The Shanghai Union of Industrial Mystics

by Nury Vittachi

  ‘Xin, you and your team will cover all activities at the Grand Theatre.

  ‘Chen, you will seek out a location—a factory or warehouse or construction site, perhaps north of Suzhou Creek or out in Pudong somewhere, or Caohejing—which can be evacuated in case the bomb needs to be detonated.

  ‘Tan, we’ve got a squad stationed at The Bund. Call them and inform them about the situation. Tell them to head straight down Nanjing Dong Lu. The elephant and the terrorists will escape from the Americans and run due east— straight into our waiting arms.’

  She rose to her feet and headed out of the back door. She had not told anyone what she herself was planning to do. But she had her own transport and believed she could beat any traffic jam.

  ‘Wei?’

  ‘Marc? I mean, Marker? Is that Marker?’

  ‘Yes. That is…?’

  ‘It’s Joyce. From CF Wong and Associates? You moved all our stuff? Last week? And then moved it all again yesterday?

  Remember me?’

  ‘Remember.’

  ‘I said I’d call.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am fine. How are you?’

  ‘Yeah, fine, ha ha. Er, actually, not so fine. I’ve got a little problem. I mean a big problem. Er, hey, are you free right now?’

  ‘Yes. You want to meet?’

  ‘Yes, definitely, yes, yes.’

  ‘You want to drink some coffee or something sometime or something?’ He sounded excited.

  ‘Yeah. Great. That would be fab. But there’s just one thing.’

  ‘One thing.’

  ‘Yeah. Er. I need to move something. Can you help me move something, and then we’ll go for a coffee somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. Okay. What do you want me to move?’ She believed she could hear the delight in his voice starting to evaporate as soon as the social invitation showed signs of transmuting into unpaid work. Joyce felt suffused with guilt. He must think he was being used—he must think she only wanted to see him because he was a removal man and would help her move something. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’m not just using you, ha ha, I wouldn’t want you to think that.’

  ‘Think that.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re a really good friend and I nearly called you after the first time we met, last week, on a Monday, or was it Tuesday? Actually, I nearly called you a few times. But you know how it is. I meant to, but I didn’t actually call you. I just thought about it, you know, ha ha.’

  ‘You just thought about it, ha ha.’

  ‘Yeah. Ha ha. Anyway, what I am trying to say is.’ She thought about what she was trying to say.

  He waited patiently for a few seconds. ‘Hello? Joy-Si? You are there?’

  ‘Er, yes-yes-yes. What I mean is, let’s meet lots of times, for lots of coffees. I mean, ha ha, it would be good to get to know each other. I mean, even if I didn’t want you to help me move this thing. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. You want lots of coffee. Many cups of coffee. You are very thirsty.’

  ‘Um, yes. Well, I suppose that’s true. What I am saying is that I’m not just using you. I’m not calling you just because you are a removal man and I need something moved. That’s just a small part of it. Apart from that, I really want to meet you, you know, for social reasons. Meeting you for social reasons is more important than the little job I want you to help me with. Understand?’

  ‘Yes. Understand,’ Cai said. ‘So we have lots of cups of coffee first, very important, then do little moving job afterwards, because not important.’

  ‘Ah. No. I think. Ummm. No, let’s get the little job out of the way. Then I can feel more relaxed. It’s kind of an emergency sort of thing, know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, but she could tell from his voice that he didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about.

  ‘Look, can you get to the corner of Huanghe Lu and, er, Fengyang Lu in the middle of town as soon as possible? Just up above Renmin Park? Do you know where I mean? Then you’ll understand what I’m on about. Thanks so much. I’m really, really grateful. Ha ha. Bye.’

  She clicked the phone off. Cheese. Where had her brain gone?

  Jappar Memet sat in his suite in the Howard Johnson Plaza Hotel holding the document he was about to send out to the world. It had been prepared by Dilshat Tohti, the wisest scholar in the membership of the exiles, but would be issued jointly under their names and those of the other Children of Uyghur.

  ‘Final draft?’

  ‘Yeah. ’ave a read. I can’t fink of anyfing else to add to it,’ said Tohti.

  ‘Awright. Lemme ’ave a gander.’

  Jappar tossed his lank, greasy hair out of his eyes and peered at the sheets in front of him:

  We the undersigned claim responsibility for the Shanghai bomb which has this evening changed the course of world history. By killing/seriously wounding the two most powerful men in the world, we draw, for the first time, the attention of every human being on earth to a hitherto unnoticed calamity that has killed thousands of innocent people and sentenced millions of others to a life of servitude. A calamity that has destroyed not just two lives, but has wiped an entire nation off the map. A calamity which is close to genocide, the destruction of an entire people. But to set right mistakes that will no doubt be made by the world media, deliberately or otherwise, we wish to make certain points clear at the outset.

  This bomb was set off in the name of East Turkistan, a country that no longer appears on any map. But this bomb was NOT set off by the people of East Turkistan, or any of the Turkic resistance groups. They are gentle and non-violent people who have been greatly wronged over many years but have borne their suffering with silent fortitude. This bomb was set off by outraged supporters from outside the community.

  East Turkistan is the true and only name before Allah of the area which now appears on maps as the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of China. It is 1 626 000 square kilometres (635 000 square miles) in size. It is a significant size: it is the size of all of Britain plus France plus Germany plus Spain. It is one-sixth of the land mass of China. However, its true size is larger still, measuring 1.82 million square kilometres. Significant parts were annexed into Qinghai and Gansu provinces as part of an illegal invasion in 1949.

  Our fathers knew East Turkistan as a place where one truly experienced the Grandeur of God. It is a huge country with every type of scenery, from mountains to lakes, from dry deserts to lush forests. It has wonderful natural resources, including petroleum. But most wonderful of all are its people. It is the home of the 8.7 million Uyghur people and fellow peoples who live in peace with them. The community includes Kazaks, Kyrgyz, Tajiks, Tatars and Uzbeks. These are also Central Asians, they are also Muslims, and they count for an additional 2.5 million people. It is also the birthplace of a great Islamic civilisation, and has produced fine works, such as The Knowledge for Happiness by Yusuf Has Hajip. Below are some FAQs about East Turkistan.

  Q: Is East Turkistan part of China?

  A: No. It is part of Central Asia.

  Q: Are the people Chinese?

  A: No. The majority are Central Asian. Since 1949, the proportion of Chinese living in the area has risen from six per cent to about forty per cent today. This is a result of forced immigration, where the Chinese government has planted Han Chinese people on land owned by the people of East Turkistan.

  Q: Is their language Chinese?

  A: No. Their language is Turkic.

  Q: Do they speak Chinese?

  A: No, most don’t.

  Q: Do they consider themselves Chinese?

  A: No. They consider themselves part of the Turkic peoples.

  Q: Do the Chinese consider them to be Chinese?

  A: No. They think of them as Central Asian Muslims.

  Q: Historically, who does East Turkistan belong to?

  A: The Uyghurs have lived there for more than 4000 years. They played a key role in the growth of the Silk Ro
ad as a channel between East and West.

  Q: How did the Chinese invade?

  A: The Manchu Empire invaded East Turkistan in 1876. The people bravely resisted for eight years, but eventually were overtaken by superior numbers. The Manchus renamed it ‘Xinjiang’ (New Territory) in 1884. The Manchus were overthrown by the Chinese Nationalists in 1911, and the innocent people of East Turkistan found themselves being brutalised under a new regime. The Uyghurs bravely fought back in 1933 but were crushed. In 1944 they rose again, and this time succeeded in re-establishing the free, glorious land of East Turkistan, an independent Muslim republic. However, from 1949 onwards, the communist rulers of China arrived and took command over the area by force.

  Q: What is the situation since then?

  A: Since then, the situation has been dire. The new rulers moved large numbers of army and police into the area. They use the Uyghurs’ land for a range of military activities, including the testing of nuclear weapons. They have built prison labour factories in their valleys. Their blue skies and shining lakes are now filled with pollution. But worst of all, they have destroyed the culture. Any expression of their traditions results in harsh crackdowns, arrests and imprisonment. Their young men are taken. Some are tortured. Others disappear. They shut the mosques at will. The Uyghur language is banned from university so that all progress and resources are reserved for Chinese. They make the Uyghur work unpaid as slaves to construct pipelines to transport their petroleum to other parts of China. If they complain or protest, they are subject to summary execution. Execution is often carried out in public venues, to instil a sense of fear in the populace.

  Q: How has the international community reacted?

  A: It has done nothing.

  Q: Is the situation getting better or worse?

  A: The people thought that things could not get worse, but they did, in September 2001. After the attacks on the Twin Towers in New York, US President George W Bush proclaimed a ‘war on terror’. The world’s mainstream media, without exception, picked up this phrase and ran with it. Yet it was not a war on terror. It was a war against Muslims unconnected with the bombing in New York, as was aptly demonstrated by the illegal invasion of Iraq, a country unrelated to the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center. The Chinese government jumped on the bandwagon. They used this opportunity to label the Uyghur people (a tiny minority of whom had been driven to produce a few small-scale explosions) as terrorist Muslims who should also be stamped out as part of the ‘war on terror’. Now, every time they make any nostalgic utterance about their lost culture, they are labelled Islamic terrorists.

  Only a few organisations have paid any attention: Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International and the BBC.

  Until the world is forced to wake up to the tragedy taking place in East Turkistan, the people there will continue to live in misery.

  We are supporters living in exile. Our actions tonight will ensure that people around the world know the cause of the lost people of East Turkistan. We apologise to the families of those killed or hurt.

  Signed,

  Jappar Memet, Dilshat Tohti, Erkin Wayit, Etam Ablimit, Abdulghani Abchjreyim, Gulnar Yusuf and Aygul Alptekin.

  The Organising Committee of the Uyghur Children in Exile

  12

  In ancient western China, there was a god-emperor of fertility who had green eyes.

  But his fifteen-year-old wife gave him no children. He was furious. The prophecies said his offspring would number one hundred or more.

  So he spent his time with harlots. One of them quickly became pregnant.

  ‘Even a harlot is more fertile than you,’ he said to his wife, and threw her out. He also threw out the harlot’s baby, although he kept the harlot for entertainment.

  Heaven looked down on the heartlessness of this god-emperor and decreed that he should have no more children, from other wives, concubines or harlots.

  But his barren ex-wife raised his abandoned baby. That child grew up and, at the age of fifteen, had her own child, the first of six boys. That boy grew up and had the first of his six girls when he was fifteen. And that girl, in turn, had the first of her six boys when she was fifteen.

  Fifty years later, the barren wife, now sixty-five, returned to the palace with more than one hundred children. Many had green eyes.

  The prophets declared the prophecy fulfilled and replaced the barren king with his ex-wife and her family.

  Blade of Grass, the ultimate victory of love and goodness of spirit are built into Heaven’s plan, although we may not be able to see it for a very long time.

  From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’

  by CF Wong.

  Marker Cai arrived on Fengyang Lu, skidding his racing bicycle to a halt in front of Joyce with an elegant twist of his handlebars. ‘Hello, Joy-Si.’ Then he noticed the elephant. ‘Oh. An elephant.’ What else can one say?

  ‘Er, yeah. Hi, Marker.’ Her heart was beating like a techno-trance drum machine. Cheese—she must look terrible. She hadn’t washed or brushed her hair or anything. And what must her scrappy make-up look like? It probably looked like a toddler had applied crayons to her eyes. How long had it been since she looked in a mirror? She laughed nervously. ‘Ha ha. Sorry about the hair and all that. I was up all night, and, uh, anyway, I got this elephant. Long story. We need to move this beast out of town. There’s a bomb inside it which is going to go off very soon. We need to get it somewhere where there are no people. We’ve got—’ She looked at Wong.

  ‘Thirty-one minutes.’

  ‘Thirty-one minutes. But the traffic’s gridlocked. We can’t drive him out. He’s just about to fall asleep, so we can’t ride him out. We need to move him another way.’

  ‘Okay,’ Marker said slowly. ‘You have to move this elephant. Move it very quickly. Because there is inside it a—?’ His face was open, his brow raised and questioning.

  ‘A bomb.’

  ‘A bomb. There is a bomb inside the elephant. Bomb?’

  ‘Yeah, bomb. As in booooom.’

  ‘Baang,’ explained Wong in Mandarin. ‘Zhe shi yi ge bao zha wu.’

  Linyao spoke to Cai in Shanghainese to make it absolutely clear: ‘Yes, we know this all sounds crazy, but it’s true. Someone wanted to bomb the theatre show where the US President and the Chinese President were due to meet, so they put a bomb inside this animal.’

  Marker Cai slowly nodded, as if he encountered this sort of assignment several times a week, particularly during elephant shifting season.

  Joyce knelt down and pointed to the line of stitches along the creature’s stomach. ‘Plastic explosives and a timer. Some evil, evil person put them here. Cut open the elephant and inserted them and sewed it up. That’s just so utterly totally horrible, don’t you agree?’

  Marker nodded. ‘Agree. Okay. I help you move this elephant. And the coffee?’

  ‘Yes, afterwards we have coffee.’

  Sirens erupted in the distance—yelps, wails and wow-wow-wows. Wong gave his own yelp. ‘Aiyeeaaa! Move fast, fast. Those American bad guys are coming this way.’

  ‘We gotta go,’ Joyce said. ‘These guys are after us. Can you move the elephant for us, please?’

  Marker was deep in thought. ‘Can. One time I had to move a big piano quick-quick for concert and the truck broke down. We use platform on wheels. Ms Lu, you stay with elephant. Joy-Si xiao-jie, Wong-sheng, come with me.’

  They followed Marker as he trotted down a side street called Beiha Lu. Although only a few hundred metres from the centre of town, it looked like another world. The buildings were two-storey houses with sloping roofs, divided by small alleyways decorated with what looked like lines of bunting but which were actually washing lines. Many older people were engaged in the standard Shanghainese evening activity for their generation: sitting on the pavement in ragged deckchairs, enjoying the evening breeze and watching the world go by.

  Ducking down a narrow side lane, Cai led them to an old factory. At the door,
he had a heated discussion with an elderly man who appeared to be acting as guard and general factotum.

  ‘Okay. He needs money. One thousand kuai.’ Marker looked at Joyce and Joyce looked at Wong.

  ‘Money? What for?’

  ‘For something which will help us move the elephant.’

  Cursing, the feng shui master pulled his fast-dwindling stack of notes out of his pocket and carefully counted out a thousand yuan for the old man.

  The elderly guard pulled a chain. With a fearsome rattling noise, the old metal shutter rose and disappeared into the roof. Inside was a live chicken warehouse—and it stank of guano. The smell hit them like a wave, and the fumes made their eyes sting.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Joyce. ‘And ew. What are we here for?’

  ‘That,’ said Marker. He pointed to a wooden pallet piled high with cardboard boxes of eggs. ‘They’ve got some big, strong ones here. We need the biggest.’

  A minute later, Cai and the doorman trundled out of the entrance a large wooden pallet. It was about three metres square, 25 centimetres high and had some forty-eight wheels underneath, most of which worked. It rumbled like a distant thunderstorm as it moved. On top were several blankets that Cai had asked the old man to throw in for the price.

  ‘Will it be strong enough?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘Yes. My job is to estimate the weight of things and then move them. That’s what I do. You trust me, please. I move your elephant.’

  Joyce sighed with pleasure. She felt like giving him a round of applause. Now a real man was taking charge of the situation. This was exactly what was needed. She felt, for the first time during this nightmare day, that they might actually succeed in getting Nelson away from the city centre to some place where the bomb could go off without harming anyone else.

  ‘How are we going to get the elephant up on top of this?’

  ‘Steps. That is the secret of moving heavy objects. Always use as many steps as you need.’