羅斯舞步中踏出的黑泥土的芳香，那種從女詩人阿赫馬托娃的組詩《野薔薇開花了》中溢出的和從《莫斯科郊外的晚上》的小夜曲中飄出的芳香。我感受到了一個民族心靈的多彩和俊美，對生活的熱愛和期望。

放眼晨光中明麗的市容、潔凈的街道、鮮亮的綠樹、川流不息的車隊、匆忙自信的人群，而人們手中的鮮花，就像這張城市笑臉上蕩漾著的春風(fēng)，使所有的一切都顯得那么生動、迷人……

所有愛美的人，心都是相通的；所有鮮花中的祝福都是美好的；所有用鮮花表達的意愿都是純真的。在這座城市里，不論車站碼頭的迎送，還是花前月下的幽會，不論至友親朋的探訪，還是兄弟姐妹的團聚，不論新房的祝賀還是產(chǎn)房的喜慶，不論陵園的送葬還是病房的問候……總是伴著鮮花的開放，總是捧著滿懷的芬芳。我未曾想到，鮮花，竟能在一個民族的社會生活里有著如此重要的位置，在一個民族的精神生活中有著如此大的能量。

在比什凱克的風(fēng)景線上，許多情景曾讓我備感欣悅，備受感動：我欣賞行駛著的地鐵車廂里，人們一個個手捧書籍閱讀的那種專注神情；我欣悅于在廣場、海濱、草坪上，人們與鴿子和海鷗們親近嬉戲的那顆愛心；我贊賞人們常到烈士陵園或紀念碑前悼念的那份真誠；我更感動于在一切場合，總是女士優(yōu)先的那些彬彬有禮的男士們的風(fēng)度。這一切，都讓我從熱愛鮮花中找到了答案，從崇尚美好中理解了他們，也理解了他們?yōu)閷崿F(xiàn)崇高理想的那種獻身精神。

當然，我也同樣理解你，美麗的賣花女郎，不論社會生活的航船是行駛在風(fēng)和日麗的洋面，還是顛箥在風(fēng)驟雨狂的浪尖，堅守善良，崇尚美好，是一個民族、一種社會成熟與自信的試金石，文化底蘊深厚與否的標志。因為，愛和美，能表達所有的幸福，也能化解一切不幸，而你和你的花房如此受人們歡迎，如此興旺，不就是一個明證？

盡管現(xiàn)在，你的許多金發(fā)碧眼的同胞去了俄羅斯，但你卻堅持留在了這里，留下了一種信念，留下了一種理想：做友誼的使者、情感的橋梁，讓生活里充滿純潔與美好。讓各民族的精神風(fēng)采都能在對美的追求中閃亮。像海潮退去了，留在金色沙灘的一枚美麗貝殼，與五彩斑爛的海螺們一起，裝點海岸線一般多姿的生活。

每一個民族都喜愛鮮花，每一個國度里都有賣花姑娘，但是，我卻要特意地贊美你，比什凱克的賣花女郎，在這個滿目都是綠樹紅花的國度里，你用你的美麗、熱情與真誠，留給我的印象是那么的難忘，對人生、對世界、對友情的思索，也就格外深長……

其實，在我看來，你就是這座城市最動人的形象女郎。

Sentiments over Former Residence of Frunze

Frunze is the former name of Bishkek，the capital of Kyrgyzstan.

Once this name was like a fire illuminating my heart in the teenage age when I was enthusiastically admiring revolution； once it was also a flag flying in my heart in the youth time when I was filled with ideals and best wishes. Among Soviet Union revolutionary leaders of October Revolutions， Frunze， as the only one who was born in the remote area of Central Asia， was once brought us so many legends with his extraordinary experiences which could still excite us even now.

Today I came here to embrace this forest-like city named after him， to visit his former residence and seek his life track which was once accompanied by lightening and thundering. Curiosity， admiration， pity and sense of loss mixed in my feelings and expressed through my eyes， which followed me to conduct and experience this late visit.

The residence， old， short and small， with masonry and timber structure has been surrounded by those lofty and magnificent buildings faced with granite； his huge picture was hang on the frontal wall of the memorial hall； his items used in his revolutionary life were displayed in delicately gleaming glass cabinets. However， visitors were rare.

In those historically glorious days， the revolutionary passion erupted like volcanic lava had already frozen here， frozen in such silence. Did history sink into oblivion and desolation in such an easy way？ Or those bustling people driven by survival pressure were too much occupied to pay a visit here？

An old lady on her crutch was accompanied into the hall by her around 40-year-old son， which added some slight footsteps in the serene hall. Those interpreters were nowhere to be seen. Possibly they were used to this little disturbing job. Virtually visitors who came here don’t need any interpretation. They come here only for sort of some memories， anchoring or rememberance.

Then came an old man on a wheel chair. His face clouded with heavy grey beard looked solemn and somber. He， with hat off， stared on the huge picture for quite a while. In my guess maybe his heart was then filled with overwhelming memories： galloping war horses， shining sabers， brining gun fires， clear marching songs or every moment in his deepest memory on the edge of life and death， in blood and fire...

No inquiry need I to tell that he is one of constant visitors； No chatting need I to know that most of his life was in flesh-and-blood connection to each exhibit displayed here. Yet I bent my thought， to some extent， wasn’t everyone in this city， everyone’s life and fate， inextricably tied up with everything displayed here？ It was red lights in Kremlin 70 years ago that lit up the sleepless street lamps； It was the gun-booming from Avrora 70 years ago that turned into the machines’ rumbling； It was spring wind from Smolny 70 years ago that bloomed flowers in this city； It was the flag emblazoned with a hammer and sickle 70 years ago ironed the morose face of this city.

Even the river of history diverted its course， it is bound to understand the life water was once far from easy to get； even the season changed to summer， the nourishment for flowers from spring rain should be always be remembered. I don’t believe that birds would forget the green shade of a leaves-denuded tree； I don’t believe either that the fruits that shed flowers would lose their respect to spring wind. People on this land with sincere kindness are of respect-worthy nobleness and dignity； they are of maturity and wisdom， shouldering the honor and responsibility for their nation.

All of a sudden， the glass door was pushed open and in came a group of children led by a teacher； the playful laughter， noises， and shouting crowded into the hall and broke its serenity ever. Bags， scarves were everywhere， leaping and wavering； and in no time the glass cabinets， the picture， and the display panels were surrounded by curious eyes.

I felt relieved meanwhile I understood that maybe in this world they would be among the youngest of the last generation who could see all of these with their own eyes. Perhaps another 70 years later， they might talk to their grand generation with pride： “When I was a kid， I still had the luck to see the picture of Frunze in his former residence. That place has already gone but in my memory， he was such a valiant good guy...”

This guess is not based on nothing because as we see， though the picture of Lenin is still hung on the square， the flag is not the one emblazoned with a hammer and sickle. Though the children are still wearing the red ties， they have already been very strange to the notes of the Internationale. The trend of history needs me not to predict. However， I always hold the strong belief that those memorials built in people’s heart are the strongest to wipe off； the true feelings in history accepted by people are of the greatest vigor and vitality.

If one day this place would be demolished completely， becoming ruins or being taken place by new buildings， I think， it shouldn’t be a pity or regarded as a tragedy， because in history this is only a process as naturally as sun rises or star falls and isn’t it true that the history of human society itself is a process from being demolished or being replaced to another new cycle of being demolished or being replaced？ Only this land is of eternality and by no means is any building. Ice-capped peaks are lofty and holy therefore numberless climbers wouldn’t fear to be buried in snow； the ocean is great and fascinating therefore numberless sailors would rather die for it. Thus so， adopt an optimistic and magnanimous attitude towards all of these. After all， everything would finally disappear into the arms of the Mother Earth.

If Frunze House Museum walks to its last day， I think， it would at least bring people with such enlightenment...

Strolling around Dordoy Bazaar

Here in this place， goods of all kinds are gathering， people of all walks meeting； different languages have enabled verbal communicating international and different interests have made the trade conducting. Dordoy Bazaar is a vivid display window with which the metropolis Bishkek presents itself to the outer world； it is a heart which beating is speeding products exchanges between the city and the countryside.

A saying goes： “You would not have been to Bishkek unless you buy something on Dordoy Bazaar.” You would understand that as soon as you are really here. This is not a random saying or commenting； its meaning contains something philosophically true， exact， and deep. In fact， buying things or not does not matter. You will be inspired into deep thoughts by the Bazaar if you would come here on one Sunday. What you get in your soul would be more valuable than any expensive goods here.

This place is a thermometer of social situations or a panorama of all figures： millionaires rolling in money or beggars on the bottom rung of society would reveal themselves idly or intentionally. Everyone， no matter who you are， nomad or worker， businessman or staff member， or city commoner， would find your own living place here. In their eyes you will see excitement， expectation， or disappointment； from their mouth you will hear ambition， irony， complaints or worries. From fresh vegetables to different animals， from old antique to fashion clothes， from small old toys to big second hand cars， from light dry pepper to heavy old piano， everything on wholesale， retail， barter， or second hand clearance sale could be found on Dordoy Bazaar. Seemingly items of the whole city were sampled and gathered here.

It was like that all green grass on prairie were withered by snowstorm and only under remaining snow left some hopeful green for cattle’s survival， thus crowding and crying would be inevitable； Whether there is hope or disappointment， destined acceptance or illusion， everything， expensive or cheap， seems to await their opportunities.

When life river ebbs， underwater rocks will certainly appear； when social storms come， all trees will surely be shaken. I did feel the embarrassment of revealed rocks from the busy exchanges of Dordoy Bazaar， as well as the fear of trees attacked by storms. Maybe it is an inescapable survival rule； maybe it is an irreversible historical process. Whatever it is， the Bazaar has absolutely become a perfect miniature of all happened.

In front of one gate， a lonely old Russian was playing accordion， which attracted our eyes. A ragged hat was in front of his feet， with some changes inside. The tune was neither sad nor happy. I wonder whether it was congratulating the prosperity of the Bazaar or sighing for its emerging and existence. People wearing a motley collection of clothes passed beside him； some are indifferent， some blind， some watching， some appreciating and some giving. The panorama of facial expressions and behaviors makes a colorful world with numerous kinds of emotions.

This old man， however， might have seen too many vicissitudes of this world and already run the whole gamut of human experiences so that he would rather enjoy his lonely accordionist-playing than say any word about the world. He might have already been deeply enlightened by the ups and downs in his life.

Dordoy Bazaar at this moment was a witness of everything once happened. Small market is the reflection of a big society， which is reminding people that there is only one rule or principle to survive and develop---equal and free competition.

Now thousands of “Dordoy Bazaars” have sprung up like bamboo shoots after a spring rain， sprung out of the ancient and fertile soil of Central Ancient lands which are at their social turning points. These markets have become scenery which alternates between rain and sunshine， rise and fall. Sometimes it is brightly beautiful， sometimes in its bleakness. Meanwhile it is still as young as a pure child who is not supposed to be inopportunely mature； it remains as a tender seedling and impossible to grow into a big tree in short time. Even so a looming start of economic exchanges of Central Asia in future has revealed itself to me.

Those born at propitious time are normal， objective and reasonable. No one cares whether this market is formed in a forceful way or in a voluntary way， or whether it is liked or disliked. It is all ok if you will be a participator or a speculator； and it matters nothing if you think it is good or bad. After all， a nomadic nationality with all people’s participation has commenced its sail on the ocean of market economy. No matter how rough the bellows are， or how horrifying the whirlpools， the changes of thinking ways， and the update of traditional ideas have already on their way， like a high flying sail； they will surely sail toward the distant destination in the oceanic waves. Finally these changes will enable a nomadic nationality that lived in valleys and mountains from generation to generation to resume a new life in a broader space.

Pilgrimage to Deng Xiaoping Avenue

This Avenue in Bishkek should only match to soft yet firm steps because every brick， every stone， every tree or every door was so closely connected with an amiable old man’s great name which was highly respected by people. Every person passed here understands its value and implication， treasures the love and friendship and is proud of this honor very much， while as for me all the feelings are hundred times stronger.

Deng Xiaoping Avenue is a ribbon of friendship worn by Kyrgyzstan people and flying with the charm of my motherland.

The granite statue of the old man was erected there， looking like a holy medal on the flying ribbon and in the hearts of Kyrgyzstan people and Chinese people.

For that moment， this avenue became the miniature of the Yellow River and the Yellow Mountain， the symbol of the Yangtze River and the Great Wall. The street stream seemed to reflect the waves of Hukou Waterfall； green trees opened their arms like greeting pines on Huangshan Mountain； the traffic was as busy as ships on the Three Gorges； high buildings were as lofty as Badaling Great Wall. Walking on the avenue you will be encompassed by the feelings of closeness and warmth.

Deng Xiaoping Avenue was like a sweet little quilted jacket prepared by our mother country for us to feel her warmth.

A nation who loves peace and cherishes friendship through the ages would surely be respected by another nation with like-minded； a bona fide and industrious nation will absolutely be moved by another nation with kindred spirit. Deng Xiaoping Avenue is actually the extension of friendship history between the two peoples.

From this end to that one， the only 4.7 km length condensed an extraordinary journey of a nation from humiliation to prosperity. It was a witness of the history from being discriminated to being respected.

I don’t know how many avenues in this world was named this way but here I， in my very deep heart， felt the invaluable warm-heartedness and sincerity of a friendly neighbor.

Warm-heartedness and sincerity must be embraced by the same. Each member of a nation with respectability deserves accordingly grace， character and dignity. The reason why this avenue is so seriously valued is because here it is the representative of Chinese people which represents righteousness and loyal friendship. On this avenue is filled with people’s admiration， love and trust.

But I don’t know whether every Chinese who shares the honor seriously considered the responsibility or not. Therefore walking on this avenue my pride didn’t release me. I feel my responsibility is as heavy as Mt. Tai. I hope every Chinese who come here would behave worthy of the honor reflected by each brick， each green tree， each ray of sunshine and each chirping of a bird. Don’t fail the expectation of the stone statue---the solemnity and holiness from a great person.

Deng Xiaoping Avenue is like a valley which is covered with blossom of friendship flowers； you are also like a gallery which displays the prosperity of our common beautiful future； you are a bridge which connects our common faith to build a peaceful world； you are a long river flowing with the hope of our common progress and development.

Wherever I go， I will hold such a faith and share it with my fellow guys： the prosperity of the mother country should be the goal and inner resources of an individual and only this way you may feel the perfect glory rendered by your mother land.

Don’t believe it？ Please come to Deng Xiaoping Avenue in Bishkek， the capital of Kyrgyzstan in Central Asia and taste the feeling that you will never forget in your whole life.

In Front of Manas Statue

A name lasted for centuries has been passed in the heart of a nation； an image glorified for hundreds of years has been praised in the song of a nation. A story told in centuries has been enriched on the strings of qomuz （a kind of folk instrument played by Kyrgyz）. This is a hero admired by his people for centuries； this is a legend flowing in the blood of a nation for centuries.

Manas， a legendary hero， a super cultural carrier of a romantic nation， is now standing here on the Ala-Too Square like a lofty monument which stirs my heart into billows.

When I was still very young， I had heard about you， Manas， in the unconstrained and enthusiastic music of a Kyrgyz old man， in the lively and cheerful joy after his recovery from illness.

It was a chilly snowing day when an old Kyrgyz old man dressed in a leather coat fell in front of my house. His goatee beard was dotted by ice beads. Despite his paleness and weakness， he held tightly a qomuz in his arms. Leaning against the door， he lost his last strength to talk. His lips were quivering and would hardly form sentences but words： “I...akyn， fell down， three days， no food...”

My father knew akyn and hurriedly held him in arms into my home. My mother took some hot noodle with soup and my father rushed out for a doctor. I， being ignorant of the world， just watched all of these curiously. That night when the akyn fell asleep in his warm room， my father whispered to me： “Akyn， is the most knowledgeable person， also the most respectable； he is a recitative singer of the national poem Manas.”

He was in peaceful sleep， his face mild and kind. I understood if he were not so knowledgeable and with such a strong sense of self-esteem， he would come out to beg earlier. But I was still wondering since he possessed such a huge cultural treasure house inside as vast as an ocean， and abounded in so much spiritual food heaped as high as a mountain， why he still had been reduced to begging for living. Tears shed in my knowing-only kindness tender heart and sympathetic eyes. Though at such an age I couldn’t understand what is Manas or what is the most valuable and significant art. Yet I believed that it was a sweet and beautiful feeling to save a person when he was in time of adversity---and that is a feeling which can carry the most valuable art.

In a dark world there were not many places for people’s art and those impoverished akyns devoted their love， their talents and their enthusiasm for the art in whole life.

The fire of life perished in their pursuit of art ； their passion and persistence finally exhausted. Manas， you are formed by souls of thousands of akyns； you are forged by all people’s wisdom from generation to generation.

Now you stand here as a heroic soul of all akyns of this nation， as the unbending spirit of this nation for thousands of years， as an inspiration of this nation twinkling in the hardness of this nation， and as the dignity that a nation procured for herself.

Touching on this huge statue made of granite， I seemed to touch the fortitude of this nation. Without the fortitude， no art masterpiece would be polished； without the fortitude， no heroic carol admired by the whole world would be created.

The bustling street witnessed the fall of the night curtain and the rosy glow of sunset painted the buildings， green tress and the squares into the same color. A beard old man took the hand of a little girl， strolling around and they were like the sun was leading the beautiful moon.

The little girl asked： “Grandpa， it was said that only dead man has such a huge statue， is he dead？ ”

“No， he lives for ever.”

“But why didn’t he step down with his horse from the base？”

“If he stepped down， he would melt among us.”

“But why？”

The old man didn’t respond， for a while. Then he talked： “Look， didn’t the sun melt among stars？ It was the light and heat of numberless stars that made it.”

Puckering her lips the little girl denied： “No， it was the sun rays lit up stars.”

The old man smiled and later he said peacefully： “True， the sun was made by numberless stars， and then it lit up stars.”

Manas stood still， silent and expressionless， and gave no response at all. He had already deposited a great and heroic legend in the deepest heart of the nation. The legend itself is an endless topic and research subject among people.

And he just stands here in silence， listening...

To the Flower Girl on the Square

Green eyes， blonde hair， fair skin and rosy cheeks---you， yourself are a fresh flower in full bloom， which made the flowers on the square， in the shops or in greenhouse unnecessary.

The fragrance was not from those blooming colorful flowers， but from your noble grace， endearing charm， sweet smile and kind-heartedness.

Wearing a patterned scarf on head and dressed in beautiful “Brachi”， you were standing gracefully beside flowers. I could immediately smell the fragrance from the Russian culture---it was a sweet flavor wafted from teapot in cabinet of white birch forests； it was an attractive aroma from toasted bread and yogurt from delicately carved wood bowls and spoons on tablecloth； it was the scent from the black soil on which cheerful and humorous Russian girls were dancing； it was the fragrance emanated from the poems Wild Roses in Blossom of Akhmatova and from the serenade Moscow Nights. I felt the colorfulness and beauty of a nation’s soul as well as its passion and hope for life.

In my sight the city was in a clear morning： clean streets， bright green trees， bustling traffic and crowd； and flowers in people’s hands were blooming like the spreading smile on face； all of these looked so vivid and charming...

Love for beauty is in everyone’s heart； wishes represented by flowers are beautiful and pure. In this city， no matter what it is， meeting and greetings on stations or ports， dating by the flowers and under the moon， family gathering， celebrating of new house or new born or mourning in funeral or visiting in a ward， the whole life is accompanied with blooming flowers and filled with its fragrance. It was out of my expectation that， flowers could even play such an important role in the social life of a nation and provide so much energy in its spiritual life.

In Bishkek I was once moved and pleased by many things： I like people reading attentively in subway cars； I enjoy the harmony and love reflected on squares， beaches and grasslands when people are playing with seagulls and pigeons； I appreciate the sincerity when people were standing before monuments or in the Martyrs’ Cemetery； and what’s more I was touched by the gentlemanship of “l(fā)ady first” naturally behaved on any occasion. I found all of these from the fragrance of flowers. I understand them from their love for beautiful flowers. I could also understand their devotion for a lofty ideal.

Surely I understand you， the flower girl. Wherever the ship of society is， on sailing on peaceful ocean of sunny days or wallowing in a stormy sea， the reservation of kindness and love for beauty is the touch stone of the confidence and maturity of a society； it is the symbol of a deep culture. Because， love and beauty can express all happiness and melt away all misfortune. And you， the flower girl and your garden house are so much loved by people； isn’t a good example of the prosperity？

Though many beautiful girls went to Russia， you chose to stay here with a faith or ideal： to be an envoy of friendship and love， to fill the life with purity and fragrance. You enabled the charm of a nation to shine in the pursuit of beauty. It was like on beaches when tide ebbed， a beautiful shell on the golden sands， together with other various couches was decorating the colorful coastal life.

Every nation loves flower， and in every country there is flower girl while here I would like to appraise you， the flower girl in Bishkek. In this beautiful country with green trees and red flowers， you impressed me so deeply with your beauty， enthusiasm and sincerity， which made me think deeper about life， about this world and about friendship...

Actually to the best of my belief， you are the very most charming image of this city.

（Translated by Wang Yanlin）