The hunger strike began on 13 May. I wasn’t sure whether I would commit to it until the very last moment. Chang’an Avenue was already packed with students. As I walked towards Tiananmen Square, strangers greeted me with the V for Victory sign that had become the defining gesture of the protests. Although they were about to take an action which could have the gravest of consequences, the mood among the students was both jubilant and defiant. As the evening began to melt into night, we saw a glittering streak of silver trail across the darkening sky – a comet hurtling through the cosmos. On catching sight of it, the crowds let out a spontaneous cheer. It is difficult to describe the optimism and hope we felt – even as our tactics were becoming more perilous.
In the square, we settled down to food and drink, some of which had been cooked by the students themselves using makeshift barbecues, the rest provided by the civilian population who were supporting the students and were anxious about our plight. It was to be the last meal before the hunger strike.
I caught sight of the Marauders – all of whom had chosen to heed the call by wearing the white headbands that would, over the coming days, become an instantly recognisable emblem of the hunger strike. In that huge gathering, vast numbers of people were wearing those headbands. The symbolism of our protest was clear and simple, and it went straight to the heart of our culture. In Beijing, after all, another way of asking how someone was doing was to enquire, ‘Have you eaten?’ What better way to show our resolve and determination than to stage a hunger strike?
When I reached the Marauders, they seemed animated by another purpose. Jin Feng, perhaps the cockiest of our bunch, approached me with something like shyness.
‘I am really glad you made it, Lai. You are just in time!’
I smiled at him, bemused.
‘In time for what?’
He hesitantly took my arm as we gathered. Pan Mei was wearing an old-fashioned orange and white robe that strained over her massive frame. In any other context, it might have seemed ridiculous. But her face was peaceful, beatific almost. I watched as Lan and Min walked slowly forward, their hands clasped, and came to stand in front of her. I was baffled until I realised the significance of what was happening. Both Lan and Min were clothed in white with golden streaks rippling across their shirts, the traditional dress of those who are about to be married in the Buddhist tradition. A religious tradition but also a secular one. No hope for an afterlife, only hope for the future of this one.
Pan Mei was usually so shy when she wasn’t acting, and rather stuttery and inept in her speech. Now, however, she spoke softly, but with great certainty. Lan and Min glanced at one another briefly. Lan so large, so strong, yet almost unable to look Min in the eye, overwhelmed by emotion like a child. Min reached out his much slighter arm, gently moving the face of his partner towards his own, so that they had no other option and no greater joy than to gaze at one other, to behold each other, in a place where – despite the chaos, uncertainty and danger all around – they could, for a few moments, be completely and utterly themselves.
I remembered my first impression of them. The sense I had of their relationship being in some way unnatural. It seemed as if a chasm of time had passed between then and now. I felt as though I was a different person. And I felt the tears, warm on my cheeks. The wedding would have no legal validity, it wasn’t backed by law or by the state. But those two young men fitted together, theirs was a love to take joy in.
I tried to quieten the sobs which were convulsing me. I turned to Jin Feng and managed a couple of words.
‘And Anna?’
His smile faded.
‘You know she has been against these demonstrations from the start. You know what she feels about politics!’
I nodded, a momentary sadness swallowed up in the cheers and jubilation which followed Lan and Min cementing their vows and kissing one another passionately. All those nearby, who had no idea who the couple were, shouted and clapped in celebration all the same. I return to that moment in my mind sometimes. I think that was when our power, our sense of affirmation, and our love for one another were at their height. People talk about revolutions in clinical and prosaic terms – the need to change a given social system. To fight oppression. But they often forget the incredible uplift to individual relationships the power of a revolutionary awakening provides.
I regretted that Macaw wasn’t with us; it saddened me to think she had missed out on something so precious. But although I would have followed her into hell itself, I knew she had misread the situation with the students.
After that glorious makeshift wedding, we partook in drinks and food until eventually the celebrations died down and the time for the hunger strike began. It’s strange, these arbitrary borders we draw – when to eat or when not to eat, for example. Our bellies were full, and yet as soon as the hour was declared, there was a seriousness, a tension in the air, a gravity to our actions even though we were far from suffering the pangs of hunger. Those would come later.
I spent the first night with them in Tiananmen Square. We talked about many things and we laughed that night. Many years later, my daughter got a splinter in her finger, and a cruel boy in her class told her it was going to go septic and she was certain to die. For days, she carried that knowledge around with her before finally she broke down and came to me in tears. As I held her, as I laughed to reassure her of the ridiculousness of her fear, my eyes were nevertheless wet with tears. As I told her that she was in no danger, that she had so much more life to live, I have never felt closer to a human being. But that night among the students in Tiananmen Square came a close second.
As the night deepened, some of us slept, some of us talked, some of us performed. The adrenaline was whirling within me and I couldn’t sleep, at least not yet. As time wound its way into the early hours, I remember a waif-like woman standing to make a speech. She looked almost like a child, a small silvery outline against the black. She spoke the following words in a voice that was soft and sad, inexorable and timeless:
‘During the glorious days of our youth, we have no choice but to abandon the beauty of life. And yet how reluctant, how unwilling we are … Who will shout if not us, who will act if not us … Though our shoulders may be frail, though we are too young to die, we must lead, we have no choice. History demands this of us … democracy is not the concern of only a few.’
I looked at the Marauders; they were all nestled in sleep. Beyond, there were students awake and listening, their faces streaked with tears just as mine was. It was at that point I knew I had no other option. Slowly, gently, I took out the spool of white fabric and carefully wrapped it around my head. I wasn’t courageous, I knew that too. But I was going to commit to this. Because life would simply have no meaning if I didn’t. That was the power of those days.
I drifted in and out of sleep. I woke; it must have been four in the morning, or thereabouts. The stars were still sparkling in the darkness of the sky. I felt the tip of a foot pressing into my side. Someone was kicking me!
I looked up to see Anna, her expression verging on fury. She proceeded to give each of the Marauders a similar sharp kick. We woke up, blinking at her.
‘So you are all going through with this madness!’ she hissed.
We were so shell-shocked that none of us could muster a reply.
She glared at me.
‘You are supposed to be the smart one and you are advocating this?’
She looked at Jin Feng.
‘And you, you always have something to say. Are you just going to go along with everyone else?’
While she was belittling him, he had next to him a single piece of paper that he fingered nervously. Her anger reached its zenith.
‘What the fuck is that?’ she barked.
Jin Feng looked at her.
‘Nothing really,’ he said mildly.
‘Come on, don’t bullshit me. You’ve got a big mouth. Why so quiet now? Just … tell me what is going on?’
He turned away, almost embarrassed. But he spoke anyway.
‘Just in case. Just in case this doesn’t go the way we hoped. We have all of us left …’
‘Left what?’
‘Left a … series of directives. For our families.’
I saw it. I saw the moment Macaw’s face changed, when she realised what exactly it was she was being told. I looked around, seeing what I hadn’t noticed before. The rest of the Marauders, and many other students, had by their sides the same white envelopes. Those papers: each student had written a last will and testament addressed to their families, because they understood they might die.
Anna’s expression broke. Her whole body shuddered.
‘You idiots,’ she said. ‘You stupid bloody idiots.’
She turned on her heel and strode away. For a second I wondered if she had ever been there at all. By the time the sun rose, the whole episode seemed like a dream.
It wasn’t until the next day that the hunger started to bite. I returned home that afternoon.
Even though it had been less than twenty-four hours, the thought of food had already begun to plague me. The images of young men and women – donning their white headbands, keeping close the scraps of paper outlining their wishes in the event of their deaths – swirled in my head. I had watched death come to my grandmother, but although she was the greatest loss of my life, she was old and she was suffering, and when she finally passed, there was something of necessity in that passing. Through my pain and grief, I felt her time had come. I had never really considered my own mortality – except as we all do, at the most abstract level. Now, however, my being in the world felt that little bit fainter, my grip on reality that little bit more precarious. How far would things go? I felt a subdued sense of panic. The protests had, until this point, assumed an air of unreality. Now, though, I was terribly frightened.
I came across my mother in the hallway. I will never forget her face. She was both angry and haunted. She looked at me as though I was deliberately trying to hurt her. I wanted to say something, but I was exhausted. She brushed past me. Her body felt thin, fragile. But her anger, as ever, was palpable.
I went into the living room. My father was at the table reading a paper. I attempted levity.
‘I think mother is angry with me. I don’t know why. I am just trying to do what’s right.’
He raised his eyes to me. He too seemed exhausted and small. But when he spoke it was with more emotion than I had ever heard from him.
‘You can’t know why. You …’
His voice broke. I’d never seen my father cry before. But he was close to it. He gave a small, quiet cough, a brief rasping sound. And then he continued.
‘You can’t know why until you have children yourself. Then you will know why.’
I looked at him.
‘I thought you of all people would understand why we are doing this. Why it is important to fight.’
It was the closest I ever came to speaking about his past. Years later, I realised how much of a shadow it had cast across our family life, what had happened to him during the Cultural Revolution. My father was perhaps the most mild-mannered man I have ever known, but the darkness that trailed him was ever present.
His expression was forlorn, his face haggard, and he too seemed so terribly old. Then he stood. Picking up the paper, he folded it neatly before walking from the room.
I slept a little. The hunger pangs were kicking in, so sleep was intermittent. Even though I was exhausted, I made my way back to the square and, despite the hunger and the fatigue, the mood of the students revived me. The crowds were buoyant, for intellectuals from across the city had come out in favour of the protests. A large poster sporting the words ‘We Can No Longer Remain Silent’ was held aloft – it had been reproduced on all the campuses. A letter was read out in Tiananmen Square from the teachers expressing their solidarity with the student movement. That day, too, twelve of the most famous scholars in China – including the great writer Su Xiaokang – came to the square to converse with the students. It is true that they were hoping to turn our course, to persuade us to stand down. Nevertheless, their words were warm and kind, and I was thrilled by the presence of Su Xiaokang in the square, for it did much to cement the importance of our cause.
That same day, we started to see the first casualties. Students fainting. Though it was shocking at first, we soon became familiar with the toneless wail of the ambulances. Some students had also refused water. These were the first to collapse. There was the ominous feeling that it wouldn’t be long before the first person lost his or her life. But we were also reaching a great turning point. The square was now inhabited by a body of foreign journalists as well, and the movement was able to claim its international resonance. The citizens of Beijing came out en masse to show their support for the students. In their eyes, we were showing we were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the people. We were the ‘people’s children’. Even some national media, at great risk to themselves, reported on the hunger strike – not only acknowledging it was happening but also recognising the bravery of the students.
Most importantly of all, however, the hunger strike succeeded in its ends. Gorbachev, the president of the USSR, was due to meet Deng in a glorious national event, culminating in a great parade at Tiananmen Square. But that wasn’t to be. The fact was that the highways and roads into the centre of Beijing were crowded with students and the large number of civilians who had come out to support us. The students had remained in control of the square and had proved to be immovable.
Gorbachev’s visit should have brought the Russian president deep into the capital city, where he would have received every honour and dignity. Instead, he was greeted by Deng and other officials at Beijing Airport. He never even left the runway. Deng’s humiliation was complete. The government offered to negotiate with the students – finally recognising our presence. Across Tiananmen Square there erupted a great cheer. We thought we had won, and the hunger strike was called off. But we had no real understanding of just how vicious those ancient waxwork bureaucrats – accustomed to absolute power – could be when that power was threatened.
Behind the scenes, Zhao Ziyang, one of the more ‘radical’ ministers, was blamed for everything that had happened. Ostensibly, the premier, Li Peng, agreed to meet with our representatives in the days following. But Deng had no intention of allowing his humiliation to go unchallenged.
Instead the government delayed and prevaricated, hoping we would tire. Their gambit met with some success. As the occupation continued, the promises made by the state melted away in the hard light of day, and gradually the momentum achieved by the hunger strike started to fade. The leadership of the student movement began to lose cohesion. The stench of rubbish on the square was palpable, alongside the odour from overflowing portable toilets. And everyone was so incredibly tired. The state had billions at their disposal. All we had was our belief.
And then a small group of art students carried out a shocking but inspirational action. The numbers in the square had dwindled, just as the government had intended. But a rumour began to circulate. That was the thing about the student movement. Despite the violence of state censorship, a whisper moved faster than any police baton. And sometimes it could prove even more effective. Rumours abounded in the square. Something was about to be unleashed.
On 30 May, in the dead of night, amidst those dwindling numbers, a structure was wheeled out into the centre of Tiananmen Square. It was more than thirty feet tall, draped in a great sheet. The following day, the rumours and whispers were rife. People began to return to the square again in their droves. The security forces on the outskirts, ever present, were taken aback. More and more people arrived. And then, on that beautiful bright day, the structure that had been smuggled in was unveiled.
I was there to witness the unveiling. The brightness of the sky made everything seem misty, almost white, as summer heat can sometimes do, and when the statue was unveiled, it too was sculpted from finest powdered white. It was both effervescent and awesome in its proportions: a vast towering woman – ‘the goddess of democracy’ – holding aloft a torch, striding forth, facing in the direction of Tiananmen Gate where she stared down a giant mural of the old dead dictator Mao Zedong. And, as she shimmered in the pale white heat of the late morning, he, for his part, looked shrivelled and wizened and blank, much as he had on that day all those years before when I caught a glimpse of his real-life cadaver in the mausoleum.
Of course, the unveiling of the statue was a clear provocation to the authorities, but it was about more than simple defiance. It was about a rupture in historical time: it gave visible form to the new era staring down the old. I caught the expressions on the faces of those around me, many of whom were openly weeping. Perhaps the security forces could have acted quickly, slipped in, dragged the structure down, broken it into pieces, but it was too late now, for more and more students were flooding the square.
And perhaps it was this which forced the government into action. Finally, they made good on their offer to meet our representatives. The meeting was a sham, of course. The student representatives spoke passionately, angrily; the government officials gazed at them with barely suppressed loathing, unable to mask their outrage at finding themselves in the same room with these types of people – the sense of absurdity experienced by any elite group of bureaucrats compelled to engage in face-to-face conversation with the people they are supposed to represent. It was a scam, a ploy. Some thirty years later, leaked records demonstrate that the government had already decided to declare martial law. I imagine Deng and his cronies, so accustomed to power, had been sent into a fit of apoplectic rage by this point, and perhaps, behind it, lurked a genuine sense of fear.
The students were not completely naive, however. Rumours of retaliation began to circulate. It was no longer a question of local police. We were told that soldiers from other districts were being amassed in the south of the city. On 2 June the government made it official. They declared martial law. It would take effect from 10 a.m. And that’s when the students raised the barricades.
I wanted to get back to Tiananmen. But martial law also brought with it a curfew. Radios crackled out on our landing, warning all citizens to stay indoors. For the first time, both my mother and father were glued to the TV. Neighbours came in to watch too. It was all propaganda, of course, the usual lies – dissenters seeking to undermine and destroy China, counter-revolutionaries wishing to dismantle the communist system. Perhaps it was reading Orwell all those years ago, but for me the slogans ‘dissenters’, ‘anti-communists’, ‘counter-revolutionaries’ seemed to have lost all their charge, despite the rabid tone with which they were uttered. My father watched the images on television with quiet regret and a hint of sadness. My mother glowered mournfully at me each time I passed her on the corridor, but said nothing. We heard a gunshot. The shattering of a window. My mother, quietly frantic, pulled out the darkest sheets from the cupboard and draped them across our windows. She wasn’t alone; many of our neighbours would do the same. From downstairs we heard the police beating against a door, and the sound of someone being dragged away.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling through the darkness. I knew I should make my way to the square. But the fear was as a sickness in my belly. I was a coward. I am one still. I desperately wanted to act, for I understood that I owed the students and my friends a great obligation. They were out there, protesting for something I too had argued for and felt in the depths of my soul – even if I wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. ‘Freedom’, perhaps. Freedom from. Freedom to. An overused word. In Canada today, a liberal epitaph bandied about casually and automatically, in conversations, in commercials. But the yearning for freedom that we had in China in 1989 felt at times almost visceral. It brought us together. Nothing was more important than that.
And yet I stayed where I was, in my bed, gazing at the ceiling. I was so frightened. I didn’t want to put myself at risk. My father frustrated me, I loathed my mother at times, and I felt the distance between myself and my brother widening with each year. But the idea of never seeing them again was the same feeling you have when you step close to the edge of a cliff: that dizzying sense of vertigo. The protests would continue without me. Nothing I could do would make any fundamental contribution. After all, I was not one of the leaders. I was not even one of the most active figures. Whatever would happen … would happen. I settled deeper into my bed. It wouldn’t be wise to go out during the curfew.
But that same strange twisting feeling was at work in my belly. It wasn’t just fear. It was the sense that I was part of something, had committed myself to it. How could I stay here in the warm and comfort? I thought about the Marauders. Every one of them except Anna had committed to the protests. We had been in it together.
To hell with it.
I sneaked out of the front door.
At once I felt that sense of panic that had once affected me so frequently. The sense of my chest contracting. My lungs being squeezed. The fight for breath. Instinctively, automatically, I made for the roof of our building, pushed through the rickety old door and stepped out into the cold night air simply in order to take a breath.
I hadn’t been here for a while. My grandmother would bring me here when we would wash clothes together; there were large slabs of stone you placed the clothes upon before working in the soap and water, rinsing them, then hanging the garments on one of the lines that criss-crossed the roof.
It was quiet up here. I looked across the city and saw a plume of smoke rising from a nearby neighbourhood. The wail of a siren broke out and then stopped. Everything fell quiet.
‘Hey!’
I jumped, my heart pounding violently.
Turning, gasping, I saw my little brother.
‘You little shit,’ I exclaimed, ‘you almost killed me.’
He smiled.
‘Well, I am not so little. In fact, I am almost as tall as you … Also, you don’t usually say that! You don’t use that word.’
‘I don’t usually have a heart attack. You frightened me. What on earth are you doing up here?’
He shrugged.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just come up here sometimes.’
‘Why?’
He was older now, more guarded, but sometimes he responded simply and instantaneously, making me realise he had not fully shed his childhood.
‘Po Po liked it up here. So I like it too.’
I felt moved. I missed my grandmother because she had centred me. She had been a great rock across which every ebb and flow in my being moved. But I sometimes forgot that she had been an important presence in my brother’s life too.
‘Yeah, she did,’ I said.
We slipped into silence.
‘Are you going to die?’ he asked in a much smaller voice.
‘I don’t think so. I hope not.’
‘Mother says that if you keep carrying on the way you are, if you keep putting yourself in the … protests, you will be in danger and you could die because of that!’
‘She told you that?’
He turned his head away from me. He did not want me to glimpse his emotion.
‘No, she said it to Father. But I heard her say it. I hear more than people think.’
Again, he seemed so childlike.
I reached out to him, but stopped. I thought about what it was I wanted to say. I made my voice soft but as firm as I could.
‘Listen to me. I don’t think Mother is right. But …’
‘But …?’ he gazed at me with those full, wide eyes.
‘I hope I’ll be here for a very long time. But all people die eventually. It happened with Po Po. But she lived for a very long time. I will too. And I think you will live even longer!’
‘But why will I live longer than you?’
‘Well, you must do. Because you are younger than me. That means you are going to have the longest life of all.’
He thought about this for a few moments.
And then he grinned wickedly.
‘Do you know what I think?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I am never going to die at all.’
I blinked, lost for words.
‘Well … that’s …’
He fixed me with a gimlet gaze, secretive and knowing.
‘Me and my friend at school, Fenhua – me and him, we are going to make a lot of money. We are going to be rich!’
Slightly baffled, I couldn’t help but ask:
‘But how will that—’
My brother interrupted me with the violence of his enthusiasm.
‘Once we are rich we will have our bodies frozen before we die. And then, centuries later, they will have the technology to revive us. And that way we can live forever!’
I blinked at him. I stuttered.
‘Well … certainly … that’s a plan.’
He didn’t interpret my hesitation as any kind of scepticism towards his scheme, however. Rather, he understood my response in a different way. His face fell, and he became concerned.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said ardently. ‘I will make sure we freeze you too.’
‘That’s … very gracious of you!’
He nodded gravely. He had said what he needed to say. He moved away towards the roof’s exit. Then he turned and fixed me with another wicked grin.
‘You’ll have to be nice to me, though. From here on in.’
I looked at him, an involuntary smile rippling across my face.
‘I will try!’
He nodded and disappeared down the stairs. I stood there for a few moments. It was colder now at this time. I was about to go back, when I heard a roar. At first I thought the police had returned, to drag someone else from our building. I walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. There was Macaw on her bike, revving her engine.
. . .
I stepped out into the night. We looked at each other. She remained stubbornly silent, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. I went to ask her what she was doing here, but as soon as I opened my mouth, she revved the engine, and my words were swallowed by the noise. I blinked in astonishment, went to say something else, but she revved again, drowning me out. She grinned wickedly.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
‘You are such a bloody child sometimes, do you know that? You’d give my little brother a run for his money!’
She shrugged.
‘Seriously, though,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t be riding around on that thing. It’s stolen. The police. They were just here.’
She looked at me with genuine consternation.
‘You don’t think much of your friend, do you? Do you really believe I am stupid enough to bring that stolen bike around here?’ she said, aghast.
I gazed at her perplexed. I motioned to the bike.
‘So what’s that you are sitting on then?’
She looked at me as though having to explain things to a child.
‘That is a completely different stolen bike. I stole this one about an hour ago!’
My mouth dropped open. I was at a loss for words.
She smiled, sphinx-like.
The smile faded.
‘I saw them, you know?’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘The police. Before you came out. I hung back. They shot into a window. Dragged someone out. One of your neighbours. Poor sod. Maybe it’s better you don’t head out to the square tonight.’
Despite my earlier fear, I felt defiant.
‘I am going! And besides, you’ve clearly been riding around the place.’
She looked at me, her green eyes glittering and amused.
‘But I’m different!’
I laughed.
‘Maybe you are,’ I said.
I thought about it for a moment or two.
‘Maybe I am different as well!’
She raised one eyebrow but didn’t say anything. She just sat watching me. When Anna looked at you, you felt like you were the only person in the world. You wanted to talk, you wanted to let her into your head, to tell her the kind of things you would tell no one else. There was always something dangerous about her, and yet you couldn’t help trusting her.
‘I’ve felt different all my life,’ I found myself saying. ‘My family … they are not much like me. My father has a scientific mindset. But I can’t even change a light bulb. My mother … well, where do I begin? She has always been pretty and flamboyant and the centre of any room. Sometimes she looks at me like she can’t quite believe I’m her daughter. My brother doesn’t speak much to me these days, he’s becoming a teenager. And my grandmother. I loved her very much. Because she was strong. But that’s hardly me either.’
I chuckled ruefully.
‘I guess I am trying to say I feel different too. But … joining these protests, I haven’t felt that difference so much. In fact, I’ve felt …’ I struggled to find the words, ‘the same. And it’s been kind of wonderful.’
I smiled shyly.
She looked at me, her expression a strange combination of contempt and kindness.
‘Funny Bunny,’ she murmured, ‘you really are the last of life’s innocents. How will you ever get along in this life without me?’
The way she had said it. She spoke so softly, as though she were voicing her inner thoughts aloud, as though she wasn’t addressing me at all. The oddness of her diction stayed with me, but only seconds later her expression changed and her voice became more definitive.
‘I get that you want to head out. I’m not trying to stop you. But maybe it would be better to go in the early morning, outside the curfew. You’re more likely to reach the square intact!’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said in a reluctant voice, but inside I felt a glow of reprieve. I had been terrified about heading out. At least now it could wait until morning.
‘And what about you? Will you be coming to the protests?’
She shrugged her shoulders. Revved the engine. And sped off into the dark.