I live in Lijiawa, in the province of Ningxia, one of the poorest regions of China. A lost place, forgotten by everyone, a desert. In the winter it’s cold. The temperature can go down to -20 degrees. In the summer it can go up to 40 degrees. It’s a hard life, but I feel alive here.

When I was a child I lived just over here, in the troglodyte houses that are dug out of the hillside. That’s where I got married when I was nineteen years old. My father was a changgong, a peasant. Chang for ‘long’ and gong for ‘work’, which means that he used to go off for months far away to work fifteen hours a day. We didn’t see much of him. My mother stayed at home to look after me and my seven brothers and sisters. She also worked without rest from morning to night.

I studied at the school in the nearest village, Zhangjiashu, then I went to junior high in Yuwang, until 1963. That was when the Maoist regime was requisitioning young people and sending them wherever they were needed, according to the famous policy of fenpei. Since there weren’t enough doctors in the region it was essential to come up with a solution. From one day to the next the Bureau of Health decided where I should go and that’s how, with fifteen days training, I became a ‘barefoot doctor’. That’s the doctor who is sent out to villages to treat peasants. I would wake up at dawn, walk five hours to get to the city and follow the training programme at the hospital. In the afternoon I had consultations. In the evening I was so exhausted that I would collapse onto my kang in front of my parents. They were so proud of their eldest son.

I’ll never forget the first time I made a visit as a doctor. My paternal grandfather was very ill, but no one could figure out what was wrong with him. I decided to ask my professor at the hospital. I described his symptoms and said ‘I think it’s appendicitis’. He didn’t agree. But in the end it turned out that I was right. I earned a lot of respect from the whole community because of that and that gave me great peace of mind.
Then there was the time when a terrible tragedy took place locally: thirty children, all living in troglodyte houses, died of a respiratory infection. I couldn’t do anything. I was devastated. I think that’s when I began to love what I do.

Today I really am aware of how lucky I am. Five times a day I pray to Allah and thank him for all that he has done for me. I own 30 mu of land plus a bit of livestock and I do the rounds of my patients… by motorbike! I cover three xiang, ten villages, with a total population of 20,000. During the winter I might see fifteen patients a day because of all the migrant workers, particularly the younger ones, who suffer from debilitating colds.

As well as infectious diseases, a lot of my patients have either gynecological or stomach problems. Dysentary causes terrible problems. There is no water in this region. It’s expensive to buy: 50 yuan for twenty litres. That’s what I earn every month in consultations (2 yuan per consultation, 10 yuan for an injection). Between my land – I grow potatoes and millet – and my livestock, I earn a bit extra every month which allows me to help our two sons who are still living with us.
All my hopes rest on the shoulders of my youngest son, Ma Shijie. He is just eighteen. He’s the only one of all my children to have gone to university and I am so proud of him. He should get his results any day now. He wants to go into computing. If he doesn’t pass he’ll go to Hebei to study chemistry.

I’m pretty content. But I do feel old. There are so many patients to cure, elderly people to comfort. And I’m not going to live forever! Sometimes I allow myself to dream: that I will build a big hospital, right here amongst my mountains and my beasts…