From Darkness to Sight

by Ming Wang

  The human cruelty that I witnessed that day is seared in my memory. The magnitude of what happened to those teachers and my mother—the atrocious behavior of the Red Guards who beat and killed so many of the teachers, and who broke and bloodied my mom’s body and pushed her to the brink of death—stayed with me for many, many years.

  For a long time afterward, Dad slept on the floor with me so Mom could have the whole bed to recuperate, as she was suffering from many fractures and bruises throughout her body and lay there paralyzed. After several months of convalescing at home, Mom needed more hands-on care than Dad or I could give her, so she was transported to my grandmother’s home in the Fujian Province, a two-day train ride from Hangzhou. For two years, I only saw my mom during my summer breaks. She was bedridden most of the time, only able to get up and walk in the second year of her recovery. To this day, my mother still has chronic pain throughout her body, and the tip of her right index finger remains permanently crooked from the beating.

  No sooner did my mom finally recover, than we lost her again. One day, early in 1971, we received dreaded news. In retaliation for her attempting to protect the lab and classroom, my mother would be deported, taken from us forever. But one of the party officials made a show of leniency and said that since my mother had two children at home, they would demonstrate the great love and generous mercy of their beloved leader Chairman Mao. Instead of being banished for the rest of her life, my mom would only be deported for two years to the destitute countryside to work for little pay as a “barefoot doctor,” one of many physicians who treated peasants in rudimentary facilities and worked alongside them in the fields.

  My parents’ combined salary around that time was one hundred and eighteen yuan, or fifteen dollars, a month. Though they fared much better than many one-wage families, they had to pour all their savings into paying an elderly woman to help care for my little brother. For two years my father lived without his wife, and my brother and I without our mom. She was only allowed to come home once a year, and we wrote letters in between visits. Our tiny home now had a gaping hole.

  The inhumanity of the Cultural Revolution spared no one. The first five years had been especially cruel. As schools were shut down and millions of students deported, many young people committed suicide rather than be exiled from their families for life. To stem this terrible tide of death, the government had no choice but to ease their grip to some degree, and they revised the deportation policy so that parents with more than one child could choose one of their children to stay home. This “chosen one” would be exempt from deportation, provided the child could find gainful employment in the city within a short period of time. Forcing parents to choose one of their children to be protected, knowing the rest would be displaced to face a life of destitution, was cruel and inhumane. How could any parent make such an impossible choice?

  Not long before I finished junior high, my father came home from the hospital looking exhausted and dejected. He had always been the logical, quiet, decisive parent. I had never seen him so down.

  That night, I heard my parents arguing in desperate whispers.

  “Ming-xu will finish junior high in just two months! We have to make a decision about which child to choose,” my father stressed.

  “Choose Ming-xu. Let him be the one to stay,” my mother begged.

  My brother, Ming-yu, who was eight years younger than me, was only six years old at that time, so Mom reasoned that she and Dad would still have eight years before Ming-yu was old enough to face deportation. She hoped things might change before then, or if not, it would give them time to figure out a way to protect him as well.

  “But, if we choose Ming-xu, then in order for him to take advantage of this ‘chosen one’ policy, he would have to quit school immediately and not attend high-school, because if he did, he could be deported right after graduation, since the government has stated that they may discontinue the ‘chosen one’ policy next year,” Dad said. Then he added in a sad voice, “But on the other hand if Ming-xu doesn’t go on to high-school and earn his diploma, he’ll never be able to find a decent job.”

  “That’s still better than being deported!” Mom’s voice edged higher.

  “But it’s so cruel to just cut off his education like this! He’s a star student. When he grows up and wonders why his education got cut short like this, what will we say to him? He won’t have a decent career, and it will be hard for him to have a family. He will hate us for the rest of his life, and I will hate myself.”

  “He won’t hate you,” she said. “He’ll know that with the horrible choices you were given at this time, you made the best decision you could to protect him.”

  I had known my whole life that education and getting into high-school and then college was the pinnacle of success, not just for me but also for my parents and for the Wang family as a whole. Winning a fiercely competitive spot in a university meant a guaranteed job at one of the state-owned firms. Since the universities were shut down due to the Cultural Revolution, a high-school diploma was the highest education anyone could get at that time. Without a high-school education, destitution was guaranteed in a life of menial labor, earning only thirty yuan—or four dollars—a month.

  My father let out a deep sigh full of turmoil and heartache. “If he wasn’t such a good student, this wouldn’t bother me so much. But he’s so motivated and has worked so hard, especially in the last several years, after being humiliated, demoted, and nearly declared a counterrevolutionary with that horrible school slogan incident! He has come back from all of that and now has a chance to have a good education, and we are going to intentionally destroy all of it, and his life?!”

  We sat quietly at dinner, a simple meal of rice, vegetables, and scrambled eggs. My father looked at me, his eyes brimming with sadness and uncertainty.

  “My son, never in my life would I have ever imagined I would have to intentionally cut off your education like this! I hope you understand how much it kills us to make this terrible decision to not let you continue your education into high-school.”

  So in the spring of 1974, at age 14, my education came to an abrupt end as soon as I finished ninth grade. Even though I was the chosen one, I still had to find gainful employment within a year or two, or I could still face deportation. But, with only a junior-high education as such, finding a decent job would be nearly impossible.

  My parents had always fought for me, even when it seemed that there was no hope of winning. Once again, they would come to my rescue, helping me out of this dark corner in unique, creative, and occasionally even illegal ways.

  Chapter 4

  Running from Ghosts

  I walked outside just before dawn, carrying a small stool and my erhu, an ancient Chinese violin. I sat down on a street corner near the apartment building where my family and neighbors were still sleeping. The bitter wind blew falling snowflakes into swirls that whirled along the street like tiny white tornadoes. I wore my warmest clothes, but since we couldn’t afford gloves, my hands were bare as I began to play. The small sound box covered in snakeskin rested in my lap, and my left hand held the erhu’s long vertical neck. As I moved the bow across the two strings with my right hand, a deep and mournful sound emerged.

  For my entire life I had been told that a good education was essential for a successful, happy life. Now my education had been completely cut off, and with it, all my hopes for the future.

  Since I was unable to find a job with only a junior-high diploma, my parents said that my only hope to avoid deportation was to secure a position as a dancer or musician, talents that were useful to the communist government. National and regional song-and-dance troupes performed in public venues across the country to promote the party’s ideals. Chairman Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, had created eight model Chinese operas to dramatize the revolution, the victories against foreign invaders and bourgeois counter-revolutionaries, and the glories of peasants, workers, and soldiers. From an early age, the eight model performanc
es were all I ever saw. The era that history refers to as the “Cultural Revolution” was, in fact, a cultural holocaust. No movies or creative performances of any kind were allowed in China, except for Jiang’s eight model plays.

  Like many young kids, I knew nearly every word and could sing almost every part of the eight state-produced plays, since we heard them daily from dawn to dusk. Innately I loved music and dance, a passion passed down from my father. When I was in elementary school, I performed principal roles in a song-and-dance troupe that re-enacted the famous tales for audiences in factories, companies, and public settings. In one performance, I danced the part of a soldier who oversaw young women washing clothes for the People’s Liberation Army. In another, I played an old man driving a horse-drawn carriage that transported harvested rice to Beijing. I practiced my acting and dancing as often as I could, since I was thoroughly delighted when the audience enjoyed my performances.

  After I was forced to leave school at age 14, I hoped that my prior experience in music and dance could somehow win me a coveted spot in a communist song-and-dance troupe and thus save me from the devastating fate of deportation and a lifetime of poverty and hard labor. Since I’d had a significant amount of previous dance training, I advanced successfully through several rounds of auditions for the Hangzhou Arts School. However, even though the dance moves were the same as those I had often performed as a child many years ago, the circumstances now were totally different. This time, every step I took, every turn I twirled, every movement I made was fueled not by a passion for the art, but by a desperate need to carve out a safe place in the chaos of the times.

  As a backup to dancing, I also took up formal study of the erhu, which my parents bought for me for about two yuan, or thirty cents. This simple instrument can only be played one string at a time, so, by definition, it cannot produce harmony. But when played well, its music is rich and soulful, with a touch of melancholy. I had only played the erhu occasionally since I was young, but now I grasped it as if it were a life preserver. I figured that even if my dance plan failed, if I was fortunate enough to be chosen for a government performing troupe for erhu, I would still have a chance to avoid a hopeless, deported life.

  Sometimes my little brother, Ming-yu, sat next to me holding a smaller version of the erhu. He loved to be with me and do the same things I did. We played duets together for my family and my father’s colleagues. When I looked at my then-six-year-old little brother, I felt such tenderness for him, as well as an intense longing to return to the carefree days of my own young boyhood. As Ming-yu slid his small bow back and forth, he thought we were just having fun. He had no idea that I was fighting for my life.

  I studied the erhu tirelessly. Along with weekly lessons, I practiced up to fifteen hours a day. In the early mornings, I played on the street corner to avoid waking my neighbors. My left hand, held high on the neck of the instrument, would quickly become numb from the cold and I would have to stop playing. The long neck of the erhu rested on my shoulder, and the bow lay across my knees, as I blew hot breaths of air onto frozen fingers and rubbed my palms together. I watched my former junior-high classmates walk toward the high-school, and my heart ached with anger, envy, and despair at the sight of them heading to the place where I longed to be going myself. I had been a star pupil with straight A’s, and I wanted to be walking to school alongside them! Many of them were their family’s only children, so they were allowed to go to high-school without risk of being deported after graduation. But, being from a family with more than one child, I had no chance to go to senior high or college, so my education was cut off permanently.

  I went back inside once my neighbors were up and about, but without heat, the apartment was never any warmer than it was outside. The skin on my hands froze from exposure, and the pain was excruciating when my hands would begin to warm up, and frostbite caused severe blisters that ruptured and oozed. The ulcers lasted for weeks until the skin finally healed, which left faint but lasting scars that are visible to this day. But no amount of pain in my fingers could compare to the despair in my heart at the prospect of facing the utter anguish of an exiled life.

  One of the most famous pieces of erhu music that I learned was “Two Springs Converging Reflect the Moon,” composed by the blind folk musician Ah Bing. This song is one of the most treasured pieces of music in the Chinese repertoire. While Ah Bing couldn’t see the scene he evoked through his music, he imagined the moon reflecting light from the heavens onto these two springs that converged into one. The music is haunting and beautiful and echoes with longing and unfulfilled desires, as the composer imagines how beautiful the scene would have been if he could see.

  As I played that piece sitting outside on the stool, my soul resonated with the sounds of sorrow and longing. As a teenager, I should have been looking forward to a life of exciting possibilities. But instead, along with millions of other youth, I had been condemned to the bottom rung of society with no hope for happiness. The elderly composer couldn’t see, but he could imagine beauty. I had seen beauty, but I couldn’t imagine my own future. The strings of the erhu sung of the moon, that glistening mirror suspended in space that my father and I had gazed upon in the forest walks of my earlier childhood years. What light did this moon reflect for me now? I saw nothing, only darkness stretching on for the length of my life.

  I poured my heart and soul into mastering dance and the erhu, as they were the only open doors left to lead me out of darkness.

  My dedication and hard work paid off and my skill improved dramatically. My teachers were pleased with my progress and both my parents and I were thrilled to learn that there was a high likelihood that I would pass the performance exam and join the Hangzhou song-and-dance troupe and thus be able to finally avoid the devastating fate of deportation! I was so excited at that prospect that for weeks I could not sleep and was counting the days to the day of the performance exam!

  But, one day my father came home from work and looked at me with profound sadness. He told me something that left me feeling colder and more bitter than the winter wind outside.

  The government had discovered that thousands of young people were learning music and dance with an ulterior motive, that is, solely to avoid deportation. They considered it a blatant attempt by the teenagers and their parents to skirt the deportation policy. In response, the officials announced that they wouldn’t select any musicians or dancers from Hangzhou at all that year!

  Hearing my father’s words, I could hardly breathe. I was devastated yet again. I had been practicing dance and the erhu for an entire year! All that practicing, the frostbite, the pain, was now all for nothing! For days after I heard the news, I simply wandered around our neighborhood feeling so empty. My life had lost direction, as if I were walking through dense and endless fog. From my youngest years I had been active and on the move, studying and working hard to have a future. Now I was forced into idleness and uselessness. What options did I have left now? If I didn’t find gainful employment soon, I remained at imminent risk of being deported.

  My parents were not willing to see me succumb to a life of destitution. Also they had to find a way to keep me active and off the streets, because if young people were discovered loitering with nothing to do, they too would be at risk of being arrested and sent to labor camps. So my parents came up with an idea to keep me out of trouble and to hide me away for a while at least—I would study medicine, albeit illegally.

  During the second half of the Cultural Revolution, a small number of universities around the country were allowed to be reopened, including the medical-school where my parents worked. The college entrance exams had been discontinued since the start of the Cultural Revolution, so the only students admitted were those who did not actually have to take or pass any exam, mostly children of Communist Party officials or others with government connections.

  My parents urged me to consider studying medicine at their university, even if only for the sake of knowledge.

  “Wh
y should I study medicine when I have no chance at all of becoming a doctor?” I asked.

  “Ming, remember that knowledge is good and will always be useful,” Dad said gently. “Study anyway and maybe one day you’ll be able to somehow use what you learn now.”

  I didn’t really see the purpose of it, but I knew the risks of deportation that I faced by hanging out on the streets, so I agreed. When I asked my parents how I could be allowed to study medicine when I wasn’t even enrolled as a student, they said they would figure out a way. My parents then alerted their colleagues that they planned to smuggle me into school, and asked the professors to look the other way.

  One morning my father accompanied me to the medical-school and into the anatomy lab. Along three walls were glass cabinets displaying jars of body parts—an amputated hand, a cancerous foot, a human head—floating in foul-smelling chemicals.

  “My son wants to study medicine here,” my father said to the lab teacher. “Will you tutor him so he can catch up with the other medical students?”

  The teacher looked at me. “But he’s so young!”

  “Try him. He may surprise you.”

  Another professor’s child in hiding—a girl a few years older than I was—studied alongside me. For several weeks, the two of us huddled around the teacher in the lab as he pulled out from jar after jar parts of human bodies and explained them to us. The sight of specimens was unnerving, but floating limbs weren’t the worst part. In another part of the room was a large bookcase that stood several feet from the wall. Behind the bookcase were coffins, and inside the coffins were dead bodies that were typically the remains of those who had been executed after being declared counter-revolutionaries in the public square. The corpses were given to the medical-school, since most families of the deceased feared being labeled counter-revolutionaries as well if they were to claim the bodies of their loved ones.