After serving his four years, Lu Yuyu was released from prison in June of this year. The following month he began sharing a multipart account of his treatment in detention on Twitter, ending with an entry about his sentencing and transfer to Dali Prison. In August, he was issued a warning by local police for circumventing internet controls, and was told not to speak to the media.

Earlier this month on Matters, Lu published another large chunk of his prison diary, “Incorrect Memory,” which CDT has translated in full.

This Christmas Eve, Lu tweeted that he was “off to have a banquet with the police.”

“Classmates, I’m off to a banquet with the police.”

Incorrect Memory (II)

“Stop! Don’t come any closer! I can write you up for assaulting an officer!”

It was a middle-aged prison guard yelling, his triangular eyes radiating a frosty stare. A younger, shorter guard stood next to him. The detention center instructor who was guarding me went up to speak to the older guard, smiling sheepishly. Then they started to go through my stuff. All I had was a few books.

“Nothing is allowed,” the older guard said in an authoritative tone.

I looked around. The officers who took me here looked helpless.

“Alright. I won’t take them.” I didn’t really have a choice.

After I walked past the two big gates, the officers took off my handcuffs and shackles and left with my books. The older guard threw me a set of striped uniforms, coldly ordering me to change. I hesitated before complying, trying to keep my temper in control.

“Excuse me Sir, the prisoner asks to cross.” As per their requirement, I requested permission from the armed guards who were standing up on the watchtower. Up to the day I finished my sentence, I never understood why we had to do this. But that didn’t matter. Most people would have to do this twice, when entering and exiting. Some only had to do it once, because they are never getting out.

After permission was granted, I crossed over the cordon.

Standing to the right of the gate were three U-shaped buildings with white-tiled walls. Red banners hanging on them read: “Know Your Crime, Acknowledge Your Guilt, Show Repentance…” They looked as ugly as the imagination-killing buildings at my high school with “Good Good Study, Day Day Up” hanging on them. In front of the buildings was a sports field with a few shabby basketball hoops. To the left of the gate, there were some banyan trees, a carefully manicured lawn, and a factory building that had sunk into the ground, its roof about at the level of the road with two raised porches protruding. There was no one else around except the two guards and myself, it felt like I had just stepped into a zombie apocalypse.

Carrying my clothes, I walked on. The two guards following me were joking about how the officer who just left was too obsessed with climbing the government ladder (it seemed like they knew each other). We took a left turn, downhill past two U-shaped factory buildings, a smaller sports field and some cherry blossom trees before reaching the prison cells, another U-shaped construction. I had to do a physical checkup first at the clinic on the first floor. The guards left after handing me to a hot-tempered inmate with upward eyebrows. It turned out that the entire physical checkup was performed by some hot-tempered inmates, including drawing blood and taking X-rays. Luckily, my veins weren’t punctured.

It was almost noon when we finished. I was then taken to the top floor, Floor 6. Like an office building, the cell building had a corridor in the middle and cells on both sides. In a room labeled “Gai Ji Wei” (Commission of Proactive Reformers), I filled out forms, was given a haircut, and was strip-searched again. The middle-aged guard came back, looked at the Statue of Liberty tattoo on my leg and said, “A running dog for American imperialism!” Again, I had to suppress my emotions. Across from the Gai Ji Wei was the dining room where inmates were having lunch. A relatively nice inmate handed me a bowl of rice and a bowl of vegetables, and led me to the front of the dining room. One badge on his chest had his info: Yang Xiaoze, Embezzlement, 10 years. Another badge had the black characters for “On-duty Staff” on a red background. Just as I was digging in, the middle-aged guard called an inmate over. The poor guy walked over, trembling, and got slapped in the face.

“You bastard, you better believe I can kill you if I want!” The guard yelled.

“… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” The inmate kept his head down and murmured. 

“Get lost!” The guard marched off.

In my former jail, some inmates would even dare to joke with the guards. It was obviously different here. Fear was carved into everyone’s face.

After lunch, Yang Xiaoze took me to the cell and handed me toiletries and bedsheets. I then learned that this place was called Cell Zone Five (New Inmates Division). The middle-aged guard was the division chief, family name Qian.

Yang Xiaoze and I were cellmates, the two of us a “mutual supervision group.”

This country has had a long history of “guilt by association,” And now, “guilt by association” has become a major control mechanism in prisons. The prison would divide inmates into groups of three or four to form “mutual supervision groups.” (The superintendents would do the actual work before having the guards confirm it.) Inmates from the same group are required to stay together at all times. If they failed to do that,  or if one of them got into trouble, everyone would be punished. If the matter was serious, the whole cell zone, subdivision or even the entire division would be implicated. Many people worry more about being ostracized after breaking rules than about being punished by the guards.

Our cell was about 30 square meters large. Right above the door was a surveillance camera. On each side, there were three iron-framed bunk beds. At full capacity, a cell can hold 12 people. The team leader slept on Bed One. At the far end of the room was a window, sink, and two squatting toilets.

The guards’ office was around the corner. Unlike the cell, their office had windows facing the corridor. If inmates want to speak to them, they have to announce themselves at the window, through which the conversation would usually be conducted. If the matter would take longer, they’d move it to the “Gai Ji Wei”—inmates were not allowed to enter the guards’ office.

There were too many new inmates, so our cell was over capacity, and newcomers would have to sleep on the floor until someone got reassigned. In the evening, Yang Xiaoze asked to see my court papers. The  he said: 

“You got sent to prison for this? Don’t worry. Your sentence is short and it can be commuted once. You can deal with them after you get out.

“Their policies change all the time. It’s harder and harder to get your sentence commuted. I had trouble every time I tried to do it. Otherwise I would have been out last year,” he went on. He was a teacher in a small town and was sentenced to 10 years for embezzling project funds. He had been inside for six years.

At night, people kept getting up for the toilet. I couldn’t get any sleep on the floor. And there were some cats meowing in the yard outside.

After Jane and I moved to Gantong, every time we came home Xiao Chou would be waiting for us on the concrete rail 50 meters from our apartment. He would meow, rub himself against our legs and follow us home. Xiao Chou liked to go out and play, and when he came home, he’d meow at the door for us to let him in. Thinking that we may not be able to let him in every time, I built him a shabby stairway so he could climb up to the second floor. It took him one day to figure it out. Since then, he was free to roam around. And he would bring us gifts of dead mice. Xiao Chou liked catnip. I wanted to plant some catnip at our apartment so he could bring friends over. I ordered some seeds and a rectangular planter box from online. The day it arrived, June 15, was the day we were taken away.

The “superintendents” here were well-connected inmates. Mostly officials or civil servants on the outside, they weren’t required to do hard labor, and would just help the guards with paperwork and management. Their status was in between a guard and a regular inmate. I often saw them scolding new inmates. A few years back, the superintendents were allowed to beat up newbies. They had stopped doing that because, from what I heard, some superintendents got punished after they damaged someone’s internal organs. They didn’t scold me, though, and often chatted me up. I was no doubt a key person for eyes to be kept on.

It turned out that the inmate I met on my first day, the one with upturned eyebrows, used to be a county mayor. He was also one of the superintendents here. He asked for my court papers. He said: “I know about this incident, it happened in my town. A villager was put in prison for that. He’s serving in Zone 8.”

He was the mayor of Binchuan County. No inmates would call him by his real name. Everyone called him County Mayor. Just like Yang Xiaoze, he was also here for embezzlement. County Mayor didn’t have much to do except to take new inmates to the clinic. He was possibly the most under-worked inmate.

Not required to do labor in the New Inmates Division, we could sleep until 7 in the morning, get settled and have breakfast: cold rice and vegetable soup, or instant noodles. New inmates couldn’t buy things and could only have the soup or have acquaintances buy breakfast for you. I didn’t have any acquaintances. The dining room, located at the corner of the U-shaped building, was quite small—just over 100 square meters—but had to accommodate as many as 200 inmates. We’d be squeezed up to those long tables with built-in seatings, and had trouble getting in or out. The dining room was also called a multi-functional room. In addition to dining, inmates would come here for meetings and study sessions.

Unless it was raining, we’d gather in the sports field around 8 a.m. for training. All new inmates had to go, including the half-paralyzed drug dealer who had to be carried down in his wheelchair. I heard he was a gang leader until his enemies damaged the tendons in his arms and legs in a knife attack.

Before going out for training, we’d do counts in the corridor. With more than 200 people cramped up in that narrow space, mistakes were common. Usually the superintendents would scold us before having us do it again.

Outside, we’d do another count. Then the sick and the disabled would be excused from training. The rest of us would run for 20 minutes before queuing up to stand still. It was called standing posture training, the guards would walk around with their batons and hit those who failed to stand upright. After a while, the guards would disperse and drink tea. Inmates would be divided into two groups to train at the command of their superintendents. It would be less hardcore.

Our team’s superintendent was named Cheng Gang. He spoke to me the first day during our breaks. Sentenced to 13 years for fraud, he might be the only superintendent who was here for a non-duty crime. He wasn’t eligible for a commuted sentence because he didn’t return the money. He seemed to hate the locals, telling me that all Yunnan people were “hometown babies” who didn’t see much of the world yet despised people from the outside.

Next to the basketball court was a big banyan tree. As the sun came up in the morning, it cast the tree’s shadow onto the cellblock wall. Then the shadow would slowly move down and reach the first floor windows at around 11 o’clock.

That was when our training would end. We’d do another count and go up to have lunch. Then we were allowed an hour of nap time. I couldn’t fall asleep the first few days. Yang Xiaoze would tell me to get naps in while I could because I wouldn’t be allowed such opportunities after transferring to a new division.

Afternoons were usually for study sessions. The guards would talk about all kinds of prison rules and laws, and ask inmates to repent. Everyone would pretend to be taking notes but no one cared about what they were saying. Before we’d be assigned to new divisions, we’d copy from samples of thought reports, summaries and repentance letters. When there was a particularly wordy guard, we’d miss dinner as he droned on and on.

Every other day, we’d be given some measly amount of meat. Once a month, we’d have bone soup and beef, which was the only time we’d actually get some meat to eat. Normally the new inmates would be the ones to serve food, a tiring job because there were so many people. But when there was meat, the superintendents would be serving food, and they’d first set aside more than enough to eat for themselves—a full bowl, sometimes two—before giving the new inmates anything. Occasionally, Cheng Gang and Yang Xiaoze would spare me some more.

After dinner, we’d rest in our cell. At 7 p.m., we’d sit in our small chairs and watch the CCTV News Simulcast. Then we’d recite the rules and regulations. Occasionally the guards would tell us to go to some meetings. Usually we went to bed at 9 p.m.

Looking out the cell room window, I could see a nearby village, a segment of highway, a corner of a city, and waves of mountains and hills. The small village had about 30 households. At night, only five or six would light up, I assumed the rest of them had left to find work elsewhere. The one house closest to the prison had a red sedan out front. The owner was probably a woman, always dressed in colorful clothings. Was she married or did she have a boyfriend? The hills closer to me had all types of trees on them, including peach trees, pear trees, and mostly gum trees. Occasionally there would be villagers coming with their sickles to cut the gum leaves. The mountains further away looked barren, save for some windmills for electricity. I heard that Binchuan was right behind the mountains. Next to the highway segment was a corner of the city, scattered with some buildings and ongoing construction. On top of the hill in the middle was a strangely shaped water tower. In the afternoon, there would be traffic on the highway. Cars gathered and dispersed, before driving off to somewhere further away. Everything seemed so close yet so surreal.

New inmates with sentences of 10 years or less were required to undergo training for two months, everyone else had three months. Before long, the ones who came ahead of me were reassigned to production divisions and some beds were cleared. Yang Xiaoze saved a lower bunk for me. The upper bunk was taken by a youngster who was in for a traffic crime. Whenever he had time, he’d talk to me about this girl he met online, and how he went to her village to meet her, and how they went to see a concert, and what she was wearing ….

Most inmates were in for drug offenses. The locals were often in for selling, most of them didn’t get long sentences. The non-locals were mostly in for transportation. They’d go to Myanmar, put drugs into a condom and swallow it before returning to China to hand it over to their bosses. Most of them were sentenced to at least 10 years. Many of these people were youngsters from Hunan, Hubei, Guizhou and Sichuan, kids who enjoyed video games. With each job, they made about 20,000 yuan (US$3,000). Jia Nan was from Guizhou, like me. He was in his 20s and was mentally challenged. Once he swallowed two kilos, making him the biggest one-time transporter, a fact that subjected him to a lot of ridicule.

He said, “I was duped. I helped my boss make the trip without even settling the price.”

Once he asked, “Homie, did they (locals) beat you in jail? I was beaten up bad!”

The county jails here were known for abuse among inmates. Non-locals often had it the worst.

Many Yi people were drug transporters. They did large jobs too, and most were given life sentences or suspended death sentences. Abu Xiagui, a man from the Daliang Mountains in Sichuan Province, received a suspended death sentence. Right before we were to be reassigned to production divisions, he asked me to write a repentance letter for him. He said most of his village did this trade. Some had their family members executed; some had their entire family in prison. There was no other option to feed themselves aside from engaging in this trade. In most places, villagers may choose between becoming cheap migrant workers, or committing crimes. Your life was set for you at birth.

That small county town where I went to middle school had quite a few gangs of various sizes, and every year fights would lead to deaths several times. At my school nearly every night after classes a group of upper-crust people stood guard by the gate. Sometimes there’d be gangs, people looking for revenge or to collect protection fees, people flirting. Every time I went through that gate I’d worry about getting messed with. Before junior high, I was the typical obedient child. I studied hard and won praise from just about everyone. After junior high, I left the place where I started my schooling and went to the county seat’s best school. I was shy and didn’t talk much, I was a peasant from the villages. Forget about fighting, I would tremble if I even saw others fight. So, I became a punching bag for some people, bullied all the time. Once when I was sitting in the front of the class, out of nowhere the strongest kid in class slapped me. I’m still not sure why, and nobody ever explained it. I can still remember his face after he hit me, beaming with pride, as if saying “don’t ask why, I’ll hit you when I want.” Incidentally, after I met a few friends, I set up my own gang. We smoked butts, drank liquor, skipped class, fought, and won ourselves a bit of a reputation. Then all of a sudden, all those people who bullied me became different people, heaping flattery on me. This is when I understood the truth: some people like bullying the weak because they won’t pay a price for it. This type of person is almost always strong on the outside but weak in reality, the type to fall after one hit. Resistance is the only way out, this truth I’ve seen verified countless times in my life. It was then that I began to live in a new way.    

The prisoners secretly called the division chief Old Qian, as he apparently had some sort of close relationship with the high authorities.  

“After you’re here, you aren’t to consider yourself a human being anymore. From now on, you’re the walking dead,” Chief Qian would often say to the prisoners. 

For real.

Prisoners would secretly spread stories of Chief Qian’s beatings. Once a ruthless war broke out over some trivial matters, and he suspended a prisoner for three days. When talking to new prisoners, the old inmates showed little excitement or sympathy. They would describe the tortured prisoners as “stripped leather,” and felt that the beaten had all deserved their punishment. Aside from my first day I never saw Old Qian beat any other prisoners, but I could clearly see the fear those old prisoners wore on their faces when they saw Old Qian.  

In my first few days Chief Qian called me for a talk. He wore a smile on his face, as if he was a different person. I asked about my case, and he said they don’t care about it, and that if I didn’t cause any trouble here all would be fine. He then proceeded to talk about everything under the sun, from Xinjiang and the Hui, to Sunnis, Shiites, and Hegel …. In the end, he added another rinse to my brainwashing.   

“The nation is stronger, the government treats the farmers a lot better—even exempting them from tax. When the prison appropriates land in the nearby village the local farmers don’t argue etc, etc…. The peasants aren’t worth all this.” He seemed to completely misunderstand my situation.   

I wanted to tell him that even as a peasant myself I didn’t do it for the peasants, and ultimately I gave up. Many people can’t be convinced. Many years ago that person who would go on to organized crime told me that nobody can change you, only time will change you. 

After that Chief Qian called on me several more times, mostly to give me his religious outlook or philosophy, or to recommend that I look around for a philosophy textbook. I took this as an opportunity to ask if I could buy books myself or call people outside to bring them to me. Surprisingly, he agreed.  

The deputy warden responsible for reform and the vice political commissar would also call me to talk, to deliver the rough idea that it was my right to not admit guilt but that I must obey the management, and basically asking that we “don’t embarrass each other.”  

At the end of the month bank cards and Yikatong cards would be issued. The bank cards were used for people outside to send money for use, and the Yikatong could be used to shop in the prison market. Twice you could go and spend a monthly limit of 300.  

In December when the weather turned cold, you had to wear cotton-padded clothing inside. Fortunately it doesn’t rain in Dali in winter, the skies are blue with white clouds every day. Nothing like in Guizhou where the endless fog and rain made people depressed. 

I knew that of course, many friends would be writing to me, but for the most part I wouldn’t be able to receive those letters. Perhaps the iron curtain suddenly burst a seam, or maybe the person who distributed the mail had died. Whatever happened, I had received a letter and a postcard with the Eiffel Tower on its front, and the words “More Sunlight!” on the back. It was written by big sister Wang, her and Pipi were now living in Dali and wanted to wish me well, there were many on the outside who were concerned about me.

For someone deep in the dark, this was indeed sunlight. 

I immediately wrote a reply to big sister Wang, naively thinking I’d be able to receive more mail. 

Of course, the letter I was looking forward to most was Jane’s. Would she write me? 

The first time I saw Jane was at the bus station. I took the long distance from Fuzhou to Zhuhai, she came to the station to meet me in an ash blue dress, waved to me on the platform. She never wore makeup and her clothes were simple, she liked British styles. Nearly every other day she’d go out for a run. Back then, we’d cycle to many places, Fenghuang Mountain, Qi’ao Island. Sometimes we’d ride too far, by the time we got home it was already nearly light out. We had no concrete plans, no expectations for tomorrow, just living like that day after day. 

By November, new prisoners could purchase things. Cheng Gang suggested that I hold off buying food, that I’d first need a blanket for the cold winter nights we weren’t equipped for. The day for shopping was also visiting day—twice per month, and the only two days we weren’t required to work. All the prisoners were brought to the door of the supermarket to meet relatives or shop.

The supermarket was on the first floor of the second of three concave buildings to the left of the prison gate. This was the teaching  building, the other two were prison buildings. You’d see one just about every time you went shopping, a group of feeble old inmates on the roadside, crookedly picking up litter on the field. The supermarket was about 100 square meters, the people selling mostly all duty criminals, the arrogance among them perceptible even from the other side of a thick wall. On the outside they were officials and civil servants, nothing like normal people. Even behind bars their status was much higher than normal prisoners, who were mostly farmers. They hid the better products and sold them only to people they knew well—daily necessities, but mostly fast food that I’d never seen on the outside but that seemed to make people very worried, but maybe nobody cared. At check out I’d exceeded the limit by a lot, so I had to return some items. There weren’t any blankets for sale, so I bought a pair of cotton shoes.   

There was another group aside from the new prisoners, the prison art troupe. The inmates called it the circus, and it was mostly made up of people with very long sentences. When they practiced, we could hear the sounds of all sorts of instruments. This reminded me of my never realized rock n’ roll dreams.

Towards the end of November my father came to visit after more than six months. This time it wasn’t because the police were looking for me, but on behalf of my friends. After noting the news from my friends, he again started with the brainwashing, saying the country was growing stronger thanks to there being an eternal ruler, that the government was planning to reinstate his retirement pay …. Fortunately, we only had 20 minutes of meeting time.

When my father was young he was also considered progressive, one of the earliest around listening to Teresa Teng in our region back in the day. Father joined the army and the Communist Party in his early years, then after discharge worked in state-owned enterprises. In the 80s, he was our region’s first person to go on unpaid leave and start a business, before long making a lot of money and was rated one of the top 100 self-employed householders in the country. My mother became a National Women’s Day Flag-bearer, often traveling to Beijing for meetings. It was great for a while, officials from county and provincial ministries would often come to visit her at home. Each time an official came it was as if our family was on holiday. My mother would start prepping meals in advance, and get so busy she had to hire a babysitter.   

My parents liked to help others, and the people in the village received that help often. Back then, they paid for the village electricity and water to be installed. After the power was on, my father went to a friend in Beijing and bought the best TV and VCR available, a Panasonic. The first day the TV was installed nearly the entire village came out. The signal was so bad that someone had to move the antenna up to the roof ….

But good things don’t last forever. My father’s temperament is very straightforward. and he offended some officials. In the 90s his farm was meddled with by the government and collapsed, and thus began his endless career petitioning ….

Before assignment, a very amiable guard and Yang Xiaoze brought us to a classroom full of computers for a psychological evaluation. The computer asked me some questions, but I didn’t get to see the results.

Two months flew by. Before being assigned, every new prisoner had to write out a confession letter and denounce their crimes, thank the government and Party, and swear to reform and lead a new life. I told Yang Xiaoze ahead of time that I wouldn’t admit guilt or write the confession letter.  

Chief Qian told Yang Xiaoze to review my past, which I expected.

“I hear you didn’t write a confession letter?” Chief Qian asked.

“I’m not guilty,” I said.

A few policemen came back to surround me.

“If you don’t write it, we can’t commute  your sentence. This is for your own good,” he said again. 

“Don’t commute my sentence,” I said

On this I never shook, and was mentally prepared for whatever situation might come.

Chief Qian went on: “Well, you don’t have to confess and repent, but just write that you plead not guilty but promise not to violate prison regulations.”

I thought about it and agreed, since he’d helped me get books in. 

The older prisoners told me that there’d been people who pled not guilty before, and they’d all been tortured cruelly. Apparently, I should consider myself lucky. 

Days before assignment, the new inmates busied themselves trading contact information. I had no address or phone number to leave. Others gave me theirs, and I politely pretended to leave mine. I knew in my heart that I’d never see them again. 

When the others told me that “the good days were over,” I didn’t take them seriously.

Up to assignment day Chief Qian still hadn’t lived up to his promise about the books. A few dozen of us, carrying our bedding, clothes, basins, and snacks, were taken to the field at the supermarket entrance, then were led away successively like animals at market. Everyone was first stripped naked and inspected. I was in the last group to be taken away, sent to Cell Zone Four.

Zone Four was the clothing production prison ward. Since all the prisoners were in the workshop during the day, the guards took us there first. The workshop was on the third floor, with rows of different types of sewing machines, hundreds of them, and behind each machine was a prisoner with a face twisted in hardship. To the left of the entrance was the guard office with a big official desk outside with two officers napping on it. After registering I was assigned to a team. An attendant led me to a sewing machine, pointed to it, and said it was going to be mine in the future. He then sent me some accessories and a cloth and told me to get to know the machine. Older criminals wouldn’t stop coming by and striking up conversation, boring people.  

The workshop bathroom was at the most interior position. It had just two basins with no sort of cover, and was always overcrowded. Like a bus during rush hour, those inside couldn’t get out while those outside couldn’t get in.

Lunch was eaten in the shop, with prisoners squatting in groups to eat in the small open area outside the office and bathroom. A couple other inmates came up to ask about the new cotton shoes I had bought. 

Work would end after 7 p.m. Before calling it a day we would line up for the officers to search us one by one.  After the search, we’d go downstairs in order, line up again, then return to our cells shouting slogans, everyone timid and careful. If there was a problem from one person, the officers would punish everyone, then a group of prisoners would later abuse the troublemaker.

My cell had changed from the sixth floor of the original building to the first, and my bed was now the upper bunk, the lower reserved for older and connected prisoners to sleep on. My cellmates were relatively friendly, asking about the details of my case. I had no way to explain it to everyone, so I just said the charge the court gave me. Frustrated, I thought of the dialogue between Andy and Red in “Shawshank Redemption.” Andy said he was innocent, to which Red replied, “Everyone in here is innocent.” 

Like the entry supervision team, the team leader slept in the first bed, and a duty officer also slept in the jail unit. Everyone was exhausted and crawled right to bed. But, since we’d just changed beds, I couldn’t sleep. 

“The sole happiness here is sleep,” said Zhu Li, who was sleeping across from me. Zhu Li was also from Guizhou, and like most others here, was involved in drug smuggling. His parents worked in Guangzhou and he was brought up there. A stack of photos sent from home showed him with fancy cars and beautiful women. 

At 6 a.m. we’d have to get up and hurry to queue to wash, use the toilet, and eat breakfast. When work started at 7 a.m. it was still dark; when shift ended, it’d also be dark. Except for a little bit leaking in the window in the afternoon, you generally couldn’t get any sun. Sometimes after work the officers would hold meetings. There was basically no free time, and when there occasionally was we’d already be exhausted.

Sometimes people from my hometown would come visit to chat, teach me about the sewing machine, or gift me little snacks. 

There were 110 in the whole squad, many of them serious criminals. Aside from the duty staff—production team leader, trimmers, Chief Inspector, those putting orders together, machine repair, etc.—over 70 people were left to pedal the sewing machines, the hardest job there. We mainly made all types of overalls, with each single pair made by a series of processes, not difficult but a serious task. The prisoner in charge, the production team leader, basically managed the production. The guards didn’t understand, none of them would learn about the sewing process. In prisons that aim to make money, these prisoners can sometimes be more powerful than some of the officers. Inmates who wanted to be commuted needed a high output and a high assessment score, and then their sentence would be commuted fast. A good relationship with that leader was very important for ordinary prisoners, who flattered them and offered them gifts in private. If the team leader didn’t like you, they’d embarrass you all the time and give bad reports on you. If the officers just scolded you a couple of times you’d be lucky; more often they’d hit you. Like this, some prisoners would slack off all day long and still get high scores, then quickly be commuted. For others, no matter how hard they worked, they couldn’t finish their tasks, their sentences were reduced slowly, and they were often given trouble by the officers.   

I counted as an exception, unwilling to admit guilt or ask for a shorter sentence, not to mention kiss ass. Wang Yi came over and said to me, if your sentence isn’t going to be commuted, just sit here and go through the motions, that’s fine. If you see guards coming just pretend to press the pedal on the sewing machine.

“Those idiots can’t tell,” he said. 

Wang Yi was a bit over 50, in for life for selling drugs. This was already his second stint in jail, this one for dealing while on probation. He’d got essentially no hope for parole since he’d also “had a couple incidents” while in prison, so even though he’d been in for six years, he’d still got who knows how long. Sometimes people asked him, think you’ll make it out alive?

Wang Yi and I were cellmates, and he would occasionally tell me stories about resisting the guards. 

“I’m not afraid of them beating me, but I am afraid of them hanging me!” he said. 

“As soon as you’re hung up there you start screaming,” said Zheng Long, who slept on the bunk below me and was always teasing Wang. 

“That son of a bitch instructor from before was ruthless, hung me all the way up on the door,” Wang Yi tried defending himself. He was one of the famous people of Zone Four. He didn’t care about the supervisors at all and, most of the time, the guards didn’t try to control him either. 

“To hang” is a type of torture popular in prison. They cuff a prisoner’s hands behind their back over the top window sill so that their tiptoes can just brush the ground. Normally they leave people hanging for half a day or more. Few can last a whole day. Most quickly admit their wrongs and beg for forgiveness. 

Listening to the older prisoners’ descriptions, a faint dread stirred in me. Thinking back to my previous clashes with the guards, I hadn’t been particularly afraid—but terror can be infectious. It seeps out of everyones’ eyes, expressions, and speech, filling up the air and eventually digging into your heart. More dreadful than torture is the terror that pressed down on you every second of every day. 

In there, the guards were the law. For any small thing, they could arbitrarily punish you: make you hand-copy the rulebook, goose step in place, or engage in some other form of punishment they think might bring joy to their boring day. Those punished had to rejoice—after all, it was better than a beating from the guards. Hand-copying the rulebook was decidedly not a light punishment. It meant that within a short timeframe, you had to spend your already extremely rare rest hours writing out boring characters. Some prisoners didn’t finish even after a month of copying …. 

The first and second months went pretty smoothly. Midway through them a group of young guards sought me out to ask a few questions:

“Why did you want to do this (meaning Not News)?” one of them asked me. 

“For myself,” I said. 

“Well, at least you’ve got self awareness,” he said. Maybe that was the answer he had wanted to hear.

“For your case ‘picking quarrels and provoking troubles’ doesn’t really fit. But you definitely did something illegal, otherwise the PSB wouldn’t have arrested you,” the other junior captain said. 

People always search for reasonable grounds for their actions. Usually, police believe they’re enforcing the law even when they’re beating or abusing prisoners, in this way their hearts don’t become conflicted. Of course they aren’t willing to believe that innocent people are locked up in their prison. Even if they feel the charge “picking quarrels and starting trouble” is absurd, they’ll still think “you’ve definitely done something else, it’s just the evidence hasn’t been found, that’s all.”

My third month after arriving in Cell Zone Four was also the month before Chinese New Year, and my production targets were crazy. I couldn’t finish them, so I had to hand copy the rulebook ten times. I didn’t want to do it, but every other person had that punishment, so I told myself “they’re all copying, why can’t I copy? It’s better than getting hung up, isn’t it?”

 By the time I finished copying, I regretted it.

I went to Wei Liming, the ward instructor. “What you’re doing to prisoners is corporal punishment in disguise,” I said.

“You’ve already finished copying, what’s the big deal? We’ll talk it over anyway.” Wei Liming had also just been transferred here from the newcomers’ ward, and had sought me out for a chat before. 

Wei Liming was a talker. When he led classes for the newbies, they often ran long. Because he didn’t get along with Chief Qian, he was assigned to Zone Four. In Zone Four it wasn’t required to hold class for the prisoners, but he still found opportunities to use up all the inmates’ free time leading meetings. At his peak, he called six days of meetings in a single week. 

By New Year, the cells didn’t see much sunlight and were very cold. Luckily I’d already purchased a blanket—if I hadn’t I’d have been woken by the chill at night. A couple of days before New Year’s Day, my long underwear went missing. I looked for it all over the drying room but couldn’t find it. About 200 people used the 100 square meter room to dry identical prison garb, so it was common for people to pick up the wrong clothes. Anyway, everyone had only two pairs of underwear. If you lost them the guards didn’t care, and they wouldn’t sell you new ones either. All you could do is endure the cold. I needed to seek out the guards, and so I found Wei Liming. 

“First go search for yourself, then we’ll talk,” he said. 

“If I can’t find it, will you sell me a pair?” I asked him. 

“Can’t do it, I’m not in charge here, there’s a department specifically responsible for this.” He  brushed me off. 

On the day of Spring Festival, everyone was busy celebrating. The prisoners were occupied by all sorts of prize games and the guards were simply hoping to finish early and return home to welcome the New Year. I was still looking for my underwear unsuccessfully, so I once again sought out Wei Liming. 

Wei Liming immediately turned on the PA system and commanded all prisoners to lay out their clothes in order to help me find mine. I immediately regretted asking him, if I’d known it would be like this I wouldn’t have. That guy clearly aimed to make all the prisoners hate me—some had already started cursing, but I swallowed my rage. Not long after, my clothing was found (I guess the guy who took it by mistake turned it in), Wei took my underwear and, immensely proud of himself, walked over to me and said loudly:

“Inmate Lu Yuyu, it’s clear your clothing was never lost, and that you set this up to hassle the guards and disrupt the prison’s orderly management. According to regulations, you will be demerited.”

“Demerit away! Better yet, lock me in detention! As for the clothes, I don’t even want them.” Maybe I’d choked it back for too long, all of a sudden I exploded, took the clothes, and threw them on the ground. 

All the nearby prisoners gathered around me in shame, suddenly speechless.  Out came the handcuffs, my arms were locked up above a window, and the guard walked away.

Not long after, two young guards came out. They wanted me to calm down and admit wrong. I didn’t answer them, so they called an orderly, Fu Jing, to stand by my side for some brainwashing, mostly along the lines of, “When you’re in a hole stop digging.” Fu Jing once lent me a bottle of vitamins, so our relationship wasn’t half bad. 

All my cellmates were already watching the CCTV New Year’s Gala. Now and then their laughter would ring out. Fu Jing saw that it wasn’t working, and went off to go find Wei Liming.

“The instructors say today is New Year’s Day, so they won’t demerit you. But you must write a self-criticism, otherwise Wei’s reputation won’t survive,” Fu Jing said on his quick return.

The air was cold and my legs were already stiff. I hesitated for a moment and then agreed. 

This was my first time writing a self-criticism since being imprisoned. Once again I was in charge of myself for an extended period. Can time really change a person?

I don’t usually celebrate holidays, Spring Festival included. But from the point of view of an imprisoned human sewing machine, the holiday means you can relax for three days, eat a bit more meat than usual, and even enjoy some sun. In Dali, the winter sun is so warm. 

During Spring Festival in 2014, Jane didn’t return home. The months before were our busiest of the year. Every day we could find an unquantifiable amount of information: endless searching, editing, downloading, uploading. There was no time to think of celebrating the New Year. The “National Treasures” came for a visit, two of them looking for me to write out a statement and warning us not to publish again. I told them, “If I’ve violated your laws then you can arrest me.” Jane yelled at them. A few days later, our landlord came to us demanding that we move. Soon, strangers began arriving at our doorstep pressing us to move out. Just a few days after the end of the year, someone took a knife to hack the water pipes downstairs to pieces. Where could we move? After talking it over with Jane, we decided to go to Dali. We’d been there before and liked the climate. It’s cheap, and the countless tourists would make us stand out less, allowing us to avoid most harassment. 

Xiao Bo’s bed was next to mine, but he rarely spoke with people in our cell. But after I fought with Wei Liming, he started to talk to me whenever he felt like it, or when passing by me he’d throw some waste cloth at me. We quickly became close. One time, taking advantage of the opportunity afforded him while cleaning, he brought me into the ward’s little library, and we surreptitiously took a bunch of books including “A Pictorial History of Europe,” and “Chronicles of Napoleon.”

Xiao Bo told me he’d been beaten by the guards there before, and had continued to report the guards who beat him to the supervising officer. He asked me whether writing a letter to the provincial prison administration might be of use. I said, “As far as I can tell, it‘s pointless. Your letter won’t even get sent out. If you consistently bring complaints, the guards here won’t like you, so you won’t get assigned an easy job and it’ll be difficult to finish your production quotas.” Not long after, Xiao Bo was assigned to a different ward. 

Starting in my fourth month, Zone Four rolled back a rule and inmates no longer had to copy prison regulations if they failed to complete their tasks.

There were three madmen in Zone Four: Xiao Ye, Wu Tian and Zhang Kui.

Xiao Ye’s sewing machine was right next to mine. He’d never stop talking to himself while working. One morning when we gathered in the basketball court before going to work, all 400 of us were squatting down at our spots on the concrete, but Xiao Ye didn’t. He was standing there like nobody was watching, making all kinds of traffic cop gestures and murmuring. All the inmates and guards must have grown used to him, no one even cared what he was doing. Xiao Ye would get out in a few days, then the news would come that he was locked up again in a mental institution for setting his own house on fire.

“That’s normal. It would be weird to stay sane after being locked up here,” some inmates said.

The other two who wouldn’t stick around were Wu Tian and Zhang Kui. Wu Tian was in a team behind mine, and he’d yell something at the air. I couldn’t tell what it was because we were far apart.

Zhang Kui was also in a different team, but he was more recognizable. Even from far away you could easily recognize Zhang Kui, who had to bend down and walk in small steps. Zhang Kui was always wearing a straitjacket, as if he and that blue denim instrument of torture had merged into one. He had to sleep in it too, so taking a shower was out of the question. There was always a yellow mark on his butt. It smelled like a dead animal from afar. It probably wasn’t easy for him to use the bathroom either. The inmates despised him, scolded him all the time. He wouldn’t shoot back or stop talking to himself. His face, never cleanly shaven, would twist up and seize. Zhang Kui refused to work. He’d sit on a small stool while others worked. The guards would arrange other inmates to look over him. Occasionally, some bad tempered guard would punch him or kick him. And at one point, the guards invented some new game: they made a black cloth that would cover his head except his mouth, and looking for some fun, the superintendents would put a peanut or some other things through the hole, and have a good laugh looking at him chewing.

Zhang Kui used to be a superintendent too. Some would say that he somehow pissed off the guards; others said that something happened to his family before he went crazy. He tried to kill himself several times. His cellmates were punished together with him. So inmates started to ostracize him and often cursed him. Many people thought he was faking it. Some told me that they admired Zhang Kui because he could fake it for so long. I felt sorry every time I saw him. I didn’t know if one day they’d put me in a straitjacket too. And if so, what would I do? I wouldn’t allow myself to live like that. It’s better to die than to be tortured and ridiculed, left with no dignity.

Because I had no pressure for production tasks, I’d mostly slack off at work and listen to people chat. Jia Nan (the one who swallowed two kilos of drugs) was also locked up there, not far from me. He was also possibly mentally challenged. I heard that the bosses were specifically looking for people like them to do transport. The bosses seemed to be safe: there were many inmates locked up for transporting drugs, but so far none of their bosses were thrown in there.

Day after day, we went to work and came back. The weather was getting warm. Cherry blossoms bloomed and withered away, their fruits growing bigger and bigger. Then all of a sudden, the guards told us we’d be having three days off starting May 1. Everyone was ecstatic, this had never happened before. Some cellmates said this meant that the nation was wealthy enough to not have to earn money from prisoners. I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Our paths were straight lines crossing briefly before parting ways, I saw no point in wasting my time.

There was bad news, too. Starting in May, inmates that failed to complete their assigned tasks would be punished with additional drills. 

The first time I saw him beating someone up, I knew for sure that one day I’d have conflict with Little Mute. Little Mute was a guard assigned to the prison a few years ago. His speech was slurred, and inmates called him Little Mute in private. Little Mute was was the chief of Team Four, before getting reassigned to Group One with a demotion after he beat up an inmate. He wasn’t happy about it and often took it out on the inmates, a few had been smacked by him already. 

The first time I walked up to Little Mute to tell him my machine had broken down, I was propelled by a desire to overcome my fear of him. It was hard to bear. And the clock continued running while the machine was being fixed, meaning we could do less work—although that didn’t matter much to me.

Little Mute reacted somewhat normally, asking me to go back and wait. I waited for a long time, but no one came for repair. So, I went up to him again.

“Who do you think you are? Lu Yuyu, if we were outside, I’d have killed you already!” He looked like he had eaten explosives for lunch. 

“My machine broke down,” I repeated.

“Your organization has given up on you. Don’t think too big of yourself. Now get lost!” He cursed while gesturing his water cup towards my head. I could feel my blood boiling. As soon as his water cup touched my forehead, I bowed down, my fingers pointing to my head, and said to him:

“Come, kill me now, I’ll despise you as long as I’m alive!” I said this for no real reason.

Little Mute was stunned. As for the superintendents, they for sure wouldn’t give up such an opportunity to lick a guard’s ass. They jumped at me and bent my arms back. Little Mute then cuffed me up, pushing me towards the guard’s office. I was worried that he’d “hang” me at the window. Fortunately, the chief of Zone Four and a group of guards came out. They saw me and pulled Little Mute away before cuffing me by the window.

The division chief was young, and reportedly had good family connections. He seldom appeared in front of the inmates or handled things by himself. At meal time, the guards asked superintendents to bring me food. I was too mad to have an appetite. Then the guards came, one after another, asking me to eat. I skipped two meals, anger suppressing my appetite. In the evening, the division chief came by.

“I know about you. I think you are really something for what you’ve done. Don’t get mad over such trivial matters, alright? And, don’t let things go all the way up the management.” He said.

“It’s wasn’t a big deal, sure. But if I didn’t fight back, that guarantees it will happen again.”

“Alright. Tell me what you want.”

“I want this stuff to stop. And, I was promised that I could buy books. I want my books.”

“That’s it? OK then, no problem. Will you eat now?”

“Sure.”

It looked like things were resolved. Most importantly, I was allowed to buy books.

Little Mute was not giving up. He wanted to win his pride back. Three days later, he asked the production manager to have me reassigned. Being reassigned at that moment would all but ensure that I’d get punished for not being able to complete my tasks. I refused. The production manager said that he was helpless. I said, don’t worry, I can take care of it myself. Although I was only here for a few months, the production manager took care of me by giving me some easy tasks. Maybe he did this because he saw that I dared to push back against the guards.

I went to Little Mute directly. Having learned his lesson, he didn’t curse at me. He said with a smile, “It’s within my power to reassign you.”

So, I staged another hunger strike. I just sat there and refused to work. In the evening, the deputy division chief came and said that the chief was out of town and had asked him to come check on me. I said that they broke the promise, that my only demand was to be transferred to a different division. The deputy chief tried to strike up some chit chat before realizing that there wasn’t much else to talk about and leaving.

After I skipped my fourth meal, my transfer paper was issued. A few young guards came and asked me to pack my stuff. They looked like they were about to tear me up. But I didn’t care anymore.

(To be continued) [Chinese]

Translation by Yakexi, Josh Rudolph, and Joseph Brouwer. 

Huang blogs on Matters, a Chinese-language blockchain platform based outside the Great Firewall aimed at allowing netizens to express themselves more freely. In one of her last posts before she was detained, translated in full below, Huang addresses the  powerful emotions people in Hong Kong are experiencing in response to police violence and existential threat. Drawing on Timothy Snyder’s short treatise “On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century,” Huang calls for small acts of solidarity and resistance–a smile, a cheer, a ballot–to heal each other and stay resilient in the face of a powerful dictatorship.

To Resist Tyranny, Start Small

by Huang Xueqin

Last night I went to a vegetarian restaurant to hear Lam Wing-kee, the manager of Causeway Bay Books, talk about going into exile. Towards the end of the evening, a Hong Kong friend stood up and said, “I have some bad news to share. Hong Kong now has a second ‘Mr. Leung‘ [the protester who fell to his death on June 14 after unfurling a protest banner]. Let’s take a minute–I hope that everyone here will take a minute of silence for her.”

I couldn’t manage silence. I took out my phone. The first thing I saw was a cartoon: seven people standing side by side, six of them wearing black, the one in the middle wearing a yellow raincoat, with the words “#SupportEachOther #NoOneLeftBehind #WeMustGoOnTogether.” Following that was a string of suicide prevention hotlines. Grief sprung from my heart. This despair and disillusionment had followed the first Mr. Leung like a shadow. At the time I had worried about the contagiousness of suicidal acts, that lionizing suicide could lead to copycats. I never thought there would be a second one. 

After June 6 and June 12, I also had an acute stress reaction. Violent images took over my mind. I was joyless. I felt in turns sorrow, unease, nervousness, anxiety, dread, and anger. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. As soon as I recognized what was going on, I sought professional counseling, and I bared my feelings to my friends. With all of their support, I gradually relaxed and found calm. In the past two weeks, Hong Kong people have been brave, resourceful, and united, reopening possibility for the city through all kinds of creative resistance and advocacy. I also have a sort of “all-in-this-together” optimism. I had forgotten that too many protesters could still be mired in despondency, and that without effective care, they could sink, or erupt, or fall. 

Most recently, I’ve been reading “On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century,” by the Yale University professor Timothy Snyder. In the 20th lesson, Snyder writes, “If none of us is prepared to die for freedom, then all of us will die under tyranny.” Of course I understand the risks of pursuing freedom. I’m paying the price right now of being far from home. Yet I have always been wary, even when it is in the name of democracy and freedom, of admonishments and exhortations to give your life and let blood flow. The other day, a friend asked if Mr. Leung’s blood sacrifice to the fight against the extradition law wasn’t the reason two million people went out on the streets. He even offered his own conclusion that “the 1989 democracy movement failed because it didn’t have a Mr. Leung.”

Freedom and life, which is light, which is heavy? Each has its weight and its options. I simply want to warn against the kind of despair that demands no less than life and blood as bargaining chips in the fight. I’m even more afraid that the disillusionment that comes from resistance without results, or without immediately visible results, will spread. The demands and tactics of social movements have their similarities and differences, but the bar to participation can’t be set too high. Different people can resist in different ways. To address broader feelings of anger and frustration, I can merely provide some lessons and feasible actions from “On Tyranny.” I hope that we can all live well and each do what’s within our power to smash helplessness and hopelessness. 

To resist, start small

Resistance can start in your everyday life, in the small things at hand. It could be posting a slogan you believe in on a door or in a shop window; offering bottles of ice water or the use of a toilet to protesters passing by; broadcasting a word of support or thanks to protesters in the subway car; refusing to buy publications that you don’t approve of, changing the channel on programs that twist the facts. If you can’t march in the street or be part of a sit-in, make a stand with small things in your daily life. 

Make eye contact and small talk

Tyrannical regimes wish to erase the line that divides public and private life. Their intent is to establish mutual misunderstanding, to make each other feel alienated, isolated, or antagonistic. In times like these, we need to make more eye contact with our friends, grow our empathy for others, make time for chitchat, and offer each other support and encouragement. Give the people in the midst of the action some warmth and energy so that they can press on. After [the anti-extradition protests and clashes between police and demonstrators on] June 9 and June 12, many people are now in an emotional state of emergency, yet they don’t have access to effective treatment. Please keep an eye on the people around us, pay attention to how they are feeling, and give them your full attention, understanding, and support. If you aren’t able to help, please contact a hotline. Professional counseling and supportive friends could be just what someone needs to keep on living.

Beware certain professionals who wield power 

Nazi Germany murdered six million Jews; lawyers, doctors, journalists, and corpse bearers were their accomplices. Think for a moment: if the lawyers and judges had insisted on not holding secret trials and handing out death sentences on a whim, if the doctors had insisted on not violating their code of ethics to perform medical experiments, if the press had dared to expose the truth and sound the alarm on tyranny, if the soldiers who were told to open fire had all aimed just a few centimeters higher, would six million people have lost their lives? Now look again at the extradition bill, the framing of the legal problem. Why wasn’t there sufficient pushback from the Legislative Council to call for an adequate amount of time for deliberation? How is it that the police, who are sworn to serve and protect the people of Hong Kong, are able to launch 150 tear gas bombs and shoot round upon round of rubber bullets at peaceful protesters? How is it that the hospitals can give passage to the police and release patients’ private information? Haven’t these powerful professionals already been reduced to accomplices of tyranny?

Believe in truth, support civil society

People in power like to say, “You have your values, I make my own choices. No one is above the other.” But we cannot be misled by this logic. We must read more things of more substance, and believe in truth. If we aren’t able to search for the truth ourselves, we should enable the people who can to do it. We should give financial support to high-quality, independent media so that journalists can investigate and report. We can also contribute to the “anti-extradition humanitarian fund for the injured and arrested,” as well as the cost of first response medical care and lawyer’s fees. 

Practice corporeal politics

In the end, a despot can take a people, but it can’t take their heart. We can still leave our comfort zones to connect more–with your friends, classmates, different groups and organizations, even people and groups that oppose you–to listen, to understand, to get through, to link up with people of different backgrounds and different standpoints. Unite popular sentiment, practice the democracy you believe in, live as your own example. 

Hurry up and register to vote

By cherishing your right to vote and every single ballot that you hold in your hand, you can stop the despot from using the illusion of legitimate elections to seize power. Two million people marched in the streets. If they all register to vote, they will be able to push some reform of the system. 

Stand with more people

One more person standing up is one more bit of power, and one less bit of fear. Imagine, if you take away the nearly 100,000 civil servants from among the seven million Hong Kongers, and everyone else stands up, what does that look like? How will they settle accounts? How big of a prison can they build?

Face the coming tyranny with calm

When the despot arrives and powers collude, they may use all their might to “maintain stability,” they may censor everything. Besides staying vigilant and resisting as much as we can, we must improve our health and strengthen our resolve. It could be that whoever outlives the other, wins. [Chinese]

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, so I’d like to share a little of my personal story.

Before university I studied for a year at an ethnic minority preparatory school, where my classmates consisted of a dozen or so Tibetans, and more than 30 people from Xinjiang. This was the first time I interacted with people from a different culture. My Tibetan roommate’s Mandarin and Sichuan dialect were especially good, and since her family would often send local Tibetan specialties to the school, we’d often enjoy lots of tsampa and beef jerky, or drink loads of butter tea. In the winter, when the school didn’t heat the classroom during cold and wet conditions, several Tibetan classmates would sit in a row covering their legs with long woolen blankets and looking particularly nice and warm.

Since there were so many Xinjiang students they all lived together in a very beautifully decorated dormitory—walls adorned with wallpaper and tapestries, surrounded with curtains. Some classmates also spread a large rug across the floor in complete local style. Every time I’d visit their dormitory and then return to mine, there was a great disparity.

Every year at the school the most magnificent holiday was Eid al-Adha. On that day the Uyghur and Kazakh classmates all wear traditional ethnic dress and head ornaments and visit neighboring classes to offer holiday greetings. The first time I saw them on Eid al-Adha I watched them celebrate from my seat and listened to their festive cheer in the Uyghur language, it all made me very happy. It made me even more happy to see their homemade biscuits, cheese, yogurt, candy, and pastries all gathered together in a pile on a desk, their dorm doors open and everyone—whether or not they observe the holiday—eating, drinking, talking, and laughing with one another joyously.

Back then, I never thought we were different, I just thought that it was extremely interesting to experience it. After I started university I got lucky, again having a Xinjiang roommate, but the circumstances were much tighter. I witnessed her go from never missing a prayer session to being forced to reduce the frequency; from above-board and comfortable worship to sneaky and fearful observance. After the Paris attacks, our teachers and counselors advised them against traveling in the name of safety, saying if someone saw them on the street with their headscarves, that particular look would draw hostility. The leaders also attempted to recruit snitches in our dorm to report on her. We didn’t want to, so everytime they asked we’d just lie—she is no longer praying, no longer wearing her headscarf, no longer reading the Quran. By my junior year, our group made a newspaper. We all had a meeting to discuss some ideas. I asked her: in this country, do you have a sense of self-identity? Do you feel that we are different? Her answers were no, and I don’t think so. She said that while our ways of life are different, we were good friends. In those four years she told me of so many things that happened on her soil that I couldn’t dare to believe, of the internet cutoffs, and of people disappearing. One time, our teacher forced her to take off her headscarf, and when she didn’t the police came to the school. She panicked and was called out. She returned crying, and said “The police told me if I don’t take off my scarf I’ll be expelled. My mother also told me to remove it, that studies are more important.”

I’m also an ethnic minority. Last July I went to Beijing to attend a feminist workshop. At the youth hostel, the boss saw the Mongolian script on my ID card and said “We can’t accept people like you, even hotels won’t let you stay.” I asked him what kind of person? He said “you people, Inner Mongolians, Xinjiang people, Tibetans, the local police station has regulations.” At that time, I didn’t know if these absurd rules were real or not, I found it ridiculous to label citizens and discriminate against normal people. Today I saw the news, and fear that it is true. Before then I didn’t have any awareness of my Mongolian identity, since I’d grown up in a Han-inhabited land, spoken Mandarin, and attended a Han school. But because I’d been born in a certain place, I, honorably, became someone whose living space may be squeezed.

I searched my memories carefully and realized that airports in Inner Mongolia would check your ID card before letting you in, but airports in Xi’an would not. I posted my experience on WeChat Moments, and it resonated with many people. Only then did I learn that some schoolmates from Xinjiang received endless calls from the police when they were staying in a hotel. Some policemen even came to their room, in name of stability maintenance, of course.

How ridiculous is this country? It asks you for your love on the one hand, and stabs you with the other. It says you are family and labels you as the lowest-class citizen at the same time. The scariest experience I had on Weibo was when I posted something about a scholar, and people sent me private messages cursing my family be slayed and be raped by terrorists. I could have held back from reading the comments, but I had trouble not seeing these people as real human beings, and I had trouble understanding where their venom came from.

I saw a picture that JY posted several days ago that says “The death tolls are nothing but statistics if we only look at them as a whole, but every case is heartbreaking if we look at each individual closely.” What’s scary about my experience is also that people don’t treat each other as human beings. They don’t even treat themselves as real human beings. They think of each other as anti-China or “Little Pink” monsters, trapped under labels. They are conceptual enemies to each other. And they refuse to learn about each other as real human beings. They refuse to listen.

I know the climate is a bit harsher now. But within pain there is also hope. Pain lets us remember that we are independent, complete human beings. We are also broken people ripped off of some possibilities. We could only carry on but holding onto each other. We need a bit of determination to stand up by ourselves.

When watching the film Our Time Will Come, I saw a comment saying “There is no macro history. It’s all about people’s private matters.” I’ve always thought this comment is of great wisdom. As history is rumbling by and repeating itself, what is real is the mark it leaves on all of us. It might not be grand or ceremonial, but it doesn’t mean that we cannot participate or that we bear no responsibility. We should be stronger and more brave. You could cry, but don’t be afraid. [Chinese]

This Weibo post was deleted soon after it was posted. The author later posted another message responding to a barrage of hateful comments she received, calling her, among other things, a “splittist,” a maggot, a monster, and a filthy person. Many readers also accused her of removing the post. She replied:

I didn’t delete that post. You’re more likely to get answers about why reposts aren’t visible by asking Sina than by cursing me.

I didn’t delete anyone’s comments, but I did turn off notifications from people I’m not following. If you look at these screenshots, you’ll understand why. Because there’s no way to prove whether or not I deleted the comments I’m supposed to have done, naturally, anyone can just talk❤irresponsibly.

I didn’t set up any other accounts to curse people with.

At first, when I was still reading the comments, I blacklisted a lot of trolls* because they were just hurling abuse at me and at people commenting to me. First, let’s make clear the difference between debate and hate speech, and between criticism and public denunciation.

To those who’ve constantly sent me private messages, voice clips, and images to mock, insult, and curse me: please don’t be so childish. If you want to abuse me, of course, I can’t stop you, but I’m not going to play any part in it.

To those who claim that “at first I was sympathetic, but I don’t like the blogger, reposters, or commenters’ attitudes”: I don’t need sympathy, and that’s not real sympathy or empathy anyway.

What I wrote wasn’t a research paper, and I’m not a policymaker.

To those friendly neighbors affected by this because of me, there’s no need to invest too much emotion in it, or to get caught up in arguing. When reflecting on a situation this chaotic (instead of “brimming with malice”), and on its contributing factors, self-control and introspection are more meaningful than slinging insults.

I just have one question: if someone’s wrongful doing is irrational/uninformed/coercive decision, what’s the best way for us to respond?

Just let the rest of it be our social observation.

That post was also deleted.

Translation by Ya Ke Xi, Josh Rudolph, and Samuel Wade, with assistance from Sandra Severdia.

* All italicized words were originally written in English by the author.

One of those asked to leave the city was Zhang Leilei, a campaigner against sexual harassment on public transit who reportedly plans to stay in Guangzhou. Writer Li Xuewen and his girlfriend, lawyer Huang Simin, were also told to go. Li moved to Guangzhou last year after losing a publishing job in Beijing in 2014 due to alleged official pressure: punishment, he claimed, for attending a seminar to mark the 25th anniversary of the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown. In a 2012 autobiographical essay translated by CDT, Li described the various recollections of the 1989 protests he had encountered over the previous 23 years. “One’s opinion of June Fourth,” he wrote, “is the most basic measure of the morality of every Chinese person.” Huang is one of the lawyers defending protest-monitoring citizen journalist Li Tingyu, whom she profiled last year in an essay translated at China Change.

Li described last week’s “tea drinking”—a euphemism for interrogation or other conversation with police—on his Xiumi blog. His account on the platform has since been deleted for “serious violations of the user agreement,” but the post is archived at CDT Chinese, and translated here:

Tea-drinking Diary—Guangzhou, Loving You Isn’t Easy

This afternoon, at a little past three o’clock, my girlfriend Simin and I had just returned from running some errands. The weather was hot, and I was getting ready to take a rest at home. There was a knock, which I thought was a delivery man, but when I checked the screen, there was the familiar sight of Master Shen of the Haizhu National Treasures [Domestic Security Department] standing at the doorway. “I knew you two were here,” said Master Shen. “Doesn’t the lobby camera point straight at my home?” I replied. As I said this, I walked to my room, put on some pants, and went back out to open the door. They came in one after the other, three National Treasures, one—Master Chen—city-level, the others district-level. Their ages varied: Master Shen is quite old, while one of the others was a handsome young guy I’d seen before while drinking tea. Behind them were some men in uniform, very solemn. Made up of the three levels of city, district, and local substation staff, this second team was pretty big, arrayed at the door.

The National Treasures and I sat on the sofa, while the local substation officers went around looking through the inner rooms. Pointing at one of the men in uniform, Master Chen of the city department said “he’s the head of the local police substation.” Then he got straight to the point: “June 4 [Li uses the censorship-evading homophone “willow silk”] is approaching, and July 1 is right after it. On top of that, Guangzhou’s hosting the Fortune Global Forum this year. You need to leave town for six months.” I was shocked. What Fortune Forum? I’d honestly never heard of it. I’m a man of letters—what’s a forum about fortunes got to do with me?! Master Shen said that “the Fortune Forum’s on the same level as the Hangzhou G20. A lot of people have to go.” I said “as far as I’ve heard, when the G20 was in Hangzhou, all those people only had to leave for as long as the meetings were open. Why do we have to go away for six months?” Master Shen said “they were locals. Non-residents like you have to leave.” There’s even a hierarchy among stability maintenance targets, I thought. Those with local residence rights and those without aren’t the same! Resentfully, I spat “you lot lost me my job before Spring Festival, and blocked my royalties for ‘The Chronicle of Zhao Family Village’ [Chinese; background]. Then you forced me to leave Haiyang district, and now Guangzhou. You’re driving me up a blind alley!” Master Chen said “it’s what the higher-ups want.” I was getting fired up. At first I thought that with June 4 approaching, we’d have to go away for a few days, but I never expected having to leave for half a year! I waved my hands at the substation head, and pouted “look, the chief’s here today anyway, why not just arrest me now?” At this point my girlfriend finished making coffee, and courteously gave some to them. This pissed me off. I banged the table: “They’re driving us out of Guangzhou, and you’re giving them coffee?!” They weren’t angry. To my surprise, they all laughed.

I went on: “Last time you told us to leave Haizhu, and pressured our landlord until he called us and told us to move. Now you’ve stepped it up, telling us to leave Guangzhou. Are you going to drive us out of China next?” “You know it’s not the Zhang*De*jiang era anymore,” Master Shen said. [Zhang’s name is punctuated with asterisks in order to avoid keyword censorship.] “Guangzhou’s changed. You two are blacklisted from this year’s July 1 and Fortune Forum: there are orders from above.” “We have every right to live here,” I said. “In theory, you’re right,” said Master Shen. “But why did you come to Guangzhou? Weren’t you OK before, in Beijing?” Master Chen joined in: “Yes, what’s so good about Guangzhou anyway? You can go to Suzhou, it’s much better.” “We like Guangzhou,” I said. “I came here with my girlfriend because it’s down to earth, very inclusive. I like Guangzhou.” Master Shen said, “if I wasn’t in this job, I’d welcome you here.” “Aren’t you worried we’ll do something extreme if you force us like this?” I asked. “Haven’t many others?” Master Chen said, “you have a point. But the thing is, because you’re a high-ranking intellectual, we came here to talk to you instead of having these guys throw you into a car and drive you away!” I’d forgotten that I was a so-called high-ranking intellectual, as this was the first time since I left the system that anyone had called me that. “You think so highly of me! I’m overwhelmed by your generosity. But I can’t possibly accept you compelling me like this!” Simin said unhappily, “you drove out those others with no legal basis or procedure. What did you have, to speak of?” They stayed silent, not accepting the lawyer’s implication. Then Master Shen said: “We weren’t even looking at you to start with. Isn’t your girlfriend, lawyer Huang, involved with the 709 affair? It’s only because of her that we got to know about you.” Simin, sitting next to me, said “apparently I’m more important than you.” I laughed: “If that was what you were really after in the first place, why are you always looking for me and not her?” Master Shen said, “now you’re important as well.” “No wonder she was more important, with me cooking and washing dishes at home,” I said. “But what’s she done?” Master Chen said “isn’t she always involved with sensitive cases, hyping up legal hotspots?” Huang Simin said “what have I ever hyped? I’m always very low key. If there are people paying attention to a case, that’s not something I can control. If someone gives Li Tingyu an award, it’s not because I told them to!” Master Chen said “in any case, you’ve come to the higher-ups’ attention.” Master Shen said “it seems you were acquainted with that Wang*Yu.” Huang Simin said “yes, I invited her to a meal when she came to Wuhan on business.” “Is there even a problem with showing hospitality to friends,” I asked. “Who doesn’t have any friends?” “I don’t know,” Master Shen said. “Anyway, they’re concerned about you both. Don’t they say, ‘don’t fear thieves stealing from you; fear thieves noticing you’? You’ve been noticed.”

I went on, asking “how come July 1 is sensitive now, too?” Master Shen said “that’s the anniversary of Hong Kong’s return to China. We’re afraid you’ve got some sort of alliance with people there.” Huang Simin said “I’ve been barred from leaving the country for nearly two years, I can’t go to Hong Kong!” “You haven’t thought this through,” I said. “We have nothing to do with anyone in Hong Kong. Why are there so many sensitive dates these days?” “You’re right, there are so many,” Master Chen said. “So rather than having us force you to move all the time, which is as bothersome for us as it is for you, it’d be better for everyone if you left Guangzhou.” “You know as well as we do that these sensitive dates are all made up. China can’t go on forever without relaxing this high-pressure stability maintenance. Once we have democracy, you guys won’t have to wear yourselves out like this.” Master Shen said “Who knows what the future holds? The present’s the present.” I turned to stare straight at the handsome, silent young National Treasure, and said “the future belongs to your generation.” He laughed, but still said nothing.

Next we talked about the situation involving the previous night’s dinner. They blamed me for ignoring what they’d said, and going to the meal. “An old friend was in town,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I have a meal with him? Besides, I didn’t get your phone call telling me not to go until I was already there. My friend would have thought me too unreliable if I hadn’t shown up.” Master Shen said “there were so many of you eating together. Yesterday we were preparing to arrest you, and called the district police to take you all into custody.” I asked, “didn’t you talk with Wang Aizhong after the meal until 11 o’clock?” Master Shen said “Wang Aizhong is the big fish in Guangzhou at the moment: he pays for [protest] banners, always pays the restaurant bills, does a lot of big business.” “We split the bill at yesterday’s meal,” I said. “We split the bill at all our meals in Guangzhou.” They shook their heads, and said nothing. “You said Wang Aizhong’s the big fish. Where do I rank?” I asked. “Take a guess,” said Master Chen. “Top 50?” I joked. “Nationally, yes,” Master Chen replied. “In Guangzhou, top 10, at least.” I was amazed. “You’re flattering me. I’ve only been here a little more than a year, and spent most of that time at home, reading and writing. How can I have made the top 10?” Master Shen said “in any case, the leaders saw a list of reported names. Yours was on the lists from several departments. Last night’s meal also had your name on it, and the leaders got angry. “So you’re chasing me out of Guangzhou because I went for a meal last night?” I asked. Master Shen said “that’s not it. It’s that you’ve become our nemesis.” No matter what he’s saying, Master Shen always smiles. He’s a National Treasure who looked back fondly on Zhang*De*jiang’s Guangdong. I’ve dealt with him many times, and we’re still on fairly good terms. I said to him, “when I came to Guangzhou I had a work agreement with a publisher, but you lot ruined that. I wrote a few articles to get by, and you told me not to write. You’re too much.” They said nothing.

The two officers from the local substation had been sitting on stools off to the side all along. One was smiling, the other expressionless. At this point a phone rang. The substation chief answered, stood up, and said to Master Chen of the city department “I’ve got to go: the deputy political commissar’s coming. You keep talking.” To me, he added “Mr Li, I’m the local substation chief. If anything’s the matter, come and find me. I’ve no hard feelings toward you. It’s often possible to work out a compromise in the end.” “I don’t want to give anyone any trouble,” I said. “‘From an exchange of blows, friendship grows.’ Could you have a word with the neighborhood people, and get them not to watch us so closely? That expensive-looking CCTV camera’s been pointing at our door for months.” The substation chief said “where? I don’t know anything about that.” With that, the two policemen opened the door and left.

Then we went on talking, neither Simin nor I inclined to leave Guangzhou for those sensitive dates, fearing that it would be too complicated. In the end we were deadlocked for half the day, before they proposed a solution: we’d promise to return to Wuhan temporarily at the end of May, after Huang Simin had finished her current work. We’d be back in Wuhan before June 4, then we’d come back to Guangzhou for the last ten days of June. We were exhausted from talking, and the National Treasures were tired as well. Master Chen, who kept looking at his watch, said “that’s it for today.” “I know you’re following orders, and it’s difficult for you,” I said. “It’s even harder for us. But we have an understanding, right?” Then I opened the door to let them out.

After the National Treasures had gone, Simin opened the delivery we’d received. She’d ordered some brightly colored underwear: watching her happily trying it on, my own mood improved as well.

The previous day we’d had torrential rain in Guangzhou. Today the weather was great, with the sun shining on the palm trees in the courtyard, shooting green light into the room. It was especially pretty.

Guangzhou’s a great city, I thought to myself. I really hate to leave. [Chinese]

Old Luo’s New Year Wish List

Originally published by Luo Yonghao on his personal blog in March 2006, the English teacher (who has since turned tech entrepreneur) offered a long list of his dreams for the new Year of the Dog. Nearly 11 years later on the eve of the Year of the Rooster, Old Luo may be disappointed on several points.

Luo’s post came when China had just over 100 million internet users nationwide (by the end of 2016, the number had risen well above 700 million). This particular post represents the early days of China’s blogging era, and was among the first overtly political blogposts in China. State censorship policies and technology then coalesced to end China’s political-blogging era and make microblogs the primary platform for political netizen discussion. Similar trends have since muted much of the political discussion on Weibo, leading us into the current WeChat era.

I hope that all good people have a happy new year, I hope all bad people have a miserable new year; I hope all people who are not so good and not so bad can arrange their new year as they wish.

I hope all peace-loving people live in peace; I hope all war-loving people live within two neighboring countries with equal military strength, but with no nuclear weapons.

I hope all ultra-nationalist angry youth will be enlightened, I hope all liberal angry youth will stay angry until there is nothing in this world for them to be angry about. I hope those idiots who lost passion for life too early but think of themselves as mature will not confuse the liberal angry youth with ultra-nationalist angry youth.

I hope political prisoners in all countries will be released. I hope those countries with no political prisoners will not just be satisfied with the fact that their own country has no political prisoners.

I hope Chinese public officials know who pays for their food and clothes. I hope taxpayers do not avoid paying, even if they are not happy about it.

I hope those doctors who save people’s lives (if they still exist) die peaceful deaths [if they have to die,] and I hope those doctors who do not save dying patients will die in the same manner as their patients.

I hope those who do not have much money do not stretch themselves to buy a house, I hope those who have money in hand also do not buy right now, I hope all those being bought off by developers and claiming there is no bubble in the real estate market will buy lots of luxurious houses before the bubble bursts.

I hope all corrupt officials will live in greater fear, I hope those officials who are not corrupt can hold on.

I hope Chinese peasants can migrate freely in their own country, I hope city residents who oppose peasants migrating into cities will one day realize that they have no conscience.

I hope those migrant workers who can not get their wages will find a good lawyer to help them. I hope those who intentionally withhold overdue wages of migrant workers are hit by lightning, no matter how watchful they are.

I hope all websites will not have keyword filtering, and I hope any websites which set up this filtering don’t do so voluntarily.

I hope those who discriminate against homosexuals become objects of public scorn, and I hope of China’s gay couples can marry and also see their wishes fulfilled.

I hope those amiable obliterators of right and wrong who think they’ve grasped the essence of Confucianism will understand that, actually, Confucius isn’t the idiot you take him to be. I hope those principled people who do know right from wrong will understand that, actually, we’re never alone, just a bit lonely.

I hope those adults who always say “shoot the bird that sticks out its neck” and who, in good will, exhort outgoing young people to restrain their talents will one day know this: that there are some birds who come into the world to do what they think is right, not to dodge bullets. I hope those adults who, in ill will, attack those young people will get old a bit faster, and a bit faster still.

I hope the not-bad people don’t run into bad people. I hope all the bad people don’t hear that the not-bad people think they’re bad.

I hope the awesome people get awesomer, and I hope the stupid people will at least not be so stupid.

I hope our generation becomes mature instead of slick and sly. I hope young people stay innocent and honest, but not childish.

I hope all young people can cultivate the ability and habit of independent thought, and that all adults will at least cultivate the ability and habit of letting young people think independently.

I hope that young lovers who burn with desire can find cheap, clean, safe places, and that adults in upscale hotels are as strong as ever.

I hope that the sexually liberated get on happily. I hope the sexually conservative hold themselves back enough so that they have no regrets. I hope people with STDs will be honest for once.

I hope the price of legal software will be reasonable. I hope the users of pirated software will be reasonable.

I hope Apple will come out with a black iPod that’s 120G or bigger. And I hope that before he dies, Steve Jobs will know the insanity, the inhumanity that is a genuine Apple brand 300 yuan iPod USB cord with not one bit of technology inside it. Actually, what I really hope is that his disappointing company can make an MP3 player that’s better than the iPod.

I hope this year there won’t be any stupid commercial movies like Hero, House of Flying Daggers, or The Promise. I hope China gets a sweet commercial movie like King Kong. And I hope even more that there’s a little space for the not-so-commercial movies.

I hope my lawyer friends who give their assistance with such devotion have a very happy new year. In the new year, we’ll very happily sue! I hope that those who have violated our rights and await court are shaking in their boots.

One small, final wish (the least likely to come true): that the next generation of Super Mario isn’t 3D. [Source]

Can’t get enough of subversive Chinese netspeak? Check out our latest ebook, “Decoding the Chinese Internet: A Glossary of Political Slang.” Includes dozens of new terms and classic catchphrases, presented in a new, image-rich format. Available for pay-what-you-want (including nothing). All proceeds support CDT.

Opposition and The Legitimacy of Political Power–Statement of Defense for Lü Gengsong’s Appeal

Your Honor, Members of the Court,

As the defending counsel of Mr. Lü Gengsong, accused of subverting state power, I would like to lay out my overall position on the case. Let me first state that I believe, without a doubt, that Mr. Lü Gengsong is innocent. For citizens of a free nation, no matter what party they belong to, no matter what essays they publish, no matter what conferences they attend, no matter what friends they make, so long as they do not present clear and present danger, how can these actions constitute a crime? I further submit that if it turns out they do indeed constitute a crime, then only one conclusion remains: This nation isn’t free!

I. Preamble

Before issuing this statement of defense, I took the liberty of reviewing the relevant materials of the case file in their entirety, and would like to draw attention to the following:

1) Mr. Lü Gengsong’s statements from the various interviews conducted as part of the investigation: “[We] must follow the path of ‘democratic constitutional government,’” “I believe that the system currently in effect in China is ‘dictatorial rule,’ it’s a ‘one-party autocracy’ of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), we should instead follow the ‘path’ towards Western-style ‘separation of powers’ and a ‘presidential system of government’” (see page 13 of File 3), “I believe my behavior is meant to change the current national system, the social system, the political system, and realize a ‘multi-party’ system,” (see page 14 of File 3), “I hope that it will be the same as in Taiwan, with many different parties competing for power, a political system that allows for freedom of assembly,” (see page 45 of File 3)

2) Mr. Lü Gengsong’s testimony from his initial hearing: “China has a constitution, but it isn’t governed by its constitution. Therefore, the China Democracy Party seeks not only a constitution, but also governance by the constitution. The CCP authorities accuse me of subverting state power, but what is state power? What we call ‘state power’ should arise from a general election, in accordance with the principle of governance by the constitution. If there is no truly unified state power in mainland China then, how can I be accused of subverting it? If the goal of the China Democracy Party is to establish a unified, modern state power, then how can that be a crime? What am I subverting? ‘Subvert’ is a neutral word, after all — it means to overturn or set aside old-fashioned and backward things. The overwhelming trend of the world today is toward democratic, constitutional governments” (see Appeal, File 38).

3) From the same testimony: “The political power of the CCP relies on political oppression and economic predation. A close examination of every level of society reveals that this political party has become irreparably degenerate, without a single uncorrupted office — instead, they spend their time going on scenic tours, a euphemism for visiting brothels. They are destroying the natural environment and the land on which the common people depend, and making up enemies to frame on false charges. Cries of discontent echo down every street and every lane, and the people struggle to meet their most basic needs. Shouldn’t an imperious, degenerate state power like this be replaced with a new democratic party? In summary, the current regime does not belong to the common people — it belongs to a minority of influential officials and privileged few who prey on the common people. A political power like this cannot but be subverted, pursuant to the will of the people.”

4) The following excerpt from Mr. Lü Gengsong’s “Criminal Appeal”: “The subject of this appeal would like to state for the record that no true, single state power exists in China today, only regional authorities: the democratic government of Taiwan, the dictatorship (or feudal autocracy) of the CCP in mainland China, and the special administrative regions of Hong Kong and Macau. The actions taken by the subject of this appeal have always been for the sake of establishing a unified and truly democratic, modern state power, governed by the constitution” (see page 135 of Appeal).

5) From the same document: “In a civilized era, to meet civilization with barbarism can only be the act of the strong preying on the weak, perpetuated by a group of violent thugs. How can such a group claim to be the sole legitimate organ of ‘state power’? […] To my knowledge, the sole goals of the China Democracy Party are: to promote democracy, human rights, and the establishment of a modern, democratic constitutional system. Its most important task is to establish a true state power in China. I also know what the China Democracy Party is not: it is not ‘an illegal organization’ with the goal of ‘subverting state power in China’ and ‘overthrowing socialism’” (see page 137, 138 of Appeal).

As the defending counsel, I believe that Mr. Lü Gengsong does not consider himself to be guilty of the crime of subverting state power because he completely rejects the legitimacy of the current state power. He believes “there is no single, unified state power in mainland China,” and asks “What authority does a group of violent thugs have to claim being the sole legitimate organ of ‘state power’?” He believes that all of his actions “have always been for the sake of establishing a unified and truly democratic, modern state power, governed by the constitution.” Based on this, as his counsel, I find that an intentional subversion of state power would have not only done nothing to help Mr. Lü Gengsong achieve his goals, but in fact run counter to the values that the defendant has professed to his statements.

II. Correcting the Initial Sentencing

1) Characteristics of the China Democracy Party

According to the initial verdict, “The Democracy Party of China is an illegal organization with the goal of subverting Chinese state power and overthrowing the socialist system.” In fact, this was copied verbatim from a document titled “The Ministry of Public Security Confirms ‘The Democracy Party of China’ a Hostile Organization.” The Ministry, however, based their conclusion on Article Five of the “Rules for the Implementation of the State Security Law of the People’s Republic of China,” which is contrary to the standard international principles for party government.

As long as an organization or party does not pose a threat to basic order of liberal democracy, in practice it will be recognized as lawful in the capital of the nation of which it operates, with its legal status being confirmed via the registration of a political party. In modern civilized societies, only a small minority of political parties are banned for violating the constitution: to give two examples, the Socialist Reich Party (SRP) and the Communist Party of Germany (KDP), were banned by the German Federal Constitutional Court in accordance with the Basic Law (Grundgesetz) in 1952 and 1956, respectively. In the case of the former, it was demonstrated that the party promoted Nazi ideology and therefore violated the constitution. In the case of the latter, a dictatorship of the proletariat was found to be incompatible with the values system of the Basic Law.

As professed in its constitution, the Democracy Party of China “uses non-violent, peaceful, rational means to realize its political goals, and promote the use of civilized discussion to resolve conflicts and differences of opinion.” It does not pose a threat to liberal democracy — to the contrary, it is actively contributing to the establishment of true liberal democracy governed by the constitution. Treating the China Democracy Party as a hostile organization is a product of dictatorial and oppositional thinking. It is a position which is not only incompatible with the theory of the modern political parties, but even more so it is a violation of the principle of free association enshrined in the Chinese Constitution. The freedom to form organizations and political parties is an undeniable component of free association.

2) Statements, Open Letters, Essays

Mr. Lü Gengsong has consistently exercised his freedom of speech (expression), whether it is through statements, open letters, and essays he has written and published, such as “Understanding the Nature of Chinese Society from Bo Xilai’s Slap in the Face,” “An Open Letter from the Zhejiang Committee of the China Democracy Party to Xi Jinping and Zhang Dejiang,” “Lü Gengsong: The Anniversary of Gaddafi’s Death and Chen Guangcheng’s Birth,” “A Letter of Thanks to Friends at Home and Abroad, and to the International Media, from Lü Gengsong,” “The Dropping and Filing of Charges Against Zhu Yufu,” or through the statements, open letters, and essays he has refused to confirm writing and publishing, such as “A Solemn Statement on the Detainment of Xu Guang and Tan Kai from the Zhejiang Committee of the China Democracy Party,” “Statement on Current Situation in Light of the Heavy Sentences of Chen Xi and Chen Wei,” “Jokes in the Year of the Dragon — A Dedication to New Year’s Day 2012,” “Mourning for Grassroots Pioneer Mr. Fang Lizhi,” “Petition with One Thousand Names: Vehemently Denouncing Chinese Judicial Authorities Guilty Verdict for Zhu Yufu.” Published under his own name, or under the name of the Zhejiang Committee of the China Democracy Party, these statements, open letters, and essays have appeared on sites such as Boxun, China Free Press, Epoch Times, or 64 Tianwang. Beyond simply being expressions of free speech, however, none of Mr. Lü Gengsong’s writings contain “fabrications or distortions of the facts,” any more than they contain “rumors and slander.” Freedom of speech is a basic human right, not only in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, but also guaranteed by the Chinese Constitution.

If an individual publishes a statement under the name of an organization, such as the Zhejiang Committee of the China Democracy Party, it should first be established whether or not that individual has the right to represent the organization in question, so as to determine whether or not the statement represents an individual or organizational point of view. In this case, all of the written and published materials clearly represent the individual point of view of Lü Gengsong, and so fall under the purview of individual freedom of speech. Furthermore, even if a portion of the materials do indeed represent an organizational point of view, they should likewise be considered an exercise of free speech and free association. Free speech should not be used as proof of the crime of subversion of state power.

3) Huangshan Conference

The so-called “Huangshan Conference” convened by Lü Gengsong, Su Yuanzhen, Wei Zhenling, Lou Baosheng, Chu Liang, and others at the residence of Jin Jiming in Huangshan City, Anhui Province, was nothing more than a small private gathering of several Democracy Party of China members, and in no way the first conference of the Zhejiang Committee of the China Democracy Party. Many of the people present were not members of the China Democracy Party, and those who were did not have the authority to represent their branches of the China Democracy Party, not having received any authorization whatsoever to hold an organizational conference. To treat a gathering like this, held at a private residence, as an organizational action of the China Democracy Party is to deny the facts of the situation completely, and is inconsistent with the participants earnest political and organizational conduct. A private discussion like this, even if there is sufficient evidence to demonstrate that the participants “discussed the establishment of the leadership system of the China Democracy Party,” or “assigned duties to various individuals,” anything said on these topics could only represent the opinions of individual participants, and not the organized actions of a political party. Aside from this, in his testimony, Su Yuanzhen has already clearly stated that “no positions were assigned” at the gathering, and Lü Gengsong “had no special position” in the China Democracy Party and was “just a normal party member.” His testimony, along with that of Jin Jiming, Wei Zhenling, Chu Liang, all prove that Lü Gengsong never made a clear statement on the issue of whether or not he would act as the chairman of the Zhejiang Committee of China Democracy Party. And, as the facts demonstrate, after the “Huangshan Conference,” Lü Gengsong never served as the chairman of the Zhejiang Committee of China Democracy Party or organized any activities in this capacity.

Therefore, relying only on the “Minutes of the Huangshan Conference” written and published by Lou Baosheng to determine that the “Huangshan Conference” constituted the organization of a political party, and then to take Lü Gengsong’s participation in the “Huangshan Conference” as proof he is guilty of the crime of subverting state power is obviously ridiculous. A private meeting of members of the China Democracy Party, regardless of what is discussed or under what theme it is organized, cannot be said to fall outside of the freedoms of speech and association afforded in the Constitution, nor can it be said to constitute a crime.

4) Cards and Condolences

Writing, printing, and sending cards, or participating in a memorial for the deceased and giving memorial wreaths, regardless of whether in one’s own name or the name of the Zhejiang Committee of the China Democracy Party, are all normal social interactions, and not political activities. To see giving one’s respects on a holiday, or offering condolences at the passing of a loved one and other behavior typical of Chinese people’s everyday etiquette as key crimes committed as part of Lü Gengsong’s accused subversion of state power is an enormous joke.

III. Opposition Parties and State Power

Alexis de Tocqueville once said: “Among the laws that rule human societies there is one that seems more precise and clearer than all the others. In order that men remain civilized or become so, the art of associating must be developed and perfected among them in the same ratio as equality of conditions increases.” He also said: “In democratic countries the science of association is the mother of science; the progress of all the rest depends upon the progress it has made.”

Man is a social animal, so associations are a natural requirement. The freedom of association is a necessary precondition of all other rights, along with freedom of speech forming the twin cornerstones of civilization. As the most important political right, freedom of association is not only a key element of democracy, it is the primary safeguard of democracy.

In modern mass democratic politics, without intermediary organizations to solicit and collate the will of the people, it is very difficult for individual voters to engage in direct dialogue with their government. Political parties are just this sort of intermediary organization. In this sense, modern democratic politics are party politics; modern nations are nations with political parties. Political parties act as spokesmen for the will of voters, with different voters showing their support for different political parties via the mechanisms of democracy to give voice to their unique concerns; through political parties, the people get to see their abstract political rights being put into practice in the real world.

In this way, the freedom to form political parties can be seen to be an important component of free association. Only with the freedom to form political parties can the people find organizations that will protect their rights and speak up for them. Only with the freedom to form political parties can the people put their political (and economic and social) ideas and ideals into practice. Only with the freedom to form political parties can effective checks and balances and multiparty elections exist. Only with the freedom to form political parties is there a possibility for modern party politics, and for constitutional democracy, to become more than idle words.

Forming political parties is so important that, along with freedom of the press, it has become a key index for assessing the successful democratization of a given country. For this reason, opening up political parties and removing restrictions on publications is thought to be a sign marking the shift from authoritarian autocracy to modern democracy. Modern democracy is built on the foundation of open competition for political power and the co-existence of a plurality of opinions. Moreover, the legitimacy of a given state power must come from universal elections.

In this regard, we must say that a one-party dictatorship is at cross purposes with modern democracy. When a single party monopolizes state power and political office, giving the people no choice, they turn elections into a phony pretense by eliminating real competition, where true opposition is “illegal.” The moment a political party destroys the legitimacy of its opposition party completely, in that same moment it also destroys the foundation of its own legitimacy.

Without multiparty competition, there can be no democratic elections. Without a real opposition party, there can be no legitimate political power. Simple and clear principles like these which have led the China Democracy Party forward through adversity, tireless in the face of overwhelming force, not folding under pressure and not fearing prison. Altogether, they have been sentenced to more than a thousand years of jail time, becoming an inspiring and tragic chapter in the history of Chinese political parties. With an unprecedented degree of courage, they provide an exceedingly moving sacrifice to clear the way for the emergence of party politics in China. In both the mission they have set out for themselves, and the burden they bear, they exist apart from average citizens, providing encouragement and inspiration for others. Together, they have carried the torch of democratic constitutional government to every corner of the land!

IV. Closing Arguments

Mr. Lü Gengsong is already 60 years old and I can’t say for sure if he will survive the next 9 years in prison. He is a person of upstanding moral character, resolute in his ideals, and unyielding in his will, with robust health, an imposing personality. Despite all this, he is, after all, an old man, and life in prison will inevitably wear him down and ruin his health. Will he ever be able to leave the four walls of his jail to rejoin his family and friends? Will he ever be able to reignite the glory and dreams of the disenfranchised people of this land? And does he still hope to see the collapse of the old system and the dawn of a new era? Whenever I consider these questions, I can’t help but feel a sense of despair, because no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps coming back to the fate of our nation, our race, our society, our people.

In the boundless expanse of the universe, humanity is as minute as a speck of dust — but as Kant once said: “The starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” And it’s true, this moral law within us all is every bit as magnificent as the existence of the many galaxies and stars which we only have to look up to see with the naked eye. I think I finally understand why Lü Gengsong wrote “The sun shines brightly!” on the transcript of his sentencing. Four words, the sun shines brightly. Nothing else matters.

I don’t know if time will come stand on the side of Mr. Lü Gengsong. I do know, however, that morality already does!

Defending counsel: Yan Xin

October 10, 2016 [Chinese]

Translation by Nick.

Lü had previously served a four prison sentence for the lesser charge of “inciting subversion of state power,” also connected with his writing, and was released in August of 2011.

On WeChat, “Buck-toothed Zhao” (@龅牙赵) urges those in the nation who see economic development as more important than environmental protection to reevaluate, using historical examples raised by others in recent years. Zhao, the online alias of a historian known for sober and short analyses of national issues drawing heavily on history, takes aim at lingering lingering arguments that since Western countries were allowed to massively pollute their air while developing, China should feel free to do the same now. While Zhao focuses on pollution, his argument could be applied to other spheres, such as the official line that “human rights must be pursued in light of the specific conditions of countries.”

If Others Already Made a Mistake, Why Would You Want to Repeat It?

Buck-toothed Zhao (龅牙赵)

I

Let’s say—and I’m just saying here—that there was an open cesspit in some village somewhere. A big, smelly, dangerous one. The only people who’d want to go anywhere near it would be farmers looking for manure, right?

But then one day, one of the Zhang family kids, up to no good as usual, sneaks out to the cesspit where he falls in and drowns.

Heart-broken, the Zhang family makes a new rule: No playing near the cesspit. And after they hear what happened, everybody in the village decides the same thing: This place is off limits now, so go there at your own risk.

Everyone that is, except the Li family, who think the idea that some places are unlucky is a bunch of hogwash. But then one day their own child falls into the cesspit and drowns.

So the other people in the village say: “We told you to stay away from there, but you didn’t listen and now look what’s happened.”

Mr. and Mrs. Li aren’t having any of it though. They say, “There’s just no way to keep kids from falling in that cesspit. What’s so shocking about it? Didn’t that Zhang kid fall in just a while back?”

II

You’re probably thinking, Oh, what a ridiculous story! But this is actually pretty close to how a lot of us are dealing with the world nowadays.

Take “smog,” as an example. When it gets really bad we all go around complaining about the health effects. Eventually, researchers are sent to find out what’s causing it so that this or that obscure government organization can be tasked with taking care of it at the source.

But, at the same time, without fail we get a chorus of Mr. and Mrs. Lis saying: “If we want to develop the economy, there’s no way to stop the smog. If you don’t believe me just look at history! There was the Great Smog of 1952 in London, and the same thing happened in New York in ‘53 and Japan in the ’60s. What’s so shocking about the fact that we’ve got smog now?”

So now there’s a bunch of people who think that smog is this totally normal thing, just one more of the unavoidable costs of development. Besides, it’s not a big deal. People are just using this to scare us because they don’t want us to develop our industry.

It’s even more amusing when someone inevitably says, “It took England, America, Japan fifty years to get things under control the way they are now. Why shouldn’t we be given the same amount of time to deal with our smog?”

When you put it that way it all sounds pretty reasonable, right?

III

Whenever someone learns that I’m a historian, they always give me this knowing smile and say, “But really, what’s the point of studying something like that?”

It’s true that studying history probably won’t make you rich or famous. But it will help you avoid making some of the same blunders that other people have made before. History is the best screenwriter, after all: everything from the grandest tales of opulence and splendor, to the worst tragedies. That’s the point of studying history — to prevent past tragedies from repeating themselves. We have to keep people from making the same mistakes over and over again.

For example, Zhu Yuanzhang (the founder of the Ming dynasty, aka the Hongwu Emperor) was adamant that eunuchs shouldn’t get involved in politics. But when his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson Zhu Youxiao took the throne as Emperor Tianqi some two hundred years later, he totally ignored the Hongwu Emperor’s warnings. Right away he kowtowed to his eunuch caretaker Wei Zhongxian, wishing him nine-thousand years of health and prosperity. Everything was in such a mess after he died a couple of years later that when his younger brother took the throne there wasn’t hardly anything left to take over.

Or to give another example, Zhao Ji (aka Emperor Huizong), eighth of his line during the Song dynasty, was convinced that forming an alliance with one border tribe to attack another border tribe would reveal how weak the empire really was. And then when his great-great-great grandson Emperor Lizong (Zhao Yun) ignored him, the Mongolians invaded and took everything north of the Yangtze.

I think you get the idea.

IV

While I don’t deny the fact that smog was once widespread in England, the US, and Japan, you can’t say that they haven’t come up with lots of ways in dealing with the problem.

From a historical perspective, I think these three countries could be said to be giving away their prosperity to China.

When they told us how smog is produced, what methods work best for dealing with it once it’s already here, and what steps can be taken to prevent it from appearing again in the future, they drew on personal experience.

But back when they first faced their own smog problems, or course, they had to go it alone, because it was this totally new thing. It was all trial by error, you know, try something for a year or two and then decide if it’s working or not. So it took decades for them to really get things under control.

So the good news is that we don’t need to reinvent the wheel here. There are all kinds of digital reports, laws and regulations, operating standards, quantitative norms, all just waiting for us to use them.

All we have to do is copy what they did!

V

If I said we’re a closed-off country, which makes it hard for us to go out in the world get first-hand experience, well, most people would probably agree with me.

But we’re not a closed-off country at all. We’ve got friends and allies all over the world. We’ve got trading partners on every continent, and our shipping lines stretch across the seven seas. If the family planning bureau can do overseas research, then why can’t the environmental protection agency go off on an official trip to do the same?

Even if imperialism is alive and well, keeping them from sharing their secret strategies with us in our time of need, there are so many exchange students living overseas right now it seems like we could ask them to steal the information for us. It’d be even harder for them to say no if we invoked patriotism and the cause of beautifying the motherland.

The real problem is that it seems like all we can do in the meantime is accept the existence of the smog, ever-present and all-encompassing.

As a historian and a sports buff I am often reminded of a famous saying by Coach Bora Milutinović—the only coach to lead the Chinese soccer team to the World Cup: Attitude is Everything. [Chinese]

Translation by Nick.

I Respect Old Wang, But I’ve Lost Interest in His Work

Yu Peiyun

I respect Wang Qishan. I respect his character and sense of responsibility as a government official, and I believe he really has done some solid work. However, I have no interest whatsoever in the ongoing anti-corruption campaign. It would be difficult for the campaign to ever interest me or bring me any pleasure at all, no matter how many corrupt officials they may catch.

Why?

A few reasons:

1. No matter how fierce the anti-corruption campaign, it will only ever deal with the tip of the iceberg.

It has long been obvious that under the current system, there are virtually “no non-corrupt officials!” Those being acted against are corrupt, and the majority of those taking anti-corruption actions against others are also corrupt. There’s no fundamental difference between the corrupt and not corrupt, only the degree of corruption. The twisted combination of the government becoming authoritarian and the economy becoming partially market-oriented has created an unparalleled, unprecedentedly corrupt country. Today there are more than 100,000 Heshens, and tens of millions of Liu Qingshans and Zhang Zishans! For those who still dare to say that “the vast majority of Party members and cadres are good and honest,” at best, they don’t acknowledge the maxim “absolute power corrupts absolutely“; but to put it more bluntly, this is pure, unconscionable nonsense.

As soon as I picture them holding their meetings, corrupt on the podium and off, my only reaction to their so-called anti-corruption campaign is to sneer. Sneering, and more sneering.

2. Ninety-nine percent of ousted officials are small fry.

Some of the highest-profile corrupt officials and their families, who practically everybody in the country knows about, have actually been left untouched. Some families are completely corrupt and have been for generations. There are family members who hold the power, and others who rake in the cash. Some of their wealth rivals that of whole nations. Yet they’ve been left unscathed. In fact, their lofty status remains untouchable, as they continue in their corrupt ways with impunity. This blatant, world-wonder-level fact is the singularly largest point of dissatisfaction among the people, and it is the biggest reason why the current regime has lost the hearts of the people.

3. Official embezzlement figures are far smaller than numbers circulating online.

Why purposely cover up the real numbers? Could it be out of fear of public outrage? Do you assume that by not publicizing the real numbers everyone will be left in the dark? The reality is, everyone knows the degree to which you are corrupt, as if they were clairvoyant.

4. No one, no matter how corrupt, will be sentenced to death.

Remember that corrupt officials have been sentenced to death in the past. Over the past 30 years, however, it seems unlikely to happen again. It would be one thing if China abolished the death penalty. But China has not abolished the death penalty. Failing to sentence corrupt officials to death offers the corrupt a safe box, emboldening them forward after others fall, wave after wave, without fear. Personally, I believe the damage caused by corruption far exceeds that of any other crime. Murder only destroys the life of one person, or several. Drug trafficking only ruins a few lives. But corruption harms the entire nation and its people–at least all the common folk. It poisons the ethics and the heart of society as a whole. If there was one crime for which the death sentence should not be abolished, which would it be? I personally believe that crime is corruption. The correct approach would be to substantially increase the cost of corruption, and to treat corruption as the number one crime one can commit. Corrupt officials should be punished severely, and all of their ill-gotten gains should be completely confiscated. And even after a corrupt individual meets the king of hell, every cent of his or her wealth controlled by their next of kin must also be seized and added to the national treasury, to be used for the benefit of all citizens.

5. The people haven’t seen a cent of that dirty money.

Excuse me, but where is all that confiscated money going? Shouldn’t the people be given a public account of how it’s being used?

6. The anti-corruption campaign is a mystery, and the people lack the right to know.

Those corrupt officials, those problematic sectors that have been pointed out by the people, are never investigated or dealt with. What about the Red Cross? The lottery? Hospitals and the organ transplant industry? Family planning fines? Officials rumored to be corrupt for years, by word of mouth and over the internet? And those that were investigated for one year, two years, still after multiple years… they’re never tried or sentenced. Where are these corrupt officials? Where have they been? Could they be out on secret medical parole? Did they pull some strings and are now living a nice, quiet life out of public eye? A country with such a lack of transparency leaves its people completely in the dark. It’s very different from how the media reported on every possible detail regarding Chen Shuibian‘s time in prison–every single thing he ate, drank, shat, and pissed was made public. As for whether a political party’s internal disciplinary and inspection commission employing the “shuanggui” method conforms with the rule of law, I won’t get into that for the time being. But this is obviously debatable.

7. Corrupt elements go to so-called “provincial-level jails.”

The luxurious quality of life and treatment that high-level corrupt officials enjoy in prison, most people could never hope to have in a lifetime. The human rights of corrupt officials are protected, especially those with the right background. This isn’t an epic joke of historical and world-wide proportions–this is a despicable, bitter irony that the people must take.

8. No matter what the anti-corruption campaign does, the result will always be more corruption than before.

We don’t need an anti-corruption movement. What we need is a democratic system. We need the people to have the right to elect the government and hold it accountable, to make the government obey the people only. Only this would be the best anti-corruption measure. Authoritarian governments are the finest hotbeds for corruption. Even if an anti-corruption movement was as harsh as Zhu Yuanzhang, it couldn’t possibly get at the root of the problem. Institutionalized corruption ultimately requires institutional change to completely root it out. I can certainly understand the sentiment behind “treating the symptoms to buy time for the cure,” but my hope is that we aren’t too far away from that cure. Wait too long, I’m afraid, and who knows how many years it will take to rectify the damage caused by authoritarian politics and its byproduct, corruption.

In short, I don’t harbor any faith in the anti-corruption campaign being waged under China’s current system. Nor do I have any interest in it. But this doesn’t mean it has affected my relatively favorable impression of Wang Qishan. The two Party leaders who I admired the most passed away long ago. There is still a very small number of Party leaders still alive that I respect somewhat, Zhu and Wang for example. I believe that if China doesn’t move toward democracy as quickly as possible, Wang’s anti-corruption efforts are destined for failure. Corrupt elements will “flourish like grass on the steppes, springing up again as the warm wind blows,” the same as they always have. Just as Zhu left us in a sadly regrettable fashion years ago, perhaps Wang’s fate won’t be much better–unless China can truly see the light of democracy’s dawn! [Chinese]

Translation by Little Bluegill.

‘The 3d brother of the duke of Yu had a valuable piece of jade, which the duke asked of him. He refused it, but afterwards repented, saying, “There is the proverb in Zhou, ‘A man may have no crime;—that he keeps his bi is his crime.’ This jade is of no use to me;—shall I buy my hurt with it?” He then presented it to the duke, who went on to ask a precious sword which he had. The young brother then said to himself, ‘This man is insatiable; his greed will reach to my person.” He therefore attacked the duke, who was obliged to flee to Gongchi.’ [Source]

CDT has translated Qu’s essay and poem in full below:

Xia Lin Has No Crime But That He Carries Something Precious

Qu Minglei

A case that didn’t even need to go to court has ended with a 12-year sentence. Evil always breaks the bottom line. Heh heh, who else can you intimidate? Shameless scum.

The ancients said, “A gentleman has no crime but that he carries something precious.” Xia Lin’s precious thing is civil rights.

In 2006 he defended Cui Yingjie in the sensational case of the “peddler who killed a chengguan,” and Cui’s life was spared. In 2009 he defended Tan Zuoren in Sichuan. In 2009 he defended Deng Yujiao. In 2011, Xia Lin represented Ai Weiwei and Ran Yunfei. In 2014 Xia Lin was one of Pu Zhiqiang’s secondary lawyers. In 2014 Xia Lin represented Guo Yushan. Xia Lin is suffering precisely because he fights for civil rights.

I never had any expectation for this court. I have my own judgment. The people and history also have their own decision. This is a failed court.

The Chinese Communist Party has two peculiarities: they never admit a mistake, and they crush those who disobey. This is a certain fate: Xia Lin, unyielding, went forth against the dark clouds.

He has no confession.

In this country, that “good is repaid by good and evil by evil” is an illusion. If we don’t try, we don’t deserve a better fate. Xia Lin has explained his ideals:

I dream that everyone on this piece of earth—no matter how much money they have, their ethnicity, their faith—can all be judged fairly by the courts. On that day, no lawyer will be known as a so-called people’s lawyer, nor will we need a brave knight to shield us from danger, nor will our citizens need to gather online to fret over yet another citizen treated unjustly. That will truly be a society of the rule of law. It is the common aspiration of we lawyers, of journalists, and of countless citizens.

Today he paid a grievous price for his dream. In this country, he carried out justice legally and compassionately. Congratulations, you win the prize, a seat in a black room.

But I haven’t lost hope.

With rights we unite; without them we fall. With justice we unite; where there is justice, there is alliance. The righteous man upholds justice without a day of rest; therefore he has eternal brothers. This is the logic of the victory of justice. No matter how formidable those in power are, they cannot last forever. The people feel this way; the will of Heaven proves it.

Today, the sign that a man is mature is that he no longer presses the prostitute to marry, and the sign that a citizen is mature is that she no longer hopes for the government to change for the better. He once defended heroes. Today he has become a hero. The people stand up, the people arise, the glory belongs to the people.

The day before the trial, I had a premonition. So I recited my own poem. This is one of my dreams, a real dream. My pain and protest are in this poem.

 

Dream. Hero’s Head

I dreamed
the hero’s head
rolled down the city’s height
I dreamed
clear water ran out the the city’s corners
lazy, trickling water
water turning yellow
then turning red
like blood
but it was blood
the hero’s head tumbled from the lofty battlements
I couldn’t hold it back
I watched it roll down
into that abyss
that’s the hero’s head
that’s the hero’s head!
I couldn’t hold it back
I watched it roll down
into that abyss

during the execution
I paced the city’s feet
so I heard the dull thud
water rolling down city’s lofty heights

but
nothing can be washed clean
everyone
together with that soft sound

September 22, 2016 [Chinese]

Read more about Xia Lin via CDT, and more Chinese reactions to his conviction from China Media Project.

Translation by Anne Henochowicz.

几年来，东网给我完全自由，令我在这个时代，尚能发出一点声音。不料，此次天津审判，东网采访王宇，报道上配合党国，充作工具，同时，又要求东网专栏作者噤声此事，一方面党国工具化，一方面不能在此发表有关评论，如继续专栏，相当于参与到针对709朋友的党国一方，在道义上无法说服自己。1

— 莫之许 (@mozhixu) August 5, 2016

Over the past few years, Dongwang [on.cc, the Oriental Daily website] has given me total freedom, allowing me to still say something in this time. But during the Tianjin trials, Dongwang unexpectedly interviewed Wang Yu. Their article supports the party-state, acting as a tool. At the same time, Dongwang columnists were asked to keep quiet about it. To continue contributing under these conditions would be to counter my 709 friends, just like the party-state. There is no moral way to persuade myself otherwise.

感谢几年来东网提供的这个平台，感谢给予我慷慨支持的东网编辑同仁，感谢杨柳兄！别了，东网专栏！链接是仅仅三周前，我为709颠覆案一周年所写的东网专栏 https://t.co/Pj2qWsspjg

— 莫之许 (@mozhixu) August 5, 2016

Thank you, Dongwang, for giving me this platform. Thank you to my editors and colleagues for your generous support. Thank you, Brother Willow! Farewell, Dongwang! Here is the link to my column on the one-year anniversary of the 709 subversion case, published just three weeks ago.

CDT has translated Mo Zhixu’s final column for the Oriental Daily in full below.

The First Anniversary of the 709 Subversion Case

July 9 marks one year since the “709” crackdown on rights defense lawyers. On July 9, 2015, Bao Longjun and his son Bao Zhuoxuan (Mengmeng) were the first to be taken away at Beijing Capital International Airport. Then his wife, lawyer Wang Yu, was taken away from their home. Over the next few days, Beijing Fengrui Law Firm Director Zhou Shifeng and numerous other Fengrui lawyers and employees were detained. Li Heping and his assistant Zhao Wei (internet name Koala) and more were taken from the Beijing Gaowen Law Firm. Then there was Xie Yang, Sui Muqing, Chen Taihe, and other lawyers from all over. Over 100 other mainland lawyers, grassroots activists, petitioners, and relatives of lawyers and rights activists were subpoenaed, interrogated, or had their personal freedom temporarily restricted. People in over 23 provinces were affected. This event, which has been been called the “709” rights defense lawyer crackdown, or the “709” lawyer raid, garnered wide attention internationally and within China.

It’s no mystery why this drew such widespread attention. In the international arena, lawyers are an accepted part of the justice system, and rights movements are relatively depoliticized. Because of the hard work they do demanding people’s rights, they are integral to discourse on civil society. Rights defense lawyers are understood and accepted by Western politicians, media, and people. Because of this, rights defense lawyers have become the preferred window through which many foreign governments and international organizations follow China’s human rights situation and promote the advancement of civil society and human rights there. Conversely, the status of rights defense lawyers is a natural barometer for foreign governments and international organizations to know about human rights in China, and they therefore pay close attention to them.

Within China, the rights defense movement has been around for ages, and is recognized on a rather deep level by society. With the advent of the social media age, rights defense lawyers have become more interconnected, and their cases have had a more convenient and effective platform through which to broadcast information. Because of this, the influence of rights defense lawyers on society has been growing. Cases of rights defense lawyers being detained, such as the previous detentions of lawyers Pu Zhiqiang and Xia Lin, stirred strong concern among the public. Large-scale incidents like “709” will of course easily become the focus of attention–resulting in names like the “709” rights lawyer crackdown, or the “709” lawyer raid.

But rights defense lawyers weren’t the only ones in harm’s way during this crackdown. Aside from lawyers’ assistants and law firm employees, some grassroots activists were also arrested, including Hu Shigen, Gou Hongguo (Ge Ping), Liu Yongping (Lao Mu) and Lin Bin (Monk Wang Yun). Others, like Wu Gan (Super Vulgar Butcher), Zhai Yanmin, and Liu Xing, were previously detained. Currently, the detained lawyers’ assistants and law firm employees have essentially all been freed. But the grassroots activists are in the same boat as the rights defense lawyers–charged with “subverting state power” or “inciting subversion of state power.”

Grassroots activists make up a large proportion of the current number of detainees, and both detained rights defense lawyers and grassroots activists are being charged with the same crimes. This shows that what the authorities really care about–what they really want to curb and combat–are the things the lawyers and activists share in common. If we were to understand “709” as merely a crackdown on rights defense lawyers, or an effort to contain and attack rights defense lawyers and rule of law, it would probably not be a comprehensive picture.

At one point, China’s rights defense movement was more inclined to “deal with political issues legally and with legal issues technically.” Action was more often taken by legal means, and cautiously. Actual mobilization and bearing witness were approached even more cautiously. But with the advent of social media, this has gradually changed. Many rights defense lawyers have begun to express themselves using the language of protest. Contentious language has become commonplace. For example, lawyer Wang Quanzhang, who was also detained in this wave, had protested in the city of Jingzhang. Because of this, he was placed under administrative detention, and he caused a wave of people to go to the scene of protest. Rights defense lawyers and activists intersect more and more. In some cases, lawyers and activists have cooperated closely with one another. Activists are involved in everything from broadcasting information online and participating in legal seminars to participating in protests.

Social media also promotes communication between different civil society groups and motivates them to act. Starting from the 2011 movement to visit Chen Guangcheng in Dongshigu and with the persistent promotion of people like Wu Gan, grassroots activists formed a model of direct resistance that draws from and gives back to the public, that is online and offline, that crosses regional boundaries. And so, in the era of social media, in the grassroots space, the paths of lawyers and activists have crossed more and and more.

Is it that elements of the grassroots protest movement were incorporated into the already years-old rights defense movement? Or that elements of rights defense were incorporated into activism as its protest model matured? It’s hard to say. Either way, from an outsider’s point of view, these two parallel currents have now combined, producing greater results. In my observation, since 2014, this confluence has itself produced a snowball effect. In Jiansanjiang, Heilongjiang, four lawyers were beaten while under administrative detention, drawing a large number of activists to travel there. The case of the the Ten Gentlemen of Zhengzhou resulted in the large-scale Zhengzhou Sankan protest. These incidents not only reflect the direct protest model, but also project distinct legal aspirations–and lawyers actively participated. The trends resulting from the joining of these two previously separate currents have become the mainstream protest model.

Grassroots activists are more confrontational than rights defense lawyers. In principle, they also more directly represent political opposition. It is impossible for the authorities to take lightly the this confluence of movements, amplified by the online broadcasting of information. As early as the Zhengzhou Sankan protest, the authorities detained over ten people. This trend was even more obvious during the Qing’an incident. All kinds of grassroots movements were becoming more active. Ultimately, because of the explosive nature of Qing’an, Wu Gan was arrested at the scene of protest. Then “709” happened. It’s really not hard to understand. In fact, many people had anticipated the crackdown.

From this analysis, you can see that what the authorities really care about is not only rights defense lawyers, but also grassroots activists. They do not merely seek to control and combat the protection of human rights through rule of law. Rather, they are concerned with more politically sensitive social mobilization. Throughout these incidents, the grassroots activists and rights defense lawyers involved have been treated the same–they all play a leading role. In this sense, to call it the “709” Rights Defense Lawyer Crackdown is essentially to gloss over the grassroots activists. Some commentators have pointed out that the “709” incident should be considered the primary case under a mode of national security. As for me, I think it really should be called the “709” Great Subversion Case.

Through their struggle, grassroots activists have risen to the forefront, emerging as actors with considerable social credibility and organizational and broadcasting power. Wu Gan, for example, was for a long time engaged in sharing discourse online and collecting money, promoting all kinds of protests directly. Monk Wang Yun (Lin Bin), detained during Zhengzhou Sankan, held the bank card connected to online collections. He was also close to the Fujian petitioner circle and different citizen circles. As for veteran activist Hu Shigen, these past few years he has been quietly facilitating connections among civil society groups. From churches to the New Citizens Movement, from petitioners to lawyers, these were all his targets for interaction and contact. You could say that precisely because of their long-time efforts to sustain grassroots protest, these people have become enemies of the state.

All of these grassroots activists possess a distinct consciousness of resistance and and thoroughly oppositional stances. For them, “subversion of state power” or “inciting subversion of state power” are hard-won crowns–an alternative recognition of their longtime effort. The amount of attention they were able to generate over the past year will prove much less than the amount of attention paid to rights defense lawyers. But in the suppression of social mobilization amidst this Great Subversion Case, it is they who have the greater consciousness and initiative. The road to rights has always been paved by struggle. As we mark the one year anniversary of the Great Subversion Case, let us remember them and thank them for their hard work. Let us make it so that this is not completely robbed of its glory. [Chinese]

China Change has translated several pieces by Mo Zhixu from the past four years. CDT has also archived a few of of his earlier essays.

“On the First Anniversary of the 709 Subversion Case” was translated by Little Bluegill.

In the blog post translated below, the repository author, “programthink,” explains why he has and will continue to share content on China’s elite, and why he hasn’t yet been caught.

Editor’s Note: Sections of the post comprised mostly of links to resources in Chinese have been left out of the translation. Contextual links have been added.

Celebrating Imperial Court’s Recognition of “Princeling Relationship Network” Repository

Background

(Considering some classmates still don’t know what happened, I’ll first introduce the background to this story here.)

On the eve of this year’s Two Sessions (2016), I uploaded the open source repository I had compiled, the “Princeling Relationship Network,” to GitHub. Consider it my gift to the Two Sessions.

The content of this project is vast—it includes [information on] over 700 of the rich and powerful and over 130 of their families. This is the result of years of collecting and organizing on my part–not an easy task!

After sharing the repository, the project attracted the attention of an extraordinary number of netizens (as this blog post is published, it has accrued nearly 2,000 stars and 600 forks). Apparently, the project has also upset the Imperial Court. But because GitHub’s influence is so great (it’s the largest open source code-sharing website in the world), the Imperial Court doesn’t dare block GitHub outright. And because GitHub utilizes encrypted HTTPS protocol across the entire site, selectively blocking via the Great Firewall is impossible.

But they’re not all loafers over there in the Imperial Court. Through a newly-established, semi-official organization (the Cyber Security Association of China), they presented GitHub with a “content removal order” (here). So far, GitHub administrators have responded by selectively blocking my project. In other words, when you try to access my project from behind the Firewall, you’ll see a message in a foreign language that says it’s temporarily unavailable. But if you scale the wall or visit the page from outside the Firewall, you’ll be able to access the repository and download information as normal. This is the sixth government-issued content removal order that GitHub had received. It is also the first from the Chinese government. (The previous five were all issued by the Russian government. For details, see official GitHub information here.)

Acceptance Speech

(Please allow me a moment of sarcasm to deliver a short speech.)

I would like to thank the country, the Foreign Ministry, CAC (Cyberspace Administration of China), and CSAC (Cyber Security Association of China)…

I am incredibly honored to be the first to garner the favor of the Imperial Court for the “Princeling Relationship Network” I put on GitHub, thereby accumulating virtue for my ancestors, and honor to last three generations…

 

Since the Imperial Court has given me so much face, I absolutely cannot rest on my laurels. I shall work twice as hard, expose even more powerful families, and let even more internet users know about how despicable, shameless and obscene they are…

Aside from exposing powerful families, I will also continue to shame the Party and the state— not only Party and national leaders, but also shame communist theory, the socialist system, and the Party’s history…

It is my hope that even more readers will get to know how a rare flower the Celestial Empire is. The more people come to realize this, the worse the public’s support for the  Party and government will be. And the worse public support, the worse the foundation of their rule. (Don’t forget: He who loses the hearts of the people, so too loses all under heaven.)

I’ve never grown tired of the work of shaming. I suppose this modest contribution is the most a “loser/geek/code monkey” can contribute to the political transformation of the Celestial Empire 🙂

I almost forgot. I also want to thank a very important department in the Celestial Empire–the Six Doors.

I know well: the Six Doors have had their eyes on me for a long time (since 2011, when I published a blog post advocating for the “Jasmine Revolution“).

So many years have passed, yet the Six Doors still have no idea whether I’m a man or woman, what my name is, or where I live. This is a great embarrassment upon the Six Doors, comrades!

My cyber police comrades need to step up their game! Or else how can you be worthy of a “stability maintenance budget that far surpasses the military budget“?!!!

Why Celebrate?

Reason 1

First, it shows that this project has hit the Imperial Court’s G spot 🙂

The project has already become pretty influential (look at its stars, forks, and watches). The day my project debuted, enough users were checking it out to make it onto GitHub’s hot list.

Certainly, this was enough to get the Imperial Court fidgeting in their seats 🙂

These past few years, I often see comments like this online: “The Keyboard Party won’t make a damn difference.” Over the past few months, after opening this “Princeling Relationship Network,” I now see people saying that “exposing powerful families won’t make a damn difference.”

Well, today I want to respond with a question: If it truly doesn’t make a damn difference, then why does the Imperial Court expend so much energy thinking of ways to block my project?

On the contrary, the Imperial Court’s response proves that my project makes a very big difference 🙂

Reason 2

This also shows that the means through which I have concealed my identity are reliable.

There’s no doubt that the Six Doors want to arrest me, but they haven’t prevailed, so they’ve had to resort to secondary methods like “content removal orders”—and they are secondary methods, because things like content removal orders make them look like a joke.

If the Six Doors were able to pin down my identity, they’d treat me like they did the ShadowSocks author last year—ask me to drink tea, then force me to remove the project myself, at the very least.

Reason 3

The final reason to celebrate: the Streisand effect. This effect states that when one tries to limit the public’s knowledge about some information/content, it contrarily causes more people to know about that information/content.

Because this was the first time GitHub received a “content removal order” from China, it was widely reported (by domestic and foreign media).

More people now know about this project and my username than before. My influence has certainly increased. This is worthy of celebration–the more influence I have, the better I am able to shame the party and government 🙂 

On GitHub’s Character and Integrity

I was pretty optimistic about the integrity of GitHub management in the past.

But after going through this, I have to raise a big, big question mark regarding their character and integrity.

I won’t go into anything else. I’m only talking about the “content removal order” issued by the Imperial Court. This content removal order is not at all directed toward the content of my project. Rather, it is directed toward an issue regarding a single part of my project (and this issue wasn’t caused by me personally). Yet GitHub management selectively blocked my entire project. As a result, those within the Firewall (who are not scaling the wall) are unable to open my project as normal.

Logically speaking, GitHub should really only block that one issue, not the whole project. Why did GitHub management decide to do it like this? It really gets the imagination going.

Advice for Kindred Spirits

Now, for the umpteenth time, I would like to stress the importance of “multiple proxies.” (Long-time readers of my blog, please forgive my nagging.)

Many anti-Party individuals/political dissidents/rights activists place too much trust in the character of big foreign companies. If you are carrying out high-risk political activities online, this trust may very well be your downfall.

My advice: do not trust any commercial business, no matter how big or how good its reputation may be.

For example, I use a ton of Google services (my blog is set up on Google’s blogging platform). Google enjoys the best reputation among all big IT companies. Yet I still do not put my complete trust in Google. A classic example: years ago, when Google was yet to be blocked, I accessed Gmail through multiple proxies based in Tor.

Why? The main advantage: even if Google’s administrators were to collaborate with the Chinese Communist Party (of course, the odds of this are extremely, extremely small), I’m still not exposed to great risk. When I use Tor-based multiple proxies to access Google servers, the server records a visited IP that is not my public IP address. Instead, it records the IP of a Tor exit node. It’s extremely hard to trace data back through the Tor network (Tor is designed primarily for anonymity). To take a step back and put it another way, even if a security vulnerability arises within the Tor network that enables trackers to trace someone’s data, the most they could possibly do is trace it back to the front-end Tor proxy server I used, not back to my own public IP address. [Chinese]

Translation by Little Bluegill.

Ma Xiaoli, a retired cadre in the United Work Front Department, wrote to the Central Committee about this very issue in February, appealing to Party values and calling on them to make financial disclosure happen at next year’s 19th Party Congress. She and four other signatories never received a response. On July 1, Ma published the letter in the overseas paper Mingjing News. This is the second open letter Ma has published this year: the first, in May, criticized a performance by the girl group 56 Flowers that seemed to glorify the Cultural Revolution.

CDT has translated Ma’s open letter to the Central Committee in full below. The original is archived at CDT Chinese.

Nineteenth Party Congress: We Must Resolutely Reject Corruption

—a Few Old Party Members Resubmit Four Basic Demands

We have been members of the Chinese Communist Party for thirty, forty years, and longer. Four years ago, on February 15, 2012—right before the 18th Party Congress—we submitted four basic demands to the Central Committee on “public disclosure of financial assets.“ Unfortunately, we never received a response. Now the 19th Party Congress is approaching—it will convene in the fourth quarter of next year! We believe that it is imperative for us to resubmit these four demands to the Central Committee in order for the Congress to succeed. Therefore, before the Congress convenes, and in accordance with the Constitution of the CCP, we formally resubmit these four basic demands to the Party Organization, the Central Committee, and to Secretary-General Xi Jinping:

1. As delegates of the 19th National Congress of the Communist Party of China, you should and must disclose your personal assets and those of your family to all Party members elected as delegates;

2. As candidate members and alternates for the Central Committee of the 19th National Congress of the Communist Party of China, you should and must disclose your personal assets and those of your family to all delegates of the Congress;

3. Similarly, as candidate members and alternates in the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection, you should and must disclose your personal assets and those of your family to all delegates of the Congress;

4. Finally, as elected members of the 19th Central Committee, alternate Central Committee members, and members of the CCDI, you should and must disclose your personal assets and those of your family to all Party members.

Nineteenth Party Congress, resolutely reject corruption!

We know that after the 18th Party Congress, with Xi Jinping as Secretary-General, the Central Committee made massive accomplishments in fighting corruption and upholding honesty. Over three years of fighting tigers and flies, treating the symptoms as well as the causes, establishing rules and regulations, and pulling no punches, the Central Committee has basically contained the spread of corruption in the Party. We also know that in the early 1980s, the older generation of proletariat revolutionaries—including Hu Yaobang, Chen Yun, Peng Zhen, Deng Yingchao, and Nie Rongzhen—made multiple calls to establish a system for cadres and their dependents to report and make public their assets and incomes. They also ran experiments in several provinces among provincial-level party and government administrators. Over 30-some years, there were no fewer than ten high-standard, large-scale surveys and discussions on the matter. We also know that the Party Organization’s reporting requirements for leading cadres on personal matters are increasingly higher, more detailed, and more specific. The inspection and verification of submitted forms are also increasingly standardized and strict. And so on—all this is encouraging! Is it precisely because of this encouraging foundation for work that we have greater confidence in once again bringing up these four basic demands during preparation for the 19th Party Congress.

Our hope: that the 19th Party Congress will resolutely reject corruption!

Asset disclosure is an effective, internationally recognized system for preventing corruption among government employees. According to our understanding, 137 countries and territories have established disclosure systems for government employees. In this, there is no difference of culture or race, east or west, developed or developing. For an Asian power with 5,000 years of civilization and tradition, a nation of faith, discipline, and honor; and for the 80-million-member Chinese Communist Party that has governed for 67 years, we’ve already waited too long to create such a system! But, as they say, “if you lose a sheep, mend the fence,“ and “if you know shame, you will be courageous.” Ours is the Party that “represents the development trend of China’s advanced productive forces, the orientation of China’s advanced culture, and the fundamental interests of the overwhelming majority of the Chinese people.” Naturally, we should hurry to establish a countrywide system for Party and national leading cadres to disclose personal and family assets! We must start from the 19th Party Congress, from the delegates present at the Congress, from the Central Committee members-elect and alternates, and from the members of the CCDI! We hope that in 2016 China will become the next country to establish a system for government employees to disclose their assets!

At the very least, the Central Committee members and alternates and the members of the CCDI that emerge from the 19th Party Congress may take the lead and disclose their assets to the Party and the nation.

Our demand: that the 19th Party Congress resolutely reject corruption!

We are certain that our Party’s 19th Congress, under the firm leadership of the Central Committee with Xi Jinping as Secretary-General, will choose a new Central Committee that is trusted by all Party members and the vast majority of the masses; and whose brand-new political mastery, integrity, and outlook they endorse!

We kindly ask the CCDI and the Organization Department of the CCP to take time to study this.

We kindly ask Secretary-General Xi Jinping and CCDI Secretary Wang Qishan to take time to direct this.

Preparations for the 19th Party Congress are developing in an orderly fashion. Arrangements for the election and attendance of all major work units will soon be made. The time is ripe for us to put forward these four basic demands.

Please quickly provide us with a response to the above.

Ma Xiaoli (former staff, United Work Front Department)

Ren Xiaobin (former staff, Organization Department)

Cui Wunian (former staff, Organization Department)

Zhang Beiying (former staff, Ministry of Personnel)

Wang Yanjun (former staff, United Front Work Department)

February 16, 2016

Postscript:

1. This letter was written and sent over four months ago. At the time, we hoped to bring up this issue before preparations started for the 19th Party Congress; for instance, to demand financial disclosure during the selection of delegates, to make financial disclosure a “threshold“ condition, etc. More than four months later, we’ve heard nothing. But, no matter. Perhaps the matter is complex, and they don’t have the time for it. So we have gone public with our recommendation in order to re-emphasize the issue. We hope it will be taken seriously and resolved, and that an explanation will be provided to the Party, the nation, and the historical record at the 19th Party Congress.

2. This letter may be reposted. We welcome its dissemination.

The 19th Party Congress must resolutely reject corruption!

July 1 [Chinese]

Read more about the push for financial disclosure via CDT.

A recent incident shows how fear of homosexuality and fear of foreign forces is sometimes intertwined in China.

On June 21, a lesbian couple from Guangdong University of Foreign Studies had a romantic public proposal after their graduation ceremony. Very quickly, photos of their passionate kisses and news about the proposal went viral on Chinese social media platforms WeChat and Weibo. People praised the public display of love and gave them their blessings.

But later that same day, the Wechat public account of a Guangzhou-based group for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) people called Girlfriend was taken down permanently by censors because of their coverage of this public proposal. A post on Weibo relating the same news published by a Guangzhou-based feminist group called Women Awakening was also deleted.

One of the newly engaged women, Wang Xiaoyu, was threatened by the deputy secretary of the university’s Chinese Communist Party committee that she would face disciplinary action for “misbehavior.” Wang wrote a post on feminist group Gender in China’s blog on June 28 recounting what she went through after the public proposal: […] [Source]

The Global Voices post continues to include excerpts from Wang’s explanation of the incident, as well as examples of support offered by LGBT activists online. CDT has translated Wang’s entire explanation, including her appeal to the university:

My name is Wang Xiaoyu, and I’m a lesbian. My girlfriend and I are both 2016 graduates of Guangdong University of Foreign Studies. We decided to take the opportunity provided by our graduation ceremony to publicly come out of the closet by getting engaged, so that our dear friends in sexual minorities on our campus could be seen, discussed, and considered, in an effort to create a more open and diverse campus environment.

At noon on June 21, at the gate to GDUFS Yunshan Student Dorm No. 1, my girlfriend held flowers in her hands as she knelt down on one knee to ask me to marry her. We hugged and shared a long kiss. Classmates of mine who were present at the time expressed their congratulations, which moved me. Later, some Chinese media reported on it.

We initially thought that was as far as it would go. However, things progressed much further than we ever could have imagined. I was threatened with disciplinary action, my diploma was suspended, I was labeled as “missing,” and my rented home was intruded upon. I don’t understand it. How is it that we’ve been forced to endure this much, simply because we’re lesbians?

“Don’t accept media interviews, don’t mention that you’re GDUFS students, avoid giving people a negative impression”

Not long after all this erupted, Deputy Secretary Du from my university’s Communist Party Committee was frantically trying to find me to talk, hoping I would keep quiet toward the media on this matter, and not create a “negative impression” of my school. “You must protect yourself, and not allow yourself to be harmed by the media.” She was concerned about the attention I would receive from the “heartless” “foreign media” and “foreign influences,” and how they would take advantage of me.

The school not only required me to contact the media to delete articles, but it also put into motion a few “measures.” Within hours of the event, a thread on the Sina microblog @新媒体女性 (Women’s Awakening), which had reposted the news of our engagement, was deleted, and the public WeChat handle for Guangdong’s lesbian organization, “Girlfriend Group,” was permanently locked (its new handle is girlfans2009GZ).

Secretary Du explained it to me like this: “There are lots of gays, and no one discriminates against them, because they’ve managed it well. They keep it from impacting others, and they also don’t cause any harm to others.”

During the 50th anniversary celebration for my school last year, fifty straight GDUFS couples held a joint wedding ceremony, and at what point did we question if their event might “cause harm to others”? Can’t we say we’re from GDUFS? Is a lifetime of GDUFS pride a feeling that only belongs to straight couples?

How did the expression of love between gay partners become so undesirable, let alone downright harmful to others? By drawing a line between public and private venues for expression of gay love, what they’re actually doing is transferring a doctrine much like “women should not leave the home and be seen in public” onto gays, emphasizing that sexual minorities can only express themselves and their desires in private, and have no right to do so in public places.

“Your behavior may result in disciplinary action, and we must first suspend your diploma.”

On the afternoon of June 22, which was originally supposed to be my last day on campus, I had planned to pick up my diploma and then say farewell to my alma mater. During our talk that afternoon, however, Secretary Du suspended my diploma. She said that my behavior was believed to be in violation of policy, and that the university policy violation committee members needed to be informed so that they could examine the situation and decide how to handle it. In the Student Manual’s “Regulations Regarding Punishment for Policy Violations”, she underlined the following:

Article 3, Section 11 (4): “Posting, delivering, or distributing messages containing obscene material, destructive rumors, defamation of an individual’s character, or propaganda damaging the school’s reputation creates a negative impression and is punishable with a mark on the student’s record or more severe disciplinary action.”

Article 17 (10): “Students who behave recklessly in public and resist correction will be given a warning or more severe punishment. Those who clothe themselves incompletely or in filthy attire while in public places or at public events and who resist correction will be given a warning as punishment.”

On June 25, Secretary Liu from the university sent a written notification via WeChat to my father as a reminder to pick up my diploma. Yet it wasn’t until I called my adviser to ask about it that I myself received the reminder to pick up my degree certificate. According to Civil Law and the school’s related regulations, if I’m not located in the area, I can sign a permission form to have someone else pick it up, but on June 27, when I suggested to my adviser that I would entrust a fellow student to pick it up while I was not in the area, this was denied.

I scheduled a time with my adviser to pick up my diploma, but at noon he changed his mind and said that my parents needed to be present when I picked it up, “to bear witness to your upright behavior.” As for what “bearing witness to upright behavior” meant, my advisor was vague in his description.

In order to obtain my diploma, my parents and I all had to take time off to go pick it up at the school. I felt truly exhausted. When straight couples get engaged, they are congratulated, but when gay couples get engaged their graduation certificates are taken away?

After I left the closet, there was a strange incident involving an intrusion into my home.

At noon on June 22, my parents separately received many phone calls from Secretary Du, who told them she couldn’t find me, and said to “look it up in the news.” And just like that, before I’d had the chance to prepare my parents emotionally, I was outed.

Secretary Du surmised that someone had manipulated me into doing this, and that it was quite possible that I was being “controlled by an organization with an ulterior motive.” Our performance art had not occurred during my graduation ceremony but rather after it, so the school thought that it had successfully prevented us from “causing a scene” and had control of the situation. But they were still nervously keeping an eye on me, and requested that my parents make me tell them what organization was behind it. They also wanted to make sure that I “didn’t go to my girlfriend’s graduation ceremony to ‘cause a scene’.” Originally I was supposed to leave on an official business trip the following day, so I wasn’t planning on attending her graduation ceremony, since nobody proposes twice anyway.

On one side, my parents were facing a daughter who couldn’t provide sufficient information, and on the other side, they were facing a university secretary who had a wealth of social resources and many years of work experience. Naturally they chose to trust the judgment of the latter. Therefore, they could not digest the news about my orientation and my gay romantic relationship, or the shock that my public announcement caused them. They were simply distressed about my personal safety and freedom. That night at 10:30, in their anxiety, they issued an ultimatum, telling me to cancel my trip and quit my job, and to return home immediately.

The following day I was supposed to leave for the business trip, something I’d told my family about a month and a half earlier, so I didn’t agree to my parents’ terms. I sent them a long text message, saying “Since I was little, you taught me to a responsible person, so I can’t leave my job the night before I’m supposed to go on a business trip.” I also suggested that we take a couple days to cool off before talking things through. After giving my parents my close friend’s contact information in a voicemail, I changed cellphone cards, and hoped that I could temporarily escape the exhausting telephone stalemate. Then I went to my close friend’s house to spend the night.

That night, Secretary Du told my parents that she definitely needed to meet with me in person. Early the next day, she again contacted my family members, who had been waiting by the door all night. Then she and Secretary Liu from the university rushed to my home. When they saw that it was after 7 a.m. and I still hadn’t come out, they suspected that I was possibly “under the control of an organization.” The two university secretaries and my family unanimously decided to report it to the police, claiming that “I had gone missing.”

The police arrived quickly, and my landlord was also asked to have the door to my home opened. The police, my mother, and the secretaries entered my home together. The secretaries made my mother help them search for “partner information” and “organization information.” Secretary Du used her cellphone to take pictures of whatever she believed to be “useful evidence,” and then she reported it back to the school.

However, when I was on my way to the business trip destination, I thought it over and decided that communication with my parents was more important, and I worried about their health. Finally, I once I had received approval from my work unit, I gave up the business trip. It wasn’t until later that I learned that if I had continued with the trip the day after the proposal, the school would have confirmed that I had “foreign forces” behind me, and the four years I spent studying for my degree would have been in vain. I wouldn’t have been able to get my diploma, and I would have become a classic cautionary tale in GDUFS history.

Secretary Du informed my parents in all seriousness that my participation in illegal, improper activities would have a serious impact on my future prospects. She said that I was once an outstanding student, but later a huge shift occurred. At that point, my communicating to my parents that I had given up my business trip was redefined as a “plot twist,” and she added that “the situation was successfully controlled and nipped in the bud while still in the early stages.” However, what she didn’t realize was that things had not developed in the direction of her rich imagination, and while this was a huge accomplishment for her, it was a source of major trauma and negative consequences in my life.

After Secretary Du began taking the initiative in telling my family that “I was being controlled by an illegal organization,” I got stuck in non-confrontational but ineffective communication with my parents, and was powerless against the pressure they put on me. This ultimately destroyed the trust between me and my family, which lead to me being forced to leave the safe and comfortable home that I had been gradually creating over the last two months.

Currently, my emotional state is severely impacted by this matter. I can’t be alone, I’m very depressed, and I often can’t stop crying. My normal work routine and social life have been impacted. I believe that Communist Party Committee Deputy Secretary Du Huanjun from the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies Advanced Translation Institute is primarily responsible for my current state.

My girlfriend has experienced similar harassment from the school.

After the incident, the school also repeatedly questioned my girlfriend. Her graduation ceremony was on June 23, the day after our proposal. Her adviser delicately conveyed the message that she shouldn’t attend the graduation ceremony. Later, in order to “understand the facts” and “issue the graduation certificate,” the adviser asked multiple rounds of questions. In the most entertaining phone call, the adviser said, “I’ve heard some rumors, and was wondering if you can help clear them up if they’re not true,” then asked three questions:

“Do you live together?”

“In your relationship, what role do you play? Dominant or submissive?”

“I heard that your last relationship just ended a little while ago, so when exactly did this one start?”

When my girlfriend pointed out that calling at 9 p.m. to ask if she was dominant or submissive was extremely impolite, the adviser recognized this impropriety, and hung up the phone. This incident reveals the reality of the adviser’s disregard for the boundaries of the student privacy, and it also shows a lack of knowledge of LGBT issues. Even when it comes to heterosexuality, the presupposition of active and passive roles is just a stereotype.

At present, I’m presenting the following appeal to the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies and its related organizations, and the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies Advanced Translation Institute:

1. I request a public apology from the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies Advanced Translation Institute Communist Party Committee Deputy Secretary Du Huanjun for the harm she has caused me and my family.
2. I request that the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies Advanced Translation Institute Communist Party Committee and related organizations at the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies reexamine and publicly announce their resolution of issues related to different treatment of students with other sexual orientations.
3. I request that the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies Advanced Translation Institute Communist Party Committee and related organizations at the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies reexamine and publicly announce their resolution of issues related to different treatment of students with other sexual orientations.
4. I request that every institute, labor organization, teacher development center, and related teacher and staff event organizations and units at Guangdong University of Foreign Studies hold at least two training sessions on sexual diversity and equality per year for teachers and staff.
5. I request that Guangdong University of Foreign Studies establish a supervisory committee on homophobic educational content and educational practices, to investigate and resolve instances of homophobic educational content on campus.
6. I request that the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies Youth League Committee allow the establishment of student clubs related to sexuality and gender, and approve events related to sexual diversity and equality to be held on campus.

Throughout this process, the school has attempted to insert me into the narrative of how “the school used parental love and care to rescue the wayward youth who mistakenly went down the wrong path” and to cover up the harm caused by the school staff’s behavior toward me and my family. I am making this matter public with the hope that GDUFS’s mistreatment of sexual minority students will stop here. [Chinese]

In April, a Chinese court ruled against a gay couple attempting to sue the Changsha civil affairs bureau for denying them a marriage license. The couple vowed to appeal the ruling. Their case, along with other recent landmark court and arbitration cases involving members of the LGBT community, has done much to galvanize public support for LGBT rights in China.

Translation by Heidi. 

The spate of patient attacks is part of a years-long trend of violent “doctor-patient conflict” rooted in a national healthcare system that is spreading ever thinner. Partial marketization of hospitals and “buck-passing” healthcare policies in the post-Mao era are just some of the factors attributed to dysfunction, enraging patients who feel the medical system has failed them. The rise of a dishonest medical business nationwide was brought to the fore at the beginning of May with the online circulation of a deceased young patient’s bitter story of pursuing an ineffective cancer treatment he found at the top of Baidu search results.

In an interview with Initium reporter Zhang Yan, a pseudonymous doctor talks about the institutional pressures that drove him to leave the medical profession. Low pay, long hours, and total detachment from his patients are just some of the reasons “Wang Sen” felt as betrayed by the healthcare system as some of his patients. CDT has translated the article in full, which was first published by Initium on May 10.

A Mainland Doctor Tells His Story: After Ten Years, Why Did I Put Down the Scalpel?

Zhang Yan

Quitting at a hospital is just like quitting any government job in China. After his notice was stamped by 21 different departments, including human resources, finance, security, supplies, and the union, Dr. Wang Sen finally took off his white coat and left the operating table.

Before he quit last fall, Wang was exhausted, physically and mentally. He estimates that he performed over 2,000 surgeries as head surgeon, and had a hand in countless others.

There was too much work. Often times, he saw his patients for the first time when they were on the operating table. They would be under general anesthesia, covered in a sterile sheet, eyes closed, quietly waiting for Wang. He would pick up his scalpel, make an incision into the abdomen, and continue working for a couple of hours. After surgery, when Wang would see the patients again in the hospital, he couldn’t even remember their faces.

Born in 1982, Wang Sen has been a physician for ten years. He graduated from a prestigious medical school, got a master’s degree in clinical medicine, and landed a job in the top department of a grade 3 level A hospital in Beijing. From internship and residency, he pulled through the hardest years for a young doctor. He was promoted to attending surgeon and became the best surgeon among his peers in the same department. Everything was in his favor.

But he quit. The dangerous and unpredictable medical environment in China made him pessimistic. He says he has seen many “dark, hidden things.” After leaving his job, he traveled around the world, then moved to Shanghai, enrolled in art classes, and said goodbye to his old way of life.

“Everyone is like, why is it so hard to see a doctor, so hard to make an appointment? Why are doctors so cold and detached? So much antagonism…” Wang told Initium in a cafe in Shanghai. “It’s because there are faults in every part of the system.”

The following is Wang’s story as told to Initium.

“With limited time, the more patients, the better.”

Being a doctor in China requires not only that you perfect your medical skills, but also that you handle all kinds of administrative directives. Because public hospitals are state-run institutions—social service organizations established by the government with state funds—they must be managed by the government.

During the process of furthering healthcare reform, the government stopped expanding public hospitals in order to lessen the pressure on management. Hospitals started to emphasize the “turnover rate,” treating more patients in the same time and space. This would not only increase the income of the hospital, but also show advancement in managerial efficiency.

The art of medicine should be about quality, but now it’s all about quantity. The torrent of administrative directives quickly killed Wang’s curiosity and passion as a new doctor.

“When I first started, I was very passionate. I learned new things every day, from making incisions to performing simple surgeries. I slowly worked my way up to more complex procedures. I was excited to see some unusual cases. Back then, our operating room would stop taking patients after 4:30 p.m. When my colleagues and I had free time, we would eat dinner together or learn some new skills.

“Later, the hospital started to emphasize the ‘turnover rate,’ shortening the average length of stay for each patient and pushing us to make surgery more efficient. The average length of stay was like the turnover rate at a restaurant: the more patients you get in a certain timeframe, the better. But the quality of care went down. This stuff is good for the management people, like the president and the director, because shortened average length of stay is an example of their managerial efficiency. It makes them look good.

“What’s the goal of the hospital? To increase the number of surgeries by ten percent every year, which means no matter how many surgeries we did last year, this year we have to do ten percent more. If doctors fail to reach this goal, they won’t get their bonuses. So the result is that I have to continue to do more surgeries and shorten my patients’ length of stay.

“I used to do two or three surgeries every day, then it increased to five or six, sometimes even seven or eight. I would never have dreamed of this before. But nobody resisted. It’s just like the housing prices in Beijing. You used to think that 20,000 and 30,000 yuan per square meter was hard to bear. But now it’s 100,000 yuan per square meter, and you still have to buy it. You still have to take it.”

“A top doctor in China earns 50,000 yuan per month.”

It’s expensive to train a doctor in China. It takes seven to eight years for a medical student to become a licensed physician, and 20 years to become a chief physician. But the material rewards don’t always live up to expectations.

Healthcare is relatively cheap in China. Normally, the fees for appointments and treatment by doctors and nurses range from a few yuan to several dozen yuan. Doctors don’t have high salaries.

“As a doctor, there is a ‘step up’ every five years. It takes a medical school graduate five years to sign up for the attending surgeon’s test, and another five years to become an associate chief surgeon, then a chief surgeon. You should reach the highest professional rank around the age of 40.

“Doctors at all levels earn similar salaries. As an attending surgeon, I earned a base salary of 1,000 yuan. A chief surgeon would earn no more than 2,000 to 3,000 yuan on top of that. The rest comes from bonuses, which is the percentage you get from clinical work and surgeries.

“In my department, fresh graduates (young doctors) earn about 8,000 to 10,000 yuan per month. Chief residents earn a little over 10,000. Attendings are divided into junior and senior based on experience, and earn about 15,000 to 20,000 yuan, respectively. Associate chiefs and chiefs earn about 30,000 or 40,000 yuan. This money mostly comes from bonuses.

“There is a 60-year-old physician in our department. One day I saw his pay stub. His monthly salary was 50,000 yuan.

“Just think about it. A nationally renowned, ‘top ten’ doctor, earning only 50,000 a month, including bonuses.”

“The price of surgery was set in 1994. It hasn’t changed.”

The National Health and Family Planning Commission of China has proposed many times to reform the compensation system for doctors, and to increase their salaries. Wang also pointed out to Initium that the value of doctors’ work isn’t represented in the medical bill. The current price for surgery, set in 1994 and unchanged in 20 years, mostly covers the cost of supplies. Very little of it goes to the doctors.

“What we make from surgery is part of our bonus. Surgeons get about seven percent of the total cost of procedures. For example, removing a tumor may take five or six hours, and require four or five doctors, two nurses, and two anesthesiologists, about eight people total. The cost of the surgery is about 3,000 yuan, and seven percent (about 200 or 300 yuan) goes to the participating medical personnel. As the head surgeon, I get half of that, which is about 100 yuan, which I’ve worked five or six hours for. The attendings and assistants get less than that. Residents and interns even less. They take three percent of the seven percent, which is a couple of yuan.

“And, if you can’t increase the number of surgeries you perform by ten percent, this bonus is withheld.

“What’s even worse is that the state is going to launch the ‘single disease quality management’ policy (some diseases will have fixed treatment cost, also called a ‘single price guarantee’). Single disease management has its good and bad sides. We need to consider each separately. For example, if a patient has muscular tumors in their abdomen, regardless of whether it’s a hundred tumors or just one, and regardless of how difficult the surgery is, the price is capped at 3,000 yuan. If the cost exceeds 3,000, the hospital pays for the rest. So the hospital loses money on the procedure.

“The result is that we choose to perform laparotomies over the more advanced laparoscopic surgery, because a laparotomy only costs a couple hundred yuan, while laparoscopy is much more expensive. But we all know that laparotomies leaves big wounds, while laparoscopy only requires a few small incisions.

“But, even though these policies are fixed, people find ways around them. Doctors always find a way to make more money.”

“Orthopedics pays off.”

In China, many doctors make “gray income” by working for multiple hospitals and getting kickbacks for drugs and medical supplies. Some of this activity plays at the edge of the law. Strictly speaking, receiving commissions for expensive drugs is illegal, but it’s common in China’s hospitals.

A physician’s real income is related not only to their skill and seniority, but also to their specialization, their department in the hospital, and to professional ethics.

“Some sources of ‘gray income’ are legitimate. For example, if you give a lecture, you are paid 2,000 to 3,000 yuan. Others are ‘on the edge,’ like consulting or doing surgery for another hospital. The state now acquiesces to doctors working for multiple hospitals. In my field, the best doctors in the country earn somewhere between 10,000 to 20,000 yuan performing surgeries at other hospitals.

“Another type of gray income comes from kickbacks for drugs and supplies. For example, orthopedics require a lot of supplies. Say a patient has a broken bone. The doctor will put in a steel pin or plate to fix the fracture. And they get a commission for using these supplies. These surgeries take less time. Deft surgeons are able to finish them within one or two hours. Do you know how much a top orthopedic surgeon can make every year in China? 10 million yuan. For instance, artificial intervertebral discs used on a patient with slipped discs cost 50,000 yuan. And the commission paid to the doctor (by the medical supply factory) is 10,000 yuan.

“Kickbacks depends on which department you work for. Why does every doctor in China want to work in orthopedics? Because it really pays off. You can make a lot of money inserting catheters, too. The department I worked for, however, gets fewer commissions because we don’t use as many supplies. Even if we did, they are relatively cheap. The devices we use to stop bleeding and prevent adhesion may get us a couple hundred yuan or a thousand yuan.

“There are drugs and checkups too. Like I said, sometimes we lose money on surgeries. But during recovery, doctors can prescribe different types of drugs to boost the total cost.

“In my hospital, there are fewer doctors who take red packets. Some doctors are greedier and like to take red packets, but most aren’t. No one is one hundred percent confident in their skills, so if anything goes wrong, the red packet you took can become ammunition against you.”

“The pressure to research is like a sword hanging over your head.”

Doctors in China can’t stand out from their peers unless they “practice by day and research by night.”

According to the “Professional Technical Jobs Series” issued by the State Council in 1986, the evaluation of a physician’s professional rank and employment is tied to their research. Aside from soul-crushing clinical work, doctors have to allocate a large percentage of their energy to writing papers and applying for research grants. For example, in some provinces, if you want to be promoted to chief surgeon, you have to publish at least three articles in core journals.

“You are constantly on the spin in large hospitals. Except for people who are unusually terrible at work, most doctors have similar numbers (e.g. the number of surgeries they perform). So when it comes to determining who gets promoted, people compete based on research, on who publishes more, and who gets research grants.

“But doing research in China, very few doctors can publish in SCI (internationally recognized journals indexed by the Science Citation Index). Most published articles get zero citations. It’s just a resume booster.

“It’s a huge waste of resources. People would be better off if they just do what they are supposed to do. Clinical doctors could just focus on their clinical work, and if they have extra interest and energy, they can think about doing something else. In some other places, like Hong Kong, clinical doctors are evaluated by their own standards, which do not take into account their research.

“Research is like a sword constantly hanging over my head. It’s a mental shackle. Every time I think about it, it gives me headache.

“Even if you decide to stay out of it, to just do surgery and forget about research, you’d still feel bad when people get a couple thousand more on their pay stub every month than you do.”

“You learn how to deal with patients after you’ve become a doctor.”

Medical education in China focuses solely on professional knowledge, neglecting the human side of care. Wang feels that when he was a student he didn’t gain a good understanding of the social aspect of being a doctor. Many physicians can only provide technical care to their patients.

“Conflicts between doctors and patients only started over the past decade. When I was in school, it wasn’t as bad as now. And people didn’t really pay attention to it. In my fourth year of university, right before my hospital internship, a senior professor gave an hour-long lecture on how to communicate with patients. Before I started my job at the hospital, there was some training, but it really wasn’t that helpful.

“Communication with patients can’t be taught. You have to experience it or have a certain level of understanding. In some other countries, students can only apply to medical school after four years of university. They are in their twenties by then. They’ve basically come into their own, and also have some knowledge of the social sciences. They become doctors when they are relatively more mature. In China, it’s a sped-up system–people study medicine when they are fresh out of high school, and they deal with patients right after graduation. We don’t pay much attention to humanistic education.

“Of course, doctors are under a lot of psychological pressure. They are surrounded by a crowd of patients and their families, all day every day. They have two minutes for each patient, and there are people who cut the line. Then they don’t have much patience left. As time goes on, they become indifferent.

“On the other hand, some of my colleagues, I’d beat them up too if I were a patient. They have a terrible attitude. It’s like everyone owes them money.”

“It took me two years to resolve a medical dispute.”

In China, people treat healthcare as a consumer service. Patients think that because they have spent money, they deserve good results; if their outcome falls below their expectation, they will fight it.

Many patients with chronic diseases spend years seeking treatment. Their family is dragged down by medical bills. They start at village clinics, move on to county hospitals, then provincial hospitals, and finally to large hospitals in Beijing and Shanghai. There they die, their money used up.

As the “weaker” side, patients usually get more sympathy. Hospitals not only spend a lot of time on patient disputes, but also often end up financially compensating the family. To some extent, this practice has condoned violence. In China, many patients and their families think that if they threaten the hospital, they will get some compensation.

Hospitals have medical affairs offices that specialize in dispute resolution. These offices are usually located on the ground floor, so that if things turn violent, the doctor can jump out the window and escape. There are no computers, chairs, or side tables in these offices, because some patients’ angry family members may use them as weapons. A doctor working at a medical affairs office once told me that he would never pour hot water or tea for patients’ family, after someone once threw a cup of boiled water in his face.

“The hospital will always pay them something.”

Wang Sen was involved in a dispute, too. “In 2011, our department took a young urgent care patient. She had an ovarian cyst and was in pain. A type-B ultrasound showed that she had a mass on her ovary. But there was another small mass inside her ovary, a two-centimeter dermoid tumor that didn’t show up in the ultrasound. In surgery, I only took care of the large mass.”

“Because she was an urgent care patient, we didn’t thoroughly discussed her case before surgery. The smaller mass was discovered during a postoperative checkup. Then she started to argue. She confronted us on why we hadn’t removed it and demanded compensation of 260,000 yuan.

“10,000 yuan was for the surgical cost and 250,000 for mental damage. She said she was deeply depressed, that she couldn’t find a job, that her boyfriend left her.

“Then it entered into the mitigation phase. It took two years to resolve. She remained very polite every time she saw me, and thanked me for removing the larger mass. But she was poor, and she wanted the money.

“Because of the dispute, my promotion was delayed for a year. In the end the hospital compensated her a couple thousand yuan, but didn’t admit that the doctors had done anything wrong. They just wanted the problem to go away… As long as a patient accuses the hospital of malpractice, the hospital will pay them something.”

“I no longer dealt directly with patients.”

According to the “2015 Annual Report on Health and Family Planning in China,” the number of doctors under the age of 34 is shrinking. China Academy of Engineering fellow Zhong Nanshan said this year that roughly 20% of medical students no longer go into the medical profession after graduation. Wang Sen puts it more directly: he says none of his doctor friends allow their children to study medicine.

While China is losing doctors, it is gaining patients. According to the New York Times, stress, unhealthy lifestyles, and pollution are causing a surge in the patient population. The government projects that from 2000 to 2025, the patient population will grow by nearly 70%.

The workload that young doctors like Wang must bear is unimaginable. Yet their physical and mental health are largely overlooked by society.

“The first time making an incision, the first time stitching up an abdomen, removing an organ, extracting a tumor… They all make you happy, but only for a brief moment. What really sticks in my mind are the patients I had emotional connection with, not the sense of accomplishment  from ‘what I can do.’

“I’ve seen many patients with terminal cancer. They have all kinds of reactions. I was really moved by an old teacher who was about the same age as my mother. She had cancer, and her husband had just had bypass surgery. They were taking care of each other. One day, the wife came for chemotherapy. We didn’t have a bed for her so she and her husband had to wait in the common area. That was an afternoon in the fall. People were silhouetted by the sun shining through the west-facing windows. I came out of my office and saw her standing on her husband’s feet as he held her from behind. They walked, one step at a time, like they were playing a game and no one was watching.

“Another patient was also in her later years. She had cancer and was in a bad mood, She often argued with other patients and their family. Back then I was in charge of her. Every time after I gave her an abdominal paracentesis, I would talk to her for a bit. One day as I was leaving, she suddenly grabbed my hand and wept. She said, ‘Doctor, please don’t leave. Other doctors don’t care about me, only you do. I don’t want you to go.’ She just held my hand like that… That patient was about the same age as my mom, and she needed me that much. That moment, I felt valued.

“The satisfaction that comes from experiences like this outlasts the happiness I’d feel from earning a little more money, or buying a slightly bigger house.

“But unfortunately, this kind of feeling occurred less and less often. When I became the attending surgeon, I no longer dealt with patients directly. Things like taking blood pressure, changing dressings, taking temperatures, and taking medical histories are all the responsibility of lower-level doctors. At best, I would see my patients every morning during rounds and after surgery.

“So what was it like in the end? It was working on a production line. I would do surgeries for other doctors all the time. Before surgery, I wouldn’t even know who the patient was or what they looked like. I’d just read the medical report and start. After surgery, I won’t even see the patient again before they were discharged… The emotional feedback was less and less. I felt like a meat seller.

“The stress was real. Sometimes I felt that I was completely irresponsible, but I didn’t know what else to do.

“When I first started in that hospital, the building was old, the walls peeling. Then they added a few more buildings. But the work environment didn’t get better. All those young doctors were crammed into a small room, fighting for computers to take down patients’ reports. There were only ten computers in a room, and 40 doctors would have to fight for them.

“But this wasn’t the biggest problem. If you can be a doctor in China, you won’t care how terrible your workspace is or how heavy your workload. Speaking from my seniority and experience, I’ve already gotten through the hardest part. But the most important thing is whether you have the same heart that you did when you first wanted to go to medical school. If not, you’d feel disappointed and lost. Then you are pushed by the tide. As time goes by, negative energy will push you to leave.”

(The case in this article only represents Wang Sen’s personal experience. It does not represent the opinion of Initium. Wang Sen is a pseudonym used to protect the interviewee’s privacy. The sequence of the interview was adjusted for clarity.) [Chinese]

Translation by Yakexi.

Q: Why does 56 Flowers use innocent young girls as a “totem”?

A: Recently, a grand symphony concert was seen fit to be held in the 10,000-seat Great Hall of the People: “On the Field of Hope” was reported by elites within the system, attracting public attention. After the show, co-organizers the China National Opera and Dance Drama Theater and the censorship organ the Cultural Committee of Beijing’s Xicheng district sent out statements on red letterhead to deny any connection to the applicant. Setting aside system-insider “grunt bites grunt” (the word “grunt” taking the place of a stronger word) finger-pointing for the moment, for the sake of promoting main melody culture, the headlining young girls of 56 Flowers put singing the fatherland, singing the Party first, claiming to “cultivate young Chinese girls of utmost purity and innocence.” According to troupe leader, Chen Guang (陈光), “Our nation’s image is one of beauty, peace, progress, sunlight, dynamism, and progress towards the future. Is this not the image of a young girl?”

So why do they want to use innocent young girls as a totem?

From the perspective of anthropology, humanity has had a tradition of using totems to satisfy or express a kind of psychological appeal since ancient times. For example, to show a hope for the courage and strength of tigers, groups would use the “tiger” as a tribal totem. In psychologist Muzafer Sherif’s famous Robbers Cave experiment from half a century ago, boys at a summer camp were split into two groups, with each group giving themselves a totemic name: the Rattlers and the Eagles, respectively. Generally speaking, a symbolic object is used as a totem to satisfy human desires as a form of projection and self-motivation, while hopes to possess the special characteristics or qualities of the totemic symbol serve to guide the direction of one’s efforts and struggles. Therefore, a group’s totem also works as a sort of signifier–upon seeing the totemic symbol of another community one can gain a general understanding of what this community stands for.

Historically, “innocent young girls” have been used by countries or organizations with propaganda departments to act as totemic symbols. For example, when Hitler was in power in Nazi Germany there was the Bund Deutscher Mädel (BDM), and in the former Soviet Union images of innocent young girls were a common shorthand used to promote the regime: money, stamps, propaganda pictures, and the ranks of public representatives, etc, were all overflowing with the faces of innocent young girls.

A women’s league in Nazi-era Germany.

Innocent young girls as symbols from the former Soviet Union.

Looking at the above pictures, it can be seen that images of innocent young girls from the Nazi period, and of innocent young girls from the former Soviet Union, have distinct traits in common with the images of innocent young girls being produced by 56 Flowers.

Most simply, the reason why the Nazis and the former Soviet Union were obsessed with using innocent young girls as a totemic symbol was that the characteristics of “innocent young girls” were exactly the opposite of the representative characteristics of the Nazis and the Soviet Union. If “innocent young girls” can be described as having the characteristics of “beauty, peace, progress, sunlight, dynamism, and progress towards the future,” then the actual essence of the Nazis and the Soviet Union could be described as “ugly, cruel, degenerate, gloomy, and at a dead end.” From this, we can see that using innocent young girls as a sort of totemic symbol is nothing more than an attempt to cover up the opposite qualities in oneself.

Fanatical supporters of the Nazis would never admit that the Reich was cruel, gloomy, in terminal decline, and at a dead end, any more than would fans of the former Soviet Union think that their favored empire was ugly, degenerate, cruel, and gloomy–even if all the signs of decay were obvious to the world at large. From a psychological perspective, this reflects the use of the psychological defense mechanism of “denial.” By using diametrically opposed characteristics to deceive not only others, but themselves as well, they conceal their own true nature, thereby misleading more and more people.

Not only that, but using the characteristics of “innocent young girls” to whitewash an essential nature of cruelty, gloominess, and being at the end of the road can seem work like the key concepts of manipulation and obfuscation from Orwell’s 1984, proclaiming “war is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength” to take the power out of harmful information meant to interfere and attack. Especially owing to people’s instinctual love for innocent young girls, by working together with special groups they can transfer this love onto the organization. In psychology, we call this positive association.

It’s not hard to see then that by using innocent young girls as a totemic symbol, 56 Flowers is trying to use the good qualities of “innocent young girls” to cover up memories of the true nature of that era, via a psychological process differing only in minor ways from other organizations which have historically revered “innocent young girls.” [Chinese]

Translation by Nick.