17. A countryman, a stranger

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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I had no classes that day. The campus was quiet, and the hum of student activity felt far away. I was in no rush, and so, with no particular purpose in mind, I decided to explore the neighbourhoods around me. The Sanyuanli area, just a short distance from my home in Baiyun, had always intrigued me, especially for the temple I had glimpsed many times from the bus. Its roof, curved like a dragon’s spine, stood out against the urban sprawl. I had assumed the temple was a place of worship, the kind I had grown accustomed to during my time in China; familiar, tranquil places where incense curled lazily upward and prayers were whispered to the gods.

I wandered the narrow lanes, the streets dimly lit and quiet in the midday heat. The city felt distant, and I found myself moving into the heart of a small neighbourhood, where the old and the new rubbed shoulders in ways that seemed uniquely Chinese. The alleyways were lined with weathered homes, their facades chipping with age, their wooden doors heavy with the marks of time. Amidst these old buildings, I finally came upon the structure.

From the outside, it looked like any other temple I had encountered. But as I stepped inside, the air grew cooler, stale with the scent of dust and wood, a stark contrast to the incense-heavy atmosphere I had imagined. No altars greeted me, no statues of deities, only a series of glass cases, the sparse lighting casting shadows over the exhibits. It was not a temple at all, but something else entirely.

I moved further into the room, instinctively drawn to the uniform displayed at the centre. It was a British soldier's jacket, cap and sword, encased in glass, the dark navy blue fabric worn with the patina of age. The uniform was striking in its simplicity. It was the kind of military garb that would have gone unnoticed in the cold fog of battlefields far from home.

The significance of the uniform hit me in waves. I had only the vaguest understanding of the Opium Wars. The uniform in front of me was a reminder of all that history, of an event that had been buried beneath the weight of time. I stood there, staring at the uniform, unsure of what to think. The figure it once clothed was nameless, a soldier who had been sent to a foreign land, carrying with him the weight of empire. But now, as I stood in front of it, that soldier was faceless—his identity lost to the years, to history. The uniform was merely a relic, a piece of cloth stripped of the human being who had worn it.

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of connection to this nameless soldier. Here I was, in China, as British as he had been, standing in front of the evidence of that long-past conflict. It was a strange feeling, one of distance, but also of presence. How had the soldier felt in this land so far from home, placed into a conflict he might not have understood? Had he known he was part of something bigger, something irreversible, or had he, like me, been lost in the moment, only able to make sense of his immediate surroundings? And what had become of him after the battle? Was his body still somewhere here, lost to the chaos of war?

I moved slowly around the room, taking in the other exhibits—flags, weapons, crude paintings of battle scenes. One particular image caught my eye: a group of local villagers standing bravely at the city gates. They were armed with makeshift weapons - pitchforks, machetes, whatever they could use to defend themselves - and the British soldiers, drawn as villainous caricatures, were being driven back. The contrast was stark. The villagers, framed as the plucky heroes, stood firm against the onslaught of British military might. The British soldiers were drawn in grotesque proportions, their faces exaggerated in anger and malice. It was a portrayal of the conflict as a clear-cut moral battle, a division between the oppressed and the oppressor.

I stood still before the paintings, considering the bias inherent in the images. The British soldiers were nothing more than caricatures, their motives and struggles stripped away in favour of the narrative that cast the British as the invaders, the villains in this struggle. It was a harsh portrayal, but I couldn’t help but feel a pang of recognition. This was the way history had been taught in my country - a one-sided story, framed to justify the empire’s expansion, to gloss over the suffering caused by the very same forces of history that had now brought me here. Yet here, in this small, dimly lit room, I was confronted with a different version of history. The British soldier was not a hero, not a civilising force, but simply one of many who had come to impose their will upon a land that did not belong to them.

I was snapped from my thoughts by a voice. An older woman, the museum attendant, appeared beside me. She had been observing me for a while, her eyes on the uniform I had been studying so intently. She was small, with sharp eyes and an easy smile, and I could tell she had little English, if any at all. I had no expectation of conversation here, I was just a visitor in a small museum tucked away in a corner of Guangzhou. But she looked at me curiously and, in Mandarin, asked, “Where are you from?”

It was a question I had answered a hundred times since my arrival in China, but here, in this room, under these circumstances, the words felt heavier than ever. What did it mean to say I was British, standing in front of this soldier’s uniform? Was it enough to say simply "Britain," as I always did? Or did it carry with it the weight of a history I was only beginning to understand?

“I’m British, but I am China’s friend,” I answered carefully, drawing on the Mandarin I had learned so far.

The woman paused, processing my words. A smile tugged at her lips, and after a moment, she raised her hand and gave me a thumbs up.

“Friend,” she said, repeating the word, the tone light and warm.

“Friend. Good!” she repeated again, her voice carrying a note of approval.

Her reaction was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt profound. It was a simple exchange, and yet I felt the weight of history dissolve, if only for a second. Here, standing in front of a relic of the past, I wasn’t just a foreigner, an invader. I was something else, someone trying, in my small way, to bridge a cultural and geographical divide.

I thanked her as best I could, my Mandarin still clumsy, before I turned toward the door. The light had shifted outside, and the air was thick with the coming evening. As I stepped out into the street, the coolness of the dusk felt like a release. I had come seeking understanding, but left with more questions than answers. Yet there was something about the exchange with the attendant that stayed with me - the idea of connection, of friendship, even in the shadow of empire.

The past, with all its blood and sorrow, had not defined me here. In this small museum, standing in the presence of history, I had learned something simple and important. History may shape who we are, but it does not have to define us. We can choose, in our own way, to step into the present with our eyes open, acknowledging the past but moving forward, seeking connection, seeking understanding, seeking friendship.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink—it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.