[Internet Repost]

Through 10 documentary images combined with fieldwork trips to the loess ravine villages in Northwest China, this article deeply explores the continuation and challenges of cultural imprints and rural ethical ties in Hui Muslim families in the Northwest under the impact of modern school education and internet culture.

The northern loess always looks dusty and gray in memories, with the sky hanging low and the wind dragging across the mountain ridges, making the ravines look even deeper. I walked along the roads of Xihaihed; in winter, car tires crushed the frozen chunks of earth, making a dry, crisp sound like stepping on ancient bones.

Looking out into the distance, the villages huddled in mountain basins, with yellow-mud huts clinging to slopes and cave dwellings embedded in earth walls like rows of blind scars. In a place like that, the moment a child is born and opens their eyes, what they see are those old scripture banners, the endless string of religious terms recited by elders by the edge of the kang (heated brick bed), and those few silent duas (supplications) before and after meals.

From a sociology class perspective, this is a classic "cultural transmission chain"; from the loess slopes, it's just the natural vibe of daily life, like cow dung smoke, scorched rice crust smells, and the dampness of kang mats, slowly sinking into a person's bones. You might write down in regulations and post on signs that religious belief is not allowed before eighteen, but kids can't close their ears tightly, nor can the courtyard air be split cleanly into "allowed" and "forbidden" halves.



II

I walked on the dusty dirt road along the ridge, stepping on crushed ground underfoot with a chilly, empty sky overhead. The wind blew past, carrying the distant, faint bell tolls of a small mosque; these chimes weren't loud, like a thin needle occasionally poking into the ear on a quiet, uniquely-styled afternoon before dispersing.

At the end of the road stood a dilapidated cave dwelling. Half of the cave roof had collapsed, with dirt piles sliding down and exposing the hollow interior. It was a makeshift shelter built during a famine years ago, and after people moved away, a few broken bowls and shattered pots were left buried under the sandy soil at the very bottom. Next to the cave was an abandoned grave plot with crooked earth mounds; when winter snow fell, it often lingered over them for a while, as if still remembering the person lying underground.

I stopped in my tracks and squatted down beside the earth mound. The wind swept past the back of my neck, giving me a slight chill. At that moment, I often thought of a somewhat cold question: when does a person actually start to "possess" their own faith, or lack thereof? Is it that moment in adulthood when a legal document says "I choose freely," or much earlier, when listening to elders softly reciting scriptures on a certain night, or watching a mother bow silently toward her own heart on a certain morning?

What I've always doubted isn't that age of eighteen, nor is it the box checked for "religious belief" on some form.



III

People in the city love using the phrase "blood transmission" to describe the intergenerational rainforest of religion, speaking with a sense of awakening and impatience, hoping religion is an uncatchable invisible virus that kids can't escape as long as their parents carry it.

I don't see it that way.

Blood itself has no scriptures; the liquid flowing in veins is just the same red stuff containing iron, salt, water, and cells, without a single word spelling out the name of a classic, nor any artery carved with "this person must believe in X." What truly gets passed down like blood across generations is the living environment, the language system, the daily routine, and those value judgments that fill the four walls of the yellow-mud huts at a single glance.

Kids learn to tell from a young age: who is "one of us," what is "pure," what action gets praised as "you understand reason," and what words make elders frown as soon as they leave the mouth. The word "religion" here is rarely broken down and discussed like in a classroom; it lies flat right under your feet, and you get so used to the friction of walking on it that only when someone actually flips it over do you realize there's concrete, dirt, and maybe something deeper underneath.

On a legal level, we emphasize that citizens can independently choose their faith after reaching a certain age; this rule is super meaningful for preventing extreme infiltration and protecting ordinary people, and it must be strictly guarded as the bottom line. Yet what I see in the loess villages is another slower, simpler reality: growing up, kids are slowly shaped by family vibes, village structures, and holiday rituals to the point where it's hard to chop off all experiences built before turning "eighteen years old."

This isn't really a religious issue, but rather the traditional culture inherent in agricultural societies, the inevitable inertia of any spiritual form commemorated for thousands of years.



IV

I remember one winter when heavy snow had just fallen around Liupan Mountain and the road was still iced over. The car couldn't get through, so I had to carry my backpack, stepping on the squeaky hard snow, walking step by step into the mountains. The sky was gray and overcast, and the distant loess mountains were wrapped in a dirty white layer like an old sheepskin scroll crumpled up and barely smoothed out.

Arriving at a ravine entrance, I rested in a yellow-mud hut. The light inside was dim, the windows didn't seal tight, and the wind drilled in through the gaps bit by bit. Sitting on the kang were a family of four: two elderly people, a middle-aged woman, and a teenage boy who had just started junior high. A few faded old calendar posters hung on the wall, and a smoke-blackened scripture plaque hung in the corner.

The boy was spreading out a modern textbook, reciting the simplest scientific actions in his mouth, while his eyes kept drifting toward a broken enamel mug on the kang. Stuck inside the mug were numerous withered twigs—originally brought from the mosque entrance during a festival carrying symbolic meaning, which family members said couldn't just be thrown away casually.

I struck up a conversation with him, asking what he wanted to do in the future. He said he wanted to go to the city, learn computers, and become a teacher to teach kids "to read more characters." When he said the phrase "to read more characters," the old folks in the room smiled and said: even if you learn to read, don't forget the scriptures. The boy lowered his head and smiled somewhat awkwardly, seemingly without arguing back.

This scene can be replayed with different actors across many loess villages. The older generation views the world through religious language, while the younger generation learns another system explaining all things through textbooks and the internet. These two systems intersect inside a yellow-mud hut and on the very same kang. That year, policy said he gained the freedom to choose how to face belief, but what he truly wanted was his grandfather's enamel mug soaked in scripture sounds, his mother's nights sustained by reciting prayers during tough times, and the whole interpersonal structure of "keeping the rules" in the village.

Materialist dialectics tell me that humans are shaped within social relations. Individual "freedom" never arises out of a vacuum. You can draw a clear line with laws, but that line, marked across mountain slopes, becomes winding and blurry due to the ups and downs of the terrain.



V

I often recall those thick theoretical books I read in my early years, with yellowed pages and sharp wording. The books said that religion played complex roles in the history of social classes, offering comfort, unity, and risks of being exploited; they also said that viewing nature, society, and thinking through a scientific worldview gradually leads humanity away from mysterious reliance.

These words sound clear in a classroom and roll off the tongue easily in a meeting room. Yet when you truly walk into parched loess ravines like Xihaihe, those words suddenly grow heavy.

Where do the "drawbacks" of religion lie? I pondered back and forth on the mountain road. No, it's not surnames, nor is it subtle immersion. For someone building the foundation of a modern nation, perhaps the risk of religion appears when it hardens into rigid identity labels replacing citizen status, or when it turns into some closed sectarian logic that obscures a broader social vision, thus clashing with societal diversity. Sometimes, individuals use the guise of religion for personal gain, turning pure belief into tradable goods, harming others' rights as well as state and social order. In those moments, laws must clearly draw boundaries without ambiguity.

Yet beneath the thick earth, I saw another side. Those illiterate elders, during famine years, relied on faith to hold the bottom line of not stealing, not robbing, and not selling out neighbors; those who never stepped outside the mountain ridges their whole lives raised diligent, frugal, and trustworthy kids through simple religious teachings. Their speech was aligned, yet they knew "hearts must be pure" and "hands must be clean." These morals do not conflict with our socialist core values.

The issue isn't whether one has faith, but how to understand faith and how to arrange its relationship with scholarship, science, and public interest. The problem isn't "blood transmission," either, but letting the next generation possess true critical thinking—learning a full set of modern knowledge and value principles while also soberly viewing family religious traditions without blind superstition or casual contempt.



VI

For many years, I gathered materials in ethnological fields, conducting interviews and writing notes. As I recorded, I doubted myself. I doubted whether my language was being led astray by certain methods, and whether I was looking at the kids in the mountains from a high pedestal.

I would never stand on high to critique the "drawbacks" of a certain religion. Under national law, all religions are equal, and before academic reflection, they are equally treated—neither painted as spotless sacred images nor simply demonized.

If we really want to talk about breaking the mold, I prefer using the phrase "breaking the impasse" to ask myself: how can we let the new generation practice independent thinking without abandoning family and emotional ties? How can we let religious systems gradually transition from "bloodline labels" to "spiritual resources where individuals can walk, choose, or keep a distance" while upholding national bottom lines?

Walking along the loess ridges, I often used a simple imagery to imagine this possibility: an ancient path with a yellow-mud hut school on one side and the school courtyard wall on the other. Every day, kids walk from home to school and back home again, their soles treading the exact same dusty road. One end of the road holds the entire tradition recited by parents; the other end holds the natural science, legal common sense, and historical facts taught by teachers.

After walking this path for a long time, a habit of "comparison" naturally grows inside a kid's heart. They might not immediately deny anything, nor blindly accept it, but gently and repeatedly ask a few questions inside: "Is this true?", "On what grounds?", "Is there another explanation?". Such critical skepticism might look restless to some eyes, but in my view, it is the unmistakable beginning of materialist dialectics taking root in a living soul.



VII

On a winter night, I once sat with a rural teacher on the steps outside a broken cave dwelling. The night wind was biting, and clouds covered the sky, leaving just a corner exposed like an imperfect eye. Opposite the cave stood a small mosque, its newly replaced tin roof reflecting a sliver of cold light.

That teacher was a native Hui Muslim whose parents and he himself attended elementary school chanting scriptures, keeping fasts, and walking through festive streets. Later, he studied further, walked a bit further, and became a village primary school substitute teacher. By day he taught textbook materials, by night he tutored kids with homework, and occasionally he attended meetings listening to superiors talk about education reform and compulsory student protection.

I asked him how he views the faith issues of the village kids. He fell silent for a long time, smoking a cheap cigarette while looking at the lonely mosque roof across the way, and finally spoke a few slow sentences: When kids are little, they don't understand anything, they just imitate; whatever they see, they copy. If you're afraid they'll get dragged away by bad things, blocking their ears isn't the fix. You need to show them more things, let them hear multiple voices, and teach them discernment. Teach them law, science, respect, and make them dare to ask "why." Just teaching them fear won't work.



These words weren't pretty, but they hit hard. Reflecting on them repeatedly in different settings later, I realized this anxiety is dialectical thinking born straight out of the loess. It's not simply shouting "bans" or letting things fend for themselves, but finding a calm, fine line between "restriction" and "guidance": banning illegal extremism while ensuring people don't skip out on the right paths, resembling flipped book pages or furrowed brows. Distant focal points blur under wisps of kitchen smoke below. At that moment, people easily slip into a delusion: under the yellow loess, all other voices seem buried away.

I’m well aware that on the other side of this country, things look different: chaotic cities, skyscrapers reflecting neon lights, kids in spacious classrooms reciting stories about scientists, and information flowing like water on every screen. Different lives, different rhythms, all unfolding under the same sky.

When we talk about religion, the marginalized, or the dialectical materialism needed to "break the cycle," we shouldn't just be rushing to judge any specific village or sect. For many families in this day and age, it’s not just "bloodline-transmitted" religion; it’s consumerism and the way parents get hooked on scrolling through short-video apps for hours. Kids are growing up learning to judge value based on the latest trends and prices, and these things are influencing them just as deeply, regardless of their age or what they actually want.

If we stay alert to the generational influence of religious traditions but completely ignore these new, pervasive forces that prevent any real "individual independence," then our materialist dialectics become biased and one-sided.



Walking along these loess hills, I know that the real change needed isn't about any specific faith, but about getting rid of the lazy habit of blaming everything on "bloodlines" or "human nature." Personal awakening doesn't come from shouting anti-religious slogans or giving kids some "rationality vaccine." It happens through the slow, steady process of education that chips away at these hillsides, just like the wind carving out the ravines. Inside a small mud-brick house, three generations sit on the kang (heated brick bed). The oldest one might still be reciting prayers as a lifelong habit, finding comfort in his sunset years; the middle generation has likely worked in big cities, seen the world, learned to protect their rights through the law, and knows to tell their kids, "You have the right to choose, but whatever you choose should help you grow"; the youngest generation is learning systematic science at school, listening to teachers talk about the constitutional right to freedom of belief, knowing the country doesn't encourage superstition but protects legal religious activities, and understanding that students should focus on their studies and healthy growth.

A family might be gathered around the same table, but they’re holding onto different fragments of the world. There’s bound to be friction, debate, misunderstanding, and generational gaps. But as long as there’s one shared understanding—that national law comes before any religious or family belief, and that any religious activity must stay within the legal red lines—then no matter how much they argue, it won't lead to anything dangerous.



In this context, religion isn't some "inescapable fate in your blood" anymore; it’s something out in the open, on the table, and permitted.

At the end of the day, the term "breaking the cycle" reminds me not to expect a one-size-fits-all solution for problems buried deep in the soil and bloodlines. The loess earth is stubborn; if you hit it hard, the surface crumbles and dust flies everywhere, but it won't be rebuilt according to your blueprint. Religion is the same way; you can't just force centuries of tradition to fall into line overnight.

What can actually change, little by little, is education, the environment, language, and that spark of wisdom in the hearts of the kids growing up in these ravines.

I keep coming back to that metaphor of the dirt road. Between home and school, the village and the nation, tradition and modernity—this road isn't wide, it isn't straight, and it’s always getting washed out by the rain. Kids walk this road every day, feeling the hardness of the stones under their feet and getting used to the different perspectives they encounter. Worldviews, school knowledge, historical memory, family stories, and religious language—all these things get tangled up in their lives. Materialist dialectics are only useful when a person learns to navigate this tangle, make choices through the contradictions, avoid blind obedience or shallow contempt, and keep from getting trapped in a one-dimensional mindset.

I don’t believe that bloodlines determine a person’s beliefs for life. I also don’t believe that simple regulations can suddenly liberate someone’s mind. I only believe in that kind of clarity—the kind forged in thick soil through years of hardship, the kind that respects history while constantly reflecting on it, and the kind that stays just a little skeptical of any "absolute truth."



Eleven.

At dusk in Xihai'gu, I was heading back on the old road near Liupan Mountain. The clouds on the horizon were stretched into a dark red line, soon to be swallowed by the night. Black goats moved along the side of the road, their hooves scratching for dry grass roots on the frozen slopes. In the distance, a faint light shone from a broken-down cave dwelling.

I know that under that light, there might be a kid doing homework, writing about the material world from his textbook; or there might be an elder quietly reciting a prayer passed down by his ancestors, adding a touch of peace to the moments after dinner.

This is what makes up a real, complex Northwest China. The shadow of religion, the light of science, the boundaries of law, the memories of ethnic groups, and the priorities of the nation are all here. Splitting them into "binary opposites" or slapping on labels of "bad" or "good" is unfair to this land and unfair to the people living on it.

The most I can do is record these shadows and lights, reminding myself: when we talk about an "independent perspective," we must never forget the feet walking on this loess soil or the ears that hear both the scratching of a pen and the sound of prayer. True freedom isn't an abstract slogan; it’s the courage and clarity that each individual life slowly grows under protection.

Night presses down, turning the loess into a blurry wash of ink. I pull up my collar and walk back along the old path. I know that some questions don't have answers yet—like what the future of religion will look like on this land, or how the new generation will find their footing between bloodlines and their own choices.

Maybe one day, when new schools light up more mountain ridges, when scientific and academic education seep into more mud-brick houses like clear water, and when generations of kids get used to treating every suggestion from home with inquiry and thought, the term "bloodline-transmitted" will lose its intensity and just become a footnote in history.

But I don’t know when that day will come or how it will arrive.

I only know that as long as I can still walk these roads, I will come back to these loess mountains again. I’ll go to those lights, listen to the echo of study sessions and prayers, and ask myself in the depths of my heart: On this thick soil, is it possible to weave our understanding of religion, our protection of human dignity, and our confidence in materialist dialectics into a net that holds up both the weight of tradition and the lightness of the future?

I’ll leave that question mark here, hanging in the wind of Xihai'gu, to be tested by the loess and the snow over time. view all

Through 10 documentary images combined with fieldwork trips to the loess ravine villages in Northwest China, this article deeply explores the continuation and challenges of cultural imprints and rural ethical ties in Hui Muslim families in the Northwest under the impact of modern school education and internet culture.

The northern loess always looks dusty and gray in memories, with the sky hanging low and the wind dragging across the mountain ridges, making the ravines look even deeper. I walked along the roads of Xihaihed; in winter, car tires crushed the frozen chunks of earth, making a dry, crisp sound like stepping on ancient bones.

Looking out into the distance, the villages huddled in mountain basins, with yellow-mud huts clinging to slopes and cave dwellings embedded in earth walls like rows of blind scars. In a place like that, the moment a child is born and opens their eyes, what they see are those old scripture banners, the endless string of religious terms recited by elders by the edge of the kang (heated brick bed), and those few silent duas (supplications) before and after meals.

From a sociology class perspective, this is a classic "cultural transmission chain"; from the loess slopes, it's just the natural vibe of daily life, like cow dung smoke, scorched rice crust smells, and the dampness of kang mats, slowly sinking into a person's bones. You might write down in regulations and post on signs that religious belief is not allowed before eighteen, but kids can't close their ears tightly, nor can the courtyard air be split cleanly into "allowed" and "forbidden" halves.



II

I walked on the dusty dirt road along the ridge, stepping on crushed ground underfoot with a chilly, empty sky overhead. The wind blew past, carrying the distant, faint bell tolls of a small mosque; these chimes weren't loud, like a thin needle occasionally poking into the ear on a quiet, uniquely-styled afternoon before dispersing.

At the end of the road stood a dilapidated cave dwelling. Half of the cave roof had collapsed, with dirt piles sliding down and exposing the hollow interior. It was a makeshift shelter built during a famine years ago, and after people moved away, a few broken bowls and shattered pots were left buried under the sandy soil at the very bottom. Next to the cave was an abandoned grave plot with crooked earth mounds; when winter snow fell, it often lingered over them for a while, as if still remembering the person lying underground.

I stopped in my tracks and squatted down beside the earth mound. The wind swept past the back of my neck, giving me a slight chill. At that moment, I often thought of a somewhat cold question: when does a person actually start to "possess" their own faith, or lack thereof? Is it that moment in adulthood when a legal document says "I choose freely," or much earlier, when listening to elders softly reciting scriptures on a certain night, or watching a mother bow silently toward her own heart on a certain morning?

What I've always doubted isn't that age of eighteen, nor is it the box checked for "religious belief" on some form.



III

People in the city love using the phrase "blood transmission" to describe the intergenerational rainforest of religion, speaking with a sense of awakening and impatience, hoping religion is an uncatchable invisible virus that kids can't escape as long as their parents carry it.

I don't see it that way.

Blood itself has no scriptures; the liquid flowing in veins is just the same red stuff containing iron, salt, water, and cells, without a single word spelling out the name of a classic, nor any artery carved with "this person must believe in X." What truly gets passed down like blood across generations is the living environment, the language system, the daily routine, and those value judgments that fill the four walls of the yellow-mud huts at a single glance.

Kids learn to tell from a young age: who is "one of us," what is "pure," what action gets praised as "you understand reason," and what words make elders frown as soon as they leave the mouth. The word "religion" here is rarely broken down and discussed like in a classroom; it lies flat right under your feet, and you get so used to the friction of walking on it that only when someone actually flips it over do you realize there's concrete, dirt, and maybe something deeper underneath.

On a legal level, we emphasize that citizens can independently choose their faith after reaching a certain age; this rule is super meaningful for preventing extreme infiltration and protecting ordinary people, and it must be strictly guarded as the bottom line. Yet what I see in the loess villages is another slower, simpler reality: growing up, kids are slowly shaped by family vibes, village structures, and holiday rituals to the point where it's hard to chop off all experiences built before turning "eighteen years old."

This isn't really a religious issue, but rather the traditional culture inherent in agricultural societies, the inevitable inertia of any spiritual form commemorated for thousands of years.



IV

I remember one winter when heavy snow had just fallen around Liupan Mountain and the road was still iced over. The car couldn't get through, so I had to carry my backpack, stepping on the squeaky hard snow, walking step by step into the mountains. The sky was gray and overcast, and the distant loess mountains were wrapped in a dirty white layer like an old sheepskin scroll crumpled up and barely smoothed out.

Arriving at a ravine entrance, I rested in a yellow-mud hut. The light inside was dim, the windows didn't seal tight, and the wind drilled in through the gaps bit by bit. Sitting on the kang were a family of four: two elderly people, a middle-aged woman, and a teenage boy who had just started junior high. A few faded old calendar posters hung on the wall, and a smoke-blackened scripture plaque hung in the corner.

The boy was spreading out a modern textbook, reciting the simplest scientific actions in his mouth, while his eyes kept drifting toward a broken enamel mug on the kang. Stuck inside the mug were numerous withered twigs—originally brought from the mosque entrance during a festival carrying symbolic meaning, which family members said couldn't just be thrown away casually.

I struck up a conversation with him, asking what he wanted to do in the future. He said he wanted to go to the city, learn computers, and become a teacher to teach kids "to read more characters." When he said the phrase "to read more characters," the old folks in the room smiled and said: even if you learn to read, don't forget the scriptures. The boy lowered his head and smiled somewhat awkwardly, seemingly without arguing back.

This scene can be replayed with different actors across many loess villages. The older generation views the world through religious language, while the younger generation learns another system explaining all things through textbooks and the internet. These two systems intersect inside a yellow-mud hut and on the very same kang. That year, policy said he gained the freedom to choose how to face belief, but what he truly wanted was his grandfather's enamel mug soaked in scripture sounds, his mother's nights sustained by reciting prayers during tough times, and the whole interpersonal structure of "keeping the rules" in the village.

Materialist dialectics tell me that humans are shaped within social relations. Individual "freedom" never arises out of a vacuum. You can draw a clear line with laws, but that line, marked across mountain slopes, becomes winding and blurry due to the ups and downs of the terrain.



V

I often recall those thick theoretical books I read in my early years, with yellowed pages and sharp wording. The books said that religion played complex roles in the history of social classes, offering comfort, unity, and risks of being exploited; they also said that viewing nature, society, and thinking through a scientific worldview gradually leads humanity away from mysterious reliance.

These words sound clear in a classroom and roll off the tongue easily in a meeting room. Yet when you truly walk into parched loess ravines like Xihaihe, those words suddenly grow heavy.

Where do the "drawbacks" of religion lie? I pondered back and forth on the mountain road. No, it's not surnames, nor is it subtle immersion. For someone building the foundation of a modern nation, perhaps the risk of religion appears when it hardens into rigid identity labels replacing citizen status, or when it turns into some closed sectarian logic that obscures a broader social vision, thus clashing with societal diversity. Sometimes, individuals use the guise of religion for personal gain, turning pure belief into tradable goods, harming others' rights as well as state and social order. In those moments, laws must clearly draw boundaries without ambiguity.

Yet beneath the thick earth, I saw another side. Those illiterate elders, during famine years, relied on faith to hold the bottom line of not stealing, not robbing, and not selling out neighbors; those who never stepped outside the mountain ridges their whole lives raised diligent, frugal, and trustworthy kids through simple religious teachings. Their speech was aligned, yet they knew "hearts must be pure" and "hands must be clean." These morals do not conflict with our socialist core values.

The issue isn't whether one has faith, but how to understand faith and how to arrange its relationship with scholarship, science, and public interest. The problem isn't "blood transmission," either, but letting the next generation possess true critical thinking—learning a full set of modern knowledge and value principles while also soberly viewing family religious traditions without blind superstition or casual contempt.



VI

For many years, I gathered materials in ethnological fields, conducting interviews and writing notes. As I recorded, I doubted myself. I doubted whether my language was being led astray by certain methods, and whether I was looking at the kids in the mountains from a high pedestal.

I would never stand on high to critique the "drawbacks" of a certain religion. Under national law, all religions are equal, and before academic reflection, they are equally treated—neither painted as spotless sacred images nor simply demonized.

If we really want to talk about breaking the mold, I prefer using the phrase "breaking the impasse" to ask myself: how can we let the new generation practice independent thinking without abandoning family and emotional ties? How can we let religious systems gradually transition from "bloodline labels" to "spiritual resources where individuals can walk, choose, or keep a distance" while upholding national bottom lines?

Walking along the loess ridges, I often used a simple imagery to imagine this possibility: an ancient path with a yellow-mud hut school on one side and the school courtyard wall on the other. Every day, kids walk from home to school and back home again, their soles treading the exact same dusty road. One end of the road holds the entire tradition recited by parents; the other end holds the natural science, legal common sense, and historical facts taught by teachers.

After walking this path for a long time, a habit of "comparison" naturally grows inside a kid's heart. They might not immediately deny anything, nor blindly accept it, but gently and repeatedly ask a few questions inside: "Is this true?", "On what grounds?", "Is there another explanation?". Such critical skepticism might look restless to some eyes, but in my view, it is the unmistakable beginning of materialist dialectics taking root in a living soul.



VII

On a winter night, I once sat with a rural teacher on the steps outside a broken cave dwelling. The night wind was biting, and clouds covered the sky, leaving just a corner exposed like an imperfect eye. Opposite the cave stood a small mosque, its newly replaced tin roof reflecting a sliver of cold light.

That teacher was a native Hui Muslim whose parents and he himself attended elementary school chanting scriptures, keeping fasts, and walking through festive streets. Later, he studied further, walked a bit further, and became a village primary school substitute teacher. By day he taught textbook materials, by night he tutored kids with homework, and occasionally he attended meetings listening to superiors talk about education reform and compulsory student protection.

I asked him how he views the faith issues of the village kids. He fell silent for a long time, smoking a cheap cigarette while looking at the lonely mosque roof across the way, and finally spoke a few slow sentences: When kids are little, they don't understand anything, they just imitate; whatever they see, they copy. If you're afraid they'll get dragged away by bad things, blocking their ears isn't the fix. You need to show them more things, let them hear multiple voices, and teach them discernment. Teach them law, science, respect, and make them dare to ask "why." Just teaching them fear won't work.



These words weren't pretty, but they hit hard. Reflecting on them repeatedly in different settings later, I realized this anxiety is dialectical thinking born straight out of the loess. It's not simply shouting "bans" or letting things fend for themselves, but finding a calm, fine line between "restriction" and "guidance": banning illegal extremism while ensuring people don't skip out on the right paths, resembling flipped book pages or furrowed brows. Distant focal points blur under wisps of kitchen smoke below. At that moment, people easily slip into a delusion: under the yellow loess, all other voices seem buried away.

I’m well aware that on the other side of this country, things look different: chaotic cities, skyscrapers reflecting neon lights, kids in spacious classrooms reciting stories about scientists, and information flowing like water on every screen. Different lives, different rhythms, all unfolding under the same sky.

When we talk about religion, the marginalized, or the dialectical materialism needed to "break the cycle," we shouldn't just be rushing to judge any specific village or sect. For many families in this day and age, it’s not just "bloodline-transmitted" religion; it’s consumerism and the way parents get hooked on scrolling through short-video apps for hours. Kids are growing up learning to judge value based on the latest trends and prices, and these things are influencing them just as deeply, regardless of their age or what they actually want.

If we stay alert to the generational influence of religious traditions but completely ignore these new, pervasive forces that prevent any real "individual independence," then our materialist dialectics become biased and one-sided.



Walking along these loess hills, I know that the real change needed isn't about any specific faith, but about getting rid of the lazy habit of blaming everything on "bloodlines" or "human nature." Personal awakening doesn't come from shouting anti-religious slogans or giving kids some "rationality vaccine." It happens through the slow, steady process of education that chips away at these hillsides, just like the wind carving out the ravines. Inside a small mud-brick house, three generations sit on the kang (heated brick bed). The oldest one might still be reciting prayers as a lifelong habit, finding comfort in his sunset years; the middle generation has likely worked in big cities, seen the world, learned to protect their rights through the law, and knows to tell their kids, "You have the right to choose, but whatever you choose should help you grow"; the youngest generation is learning systematic science at school, listening to teachers talk about the constitutional right to freedom of belief, knowing the country doesn't encourage superstition but protects legal religious activities, and understanding that students should focus on their studies and healthy growth.

A family might be gathered around the same table, but they’re holding onto different fragments of the world. There’s bound to be friction, debate, misunderstanding, and generational gaps. But as long as there’s one shared understanding—that national law comes before any religious or family belief, and that any religious activity must stay within the legal red lines—then no matter how much they argue, it won't lead to anything dangerous.



In this context, religion isn't some "inescapable fate in your blood" anymore; it’s something out in the open, on the table, and permitted.

At the end of the day, the term "breaking the cycle" reminds me not to expect a one-size-fits-all solution for problems buried deep in the soil and bloodlines. The loess earth is stubborn; if you hit it hard, the surface crumbles and dust flies everywhere, but it won't be rebuilt according to your blueprint. Religion is the same way; you can't just force centuries of tradition to fall into line overnight.

What can actually change, little by little, is education, the environment, language, and that spark of wisdom in the hearts of the kids growing up in these ravines.

I keep coming back to that metaphor of the dirt road. Between home and school, the village and the nation, tradition and modernity—this road isn't wide, it isn't straight, and it’s always getting washed out by the rain. Kids walk this road every day, feeling the hardness of the stones under their feet and getting used to the different perspectives they encounter. Worldviews, school knowledge, historical memory, family stories, and religious language—all these things get tangled up in their lives. Materialist dialectics are only useful when a person learns to navigate this tangle, make choices through the contradictions, avoid blind obedience or shallow contempt, and keep from getting trapped in a one-dimensional mindset.

I don’t believe that bloodlines determine a person’s beliefs for life. I also don’t believe that simple regulations can suddenly liberate someone’s mind. I only believe in that kind of clarity—the kind forged in thick soil through years of hardship, the kind that respects history while constantly reflecting on it, and the kind that stays just a little skeptical of any "absolute truth."



Eleven.

At dusk in Xihai'gu, I was heading back on the old road near Liupan Mountain. The clouds on the horizon were stretched into a dark red line, soon to be swallowed by the night. Black goats moved along the side of the road, their hooves scratching for dry grass roots on the frozen slopes. In the distance, a faint light shone from a broken-down cave dwelling.

I know that under that light, there might be a kid doing homework, writing about the material world from his textbook; or there might be an elder quietly reciting a prayer passed down by his ancestors, adding a touch of peace to the moments after dinner.

This is what makes up a real, complex Northwest China. The shadow of religion, the light of science, the boundaries of law, the memories of ethnic groups, and the priorities of the nation are all here. Splitting them into "binary opposites" or slapping on labels of "bad" or "good" is unfair to this land and unfair to the people living on it.

The most I can do is record these shadows and lights, reminding myself: when we talk about an "independent perspective," we must never forget the feet walking on this loess soil or the ears that hear both the scratching of a pen and the sound of prayer. True freedom isn't an abstract slogan; it’s the courage and clarity that each individual life slowly grows under protection.

Night presses down, turning the loess into a blurry wash of ink. I pull up my collar and walk back along the old path. I know that some questions don't have answers yet—like what the future of religion will look like on this land, or how the new generation will find their footing between bloodlines and their own choices.

Maybe one day, when new schools light up more mountain ridges, when scientific and academic education seep into more mud-brick houses like clear water, and when generations of kids get used to treating every suggestion from home with inquiry and thought, the term "bloodline-transmitted" will lose its intensity and just become a footnote in history.

But I don’t know when that day will come or how it will arrive.

I only know that as long as I can still walk these roads, I will come back to these loess mountains again. I’ll go to those lights, listen to the echo of study sessions and prayers, and ask myself in the depths of my heart: On this thick soil, is it possible to weave our understanding of religion, our protection of human dignity, and our confidence in materialist dialectics into a net that holds up both the weight of tradition and the lightness of the future?

I’ll leave that question mark here, hanging in the wind of Xihai'gu, to be tested by the loess and the snow over time. view all