For thirty years, through wind and rain, the city has transformed at a breathtaking pace. For thirty years, the familiar烟火气息 of daily life has continued, with countless households renewing their stories year after year. Since the launch of the "My Family's 30 Years" public collection campaign, "Bubu" has received numerous personal stories from readers. These authentic tales and visual records vividly portray Suqian's historical landscape and urban development over the past three decades. The intricate network of underground channels is like the city's heartbeat. Though buried deep beneath the soil, it pulses with strength, stability, and endless vitality.

Listening to the City's Heartbeat in its Underground Veins

Written by Liu Dingsai

This year, I turned eighty. Counting the days, when Suqian was established as a prefecture-level city in 1996, I was exactly fifty. Now, this white-haired old man has spent another thirty years in this city. My legs are not what they once were, and my eyes have grown dim, but I have witnessed the changes in our city of Suqian over these three decades—especially those "underground veins" that are invisible and intangible—more clearly and felt them more deeply than anyone.

At fifty, I enjoyed wandering through the alleys of the old city. Back then, the streets were nothing like the smooth, wide roads of today. On both sides, open "yang ditches" (surface drains) were common. When summer brought sudden downpours, rainwater from the eaves, mixed with mud and sand, would rush straight into these channels. The water flowed slowly, often spilling onto the bluestone paths. As old residents, we had to tread carefully on tiptoes, fearing that a single misstep would soak our shoes with muddy water. There were also children who occasionally fell into these ditches, which was quite dangerous.

Later, as urban construction progressed step by step, those open "yang ditches" were covered with heavy concrete slabs and became "yin ditches" (underground drains). However, because the sewage system lagged behind, many of these underground channels were mixed with domestic wastewater. During the sweltering summer months, a pungent odor would seep through the gaps in the covers, and sewage would occasionally back up. In those days, walking down the street, people would instinctively cover their noses and mouths and quicken their pace. That indescribable discomfort was a true reflection of the painful, tentative exploration of a city in its early stages of development.

Speaking of what has moved me most over these thirty years, it must be the Maling River. Who among the old residents of Suqian doesn't remember the Maling River of those days? It was once a "stinking ditch" that broke people's hearts. Industrial wastewater and domestic sewage poured into it day and night, turning the water into a hopeless, ink-black color. Every summer, flies and mosquitoes swarmed, and the stench was overwhelming. Residents on both banks didn't even dare to open their windows.

But our city did not give up. I recall that starting in 1999, the municipal government began remediation efforts. Later, they made up their minds to launch a comprehensive project. Instead of simply dredging, they planted reeds and calamus, and introduced snails and freshwater mussels into the water, essentially building an underwater "forest" for this old river. Now, every morning I take a stroll to the banks of the Maling River. A gentle breeze carries the fresh scent of aquatic plants. The river water is crystal clear, with fish darting among the waterweeds. Willows droop gracefully along the banks, and flowers bloom in abundance. It is no longer a sewage channel but has become the most beautiful scenic spot in the old city. Watching the children playing and chasing each other on the waterfront platforms fills my heart with sweetness, as if I had tasted honey.

The transformation of the Maling River is like a long process of healing—washing away thirty years of dust and reflecting the blue skies of our Suqian anew. Nowadays, Suqian has embraced the construction of "sponge city" and "resilient city" initiatives. Rainwater is no longer seen as a burden to be hurriedly drained away, but is gently absorbed and purified. Walking the streets of Suqian today, even in the face of heavy rain, the roads rarely see standing water. This sense of calm and composure is the most solid sense of security the city gives us ordinary people.

People often say that the sewer system is a city's conscience. Over these thirty years, I have witnessed with my own eyes how this "conscience" was gradually polished and sharpened until it became crystal clear. It hides in the dry streets after every heavy rain, in the leisurely shadows of tai chi swords practiced by the elderly by the Maling River, and in the increasingly relaxed wrinkles between my eighty-year-old brows. Time is silent, but water carries feeling. This crisscrossing underground network is like the city's heartbeat. Although buried deep under the soil, it pulses with strength, stability, and endless vitality. It carries the memories of the past and delivers the hope of the future. I deeply love this city—I love its upward growth, and even more so, its most profound tenderness and protection for its people, hidden deep beneath the ground.