I don’t like to talk about it. But I see it in dreams. I
dream of it. I’m there. On the floor, that cold concrete floor, where I stayed
for what I think was months. I stopped counting the days. But it was probably
two or three months. I only know this because the season had changed. It was
the dead of winter when they came for me, when they came to my house.
We’re used to seeing them. We’re used to their questionings,
or them cordoning off the village. They rope off the village during holidays.
Or if there’s an immolation. There were more immolations before, but they’ve
stopped almost entirely since the Chinese began arresting the immolator’s
family members. Is it guilt by association or that they fear the family members
would do it next?
It’s unclear, to me, why they’d care. The cynical side of me
believes they’d be happier with us in flames, us eaten by fire. Then there’d be
less Tibetans for them to worry about.
My grandfather spoke of our country before it was invaded
and captured. He spoke of greed. He spoke of serfdom. I wasn’t sure whether to
believe him or not because he’d been in a reeducation camp like I was. He was
schizophrenic. He’d parrot the party line in public, but at home he’d speak of
the country, the old times, independence, both in nostalgia and disgust.
He spoke of it being karma. That Tibetans had strayed from
the righteous path the Buddha had set for us. He’d wished the next life, for
him, and for every Tibetan, to be better.
I pondered the next life a lot, my first days in jail.
When they arrested me, they bound my arms behind my back,
blindfolded me, and hauled me away. Then they brought me to jail and chained me
to a chair, a tiger chair; my arms and legs strapped tightly, by leather bands,
to the cold, hard metal seat. I sat rooted in that chair for hours. I pissed
myself.
They yelled at me, again and again, demanding that I confess
to my crime, but I didn’t know what crime they meant. I’d been an English
teacher at the local school. I’d only taught from the books they gave me. I’m a
devout Buddhist. I don’t believe in harming others. I’ve never stolen. I’ve
never committed an illegal act.
I repeated, over and over, that I’d committed no crimes.
That didn’t satisfy them.
I remember the room… The interrogation room… It was dark and
freezing. It stank. It’d stunk so thickly of urine, already, when I’d been led
in there. The atrocious smell was the first thing I noticed when I entered the
room, blindfolded, my hands roped behind my back. I was revolted by the
intensity, the heavy punch of the stench. It reeked worse than any toilet or
outhouse or manure pit… It made me woozy…
They’d untied my blindfold, but I couldn’t see their faces.
All I could see were their helmets. The helmets were pill blue and shaped like
turtle shells. I still couldn’t quite see their faces when they approached me,
either. It was as if they had no faces. There was only a ball of darkness where
a face should have been. There was only a black bubble, a void between their
uniformed bodies and turtle helmets. It was as if the turtle helmets were
hovering in the air above, like flying saucers.
I believe that I pressed my eyes shut when they approached
because I didn’t want to see them. I wouldn’t see them. I would control that,
if nothing else. But I couldn’t stop hearing. I couldn’t stop hearing the
cries, accusations of sedition. Sedition? That’s what it was about, I pieced
together. And I denied that, strongly. I professed my patriotism to the
Communist Party. I professed my love for my country.
“What is YOUR country?!” one shouted, before dashing over
and whacking me, hard, on the shoulder, with a truncheon.
“China!” I cried, “China!”
“China?!” he bellowed back, before striking my sides and
shoulders several times, sending shockwaves of crunching pain searing through
me.
There’s only so much a person can endure, and eventually the
anguish reached its crescendo. My nerves became blunted, and I numbed up, and
thank Buddha, the last couple strikes I felt only the sickening jolt of their
sticks whipping my numb body. But at least the pain… the pain slept… Then I
figured out what I’d said wrong...
“The People’s Republic of China!” I cried out, and then
began to sing the national anthem, “March of the Volunteers.” I’d memorized it by
heart, after hearing it, every day for years, blasting from the loudspeakers
installed around my village.
Once I started singing the anthem, the men relented striking
me.
So I sang louder, and louder, my voice straining, hot-salt
tears involuntarily streaking down my cheeks, I sang, “Arise, ye who refuse to
be slaves! With our flesh and blood, let us build a new Great Wall! As China
faces her greatest peril, from each one the urgent call to action comes forth.
Arise! Arise! Arise! Millions of but one heart! Braving the enemies' fire!
March on! Braving the enemies' fire! March on! March on! March, MARCH ON!”
I’d had a cousin who’d been interrogated, beaten, and he’d
spontaneously burst into the song, thinking it might make his captors let up
their assault. And it worked. Fortunately, it worked for me too.
But again, they demanded I confess to my crimes. I knew my
options were limited, that I would probably have to confess.
After they’d struck my back, the blows must have damaged my
lungs because it hurt to breathe. Between choking gasps of breath, I requested
they present me my crimes, in writing, and that I’d sign a confession.
I supposed that as long as I wasn’t being framed for a
murder and wasn’t facing the death penalty or life sentence, I might confess,
depending on the charges. Once the Chinese arrest you, whatever they arrested
you for, you did, whether you really did it or not. I’d learned from others’
experiences that the only way out is to confess, that way you’ll receive a
lesser sentence.
A murder or other heinous crime that carried too long a
sentence I wouldn’t confess to, since either way, I’d be dead. A death penalty
would be better, anyhow, than a life in the Chinese labor camps. I’ve heard of
life there, waking up at sunrise, picking cotton all day, digging holes, doing
hard labor, or toiling with backbreaking factory work. Being beaten, kept in a
small dog cage if you didn’t meet quotas. The prison labor camps in China are
hell on Earth. I’d rather they just shoot me in the head...
