THE TIANANMEN FATHER

In early 2005, when I was visiting Beijing, I finally had the chance to meet Professor Ding Zilin. She founded the Tiananmen Mothers, a group of more than 150 courageous families who lost relatives on June 4, 1989, when fully armed soldiers and military tanks rolled into Beijing and crushed the student pro-democracy movement. Professor Ding's only child, a seventeen-year-old high school student, was killed by a soldier's bullet on a street west of Tiananmen Square as he confronted the troops, trying to persuade them to stop using force against unarmed students.

In the past nineteen years, I have heard many heroic stories about Professor Ding, who refused to be silenced by the Chinese government. Following the massacre, she was the first to step forward and talk to the Western media about her son's death. Despite constant police harassment, house arrests, and detention, she has never ceased to gather information about other Tiananmen victims and to raise funds from overseas to help victims' families. She has never stopped challenging the government claim that the pro-democracy movement was a “counterrevolutionary riot” and that soldiers never opened fire on citizens.

On that visit, Professor Ding told me about her upcoming book, Looking for the June 4 Victims, which has documented the names and stories of those who were killed in the bloody crackdown. As I was leaving, she handed me a card and encouraged me to contact Wu Dingfu, a fellow Sichuanese who lost a son in the massacre.

Since Ding's book contained only a small paragraph about Wu's son, I was curious to find out more. After I returned to Chengdu, I made a phone call to Wu, who lives in Xinjing Township, not far from me. When he learned that Professor Ding was my friend, he became very enthusiastic and immediately invited me over for a visit.

On the morning of May 19, 2005, I left Chengdu on a shabby intercity bus. Three hours later, I arrived in Xinjing Township. A tricycle cabdriver took me to the Janing Apartment Complex. I found Building A, Unit 4, and stepped into the dark hallway. A man was standing near the stairway on the second floor. He had a big prominent nose. “You must be Liao Yiwu,” he said. I nodded. As I followed him through a door on the right, I heard footsteps behind. I turned around and saw a gray-haired woman. She was Wu's wife. “I was out waiting for you. We must have missed each other,” she said apologetically.

The living room was that of a family going downhill. The walls were bare and the furniture old. A large black-and-white picture on top of a desk caught my eye. It was a picture of a young man. That youthful and perpetual smile beaming from his face and the eyes behind the glasses triggered in me a flood of sad memories of that turbulent time. As I was lost in thought, Wu handed me a cup of tea and said, “That was my son, Guofeng, when he was a freshman in college . . .”

LIAO YIWU: You probably know that the purpose of my visit is to talk with you in detail about what happened to your son and the rest of your family during and after June 4. You are not afraid to revisit this painful and sensitive topic, are you?

WU DINGFU: Not at all. After my son died, all hopes for my family were gone. I'm not afraid of being interviewed. Where do you want me to start?

LIAO: Why don't we go in chronological order and start with Guofeng as a kid.

WU: OK, I will try. I have three children. The eldest is a daughter. Guofeng, who was born in 1968, was the second. He had a younger brother. Three generations of the family were born and raised in Xinjing. Ours has always been a working-class family. I was born in 1942. When I was growing up, I experienced the most turbulent years in Chinese history—the resistance war against Japan and the civil war between the Nationalists and the Communists. My family was quite poor and I constantly suffered hunger as a kid. I started school late and didn't finish junior high school until 1960. My family couldn't afford to pay for my education anymore. So I dropped out of school and got a job as a requisition clerk at a small factory. My wife was born in 1944 and was also raised in a similarly poor family. She didn't finish high school either. After we were married, she stayed at home as a housewife.

LIAO: So the whole family depended on your salary.

WU: Yes. In the 1970s, my monthly salary was thirty yuan [US$4]. Guofeng's mother would pick up some odd jobs such as sewing buttons or lock-stitching shirt or pants borders for tailors. So between the two of us, we made about forty yuan per month. We had to use that money to raise three children. It was under Chairman Mao. Nobody dared to run any small business for extra cash. Life was hard but we took comfort in the fact that our second child, Guofeng, was really smart. He really made us proud. His grandparents doted on him, treating him like a shiny pearl in the palm of their hands. His grandpa was a tricycle driver, but he had taught himself how to read and write. He became fairly well educated. In his spare time, he would come babysit Guofeng and teach him how to write Chinese characters. Under his grandpa's tutelage, Guofeng excelled in elementary school. He was always at the top of his class and earned lots of honors. Even at an early age, we could tell that he was made for big things in the future.

LIAO: I guess poor kids are more motivated to excel.

WU: Due to our family's dire financial situation, I persuaded Guofeng to apply to a technical school after he graduated from junior high. He could learn some practical skills at the technical school and get a good steady job, an iron rice bowl. In those years, getting into college was very competitive. Only 2 to 3 percent of the high school graduates could get the opportunity. My eldest finished junior high school and could easily have gotten into a technical school. But we bowed to her wish and let her complete senior high school and take the national college entrance exam. Guess what? She didn't make the list. Since the whole town was filled with high school graduates like her, it was hard to get a job. For several years, she just idled around the house. So I didn't want the same thing to happen to Guofeng. But Guofeng was a smart-ass. He made a nice promise to me, then he secretly took the senior high school entrance exams. Since he had gotten very high scores, he was accepted. By the time I found out, the rice was already cooked—too late for me to intervene.

So I accepted reality. I decided to tighten my belt and do everything I could to support him. Luckily, in the 1980s, China was changing. People were allowed to start their own businesses. Guofeng's mother set up a stall in front of our house, selling small groceries to subsidize our income. I did the household chores after work and took care of the children. I soon forgave Guofeng because he continued to remain at the top of his class.

The last year of senior high was critical. Several months before the college entrance exam, all students had to attend intensive exam-preparation classes. Many of my neighbors' kids began to give up every type of extracurricular activity and stayed up very late at night to prepare for the seven tests that made up the exam. But Guofeng continued with his usual routine and looked quite relaxed. I got worried and constantly pestered him: Passing the exam is your only way out. Otherwise, with your nerdy looks, no factory will want to hire you. Each time he heard my nagging, he would adjust the glasses on the bridge of his nose and say: No worry, old man. I know what I'm doing. I still didn't trust him. I went to see his teacher. He laughed and repeated the same thing: There is nothing to worry about. Your kid does very well. Make sure he gets enough rest so he can be ready for the exam.

LIAO: You were more nervous than he was.

WU: My generation had been tossed around so much by Chairman Mao's political campaigns. Our lives were all ruined and wasted. We pinned all our hopes on our children. That's why we could be overly pushy and desperate. A couple of weeks later, the three-day national college entrance exam began. It was in the summer of 1986, and hot as hell. On the first morning, I put him on the back of my bicycle and pedaled him to the testing center. After he walked in, I joined hundreds of other parents and waited patiently outside. Not long after, several students were carried out of the classrooms on stretchers because they had passed out. I was so relieved that my son had survived the initial tension. At lunchtime, when his mother put the specially prepared meat dishes on the table, I asked how he did. He simply said, in his usual laid-back kind of way: Not too good. Good heavens! I was expecting a more upbeat answer. Oh well, I didn't want to say anything that could affect his concentration on the rest of his exams. So I simply told him to take a nap and get ready for the afternoon test. I waited outside in the afternoon, all sweaty. When he came out later, he repeated the same thing: Not too good. My heart sank like a big piece of rock. That night, I lost sleep. In the next three days, my nerves were stretched to the limit. I felt like I was going to have a heart attack.

LIAO: Didn't you have to go to work?

WU: I had asked for three days off. My boss was very understanding. The whole nation focused its attention on the exam because it was so critical for a child's future. At the end of the third day, when he came out, I couldn't hold it anymore: Tell me what has happened? He finally smiled: Old man, I don't mean to brag. If I fail, 95 percent of the students won't even have a chance. I was stunned, but felt so relieved. He then asked for some cash: My classmates and I have decided to treat ourselves for our hard work. We are going to take turns hosting parties at our homes. I immediately offered him one hundred yuan [US$13], which was a lot of money then. To tell you the truth, I had never been that generous in my whole life. But I was so carried away.

Two weeks after the exam, the test results were publicized: he got the highest score in the whole Xinjing Township, averaging 91.5 in seven subjects. As you can imagine, my whole family was overjoyed. Neighbors and relatives from afar came to congratulate us. It was such an honor. Then the authorities did a political background check and he passed. Soon, an acceptance letter arrived from People's University in Beijing. I held the letter and burst out crying. Like I said, generations of my family had been working class. He was the first one in the Wu family to be a local champion in the national exam and to be enrolled in a prestigious university in the capital city. I sincerely believed that my family's fortune was finally changing for the better.

The day he left Xinjing, my factory sent a special car and drove him to the train station in Chengdu. The station was fully packed and we had to wait for several hours. Seeing that we were very sad, he tried to cheer us up and told us not to worry about him. He was really different from those spoiled rich kids.

LIAO: Was this in the fall of 1986?

WU: Yes. He turned eighteen that year and he was admitted to the industrial economic management department. Look at this group picture. He and his dorm mates had it taken when they first moved in. Guofeng was a very independent kid. He got along with his classmates well and quickly adjusted to big-city life in Beijing. He was elected deputy class leader.

We sent him one hundred yuan every month to cover his food and other necessities. As society became more and more open, his mother's grocery business was taking off. Our life was getting better. In his second year, he began to date a girl from another department at the same university. She came from the northeastern city of Changchun. Both of her parents were medical professors. Initially, we objected to it, for fear that his relationship with that girl could jeopardize his studies. But Guofeng was stubborn and he wouldn't listen to us. In the summer, he asked for more money, saying that he was accompanying his girlfriend to Changchun to meet her parents. So we did send him money.

LIAO: The girl in this picture is quite pretty. Looks like they were madly in love!

WU: The girl was quite politically active. She soon became a Communist Party member. Guofeng brought her back to Xinjing in their sophomore year. When we saw they were so happy together, we became more supportive. We could see that they were a good match. Of course, after Guofeng died, she was still very young and naturally made other choices. Since People's University offered her a teaching job after graduation, she was under a lot of pressure to remain silent about June 4. I totally understand it. I choose not to talk too much about her so we don't get her into trouble.

LIAO: I understand.

WU: Anyhow, things worked out smoothly for Guofeng. He was energetic and full of hope for the future. Of course, he was the only hope of our family. Then, in April of 1986, he sent a three-page letter home, telling us about the death of Party secretary Hu Yaobang—

LIAO: It should be in April of 1989.

WU: You are right. I'm sorry. It was in 1989, 1989! That was the longest letter he had ever written. The letter was filled with excitement. He used very poetic language when he described the memorial service in Tiananmen Square, the demonstrations on the street, the slogan shouting, and the eulogies. He said all his classmates and teachers were involved. I immediately wrote him back and reminded him to focus on his studies and stay out of politics.

LIAO: That was a very typical response of Chinese parents.

WU: We were not educated enough to advise him. But we knew instinctively that he could face terrible consequences if he opposed the totalitarian government. My generation went through many political campaigns. We've seen them all. One minute, the Party seems to relax its political control. Once you let down your guard, they come out to get you. They've played this trick for years. The Communist leaders change their face like the April weather. I guess living with the fear of persecution made us jaded and overcautious. Guofeng lived in Beijing and was at the center of everything. He was hot-blooded and wouldn't listen to our advice. We wrote back four or five times and I couldn't get him to change his mind. In one of his letters, he asked for one thousand yuan [US$130]. I bowed to his request and sent him the money over a period of two months.

LIAO: That was a big sum of money. Why did he need so much money?

WU: He told me he had lost his bicycle. He also needed the money to cover his books and food. I was so concerned about him. I sort of spoiled him a little bit.

LIAO: Was he up to something with that money?

WU: I was completely in the dark. I became so worried, but the only way to reach him was through letters. I knew that he and other students were pursuing the right path for China and it was hard to turn him around. But I kept warning him. In my letters, I wrote: The Communist Party is brutal. They have persecuted thousands of people to death in the past and have never even bothered to apologize or make compensation. Guofeng, you have been blessed with the good karma brought about by the hard work of generations of the Wu family. You were born at the right time, in the post-Mao era. You have the opportunity to enter college. If you study hard, you will have a promising future. You will change the miserable fortune of our family. Don't ruin it.

Oh well, Guofeng was still the young cub, quite inexperienced. Of course, he wouldn't listen to my advice. In the end, he didn't want to get into any arguments with me. He simply stopped writing. Later on, after his death, we found out that he had purchased a camera with that money. He told his classmates that he wanted to record history and leave some valuable snapshots for future generations.

LIAO: He was quite visionary.

WU: We were in a state of feverish fear, like ants crawling on a hot tin pan. After work, I came home and stared at the TV all night long. Initially, the government media called the student demonstrations a patriotic movement. Then, on April 26, the People's Daily newspaper carried an editorial, calling the movement a riot. Those bastards! Then, in late April and May, there were more protests against the editorial in the People's Daily, followed by a hunger strike. Students knelt in front of the Great Hall of the People to present their petition to the senior leaders. Then Premier Li Peng hosted a dialogue with student leaders. After that, the government imposed martial law . . . I couldn't take it anymore, I wanted to travel to Beijing to get my son back. Finally, on May 31, I received a telegram from Guofeng, saying that he was ready to come home but didn't have money for train fare. At that time, I didn't know he had bought the camera. I began to wonder where he had spent the money. Despite my doubts, I sent him another two hundred yuan [US$26] and waited for him to come home. I calmed down a little bit. Two days passed and he hadn't arrived. Then, the political situation in Beijing changed dramatically. The troops had been ordered to crack down on the student protesters. I tried to put a positive spin on the crackdown. The government probably used tanks to scare students. Well, I thought to myself, chasing them back to campus wasn't a bad idea.

In the next few days, I became more worried. The stress had led to a partial paralysis on my face. I had to see an acupuncture doctor every day. On June 8, I was feeling better and sat outside, relaxing in the sun. Then two strangers showed up. They were sent by the Xinjing Township government. I was told that an official wanted to see me. So I got up and followed them to the township government building. After we entered the building, I was led to an office. A guy who looked like a senior official said without any introductions or greeting: Wu Dingfu, do you know that your son was involved in the counterrevolutionary riot in Beijing?

His words scared the daylights out of me. I just automatically blurted out a question: What are you saying?

The official cleared his throat and said slowly: We want to notify you that your son, Wu Guofeng, has died.

My mind went blank. I could hear myself saying: Can't be true, can't be true.

The official answered in a stern tone: We just received a telegram from the authorities in Beijing. Your son is dead.

My body slumped to the floor, like a soft noodle. I tried to support myself against the chair: What, what telegram? Could you give me some more details?

The official said bluntly: We don't know any details. We have decided to purchase for you two train tickets. The deputy Party secretary will accompany you to Beijing to handle the cremation and help bring your son's ashes home.

I said: OK. Then, I began to shake uncontrollably, which was followed by cold sweats. I tried to stand up, but collapsed. Two people helped me to my chair. I rested a few minutes and then struggled to stand up and leave. One guy came over to assist me. I pushed him away, saying: Don't grab me like this. It's not like I'm going to the execution ground. I can manage myself.

I wobbled across the street and headed home. Everything seemed so unreal, the people, the traffic . . . I didn't know how I got home. I stood by the wall, tears and sweat running down my face like rainwater. My wife kept shaking my arm and asking what had happened. I started to wail. She asked again: Old man, what happened? I clenched my teeth and yelled with all my strength: Guofeng is dead.

The next thing I knew, my wife fell to the floor and passed out. No matter how hard I tried shaking her, she didn't respond. She lay in bed unconscious for almost two days. When she came to, she just cried and cried, refusing to take water or food. She kept murmuring: Guofeng, how could you leave us like this?

On the morning of June 9, the local government delivered two train tickets to my house. The deputy Party secretary, who was supposed to accompany us, never showed up.

LIAO: Did he change his mind?

WU: Local officials here were nervous about my son's death. Nobody wanted to be involved for fear of losing their jobs. So the deputy Party secretary bowed out at the last minute.

LIAO: Let me interrupt one second. Didn't you say you received a telegram from Guofeng on May 31? When he didn't come home right away, did you have any premonition that something had gone wrong?

WU: Our only source of news was from TV. After June 4, all the TV channels began to broadcast the same tapes provided by the Central Television Station, saying that the army had imposed martial law to keep order and had successfully ended the counterrevolutionary riot. Who would have thought the People's Liberation Army could kill its own citizens? I naively thought that the government would arrest a number of student leaders as scapegoats. That was it. If Guofeng had the bad luck to get arrested, he would get some disciplinary action. After all, he was just a kid. Even if they threw him in jail or a labor camp for a couple of years, it wouldn't be a big deal. We had witnessed persecution before and there was nothing to be ashamed of.

LIAO: The whole world saw the tapes of the bloody crackdown. The Chinese were the last ones to learn the truth.

WU: Xinjing is a small town. The Communist Party did a good job of blocking news. We didn't know anything about the killings.

LIAO: Didn't any of his classmates from Beijing contact you about Guofeng's death?

WU: In the evening of June 8, right after I got home from the government office, we received a telegram from Xuzhou city, Jiangsu Province. It was sent by a relative's daughter. She was one year older than Guofeng and studied at the Beijing Second Foreign Languages Institute. She heard about Guofeng's death on June 4. But, at that time, the army had occupied the post office. It was also risky to send a telegram like that. So she and another student from Xinjing left Beijing on a train and arrived in Xuzhou. She sent the telegram from there.

To keep the story short, my wife and I left Chengdu for Beijing on the afternoon of June 9. We were overcome with grief and hadn't eaten for two days. We simply carried some water. After we arrived in Beijing, a woman, Comrade Zhang, met us at the station. She was the deputy Party secretary of Guofeng's department. After we exchanged greetings, silence fell. She put us up at the university guesthouse and said: Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow.

The next morning, the department Party secretary briefed us on the situation surrounding Guofeng's death: on the night of June 3, university officials went from door to door, warning students not to leave campus because the army had already moved into the city. As an exception, students were allowed to play cards or mah-jongg if they wanted to. On that night, Guofeng had broken his ankle and was limping around in the dorm. He promised that he would stay in. However, after university officials left, Guofeng grabbed his camera and snuck out with one of his classmates. They rode their bikes and rushed out onto the street.

It was then that I found out about the camera. Starting from the death of Hu Yaobang, he had taken hundreds of pictures of the student protests. I found piles of pictures and undeveloped rolls of film under his pillow.

LIAO: Was he in Tiananmen Square that night?

WU: No. But as you probably remember, the protest movement lost momentum in late May. While most of the students in Beijing had returned to campus, thousands more from outside Beijing poured in and took up the spots in Tiananmen Square. On the night of June 3, when the government sent troops to Beijing, many residents and students came out again to rally support. My son and his buddy, a Mr. Li, left campus and soon they lost each other in the crowd. Li said he saw a large number of soldiers shooting at residents. He was so scared. He ducked into a small alley. Eventually, he found his way back to campus. But Guofeng never returned.

LIAO: Where exactly was he killed?

WU: Somewhere near Xidan, west of Tiananmen Square. The soldiers and tanks marched along Chang-an Boulevard, which leads to Tiananmen Square. They would shoot at residents who were taking pictures, shouting slogans, throwing rocks, or trying to set up roadblocks. Since Guofeng was carrying a camera, he was a prime target. They shot him on the spot. His bicycle was crushed by a tank. After those butchers marched away, some residents stepped out and carried him to a nearby hospital that was affiliated with the Department of Post and Telecommunications.

When I saw Guofeng's body, I begged the school authorities repeatedly to allow me to take him back to Xinjing. I had put the Party secretary in a difficult situation because the Party Central Committee strictly ordered that all victims be cremated right away. We told him that Guofeng's grandparents, his brother and sister needed to say goodbye to him. They still wouldn't budge. Eventually, I asked if I could take some pictures so I could show them to the rest of my family. The Party secretary had a meeting and then granted my wish, on condition that I keep those pictures confidential. He made me promise not to use the pictures to tarnish the image of our government.

Look at these pictures: He was covered with blood. The hole in his right chest was the fatal wound. Apparently he was struck by several bullets. Look at the holes in his shoulder, his arm and ribs. There is a cut here on his lower abdomen. The knife or bayonet was stabbed in and then slashed all the way down here. The cut is about seven or eight centimeters long. All his intestines were cut into pieces. A doctor who didn't want to disclose his name saw the picture. According to his analysis, the solider or soldiers had probably shot Guofeng several times. When they saw that the bullets hadn't killed Guofeng, one soldier pulled out his bayonet and stabbed him. I found two deep cuts on both of Guofeng's hands. He must have experienced excruciating pain and instinctively grabbed the bayonet . . .

LIAO: While you were in Beijing, did you talk with any of his classmates?

WU: Yes. They gave me some information but everyone was nervous. In that week, the top student leaders were put on the government's most-wanted list. Some had been arrested. The rest of the student participants were forced to attend political study sessions. They had to pledge loyalty to the Party and denounce the movement as a counterrevolutionary riot. During my stay, the university authorities assigned four students to accompany us. They were nice and took turns consoling us with kind words. On June 12, my wife and I went to the morgue inside the hospital. A staff member washed the blood off his body and put some new clothes on it. Based on the tradition in my hometown, we wrapped his body around with a layer of white linen that we had brought with us.

LIAO: What was its significance?

WU: The white linen symbolized his purity. Even though Wu Guofeng was not married and didn't have children to carry on the family name, he was considered a dutiful son. On June 13, we held a wake at the hospital's memorial hall. His body was laid on a platform in the middle. Several of Guofeng's former classmates, friends, and even his teachers came. They walked around the body in tears. Nobody dared to say anything. After the wake, his friends helped us move the body to the Babaoshan Crematorium.

During that whole week, we were told the crematorium was abnormally busy. Bodies were being sent in nonstop. One guy working there said he had to work three shifts. When we got there, there was a long line. But the guy told us we didn't have to wait in line because there was a special order from the Party, saying that the bodies of college students were on the priority list. I guess the government didn't want the bodies of innocent students lying around. They could easily arouse sympathy from the public and contradict its statement that no students had been killed. So we were moved out of the line and through a back door. At the registration desk, an older man behind the window was busy writing. When I handed him Guofeng's papers, he didn't even raise his head and began to copy information. I was worried that he might make a mistake. So I said: Sir, Sir! Do you have any questions? He waved his hands impatiently and said: Just stop pestering me, OK? I haven't slept for two days. I don't even have time to take a shit. Don't worry. I won't mess up. After the registration, we went to buy a wooden box to hold Guofeng's ashes. Guess what? The boxes were gone pretty fast. As my wife and I were discussing whether to pick a dragon design, a couple more were snatched by eager customers. Seeing that, we stopped our discussion and grabbed one right away and paid for it. Just to show you how weird it was.

LIAO: Despite the hectic situation at the crematorium, the government media still blasted out announcements denying that there had been any killings.

WU: Anyhow, we waited for several hours before we got the ashes. On June 16, we got on the train and returned to Xinjing on June 18. We set up a wake at our house, with Guofeng's picture and ash box on an altar. We also set up a memorial tent on the street. Relatives and friends came from all over to offer their condolences. On the fourth day, the township government sent an official over, asking me to stop the wake and disassemble everything. When I refused, he said to me: In the next two days, many village officials will be in town to hear important announcements by Deng Xiaoping and the Central Party Committee on the crackdown. Those hicks don't know shit about what's going on in Beijing. But when they are in town I don't want them to see the memorial tent. Your son's death contradicts what is contained in the official announcement. It could be a bad influence on those hicks. I know you are quite stubborn. It will get you into more trouble if you disobey the order. I thought about his words for a few minutes and then offered a compromise. I decided to dismantle the tent on the street, but insisted on keeping the memorial stuff intact at my own house. I knew many of Guofeng's high school friends were returning home for the summer holidays and would want to come visit. The township government agreed.

After the wake, I didn't bury his ashes. I kept the box at my own house. I believed that unless the verdict on June 4 was reversed, his spirit wouldn't rest in peace. But in 2002, Guofeng's little brother also died. Out of despair, I buried them together on the top of a mountain nearby.

LIAO: How did his younger brother die?

WU: His brother, the youngest in the family, was very considerate and thoughtful. After his elder brother, the future pillar of the family, died, he began to shoulder the responsibility of taking care of the whole family. He rose early and worked long hours to make money. He thought that if the family's financial situation was improved, the pain of losing his elder brother could be eased. Who could have known that the God in heaven was not on his side? Long hours of working damaged his health. Soon, he was diagnosed with uremia. I cobbled together all our savings and the money collected by Professor Ding from people in the U.S. to pay for his hospital bills. In the end, we still couldn't save him.

Guofeng was the hope of several generations in the family. He was gone. So was his brother. It was just too devastating. Guofeng's grandma had high blood pressure. When she heard about Guofeng's death, she had a stroke and was paralyzed. She lay in bed for many years and died in 2002. His grandpa used to be very healthy. He was nine months shy of his ninetieth birthday when he heard about Guofeng's death. He couldn't pull himself out of the pain. He tried to commit suicide twice. The second time, he cut an artery on his neck and there was blood everywhere. Luckily, I discovered it and called the doctor. He was saved. While in the hospital, he deliberately fell to the floor and broke his collarbones. Two weeks later, he died.

In 2002 alone, my family held three funerals. At the moment, my daughter has been laid off from a state-run factory. She has to raise two kids. Life is very hard. After my youngest son died, his wife, who is from a village nearby, went back to her parents and dumped her four-year-old daughter on us. Guofeng's mother hurt her head and suffered a serious concussion after she passed out at Guofeng's funeral in 1989. She can only do some simple house chores now.

LIAO: You are the only healthy person in the family.

WU: Not really. I'm suffering from kidney cancer. Not long after my youngest son became sick with uremia in 2002, I noticed a small growth on my waist. I didn't do anything about it because all of our attention was on my younger son. A year later, the growth was getting bigger. I began to see blood in my urine. The doctors recommended surgery. My right kidney was removed. I feel much better now. I just can't lift heavy stuff. I can't afford expensive Western medicine. So I simply take some cheap herbs. The surgery cost my family a fortune. Unless we are really desperate, I seldom call Professor Ding because she's very busy. Each time she gets a call from us, she knows that we need help. It's kind of embarrassing.

LIAO: How did you get in touch with Professor Ding and the Tiananmen Mothers?

WU: After Guofeng's death, I bought a shortwave radio so we could listen to overseas radio broadcasts. One day, I heard on the radio that Ding Zilin, a professor at Guofeng's university, had lost her son. She was trying to contact all the victims' families and seek justice for those who were killed on June 4. I tried but wasn't able to establish contact. Several years ago, Professor Ding's husband met a student at a party. The student grew up in Xinjing and told him about my son. So Professor Ding wrote us a letter, but misspelled my name. Luckily, with help from heaven, a friend working at the post office got hold of the letter. He delivered it to us. It was such a blessing for us to be finally in touch with Professor Ding. She said she had been trying to track us down for eight years.

LIAO: Does Professor Ding know what's going on with your family now?

WU: Our life is too hard right now. We live on two hundred yuan a month. We have to raise our granddaughter and support her education. She is our only hope. She is the only thing left after the loss of my two sons. Despite this, we don't want to bother Professor Ding. It doesn't matter if we live or die. Professor Ding has to live. She is the one who helps keep the issue alive. It's been sixteen years since the June 4 massacre happened. Sooner or later, justice will be done. We probably won't live long enough to see the day. Whatever happens, we can't let the Communist Party get away with the bloody debt owed to families like mine.