On July 23, 2007, Hsieh Huan-ru was beaten to death in Taipei’s Dajia Riverside Park by Yang Chen-tang, a stranger lost to drug addiction and despair. When the news reached his wife, Chang Mei-ying, she flew home from Hualien, her lips trembling in silent prayer: “Namo Amitabha… Namo Amitabha…” All she knew was that her husband lay dying. In her heart, she still held on to a flicker of hope — that perhaps, by some miracle, he would survive.
But when she arrived at the hospital, her husband had already crossed the threshold between worlds. Members of Tzu Chi — a Buddhist organization devoted to compassionate service — were there, gently chanting to guide his spirit. She did not wail or collapse in grief. Tears streamed silently down her face as she leaned close to her husband’s ear and whispered: “Papa, let us forgive him.”
For she knew — in the teachings of the Buddha — hearing is the last sense to leave the body. She wished only that her husband could depart without hatred — free of worldly burdens. Seeing through impermanence — A debt from a past life repaid. “I didn’t want my husband to leave with anger and hatred in his heart,” she said. “If this tragedy was a karmic debt from a previous life, then it is now repaid — and he is free. If not, then perhaps he was a Bodhisattva in disguise, to awaken our compassion for those the world has forgotten.”
Drying her tears, she added softly: “Whatever the cause, I accept it.” On the day of the autopsy, the police brought Yang Chen-tang, the man responsible for killing her husband, to the scene to take his statement. He could only stammer: “I don’t know… I don’t know…” Chang Mei-ying said gently: “How can I hate someone who doesn’t even know what he’s done?”
Among the few belongings returned to her was a small receipt for oatmeal and juice — items her husband had bought that morning to prepare breakfast for their children. At home, her second daughter, a sophomore in college, wept bitterly, saying: “Such a man doesn’t deserve forgiveness!” The elder daughter drew angry X’s across the murderer’s photo in the newspaper, writing “Scum! Scum! Scum!” The youngest, still in high school, could not sleep unless he lay in his father’s bed.
Hsieh Huan-ru had always been a playful father — singing silly songs, making his children laugh. Yet behind that warmth was a life tempered by hardship. As a young man, he was accepted to Kaohsiung Medical College but declined the offer because his family could afford tuition for only one child. His older brother had already entered medical school, so Hsieh chose to study botany at National Taiwan University instead. Too poor to buy train tickets home, he would walk all the way from Taipei to Zhongli — a full day’s journey — sustained only by two steamed buns.
So why forgive such injustice — when such a good man was killed by one who had lost his way? When Hsieh’s students called her, weeping: “I’m filled with hatred! How can you forgive him?” Chang replied gently: “That man was pitiful. His foster parents died early; even his sister refused to take him in. How can we hate someone whom life has never loved? I don’t have another forty-five years for resentment.” Forty-five years ago, she herself had been a victim, forced to walk through a valley of despair.
Healing pain — Discovering life’s sacred worth through forgiveness
When Chang was a child, her father went bankrupt after being betrayed by a friend. Bill collectors came daily, and amid the chaos, she was assaulted by one of them. Still a little girl in elementary school, her heart broken, she told no one, and could only think of how to end her life. But divine compassion intervened. One day, she noticed a phrase carved on a tree: “Chant the name of Bodhisattva Guanyin to dissolve your karma.” She began to chant, not knowing why — until soon after, two tragic events among her neighbors opened her eyes to the sanctity of life.
One neighbor’s son drowned while boating with his girlfriend; his mother, bent and broken, beat his coffin with her cane, crying: “How could you make me, an old mother, bury my own child?” Another neighbor, in a fit of despair after quarreling with her husband, took her own life — leaving two small children behind without a mother’s loving care. Those moments taught her a truth beyond words: “We must live, because we are responsible for the hearts of those who love us.” Throughout her youth, she kept asking: “Since I survived, what is the value of my life?”
While attending National Taiwan University, she joined the mountaineering club and met Hsieh Huan-ru. Though short in stature and poor, he was righteous and carried immense kindness — qualities she found radiant. She always smiled when speaking of him. “To marry him,” she said, “was the most meaningful choice of my life. Helping him build a home and do good — isn’t that the greatest blessing?”
Letting go — Embracing life and death with peace
After the news broadcast of her forgiveness, a Tzu Chi member called to share a personal story. His own father had been murdered decades ago, and his mother had since lived a life consumed by hatred. He asked his 80-year-old mother: “We demanded justice then, and got it — the murderer was jailed. But what did we gain? We never healed. Our hatred did not heal us; our family still needs medicine to sleep. If we had chosen forgiveness, perhaps life would have been different.”
Another story reached her: A beautiful woman who sold soy milk was robbed and killed in the large pot of boiling milk she was cooking. The police found no clues. Her family, consumed with rage, buried her holding an ax and a knife, hoping her spirit would take revenge. Later, they confessed to Chang their regret: “Why didn’t we let her rest in peace?”
At her husband’s memorial, Chang Mei-ying handed every guest a small book titled Freedom in Life and Death, with these words on the cover: “Those who have gone before us are like kites drifting in the wind. If we cling to the string, the kite will only struggle. Bless it, let it go — and it will find the sky where it belongs.”
Standing before the mourners, the gentle, frail widow smiled faintly and said: “For all that has happened, I accept it — with peace.” In that quiet moment, the entire hall dissolved into tears — tears of sorrow and awe. For everyone saw, perhaps for the first time, that true strength is not in holding on, but in the grace of letting go.
Translated by Katy Liu and edited by Tatiana Denning
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