20 ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS

But I must add something to my memoir.

I can't stop yet.

For the last seventeen years, since the end of the Cultural Revolution, I have been thinking about this so-called "Revolution." In the course of writing this book, I was able to think more carefully and continuously about some of the key issues. As a result, here are some additional thoughts and reflections.

What have I thought about?

First, have we learned any lesson from this disaster?

People, both at home and abroad, unanimously agree that the so-called "Proletarian Cultural Revolution" was not about "culture," nor was it a "revolution." It unmistakably was a "ten-year turmoil." All the Chinese people unquestionably agree on this conclusion. This unprecedented catastrophe (and, hopefully, the last one in history) caused tremendous economic and psychological disruption. The loss is immeasurable. Perhaps we can ignore the amount of pain engendered. Don't we often say knowledge, experience or lessons are not obtained without paying tuition? I absolutely agree. But, while our payment of tuition has been a fortune, what lesson have we learned?

Here's my answer: no, not in the least.

Personally, I have always thought that the Cultural Revolution, as a valuable "negative teacher," provides an extraordinarily good instructional opportunity. Many precious lessons can be drawn from this "negative teacher." The experiences during the Cultural Revolution can serve as points of departure for success in the future. They can help make a strong China.

Unfortunately, we have failed to take advantage of this remarkable educational opportunity. People say, "The Cultural Revolution is over. We don't need to worry about it."

As a result, my concern raised an additional issue, "Is the Cultural Revolution over?"

We are materialists. The soul of materialism is seeking truth from fact. If we believe in and pursue that doctrine, we have to admit that the Cultural Revolution is not completely over. In terms of its process, we may define it as being over. But a closer look shows that, psychologically, the opposite is true. If you ask people who experienced the Cultural Revolution to speak candidly about the tragedy, particularly middle-aged and old intellectuals who were persecuted during that chaos, you will see them nursing grievances. In contrast youngsters of today have different perspectives. They are ignorant about the decade-long destruction; stories about it sound like exotic fairytales to them. These divergent perspectives worry me. Who can rest assured that these youngsters will not behave as "young revolutionaries" in a second Cultural Revolution, given their ignorance of the criminal deeds committed by those young men and women from the recent past? If you bring up this topic to the middle-aged and old intellectuals who were persecuted during those years of chaos, they, unmistakably, will become infuriated by memories of their victimization and vociferously voice their complaints. I cannot meet and talk to every one of these intellectuals, but I can be sure that an overwhelming majority of them share the same pent-up emotion.

Revolutionary veterans, who made great contributions to the founding of new China and, later, were persecuted in the Cultural Revolution, may have a different perspective and behave accordingly, given their broad-mindedness and tempered revolutionary will. I have little contact with government officials, so I can't give you any reliable account of their reaction. But this topic reminds me of one occurrence, which, insignificant but thought-provoking, deserves a mention. In Beijing's Friendship Hotel in 1978 (after the Chinese National Political Consultative Conference resumed its function), I stumbled across a government official who had joined the revolution in his earlier years and now was well-known in the field of literature and arts. We both had been members of CNPCC's Department of Social Science before the Cultural Revolution and had not seen each other for more than ten years. The first sentences he uttered upon meeting me again were, "The ancient people say, 'A gentleman would rather die in honor than live in infamy.' But the Cultural Revolution has proved that 'a gentleman can both live and die in infamy.' " Then he laughed. I wondered whether he was laughing or weeping. Anyway, I could not laugh at all. Isn't his long-suppressed sadness crystal-clear?

He is not alone in worrying about how to preserve one's reputation. I'm with him in this regard. And I believe most Chinese intellectuals, the "gentlemen" in ancient terms, also share the same view. This adage, "A gentleman would rather die in honor than live in infamy," genuinely embodies a long sustained value system in Chinese history, which we Chinese intellectuals have embraced with a keener sentiment in comparison with our foreign counterparts.

I'm reminiscent of the Chinese intellectuals, a demographic population hardly defined as a class or a stratum, and of their history and present situation. In feudal society Chinese intellectuals ranked above farmers, workers and businessmen in social status, holding a rather privileged position that enjoyed high respect in the country. I do not live in the time of The Scholars, so I have no understanding of those intellectuals.[1] But I have lived in contemporary China and observed intellectuals during the warlord wars and, later, the KMT's rule. Apart from other privileges, professors in those periods had handsome salaries and a high social position. So they all were proud and behaved conceitedly. Their attitude was understandable, of course, because personal behavior is associated with financial well-being. Most professors were arrogant. That is how the expression of "the professor's haughty manner" came about. By the time I became a professor, things had changed considerably; the KMT's rule had ended and inflation had skyrocketed to an alarming height. Professors' income plummeted. Nevertheless, a professor still wore the Kong Yiji's unlined long gown and his social position was not lowered.[2]

Right after the founding of new China, I was very excited, like most professors, believing I really was free of oppression and that a new page of life had turned. We were like small children, happy and naive. We thought "The Sky of the Liberated Area Is Clear and Shiny" and saw everything as rose-red and bright like the sun.[3]

But the delightful circumstance soon was ruined when the first large political-and-ideology-reforming movement, the movements against the three evils and five evils, broke out.[4] I was thrown into a "medium-sized basin," bathed and washed so that my body was cleaned of amounts of dirt. Then I felt my body was now spry and healthy. It was my first acquaintance with the benefits of ideological reform. In the years to follow, political movements came one after another, crushing me in desperate gasping for breath. I went through the movements of criticizing Wu Xun, Early Spring, Hu Feng and Hu Shih and purging counter-revolutionaries.[5] The campaigns arrived in such close succession that I found it hard to adjust myself. This round of political developments culminated in the Anti-Rightist Movement in 1957. Those days, though I was not involved in the activities nor charged with any offense, were spent with nerves from morning till night. Personally, I did not object to those political movements at that time. During the Anti-Rightist Movement, I was busy attending sessions of criticism and reading critical papers. By the way, the "jet plane posture" had not been invented yet and sessions of criticism were a lot less tormenting than those torture sessions held during the Cultural Revolution. On the other hand, I was more and more skeptical of what was going on; why did people's actions contradict the "supreme directives" delivered in those days? Despite my doubts my belief in that most famous statement that the movement was based on "a sincere motive" rather than "a scheme" did not waiver.[6]

After the Anti-Rightist Movement, the country continued to be politically convulsed by events like the "removing the rightist ideology of focusing on learning" campaign. After the Lushan Conference, the "left" leaning ran rampant around the country and a campaign was launched opposing rightist deviation.[7] During the "three-year hard time," I, like other old intellectuals, though starving every day, never nursed resentment, let alone uttering cynical remarks. The whole country generally displayed a fair amount of tolerance and obedience. Who could deny the fact that the Chinese and the intellectuals are the finest in the world?

The Cultural Revolution broke out in 1966 as an inevitable outgrowth of the political environments. Later, one instructor in my department who used to be a member of the "New Beida Commune," told me that I could have escaped from this disaster. But I was to blame for my folly for sticking my neck out. Consequently I suffered home-raid, beating, insult and torture, and was sent into the Cow Shed, from which I narrowly escaped the throttleholds of death. For a period of time I mused and regretted for my folly. But now I have gained an insight. The Cultural Revolution is a very rare "grand occasion" that happened only once in thousands of years. If, like a peacock, I had not voluntarily stepped into the spotlight, I would not have experienced the "feel" of the so-called "Revolution" and would not have understood the dimensions of the insanity it inflicted on the nation. That would be a shame that could hardly be scrubbed off.

In the Cow Shed I observed and mused a lot about what I witnessed. Gradually I got down to the question, "Why were so many intellectuals persecuted?" Undeniably, intellectuals have shortcomings and make mistakes. But who is flawless? At that time my political perception was minimal and shallow. I did not find fault with anybody, not even the one who launched the "Revolution." I simply turned my radar screen to myself in search for the sources of evil. Using a popular term of today, mine was a feeling of "original sin." The concept has been used in Christianity. Now, I have borrowed and used it here.

I have no idea whether other old intellectuals came to the same conclusion. I should admit this feeling of repentance was quite deep-seated in me. Before the liberation of 1949 I believed politics was dirty despite all its pretensions, so I resolved to keep away from it. I had little understanding of the CPC, but I realized that the KMT was short on promise and would be doomed sooner or later. As I explained earlier, after the founding of new China, I began to be politically enlightened by the campaign for ideological reform. One of my hauls was realizing that all politics is not dirty. The politics of the CPC is a case in point. In the meantime, I judged myself as particularly selfish for living in reclusion, while learning and researching for the sake of gaining scholarly reputation, as the rest of the Chinese fought a bloody war against the Japanese invasion. I realized that the learning I acquired, if it could be called "learning," was despicable. For a long time I regarded myself as "a peach picker," who did not grow the peach tree but came to pluck peaches when they were ripe.

But what should I do?

I had many strange ideas. I even hoped that a new War of Resistance Against Japan would break out so I could have a second chance to perform meritorious deeds. I would surely plunge into battlefields and dedicate my efforts and even my life. I read many novels about the War of Resistance Against Japan and about revolutionary wars. I deeply admired the Communists and revolutionaries for their dedication in the face of death. I made a pledge to learn from them. Of course these were illusions, naive and ridiculous. But they were true reflections from the bottom of my heart at that time.

In terms of allegiance to the leader, I had firmly opposed such fealty in the past. In my early years, I witnessed KMT members' worship of their "leader" but abhorred it. After the September 18 Incident in 1931, I went to Nanjing, as a student of Tsinghua University, and saw this "leader," Chiang Kai-shek. He shamelessly lied to us again and again. As a result I became more and more disillusioned. Mr. Chen Yinque, one of my professors, also did not favor Chiang and wrote the line, "It is difficult to enjoy the beauty of the highest building at near sight," which demonstrated his disgust for this "leader." Later, when I went to Germany at the peak of the fascist rampage, I saw the Germans, a small population of them at least, greeting each other on streets with "Long live Hitler!" I thought it was ridiculous and mind-boggling. I used to know a German girl, less than twenty years old and stunningly good-looking. She once said to me, "It would be my most glorious life achievement if I were able to give birth to a child with Hitler!" I was shocked, finding the occurrence totally inconceivable. A thought lying in the back of my mind was that we Chinese were intelligent and would not do stupid things like this!

I came back to China. Three years later new China was founded. In those early years I was very excited and joyous like many other old intellectuals, as I said previously. Each year we attended two grand rallies, the celebration of International Labor Day on May 1 and the National Day on October 1, both of which were held in Tian'anmen Square. On each celebration day we were up long before dawn and went and gathered at Shatan in downtown. Then we walked to the alleys around Dongdan and waited there for hours. The grand celebrations began at ten. We marched along in front of the Tian'anmen towers so the leader could review us.[8] At that time the three decorated archways on the boulevard were not yet dismantled. East of those archways we could not see the leader on the tower. As soon as the parade passed the archways and the leader was in sight, loud chants of "long live" exploded from thousands of marching crowds. At first I was not used to chanting, no matter how excited I was. But, probably because I had a high IQ, I soon joined and chanted the slogan, too, loudly and fervently as if the words aired the feeling from the depths of my heart. I was totally trapped into worship for the leader.

I have narrated the process of my ideological transition, briefly but genuinely. Through one drop of water you can visualize the ocean, while one grain of sand can conjure up the cosmos. Other old intellectuals may have had the same experience as I, at least for major parts of it despite minor differences. The preceding examples show how they, and the young intellectuals even more, love our great country. For thousands of years, Chinese intellectuals traditionally have been patriots. In comparison with those of other nations, this characteristic of Chinese intellectuals is striking.

"Someone wakes up to a new understanding and foresees happenings in the future." But I am a slow foreseer and seldom benefit from hints in dreams. By the time I was confined to the Cow Shed during the Cultural Revolution, I still believed in the legitimacy of that tragedy. A Western saying goes, "All that glisters is not gold." In the time of trouble I got to know some PLA men and workers who came to campus in order to "support the leftists." They were my idols. I staunchly embraced slogans like "The people of the whole country should learn from the PLA" and "The working class must come to power in all walks of life."[9] I behaved strictly as I was instructed. But reality showed me that a number of military men and workers abused laws and rode roughshod over others. Some of these men were downright corrupt. I felt very disappointed, as if a basin of cold water had been dumped over my head, washing away the heat of my body. I woke up. The old saying "All gold is not pure and no man is perfect" made a comeback with a fresh meaning. But what puzzled me was that ignominious deeds were done by people I had admired. We believers in materialism should seek truth and reality and be honest. We should never curry favor with expressions of flattery and cover-ups of errors. Despite the fact that we intellectuals were far from perfect in comparison with people in other professions, should we have been dismissed as the "Stinking Number 9"?[10]

I have rambled a great deal, but I mean to state clearly, first, that the persecution of intellectuals in the "Cultural Revolution" was absolutely unjustified and, second, that the sinister motive behind the practice is apparent, despite efforts and explanations to cover it up. For most intellectuals who suffered in the calamity, the "Cultural Revolution" is not over. Take another example of mine. On the one hand, I highly value the rare experience I happened to acquire in the Cow Shed. On the other hand, a contrary view occasionally comes to mind, when I'm now at the "prime of my career" and heaped with honors and praises, that "I should have committed suicide at the abyss of my life." The fact that I did not take my own life shows I'm not a man of integrity. Now I'm grappling with a guilty conscience and living a life eclipsed in infamy. It is a shame that I have this feeling. Here, I present it frankly to the reader as a true manifestation of my mind. But I can't help raising the question, "Do I, Ji Xianlin, stand alone with this thought?"

That question brings me to a third issue, "Have Cultural Revolution victims vented their grievances?"

This question is not difficult to answer. On the basis of the stories I recounted before, the answer is definitely "no"!

To obtain a thorough understanding of the issue, I have to review history by adding something to my narrative about the students and scholars who returned from abroad in the early years of new China. At that time I resembled many other intellectuals whose stories I have told in some fashion previously. The overseas Chinese witnessed their social position taking a drastic turn for the better after the rebirth of the country and understood that their future was tightly locked in the national independence. Patriotic as they had always been, overseas Chinese were elated by events at home and wholly allegiant to the country. Risking dangers of all kinds, many young students returned home. Like most intellectuals already there, they saw everything as rosy, shining and full of promise; they resolved to throw themselves into the cause for the prosperity of China. Consequently some Chinese, who had been working or visiting as scholars in foreign countries, gave up their comfortable living and academic superiority and returned home, including Lao She, who eventually drowned himself in a lake during the Cultural Revolution.[11] But when Lao She and other scholars returned, they all were high-spirited and strongly motivated by the bright prospects of a rejuvenated country and their own successful career. They were confident about their future.

However, China's politics soon reversed when "leftist fundamentalism" took sway. "Overseas relations" became excuses for false charges. Wasn't it normal that returned students and scholars had some "overseas contacts"? Even a little child knows this is self-evident. But those "leftist zealots" never let go of this part of returnees' dossiers. They conjured up wanton and groundless charges that returnees were secret agents and spies for foreigners, leaving the victims horrified and in despair. This situation deteriorated during the Cultural Revolution when countless patriotic and innocent people were persecuted. Those who were killed or died of grief were, of course, the most victimized. But those who were alive also desperately searched for ways of fleeing the country. In the past they had gone out of their way to return home. Now they had to abandon the new lives they had set up. What a striking contrast! I personally know many cases of this sort. Anyone with integrity realizes that the country experienced an immeasurable loss. Enduring tremendous grief and parting with sorrow from their dear ones, these intellectuals took wing from the country. How could sons and daughters be willing to part from their parents? But they have been gone.

Have any of those who took their leave or those who stayed vented their grievances?

Years ago a sort of literature, "scar literature," emerged. But I think most of the writers of this literary genre are young people, who do not have many scars. But those with "scars" have not written anything about their suffering for one reason or the other, depending on individual circumstances. This reality is rather depressing. It conceals, I think, something harmful that jeopardizes the growth of the nation.

Don't we often hear calls for efforts to stabilize and unify the country? I'm totally for it. Without a stable and unified environment the country's economy will not grow steadily and the government will not function as it should. But we need stability and unity in genuine terms. Given the fact that many intellectuals, the old intellectuals in particular, are reluctant to speak about their grievances, real stability and unity are unlikely to be realized.

According to my observation, many intellectuals complain at times. Our grievances have not been vented and our living standards are quite low. Our dissatisfaction is understandable. But we are no less patriotic. We are best described by the saying, "A good farm animal does not need driving." Another phrase portraying us as "a good product with high and enduring quality and a low price" does not exaggerate the reality. But some people are not happy with these statements. Recently I learned that one well-known person said, in comparison to the collapse of the former Soviet Union, "Chinese intellectuals are basically hair adhering to the skin of imperialism." This statement was believed to be gossip. But the existence of such a view among the people is not out of the question. Does the man who expressed this thought still maintain the capability of distinguishing right from wrong? Wasn't he conscience-stricken when he said these words? Occurrences like this disturb me all the time.

If people of this sort came to power in the future, intellectuals would be sure to buy the farm.

Here is the last issue I have been considering, "How could the Cultural Revolution happen?"

It is a complicated question which I'm unable to answer. Are there people that are capable of answering it? Yes, there are some. But they don't want to, nor do they seem happy to have the question answered by others. In my humble opinion, a true believer of materialism should not have this attitude. If a candid answer is presented to this key question, the people of the whole country, including intellectuals, will feel deeply indebted. They will be rid of their worries and able to let go of their grievances. They will join forces and be wholly devoted to the building-up of stability and unity and the construction of the socialist society in China. What a wonderful thing it would be!

Meanwhile if we do not explore this topic, foreigners will, as the ancient saying goes, "If the Confucian ethical code is not maintained at home, help will be enlisted from alien countries." Surely some foreign scholars are sincere in their scholarship. They have engaged in research, sought truth from reality and produced some serious scholarship. Clearly, no matter whether their research keeps to the point or not, it is much better to tell the truth than to lie. Nevertheless, some foreigners are malice-intended, distorting facts, cooking up rumors and slandering, so as to muddy the waters. They distort facts and engage in slander, creating a big mess. Though "it is ridiculous for an ant to topple a giant tree," such happenings are certainly disappointing.

What should we do then? I think that answer should be obvious to all.

These are all the additional thoughts I have had so far.

So it is time for me to stop jabbering.

[1]The Scholars, a satirical fiction written by Wu Jingzi (1701-1754), a fiction writer during the Qing Dynasty, in which scholars of ancient Chinese society are relentlessly satirized for their dishonesty and depravity.

[2] Kong Yiji, the protagonist, the "scholar of scholars" for lack of practical skills, in Lu Xun's short story "Kong Yiji," the first story in Call to Arms, a collection of short stories published in 1923.

[3] "The Sky of the Liberated Area Is Clear and Shiny," the lyrics from a revolutionary song popularized in northwest areas of China controlled by the CPC during World War II.

[4] "The movement against the three evils and five evils," precisely the "Movement Against the Three Evils" (1951-1952) and the "Movement Against the Five Evils" (1952); the former attacked corruption, waste and bureaucracy within the Party, government, the military and grass-root organizations; the latter dealt with bribery, tax evasion, theft of state property, cheating on government contracts and stealing of economic information, as practiced by owners of private industrial and commercial enterprises.

[5] Wu Xun, the protagonist in the movie of The Life of Wu Xun produced in 1951. Mao Zedong published an essay entitled "Attention Should Be Paid to the Discussion on The Life of Wu Xun" on May 20, 1951; Wu Xun (1838-1896), a poor farmer in Tangyi, Shangdong, dedicated his whole life to the establishing of schools by making money through beggary and suffering hardship and humiliation; Hu Feng (1902-1985), Chinese poet, literary theorist, writer and translator, was criticized for his writing "On the Literary Developments of Recent Years" published in 1954 and was arrested in 1955 and sentenced to 14 years in prison; in 1980 his wrong was redressed; Hu Shih, see note 4, Chapter 6.

[6] "A sincere motive" and "a scheme," Ji refers to Mao Zedong's well-known statement about the nature of the Anti-Rightist Movement during the time of its evolvement.

[7] The Lushan Conference, a conference held by the Political Bureau of the CPC in Lushan, Jiangxi, a summer resort, in the summer of 1959 with the agenda of discussing the economic developments of the country.

[8] Ji means Mao Zedong.

[9] "The people of the whole country should learn from the PLA" and "The working class must come to power in all walks of life," two quotations of Mao Zedong widely cited in the Cultural Revolution.

[10] For "Stinking Number 9," see note 15, Chapter 5.

[11] Lao She (1899-1966), the penname of Shu Qingchun, styled Sheyu, a noted Chinese writer who graduated from Beijing Normal School in 1918 and went to London in 1924. He taught at the College of the Orient in London. In 1930 he returned to China. After 1949 he became vice president of China's Association of Literature and Arts. During the Cultural Revolution he was persecuted and committed suicide by drowning himself in Lake Taiping in central Beijing. His masterpieces include the novel The Rickshaw Boy and the play Teahouse.