THIS April, I stood in the city of Quzhou, in Zhejiang Province, at a site that once marked both tragedy and triumph. Eighty-three years ago, several American bombers crash-landed in the surrounding hills after carrying out one of the most daring missions of the Second World War: the Doolittle Raid. For me, as an American living in China, the trip was more than an opportunity to visit a historical landmark. It was a chance to reflect on sacrifice, solidarity and the ways shared history can shape the present.

The Doolittle Raid, launched in April 1942, was America’s first strike on the Japanese homeland following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Sixteen B-25 bombers took off from the USS Hornet in the western Pacific, aiming to deliver a symbolic blow to Japan’s confidence. But the mission carried enormous risk. With no way to return to the aircraft carrier, most of the planes flew westward toward China, where fuel shortages, bad weather, communication difficulty and sheer distance forced them to crash-land or be abandoned.

Several of those aircraft came down in and around Quzhou. Some pilots were killed and others captured. But many were rescued by ordinary Chinese villagers who, despite the dangers posed by Japanese reprisals, offered food, shelter and protection. It is no exaggeration to say that without the bravery and compassion of those villagers, few of the Doolittle Raiders would have survived.

Walking through the local museum dedicated to the raid, I was struck by the care with which the people of Quzhou have preserved this chapter of history. My guide, Zheng Weiyong, a local historian, explained how the stories of both the American pilots and the Chinese villagers have been passed down through generations. He reminded me that the raid was not only a story of war but also one of solidarity — of ordinary people from two nations, worlds apart, whose fates became linked in a moment of crisis.

What gave the visit an even deeper resonance were the people I met during the commemorative events. Among them was George Retelas, representing the USS Hornet museum in California, who spoke about the connection between the ship’s legacy and the fields of Quzhou. I also talked with Clifford Long Jr, the son of a Flying Tigers pilot, who described how his father never forgot the Chinese friends who risked their lives to protect downed airmen. Their presence, traveling halfway across the world to honor this shared history, was a reminder that memories are not confined to museums. They’re carried forward by people.

The most humbling moments came when I sat down with elderly villagers who had lived through the events themselves. Their memories, despite the passage of many decades, carried vivid images of smoke-filled skies, unfamiliar aircraft and the fear of Japanese retaliation. Yet above all, they recalled the instinct to help strangers in need. Zhu Qinglin, now aged 96, sat with me and recounted his memories of the night those aircraft descended on his small hometown of Jiangshan. By his side was 90-year-old Liao Mingfa, whose father, Liao Shiyuan, had helped rescue and nurse to health one of the American airmen who had crashed on a mountainside near his home. He showed me the wheat penny, the US 1-cent coin of the time, that Lt Charles J. Ozuk Jr had kept in his pocket during the mission and given to his father as a token of appreciation and remembrance that has now become a prized family heirloom. It was a profound reflection, one that underscored the humanity at the heart of this history.

As I listened, I couldn’t help but think about the cost those villagers bore. Entire communities suffered under Japanese reprisals for aiding the airmen. Countless Chinese families paid with their lives for acts of kindness and solidarity. It is impossible to tell the story of the Doolittle Raid without acknowledging the price China paid. Remembering the American pilots without honoring the Chinese villagers would leave the story incomplete.

For me, this trip was not just about learning history — it was about feeling it. To hear the voices of those who lived through those events and to see the care with which Quzhou has preserved these memories brought a depth of understanding that books alone could never provide. It was a reminder that the past is not only a matter of dates and battles, but of human connection.

And yet, the significance of this history does not belong only to the past. The story of the Doolittle Raid and its aftermath offers a rare reminder of what is possible when people cross cultural and national divides to support one another. The shared sacrifice of Americans and Chinese in the 1940s stands as a testament to what cooperation and empathy can achieve, even in the darkest of times.

That is why commemorations like the one I attended in Quzhou matter so deeply. They are not only ceremonies of remembrance; they are opportunities to reflect on the responsibilities we inherit from history. As people of the world, we are connected not just by rivalry or competition but by moments of mutual support and sacrifice. To honor that legacy is to recognize that cultural diplomacy is not a new idea but one that has been lived, in blood and in friendship, for generations.

As we at Shanghai Daily prepare to release a documentary about this journey, I hope that viewers will see more than just the story of a military mission. I hope they will see the humanity that transcended war, the courage of villagers who chose compassion over fear and the enduring ties that such choices create. The stories of history may be written in grand events, but their meaning is carried in the hearts of ordinary people.

Standing there in Quzhou, looking out across the fields where history unfolded, I felt both the weight of the past and the hope it offers for the future. In honoring the Doolittle Raiders, we also honor the Chinese villagers who saved them. And in remembering both, we take a step toward understanding the power of shared history to build bridges across cultures and across time.