BUT BEFORE I opened the door, someone rapped on it harshly; I knew immediately that it must be the Red Guards. Sure enough, three students barged in, their armbands glittering, ready to march me off to a struggle session like a lamb to the slaughter.
I knew I had no right to say anything. I stowed my pouch of sleeping pills away and followed the guards out meekly. My wife and aunt watched wordlessly as I was led away, aware that the violence of the struggle session could be fatal. Two Red Guards escorted me on either side, and one brought up the rear. “We won’t tolerate your insolence any longer,” they barked. “We’ll get even with you today!” I was silent. I realized that the cruelty I had previously witnessed in struggle sessions was about to befall me. I wasn’t a bystander any longer—I was about to become the star of the show. My thoughts were a blur, and yet it was no use being afraid. I wondered whether this was how being led to execution would feel. I would almost rather be beheaded or shot—at least the worst would be over in a single blow, a round of bullets, whereas now I didn’t know how my persecutors planned to torment me or how long it would last.
On the way, I couldn’t bring myself to look up or make eye contact with anyone. I wondered what other passersby thought of me. I thought of “Public Execution,” the short story in which Lu Xun describes a criminal who can’t hear what people are whispering as they point at him. I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying about me either and wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Eventually we arrived at our destination, which I recognized from the tiles on the floor as the main student cafeteria—the largest indoor venue on campus. We went in through the back door, and I saw a row of other victims standing there, facing the wall like meditative Bodhidharmas. I dared not look directly at them, so I couldn’t see who they were. But I could hear a few familiar voices. The crowd consisted of New Beida people; there would be no Jinggangshan supporters here. I waited. Suddenly, a slap rang out, but I felt nothing. Some other unlucky victim, then. Another slap rang out, and I felt my face burn. I was getting nervous. Then it was a heavy blow to my back, a well-aimed kick. It was only natural that New Beida should be hostile to me, since I had dared to oppose their leader, but some of my persecutors seemed to be motivated by sadism as well as revenge. Chinese sages have always stressed the superiority of man over beast. I find myself agreeing instead with Lu Xun, who pointed out that at least animals do not lecture their victims on why it is right that they be eaten. By contrast, think of man-eating humans and the excuses they invent. Beasts are more honest than the supporters of New Beida: They kill in order to eat.
But these reflections came later. At the time I was petrified, like a hog awaiting slaughter. I was nervous and agitated, disoriented but still alert. Facing the wall, I could feel my ears tingle as I braced myself for more blows. I knew this was only the start.
The show began. “Bring Ji Xianlin here!” they cried. Two Red Guards advanced toward me, twisting my arms behind my back and pushing my head down. They steered me into the leftmost corner of the stage. “Bend over!” I bent over. “Head down!” I lowered my head. But then I felt a blow to my back: “Lower!” I bent over further. A vicious kick: “Even lower!” Bending as far as I could, I wobbled and clutched my knees. More blows: “No holding your knees!” I held my arms out, all my weight shifting to my legs; I could barely stay balanced in the contorted position that I would later find out was the infamous airplane position. In the several minutes that the Red Guards had spent fine-tuning my posture, my legs were already exhausted. If I gave up and knelt down, I knew I would get a beating. I had to hold out.
Suddenly I heard someone making a speech from the podium. I couldn’t see how many victims and Red Guards there were on the platform, or how big the crowd was, and I didn’t dare look up. But slogans rang out, and the room swarmed with people. I couldn’t hear the speech, but I was dimly aware that I was only a minor character, and the protagonist was an old cadre named Ge, who was a “Type 38 rifle,” a Communist who had joined the party at the beginning of the Second World War. He had served as the president of Hebei University and the vice president as well as Party committee secretary of Peking University. He, too, was being attacked because he had opposed the Empress Dowager. I was relieved to find that I was playing a supporting role. Ge was probably positioned to my right, at the center of the stage, but I couldn’t tell whether he was standing, sitting, kneeling, or holding the airplane position. I heard slaps, blows, kicks, and I could only imagine what he must be enduring. Perhaps someone was burning his skin with cigarettes.
I was in a precarious position. My legs could barely support the weight of my body. My head began to swim and I was drenched in sweat. But I gritted my teeth and told myself: “Don’t give up! Think what would happen if you collapsed.” Suddenly, a gob of spit landed on my left check. Unable to wipe it away, I gritted my teeth and began to count to a thousand, to make the time pass more quickly. It felt as though the entire cafeteria had gone silent, and I was the only person in it, the only person in the university, in Beijing, in all China.
Suddenly I became aware of the roar of slogans again. The session had ended. Before I had a chance to catch my breath, I was seized by the neck and arms, and herded onto an open-top truck. I realized that the show wasn’t over, and that we were going to be publicly paraded. Again, I was flanked on either side by a Red Guard clutching me by each arm. I could see nothing. People in the crowd began to throw stones at me, hitting my face and body. I was aware of being kicked, punched, spat on, and yet I was unable to fight back. Despite having lived near campus for nearly twenty years, I couldn’t tell where the truck was going. I felt like a sailboat lost at sea or a fox surrounded by hounds. The slogans were making me dizzy, and I gave myself up for lost.
Eventually someone—either a student or a worker—kicked me off the cart. I fell to the ground and was trying to get up when an elderly worker came up and punched me in the face, making my nose and mouth bleed. I knew this man. He wasn’t worthy to be a member of the proletariat. He would later be nominated to welcome the troops of the 8341 Special Regiment on behalf of the workers of Peking University, a choice that horrified me—but that is another story. Right then, I panicked: My nose and mouth were full of blood. “Leave!” the man barked. I was free to go, and felt like a death row prisoner in the old novels receiving a pardon. I recovered somewhat, and realized that I had lost my hat. I also appeared to be wearing only one shoe, but I hobbled home anyway. My family was shocked to see me in such a state, but overjoyed that I had made it home alive.
That was the first struggle session I had experienced in my fifty-odd years. It made me feel just how cruel human beings could be to each other, but it also saved my life. If I could survive this, I decided, I had nothing more to fear. Then I realized how narrowly I had escaped death. If the Red Guards had arrived half an hour later, I would have already climbed the wall into the Old Summer Palace and taken my pills. In fact, if I had been a little less stubborn about airing my views, the New Beida leaders in my department wouldn’t have decided I needed to be taken down a peg, and I would be lying dead among the rushes. I realized that being stubborn toward wicked people has its advantages; after all, I am only alive now because I was too stubborn before. It turned out that I could endure greater pain than I had realized. Was choosing to live a good idea or a rash one? Even today I don’t know for sure. Either way, if I was going to live, I would have to be mentally prepared for many more struggle sessions.
I still wonder who invented the struggle session. It may well have been a collective invention, but if it could be patented, the inventor would deserve a prize for his idiocy as well as his genius. Struggle is very much a spectacle, but what purpose does it serve? In imperial times, judges pierced their victims’ fingernails with bamboo picks or had them flogged or tortured on the rack in order to extract confessions. But there was no need to make the victims of the modern struggle session confess that they were capitalist-roaders or counterrevolutionary academic authorities since their crimes had already been broadcast via megaphones and enumerated on big-character posters. Perhaps the inventor of the struggle session was a purist, an aesthete pursuing art for art’s sake, or struggle for struggle’s sake. Perhaps he was a sadist. To have created the airplane position he must have been an inspired aeronautical engineer. It is terrifying to think that the struggle session was invented not by a beast but by a human being.
Having narrowly escaped suicide meant I was available to be struggled against again. My own department’s sessions began several days later, and there I was the star of the show. The process was the same. A rap at the door and two Red Guards (one less than the previous time) wearing red armbands stormed in and hauled me off to the Foreign Languages Building. I faced the wall, unable to see anything, only hearing the loud clamor. There were two others facing the wall, but this time they played supporting roles while I was the protagonist. I felt proud that the session was running smoothly, the department so well organized. Suddenly there was a great shout: “Bring Ji Xianlin here!” I was only a few steps from the podium, but with four hands twisting my arms behind my back and a few more on my shoulders, those few steps took a long time as people crowded around me, their fists raining down on my body. Eventually, I was pushed onto a familiar stage. I had stood there many times as the head of the department; now I was a counterrevolutionary and prisoner. A woman led the crowd in chanting slogans. “Down with the counterrevolutionary Ji Xianlin!” she cried, the crowd then repeating it in response. I was called a variety of epithets like “the Kuomintang hanger-on,” “the capitalist-roader,” and so on. I seemed to have earned just about every counterrevolutionary title in existence.
Glancing at the table, I saw a kitchen knife, a basket of half-burned letters, and a photograph of Chiang Kai-shek and Soong Mei-ling with a red cross on it. I nearly fainted with dismay. I was as good as dead: This evidence of my so-called crimes could easily incite the crowds to tear me to shreds. But since there was no escape, all I could do was wait and see what would happen next.
After all the chanting, the chairperson read a long list of Mao’s sayings—“Making revolution is not a dinner party,” “Your enemy won’t go down if you don’t strike him down,” and so on—either to inspire the crowd or perhaps to frighten the victims. When he had finished reading, another man made a passionate speech enumerating my crimes. It sounded like Wang, the student of Thai who had been part of the raid on my house. I was still holding the airplane position and my legs throbbed with pain. Although I had to concentrate on maintaining my balance and was barely listening, I could tell that the speech consisted of nothing but lies and slander. When Wang grew passionate, the audience broke into cries of “Down with Ji Xianlin!” There was a palpable sense of righteous anger in the room. Soon people circled around again to punch and kick me. I had heard someone else being beaten while I played a supporting role, and now it was my turn. I wondered what I must have looked like, but I couldn’t see my own bruises and wounds. Then someone heaved me off the floor and the crowd continued to beat me. I couldn’t have held the airplane position even if I tried. I recognized Zheng, who studied Hindi; Gu, who studied Korean; and Wang, who studied Thai. Zheng was a fast talker and a trusted lieutenant of Nie’s; Gu and Wang were strong young men. Setting them on a helpless old man like me was overkill— even a robust woman could have overpowered me. It was like slaughtering the proverbial chicken with the knife used to butcher an ox.
The struggle session went on and on. I must’ve made for a good show. Finally, when everyone had had their fill of struggle, I heard someone cry: “Take Ji Xianlin away!” I was marched out of the building as more blows rained down on me. The audience rushed out after me, ready to give me another thrashing. Eventually, a lecturer of Arabic named Luo said something that calmed them down. By the time I reached the Democracy Building, the crowds had given up their chase. Only then did I realize that I hurt all over, and my face was sticky with blood and sweat. I walked home, having survived yet another violent encounter.