Remembering a Dear Friend to Us All

I believe I have known Guan Qi for over ten years, but it wasn’t until 2016 that we first worked together formally, on a field assignment lasting over ten days with a large group. In a crowd, he was incredibly low-profile and soft-spoken; you could say he had very little presence. My sole impression was that he was always diligently taking notes and that his English—reading, writing, listening, and speaking—was excellent. We met again at various conferences later on, and my impression remained similar; I mistakenly thought he was simply a serious person who was a bit too dull to be interesting.

As we grew closer, the real Guan Qi began to emerge. The moment the ice truly broke and trust was established was perhaps when we discovered a mutual love for food and a shared, intense dislike for hypocrisy. When it came to venting, we both possessed a certain caustic wit. One year, just before the Mid-Autumn Festival, we were on a trip to Nanning and decided to spend the holiday together. He led us on a culinary hunt across the city; I can still picture him walking ahead of us, hailing taxis.

In recent years, whenever we found ourselves in the same city, we would arrange to eat together. This wasn’t just about discovering delicacies, but also about hearing new insights and sharing laughs. When travelling, I would often ask him for food recommendations, and he would fire back a torrent of links. While not all of them were necessarily reliable, the sheer speed with which he sent them suggested a vast wealth of accumulated knowledge.

His erudition (covering not only serious academic topics but also a wide array of obscure and trending trivia), his humour, and his impeccable taste in all things made us close friends in both work and life. However, there are two things about him that I admire most.

Professionally, he was always striving to expand the boundaries of the Seed Network’s work. He proactively engaged with groups that typically fell outside the scope of NGO work—botanical gardens, artists, self-publishers, podcasters, and the catering industry—bringing them into the effort to protect traditional seeds and introducing the concept of the ‘farmer seed system’ to new communities, thereby forging many new paths for the work. When we met in Beijing before the Spring Festival, he quietly announced a new project that had already begun, which left me feeling excited and expectant.

As a peer, I know all too well how mentally and emotionally draining it is to maintain such a cross-disciplinary, informal network. Moreover, his care and support for his partners often went far beyond the requirements of the job. This leads to the second point I admire most: he was never stingy with his time or emotion, offering support and companionship to those he respected, regardless of whether it was for professional or personal reasons. This also meant his sources of information were incredibly broad and accurate; we even joked that he was the ‘farmer’s gossip centre’. Yet, he held his friends in the highest regard; despite his sharp tongue, he would never say anything to disparage a friend.

Within the industry, the first point represents a rare skill; in society, the second is an even rarer quality of character.

Over the past month, hearing the stories everyone has shared about Guan Qi has made me feel that he truly lived his life as a seed: the kind that possesses genuine public value.

I have read many of the tributes to Guan Qi, many of which focus on the period after 2020. I suddenly found myself wondering: to what extent does the Guan Qi I knew align with these vivid, recent memories?

Shortly after Foodthink was founded in 2017, we published some pieces on seed breeding written by Guan Qi. He was among the first batch of authors to write for us. I still remember the excitement I felt while editing his work: the logic was clear, the structure elegant and expansive, and the amount of information was simply explosive. These were professional articles, yet they respected the general reader; they lacked the impenetrable, exclusionary air of academia and possessed a distinct perspective without any ego. It was that particular joy an ‘old editor’ feels when encountering a truly great piece of writing.

Driven by curiosity, I quietly looked into his background and learned he had dedicated himself to rural development early on, and that he held a master’s degree in economics from Renmin University. At the time, I had a somewhat snobbish thought: wasn’t it a waste for a young man with such a promising future outside the system to plunge into the mud of rural issues, where rewards are so limited? Looking back, that was actually the first moment I was infected by Guan Qi’s idealism.

In 2018, I attended an event for the Farmer Seed Network and met Guan Qi in person for the first time at a workshop. He spent the entire time tirelessly organising, yet remained incredibly low-profile, leaving the spotlight and all the moments of glory to the farmers they collaborated with. During that period, whether online or offline, the impression he left me was of someone who did more than he spoke—a man of substance, but a quiet one.

Our life paths often intersect and then diverge. Later, after I left Foodthink, our professional contact dwindled. On the rare occasions I needed to consult him for an article, guided by my impression of his ‘silence’, I would approach him with cautious politeness. Sometimes, when I needed long-term guidance, he was travelling across the country and rarely had time; I had to put in considerable effort to ‘hunt’ him down, finding any way to ‘squeeze’ a few precious suggestions and opinions out of him. Though Guan Qi was younger than I, to me, he was always, in every sense of the word, ‘Teacher Guan Qi’.

In 2023, I travelled to Indonesia for a business trip to attend an event hosted by my employer at the time. There, I happened to meet a Malaysian organisation involved in seed conservation called the Third World Network (TWN). I had since returned to my ‘old trade’ of public health, and there is usually little overlap between different fields, so meeting them in such a setting felt like a warm, ‘cross-circle’ connection. During a casual chat after the meeting, I learned they were old friends of the domestic Farmer Seed Network. I immediately mentioned the names of Song Yiqing and Guan Qi, and of course, they responded. I told Guan Qi via WeChat right away, which seemed to open the floodgates. I received an endless stream of messages. He didn’t just send various introductions to TWN, information pages, and project descriptions; he also took the time to map out their collaborations within China. I asked if he wanted me to bring some of the brochures back for him. Guan Qi replied: ‘I already have all those.’

Suddenly, Guan Qi no longer seemed like that quiet person from before.

Then came 2024. That was the year I resigned. As a middle-aged person, I headed to Hangzhou to hang out with some young friends, and there I encountered Guan Qi again, who was stationed in Suzhou at the time. Completely removed from a professional context, I could now jokingly call him ‘Boss Guan’. For those few days, ‘Boss Guan’ took charge, introducing us to various delicacies of the Jiangnan region. As I listened, I realised his favourite foods still carried the soul of the North—specifically, his home in Shandong: various stuffed dough products, large chunks of meat, noodles, and rich sauces. This also allowed me to appreciate how the cuisine of the Jiangnan water towns has, to a great extent, preserved the northern tastes etched by migration and the southward shift of political centres. He also spoke enthusiastically about craft beer, especially lagers, leading us through the craft beer bars of Hangzhou, where the nightlife still thrived, eating grilled skewers and Wenzhou fish balls on the street. I was amazed—it turned out Guan Qi was such a ‘refined boy’ (as a friend put it) who truly loved life! I never imagined these scenes would become my final memories of Teacher Guan Qi.

In the process of retrieving these fragments of memory, I realised how Guan Qi’s image had evolved in my mind. It is true: from the Teacher Guan Qi of the past—of few words but earnest, incredibly busy and elusive—to the later ‘Boss Guan’, who spoke incessantly about work and lived a refined, diverse life. I believe Guan Qi had indeed entered a new stage, opened a new chapter, and was preparing to achieve great things in the foreseeable future. I never expected that he would be ‘taken’ by the heavens at this moment. He is frozen in a moment of vibrancy; the regret is left to those of us still living, and to the entire field of seed conservation. If someone like me, who only knew him superficially, has so much to say, I can only imagine how much unspoken grief is bottled up in the hearts of his parents, his long-time friends, colleagues, and those closest to him in life. How heartbreaking it must be.

With this short piece, I remember Guan Qi. May you continue to watch over us from heaven. Next time I visit Jiangnan, I will bring those final memories and images with me.

I first met Guan Qi on 1 August 2019, at a team-building meeting for Foodthink and the Farmer Seed Network; he wore glasses back then. I had a cold that day, so I didn’t join the others at the table, asking instead to sit on a sofa in the corner and simply listen in. Although I had been with the organisation for a year, I still felt as though I had stumbled into the world of agroecology by mistake, plagued by internal conflict and a lack of confidence. Later, once we became friends, Guan Qi would often tell me: “You’ve got to value yourself.”

We grew acquainted gradually. In 2020, a magazine reprinted Guan Qi’s two-part series, “New Paths for Seed Conservation”, which had been published via Foodthink. I coordinated the process, which led to a steady stream of one-on-one messages between us on WeChat. Publishing during the pandemic was a turbulent affair; project cycles grew longer, and our conversations grew longer with them. In December 2021, the Farmer Seed Network organised a training workshop at a farm on the outskirts of Chengdu. When a fellow farmer asked me how to write a project proposal, Guan Qi happened to be passing by, and I tossed the question his way. He actually stopped in his tracks and taught us how to structure a proposal. Later, after leaving my full-time role at Foodthink to conduct my own fieldwork in Southeast Guizhou, I used the structural logic he had taught me to apply for funding. Whenever I encountered doubts in the field, he always had an answer and always took my calls; if there was some mystery or a bit of gossip, he would raise an eyebrow, provide a character sketch and a backstory, and laugh about the way things were then and now, without ever passing judgment.

By April 2022, he had moved to Suzhou. During the early days of building the Eastern Network, he started a small group called the “Jiangnan Reading Group”; the first book they read together was The Brave General Returns Home. It was a chaotic spring. In truth, we only held one online reading session; most of our time was spent discussing food and life. Our movements were restricted and we were confined to different places, yet we grew closer. Now, *The Brave General Returns Home* remains unfinished, and the extraordinary man has returned to the earth. The field of agroecology and the work of seed conservation have lost a brave general.

In recent years, Guan Qi’s work and life had centred on the East, and the Eastern Network indeed grew tighter and more active under his support. Beyond his public calls and organising in a professional capacity, his private matchmaking, his generous hosting of gatherings, and his enthusiastic attendance were indispensable. As he had hoped, the Eastern Network slowly grew into a decentralised, multi-node community, and I, as an independent individual, was welcomed into it. His sudden departure has left a gaping void in this network, but his character and passion have allowed new threads to grow from the fractures; many people and paths that had never previously crossed became linked because of him. Beyond the East, Guan Qi had many other networks, and grief has resonated through them all. Because he was such a unique soul, the mourning is just as sincere and precious. Because of Guan Qi, no one is lonely.

As a partner, he accepted me; as a friend, he caught me countless times. Over these years, he witnessed and shared in my growth. Yet it seems I never formally expressed my gratitude to him.

I first met Teacher Guan five years ago. I was writing a piece on farmers preserving heirloom seeds. The previous year, the General Office of the State Council had issued an opinion on strengthening the protection and utilisation of agricultural germplasm resources. Everyone knows how vital seeds are; they are not only central to national food security but the very foundation of human agricultural civilisation. But what is the optimal way to preserve them? While researching the piece, I was struck by the divide between two approaches. One held that “preservation is the government’s job (establishing seed gene banks), while seed R&D is for corporations (hybridisation, GMOs, etc.)”. The other encouraged farmers to preserve heirloom seeds, achieving in situ living conservation. While they seemed complementary—as if both could be pursued—the reality was a conflict too complex for words.

At the time, the central government had just passed the “Seed Industry Revitalization Action Plan”, emphasising the need for autonomous control over seed sources. I asked a leading expert if this meant the “springtime” for heirloom seed preservation had finally arrived. He laughed, amused by my naivety, and said it was a signal to support the industry; to think it was a new dawn for heirloom seeds was simply wishful thinking.

Another key interviewee was Teacher Guan, a representative for the heirloom seeds side. Editor J had helped me get in touch with him. Teacher Guan kindly answered my endless, novice questions about heirloom seeds. Looking back, answering such superficial questions must have been a waste of his time. Throughout our exchange, Teacher Guan never used a single unnecessary word; there were no “hahas”, “okays”, or emojis to serve as social lubricants. It felt as though conversing with me was an unwanted chore, yet one he felt obliged to complete. Despite this, he answered every question and sent over study materials. When I mentioned wanting to interview fellow farmers, he helped me make the connections. Sometimes he wouldn’t reply for a day or two. Editor J would say with a sigh, “That’s just the way Guan Qi is.”

When I joined Foodthink, I saw another side of Guan Qi—he was like a completely different person. I heard many amusing stories about Teacher Guan from colleagues close to him: how he was the “study monitor”, the “local treasure” of his hometown. Through them, I felt his passion for agricultural issues and his genuine care for farmers. We didn’t treat Teacher Guan as an outsider, and we certainly didn’t hesitate to pile work on him. Yet, I never had the chance to collaborate with him properly, so we maintained a distant, purely professional relationship. That was until one occasion when, after visiting the Xiangtangshan Grottoes, he saw me, his small eyes sparkling, and quipped: “The food in Handan is absolutely terrible!”

In that moment, I finally felt his real warmth. I felt as though I had finally found the doorway into a true friendship with Teacher Guan—years after first meeting him. I had no idea it would be the last time I saw him.

Even as I write these words, I still feel a sense of unreality; Teacher Guan is truly gone. Life must go on, and the days pass in such a blur of busyness that there are moments when I forget the fact that he is no longer here—or perhaps my perception of the world remains anchored in the time when he was still with us. Whenever some detail becomes blurred and I feel the urge to check my WeChat chat history with him to confirm, I eventually hold myself back. I am unwilling to further confirm the reality that no one will ever reply to me again, so I can only rely on the impressions in my mind to write down these memories. As for whether certain details are accurate, I almost wish Teacher Guan could point out the mistakes once more.

The thing Teacher Guan said that left the deepest impression on me was about someone I did not know at all. The conversation happened like this: we were soaking in a hot spring in Mile; he asked me about my experience working as a delivery driver, and I told him the truth. He said it reminded him of a friend who had always cared deeply about labour rights—a Tsinghua graduate whom he had bumped into in Beijing a few years ago, only to find him working as a security guard. Teacher Guan said, “When I left, I told him to take care, because I was a bit worried about his state of mind.” His tone was slightly teasing, but I was nonetheless warmed by these words, for he displayed an empathy that made one want to trust him. He was worrying about an idealist, or rather, the plight of those struggling in the gap between their ideals and their reality. I think, for anyone in this era, such understanding and kindness are rare. Hearing him say this, I sank a little deeper into the hot spring, feeling the warmth.

He himself was an idealist, though of a more optimistic and open-minded kind. He once mentioned how, in his youth, he had “gone undercover” at a cola bottle factory to investigate the workers’ labour conditions, only to resign shortly after. Squinting his eyes, he said, “It wasn’t for any other reason; it was just that the more I worked, the more efficient I became, and since I knew English, the boss wanted to promote me to team leader. I thought to myself, ‘I definitely can’t stay here any longer.'” That day, in the tea room, Teacher Guan spoke at length about his early experiences, and I spent the whole time giggling. When we left, the rain was coming down hard, and our parting was hurried.

I saw him again only two or three months later when he returned to Beijing; at the time, I thought that since Teacher Guan flew around so much, there would be plenty of opportunities to meet in the future. On that occasion, I gave him a copy of *Cultural Studies 1988*. This was not only to reciprocate the birthday gift he had given me the previous year—a book on agrarian capitalism—but also because he always remembered my interest in the British New Left and cultural studies. I am not the type of person to actively promote things I like, for fear of bothering others, unless I have developed a sufficient level of trust. Teacher Guan always made me feel a sense of closeness, so without any hesitation, I gave him that copy of *Cultural Studies 1988*, complete with many of my own marginal notes. That was the last time we met.

In the Stone City of Lijiang, Youmi Village, and Lugu Lake, I once accompanied Teacher Guan on a journey to protect heirloom seeds—and this was but a small segment of the road he travelled in his life. His life was so vast, and he had walked so many paths; he was a man concerned with the great affairs of the world, yet he always kept so many specific people and specific things in his heart. I am fortunate to be one of them. Losing you has left me deeply saddened. I feel that if I had more time to learn from you, my mentor and dear friend, my life would have been better; yet, I will carry this regret as I strive toward becoming a better version of myself.

We always called him “Teacher Guan”. In truth, he was neither related to the Guan family by profession nor was he a teacher. We called him that because he was so knowledgeable—the kind of person who could “catch” whatever you threw at him in a conversation. Whether it was academia, the entertainment industry, or serious matters concerning seeds and agriculture, if you asked him, he could send you a link, an article, or a research paper. He never lectured people indiscriminately, but whenever you sought his help, he would answer with genuine sincerity.

Teacher Guan was gentle and conversational; I have never met anyone as steady as him. It was only after getting to know him that I realised he was a real gem. Not only was he professionally erudite, but he was also a true epicurean. Everyone loved being around him, whether for work or in their personal lives. I remember attending meetings with him; once they ended, following his lead always meant finding a fantastic restaurant immediately.

To me, he was also a man of humility, tolerance, and great love. When I first joined Foodthink, I knew nothing about agriculture or seeds. Every time I asked him a question, he was patient; he never showed a hint of irritation, nor did he ever make me feel foolish for not knowing something. Looking back, those questions were quite naive. But it was his patience, kindness, and tolerance that made me feel that newcomers are welcomed in this industry—that there is space to learn, adapt, and gradually find one’s place.

Teacher Guan cared for smallholder farmers and the preservation of heirloom seeds, but he rarely boasted about this; instead, it manifested naturally through his work.

He understood both policy and local development. He visited ethnic minority villages and rural communities across the country, explaining the importance of heirloom seeds and teaching farmers how to save their own seeds. Simultaneously, he worked to expand public and consumer awareness of heirloom varieties, promoting the social concept of seed diversity. He organised public events in various locations, and at local markets, he would recommend heirloom varieties grown by farmers in our partner project sites, always bringing along Foodthink’s promotional leaflets.

Teacher Guan’s work bridged the gap between the land, academia, and policy, while steadily expanding the market for heirloom varieties. His practice showed me how civil institutions and organisations can carry out their work, live by their philosophy, and play a truly meaningful role in society. He was down-to-earth and solved real problems; this is perhaps the very reason such organisations exist.

This also helped me gradually understand that much of this work must be done bit by bit. Each time it may only be a tiny step, but it is nonetheless a vital one.

Now, we have lost Teacher Guan—a seed expert, an outstanding professional, and for me personally, a wonderful friend to eat, drink, and enjoy life with.

Teacher Guan, we will miss you forever!

There are probably few people in this world more suited to be a friend than Guan Qi. Sadly, my friendship with Teacher Guan ended before it had truly begun.

The few times I met Teacher Guan, alcohol was always involved. We had all witnessed Guan Qi’s art of beer appreciation. His material life was simple; he could go on a two-week business trip with nothing but a lightweight backpack, yet over the years, he must have contributed significantly to the growth of the craft beer industry. In front of a hotel in Ao Han Banner, a few of us had a late-night feast with such gusto that the table was nearly overturned. Guan Qi, however, seemed to be surrounded by a sort of protective bubble. He bought two four-litre bottles of craft beer from the small shop at the entrance, and ordered chicken gizzards, gluten, lamb skewers, and grilled buns from the BBQ stall. Whether at a table of three or twenty-three, Guan Qi always maintained the same composed demeanour, sipping his beer at a steady pace like a precision-tuned beer digester. Occasionally, he would drop a piece of explosive gossip for everyone to ponder.

Besides alcohol and coffee, reading critical theory was Teacher Guan’s other source of sustenance. The more one knows, the less one speaks. When I drink too much, I tend to babble on about my superficial academic knowledge, which is embarrassing even to myself. Guan Qi was not like that. Despite having read extensively, he never started a sentence with “I believe…”; instead, he would say, “I recommend…”. How rare that is! It is no wonder Guan Qi was so loved; he was always sincerely helping others. I often brazenly asked Teacher Guan for help, never knowing how to repay him, though I thought I would have plenty of chances to return the favour in the future. I didn’t realise I would never get that chance.

I have always called myself a materialist, but Guan Qi’s passing makes me believe in another world. I hope he has gone to a better place.

Although I only met Mr Guan twice, I still wanted to write a few words.

Both occasions were centred around food.

The first meal was also my first with Foodthink, at a Wenzhou open-air food stall. I vaguely remember Mr Guan performing a party trick during the meal—tapping out a rhythm with his elbow, or some other form of physical art. He was a real character.

Later, when we added each other on WeChat, his first message was: “I thought the bill hadn’t been split yet…”

Note the detail: this is a refreshing middle-aged man who uses Jennie stickers.

The second meal, which would also be the last, was in Bangkok.

Teacher Guan was practising cultivation in the mountains at the time, and it was a rare holiday that brought him down. Seeing him from a distance at the metro station, he truly had the air of a ‘master descending from the mountain’.

We picked up some beers from a nearby 7-Eleven and found a little eatery for a simple bowl of pork congee.

The beer was mediocre, and we added a packet of pork rinds to go with it, though the rinds weren’t particularly tasty either.

But in such a setting, a packet of pork rinds was as luxurious as it got.

The core of this retreat was “seeing oneself”. As it happened, there was a large mirror right next to where he sat—turn your head at any moment, and you see yourself. At the time, I thought this was far too convenient; why go to the mountains for cultivation when a simple turn of the head is also practice? Looking back now, perhaps wherever he sat, that place became his sanctuary.

I invited him to go to King Power the next day to admire some handsome men. He looked conflicted, mimicking the way an old man on the tube stares intently at his phone. Yet, there was something about his genuine hesitation and his inherent kindness that made me believe, for a fleeting moment, that he actually would.

After the meal, we walked towards the hotel. The streets of Bangkok were very clean. I don’t quite remember what we talked about. Perhaps it was about the rain forecast for tomorrow, or which shopping mall to visit for one-stop souvenir shopping, or perhaps some sharp critiques on how Thai people lean too heavily into their ‘bromance’ for show.

After all, it was just an ordinary day. I thought there would be many more meals like this to share with him.

I only remember the temperature being just right, the feeling of being full, and having just spent time with a fascinating person. Looking back, it was a rare moment of ease and openness; knowing Teacher Guan was a stroke of luck.

That sense of comfort was exactly the feeling he gave me.

At ease, like the wind.

When will you return?

Date

28 April 2026

Location

Liangzhu, Hangzhou, Zhejiang

You are warmly invited to a heartfelt gathering

To join us in

honouring the memory of a cherished friend

and bidding a final farewell to Guan Qi

Please complete the form to join the memorial