The terrorists keep slipping through our fingers, and we celebrated New Year among the wolves and the foxes.

Today’s snow is covering the snow that fell yesterday. We will pursue this enemy until he runs out of stores and ammunition.

How to describe the harshness of winter in northern China? Here the wind howls and trees are split in two by the weight of the ice. The fir trees look like funeral monuments daubed in black and white paint. Occasionally a fallow deer appears furtively, looks at us in amazement, then bolts.

We march on. It is such hard work that after an hour we are failing. We barely have time to catch our breath before the cold steals back inside our coats and freezes our limbs.

The enemy is cunning and knows the terrain well; he attacks when we least expect it, then withdraws. Despite our losses, we carry on, we persevere in this campaign of endurance.

Whosoever can resist exhaustion will be the victor.

The game begins at dawn in a corner of the living room. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair unbrushed, he drinks cup after cup of tea to stay awake and he heaves great sighs. This morning, having spent two days visiting friends to offer good wishes for the New Year, my parents have dressed in traditional garments and are at home to receive guests. We take refuge in my room in a vain attempt to escape the greetings. People keep coming to find us: for some, we have to kneel down to wish them a good year and good fortune; for others, a brief bow will do. Adults are always hungry for compliments, and when we have flattered them, they slip us some money in a red envelope and invariably say, “Run along, children, and buy yourself some sweets.”