“It’s all right,” she says. “I often cough, but it stops. I’m feeling better, really I am. I’m just tired.” She tries to smile, but her lips are quivering. “I’ll be glad when we get there,” she whispers, her voice full of tears.
Adile puts her arm around Zuwida and draws her nearer until her head rests on Adile’s shoulder. I gently lay my fingers on Zuwida’s forehead to soothe her, to let her know it is safe to close her eyes. Her brow feels too hot. It’s steamy inside our prison box, but when I check my own forehead, I know hers is hotter.
“Does anyone have water?” I ask.
There are no replies. I’m not surprised that we have all used up our small ration. “Soon,” I say to Zuwida. “I’m sure we’ll be there soon.”
As I crawl back to sit against the side of the truck, I notice that the unscarved ones have once again separated themselves from the rest of us. They’re huddled in a corner near the cab. We have our luggage with us now. I have chosen to sit on mine. They’ve opened theirs. Hawa is mostly shielded by the other two, but I see flashes of red, and I’m certain she’s changing her clothes. Now Rayida holds a mirror for her, and I wonder what more she thinks she can do to hide the dirt and stink of us. And why she bothers. For Ushi? For a grand reception?
I’m worried. I take my notebook and pencil from my bag. Mikray, I write. Be careful. The scarfless ones heard your talk of escape. I don’t trust them. They might tell if they think it buys them favor.
I pass the note into Mikray’s hand. There’s a flash of anger as she reads the message. She turns her head toward Hawa, and I see her eyes widen, then slowly narrow as her face hardens. She looks confused. I wish we could talk, but it might be dangerous. Wrong, still, to trust those around us.
I force my face into its “sweet” expression and pretend to know nothing and see nothing. Only the smog-covered skyline of the vast city we’re being driven through. I can see the tops of tall buildings though the high, small windows in the doors. And endless tall cranes like giant skeletons in the sky, working to make more tall buildings. The smell of burning coal grows worse. My lungs have been filled from time to time with sand and dust from the desert, and now I wonder what breathing in coal dust will do to them. I’m certain the black smoke I see billowing from tall chimneys is not good to breathe; the air smells sharp and sulfurous.
As I watch, we pass lower and lower buildings. Some stretches of sky have no buildings at all. The Sichuanese man drives on and on—at least I think it is he who drives. I assume Ushi is riding in the cab of the truck with him. I don’t know for certain.
Rubbing my white jade piece calms my body, if not my mind.
Eleven
THE TRUCK STOPS, the doors are thrown open, and there is Ushi. There’s almost relief in that. One familiar thing. She watches as we jump down from our box. She seems as amazed as we are when the princesses emerge. Hawa has on a sleeveless red blouse, the top buttons undone to reveal an immodest amount of cleavage. What little skirt there is hangs from her hips, tight and short. Her legs are bare and amazingly long and slender. Her shoes are red-strapped wedges. Obviously she’s forgotten that the distance from the floor of the truck to the ground will be the same getting out as it was getting in. She looks. She removes her shoes. And jumps. I almost applaud as she slides the shoes back on. It’s a shame her performance is wasted on the likes of us and Ushi.
Rayida and the third girl of the scarfless trio, whose name I’ve learned is Nadia, follow in skirts not quite as short, heels not quite as high. They must believe that high fashion is the appropriate dress for the Surplus Work Force’s arrival at our job. I can’t help staring at Hawa as we’re escorted to the entrance of a large three-story building.
The factory looks like an old warehouse—out here along the road in a town with no tall buildings. Alongside it are abandoned storefronts with unlit neon signs. Broken sidewalks lead to warrens of dilapidated brick houses wrapped in a jungle of green vines. Most of the town seems to lie on the other side of the highway, across from the factory.
Like the truck, the building is in disrepair, but the sign painted on the front in bright blue announces HUBEI WORK WEAR COMPANY in bold, shiny new lettering.
Ushi leads us into a huge room filled with stacks of large cardboard boxes. Some are on movable racks, some piled deep against the outer walls. I expect many of the boxes will soon be given a ride in the truck that just delivered us. Ushi talks to a boy pushing one of the racks. He leaves. We’re left standing. I see Zuwida weaving. Struggling to stay upright.
“May we have some water, please?” I ask Ushi.
“No,” she says, and starts pacing, looking anxiously toward the door at the far end of the room. I wonder what her role is here at the factory. Maybe her job is done and she’ll disappear.
A young man bursts in. Walks briskly toward us. “Welcome, welcome,” he says over and over, in Mandarin, with a little bow of his head each time. He smiles as if he’s pleased to see us. He is wearing a casual short-sleeved shirt with the collar unbuttoned and his undershirt showing through. His hair is cut as short as his clipped words. “Mr. Lee, general manager,” he says, and bows again. “We are a new company with a good reputation for high-quality products and best services.” He stops to smile, moving his gaze along the line, perhaps to make sure we’re listening. He blinks twice as his eyes pass Hawa. He resets his smile and clears his throat. “We hold ourselves and our employees to the highest standards and expect nothing short of full dedication and the finest attention to work from you who have the privilege of working here.”
I dare not look at Mikray, but I’m next to her and I shove my leg against hers. “Don’t say anything,” I hiss without moving my lips. She hears me. I don’t know if she can hold back, but I know it’s important. This man smiles too much. He’s not to be trusted.
He treats us to a few banal statements about his talents and successes. His is a small special-order business, manufacturing custom-made work wear. Then he says again that we’re expected to uphold his superior standards and informs us that we are to do everything Ushi tells us. With a curt bow and another glance at Hawa, he turns. Ushi applauds, so we all applaud until he disappears through the door.
He has not thanked Ushi for delivering us. He has not thanked us for giving up a year of our lives to help him. Ushi, who will continue to rule our lives, says nothing. We follow her through a door across the room from Mr. Lee’s exit. We go up two long flights of stairs and come to a ceiling-high metal gate. Ushi takes a key from her pocket. Unlocks the gate. Sends us through. Locks it again behind her, and we continue up another flight of stairs to the top floor of the building. We turn right and pass the open door of the kitchen. Two women are inside, chopping and stirring. They look up as we pass. “We need a glass of water, please. Can we get it now?” I say this to Ushi, but it’s loud enough for the women to hear. One of them stops what she is doing and heads for the sink.
“You’ll have time later. Let’s go,” Ushi says, herding us down the hallway.
They cut my head off just to test the sharpness of a sword. I don’t know why a line from a poem about torture passes through my mind right now. But I begin to wonder if we’ll be allowed to eat any of the chicken I smell cooking in the pots on the stove.
I concentrate on the dingy walls, the rough-poured concrete floor of the hallway that takes us past a number of closed doors.
Ushi opens a door near the end of the hall, and we walk into a cramped, narrow, airless room. There are three metal bunk beds, crammed end to end, on each side. A clock sits on the sill of the window at the far end. If nothing else, we are to get to work on time. A bare light bulb hangs from the ceiling.
The princesses rush in to claim the bunks near the window. Adile streaks by and claims another bottom space. “Zuwida must have a lower bunk,” she says. I drop everything and run to the bed next to her at the same time Patime and Letipe arrive. I turn and stick my arms out to block them. “Zuwida, come. This is yo
ur bed,” I say. “Adile will be next to you if you need help during the night.” I stand there with my arms thrust out, glaring at the girls. They gaze at me with stricken faces; the voice that came out of me is not one I recognize.
“Roshen,” Patime says, “we want Zuwida to have a lower bed too. She should not have to climb a ladder, and it will be good if Adile can be right next to her. We weren’t thinking of that when we rushed over. You could have asked nicely if we minded.”
I stand as if paralyzed, my arms frozen in that awful gesture, my face so stiff and ugly I can’t speak.
“What’s going on here?” Ushi hollers as she moves toward us. “I don’t know what your problem is, but it’s time for rule number one. And listen good. The only language spoken here in this factory is Mandarin. If I hear anything else, or if one of the other workers reports that you’re speaking”—she throws her hands in the air—“whatever language it is you speak, you’ll be given points. Each point you’re given deducts money from your pay. Get it? Mandarin only.”
My arms slide down. I look at Patime and our eyes connect. I’m sorry, I mouth in Uyghur.
Ushi grabs my arm. “That’s not Mandarin. Two words. Two points.” She heads for the door.
“Follow me,” she says. “Your tour isn’t over.”
I’m the last to leave. I see that Mikray has put my luggage with hers on the bunk near the door. How many points for sneaking out? Where would we possibly go?
The door across from our room leads to two pit-toilet stalls. There’s one large sink. “See that water spigot?” Ushi points to a pipe with a faucet on the end that sticks out into the room. “That’s hot water. You’ll wait in line like everyone else to get it. And you may not wash your clothes or hair at the spigot. That’s what the pails are for.” She walks over to a table to show us piles of peach-colored plastic pails stacked underneath.
On top of the table, piled high, are several stacks of enamel bowls. “The bowls are for food. Take one with you at mealtime. Wash it. Return it to the pile when you’re through. You’ll drink from them too, until we get more cups.”
She takes one from the pile. Goes to the sink. Fills it. Turns. She heads toward Zuwida. “Take this and go lie down, before you collapse on the floor.” She shakes her head as if she’s being forced to give water to a stray dog. “I don’t know why they sent you.”
There are stairs at this end of the building with no gate to keep us locked in. I make a mental note. I’m sure Mikray is doing this too. The big boss, Mr. Lee, came and went from this end. His office is here somewhere. Maybe other important people are here too. Do they sleep here? No answers yet, just questions.
We go down one flight. Still no locked gate. Interesting, I think. Maybe they reason that no one would dare to sneak past Big Boss.
Ushi points out a toilet room here on the second floor, then takes us into a huge space, almost the size of the whole building. This is where drudges like us work, all in one room. There must be almost fifty girls in this stifling hot, windowless cavern. Bare light bulbs hang from the high ceiling. Clever, the windowless room; we won’t know whether it’s day or night. Bodies bend over large tables, sit at oversize sewing machines. I can’t tell what’s happening at the far end of the room.
The smell of sweat and stale air overwhelms me. Soon we will be here too.
The girls nearby take a quick peek at us and go right back to work. We don’t look like them. They all seem to be Chinese, about our age. Aren’t they curious, at least about Hawa and her entourage? Or maybe they get points for looking away from their work. Ushi might see them, and she knows all about giving points.
“Three main jobs here,” Ushi says. “Cutting, sewing, finishing. Your assignments will be posted on the wall. One of the girls in your section will train you. Work starts at seven.” She stops and actually looks at us rather than at the floor, the ceiling, or the blank walls. She gives us her big smile, the one that shows all her teeth. “Guess what happens if you’re late?”
She starts walking again. “And don’t talk when you’re on the floor. You don’t talk, you don’t sing. You work.” I can’t resist humming to myself as I follow her. It helps me bear the knowledge that for one year I will be trapped in this room making work wear for the benefit of Mr. Lee—and our new Chinese cadre back in Hotan, who is “watching over” my family and Ahmat.
Halfway across we come to a large elevator. Two young men are loading boxes onto a wooden platform. There are ropes and pulleys for them to use when they lower the platform to the main floor. For a moment I try to imagine what was here in the warehouse before it became a factory. Maybe bags of rice or cotton that wouldn’t have minded the heat, that would have given off a sweeter scent than our sweaty human bodies.
After we pass the sewing machines and other strange kinds of machinery, we come to what must be the “finishing” part. The girls here are ironing, stitching, folding. Gulnar, our embroiderer, may be the only one who gets a job she likes, serving out her time with a needle and thread.
I’m wrong about the girls not looking at us. They’re just clever at not getting caught. What they don’t try to hide is how they feel about us. “Hate” and “scorn” are words that come to mind. Do they even know who we are, that we’re Uyghur and have been forced to come here? Or are we cheap labor brought in, taking jobs away from Chinese girls who want them? I’ve heard that many Chinese farm girls who want to leave home and work in the cities are denied permits. Why are they going to all the trouble of bringing us here if there are plenty of people to do the jobs?
I know the answer—the quotas our cadres are forced to fill. The Chinese girls probably don’t know about quotas. I can’t blame them for hating us.
We climb the stairs to the third floor again. The smell of chicken is more powerful than ever. Even Ushi thinks about food. “Breakfast is served at six thirty,” she says.
Rayida sidles up to her. “Will we have supper tonight?” she asks in a pathetic voice.
Ushi rolls her eyes. “Supper’s handed out at seven, at the end of the day shift. Bring your dishes to the kitchen.
“And, by the way, from now on no headscarves. Am I clear? Not in the toilets, not in the hallways, not in the factory, not in your room.” She keeps walking, although most of us have stopped. Stunned. Why have we been allowed to wear them all this time if it’s against the rules? Even back home we had to remove our scarves in the classrooms. Ushi let us wear them just long enough for everyone here to know we are “other,” not like them. People that their government wants to get rid of. Surplus Work Force really means Surplus People. People who do not deserve respect. How naïve I was to believe we might be spared this humiliation. Our heads must be uncovered. The tradition that my people have practiced for centuries to fulfill God’s commandment for modesty is unwelcome at Hubei Work Wear Company. We’re now under Ushi’s commandments.
With no further words, Ushi leaves us. We go to our room. Zuwida is curled up on her bunk, sleeping. Her bed has been made and her head rests on a soft pillow. A hush pervades the room as we each go to our respective bunks. Mikray stands by ours. I claim the upper bunk as mine. Laid out on the slab of plywood that is my bed is a folded sheet, a blanket, a towel, and a blue smock—the uniform the girls downstairs were wearing.
“How did Zuwida’s bed get made?” I ask Mikray, in Uyghur. If someone wants to report me for not speaking Mandarin, let them. “And she has a pillow.” Mikray shrugs as we both look over at Zuwida, who is sleeping peacefully. I believe she will get well if she gets a bit of care.
Three hours later a bell clangs and rumbles through the building like a strung-out thunderclap.
Then silence.
The building stops humming as the drone of whirling and whizzing machines ends. A stampede of footsteps hits the stairs. It’s food time. In spite of our hunger, and by consensus, we do not rush to be first in line ahead of the fifty or so girls we saw working downstairs. We stand and wait.
&nbs
p; A blur of blue smocks invades the hallway, then turns at the toilet room. There’s no way everyone can fit in. They don’t. A line forms out into the hallway. I’m afraid to even imagine what the rules are about peeing in the downstairs toilet room during work hours.
When it appears that everyone has left to go to the kitchen, we go into the toilet room and pick up our bowls—eleven of us. Zuwida cannot be roused.
The doors in the hallway have been opened. I peek in. Girls are already sitting on beds eating, in rooms that are as stark and crowded as ours—and littered with clothes draped over the bed rails. Boxes and bags and peach-colored pails are strewn all over the floor. We’ve been neat, storing our clothes, everything, under the bunks in our suitcases. I hope we Uyghur girls will keep some sense of pride in how we live.
We join the end of the line with our empty bowls. Others pass when they leave the kitchen with their bowls filled. They say nothing, just stare at us with no attempt to hide their disdain.
A girl passes with her head in the air, her fingers pinching her nose. “We don’t smell like migrants,” Mikray says. “You do.” She says it loud enough for a dozen or so girls to hear, and I think they might have thrown their food in her face if they hadn’t been hungry.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Hawa says in an imperious tone, going up to the girl. Hawa looks over her shoulder at Mikray, shrugs, then leans over and whispers something to the girl. The girl looks at Mikray and laughs. She nods at Hawa, then gestures to those around her, and they move on.
Hawa turns and walks up to Mikray. “That was stupid,” she says quietly in Uyghur. “We have to be here for a year. I want to eat and have some kind of life. Don’t ruin it for all of us.” She moves back to her place in line.
Mikray’s chest heaves. I think she might explode, but she stands rooted to the floor. She heard Hawa, and maybe she knows her outburst was unwise. We have no friends here, no place of safety. We’re at the mercy of Boss Lee and Ushi. We have no one to run to.
Factory Girl Page 5