Imaginary interview with Mao Zedong
by Charactorium · Mao Zedong (1893 — 1976) · Politics · 5 min read
Two young visitors, twelve years old, on a school trip, push open the door of a study cluttered with books in Beijing. An old man in a gray jacket waits for them, a cigarette in his hand. He smiles: "Come closer, my children, ask me your questions."
—Is it true you walked for days to see the peasants?
Yes, my child, it's true. I was young, and I wanted to understand. So I walked hundreds of kilometers through my home province, Hunan. Imagine a red earth, rice paddies, peasants barefoot in the mud. I slept in their homes, ate their rice, listened to their anger. Books didn't teach me that. They did. That's where I understood something nobody wanted to believe back then: China's strength lay sleeping in those fields. Not in the cities. In the patience and hunger of millions of peasants. My feet taught me more than my teachers did.
My feet taught me more than my teachers did.
—And what did you write after seeing all that?
I wrote a text, in 1927, the Report on an Investigation of the Peasant Movement in Hunan. You know, at the time, many scholars said: "Peasants revolting — it's terrible, it's chaos." I wrote the opposite. I wrote that in a few months these peasants had accomplished what years of fine speeches never had. To me, it wasn't terrible at all — it was magnificent. Imagine a river long held back by a dam: when it breaks, nothing can stop it. That's what I saw. A immense force awakening. Many thought I was crazy. But I had walked there myself. I knew.
China's strength lay sleeping in the fields, not in the cities.
—How do you win a war when the enemy army is stronger?
Ah, that's a real strategist's question! Listen carefully. When the enemy is stronger, you don't fight head-on — you'd be crushed. You become like water: you slip away, you disappear, you return. In 1937, I wrote a treatise, On Guerrilla Warfare. The idea? When the enemy advances, you retreat. When he tires, you strike. When he sleeps, you attack. Imagine a multitude of little bee stings: one does nothing, but a thousand bring you down. I drew inspiration from an old Chinese master, Sun Tzu. Before my staff map, I always looked for where the giant army was weakest. That's how you beat someone stronger than you.
When the enemy advances, you retreat; when he sleeps, you attack.
—You said something about power and a gun — what does that mean?
I said: "Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun." That may sound frightening, I know. Let me explain. In my time, in China, warlords commanded with their armies. Fine speeches weren't enough: if you had no soldiers to protect you, you were swept away. I wasn't saying violence is beautiful. I was saying it was the reality of my time. Imagine a house with no door or lock: anyone can walk in and chase you out. The gun was our lock. But careful, my child — I also said the Party must command the gun, never the other way around. The weapon serves the idea. It must never replace it.
—What was the Long March everyone talks about?
The Long March, my child... it was the hardest ordeal of my life. In 1934, our nationalist enemies surrounded us. To survive, our Red Army had to flee. We marched about 12,000 kilometers — through icy mountains, marshes that swallow men, swollen rivers. Imagine setting off on foot and walking almost a year without ever really stopping. We were a hundred thousand at the start. At the finish, in Yan'an, we were fewer than ten thousand. All the others had fallen. It was terrible and grand at the same time. Those who survived that were afraid of nothing anymore. That march forged our revolution in suffering.
Those who survived that were afraid of nothing anymore.
—Were you afraid of dying during that march?
Of course I was afraid, like everyone. But do you know what helped me? I wrote. In the evening, exhausted, I composed poems in my head. Strange, isn't it? In the midst of death, I sought words. In 1936, right after, I wrote a poem called Snow. I spoke of the white mountains we had crossed, immense and silent. You see, when the body suffers, the mind needs beauty to hold on. And besides, on that march, I became the leader the others chose to follow. Not because I was the strongest — but because I never stopped believing we would reach somewhere.
When the body suffers, the mind needs beauty to hold on.
—Did you really write poems? Like a poet, for real?
Yes! And it surprises you, I can see. Many know only the politician. But I wrote poems all my life, in the ancient Chinese forms called ci and shi. I also loved calligraphy — you know, painting characters with brush and ink. Imagine a brush gliding over paper, lively and nervous: my style was like that, never tame. At night, I stayed up late, very late, sometimes until dawn, surrounded by my thousands of books. I read, I reflected, I traced poems. A man who leads a country must also know how to dream. Otherwise, he leads only numbers, not living beings.
A man who leads a country must also know how to dream.
—They say you swam in a big river at 72 — that's crazy, isn't it?
Ha! It's true. In 1966, I was seventy-two, and I went swimming in the Yangtze, China's greatest river. Imagine a vast water, wide, powerful, that could sweep a man away like a twig. And that old man jumping in smiling. Why? Because people were whispering that I was tired, finished, too old to govern. I wanted to show them my body still stood. All China talked about it for weeks. You see, sometimes a gesture is worth a thousand speeches. I swam in that river, but truly I was already preparing a great political storm. The water was my announcement.
Sometimes a gesture is worth a thousand speeches.
—What was the little red book everyone held in their hands?
The Little Red Book was a collection of my quotations, bound in red, small enough to fit in a pocket. During the Cultural Revolution, it was printed in hundreds of millions of copies. Imagine a huge crowd, each hand raising the same little book to the sky. Everyone was supposed to carry it, read it, recite it. Young people, called the Red Guards, held it like a treasure. Today, looking back, I know it resembled a dangerous fervor. When millions recite the same words without thinking for themselves, it's not always a good thing. A book should not replace your own head.
A book should not replace your own head.
—And the Cultural Revolution — did it go well or not really?
I'll be honest with you, because you deserve the truth. In 1966, I launched the Cultural Revolution to shake up the country, drive out what I believed were bad ideas. I called on the youth to destroy 'the four olds' — old customs, old culture, old habits, old ideas. But imagine a fire lit to clear a field that ends up burning the house. Schools shut down, families torn apart, ancient treasures destroyed, people persecuted. For ten years, China lived in chaos. It is a heavy part of my history, and many suffered terribly from it. I tell you frankly: judging this past will be your work, you children.
A fire lit to clear a field can end up burning the house.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Mao Zedong's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.