In the spring of 2025, a video surfaced online, shot in a martial arts training room in Shanghai.
In it, an elderly woman with gray hair but a sharp and lively presence was seen practicing martial arts with another elderly person. Her movements were crisp and powerful, showing no signs of age. With a swift motion, she caught a flying spear and followed up with a precise kick, gracefully continuing without a hint of exhaustion.
That woman was none other than Qi Shufang, the once nationwide sensation, known as \"Little Chang Bao\" in her prime.
A famous Peking opera star and an iconic figure in model operas, Qi had once been embroiled in controversy after her defection to the United States in 1988, along with over 30 members of her troupe, leading to accusations of betrayal and national disloyalty.
Some labeled her ungrateful, while others came to her defense.
Decades later, the question remains—why did she leave then, and how does she face the criticisms today?
Qi Shufang came from a privileged background.
Born into a true Peking opera family, her older brother was the deputy director of a Peking opera troupe, her sister-in-law was a top \"Wu Dan\" (martial female role), and her third brother was also a well-known martial artist. Surrounded by props, costumes, and scripts from an early age, Qi never resisted the idea of learning the craft, unlike some children who refused to follow in their family's footsteps.
Though her training was tough, she never complained. As a child, she practiced jumping stairs with sandbags on her legs. When her voice became hoarse, she would drink raw eggs. While others slept, she practiced, and when school was out, she would work on her vocal training. A martial arts stretch took her three years to perfect.
At 17, she enrolled at the Shanghai Opera School and became a formal Wu Dan trainee. Her teacher commented that she worked hard, and she replied, \"Without hardship, how can one stand on stage?\"
Her rise from student to official performer was swift, but she never let it get to her head.
In the 1970s, she played lead roles in operas like *The Three Strikes of the White Bone Demon*, *The Phoenix*, and *Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy*. Every time she appeared on stage, applause erupted from the audience. Her gaze was fierce, her legs sharp, and her voice strong. Even legendary figures like Mei Lanfang praised her talent, calling her a promising new face.
Qi was the kind of star who relied solely on her talent, not connections or background.
Especially after her role as \"Little Chang Bao\" in *Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy*, she gained nationwide fame. By her early thirties, her career was soaring, with constant performances and international tours to Paris, Munich, Milan, and beyond. Wherever she went, she brought the art of Peking opera to a standing ovation.
In terms of her personal life, Qi had a passionate and intense relationship. Her first marriage was with the troupe's musical genius, Gong Guotai. They bonded over their shared love for opera and music, with Gong composing the music for *Taking Tiger Mountain*. Though quiet and reserved, Gong complemented Qi's lively and warm personality, and they respected each other deeply. They married in 1974 during National Day, keeping it low-key without a grand celebration or honeymoon. Qi sacrificed having children to focus on her career.
But in 1988, she made a shocking decision. While on a performance tour in the United States, she and over thirty members of the troupe chose to stay behind, refusing to return to China. Gong, who had stayed behind in China, was shocked when he heard the news and couldn't understand why she had changed her mind so suddenly.
From then on, they never saw each other again, and Qi never explained her actions. She later remarried Ding Meikui, a director and martial artist with whom she shared similar interests. Despite this, Qi's defection was forever marked as an act of betrayal, and she became a target for public scrutiny.
But did staying in the United States mean life was easy for her?
Not at all.
Initially, their troupe struggled with few performance opportunities, low pay, and self-funded costumes and stage setups. At times, after a performance with just six people, they earned only $300—barely enough for a hotel room. During tough times, Qi worked as a dishwasher in a restaurant and even performed on the streets. \"No matter how tough it got, we couldn’t let people think Peking opera was a joke,\" she said.
Eventually, with help from Chinese pianist Yin Chengzong, they secured green cards and began to establish themselves.
Qi slowly introduced authentic Peking opera to American universities, communities, and even churches. While some critics accused her of seeking fame and profit, she didn't argue. \"If we don’t let Americans hear real Peking opera, they will only misunderstand us as 'clowns,'\" she explained.
A few years later, Qi Shufang’s Peking Opera troupe became a staple at mainstream American art festivals, and even *The New York Times* wrote a feature on them. They performed at prestigious venues like Lincoln Center, with full-length productions like *The Generals of the Yang Family*.
From being ignored to selling out performances, Qi managed to plant the roots of Peking opera in a foreign land.
In 2008, Qi returned to China to visit her family.
People asked her, \"Do you regret it?\" She smiled but said nothing. Her eyes sparkled with the light of past glory, but also carried a deep sadness, a side no one truly understood.
Eventually, Qi settled back in Shanghai, occasionally visiting her hometown in Shaanxi. Though her life was modest, it was peaceful. She still practiced every day, training with Ding Meikui, keeping up with her moves, kicks, and singing. Her steps and gaze remained as sharp as ever, a testament to her enduring spirit.
She also taught at drama schools, often showing old photos of herself and speaking of the past in a calm voice. When asked about her time in the United States, she no longer defended herself. She simply said, \"I did what I had to do.\"
Now in her eighties, Qi no longer has the sharpness of youth, but she carries a quiet confidence. Her decades of dedication have earned the world’s respect for Peking opera. Many of her students have gone on to perform at prestigious institutions like New York University, Yale, and Washington’s theater festivals.
\"Even if just one person understands it, it's worth it,\" she said.
Looking back on Qi Shufang many years later, she is no longer the young \"Little Chang Bao.\" She no longer lingers in the spotlight or defends her past decisions. She has known both the heights of fame and the depths of despair, but she never gave up her art. Despite facing accusations and hardships, she brought Peking opera across the ocean.
She never had children or wealth, but her body, her voice, and her art became an eternal flame within her.
Now, more than eighty, she still practices daily—singing, kicking, walking the stage.
She never said she regretted it. Her actions, however, have answered fate.
Her life is like the opera *Taking Tiger Mountain*: the harsh winter is over, and the spring is about to bloom.
