Fucked up stories and poetry from the gutter of the Internet!
Saturday, May 15, 2021
Wednesday, May 12, 2021
Saturday, May 8, 2021
Tuesday, May 4, 2021
Wednesday, April 28, 2021
"The Tibetan: Tashi གསུམ་ (3)"
My time at the camp flew by. Perhaps because every day was
exactly the same. In my dormitory, with 20 other men, we’d be awoken by
airhorns at 5 a.m., tidy up our bunk beds, wash up, stand upright for a roll
call, then go to the canteen, eat, then go to the classroom, study Maoism,
Communism, study Mandarin, study the PRC Constitution, Chinese history, and
watch propaganda videos.
Every lesson would begin and end with us passionately singing
patriotic songs. Our teachers were police officers; all of them old, cagey, and
having serious, sunken, grim facial features, with loads of bluish spots around
their thin, jagged faces.
Then, after classes, we’d have lunch, which was the biggest
meal of the day. It was standard Chinese fare, rice, noodles, meats, fried
everything… I must admit that the food at the camp was surprisingly tasty. This
was undoubtably due to the kitchen staff receiving specialized culinary
training in preparation for posts at 5-star hotels, high-end restaurants, and
military bases throughout China.
Following lunch, afternoons were spent doing light labor
around the camp- cleaning, landscaping, farming. Everyone had an assigned task.
Some were assigned to a factory on the site that produced children’s toys.
After dinner, we’d take evening exercise, usually running,
walking, or marching in place. This was followed by nightly assemblies, where
speakers, generally police or low-ranking party members, would deliver
motivational speeches or we’d be shown propaganda films. Afterward, we’d return
to our bunks and wash up before lights out.
Most there, including myself, followed the program. I told
them what they wanted to hear. I read the propaganda with gusto. There were few
who resisted. I only saw one who talked back to a guard, in the canteen, and he
was beaten severely by that guard and the guard’s guard comrades. The guards
made a point of beating him in front of us, kicking and lashing the man, who’d
crumpled up and sobbed into a defensive ball on the canteen’s white linoleum
floor.
There were “points” we could earn for informing on a fellow
prisoner, points which could help us possibly get released early. But I never
saw or heard of anybody doing anything suspicious or subversive. And I don’t
think I’d tell if I did, although I might have had to, because if I didn’t,
there were also penalties you could receive if you didn’t tell the guards about
suspicious or illegal, immoral behavior.
So I kept quiet and avoided any unnecessary interactions
with my fellow prisoners. I kept my head down. I followed orders.
Now and then, at night, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d lie in my
bunk and would reflect on what my grandfather had said, about this being karma,
Tibet’s punishment for abandoning the dharma. Would this be atonement? Keeping
quiet? Shouting Chinese slogans? I hoped so. But most of the feelings, ideas I
had soon died. My mind went quiet. My soul was numb, like my back and shoulders
had turned when I was beaten. I stopped having feelings and allowed my place,
my spot in the universe to be whatever it would be. I surrendered…
At my release hearing, I was praised as a model prisoner. I
was assigned a job as a tour guide, which shocked me, because it was nothing
I’d ever done before. But I realized that if they feared the foreigners
receiving bad news about Tibet, I would be the perfect person to not spread bad
news, since I was fully aware of bad news’ and rumors’ consequences.
Once I’d returned home, my family, my wife, and young
daughter, were overjoyed to see me. Springing at me with soft puppy dog eyes
when I walked in the door of my home, they hugged me tightly. We cried tears of
joy and anguish. I hadn’t seen them in three years.
We’ve never once discussed why I was gone. There’s no need.
Others in my village have had the same experience. Many remain in the camps. I
know how lucky I am to return. Buddha is merciful…
Tibet is often closed for foreigners, so most of the time,
I’m in my office, which is on the second floor of a government complex, just
outside the city. The complex is enormous. It’s a long horizontal line, a
series of identical square, glassy concrete office buildings. However, most of
the buildings and offices in the complex sit empty, unused...
I’m often sitting alone in my office, watching soccer, or
I’m with a Chinese coworker from down the hall. I don’t know what his job is,
and I’ve never asked. He doesn’t appear to work much or ever be in a hurry.
Many days, he doesn’t show up to work at all.
There’s a Tibetan security guard I play cards with, in my
office. We smoke cigarettes and chat. Our talks are always about European
soccer. He hinted once at gambling on matches, but I pretended to not hear it.
I collect a regular government salary, which is generous,
more than I earned as a teacher. I’ll have a good pension. My family receives
state healthcare. Life’s okay.
The foreigners they assign me are almost always curious to
know about Tibet, its culture, history, but few ask about politics. Many ask me
to help them buy drugs. They think every Tibetan smokes hash. I’ve never smoked
anything but cigarettes.
Occasionally a foreigner will ask about the Dalai Lama or a
sensitive issue; they’ll twist their eyebrows into question marks, speak in
hushed tones, innuendos, expecting me to utter a revelation, picking at me for
something they can post to Facebook. But I don’t answer any of the foreigners’
questions that would have me in trouble. I avoid unnecessary interactions. I
stick to the script. What would it matter anyway? What would it matter if I
spilled my guts to one of these snow-skinned, yellow-haired, blue-eyed men or
women?
My grandfather told me that the world knows of Tibet’s
plight. I read of it online, too. I read of it before, in an internet café,
when we could access foreign media sites. I’d use the BBC, YouTube to study
English, to gather learning materials for my classes. I saw articles about
Tibet. Maybe they still speak of Tibet, I don’t know. I can’t access those
sites anymore. They’ve been shut down.
And these days, I wouldn’t even try to find them. In a
neighboring village, a college student was recently arrested for selling VPN
software that enabled users to bypass China’s internet censorship controls,
allowed access to foreign news. For his crime, he was sentenced to two years of
hard labor…
Not only is foreign media banned, but there are times, too,
around holidays or anniversaries, the entire Internet is shut down for a day or
week…
Does the world know about Tibet? Does the world know of our
plight? Does the UN know? Yes, of course they do! The world knows everything
about us. They know about our leader, His Holiness, The Dalai Lama. They know
that it’s illegal to place a picture of the Dalai Lama anywhere, even in our
private homes. They know it’s illegal to fly the Tibetan national flag, even in
our private homes. They know. They know!
They know what’s happened here and what is happening here.
But, to be frank, they do not care. No one cares about Tibet. Most Tibetans
don’t care anymore. Our youngest children can barely speak Tibetan. Tibetan
language has been banned in schools. There are Tibetan children in Lhasa who
only speak Chinese. There are children in Lhasa who call themselves Chinese.
And no one cares. No one cares. The world has turned its
back on us.
Tibet is a country that doesn’t even exist. We’re just
ghosts.
Thursday, April 22, 2021
"The Tibetan: Tashi གཉིས་ (2)"
The faceless guards led me through a series of dark, narrow,
bending hallways and brought me to another cell, another icebox. It had lights
overhead. They were golden and intensely bright lights. They were lights like
spotlights on a stage.
In the cell were 15 other men, all Tibetans, except for one
Chinese, who appeared mute or deaf and was missing about half his left arm.
We weren’t allowed to speak. And we didn’t want to, either.
A bird-faced jailer sat on a plastic stool, staring at us from the shadows,
behind the harsh light. He’d sit pensively, somewhere behind the cell, and
would emerge, with a truncheon, and rattle at the bars if anyone spoke. Another
jailer, also with enraged eyes, brought us our food, and, in the evenings,
wheeled in a TV, that we were required to watch. It’d show Chinese state
propaganda, generally news, documentaries, and sometimes soap operas of happy
Han families.
We slept on the floor. We used a bucket in the corner for
piss and shit. There was one small, grimy sink, with a single cold-water tap,
next to the bucket for washing. We were fed twice daily, a small bowl of rice
and a bowl of clear soup with a chunk or two of pork fat and slice or two of
cabbage.
I was there a while. I wouldn’t find out how long until I
left. The days and nights, time, became irrelevant. There was no window in the
cell, no clock, and the lights were kept on 24/7, so time didn’t really exist
there.
In that deathly, luminous cell, we all just sat staring at
the gray wall. Since I thought I might be sentenced to death, my thoughts, at
first, were of my next life, where I’d be, who’d I’d be, what I’d be, and how
much karma I’d earned and how I might be reincarnated.
But then my thinking turned to fear, wondering what I’d be
charged with, what my “crime” could possibly be. I worried about being sent to
one of the worst labor camps. I feared never seeing my family again.
It sounds horrible. I sound like a monster when I say it,
but I actually didn’t think too much of my family during this ordeal. Firstly,
because it was too painful. Secondly, though, because I thought, perhaps, that
they’d turned me in, for whatever my crime was, and that hurt so much more.
Thinking, about anything, became too difficult, so I
stopped. I stopped my mind from racing, from conjecture, and I accepted karma.
I began to silently recite Buddhist mantras, over and over, and I’d meditate,
revisit the calm of dreamless sleep…
Eventually, the faceless men in turtle helmets returned,
took me to another room, in another part of the jail. This room actually had a
window, and I saw the sun for the first time in ages. The sun! The glorious
sun! Its yellowy light pouring into the room, like the aura of a deity.
Sitting down to a hard metal chair, I was not strapped in or
bound, but my back and shoulders still ached, from the first day’s beating, and
from sleeping on the cold concrete floor. But I could feel the beautiful,
merciful touch of the sun’s rays, shining in from that window, and the sunlight
tickled and warmed me and brought me back to life, and I shifted my weight
toward its glow, like a flower.
The men presented me a written confession and a pen. I’d
have almost signed anything, just to be out of there. I’d have maybe confessed
to murder if it meant being outside, working in the sun, breathing fresh air,
never seeing that jail again, never again smelling its mutant stench of feces,
urine, and bodies.
The statement said I’d been reported by a neighbor for
“spreading rumors and subverting state power.” It didn’t say the neighbor’s
name. It didn’t elaborate on exactly what “rumor” I’d spread. I couldn’t
imagine what I’d said that would have been considered a “rumor.”
But I knew of this charge. I heard of others receiving it,
usually for criticizing the government or holding an unsanctioned religious
event or gathering. Short of being told that everything was a misunderstanding
and declared innocent, a charge like this was the best I could hope for. It
meant probably, at most, maybe 5 years, and in a reeducation camp, not one of the
hard labor camps.
I signed it without question and was then whisked to another
part of the building, brought before a panel of 3 judges, one of whom, not much
older than me, looked Tibetan. I don’t know if he was for sure Tibetan, but he
looked like it. I’ve rarely felt such anger as I did, toward that judge. I’d
expect the Chinese to do this, but a fellow Tibetan, being my judge, no, I
couldn’t... Part of me died inside, just laying eyes on him.
Buddha forgive me, but I’d have killed him, with my bare
hands, if I could have. I’d have sprung up, charged at him and wrapped my hands
around his skinny neck, and strangled him to death, snapped his neck, like a
chicken, and stomped on his lifeless face until it was gone, until any trace of
his Tibetan features were erased.
I’d never felt such hate for my fellow man. Rage jolted
through me, as I stood there, my teeth chattering, and I hung my head and
stared at the floor. In that moment, I couldn’t see the judge’s face. I
couldn’t bear it…
The panel sentenced me to three years and asked that I
apologize and acknowledge my crimes to the court. And I did. I threw my head
back. I looked up. I told them what they wanted to hear. That I apologized for
my crimes. That I loved Mother China. That I was proud and loyal to the
Communist Party. That I would correct my errors. I would have mentioned my
errors, specifically, since I know that would have made them happier, but I
couldn’t, because I still wasn’t exactly sure what I’d been accused of saying.
(Deep down, it dawned on me how grateful I should be that it
was a “neighbor” who’d been the informer and not a family member. I felt
horrible, too, that I’d ever suspected my family of such treason. Buddha please
forgive me for this sin…)
The judges admonished me. They spoke, sternly, iron-eyed,
saying how hopefully “I’ve learned my lesson.” I was immediately led, in
handcuffs and shackles, to a van, which had three other men, who were Chinese,
and we were transported to a reeducation camp that was fairly close by.