Lín Juémín’s Farewell Letter to His Wife

My initial encounter with Lín Juémín's farewell letter was through T. Tang's 2011 translation. At the time I first read it, I was roughly the same age of Lín Juémín at his death (23). I saw in his sacrifice a kind of beautiful, almost sacred, idealism. It was easy to romanticize the notion of dying for a belief, of giving one's life to a cause larger than oneself. It's clear and uncomplicated.

With the advent of LLMs, I recently revisited the text, using an alternative translation provided by Gemini. But the translation itself wasn't the only thing that had changed; it was the chasm between who I was when I first read the letter and who I am rereading it now nearly 10 years later.

Lín Juémín died for his convictions, but the revolution he helped ignite was as no less ruthless as the dynasty it overthrew. The purity of his sacrifice is stained by the later history it enabled: famine, chaos, and suffering. That's the world that he left to his wife and unborn child. His decision, which once seemed so heroic, now appears tragically naive. The question is no longer about the nobility of his death, but about its true cost.

This story reminds me of the irony in the closing lines of Viet Thanh Nguyen's The Sympathizer: "nothing is more important than freedom and independence."

In the early 20th century, China was a nation suffocating under the weight of its own history. The rhythms of imperial rule were faltering, and a new, restive energy was beginning to pulse through the country's veins. This was the prelude to the 1911 Revolution. It was a decade-long slow burn of agitation and revolt that would eventually topple the Qing dynasty, ending more than two millennia of imperial rule and ushering in China's tumultuous republican era.

Amidst this grand historical sweep, however, a single, devastating moment offers a more intimate, human-scale view of the revolution's cost: the Yellow Flower Mound Uprising, a failed insurrection in 1911. It was a desperate gamble against by the revolutionaries against the Qing. Initially, the revolutionaries found success, a fleeting taste of triumph quickly soured by the arrival of overwhelming Qing reinforcements. The battle became a massacre. Most of the revolutionaries were killed, their bodies left in the streets of Guangzhou.

These were no hardened, anonymous soldiers. They were a diverse cohort of young, idealistic Chinese patriots—former students, teachers, journalists, and overseas Chinese who had returned to fight for a new vision of their homeland.

Among them was Lín Juémín. At just 23, he was one of those young revolutionaries who, against all odds, survived the failed uprising. He escaped back to his native Fujian province, but his freedom was short-lived. He was captured and arrested. Three days before his capture, he wrote his "Letter of Farewell" to his pregnant wife. The letter is a raw and honest testament to the human heart caught in the maelstrom of history. The translated text of this letter follows.

My Dearest Yiying,

When you hold this letter, I will have already become a memory among the shadows. It’s hard to write, to feel the tears blurring the ink and the pen growing heavy in my hand. I want to stop, to give up this task, but I fear you might not understand the whole of my heart. You might think I was willing to leave you, that I didn’t know how desperately you wished for me to live. And so, I will bear this sorrow and tell you everything.

I love you more than anything. That is the truth of it, the simple, profound anchor that gives me the courage to face what’s to come.

Since we met, I've carried a wish in my heart: that all those who love could be together, always. But look at our world—it is a landscape of violence, of endless suffering. How can we truly be happy when so many are not?

You know the saying: "Love your elders, and extend that love to all elders; love your children, and extend that love to all children." I am doing the same with my love for you. I am taking the vastness of what I feel for you and extending it to all who love. That is why I must go. That is why I am choosing to die before you, to put the greater good above our own. My hope is that when you mourn for me, you will also hold the world in your heart, finding solace in the idea of a better future for everyone. Please, don't be sad.

Do you remember that night, four or five years ago, when I told you I would rather you die before me? You were angry at first, but after I explained, you didn't have an answer. I meant what I said. I know how fragile you are and how unbearable the grief is. I would have carried that pain for you, gladly. Alas, who knew it would be me to leave first?

I can't forget you. My mind keeps wandering back to the house on the back street, to our little room tucked away past the halls and corridors. I remember our first winter, the moonlight filtering through the bare plum branches, casting a faint pattern on the floor. We would stand side by side, holding hands, talking in low whispers about everything and nothing. Now, when I think of it, all that remains is the empty space, the wetness on my cheeks. And I remember six or seven years ago, when I returned after running away, and you cried, begging me to tell you if I ever had to leave again, so that you could follow. I promised I would. A couple of weeks ago, when I came home, I wanted to tell you about my journey, but when I saw your face, the words caught in my throat. And with our baby on the way, I was even more afraid of the sorrow it would bring you. So I just drank, trying to find some kind of escape in the bottom of a bottle. The pain was beyond words.

I want to be with you, to grow old with you. But in this country, death is always waiting. It can come from a natural disaster, from violence, from corruption. We can die at any time, anywhere. What would I do if I had to watch you die? What would you do if you had to watch me? Even if we were spared, what if we were separated forever? A broken mirror cannot be made whole again. Such a life would be worse than death. How can we stand by while so many are suffering and being torn apart? My love, this is why I am choosing to die, without a second thought for myself or you. I have no regrets. The cause will live on in others. Yixin is five now; she will grow up in a blink. Raise her well, let her be like me. As for the child you are carrying, I believe it will be a girl, a little you. My heart is at peace with this thought. If it is a boy, teach him to carry on my work. Then, after I'm gone, there will be two of my spirits in the world. How lucky I would be!

Our family will be poor, but don't worry about it. Poverty is not a hardship, and a simple life is a quiet, peaceful one.

I can't say anymore. When I am in the earth, if I hear your cries, I will cry with you. I have never believed in ghosts, but now I hope they are real. They say that hearts can be connected across a great distance, and I hope this is true, too. Then, even in death, my spirit will be with you. You will never be alone.

I never told you about my aspirations, and that was a mistake. But if I had, you would have worried for me every day. I was ready to sacrifice myself a hundred times over, but I could not bear to make you sad. My love for you is so deep that I worry I haven’t done enough for you. You were so lucky to find me, and yet so unlucky to be born in this time. I was so lucky to find you, and yet so unlucky to be born in this time, for I cannot just live for myself. The handkerchief is small, but what remains unsaid is vast. Imagine what my heart cannot put into words. I can no longer see you. But if you cannot let go of me, I will be waiting for you in your dreams.

A final, heartbreaking salute.