Standing on the narrow path between the two walls, I watched sunlight fall across the raw earthen surfaces, giving them a rugged beauty. There were few tourists around, so my friend and I began taking photos.
Through my camera lens, my friend appeared tiny against the towering walls. And yet centuries ago, people no larger than her had built this place, defended it and passed beneath its gates. That contrast between human fragility and achievement struck me harder than the desert wind.
"Why are you hesitating? Come take photos!" my friend called out.
As she walked toward me along the ancient road, I suddenly felt the strange closeness of past and present, as if time had briefly folded together.
Near Jiayuguan Gate, we came across a small crowd gathered around a roadside stall offering visitors an interactive "pass certificate" experience.
During the Ming Dynasty, travelers heading west into Xiyu (Western Regions, a historical term used to describe modern-day Xinjiang Uygur autonomous region and Central Asia) needed official travel permits similar to today's passports.
"Where are you from? Why do you want to go to Xiyu?" the stall owner asked, playfully acting as head of the fortress.
Once satisfied with the answer, he hand-wrote a certificate, charging between 30 and 100 yuan ($4.4 to $14.7).
The experience reminded me that although Jiayuguan was originally built for defense, it ultimately became something greater — a bridge between civilizations. Through this corridor, Chinese silk and porcelain traveled westward to Central Asia, the Middle East and East Africa, while foreign ideas, religions and literature entered China in return.
A pass may be built to keep people out, but it ends up letting them through — not just the merchants and monks on the Silk Road, but also memories. Jiayuguan taught me that the strongest walls aren't the ones that divide; they are the ones that, centuries later, still have the grace to open their gates.
Ma Jingna contributed to this story.
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