Exploring Ningxia Muslim Culture: Historic Mosques, Sufi Shrines & Halal Food in Northwest China
[Internet Repost]
Part 8 of the Southern Ningxia Travel Series: Wandering Through the Hui Heritage and Landscapes of Xiji and Haiyuan, and the Final Chapter of Our Journey Across the Northern Frontier
Abstract:
The concluding chapter of our travels through the mountainous regions of southern Ningxia. Journeying across the plateau mountains, Hui villages, and ancient gongbei (Sufi shrines) of Haiyuan and Xiji, this essay captures the resilient and profound daily lives of our Hui Muslim brothers and sisters across the loess hills through authentic, vivid stories and photography.
丨Half a City丨
-
Thoughts in the Wilderness
-
Master Hai studied under the direct tutelage of Master Hu, eventually mastering his craft to the point of being praised with the saying, "Hu's teachings return to Hai." In the late Ming dynasty, when official academies held a monopoly and religious offices were passed down by heredity, a figure like this—no matter how talented—struggled to get ahead. In the bustling and prosperous Guanzhong region, Master Hai was like someone today with true learning but no diploma; unable to enter the establishment, he likely would have ended up running private tutoring classes to pass the time until old age in the marketplace. But the people of Weizhou recognized true talent. They possessed incredible vision and extended an invitation to Master Hai. Though Weizhou grandly called itself a "city," compared to the great markets of Guanzhong, it was little more than a frontier military garrison. Yet, Master Hai accepted the invitation, traveled north, and settled in Weizhou. Alin received the respect he deserved, and overnight his reputation skyrocketed. Scholars even traveled from Yunnan, Shandong, and Zhejiang with their book satchels just to study at his doorstep. For the first time, private education stepped into the spotlight, eclipsing official schooling with genuine knowledge and real scholarship. Master Hai ultimately spent the rest of his life in Weizhou, and the locals built a gongbei (Sufi shrine) in his honor.
Like Master Hu, Master Hai possessed an exceptionally high level of Sufi spiritual attainment, achieving the rank of the true realm. A stele stands by Master Hai's tomb: the front side features a Chinese inscription titled "Stele Inscription on the Propagation of the Sage by the Pure True Religion," while the back side bears an Arabic inscription. The Arabic text opens with: "Master Hai Baba, also known as Ahmad, is a renowned scholar of our era. Profound in learning and well-versed in the sacred teachings, he accepted and studied Sufi philosophy, serving as a spiritual guide who ascended from the correct Sharia (religious law) and Tariqa (spiritual path) to the third path of inspiring others." In Confucian orthodoxy, "Shusheng" (the Transmitter of the Sage) is the rank bestowed upon Zisi, who carried forward the teachings of Zengzi and paved the way for Mencius, transmitting the Way of Confucius. Calling Master Hai the "Transmitter of the Sage of the Pure True Religion" shows just how lofty a position he held in people's hearts at the time.
Today, however, Master Hai is gradually being forgotten. The gongbei over his grave has long since vanished without a trace, leaving only a low, unadorned blue-stone grave arch that looks shabby and utterly out of place. Because of its immense documentary value, the stele was moved inside the Haifenzi Mosque and locked away. Gubei insisted on taking me to see it, but we were never able to get the mosque doors open. Fortunately, I had already read the stele inscription years ago.
The religious tradition of the Weizhou people has flourished ever since Master Hai took root and promoted his teachings here. This is still thanks to the visionary outlook of the Weizhou people, their ability to keep pace with the times, and their courage to be trailblazers. Amidst the massive, turbulent waves of change during the Republic of China era, Weizhou locals invited Salar Muslims from Qinghai, led by Ma Denghai, to reform and adopt the Yihewani (Ikhwan) movement, discarding the centuries-old, Sufi-leaning Ghedim tradition inherited from Master Hai. This was simply the way the tides turned. Today, the vast majority of Weizhou follows Yihewani. Standing behind me, Gubei pointed to the tomb cover (shmandan) over Master Hai's grave and said, "We Weizhou people never mess with these things; all of this was brought in by outsiders. We don't visit Master Hai's tomb either—we only visit the graves of our own ancestors." His religious stance was crystal clear.
Still, the Yihewani of Weizhou is far more gentle and tolerant than that of the Hehuang region: even though I may not follow the ancient ways, I respect and understand you. That is why an ancient brick, hexagonal little gongbei still stands proudly to this day inside Gubei family's ancestral graveyard, without anyone finding it an eyesore or feeling the urge to tear it down. Gubei couldn't quite explain the history of this gongbei, saying only that his late maternal grandfather would have known. Legend has it that this was a woli (Sufi saint/holy figure) from the Jingkou branch of the Beizhuang Menhuan (Sufi order), who was once invited by the Su family as a spiritual guide. Clearly, people still respect this gongbei today; when we opened the door, the fragrance of freshly burned incense was still lingering in the air.
△ Master Hai's tomb, with a distant pagoda and mosque
Over on the eastern terrace of Yuanyang Lake, there is another small gongbei. Gubei told me it is a miracle-working (xianji) gongbei. Even though Gubei doesn't visit gongbei himself, he takes the miracle stories of Sufism seriously and believes in them. Viewed from the perspective of Yuanyang Lake, Weizhou is truly gorgeous. The grand mosque rises like a cloud- pavilion, and while the nearby Western Xia Kangji Temple Pagoda isn't quite as tall as the mosque, it still commands a heaven-piercing majesty. The lake waters shimmer a brilliant blue, like a giant cat's-eye gemstone. Fueled by Gubei's generous, Weizhou-style hospitality, we sampled the local steamed lamb and chao hubo (stir-fried dough pieces). Chao hubo was heavily recommended by Gubei's older brother, Dr. Su. Dr. Su, let's put the food talk aside for a moment—I'm really hoping you'll write a local gazetteer about Weizhou; this little town that proudly calls itself a city has way too many good stories to tell.
Driving straight through the twilight-shrouded wilderness toward Luoshan Mountain, on the other side of Luoshan lies "Half a City."
The county seat of Tongxin is historically known as "Half a City" (Bancheng). Legend has it that when the city was first built, half of its city walls were washed away by a massive flood, hence the name Half a City. Located about thirty kilometers away from Half a City is Hanjiashu, the ancestral hub of Ningxia's Lesser Khufiyya (Xiaohufuyya) Humen order. Because the place is called Hongganggangzi—essentially Honggang, a loess ridge named after the Hong family—the Lanyin dialect loves adding reduplicated syllables, like diediezi (plates) or suizizizi (little children). I don't know what got into me that morning; I had originally planned to head to Honggang, but I felt this sudden, anxious urge to rush back. Where was I actually rushing to? The next day was Eid al-Adha (Gu'erbang Jie), and when you're traveling away from home, it doesn't matter where you celebrate. But that inner urgency made me skip visiting the Honggang gongbei. Perhaps the spiritual call of the Ilahis was summoning me to rush to the passing of the elders. I had zero interest in the Tongxin Great Mosque either, and instead plunged straight into the vast cemetery next to the mosque. I checked out three gongbei. The one on the far east—a small, delicate, hexagonal blue-brick gongbei—clearly had some serious age to it. Judging by the cleanliness and upkeep outside the door, someone was still carefully tending to it, though sadly, it's unknown which venerable sage rests there. Right beside the gongbei stood a grave with a stele, which turned out to be the resting place of the legendary Imam Hu Songshan.
△ Imam Hu Songshan's tomb beside the small gongbei on the eastern side of the grand cemetery
Imam Hu Songshan was truly a legendary figure of his generation. His father was the direct transmitter of the mantle of the Liangzhou Zhuang Taoye (Grand Master of Liangzhou), affectionately known as Master Hu. Judging by his talent and executive ability, Hu Songshan was fully equipped to inherit his father's seal and found a new lineage. Yet, with his fierce and unyielding temperament, he personally tore down his father's gongbei and resolutely embarked on the path of Yihewani reform, causing one of the four Sufi spiritual lineages of the Liangzhou Zhuang Grand Master in Ningxia to be cut short. Amidst the monumental upheavals of the Republican era, Imam Hu Songshan was a towering figure. His forward-thinking mindset and broad vision were unmatched by any contemporary imam, drawing brilliant young scholars like Ma Jian all the way from southern Yunnan to seek him out as a teacher. A man like this, even without holding the title of an elder, was bound to set the tone for an entire era.
Fairly speaking, Hu Songshan was a passionate individual. Although he embarked on the path of reform, it was not the radical, revolutionary path seen in the Hehuang region—revolution and reform are worlds apart. In his later years, Hu Songshan's fiery passion cooled. Residing as an expatriate in Pingyang, he still recognized the traditional Ghedim practices. The people of Pingyang said, "Master Hu has grown old," which had a double meaning: he was advanced in years, and his path had also returned to the old teachings. Hu Songshan deliberately remarked, "That's right, I'm over seventy now, how can I not be old?" This generation of scriptural master was finally laid to rest in his native soil. I wonder if this was his ancestral graveyard, and if so, where his father's demolished gongbei might be? To this day, I can fully understand why the young Hu Songshan chose to tear down his own father's gongbei. There were far too many unspeakable complexities involved. To completely negate Sufism because of this would be overcorrecting with heavy medicine—completely unnecessary. Didn't you notice how Master Hu returned to the old ways in his twilight years?
Not far to the west of the grand cemetery stood two small gongbei. The westernmost one was newly built, though its architectural style closely followed the other two. The other gongbei was extremely ancient, bearing a stele inscription from the ninth year of the Qianlong Emperor's reign (1744). Sadly, the inscription is weathered and blurred, requiring a tremendous amount of effort to decipher. But the spiritual energy (qichang) of this gongbei is phenomenal—it is the quintessential gongbei of my imagination. Standing alone in the boundless wilderness like an isolated pavilion, it serves as a spiritual landmark where people can bring their secret troubles, pour out their hearts, and leave knowing that the wilderness remains the wilderness, and the gentle breeze returns to the breeze.
△ The Qianlong 9th-year gongbei, with the new gongbei and Tongxin Great Mosque visible in the distance
The gongbei we see today are actually integrated complexes combining the shrine and the daotang (prayer hall), but many have become excessively extravagant. In past eras, everything done had a sense of measured restraint. A three-eaved gongbei was considered the highest tier; nowadays, never mind three eaves, you even see seven-eaved ones. Did a woli ever need you to build a gongbei for them? Building a gongbei is merely for the descendants to pour out their private confidences. Countless Kamils and Mukammils (accomplished Sufi masters) never even had a grave mound left on this earth. If anyone knows the background of these three gongbei in the Tongxin Great Mosque cemetery, please enlighten me.
After a quick du'a (supplication), I hurried off toward Wangtuan. Wangtuan sits on the road from Half a City to Guyuan, not far from Half a City. The name Wangtuan likely refers to a Wang family military garrison, as it was originally a site for stationed troops. Wangtuan is also a small town with a rich cultural fabric. Nearly everyone in Wangtuan shares the surname Wang, tracing their roots back to a single ancestor. In modern times, it has produced several prominent figures, with Wang Zhengwei, Wang Zhengru, and Wang Zhengpeng being the most notable representatives of Wangtuan. Back during the Tongzhi and Guangxu reigns, the town also produced a great woli named Wang Dagui, who was an ancestor of the Wang family. Wang Dagui and Master Ma Huzi of Shitangling journeyed together to the Western Regions to study, receiving the Khufiyya teachings and bringing them back—an era even earlier than when the Liangzhou Zhuang Grand Master introduced the Lesser Khufiyya from Qinghai to Ningxia. Grand Master Wang Dagui achieved the status of a shahid (martyr), laying down his life for the faith during the turmoil of the Tongzhi Rebellion.
Grand Master Wang Dagui's era coincided with that of Grand Master Ah Hadiao. Both sought the teachings from the same place, and ultimately met the same final resting fate. Grand Master Wang Dagui fell in martyrdom in the second year of Tongzhi (1863), while Grand Master Ah Hadiao fell in the third year of Tongzhi (1864). What on earth happened during that era? So many woli suffered such tragic bloodshed. Grand Master Wang Dagui's gongbei stands like a lighthouse, firmly guarding the center of Wangtuan Town—or perhaps it is the people of Wangtuan who are firmly guarding Grand Master Wang's gongbei. This interplay between the ancient and the modern, the surface and the essence, gives this small place called Wangtuan an extraordinary character, continually producing remarkable individuals. On the eastern side of Grand Master Wang's gongbei, there is also the gongbei of Wang Hailifan, a religious leader produced by Wangtuan in modern times. I do not know whether the Khufiyya branch received by Wang Dagui was passed down after him, but judging by appearances today, the Khufiyya practiced in Wangtuan seems to have no direct connection to the Khufiyya brought back by Wang Dagui.
△ Grand Master Wang's gongbei in Wangtuan Town, boasting an extraordinary presence
Professor Wang Zhengpeng wrote a book titled The Sufi Orchard, which is essentially about his hometown of Wangtuan. His writing on Wangtuan can be viewed as a spiritual homecoming to the Sufi villages of Ningxia. He looks back at Wangtuan with a stance that is both detached and engaged—at times stepping outside the culture, and at other times dissolving right into it. Using a post-modern Habermas-style approach, he mystically communes with deep-seated rural experiences. It is a captivating piece of local ethnography, and the writing is simply stellar. I read it and beat my desk in admiration, because those were my childhood experiences too. Yet, The Sufi Orchard simultaneously issues a warning and an elegy: experiences like these are growing increasingly blurred, if not outright endangered. Yes, we can never truly go back. I believe that if local gazetteers could break away from traditional writing styles and be written like this, they would be massively successful. Most of my interest in Wangtuan and the wealth of information I gathered came from this book. Sadly, the book lacked sufficient marketing, and many people have yet to read it.
Saturated with the influences of the Humen Khufiyya and the Shitangling Gadiriyya orders, this town is steeped in a heavy, archaic charm. The newly built Grand Master Wang gongbei is, without a doubt, the most elegant piece of gongbei architecture I've seen along this entire trip. To be honest, Ningxia gongbei architecture tends to be somewhat rugged and unpolished, lacking finesse and elegance, but Grand Master Wang's gongbei could easily hold its own even if placed in the Hehuang region. Rumor has it that the chief designer was Professor Wang Zhengpeng's own elderly father. Inside the courtyard stands a stele authored by Professor Wang Zhengpeng, serving as a dutiful testament to the filial honoring of ancestors.
Leaving Wangtuan, I rushed anxiously toward Ershilipu in Guyuan. As soon as I left Ershilipu, I received the news that my grandfather had passed away (yin'guang). With that, our investigative journey across Ningxia came to a close. Special thanks to Yagub for all his tireless legwork, and to Yagub's family car—which was really only suited for city driving—for somehow braving the highlands of Ningxia without breaking down.
Written on August 21, 2020 (Gregorian calendar)
Completed on Jumu'ah (Friday), Muharram 2, 1442 (Islamic calendar)
—END—
Part 8 of the Southern Ningxia Travel Series: Wandering Through the Hui Heritage and Landscapes of Xiji and Haiyuan, and the Final Chapter of Our Journey Across the Northern Frontier
Abstract:
The concluding chapter of our travels through the mountainous regions of southern Ningxia. Journeying across the plateau mountains, Hui villages, and ancient gongbei (Sufi shrines) of Haiyuan and Xiji, this essay captures the resilient and profound daily lives of our Hui Muslim brothers and sisters across the loess hills through authentic, vivid stories and photography.
丨Half a City丨
-
Thoughts in the Wilderness
-
Master Hai studied under the direct tutelage of Master Hu, eventually mastering his craft to the point of being praised with the saying, "Hu's teachings return to Hai." In the late Ming dynasty, when official academies held a monopoly and religious offices were passed down by heredity, a figure like this—no matter how talented—struggled to get ahead. In the bustling and prosperous Guanzhong region, Master Hai was like someone today with true learning but no diploma; unable to enter the establishment, he likely would have ended up running private tutoring classes to pass the time until old age in the marketplace. But the people of Weizhou recognized true talent. They possessed incredible vision and extended an invitation to Master Hai. Though Weizhou grandly called itself a "city," compared to the great markets of Guanzhong, it was little more than a frontier military garrison. Yet, Master Hai accepted the invitation, traveled north, and settled in Weizhou. Alin received the respect he deserved, and overnight his reputation skyrocketed. Scholars even traveled from Yunnan, Shandong, and Zhejiang with their book satchels just to study at his doorstep. For the first time, private education stepped into the spotlight, eclipsing official schooling with genuine knowledge and real scholarship. Master Hai ultimately spent the rest of his life in Weizhou, and the locals built a gongbei (Sufi shrine) in his honor.
Like Master Hu, Master Hai possessed an exceptionally high level of Sufi spiritual attainment, achieving the rank of the true realm. A stele stands by Master Hai's tomb: the front side features a Chinese inscription titled "Stele Inscription on the Propagation of the Sage by the Pure True Religion," while the back side bears an Arabic inscription. The Arabic text opens with: "Master Hai Baba, also known as Ahmad, is a renowned scholar of our era. Profound in learning and well-versed in the sacred teachings, he accepted and studied Sufi philosophy, serving as a spiritual guide who ascended from the correct Sharia (religious law) and Tariqa (spiritual path) to the third path of inspiring others." In Confucian orthodoxy, "Shusheng" (the Transmitter of the Sage) is the rank bestowed upon Zisi, who carried forward the teachings of Zengzi and paved the way for Mencius, transmitting the Way of Confucius. Calling Master Hai the "Transmitter of the Sage of the Pure True Religion" shows just how lofty a position he held in people's hearts at the time.
Today, however, Master Hai is gradually being forgotten. The gongbei over his grave has long since vanished without a trace, leaving only a low, unadorned blue-stone grave arch that looks shabby and utterly out of place. Because of its immense documentary value, the stele was moved inside the Haifenzi Mosque and locked away. Gubei insisted on taking me to see it, but we were never able to get the mosque doors open. Fortunately, I had already read the stele inscription years ago.
The religious tradition of the Weizhou people has flourished ever since Master Hai took root and promoted his teachings here. This is still thanks to the visionary outlook of the Weizhou people, their ability to keep pace with the times, and their courage to be trailblazers. Amidst the massive, turbulent waves of change during the Republic of China era, Weizhou locals invited Salar Muslims from Qinghai, led by Ma Denghai, to reform and adopt the Yihewani (Ikhwan) movement, discarding the centuries-old, Sufi-leaning Ghedim tradition inherited from Master Hai. This was simply the way the tides turned. Today, the vast majority of Weizhou follows Yihewani. Standing behind me, Gubei pointed to the tomb cover (shmandan) over Master Hai's grave and said, "We Weizhou people never mess with these things; all of this was brought in by outsiders. We don't visit Master Hai's tomb either—we only visit the graves of our own ancestors." His religious stance was crystal clear.
Still, the Yihewani of Weizhou is far more gentle and tolerant than that of the Hehuang region: even though I may not follow the ancient ways, I respect and understand you. That is why an ancient brick, hexagonal little gongbei still stands proudly to this day inside Gubei family's ancestral graveyard, without anyone finding it an eyesore or feeling the urge to tear it down. Gubei couldn't quite explain the history of this gongbei, saying only that his late maternal grandfather would have known. Legend has it that this was a woli (Sufi saint/holy figure) from the Jingkou branch of the Beizhuang Menhuan (Sufi order), who was once invited by the Su family as a spiritual guide. Clearly, people still respect this gongbei today; when we opened the door, the fragrance of freshly burned incense was still lingering in the air.
△ Master Hai's tomb, with a distant pagoda and mosque
Over on the eastern terrace of Yuanyang Lake, there is another small gongbei. Gubei told me it is a miracle-working (xianji) gongbei. Even though Gubei doesn't visit gongbei himself, he takes the miracle stories of Sufism seriously and believes in them. Viewed from the perspective of Yuanyang Lake, Weizhou is truly gorgeous. The grand mosque rises like a cloud- pavilion, and while the nearby Western Xia Kangji Temple Pagoda isn't quite as tall as the mosque, it still commands a heaven-piercing majesty. The lake waters shimmer a brilliant blue, like a giant cat's-eye gemstone. Fueled by Gubei's generous, Weizhou-style hospitality, we sampled the local steamed lamb and chao hubo (stir-fried dough pieces). Chao hubo was heavily recommended by Gubei's older brother, Dr. Su. Dr. Su, let's put the food talk aside for a moment—I'm really hoping you'll write a local gazetteer about Weizhou; this little town that proudly calls itself a city has way too many good stories to tell.
Driving straight through the twilight-shrouded wilderness toward Luoshan Mountain, on the other side of Luoshan lies "Half a City."
The county seat of Tongxin is historically known as "Half a City" (Bancheng). Legend has it that when the city was first built, half of its city walls were washed away by a massive flood, hence the name Half a City. Located about thirty kilometers away from Half a City is Hanjiashu, the ancestral hub of Ningxia's Lesser Khufiyya (Xiaohufuyya) Humen order. Because the place is called Hongganggangzi—essentially Honggang, a loess ridge named after the Hong family—the Lanyin dialect loves adding reduplicated syllables, like diediezi (plates) or suizizizi (little children). I don't know what got into me that morning; I had originally planned to head to Honggang, but I felt this sudden, anxious urge to rush back. Where was I actually rushing to? The next day was Eid al-Adha (Gu'erbang Jie), and when you're traveling away from home, it doesn't matter where you celebrate. But that inner urgency made me skip visiting the Honggang gongbei. Perhaps the spiritual call of the Ilahis was summoning me to rush to the passing of the elders. I had zero interest in the Tongxin Great Mosque either, and instead plunged straight into the vast cemetery next to the mosque. I checked out three gongbei. The one on the far east—a small, delicate, hexagonal blue-brick gongbei—clearly had some serious age to it. Judging by the cleanliness and upkeep outside the door, someone was still carefully tending to it, though sadly, it's unknown which venerable sage rests there. Right beside the gongbei stood a grave with a stele, which turned out to be the resting place of the legendary Imam Hu Songshan.
△ Imam Hu Songshan's tomb beside the small gongbei on the eastern side of the grand cemetery
Imam Hu Songshan was truly a legendary figure of his generation. His father was the direct transmitter of the mantle of the Liangzhou Zhuang Taoye (Grand Master of Liangzhou), affectionately known as Master Hu. Judging by his talent and executive ability, Hu Songshan was fully equipped to inherit his father's seal and found a new lineage. Yet, with his fierce and unyielding temperament, he personally tore down his father's gongbei and resolutely embarked on the path of Yihewani reform, causing one of the four Sufi spiritual lineages of the Liangzhou Zhuang Grand Master in Ningxia to be cut short. Amidst the monumental upheavals of the Republican era, Imam Hu Songshan was a towering figure. His forward-thinking mindset and broad vision were unmatched by any contemporary imam, drawing brilliant young scholars like Ma Jian all the way from southern Yunnan to seek him out as a teacher. A man like this, even without holding the title of an elder, was bound to set the tone for an entire era.
Fairly speaking, Hu Songshan was a passionate individual. Although he embarked on the path of reform, it was not the radical, revolutionary path seen in the Hehuang region—revolution and reform are worlds apart. In his later years, Hu Songshan's fiery passion cooled. Residing as an expatriate in Pingyang, he still recognized the traditional Ghedim practices. The people of Pingyang said, "Master Hu has grown old," which had a double meaning: he was advanced in years, and his path had also returned to the old teachings. Hu Songshan deliberately remarked, "That's right, I'm over seventy now, how can I not be old?" This generation of scriptural master was finally laid to rest in his native soil. I wonder if this was his ancestral graveyard, and if so, where his father's demolished gongbei might be? To this day, I can fully understand why the young Hu Songshan chose to tear down his own father's gongbei. There were far too many unspeakable complexities involved. To completely negate Sufism because of this would be overcorrecting with heavy medicine—completely unnecessary. Didn't you notice how Master Hu returned to the old ways in his twilight years?
Not far to the west of the grand cemetery stood two small gongbei. The westernmost one was newly built, though its architectural style closely followed the other two. The other gongbei was extremely ancient, bearing a stele inscription from the ninth year of the Qianlong Emperor's reign (1744). Sadly, the inscription is weathered and blurred, requiring a tremendous amount of effort to decipher. But the spiritual energy (qichang) of this gongbei is phenomenal—it is the quintessential gongbei of my imagination. Standing alone in the boundless wilderness like an isolated pavilion, it serves as a spiritual landmark where people can bring their secret troubles, pour out their hearts, and leave knowing that the wilderness remains the wilderness, and the gentle breeze returns to the breeze.
△ The Qianlong 9th-year gongbei, with the new gongbei and Tongxin Great Mosque visible in the distance
The gongbei we see today are actually integrated complexes combining the shrine and the daotang (prayer hall), but many have become excessively extravagant. In past eras, everything done had a sense of measured restraint. A three-eaved gongbei was considered the highest tier; nowadays, never mind three eaves, you even see seven-eaved ones. Did a woli ever need you to build a gongbei for them? Building a gongbei is merely for the descendants to pour out their private confidences. Countless Kamils and Mukammils (accomplished Sufi masters) never even had a grave mound left on this earth. If anyone knows the background of these three gongbei in the Tongxin Great Mosque cemetery, please enlighten me.
After a quick du'a (supplication), I hurried off toward Wangtuan. Wangtuan sits on the road from Half a City to Guyuan, not far from Half a City. The name Wangtuan likely refers to a Wang family military garrison, as it was originally a site for stationed troops. Wangtuan is also a small town with a rich cultural fabric. Nearly everyone in Wangtuan shares the surname Wang, tracing their roots back to a single ancestor. In modern times, it has produced several prominent figures, with Wang Zhengwei, Wang Zhengru, and Wang Zhengpeng being the most notable representatives of Wangtuan. Back during the Tongzhi and Guangxu reigns, the town also produced a great woli named Wang Dagui, who was an ancestor of the Wang family. Wang Dagui and Master Ma Huzi of Shitangling journeyed together to the Western Regions to study, receiving the Khufiyya teachings and bringing them back—an era even earlier than when the Liangzhou Zhuang Grand Master introduced the Lesser Khufiyya from Qinghai to Ningxia. Grand Master Wang Dagui achieved the status of a shahid (martyr), laying down his life for the faith during the turmoil of the Tongzhi Rebellion.
Grand Master Wang Dagui's era coincided with that of Grand Master Ah Hadiao. Both sought the teachings from the same place, and ultimately met the same final resting fate. Grand Master Wang Dagui fell in martyrdom in the second year of Tongzhi (1863), while Grand Master Ah Hadiao fell in the third year of Tongzhi (1864). What on earth happened during that era? So many woli suffered such tragic bloodshed. Grand Master Wang Dagui's gongbei stands like a lighthouse, firmly guarding the center of Wangtuan Town—or perhaps it is the people of Wangtuan who are firmly guarding Grand Master Wang's gongbei. This interplay between the ancient and the modern, the surface and the essence, gives this small place called Wangtuan an extraordinary character, continually producing remarkable individuals. On the eastern side of Grand Master Wang's gongbei, there is also the gongbei of Wang Hailifan, a religious leader produced by Wangtuan in modern times. I do not know whether the Khufiyya branch received by Wang Dagui was passed down after him, but judging by appearances today, the Khufiyya practiced in Wangtuan seems to have no direct connection to the Khufiyya brought back by Wang Dagui.
△ Grand Master Wang's gongbei in Wangtuan Town, boasting an extraordinary presence
Professor Wang Zhengpeng wrote a book titled The Sufi Orchard, which is essentially about his hometown of Wangtuan. His writing on Wangtuan can be viewed as a spiritual homecoming to the Sufi villages of Ningxia. He looks back at Wangtuan with a stance that is both detached and engaged—at times stepping outside the culture, and at other times dissolving right into it. Using a post-modern Habermas-style approach, he mystically communes with deep-seated rural experiences. It is a captivating piece of local ethnography, and the writing is simply stellar. I read it and beat my desk in admiration, because those were my childhood experiences too. Yet, The Sufi Orchard simultaneously issues a warning and an elegy: experiences like these are growing increasingly blurred, if not outright endangered. Yes, we can never truly go back. I believe that if local gazetteers could break away from traditional writing styles and be written like this, they would be massively successful. Most of my interest in Wangtuan and the wealth of information I gathered came from this book. Sadly, the book lacked sufficient marketing, and many people have yet to read it.
Saturated with the influences of the Humen Khufiyya and the Shitangling Gadiriyya orders, this town is steeped in a heavy, archaic charm. The newly built Grand Master Wang gongbei is, without a doubt, the most elegant piece of gongbei architecture I've seen along this entire trip. To be honest, Ningxia gongbei architecture tends to be somewhat rugged and unpolished, lacking finesse and elegance, but Grand Master Wang's gongbei could easily hold its own even if placed in the Hehuang region. Rumor has it that the chief designer was Professor Wang Zhengpeng's own elderly father. Inside the courtyard stands a stele authored by Professor Wang Zhengpeng, serving as a dutiful testament to the filial honoring of ancestors.
Leaving Wangtuan, I rushed anxiously toward Ershilipu in Guyuan. As soon as I left Ershilipu, I received the news that my grandfather had passed away (yin'guang). With that, our investigative journey across Ningxia came to a close. Special thanks to Yagub for all his tireless legwork, and to Yagub's family car—which was really only suited for city driving—for somehow braving the highlands of Ningxia without breaking down.
Written on August 21, 2020 (Gregorian calendar)
Completed on Jumu'ah (Friday), Muharram 2, 1442 (Islamic calendar)
—END—
