The Incarnations

by Susan Barker

  You stand on the stage in the auditorium in front of hundreds of girls. Your hair has been shorn like a boy’s and you wear a PLA jacket over your uniform. You look very military and tough as you hold a loudspeaker to your mouth and say, ‘We have it on good authority that there are Ox Demons and Snake Ghosts on the faculty of our school.’

  There are outraged gasps. Fearful murmurs. Confusion. Ox Demons and Snake Ghosts are spirits from folktales and myths that assume human form and do mischief. Do you really believe that our teachers are evil spirits?

  ‘Many of our teachers are counter-revolutionaries,’ you say, ‘pretending to support the Party while indoctrinating us with the anti-Party line. The education system must be reformed to weed these bad elements out. Until the Cultural Revolution Committee decides upon the next course of action, all teachers have been suspended.’

  The whispers of hundreds of girls sweep through the auditorium, as though your words are a strong breeze rustling the leaves of a tree. ‘The teachers are suspended?’ ‘What about exams?’ ‘What’s the Cultural Revolution?’

  ‘Class time will now be devoted to revolutionary activities,’ you say through the crackling loudspeaker. ‘Every student is to give her blood, sweat and tears to the Cultural Revolution!’

  Long March strides towards you on the stage and you hand the loudspeaker over to her. ‘The black-category students, with rightist, landlord or capitalist blood lineage will not participate in the revolutionary activities!’ she says. ‘The black-category students will be segregated to the back of every classroom. They will study the collected works of Mao Zedong. They will write self-criticisms and reform their thinking!’

  Standing beside Long March, you nod as though in agreement. You nod as though our segregation is fair and right.

  Our classroom becomes a Big-character Poster production line. Black ink smudges the faces and hands of nearly every student as they use calligraphy brushes to make posters denouncing our former teachers. Red Star has been appointed a ‘Big-character Poster Inspector’ and Ying Le’s poster does not meet her standards.

  ‘“Teacher Zhao Must Evict Any Thoughts that Contradict the Party Line from Her Heart . . .”’ Red Star reads scornfully. ‘What’s this meant to be? A love poem?’

  ‘But I can’t think of any anti-Party crimes Teacher Zhao has committed,’ Ying Le says honestly. ‘She was a dedicated Communist.’

  ‘Stop thinking like an intellectual and think like a rebel,’ Red Star scolds. ‘Teacher Zhao deceived us into thinking she was a loyal Communist when really she was teaching us her revisionist curriculum!’

  Ying Le bows her head. She wants to be a doctor, not a rebel. Red Star snatches the calligraphy brush from her and scrawls, ‘Teacher Zhao Must Be Torn Limb from Limb for Challenging the Doctrine of Chairman Mao!’

  ‘There!’ she says. ‘Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun, and you, Dr Ying, better hurry up and learn which end goes bang. Or I’ll put you at the back of class with those Stinking Rightists over there.’ Red Star looks over at the black-category students, and catches me looking up from my desk. ‘Who gave you permission to look at me?’ she snaps. ‘Take your beady little capitalist eyes off me!’

  I bury my head back in my exercise book.

  Industriously Study Mao Zedong Thought, as Mao Zedong Thought is the Sole Criterion of Truth.

  Long March has ordered us to write this ten thousand times without mistakes, and I have just completed my hundredth line. If Mao Zedong Thought is the sole criterion of truth, I think, then what about the five thousand years of civilization before Chairman Mao? For five thousand years was everything false? Of course, I keep my doubts to myself.

  ‘Women hold up half the sky. Women are as revolutionary as men. We of the Beijing No. 104 Middle School for Girls reject femininity. We will roll up our sleeves and spit and curse! We won’t bathe or wash our clothes. Soap is bourgeois! The sweat of the masses is revolutionary! We will breed dirt under our fingernails and behind our ears! We will emancipate ourselves from the shackles of our sex!’

  Waving scissors above her head, Little Miao lectures us from the teaching platform. Miao has no problem ‘rejecting femininity’, as for years Miao has been as aggressive, foul-mouthed and unwashed as the roughest of boys. Shopkeepers call her ‘young man’, and children in the street call her ‘Elder Brother’. Proud to be a tomboy, Little Miao never corrects their mistake. And now, scissors in hand, she intends for the rest of us to ‘reject femininity’ too.

  The long-haired girls go to Little Miao and she turns them into short-haired girls, one by one, hacking with the scissors, steely-eyed, as though hair itself is the enemy. The ‘revolutionary haircuts’ are awful, but who dares complain? Little Miao holds up every severed pigtail and we cheer as though they are enemy scalps. When it is my turn, Little Miao is vicious with me.

  ‘Times have changed, Daughter of a Rightist!’ she shouts, cutting away. ‘From now on, haircuts must be short, practical and revolutionary!’ When her scissors have done their worst, she shoves me off the teaching platform. ‘Not so pretty now, eh? Go weep some capitalist tears over your lovely bourgeois locks!’ she calls after me.

  But Little Miao is wrong. I couldn’t care less about my hair. The only person who cares is you. As I go back to my desk, I catch you staring at my short and stubbly head with sad, sentimental eyes.

  I want to laugh in your face. My hair is the least of my problems right now.

  In July, Teacher Zhao shuffles back into class to go on trial for her counter-revolutionary crimes and we see she has lost weight and now has more salt than pepper in her hair. As Teacher Zhao stands before us in her thick spectacles and chalk-dusty Mao jacket, patched and patched again, I remember her passionate teachings about Communism and can’t shake the conviction that Teacher Zhao is a loyal Maoist from my mind.

  ‘Comrades!’ Long March yells. ‘Teacher Zhao is a traitor to the People’s Republic, and opposed to the correct policy of our Great Leader Chairman Mao! This meeting, on 16 July 1966, is to denounce Teacher Zhao and her anti-Party teachings. But before we start, let’s give Teacher Zhao a chance to confess her crimes.’

  Confronted by the fury of her former students, Teacher Zhao is shaking. But she speaks with her chin up, righteous and strong. ‘Comrades,’ she begins, ‘I am the daughter of poor peasants. My family background is revolutionary. My father fought the Japanese devils in the Eighth Route Army. My brother fought the American running dogs in the Korean War. I live a humble spinster’s life, devoted to the teaching and practice of Communism. I am not opposed to the Party, and I have never committed any crime. Therefore I have nothing to confess. Long live Chairman Mao!’

  ‘Class Enemy Zhao!’ Long March shouts. ‘You are in contempt of the People’s Court! You must assume the correct attitude of repentance and confess!’

  ‘Down with Teacher Zhao!’ Red Star chants. ‘No leniency to those who won’t confess!’

  The rest of the class chants with Red Star, banging on desk lids and scaring Teacher Zhao out of her wits. When the chanting stops, Long March reads Teacher Zhao her crimes – the findings of the Cultural Revolution Committee’s investigation into her teaching and conduct: ‘1. Teacher Zhao is a loyal running dog of the Nationalists. 2. Teacher Zhao is a Nationalist spy. 3. Teacher Zhao is part of the plot to overthrow the Communist Party by taking over the military.’

  Teacher Zhao stares at Long March, stunned. Long March then tells Teacher Zhao of the evidence we have. One day last October Teacher Zhao had chalked ‘Use Maoist Thought to Criticize Maoist Thought’ on the blackboard instead of ‘Use Maoist Thought to Criticize Bourgeois Thought’. Teacher Zhao had laughed and corrected her mistake. But it was too late. A slip of the chalk had shown us evidence of her secret anti-Party agenda.

  ‘Well, Class Enemy Zhao?’ Long March spits fiercely. ‘Did you or did you not write “Use Maoist Thought to Criticize Maoist Thought” on the blackboard last October? Think carefully before you
answer. There are twenty-eight witnesses here in this room who will testify that you did.’

  For the next three hours Teacher Zhao defends herself against the charges. Though she looks scared stiff when the class breaks into chanting ‘Down with Teacher Zhao!’ she still won’t confess. Eventually, Long March screams, ‘I am sick of this rightist whore!’ and slaps Teacher Zhao so hard she knocks her glasses off and sends them shattering to the floor. The class descends into silence. For a student to hit a teacher is an unthinkable thing. But Teacher Zhao hangs her head and does not reprimand Long March.

  ‘I am sick of Teacher Zhao’s lies,’ Long March spits. ‘As the Great Helmsman said, “To stain our hands with our enemies’ blood is an honour!” Comrades! The Anti-black Gang Capitalist rally has begun outside. Let’s take her out!’

  The Ox Freaks and Snake Monsters are paraded around the running track behind the school. Tall dunce hats are placed on their heads and placards hung around their necks: Down with Headteacher Yang! Down with Black Gangster Zhao! The teachers are handed pots and pans, which they are forced to bang in percussion as they straggle around the field.

  A third-year girl called Shaoli shrieks the headteacher’s crimes through a loudspeaker: ‘Headteacher Yang Attempted to Overthrow the Communist Government and Take Over the Military! Headteacher Yang Attempted to Assassinate Chairman Mao!’

  Headteacher Yang is stony-faced and unrepentant. Shaoli calls over Teacher Wu and tells him to slap the headteacher. When he refuses, a second-year girl beats him with a broom. They call over Teacher Zhao and, scared of being beaten too, she slaps Headteacher Yang to loud cheers. ‘Harder! Harder!’ shout their former pupils. Shaoli orders Headteacher Yang and Teacher Zhao to knock heads, and they headbutt each other like rams. ‘Harder!’ Shaoli shouts through the loudspeaker, like a ringmaster in a circus of humiliation and cruelty.

  Keen to lead the Anti-black Gang Capitalist rally, you take the loudspeaker from Shaoli, punch your fist in the air and shout, ‘The iron fist of the proletariat will crush the enemies of Chairman Mao! Heads will roll! Blood will flow! But we will never let go of Mao Zedong Thought! Long Live the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution!’

  And hundreds of girls punch their fists up to the sky and shout, ‘Long Live the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution!’

  You hurl your clenched fist up again: ‘Long Live the Anti-capitalist School for Revolutionary Girls!’

  And I have no choice but to flail my fist to the heavens and shout with everyone else: ‘Long Live the Anti-capitalist School for Revolutionary Girls!’

  That night I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and see Teacher Wu bleeding from his head as the second-year girl beats him with a broom. I see Teacher Lin on her hands and knees, her tongue lapping at Resist America’s boot leather. I see Teacher Zhao being slapped hard in the face by Long March, and her glasses shattering on the classroom floor.

  I slip out of bed at daybreak and go to the Zhang residence in Ironmongers Lane. Though it’s not yet six o’clock, you are up and seated on the bench in the yard. Comrade Zhang Liya, leader of the newly established Red Guard of the Anticapitalist School for Revolutionary Girls, looking ready to fight the class enemies with your PLA uniform, red-star beret and militant gaze. Then you see me and break into a wide smile. We haven’t spoken in weeks. Not since the Cultural Revolution began.

  ‘Yi Moon,’ you smile. ‘How are you?’

  I smile back thinly and say, ‘I am well, thank you. I have become very practised at writing Thought Reports and using the scalpel of Mao Zedong Thought to excise the malignant tumours of rightist thought from my mind. I can write Thought Reports in my sleep.’

  ‘Good,’ you say, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘Keep your political consciousness strong.’

  ‘How about you, Comrade Zhang?’ I ask. ‘Is the revolution progressing as you hoped?’

  ‘Progress has been satisfactory,’ you say, your eyes shining, ‘but there is more work to be done. For now we must spread the revolution beyond our schools, to the streets of Beijing. But we Red Guards will rise to the challenge. We Red Guards will fight to protect our Great Leader Chairman Mao from the capitalist roaders who attack him.’

  ‘I’d rather have adventures than learn from books,’ you told me in the ruins of the Old Summer Palace. Back then, your ambition had impressed me. Back then, I hadn’t known ‘have adventures’ meant persecuting and terrorizing innocent people.

  ‘Liya . . .’ I say, ‘do you really think that Teacher Zhao was spying for the Nationalists and plotting to overthrow the Communist Party?’

  ‘The Cultural Revolution Committee of the Anti-capitalist School for Revolutionary Girls has these allegations under investigation,’ you respond.

  ‘But what evidence is there?’

  ‘The allegations are under investigation.’

  Frustrated by your stilted, official speech, I cry out, ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see Teacher Lin licking Resist America’s boots, or Headteacher Yang being slapped in the face. Can’t you see how awful it is? We have stopped being humans. We are worse than beasts!’

  Under your red-star cap, your eyes are stern. ‘You sympathize with the rightists because your father is a rightist,’ you say. ‘Restore your red status, and you would throw yourself into the Cultural Revolution tomorrow.’

  ‘My father is not a rightist!’ I correct. ‘My father’s department had to expel a quota of rightists. That’s why he was arrested and sent away. He did nothing wrong.’

  You shake your head, as though at my naivety, and say, ‘Do you really think they’d send your father to a labour camp if he hadn’t committed a crime?’

  A servant enters the courtyard with a teakwood tray of rice porridge, steamed buns and soy milk. The servant girl, who is our age, lowers the tray beside you on the bench then retreats, walking backwards like a eunuch before the Emperor. You don’t thank her, or even nod to acknowledge her, your chin propped up high by your sense of entitlement. How can you pretend to be one of the masses? I think scornfully. How can you pretend to be one of the proletariat, when you live like this?

  I turn to leave. I don’t bother to say goodbye. ‘Wait!’ you cry. You come after me, catching me by my shoulder at the gate. I turn around, expecting an apology for what you said about my father. Tenderness returns to your eyes as you stroke my head. ‘Sorry they cut your hair,’ you say. ‘You used to have such beautiful hair. But that bitch Miao butchered it.’

  Who gives a damn about my hair? I want to scream. I step back, disgusted, and your eyes turn sad.

  ‘Yi Moon, I want you to know,’ you say, ‘I am protecting you and your mother. I am keeping you safe.’

  ‘My mother and I don’t need you to protect us,’ I mutter as I turn and walk out the gate.

  Your laughter pursues me down Ironmongers Lane: ‘If only you knew . . .’

  The Smash the Four Olds movement begins, and the Red Guards take over the streets of Beijing, intent on destroying the Old Culture, Old Society, Old Education and Old Ways of Thinking. Red Guards stand at intersections, shouting the quotations of Chairman Mao through loudspeakers. Red Guards hijack buses and lecture the passengers about the Ox Freaks and Snake Monsters in their midst. Red Guards armed with knives chase after people in western clothes, slashing their American-style shirts and dresses to shreds.

  Destroy the Capitalists Street. All Hail the Red Guards Lane. The East is Red Boulevard. All over Beijing, street names are changed to revolutionary slogans. Shops selling paintings, ornaments and other ‘poisonous weeds of the capitalist classes’ are smashed up and portraits of Chairman Mao displayed in the windows. Signs saying Masses Beware! For Tens of Years This Shop Has Exploited the Sweat and Blood of the Workers! appear over shop doorways. The Red Guards ‘liberate’ the shop assistants from their managers, who are beaten to the floor. The Red Guards change the traffic-light system so revolutionary red means ‘go’ and green means ‘stop’. The Red Guards then persecute the victims of the resulting traf
fic accidents, for ‘clinging to the Old Culture and Old Ways of Thinking’.

  Red Guards from Beijing University stand in our alley, halting passers-by and ordering them to quote Chairman Mao. They stop my mother, who nervously stammers, ‘Serve the People!’ (choosing the simplest quote, because those who misquote the Great Helmsman are beaten). The Red Guards stop Idiot Zhu from the junk yard, who, when asked for a quote, laughs and says, ‘Chairman Mao stinks of dog farts!’ The students take off their leather belts and beat the giggling Idiot Zhu, yelling, ‘Enemy of Chairman Mao! You deserve to die!’ They eventually drag Idiot Zhu off to jail, and we don’t see or hear of him again.

  The home raids begin. Teenage fists bang bang bang on our courtyard gate, and my mother and I rush panicking around our room, hiding bamboo mah-jong tiles, father’s calligraphy and anything that could be labelled ‘poisonous weeds’. The Red Guards break the gate down and we are certain we are done for. But as we cower behind our locked door, we overhear them say, ‘What about the rightist Yi family?’

  ‘Zhang Liya struck them off the list. Besides, the Yi family don’t have a pot to piss in.’

  And the twenty or so Red Guards storm into Granny Xi’s room instead.

  Landscape paintings, Qing Dynasty vases, classic novels and land deeds to old properties in the city – the Red Guards drag a haul of riches out of Granny Xi’s room. Though Granny Xi petitioned to have my mother and me evicted, I can’t help but pity the old woman as she is dragged out and forced to kneel in the yard. Mother and I peek out the window as a pimply teenage boy slaps Granny Xi in the face with her Nationalist-era land deeds.

  ‘You kept these land deeds hoping that the Nationalists would return, didn’t you?’ he accuses. ‘You are hoping the Nationalists will come back and restore your status as a landlord, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ says Granny Xi, ‘I hate the Nationalists. I just forgot to throw them away.’

  The Red Guard unbuckles his belt and tugs it out of the trouser loops. He lashes the strip of leather down on Granny Xi’s back and my mother gasps, ‘She’s eighty-four!’