by Weijian Shan
One of them swiftly turned the knob on the door without knocking and stepped in, followed by the other. A few of us children crowded into the office behind them. Principal Li looked startled and stood up from her chair. The first officer stepped forward and announced: “You are under arrest.”
We were shocked. Principal Li was popular among students because she had always been kind to her pupils. Even though many teachers and administrators of the school were now in trouble, we all thought Li Lun was beyond reproach. She was an old revolutionary who personally knew Mao. In 1936, she had escaped from a Japanese-occupied city and journeyed to Yan’an, where Mao and his forces had holed up. She was traveling with Mao’s nephew, and when they arrived, an aide mistakenly told Mao that his nephew and niece were arriving. Mao remarked that he didn’t have a niece; when Li arrived, and forever after, he jokingly called her “niece.” Now she was being arrested.
The first officer took out a piece of paper and showed it to Principal Li. It was an arrest warrant. She read it and calmly signed it. Then the two police officers took her away, one on each side of her, although she was not handcuffed. Her face showed no fear and betrayed no trace of emotion. As we later concluded, she was an old revolutionary, and probably nothing would surprise her anymore.
I did not hear of Li Lun’s fate until after she was released from Beijing’s Qincheng Prison eight years later. It was the same prison where Jiang Qing, Mao’s wife, sent many high-profile political prisoners and her own personal enemies, and where she herself was ultimately incarcerated after her arrest in 1976, about one month after Mao’s death, until, reportedly, her medical parole in 1984.
According to her son, Principal Li was prisoner number 6759, the fifty-ninth person sent to Qincheng in 1967. She was held in solitary confinement so strict that for six years she was not allowed to leave her cell. Her cell had just a tiny opening in the door through which her rations were passed each day. Only in the last two years of her eight-year incarceration was she allowed outside for fresh air. There she crossed paths with Wang Guangmei, the wife of President Liu Shaoqi. They had known each other but Li and Wang could only exchange a smile. The guards then changed her area so she would never bump into another person.
Li had been accused of being a Nationalist spy, apparently because she had attended Nanjing Women’s University, a school known to be a recruiting ground for the Nationalists. This was despite her long record of working with the Communist Party. She was a tough revolutionary. After years of solitary confinement, she had lost her ability to speak, but she did not lose her mind, her son later told me.
Li was released in 1976, about nine years after she was taken away. She was exonerated only in 1979, after Deng Xiaoping had consolidated his power and taken the first tentative steps toward economic reforms.
Ordinary people, too, were caught up in the madness. Yu Zhuyun, our math teacher, joined the Red Guards in ransacking the home of my classmate Fu Heng, whose father was a vice minister of foreign trade suspected of being a spy or committing some other offense. Soon after, Yu himself was investigated at the elementary school by his own colleagues.
Fu Heng’s father, Fu Shenglin, the vice minister, swallowed two dozen sleeping pills after their house had been raided. I had heard about Fu attempting to commit suicide, but many years later, Fu Heng told me that his father had not really wanted to kill himself. He was just too tired after being interrogated by the Red Guards for so long. He asked for some sleeping pills and took whatever remained in the bottle. Nobody would ever know if he was seeking temporary or permanent relief, but there was no question he wanted to escape from the torment.
Fu Shenglin was ultimately exonerated several years later, as were many of the officials who had been persecuted during the Cultural Revolution. He was in fact cleared at about the same time as Kang Li, the father of my classmate Hou Erman, who had hanged himself in the family bathroom in 1966. It turned out that Kang Li was not guilty of anything at all. The pressure of the investigation was just too much.
* * *
The revolution turned the country upside down. All the established systems and order were overthrown or trampled. What remained of the government simply disintegrated as the mass movement targeted nearly every public official, sparing few. Chaos and mob justice replaced law and order. So many people, including high-ranking officials and well-known scholars, were labeled as class enemies and ruthlessly persecuted, mostly by Red Guards and the Rebels in mobs. So many died violent, unnecessary deaths like Erman’s father and the vice principal of No. 13 Girls Middle School. More were humiliated, beaten, or otherwise subject to inhumane treatment.
I considered myself lucky, however. My family was spared the worst, compared to some of my friends. And even as China convulsed, I was able to travel with my friends, at the tender age of 12, to see and experience life in many parts of the country, unfettered, unsupervised, and completely free from the watchful eyes of any adults. I came of age early, too early, as my childhood ended and my previously sheltered life became a thing of the past. I did not notice it and did not miss it, until I grew much older and realized what and how much I had missed and lost.
Chapter 5
Exiled to the Gobi
It was not long before the revolution began to consume itself. Factional violence broke out everywhere, including in Beijing, as Rebels disagreed sharply on who was or wasn’t a bad element, hidden enemy, or capitalist roader. The Rebels were generally divided into two factions: the anti-establishment forces, or “true Rebels,” and the pro-establishment conservatives, or “Loyalists.” While the true Rebels attacked all establishment figures, the Loyalists considered some of these figures revolutionary in nature and sought to protect them. Soon these factions began to take up arms against each other, using weapons they had looted from the military, which had been ordered not to resist in the name of avoiding further bloodshed.
First, such fights were confined to particular institutions. But when like-minded organizations sought each other’s support, they formed allies or unions, thereby substantially increasing the scope and scale of violent clashes. For this reason, Mao described the Cultural Revolution as another civil war. He did not do much to stop it, though. He only prohibited the military from getting involved.
The Cultural Revolution was supposed to be overseen by the “Leading Group,” a committee of five or six members who reported to the central committee of the Party. In reality, the members were designated by Mao himself and included only those he trusted, one being his wife Jiang Qing. The Leading Group wielded enormous power, especially in passing judgment on who was a revolutionary and who was not.
In July 1967, during a visit by Mao Zedong, a large-scale armed clash broke out in the major industrial city of Wuhan in central China. Both of the feuding factions of industrial workers were more than a million strong. One faction was backed by General Chen Zaidao, chief commander of the Wuhan military region. The other was backed by certain members of the Leading Group. During the fighting, some members of General Chen’s faction broke into the compound where Mao was staying, in the hope of petitioning him for his support. It was a major violation of Mao’s security protocol. Although the intruders meant no harm, the situation in the city was so tense that his security guards feared for his safety. Zhou Enlai, the premier, flew into Wuhan to personally direct the evacuation of the chairman to Shanghai. But Zhou had to land at a military airport, because the civilian one was deemed to be no longer in safe hands.
Zhou was ultimately able to calm the situation in Wuhan. General Chen was relieved of his command and was brought to Beijing for punishment. Mao eventually pardoned him, because although the general had quarreled with the Leading Group, he did not mean disrespect for Mao. Still, the scale of the conflict, and the difficulty with which even China’s most senior leaders were able to bring it under control, shocked the nation.
By September 1968, all the provinces and major cities had established “revolutionary committees,”
or new governments, consisting of a mixture of Rebels and former officials. The People’s Daily declared, “The whole country has turned red.” But the great rule and order envisioned by Mao still had not arrived and the turmoil continued, although it did abate somewhat. In part, the anarchy was caused by too many people in the cities having nothing to do. At this point the schools had been shut down for years; millions of jobless, school-less youngsters roamed the streets.
Mao came up with an idea. He would send these idle students to the countryside, away from their home cities. It seemed a stone that would kill two birds, clearing the cities of troublemakers and putting them to productive use. Thus began yet another movement, the movement of young students “going up to the mountains and down to the countryside.” This was necessary, Mao said, in order that the educated youth of the city be “re-educated” by the peasants to adopt a proletariat outlook. The peasants, in turn, needed the educated youth to help turn the countryside into a proletarian paradise with their labor. “The countryside had broad skies and vast land where great things can be accomplished,” Mao pronounced.
It was 1969. Richard Nixon was inaugurated as US president, and US astronauts landed on the moon in July of that year. The war in Vietnam was escalating.
It was also the year I was supposed to have graduated from junior high school, although my schooling had been interrupted three years earlier. I turned 15 in October 1969. I was full of life, energy, ambition, hope, and an adventurous spirit. There was still no telling what the future promised. I was anxious for new ventures.
* * *
I had been looking forward to my departure for months, and the red flags and blasting revolutionary songs stirred me even more. September 5, 1969, seemed the most glorious day of my life. In the crowd of excited well-wishers, my father was standing next to my neighbor Cheng Yulin’s father. I was glad that Yulin was going to Inner Mongolia, too, as were my friends Yuanbo and Zhiqiang. My mother did not come to the Beijing railway station because she was afraid she might cry.
It seemed strange to me that some people were embracing and crying. I was shocked to see a couple holding hands. The girl was weeping uncontrollably. I had never seen a couple touching each other so intimately in public. They must have lost all sense of shame.
When we boarded, I grabbed a window seat so I could stick out my head and talk to my father on the platform. Maybe he was resigned to the reality of my imminent departure, as he did not show any emotion, or perhaps he felt that it was better for me to be away from Beijing during those chaotic and dangerous times. Things were not going so well for us at home, although he had not told me why he had to stay up late and write long accounts of himself. Now he asked me to work hard, keep good relations with others, and take care of myself. I should send a letter to let them know I had safely arrived.
I knew, however, that my father was sad about one thing. I remember to this day what he had said to me just a few days before my departure. He and I were standing by the window of our home talking. At one point, half to himself and half to me, he said, “We joined the revolution for the purpose of being able to send our children to school, to college. We couldn’t go to school. But I hadn’t expected our children not to be able to go to school either.” His voice was so sad that I was startled and did not know what to say. He had come from a poor peasant family and his schooling had ended prematurely because his parents could not afford it anymore. Like many poor people, he had joined the Communist cause in the hope of bringing a better future for the next generation. But now his hope dimmed.
Finally the whistle blew. As if waiting for this signal, the chorus of chatter and laughter turned into a thunder of cries. I was suddenly overcome with tears. It dawned on me that I was leaving my family for a long, long time. I could not even say goodbye. Through my tears, my father’s face blurred. As the train picked up speed he became smaller and smaller, until I could not see him anymore.
The going-to-the-countryside movement had been officially kicked off a few months earlier. There had been a commotion in the streets, and one of my friends had rushed in to report some “good news.” Chairman Mao had just issued one of his supreme edicts.
“It is necessary for the educated youth to go to the countryside to receive re-education from the poor and lower middle peasants. The countryside has a broad sky and a vast land where one can accomplish greatness.”
Although no classes were being offered at my middle school now that Mao had issued the “supreme edict,” the authorities would sometimes organize marches. We knew there would be a big rally to celebrate going to the countryside, so my friend and I hurried to school to parade and wave red flags in the streets.
Within a few days, the “mobilization” began. We studied Mao’s words to understand their “great historical significance” and “immeasurably great implications for the Chinese and world revolution.” We were told that Chairman Mao was charting the only way for China to avoid the tragedy of the revisionist, social-imperialist Soviet Union. These study sessions made us eager to rush to the “broad sky and vast land” and contribute to the revolution. I wanted to help reform the backward countryside into a place as modern as Beijing.
Those who admitted that they were afraid to leave their parents were despised. At 15 or 16, we were surely old enough to venture into the world. After all, many of the old generation of revolutionaries had been even younger when they fought in the Red Army. If we were not capable of facing hardships as they had, how could we become their revolutionary successors?
Whether you wanted to go did not matter. In fact, you had little choice. Everyone was persuaded to “volunteer.” Teams of teachers and representatives from revolutionary committees from your school, neighborhood committees, and parents’ work units came to help you make up your mind. They came together and they came separately, again and again, day and night. They were patient. They said they did not want to pressure you. They merely wanted to help you. They would sit down and read you the “supreme edict.” They would explain once again the historic significance of these instructions and their implications for the young people, for our motherland, and for world revolution. Of course, they didn’t stop coming until you were convinced.
So everyone had to go.
My sister, one year older than I, also had to go. My mother wanted us to go to the northeast together so we could look after each other. Although young people were being sent all over China, those from Beijing would be assigned either to Inner Mongolia or to the northeast, both strategic areas because they were on the Soviet and Mongolian borders. My mother had heard that the climate in the northeast was not as harsh as that in Inner Mongolia. Besides, she was about to be sent to the northeast, too—to a “May 7 Cadre School,” named for Mao’s May 7, 1966, edict, which instructed that farms should be set up where cadres and intellectuals should learn to do agricultural labor and study revolutionary thought.
In the end, my sister was sent to the northeast, and I was assigned to Inner Mongolia. Although my mother begged the school authorities to send us to the same place, her efforts had been in vain and counterproductive. Sentiment toward family members was regarded as a bourgeois tendency to be suppressed.
I learned few details about my destination other than that I was to join the Construction Army Corps of Inner Mongolia. Along with my schoolmates—several of them also assigned to Inner Mongolia, known for the Gobi Desert—I attended a meeting where a regiment political instructor, an army man wearing a new green uniform, addressed us.
He told us that the land of Inner Mongolia was so vast that we would build a thoroughfare even wider and longer than Chang’an Boulevard in central Beijing. It never occurred to me, or apparently to anyone else, to wonder why anyone would need a boulevard in the middle of the desert. For transportation, we were promised helicopters. Most of us had never even seen one. We would eat white bread every day, he told us, and there would always be plenty of meat and fish. Each of us would get a brand-new uniform, “just l
ike a soldier in the People’s Liberation Army.”
The backward countryside we were supposed to transform already sounded like a paradise. The presentation so boosted our enthusiasm that we could hardly wait to depart.
Each of us was given 30 yuan, a great sum of money that I was proud to bring home. We were also given some ration coupons for textiles. I went with my mother on a shopping spree. I bought enough fabric and cotton to make two quilts. We also bought mosquito nets, shoes, flashlights, work gloves, and two large wooden trunks. We bought two of everything, one for me and one for my sister.
* * *
The train ride took more than 30 hours, with numerous stops. I counted 65 tunnels. Whenever the train went through a long tunnel, black smoke from the locomotive would billow into the passenger cars and the soot would settle everywhere. Soon our faces were as dark as if we had come from a battlefield.
We were delighted to hear that our exact destination was a top military secret. We were also honored that our train was “special.” But it was because of this designation that we had to stop to let other trains pass. The journey thus took twice as long as it should have.
On the second night, we arrived at a stop called Urat Qianqi or Wulate Qianqi. (Urat or Urad is the Mongolian pronunciation; Wulate is the Chinese name. Qianqi means “Front Banner,” referring to a Mongolian tribe so designated by a Qing dynasty emperor.) We were told to get off the train. It was so dark that I could barely see the station. There were only a few dim bulbs. Still, I could sense that there were many hundreds of us on the platform.
I was surprised at how cold it was. It was only early September, and the nights were still warm in Beijing. Now I wished I had listened to my mother and carried a sweater with me.