No, Father, I silently plead as I step from the shadow. Don’t!
He does not see me.
When he speaks, his voice is deep and solemn.
“My family has farmed this land for generations,” Father says. “It is a sacred trust to our ancestors that we continue to do so. If it’s sold, where will we go? What will we do?” His voice has begun to falter. He looks over at me and hisses words through clenched teeth. “My daughter cannot be the price I must pay to keep our home.”
The Chinese cadre—our new cadre—is smiling. He lets his arms fall to his sides as he listens to the translation of what has just been said, and for the first time seems comfortable sitting on the floor around our eating cloth.
I know then that I must go. What would Father do without the farm? And Grandfather—I can never be the one who forces my beloved grandfather from this land that was his father’s, and his father’s father’s, and back and back beyond our knowing.
I walk on unsteady legs to the eating cloth and squat beside the men. “I will go,” I say. “I have been chosen and I will fulfill my duty.”
Father looks at me. Confused. Maybe angry that his daughter has spoken before these important men? I pretend I do not see his expression and pull the papers in front of him. I hand him the pen and point to where he must sign.
Then I rise and leave our house. I run past Mother, Aygul, Grandfather, Grandmother, across our fields and beyond the mulberry trees to the outermost boundary of our farm. In the distance, to the south, I see the Kunlun. Tall, majestic mountains, even in their shroud of dust and desert sand. These mountains sustain us, send us melted water from their ice caps, which flows freely into our rivers and underground streams. They make it possible for us to live beside the desert.
They are the edge of my world as I know it.
I will soon be sent beyond them.
Four
MY FEET NO LONGER connect to the earth. Some part of me has begun to seal off feeling. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to know. This is how I’ll spend the next year. When I return, I’ll erase from everyone’s memory—first from my own—that I have been anyplace but here, walking across this field.
“Roshen, we must talk.”
Father has surprised me.
I shake my head no. “It’s done, Father,” I say. I don’t want to talk to him or see him right now.
His hand takes mine. “I have not signed the papers. I’m to give the cadre my answer tomorrow.”
I close my eyes. I cannot face this good man. “They’ve chosen me. I will go,” I say, but I feel my face beginning to contort into an ugly mask. “We will not lose this farm because of me.” My words puncture the air as the anger I’ve been holding in for days spills out.
Father holds both of my hands now in a tight grip. “There may be another way. I’ll speak to Uncle. A bribe may be enough to change the cadre’s mind. Perhaps we can come up with enough money to satisfy him.” His words are urgent, pleading, yet I know he only half believes them himself.
“He’ll take the money and the farm. You know that. We’ve heard the stories.” I’m calmer now. I draw in deep breaths and plant my feet in the precious soil of our land. “Father,” I say, “our family has protected this land from the encroachment of the desert since time untold. We’ve been offered a chance to save it.”
I take my hands from his tight grip and place them on his arms. “The teacher has spoken to me. I was especially chosen, she says, and will be given a wonderful opportunity to advance myself. She says it’s important that Uyghur girls, especially those from the countryside, like me, have a broader view of the world, that it will enhance my opportunities for acceptance in the teacher training program and in finding a job.” I sound like a prerecorded propaganda message, but my words seem to bring some comfort to Father.
“A year is a long time to be away from us,” Father says.
“Yes,” I say, and what strength I’ve found seeps from my body. I can’t think what it will be like to be separated from them. Or from Ahmat.
Father sees me falter. His hand encircles my waist, and slowly he leads me to our waiting family.
Father will sign. I will go. And I have no idea what I will say to Ahmat, or what I want him to say to me.
Five
MOTHER AND I sit in silence around the eating cloth, drinking tea. Father hasn’t returned, and Grandfather has long ago taken Grandmother and Aygul to the garden to weed the onions, then the melon patch.
The brakes from Uncle’s truck squeal as he stops on the road. Mother rushes outside, but I stay where I am, squeezing my tea bowl almost to the breaking point. If I’m to learn that my life for the next year has been surrendered to the Chinese government, I wish to get the news sitting down.
Uncle’s truck rumbles away. I hear two male voices crossing the yard—Father and another I know so well. I freeze as Ahmat follows Father through the door.
Our eyes lock.
I hear his silent cry. Roshen!
I twist my head away and bow in shyness—or is it because no muscles in my body work to hold my head upright? There is too much meaning in Father’s return and Ahmat’s arrival with him.
“We’ll have tea and talk about my visit,” Father says as the family gathers inside the house.
He and Ahmat sit across from me. Grandfather joins them.
Tea is poured. Mother, Grandmother, and Aygul sit. After we’ve raised our bowls for our first sip, Father begins.
“Your uncle and I were not able to buy your freedom, Roshen. You and eleven other Uyghur girls are to leave tomorrow morning.” His voice falters to a whisper. “I’m sorry, my daughter.”
My hands tremble as I nod in acceptance of Father’s words.
We sit in silence until Grandfather takes another sip of tea. We do the same, rousing again to life.
“Thank you, Father, for bringing Ahmat to see me,” I say.
“These are not normal times, Roshen. Our traditions are a path that may not always be followed,” Father says. “Grandfather and I will go outside for a while so that you and Ahmat can talk freely. Your mother and grandmother will be your chaperones.”
Mother asks Aygul to pour more tea for Ahmat and me. She clasps me close to her before rising and going to the kitchen ledge. Grandmother follows, and they busy themselves.
Ahmat comes to my side, squatting a respectful distance away. He’s clutching his hands.
“What, Ahmat? . . . Tell me,” I whisper.
“You must be careful.” The urgency in his voice undoes his attempt to be quiet.
Aygul has heard him. Mother, too. She folds her arms around Aygul, moves her back to the ledge and the making of naan.
He leans toward me. “They wouldn’t tell your father where they’re taking you. No matter how awful it is, if they treat you badly, don’t fight them, don’t protest. Uyghurs never win. You’ll end up in jail.” His words come faster and faster. Then stop. The fear I’m feeling must show on my face. He straightens, closes his eyes for a moment.
“Roshen,” he says, his hand creeping toward mine. Not quite meeting it. “Roshen, I’m here because they told your father you’re not allowed to take, or use, phones or electronic devices. They believe it will make you homesick if you stay in contact with family. Your father thought I might know a way for us to communicate, and he’s right. We’ll set up a name and password.” Ahmat is whispering now. “You’ll need to find an internet café, one that operates in secret, with no connection to the government.”
I hear his words. I want so much to take his hands and comfort him while he’s here with me, and to have him comfort me.
But we should not touch, and we don’t.
“Protect yourself,” Ahmat says, and now his eyes bore even deeper into mine. “One of the girls could be a traitor, an informer, or a spy. Someone paid to report wrongdoing or disapproving comments about the government. Don’t make friends until you’re sure.”
“I
don’t want to believe you, but I’ve heard that things can be bad.” A shiver runs through my body. “Some girls never come back.”
“I wish I could go in your place,” Ahmat says with a tenderness that touches my heart. “But it’s you they want. They hope you won’t come back and marry me and bear our Uyghur children.”
“No, Ahmat! We will marry. We’ll have children. They can’t rob us of that.”
“You’ll come back to me, Roshen. You’re strong. Much stronger than you realize.” Ahmat settles back on his heels. “I have something for you,” he says. “I’d planned to give it to you after my mother spoke to your family about us. Please take it with you now—to remember me.”
Ahmat reaches into his pocket and brings out a pendant of white jade that hangs from a delicate white ribbon. “I harvested this from the river this spring. It carries with it all the beauty of our Kunlun Mountains and the purity of the melting snow that carried it down the mountain to our river. Wear it, Roshen, with my promise of love and faithfulness to you while you’re away.” His voice catches, and he turns his face aside.
“Whatever happens, I will come back to you, Ahmat, as pure as this stone.” Held-back tears choke my words.
I ask him to tie it on for me, then hold out my hand to stop him. Aygul is watching. My eyes shoot daggers at her until she cocks her head, smiles, and scurries over to stand by Mother and Grandmother, who are still occupied at the kitchen ledge.
“It’s all right now,” I say quietly, and think only of the quiver in his hands as he places the jade piece on my chest, how his fingers linger as he smooths the ribbon around my neck, how they fumble to make the tie. Of the closeness of his body to mine as he kneels behind me.
I turn to him. “Thank you, Ahmat. Perhaps I’ll find it easier to be away, having this token that binds us.”
We are so close now that our lips almost touch. I think, I hope, that I might get the first kiss I’ve ever had. There can be nothing wrong with our lips meeting when we are pledged to each other and will be separated for so long.
There is noise outside. Father and Grandfather are returning.
In slow motion, Ahmat and I part, our lips never meeting.
We stand.
“Is it all right if Ahmat stays for a while, Father? I was just going to show him a poem I wrote.”
“Of course,” Father answers. “Our family will have time together this evening.”
We sit again, my notebook now between us. We do not speak of my poem but make it appear that we do so.
Ahmat has me write out the string of letters and numbers to use when I send an email and read what he has sent to me. We plan code words with hidden meanings to make it safe for us to send good and bad news without alerting the internet police to dangerous words—like “Uyghur” or “Muslim” or “protest”—as our arms, like two magnets drawing together, touch. We pull apart, and now Ahmat’s hand covers mine as I try to write one more code name. I should pull away, but I don’t.
Our plan has to work. We can’t be apart for a whole year with no word to each other.
And then it is time for him to leave.
Six
I HAVE BEEN ORDERED to go to the bus yards on the outer edge of Hotan. It’s a long distance for our donkey, so Uncle drives us in his truck. A few girls already stand beside a rundown plum-colored van that has been driven far too many times across the desert and over unpaved mountain roads. A Chinese woman with broad shoulders and a large face that seems all mouth and teeth holds a clipboard. Father has been assured I will be safe and well cared for under the protection of a guardian—and I know instantly it will be more important to be protected from her. Nothing hides the meanness in her eyes.
I don’t express my fear to Father. We exchange a quick farewell; our goodbyes took place last night.
I pause a moment to study the girls before I approach the matron. Some are chatting together. I think these are city girls from Hotan, the way they’re dressed. They wear no headscarves, their skirts are short, and they don’t wear leggings. They could be Chinese except for their Uyghur faces and the soft gracefulness of their movements. Other girls stand apart, each with a suitcase or satchel beside her, the small collection of belongings each of us is allowed to bring.
“I am Roshen,” I tell the matron in Mandarin.
She looks at her clipboard. A slash of her pencil suggests I’ve been marked off. She lifts her face and grins at me. “My name is Ushi,” she says, and I hear a snicker coming from one of the girls.
The matron bristles. Her fists tighten. She does not turn in the direction of the insult, but I’m certain that if there were not parents present, she would happily slap the offender in the face.
Another newcomer distracts the matron as I back away and go to stand with the girls who wear headscarves. I assume we all speak some Mandarin, but I think I know which girl had the courage to snicker—the girl who knew that Ushi means “ox” in Mandarin. Her eyes are pinched into narrow slits, her eyebrows drawn together as if protecting herself from the glare of the sun. But the sun today is masked in a haze of sand and dust from the desert. The anger I feel in my heart shows on her face. I think we’ll be friends.
When all the parents have left, we’re told to throw our bags on the roof, where they’re lashed down with ropes. Ushi herds us into the van. “Five of you have to fit into the back. Yee, er,” she counts as she half lifts two girls from the ground and shoves them through the door. “You two skinny ones, go to the back with them,” she says. “And you. Why are you here, Mouse?” She’s shaking her head as she pulls at a young girl, maybe fourteen, tiny, her face almost completely shrouded in a black and white striped scarf. I wonder what family has had to sell their daughter to the Surplus Work Force so they might have enough to eat.
The rest of us scarf people are sent to the middle row of seats, four of us in a seat meant for three. I’m the first in, followed by the angry one, then a quiet one with beautiful long black hair that falls below her scarf. The last one holds back when she sees little room for her to sit. “You there, girl,” Ushi says, bearing down on her and grabbing her sleeve. “Get in.”
“My name is Adile,” the girl says as she pulls her arm away and steps into the van. And it doesn’t matter that we’re crushed together. We do not know one another, yet we somehow become one. I’m sure our bond will help us endure a matron who clearly finds it beneath her to deal with Uyghurs.
Our linked bodies seem to share a moment of amusement rather than jealousy when we watch the great swishing of long hair and oversize earrings as the three unscarved girls climb into the rusty old plum-colored van as if going on holiday. They take the seats in the front row. Three seats for three girls. Their short skirts and uncovered hair have apparently brought them privilege. I don’t think any of these girls is an informer. Wouldn’t that person be squashed in among us, wearing a headscarf and clothing that covers more of her body?
Ushi closes the door and climbs into her seat beside the driver.
No one speaks as the van leaves the bus yard and heads onto the road. We are out beyond the open market, but we pass donkey carts bringing in goods to sell. Families. A mother, a father, a baby swaddled in spite of the heat; an old grandfather, alone, driving his donkey. I see in every one of them the vision of my family, and I want to reach out and stop them. No. I want them to stop me from hurtling down this road to places where I’ve never been.
That’s not to be, and I see the memory of all I know in the poplars that line our way. Go quickly, please, I silently plead to our driver. Let our destination be only a big, ugly factory with no memories attached to it, only Ushi and her comrades barking orders. I don’t want to see anything that will remind me of the people and places I know.
A motorcycle passes the van—it could be Ahmat. Now I can’t breathe. I’m next to an open window. I lean out. Can I jump? It’s Ahmat, and he’s borrowed a motorcycle and come to rescue me. We’ll ride off into a forbidden unkno
wn, escape across a border, and if we live through that, maybe find happiness somewhere in this world.
But it isn’t Ahmat on the motorcycle.
I ease back into my seat and close my eyes. My hands fold over my jade pendant, which lies hidden under my blouse. It’s the same blouse I wore yesterday, and I’m certain the scent of him lingers on it—and he is here with me. He’s tying a ribbon around my neck. Our lips almost . . . almost touch in a kiss. That memory I will always keep with me, concealed in my heart where it cannot be reached. Ushi can command my presence, but not my being.
When I open my eyes again, the road is a straight, paved pathway through the desert. Flowing sand dunes line our way in ever-changing patterns. I might find some comfort in the strange beauty of this landscape if not for the oil tankers thundering past us and the unwelcome jabber from the girls in the front seats—harsh, sharp sounds of Mandarin. I guess they’re trying to impress Ushi with their proficiency, their eagerness to begin a new life.
The four of us in my row do not seem to have moved at all—then I see that isn’t true. The girl with the long black hair bends over a square of cotton, silently moving a needle in and out of her embroidery.
I stretch and try to shift. I’ve grown numb. Now everyone moves a fraction.
“We’ll be packed in like this for the next two or three days, before we even get to the train.” It’s the girl next to me who speaks. The angry one.
I nod, but I have no words. No one does. Until we hear a soft voice from behind us. “I have to go to the toilet.” It’s the mouse.
“Hey, Ushi,” the angry one calls out in Mandarin. “We have to stop in the next town. We have to pee.”
Ushi turns around, and all we see are teeth and grin. “There’s a public WC two hours up ahead. We’ll probably stop there,” she says.
Factory Girl Page 2