Tracing Muslim Heritage in Yunnan: A Journey Through Kunming, Najaying, and Shadian Mosques
[Internet Repost]
Tracing Sacred Footsteps in the Land of Colorful Clouds: A Travelogue from Kunming's Shuncheng Mosque and Sayyid Ajjal's Mausoleum to Najaying and Shadian in Tonghai
Abstract:
A deep cultural journey through Yunnan, tracing the footsteps of historical pioneers. Starting from the historic Shuncheng Mosque in downtown Kunming, the author visits the mausoleum of Sayyid Ajjal Shams al-Din (the Yuan dynasty governor who shaped Yunnan), delves into Najaying in Tonghai, Yuxi, and the grand Shadian Mosque in Honghai, experiencing the deep pulse of southwestern Islamic history along the way.
I don't know exactly when the idea of visiting Yunnan first planted itself in my mind. Maybe it was hearing Phoenix Legend's song 'Colorful Clouds of the South' as a child, or perhaps listening to friends rave about Yunnan's endless spring-like weather. Or maybe it was just the dreamy scrolling on short-form video apps showing Erhai Lake and Cangshan Mountain. But what finally made me pull the trigger and book the trip was hearing so many unique stories about Yunnan: Sayyid Ajjal Shams al-Din, Jahriyya, Najaying, Shadian, Du Wenxiu, and so many other legends pulling me forward.
So, by His grace, we set off~~~
Shuncheng Mosque was our first stop. After resting and grabbing a bite to eat, we rented a car and drove straight to Baba Tomb (Sayyid Ajjal's mausoleum). The tomb sits in Majia'an Village, Panlong District, about 40 kilometers north of Kunming. The mountain road twists and turns, buzzing with young motorcycle riders living their best lives. By His decree, the sedan we originally wanted to rent was in the shop, so they upgraded us to an SUV at the last minute—absolute perfection for those winding mountain roads.
When we arrived, we found the mausoleum grounds under construction. Walking the corrugated iron perimeter, I spotted a small path and slipped through. Once inside, I realized the whole area around the Baba Tomb was packed with graves, their headstones carved with Arabic script—undoubtedly old Hui Muslim tombs. I snapped a quick photo through the iron bars and headed back, bidding farewell to Yunnan's very first provincial governor. This was the brilliant statesman and pioneer of ethnic unity who worked absolute miracles in Yuan dynasty Yunnan, stabilizing a region torn apart by separatist conflicts and desperate poverty. His descendants planted glorious flowers across the Chinese mainland, the most famous of which is the Ming dynasty voyager Zheng He (originally surnamed Ma, before being bestowed the surname Zheng by the Yongle Emperor).
We headed back to our hotel by Dianchi Lake. By the time we dropped our bags, dusk was falling. I took a stroll down to the lake shore, looking out over the calm water. It’s hard to imagine just how much mental and physical energy an aging Sayyid Ajjal, well past sixty, poured into taming the flooding Dianchi Lake so it could bring peace and prosperity to the people for centuries.
The next day, we hit the road again, navigating twisting mountain roads until a cluster of villages suddenly popped into view. We had arrived at our second stop: Najaying, a place that birthed two towering academic giants of the Muslim world—Na Zhong and Na Xun. Though they shared the same surname, they weren't actually related. The whole village is full of people surnamed Na, believed to be descendants of Sayyid Ajjal, whose eldest son was Nasr al-Din, leaving behind descendants with the surnames Na, Su, La, and Ding. Na Xun is most famous for translating *One Thousand and One Nights*, opening the door to Arabian tales for generations of Chinese children, while Na Zhong played a pivotal role in developing China's traditional mosque education system (*jingtang jiaoyu*). After grabbing a bowl of local erfen (rice noodles) and liangji (cold rice noodles), and offering a quick prayer, we headed over to the Na Xun Former Residence recommended by a local friend.
To our disappointment, the gates were locked tight when we arrived. I was just reading the stele by the entrance and snapping a few photos before heading back when I suddenly heard voices inside. I gave a tentative knock, stepping back a respectful distance, and to my surprise, the door creaked open. An elderly uncle stood there, wearing glasses, a white vest over a light-colored shirt, looking impeccably neat and clean. When I told him what brought us there, he warmly invited us inside. Stepping across the threshold, the interior was a far cry from what I had pictured. I had imagined a celebrity's former residence preserved with pristine, neatly arranged antiques. Instead, right before my eyes was a weathered, traditional Yunnan-style courtyard (siheyuan) with an open-air central patio and a two-story wooden house wrapped around three sides. The furniture in the central hall was coated in a thin layer of dust. Hanging on the wall right ahead was a massive embroidered tapestry of the Kaaba, flanked on one side by two framed photos and brief biographies—one of Na Xun, the other of Na Zhong. On the other side hung two small pieces of Quranic calligraphy.
Besides the elderly uncle, two of his friends were inside, tasting honey harvested from a beehive that had been sitting untouched for three years. When the two friends learned I was a fellow Muslim traveler (dosdi), they warmly told me to make myself at home. I walked up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, where the rooms were stacked with various odds and ends, looking as though they hadn't been tidied in ages. Soon enough, my eyes landed on that very beehive. In *Medicine of the Prophet* (*Tibb al-Nabawi*), honey is praised as one of the ultimate remedies, great for treating diarrhea, stomachaches, and cold stomachs. Back in the day, many Muslim families in the mountainous regions kept bees and sold honey. Heading back downstairs, we saw off the uncle's friends, and he finally sat down with us face-to-face, bringing out two bowls of aged comb honey. We could only take a tiny bite before the intense sweetness overwhelmed us—after three years of aging, the honey had turned a deep, dark yellow tinged with black. Over the honey, the uncle shared his story: he was Na Xun's grandson, well over 80 years old. His son is an Arabic professor at Northwest Minzu University, and the stele outside the Na Xun Former Residence was actually written by him. It gave me chills realizing that Na Xun's great-grandson is carrying on part of his legacy, continuing to contribute to ethnic culture and the development of Arabic studies in China.
Without pausing, we rushed off to my absolute dream destination in Yunnan: Shadian, the hometown of Professor Ma Jian. What you yearn for deeply will always find a way back to you. I had heard ages ago about the incredible vibe here, and with Shadian Mosque holding the title of China's largest mosque, I had been dying to see it with my own eyes. Finally, the stars had aligned.
We checked into a hotel right next to the mosque, rested for a moment, and headed out for Asr prayer. It was still early, and people were lounging leisurely by the main hall entrance. Some were chatting in small groups, others leaning against pillars with their legs stretched straight out, zoning out in quiet remembrance (zikr), each waiting for the call to prayer in their own comfortable way. In that exact moment, there was no worldly hustle, no distracting thoughts—just sitting, waiting, watching. This is a mosque completely free of perimeter walls. You can look out and watch the sparse flow of pedestrians and cars passing by on the street across. I once heard a saying: 'A great university has no walls.'
That made me think: an open, confident, and inclusive mosque has no walls either.
If Gansu's Linxia used to be called the 'Little Mecca' of China, this place feels much more like 'Little Medina.' In front of the main hall is a sprawling plaza with fountains, flanked by Bismarck palms (beiye zong)—it oozes Medina style. It’s not just the trees and the plaza, but the whole atmosphere. It's the kind of vibe where you could sit in literally any corner of the mosque for an entire day, letting the cool breeze gently brush your cheek while the ceaseless praise of birds fills your ears.
Over by the plaza in front of the Zhaozhen Hall, international travelers would pop by every now and then to take photos and check in. I just watched them smiling and lingering, returning their smiles with my own. Pure serenity.
The next day, after finishing Fajr prayer, I didn't feel like going back to sleep, so I took a stroll around the hotel and found a little park tucked away in the back. Older uncles were out walking, and aunties were practicing Baduanjin (traditional qigong exercises) together. Their boundless energy made me feel utterly ashamed of my own laziness. It reminded me that I used to practice Baduanjin for a while before quitting. Our generation has it way too easy, and we haven't suffered enough—our bones just lack a certain resilience.
Speaking of resilience, I couldn't help thinking of the Shadian Martyrs (Shuhada) of the Shadian Incident. During the height of the ultra-leftist madness of the Cultural Revolution, the Shadian Mosque was closed down, normal ethnic and religious policies were trampled, and tensions boiled over. In the early morning hours of July 29, 1975, with the approval of the CPC Central Committee, the Yunnan Provincial Party Committee mobilized the garrison troops to place Shadian and surrounding Hui villages under military siege, launching an operation under the guise of 'suppressing rebellion.'
The battle lasted seven days and seven nights. The military deployed heavy weapons like howitzers, and villages like Shadian and Mouke were utterly devastated. Countless homes were reduced to rubble, resulting in the deaths of roughly 1,600 'rebels' and nearly a thousand injuries, including many innocent civilians.
At the time, the incident was branded as an 'armed counterrevolutionary rebellion.' But after the fall of the Gang of Four, in February 1979, the CPC Yunnan Provincial Committee and the Kunming Military Region Party Committee jointly issued a notice—in line with the spirit of the Third Plenary Session of the 11th CPC Central Committee—completely rehabilitating the 'Shadian Incident.' They acknowledged the severe errors made in implementing ethnic and religious policies, overturned the 'counterrevolutionary rebellion' label, and officially cleared the names of the victims.
On my last day in Shadian, following GPS directions to the Shadian Martyrs' Cemetery, I realized the graveyard held much more than just the martyrs; it was filled with countless Hui graves bearing headstones and epitaphs. But the actual Shadian Martyrs' graves were a quiet cluster of dozens of tiny, simple mounds—no headstones, no inscriptions. An elderly local uncle along the road told me that on the day the disaster struck, it was the dead of summer. With bodies blown to pieces beyond recognition and rotting away in the stifling heat, it was utterly impossible to tell who was who. More importantly, in such a desperate, life-or-death crisis, just giving the dead a hurried burial was already an act of sheer desperation. He added that other martyrs were buried elsewhere, though he had forgotten the exact spots, because his ears were still ringing with tears and his heart was fractured with cracks.
I returned our rental car in Kunming 'commando-style' and boarded the high-speed rail to Dali, home to the last person I wanted to pay my respects to: Du Wenxiu.
An ethnic unity activist and a leader of the anti-Qing uprising. Though his rebellion ultimately failed due to the betrayal of allied forces and subordinates, he tried to trade his single life for the safety of the entire city of Dali. He swallowed a lethal dose of copper trichloride (poisonous peacock gall) and walked proudly to his end, holding his head high with an unyielding spirit. But the cowardly Manchu Qing government wasn't about to spare a single 'unstable element.' In the end, almost everyone in Dali who joined the uprising was put to death; their noses were sliced off and carted back by Qing troops to claim military rewards by head count. Their fresh blood stained a corner of Erhai Lake—the silent, final protest of the grassroots oppressed against tyranny.
Tracing Sacred Footsteps in the Land of Colorful Clouds: A Travelogue from Kunming's Shuncheng Mosque and Sayyid Ajjal's Mausoleum to Najaying and Shadian in Tonghai
Abstract:
A deep cultural journey through Yunnan, tracing the footsteps of historical pioneers. Starting from the historic Shuncheng Mosque in downtown Kunming, the author visits the mausoleum of Sayyid Ajjal Shams al-Din (the Yuan dynasty governor who shaped Yunnan), delves into Najaying in Tonghai, Yuxi, and the grand Shadian Mosque in Honghai, experiencing the deep pulse of southwestern Islamic history along the way.
I don't know exactly when the idea of visiting Yunnan first planted itself in my mind. Maybe it was hearing Phoenix Legend's song 'Colorful Clouds of the South' as a child, or perhaps listening to friends rave about Yunnan's endless spring-like weather. Or maybe it was just the dreamy scrolling on short-form video apps showing Erhai Lake and Cangshan Mountain. But what finally made me pull the trigger and book the trip was hearing so many unique stories about Yunnan: Sayyid Ajjal Shams al-Din, Jahriyya, Najaying, Shadian, Du Wenxiu, and so many other legends pulling me forward.
So, by His grace, we set off~~~
Shuncheng Mosque was our first stop. After resting and grabbing a bite to eat, we rented a car and drove straight to Baba Tomb (Sayyid Ajjal's mausoleum). The tomb sits in Majia'an Village, Panlong District, about 40 kilometers north of Kunming. The mountain road twists and turns, buzzing with young motorcycle riders living their best lives. By His decree, the sedan we originally wanted to rent was in the shop, so they upgraded us to an SUV at the last minute—absolute perfection for those winding mountain roads.
When we arrived, we found the mausoleum grounds under construction. Walking the corrugated iron perimeter, I spotted a small path and slipped through. Once inside, I realized the whole area around the Baba Tomb was packed with graves, their headstones carved with Arabic script—undoubtedly old Hui Muslim tombs. I snapped a quick photo through the iron bars and headed back, bidding farewell to Yunnan's very first provincial governor. This was the brilliant statesman and pioneer of ethnic unity who worked absolute miracles in Yuan dynasty Yunnan, stabilizing a region torn apart by separatist conflicts and desperate poverty. His descendants planted glorious flowers across the Chinese mainland, the most famous of which is the Ming dynasty voyager Zheng He (originally surnamed Ma, before being bestowed the surname Zheng by the Yongle Emperor).
We headed back to our hotel by Dianchi Lake. By the time we dropped our bags, dusk was falling. I took a stroll down to the lake shore, looking out over the calm water. It’s hard to imagine just how much mental and physical energy an aging Sayyid Ajjal, well past sixty, poured into taming the flooding Dianchi Lake so it could bring peace and prosperity to the people for centuries.
The next day, we hit the road again, navigating twisting mountain roads until a cluster of villages suddenly popped into view. We had arrived at our second stop: Najaying, a place that birthed two towering academic giants of the Muslim world—Na Zhong and Na Xun. Though they shared the same surname, they weren't actually related. The whole village is full of people surnamed Na, believed to be descendants of Sayyid Ajjal, whose eldest son was Nasr al-Din, leaving behind descendants with the surnames Na, Su, La, and Ding. Na Xun is most famous for translating *One Thousand and One Nights*, opening the door to Arabian tales for generations of Chinese children, while Na Zhong played a pivotal role in developing China's traditional mosque education system (*jingtang jiaoyu*). After grabbing a bowl of local erfen (rice noodles) and liangji (cold rice noodles), and offering a quick prayer, we headed over to the Na Xun Former Residence recommended by a local friend.
To our disappointment, the gates were locked tight when we arrived. I was just reading the stele by the entrance and snapping a few photos before heading back when I suddenly heard voices inside. I gave a tentative knock, stepping back a respectful distance, and to my surprise, the door creaked open. An elderly uncle stood there, wearing glasses, a white vest over a light-colored shirt, looking impeccably neat and clean. When I told him what brought us there, he warmly invited us inside. Stepping across the threshold, the interior was a far cry from what I had pictured. I had imagined a celebrity's former residence preserved with pristine, neatly arranged antiques. Instead, right before my eyes was a weathered, traditional Yunnan-style courtyard (siheyuan) with an open-air central patio and a two-story wooden house wrapped around three sides. The furniture in the central hall was coated in a thin layer of dust. Hanging on the wall right ahead was a massive embroidered tapestry of the Kaaba, flanked on one side by two framed photos and brief biographies—one of Na Xun, the other of Na Zhong. On the other side hung two small pieces of Quranic calligraphy.
Besides the elderly uncle, two of his friends were inside, tasting honey harvested from a beehive that had been sitting untouched for three years. When the two friends learned I was a fellow Muslim traveler (dosdi), they warmly told me to make myself at home. I walked up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, where the rooms were stacked with various odds and ends, looking as though they hadn't been tidied in ages. Soon enough, my eyes landed on that very beehive. In *Medicine of the Prophet* (*Tibb al-Nabawi*), honey is praised as one of the ultimate remedies, great for treating diarrhea, stomachaches, and cold stomachs. Back in the day, many Muslim families in the mountainous regions kept bees and sold honey. Heading back downstairs, we saw off the uncle's friends, and he finally sat down with us face-to-face, bringing out two bowls of aged comb honey. We could only take a tiny bite before the intense sweetness overwhelmed us—after three years of aging, the honey had turned a deep, dark yellow tinged with black. Over the honey, the uncle shared his story: he was Na Xun's grandson, well over 80 years old. His son is an Arabic professor at Northwest Minzu University, and the stele outside the Na Xun Former Residence was actually written by him. It gave me chills realizing that Na Xun's great-grandson is carrying on part of his legacy, continuing to contribute to ethnic culture and the development of Arabic studies in China.
Without pausing, we rushed off to my absolute dream destination in Yunnan: Shadian, the hometown of Professor Ma Jian. What you yearn for deeply will always find a way back to you. I had heard ages ago about the incredible vibe here, and with Shadian Mosque holding the title of China's largest mosque, I had been dying to see it with my own eyes. Finally, the stars had aligned.
We checked into a hotel right next to the mosque, rested for a moment, and headed out for Asr prayer. It was still early, and people were lounging leisurely by the main hall entrance. Some were chatting in small groups, others leaning against pillars with their legs stretched straight out, zoning out in quiet remembrance (zikr), each waiting for the call to prayer in their own comfortable way. In that exact moment, there was no worldly hustle, no distracting thoughts—just sitting, waiting, watching. This is a mosque completely free of perimeter walls. You can look out and watch the sparse flow of pedestrians and cars passing by on the street across. I once heard a saying: 'A great university has no walls.'
That made me think: an open, confident, and inclusive mosque has no walls either.
If Gansu's Linxia used to be called the 'Little Mecca' of China, this place feels much more like 'Little Medina.' In front of the main hall is a sprawling plaza with fountains, flanked by Bismarck palms (beiye zong)—it oozes Medina style. It’s not just the trees and the plaza, but the whole atmosphere. It's the kind of vibe where you could sit in literally any corner of the mosque for an entire day, letting the cool breeze gently brush your cheek while the ceaseless praise of birds fills your ears.
Over by the plaza in front of the Zhaozhen Hall, international travelers would pop by every now and then to take photos and check in. I just watched them smiling and lingering, returning their smiles with my own. Pure serenity.
The next day, after finishing Fajr prayer, I didn't feel like going back to sleep, so I took a stroll around the hotel and found a little park tucked away in the back. Older uncles were out walking, and aunties were practicing Baduanjin (traditional qigong exercises) together. Their boundless energy made me feel utterly ashamed of my own laziness. It reminded me that I used to practice Baduanjin for a while before quitting. Our generation has it way too easy, and we haven't suffered enough—our bones just lack a certain resilience.
Speaking of resilience, I couldn't help thinking of the Shadian Martyrs (Shuhada) of the Shadian Incident. During the height of the ultra-leftist madness of the Cultural Revolution, the Shadian Mosque was closed down, normal ethnic and religious policies were trampled, and tensions boiled over. In the early morning hours of July 29, 1975, with the approval of the CPC Central Committee, the Yunnan Provincial Party Committee mobilized the garrison troops to place Shadian and surrounding Hui villages under military siege, launching an operation under the guise of 'suppressing rebellion.'
The battle lasted seven days and seven nights. The military deployed heavy weapons like howitzers, and villages like Shadian and Mouke were utterly devastated. Countless homes were reduced to rubble, resulting in the deaths of roughly 1,600 'rebels' and nearly a thousand injuries, including many innocent civilians.
At the time, the incident was branded as an 'armed counterrevolutionary rebellion.' But after the fall of the Gang of Four, in February 1979, the CPC Yunnan Provincial Committee and the Kunming Military Region Party Committee jointly issued a notice—in line with the spirit of the Third Plenary Session of the 11th CPC Central Committee—completely rehabilitating the 'Shadian Incident.' They acknowledged the severe errors made in implementing ethnic and religious policies, overturned the 'counterrevolutionary rebellion' label, and officially cleared the names of the victims.
On my last day in Shadian, following GPS directions to the Shadian Martyrs' Cemetery, I realized the graveyard held much more than just the martyrs; it was filled with countless Hui graves bearing headstones and epitaphs. But the actual Shadian Martyrs' graves were a quiet cluster of dozens of tiny, simple mounds—no headstones, no inscriptions. An elderly local uncle along the road told me that on the day the disaster struck, it was the dead of summer. With bodies blown to pieces beyond recognition and rotting away in the stifling heat, it was utterly impossible to tell who was who. More importantly, in such a desperate, life-or-death crisis, just giving the dead a hurried burial was already an act of sheer desperation. He added that other martyrs were buried elsewhere, though he had forgotten the exact spots, because his ears were still ringing with tears and his heart was fractured with cracks.
I returned our rental car in Kunming 'commando-style' and boarded the high-speed rail to Dali, home to the last person I wanted to pay my respects to: Du Wenxiu.
An ethnic unity activist and a leader of the anti-Qing uprising. Though his rebellion ultimately failed due to the betrayal of allied forces and subordinates, he tried to trade his single life for the safety of the entire city of Dali. He swallowed a lethal dose of copper trichloride (poisonous peacock gall) and walked proudly to his end, holding his head high with an unyielding spirit. But the cowardly Manchu Qing government wasn't about to spare a single 'unstable element.' In the end, almost everyone in Dali who joined the uprising was put to death; their noses were sliced off and carted back by Qing troops to claim military rewards by head count. Their fresh blood stained a corner of Erhai Lake—the silent, final protest of the grassroots oppressed against tyranny.
