MEIDE Dong Village

Before diving in, here are the vital signs of Meide：

Community filmmaking, Women’s mutual support, Seed Saving, Organic farming, Left-behind children, Place-based education, Rural innovation, Traditional crafts.

For 13 years, these things have been happening quietly in Meide.

Unlike traditional tourist spots, you won't find grand performances in ethnic costumes or rows of identical souvenirs. Instead, the village has returned to its own problems, its own culture, and its own land, nurturing an endogenous strength that allows its people to live with dignity.

At the heart of these changes are two key individuals: Wu Fengying and Zhang Chuanhui.

Around 2010, Meide, like many Dong villages, was experiencing large-scale out-migration. Young people left for work, leaving behind mostly the elderly and children. Cultural transmission, once rooted in daily family life, began to break down in the absence of parents.

It was in this context that Zhang Chuanhui decided to return.

He had worked in Guangdong for years, where his child was born and raised. During a visit home, he realized that his child could not speak the Dong language, knew little about their hometown, and struggled to connect with village children. This sense of disconnection led him to rethink migrant work. Around 2010, he returned to southeastern Guizhou, first working in cultural organizations and gaining experience in local heritage projects. Later, he returned to the village, continuing his work in preserving and revitalizing tradition.

Wu Fengying’s return was driven by something more immediate and personal. One day, her daughter said to her: “Mom, if you don’t come back soon, you won’t exist in my childhood memories.”

She chose to return.

Back in the village, together with other women—many of them mothers of left-behind children—she initiated a quiet transformation rooted in mutual support, creating new possibilities for both mothers and children.

I first visited Meide in 2019. Seven years have passed, and while many things have grown, some things have remained constant.

One of the most visible aspects of Meide’s ecological practice lies in its farming and seeds.

In Dong regions of southeastern Guizhou, a traditional system known as the “rice–fish–duck symbiosis” has long been practiced. Rice provides shelter and some nutrients for fish; fish move in the water to loosen the soil and eat pests; ducks feed on weeds and insects, and their excrement becomes fertilizer. Such a cycle allows a piece of land to maintain stable production without relying on external inputs.

This system is not a recently proposed “ecological agriculture concept,” but local knowledge gradually formed in long-term production practices. For the Dong people, it is first an “effective production method,” and only later understood by outsiders as “sustainable.”

It is precisely on this farming background that what Chuanhui and Fengying later did had real soil to grow from.

Starting around 2018, they further placed their focus on “seeds.”

Perhaps many people do not know that since the 20th century, more than 75% of the crop varieties that humans have cultivated have gone extinct.

Each old seed is a unique gene bank. When a traditional variety disappears, it means that the genes it carries, such as resistance to certain diseases or extreme environments, are permanently lost.  Replaced by a few highly homogenized commercial varieties, global agriculture has gradually shifted from “decentralized” to “centralized,” greatly increasing the vulnerability of our food system. 

At the same time, our diets and flavors are becoming more and more monotonous. Currently, more than half of the world’s plant-based calories come from only three crops: rice, wheat, and corn.  And when you wonder why you can no longer taste the “tomatoes with real tomato flavor” from childhood, this is also one of the reasons.

Old seeds are also related to farmers’ autonomy. One of their core characteristics is that they can be saved. Farmers can keep seeds from their harvest for the next season, forming an autonomous and cyclical farming model. When farmers have to rely on commercial seeds, it also means they must purchase seeds every year, losing the autonomy of “saving, exchanging, and improving seeds” that has existed for thousands of years. Agriculture shifts from a local, sustainable cycle into a linear market-dependent behavior.

The extinction of seeds is also accompanied by the disintegration of cultural identity and the homogenization of diets. Many traditional varieties are closely linked to local festivals, rituals, and recipes. 

This is also what is happening in the Dong villages.

It was precisely because Chuanhui discovered that the traditional glutinous rice on which the Dong people depend was rapidly disappearing, and that this rice is closely tied to festivals and rituals, that once it disappears, these cultures will rapidly change or vanish. Therefore, they began urgent work to collect old seeds.

This is also what is happening in the Dong villages.

It was precisely because Chuanhui discovered that the traditional glutinous rice on which the Dong people depend was rapidly disappearing, and that this rice is closely tied to festivals and rituals, that once it disappears, these cultures will rapidly change or vanish. Therefore, they began urgent work to collect old seeds.

At the beginning, the conditions for seed collection were very limited: in a small room in a cultural station, using mineral water bottles to store different varieties of rice and vegetable seeds, labeled by hand, placed on metal shelves.

These seeds came from more than a dozen villages in Guizhou, Guangxi, and Yunnan, including some old varieties that are rarely planted anymore. The method of collection was also very direct: going from village to village, asking, exchanging, and connecting farmers who still retained seeds.

But they soon realized that if seeds were only stored and not planted, they would lose their meaning. A seed is not only a genetic sequence—it is a living whole formed through long-term interaction with soil, microorganisms, and climate. A seed kept in storage and a living variety that continues to evolve in the fields are not the same. For this reason, they began encouraging the replanting of these seeds, allowing them to continue to grow and reproduce within real agricultural cycles.

Around 2020, with the collective effort of the villagers, a traditional wooden building using mortise-and-tenon structure was completed. Fengying and Chuanhui named it the “Granary above the Clouds.” This four-story Dong wooden building set aside a dedicated space for seeds, quietly housing more than 200 varieties of traditional seeds that they and the villagers had collected over the years.

This space was given a resounding name: the “Granary above the Clouds Seed Museum,” although it is simple to the point that even its introductions is handwritten in watercolor on paper.

If we look at all of this together, what Fengying and Chuanhui are doing is not about introducing a “new ecological model,” but rather about doing two things within an already existing traditional farming system: allowing it to continue, and allowing more people to see and understand it again.

If ecology is about the land, then the social dimension is more about people—especially children and women.

Meide village faces the same challenges common to many rural areas in China: parents leaving to work elsewhere, children being cared for by grandparents, a lack of long-term companionship, and a growing distance from local culture in everyday life.

Around 2015, Wu Fengying entered Meide Primary School through a program called “Ethnic Culture in the Classroom,” where she began teaching children to sing Dong songs. In 2017, she rented a house in the village, forming the early version of what would later become the “Granary above the Clouds”—then known as the “Cloud Guesthouse.” It became a place where children could stay after school.

At the beginning, there was no formal curriculum—what existed was simply companionship. Over the years, this space gradually developed into a more structured “local classroom.” By 2023, in the new “Granary above the Clouds,” the team began organizing learning around the 24 solar terms, weaving together farming, songs, and observation of nature. Over the course of a year, children learn by following the rhythms of the land.

Through this kind of presence, even in the absence of their parents, children are still able to feel the warmth of the community and the guidance of adults. And through these lessons—formed by song and soil—they learn to sow seeds, transplant rice, harvest crops, and prepare food, slowly putting down roots through embodied experience.

At the same time, the situation of women has also been a reality they continue to respond to. How can mothers who miss their children but feel unable to stay in the village remain? And how can women—who were previously less involved in public life and village affairs, begin to step forward?

When Fengying returned to the village around 2014, she had almost no stable income. Through later training and experimentation, she gradually transformed embroidery, especially horsehair embroidery, into a source of livelihood, bringing other village women into the process. These once-quiet rural women began to confidently introduce Dong embroidery culture to visitors.

In order to create more sustainable local livelihoods, Fengying and her partners also explored a form of “deep ecological travel” that differs from conventional mass tourism. They began to design their own narratives, routes, and learning experiences based on ecology and traditional culture.

As a result, the “Granary above the Clouds” became not only a seed museum, but also an ecological guesthouse and a learning space.

By hosting visitors who are interested in ecology and conservation, they transformed what is often seen as “backward” rural life into deeply meaningful learning experiences. The mothers who participated also gradually became facilitators themselves.

They lead children from across the country to identify plants in the fields, observe seasonal changes by the streams, and learn crafts by the dye vats. This shift in role not only provides them with income, but also allows a new sense of agency to emerge within the constraints of rural life.

Equally moving is the “Mother’s Taste” snack shop, started in 2019 by five returning mothers.

These women, between the ages of 26 and 39, could not bear to see village children—without their parents—become dependent on cheap, unhealthy snacks. So they opened a small shop next to the school, called “Mother’s Taste,” hoping to reclaim children’s relationship with food in an ecological way.

Most of the ingredients in the shop are sourced from within the village. One day, an elderly man walked into the shop and was surprised to see his own name written on a small blackboard that listed where the ingredients came from. From that day on, he decided he would grow more.

There was also a small rule in the shop: collecting 20 empty bottles could be exchanged for 1 yuan. In this way, the mothers tried to involve children in small ecological actions through everyday details.

This space was not only a place to “sell food,” but also a place for daily gathering. Children could help develop new snacks and vote on what they wanted to eat. Foods like burgers, sushi, and pizza—often heard of but rarely available—would be made according to the children’s wishes. They could also sign up for weekend outdoor cooking activities organized by the mothers.

Fengying once said that the shop had actually been running at a loss. This meant it was not sustainable. During the pandemic, it eventually closed.

But I still remember walking into that space, seeing the messages left by children on the wall, and the names of those who had contributed ingredients. There was a warmth that arose, even a quiet sense of longing.

No matter how long it lasted, the fact that such a space once existed already feels important in itself.

And yet, the mothers did not leave. Instead, they continued in another form—as facilitators of the “local classroom,” accompanying children in sustaining their connection with food and community.

In Meide, culture is still, first and foremost, something that is lived and used in everyday life.

The Dong people are, in essence, a society where song is the medium. Dong songs are not only used to express emotions, but also to transmit knowledge, build relationships, and even participate in public life. Much of what is passed down is not written in books, but carried in songs, generation after generation.

Around 2015, Fengying began teaching children to sing Dong songs at Meide Primary School. As they learn the songs, they are also learning the language, the history, and coming to know the land and nature around them. The group of children that gradually formed—the “Cloud Dong Village Children’s Singing Group”—has been invited to perform in many places, even appearing on national television. Yet within the group, there has always been a clear understanding: performance is not the goal; being able to keep singing in daily life is what truly matters.

At the same time, since 2013, the visual documentation carried out by Zhang Chuanhui has become another important path for culture.

It began with an old photograph of his grandfather. Through that image, he realized that a single photograph can hold the memory of a family, even of an era. From there, together with others, he initiated a project called “Discovering the Stories Behind Old Photos.” They went from village to village, collecting old photographs and recording the stories behind them.

So far, he has organized thousands of historical photographs and documented many aspects of Dong life—textile-making, festivals, and everyday moments. These images are not only preserved, but are also continuously viewed and used within the village itself, allowing younger generations to see the continuity of the culture they belong to.

In 2014, their documentary Dong Cloth received an Outstanding Film Award in the rural visual storytelling section of the Guangxi International Ethnographic Film Festival.

On a broader level, they have also taken part in the systematic documentation of Dong Grand Songs. Together with young people from Xiaohuang village, they recorded the process of collecting songs and documented the lives of master singers. During the filming, five elder singers passed away one after another.

Beyond daily teaching and documentation, they have also tried to bring song back into the center of community life through shared public events. They built connections between singing groups from different villages, and even different ethnic groups, gradually forming spaces for exchange where song happens in relationship.

The “Village Gathering, Village Meeting” Rural Music Festival is one such outcome.

This festival is not centered on “performance,” but is closer to an exchange. Singing groups and song masters from different villages are invited into the same space, where they interact through singing, listening, and learning from one another. Voices from different places come together again and form relationships in the moment.

In 2025, the fifth edition of the festival was held in Meide, bringing together nearly 2,000 people from Guizhou and Guangxi. The Cloud Dong Village Children’s Choir was naturally one of the focal points on stage. In addition to music, there was also a tasting event of traditional glutinous rice varieties. More importantly, the women of Meide accomplished something even they had not imagined before—they took the lead in organizing the entire festival.

In a way, this festival gathers together the results of all their work over the years.

This is the Meide we see.

It is not a carefully packaged tourist landscape, but more like a tree that has been rooted in the land for a long time. What Zhang Chuanhui and Wu Fengying, the Granary in the Clouds team, and the women of the village are doing is, at its core, responding to the same question: as the force of modernity moves forward, how can one remain in dialogue with it through one’s own land, culture, and way of life?

What we hope to share is precisely such a place—real, grounded, and deeply inspiring.