During the Cultural Revolution killings in Daoxian, 688 people were compelled to flee their villages and were accused of becoming bandits. Outside observers have always wondered how these people managed to escape. When we first did our reporting in Daoxian, we particularly hoped such people could give us firsthand accounts of the massacre, imagining that nothing could be easier than interviewing these 688 indomitable survivors. We were surprised to find that most were so traumatized by their experience that they were afraid of saying the wrong thing or had difficulty expressing what they’d been through. Instead, they told us of their gratitude to the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and the government for rehabilitating them and helping them rebuild their homes.
Perhaps we took the wrong approach by “receiving” former fugitives in production brigade offices, in the presence of the local CCP secretary or a Task Force member. We didn’t know how to go about interviewing them, and conversations inevitably languished after a brief exchange. Some others who would have been willing to speak freely were never introduced to us because others didn’t want them to destroy the “excellent situation of stability and unity.” We were obliged to use personal connections to contact such people in secret. We made our first breakthrough at Gongba Commune, where we interviewed three men who survived the massacre. Their accounts of their experiences follow.
Back then, brigade cadres or poor peasants just had to open their mouths, and whoever they want killed didn’t have a chance.
I originally taught at the Dongyang Primary School in Daojiang Town. In 1957, during the campaign to help the party rectify itself,1 my superiors mobilized me to offer some views, and I spoke a few truthful sentences, nothing important—I thought that since they wanted my opinion, I couldn’t just sing their praises, but in fact I actually did praise them a great deal and included only a few suggestions besides. For that I was designated a Rightist, dismissed from my job, and sent back to my home village. During the turmoil in 1967, I was in the lineup to be “done away with,” but I was fortunate, and by running fast I lived to see this day. If I’d stayed put like some other class enemies, my bones would be drumsticks by now.
In the Gongba brigade’s No. 4 production team, where I lived, the killing began on August 24, 1967. It all happened so fast, we had no inkling of it beforehand.
I’d spent all that day harvesting rice in the fields, and my back was aching. I had a weak constitution from being a teacher, and it was hard for me to keep up with the others, but if I didn’t I’d be denounced for slacking off or resisting remolding. I had to put all my strength into it, and after a day’s work I’d just drop onto my bed and sleep. I had an 80-year-old mother who was largely deaf—she couldn’t even hear thunder most of the time. That night, when the militia came knocking on our door, I was sleeping like a dead pig, and my deaf mother didn’t hear them, either, so no one opened the door. I later learned that when they’d pounded on the door and heard no movement inside, they’d thought we weren’t home and just left.
Early the next morning, I got up and went to the field as usual. Ever since being sent back to my village, I’d made a point of going out earlier than the others and leaving the field later. I’d just cut a row of rice when a poor peasant named Li Fashun came over to me, and while cutting rice he nudged my shoulder and said, “Hey, brother, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but some people didn’t come out to the fields today.” After he said this, I noticed that several “black elements” who always came out the earliest weren’t there. Li Fashun whispered to me, “They were at it all night last night—you need to think of something as soon as you can!” After saying this, he walked off to the side and kept working without paying me any more attention.
At that moment, my heart was pounding like a drum. I didn’t know what to do.
When I went home at noon, my mother had already heard rumors of the killings, and she told me, “Guixing (my childhood nickname), a person should know why he’s dying. It’s a waste to have someone grab you in the night like a chicken in a coop and throw you into a pit for no good reason! You need to leave fast. Don’t make your old mother attend your funeral.” When I heard her words, I sucked my tears right back into my belly. I felt I’d wronged my elderly mother. Our family had been a proper lower-middle peasant household. We had no money, and sending me to school had been a major sacrifice, and then I had to go running my mouth and getting myself labeled a Rightist, not only ruining my own prospects but also imposing the label of “black-element family member” on my mother. My mother had heard that the night before, the brigade had seized 20-odd black elements—in fact, most of them were only offspring—and had taken them to the Zuangzi Hills out behind the village, pushed them into an abandoned kiln, thrown in burning rice straw to suffocate them, and then covered them up with dirt. She was very worried and urged me to flee for my life. It had been nearly 10 years since I’d been labeled a Rightist. I’d been through the Anti-Rightist campaign and the “Five Unhealthy Tendencies,”2 so I knew how bad things could get. It seemed that this time they really intended to annihilate all the black elements.
Although I’d obediently remolded my thinking since returning to the village and had performed very well, I knew this wouldn’t matter—hadn’t all those who’d been killed also worked hard and well? They were all as docile as the Buddha. They were mostly just offspring, but I was a straight-out black element, and I wouldn’t get lucky a second time. I realized the brigade would be killing in batches just like they labeled people as Rightists in batches 10 years earlier. It seemed my only choice was to run off; even if I was eventually caught and the government sentenced me to death, it was better than waiting at home for them to bury me alive. I comforted my mother, saying, “Don’t worry, fate governs our lives. Since I escaped last night, there may be a way out for me.”
In the afternoon, I went out with the rest of the commune members as usual, and without showing my feelings, I set about cutting and bundling the rice while at the same time watching for an opportunity to escape. That opportunity never came. When it was about time to finish work, I took a moment when others weren’t paying attention, nonchalantly walked over to a nephew of mine, and said, “Mongol (his nickname), I’m tired out today. Why don’t you go on ahead and meet me up the road in a little while.” He agreed to this, and when it came time for work to end, I brought up the rear carrying some moist, unhusked rice, lagging behind as the sky gradually darkened. After my nephew delivered a load of rice, he doubled back to meet me. He took up my shoulder pole, and I asked him, “Has there been any activity in the production team?” He said, “Nothing special.” I pretended to feel a bit ill and told him to go on ahead while I washed my hands and feet in a gulley. Looking around and seeing no one, I turned and squeezed in among some tea shrubs and ran with all my strength into the hills.
I hid in the hills all night, and the next day I ran on blindly with no plan, only knowing that I had to run as far as I could. Finally I reached the stretch of flatland at the Xiaojia Dam. After running nonstop for two days, I was tired and hungry, having only dug up a few sweet potatoes to eat raw along the way, and I felt I had to risk leaving the hills to find some food. Just as I began heading for the lowlands, I ran into a member of my clan, Xu Zhensi, who was also on the run.3 He asked, “Where are you going?” I said, “I’m going down to find some food.” He said, “Don’t go down! There are sentries everywhere, and they’re questioning everyone who looks suspicious. Don’t fall into their trap.” He’d brought along some cakes baked for the Ghost Festival, and he shared some with me. It seems strange, but eating something and having someone with me was very consoling. After discussing things for a while, we decided to go together to his sister’s home in Jianghua and set off with this objective in mind, not like headless flies buzzing around. We hid by day and moved by night, and after crossing the Da River [a tributary of the Xiaoshui], we bypassed Dapingling Commune and arrived in Mianzhujiang. Jianghua was within sight, but as luck would have it, we encountered militia searching the hills. They saw us, and one of them shot at us. We turned and ran and became separated as a result.
After we split up, I continued running aimlessly until I reached the barren and remote highlands of Sunchongyuan, where I spent the night. I slept under a tree on a bed of pine needles; you can’t imagine what that was like unless you’ve experienced it. It was only the onset of autumn, but nights in the mountains were bitter cold; I was frozen, hungry, thirsty, damp, lonely, and bug-bitten … and I had to keep a lookout for poisonous snakes and wild animals as well as the militia. I was so exhausted that I fell half asleep, but then I awoke in the middle of a nightmare, scared half to death, and when I didn’t see anything I started running again. Because I’d split off from Xu Zhensi and didn’t know if he was dead or alive, I couldn’t go to his sister’s house. I wandered like a sleepwalker through the brambles and underbrush, every muscle in my body aching, my limbs exhausted, thistles ripping my skin, and the cuts leaving trails of blood. Fortunately my clothing was made of thick homespun cloth, so it didn’t get torn to ribbons. I don’t think I was even in control of my body; I was like a wild dog that’s been whipped, spurred on by instinct, using all my strength to make my way through the impenetrable mountain vegetation.
Sometimes I came across the tracks of wild boars and panthers, but instead of being frightened, I was comforted by these signs of other living creatures. The feeling that constantly burned in my heart like an iron was of someone chasing me. I couldn’t see them but never doubted they were there and close enough that they might appear before me at any moment, clutching their sabers and firing at me with their fowling pieces. I never even stopped to wonder what crime I’d committed; I felt like an escaped criminal, and that it was perfectly justified for them to chase me. A shrill, penetrating noise constantly buzzed in my ear and made me tremble from head to toe. I felt I was reaching the end of my rope. A person fleeing for his life has to become a wild beast in order to defend himself. He has to completely abandon everything that civilization has endowed him with; he has to rely entirely on instinct if he’s to have any hope of evading danger and surviving in the remote highlands.
After scurrying around in the mountains for a couple of days, I reached Zhuyingzhai in Jianghua County. At that time, no one had been killed there, and there were no militia patrolling the roads and questioning people. Groping in my pocket, I found I had still had a little money and some grain coupons that I’d taken when I decided to flee, and I used them to get a haircut and something to eat. But at that time, leaving the village required a certificate from the production brigade and commune, and it was hard to do anything without these papers. In this remote village where I knew no one, had nothing to eat, and could sleep only out in the open, I began to lose heart and felt I couldn’t keep going much longer. I would die either at the hands of others or from starvation, and I would be better off dying close to home so my spirit wouldn’t have so far to roam. There’s an old proverb that says, “A domestic chicken runs around in circles, a wild chicken flies all over.” I turned back with a heavy heart, picking up a long stick and carrying a load of grass so I’d look like I was in the hills gathering kindling. On the way, I ran into some landlord offspring, Zhu Xianhou and his brothers, who were also fleeing for their lives.4 I could see they weren’t carrying guns or knives, and from their flustered manner and desperate appearance I could tell they weren’t militia, so I joined up with them. When the brothers saw that I was a bit older and had some education, they asked for my advice. Good heavens! What bright ideas could I have! I didn’t even know where to flee myself, but it was a comfort being with others.
At around two o’clock in the afternoon (we guessed the time from the sky), a dozen or so militiamen from the Dahe brigade came searching the hills with dogs, fowling pieces, bugles, and sabers, and when they discovered us they gave chase. I hid in the underbrush and escaped. Cornered, Zhu Xianhou and his brothers knelt on the ground and pleaded with them: “We’re law-abiding, dutiful people. Our lives have been as hard as yours, and we haven’t had a day of enjoyment or exploited anyone. We’ve done nothing wrong in the distant or recent past, so why bother capturing us? Please let us go, and we’ll be in your debt for the rest of our lives.” The search party said, “You’ve surrendered, and we’re just obeying orders. We won’t kill you, we’ll just take you back.” Further entreaties from Zhu Xianhou and his brothers were to no avail, so, steeling themselves, they stood up and said, “Since we have to die and you insist on capturing us, we might as well fight.” All the brothers cried out together, “Let’s fight!” This startled the militiamen so much that they let them go and ran down the hill blowing their trumpet.
Zhu Xianhou and his brothers ran for their lives deep into the hills. Having seen their resistance, I was afraid even more militia would be summoned to search the hills, so I didn’t dare follow them but instead set off in another direction as fast as I could. Again I was separated from my companions. I don’t know if Zhu Xianhou and his brothers ultimately lived or died. As for me, I hid in the cogon grass in the hills during the day and in a limekiln at night. When I was hungry I ate sweet potatoes, and when I was thirsty I drank from mountain springs, and in that way I endured half a month in the hills. By September 13, I couldn’t sustain myself anymore, so I gritted my teeth and crept down the hill, and I found my cousin’s home in Xiahezhou Village of Gongba Commune’s Jinjidong production brigade. I quietly knocked on the door, and when my cousin saw me he was shocked, never imagining I was still alive. At first my cousin was afraid and didn’t want to let me in, but his wife was kind and said, “It’s been hard enough for him to escape with his life. We can’t push him out of our home to his death.” With his wife’s persuasion, my cousin reluctantly allowed me to stay. During the day I hid in my cousin’s wife’s room, and I spent the night in the storage shed. After hiding for several days, I saw my cousin was becoming drawn with anxiety, and, afraid of involving them further, I decided to leave. My cousin said, “It’s not that we don’t want you to stay, but if something happens, I’m afraid we’ll all be killed.” After leaving my cousin’s home, I ran to the home of my uncle Xu Xiude in Xingqiao Commune’s Xujia brigade. By that time the killing wind had subsided somewhat, and besides that, my relatives were all poor and lower-middle peasants, so I was able to avoid detection.
It was just that my uncle would sometimes lose patience and scold me: “You were eating from the government’s iron rice bowl and didn’t know what was best for you, giving your opinions and courting death! If I’d had a chance to eat from your iron rice bowl, I’d kowtow every day in gratitude. But you didn’t know your own good fortune and brought this all on yourself.” As long as my uncle didn’t chase me out, there was nothing I could do but follow his example and curse myself.
I never guessed that on September 23, when my uncle’s son got married, someone from my production brigade would come to the feast, see me, and go back and report it. The Gongba brigade sent people to arrest me, saying I’d run to the hills to become a bandit. Luckily someone in my uncle’s production team tipped us off, and I escaped by hiding in a pile of firewood in the attic. I couldn’t stay with my uncle any longer and had to go on the run again. In early October, when the killing wind subsided, I got a message to my wife, who worked in the county seat, to come and get me, and after enduring so much hardship, I returned with her to Daojiang. By then, the 47th Army’s 6950 Unit had arrived in Daoxian, and there was no possibility of any random arrests or killings in Daojiang Town. So it was that my life was spared.
I later learned that after I fled, the production brigade said I’d become a bandit, and they had sent people to track me down. Many others like me who wandered in the wilderness hiding from pursuers were accused of becoming bandits and mounting a resistance, and this was written up in reports to the upper levels and disseminated everywhere. Where is justice? Where is conscience? Such unprecedented and bizarre injustice leaves you with no tears left to weep!
When the killings are mentioned, I feel I’m still in the middle of a dream.
I’d been a primary-school teacher ever since I began working in March 1950. Because of my class background, during the 1959 Socialist Education movement I was accused of imaginary crimes, dismissed from my job, and sent back to my home village. The truth was that I’d worked especially hard on the education frontline because of my bad family background. But even though I’d been so careful that no one could find any fault with me, I was still dismissed. After returning home, I went straight into agricultural production, working conscientiously. At that time all I thought about was making the best life I could and raising my kids to adulthood. No matter how harsh or unfair the circumstances, the thought of my family kept me calm. My wife, Jiang Langui, was kind and gentle and never complained of the hardship she endured with me. We had four sons and a daughter, the eldest 14 years old and the youngest 2, and all of them were clever and adorable. Everyone said we were high-quality goods from a shoddy landlord kiln. In fact, we weren’t landlords at all, but only born to the landlord class, and I’d simply received a little education. I never dreamed that disaster would descend on us as we sat at home. When the killing wind began blowing in 1967, my entire family was killed, allowing only me to escape with my life.
I remember around three or four o’clock in the afternoon on August 26, 1967, not long after eating lunch, I was taking a nap after harvesting rice in the fields. News had spread of killings in the neighboring production brigade, so I was somewhat uneasy. Although I felt I’d performed well enough, my landlord status and having been sent down after being purged were crimes in themselves. Having received some education, my thinking was more complex, and I realized that once the killing started, it could easily become indiscriminate, so I was vigilant. Just then I heard a bell toll nonstop: “Dong! dong! dong! dong!” My heart began to tremble. This was not the normal time for ringing a bell! I quickly got out of bed and looked outside, and over by the pressing room I saw militiamen rushing over with fowling pieces, spears, and sabers. Two days earlier, people with bad class backgrounds had been put under watch, but perhaps I wasn’t meant to die, because just at that time the poor peasant assigned to keep watch over me was home with diarrhea. Sensing that things were not right, I felt I had to try to escape. I quickly placed a pair of straw sandals next to the bed and pulled the mosquito net down around it as if I were still there napping, and then, wearing only a pair of shorts, I grabbed a sweat cloth and a bamboo hat and told my wife I had to leave. My wife told me, “Just save yourself, don’t worry about anything else.” She told our eldest son, Jiawen, to see me off: “Get some cakes for your dad and a pair of pants. We don’t know if we’ll ever see him again.” Choking with sobs, I told her, “Please take care of yourselves. Don’t think about where I might die.” My wife said, “Just hurry, or you won’t get away.”
Jiawen carried a basket and followed me, and we slipped out the back door and ran over to the Fengcun Hills behind the village. Jiawen followed me all the way to the hills, but I was afraid it would be dangerous for him to accompany me, so I told him, “Son, go home. Take care of your brothers and sister.” I was stupid, so stupid. I thought they’d kill only adults. I never thought they’d kill children. I thought only of my own danger and not of theirs. I never thought they would kill off entire families! How I regret it! I regret it to the depths of my soul. Even now, I cry just thinking about it. If Jiawen had gone with me, perhaps his life would have been spared, but I sent him home to die. It’s all my fault. …
At this point, Xu Zhensi broke down in sobs. The sound of his hoarse cries as he beat his breast and stamped his feet shook us to the cores of our being. But apart from quietly weeping with him, we said nothing. He hadn’t wanted to recall the past, but we’d made him do it; he hadn’t wanted to speak, but we’d pushed him to. It was not only people in the government who wanted to forget what happened in Daoxian; many victims also wanted to forget. If they didn’t forget, how could they go on living? After a long time, Xu Zhensi’s sobbing gradually subsided, but it was still heart-breaking to listen to the hoarse breath heaving from deep within his breast.
I took the cakes that Jiawen had brought along—they were cakes for the Ghost Festival—and followed a narrow path into the mountains. Jiawen went down the mountain, and when he reached home they grabbed him. I later learned that when the militia came to my home, my 12-year-old son, Jiawu, hid in the pig barn, covering himself with rice straw, but he was so afraid that he trembled all over, so he was discovered and captured. My wife, Jiang Langui, and our five children were bound up by Li Yaode and the other murderers, and they were led to a muddy pond behind the village, where there was a pit about 15 meters deep and 2 meters in diameter left behind by a prospecting team, and they were speared one by one and thrown in. My production team threw 16 people into the pit that time. After pushing people in, they set rice straw alight and threw it in, and those who weren’t dead screamed as they burned. They say that one of my sons wasn’t burned to death at the time, and that people still heard him crying in the pit for days afterward. …
In the mountains, I encountered a Rightist from our production brigade, Xu Zhenzhong. …5 After becoming separated from Zhenzhong in the hills, I just kept going, crossing hill after hill, river after river, all day and all night, until I reached my younger sister’s home in Jianghua County. At that time they’d heard nothing of the killings. My sister asked why I’d come, and I didn’t dare tell her, but just said I was stopping in while passing through. Because my brother-in-law also had a bad class background, I was afraid of implicating them, and I didn’t dare tell them anything or weep in front of them. When I saw how things were in their home, I knew I couldn’t stay long, and after asking for the latest news the next day, I took my leave. Seeing from my expression that something was wrong, my sister ran after me and asked, “What happened? Tell me!” I couldn’t hold it back any longer and began to cry: “You can’t imagine—they’ve started killing people in our village. They want to kill everyone with a bad family background. I don’t even know whether your sister-in-law and niece and nephews are still alive, and I don’t know when I’ll die. I came to see you because I’m afraid we may never meet again.” When my sister heard this, she began to weep. I said, “Don’t cry—just take care of yourself. I’m putting you at risk by being here, and the sooner I leave the better.” Telling me to wait, she ran back and got a little money from her husband to give to me, and then she walked with me a good long while, weeping the whole way.
After leaving my sister’s home, where could I go? No matter how hard I thought, I didn’t know which way to go. I hadn’t been away from home at all since losing my job in 1959, and I didn’t know what conditions were like elsewhere. After thinking about it, I decided I could only go back to Daoxian. I didn’t know where the killing wind had blown up from, but I knew it had to have come from the upper levels; if people would have dared engage in random killing on their own, we’d have been killed long ago. One thing I knew for certain was that in implementing any policy, the lower levels always took things further than the upper levels. It would be best to go straight to the county government and give myself up to the county public-security bureau (PSB). I reckoned the worst they’d do to me was send me to labor reform rather than kill me, and if they insisted on killing me, I might as well die there.
Once I’d made up my mind, I followed the Wujiang Reservoir back to Daoxian. There were many sentries along the way, and they questioned everyone passing and arrested those without traveling permits. Through careful observation, I found that most of the sentry posts were set up on the main roads and at ferry piers, and there were few in the remote highlands. I tramped across the hills along small pathways, seldom seeing people, and when I saw a sentry I’d take a detour. My journey was endlessly perilous and confirmed my thinking that if I wanted to live, I had to turn myself in to the county PSB.
After several days, I reached a place just a few kilometers from the county seat. Sentries were thick on the ground, and they questioned people closely. People were being arrested everywhere. They were especially on the lookout for people with nothing in their hands. I could see it would be hard to get past them, and I was terrified, but the danger behind me was even greater. Just as I wrestled with this dilemma, I saw an old man carrying a load of chili peppers to sell in the county town. I ran over to him and said, “Uncle, that’s such a big load of chilies. How about if I help you carry them?” The old man said, “How could I ask you to?” I said, “It’s nothing at all—I’m just learning from Lei Feng!”6 Without awaiting his reply, I took up his load while he carried his scale. Because the old man was a local, the sentries recognized him, and in that way I passed through this last barrier and entered Daojiang Town.
After reaching Daojiang, I ran to the PSB and turned myself in, but they wouldn’t take me. I didn’t have enough money to stay in a hostel, so all I could do was wander the streets. At that time, the atmosphere was tense in Daojiang as well, but there had been no killings. The Revolutionary Alliance headquarters was in the No. 2 High School, but the door to the school was barred, and no one was allowed in. In the open area in front of the school, where the bus station is now, a makeshift building had been put up with rice straw spread on the floor. It was filled with a couple dozen class enemies and offspring who had escaped, so I stayed there as well. The Revolutionary Alliance inside the school was afraid we’d cause problems for them, and they also ignored us. By this time, the 47th Army’s 6950 Unit had entered Daoxian. We lined up at the People’s Armed Forces Department (PAFD) headquarters for two meals every day. Eventually the number of people grew so large that the PAFD couldn’t feed us all, and they told us to go home, saying a notice had been sent down forbidding any more killing. But we were all scared to death, and no one dared go back. We just waited at the PAFD headquarters every day for something to eat.
I stayed there for five days, and on the sixth day the roads were reopened, and the county arranged for 19 buses to take travelers back to Lingling. In order to protect the safety of the travelers, each bus had two People’s Liberation Army (PLA) soldiers escorting it, one in front and one in back. Those of us from other places also scrambled onto the vehicles. By then we were all filthy and stinking, and one look was enough for anyone to know what kind of people we were. At that time, there was enormous prejudice against black elements and offspring. Some of the travelers were local people, and those who weren’t local had been in Daoxian long enough to have heard of the killings in the countryside. They had pity on us and didn’t make us leave the buses.
The bus set out from Daojiang Town, but when we reached Shili Bridge it was blocked by Red Alliance PAFD troops, who ordered us all to get out of the bus for questioning. When I heard this, I nearly passed out. I thought to myself, it’s finished—after so many narrow escapes I’ve fallen into this trap! I looked at the others, and they were all blanching with terror. Fortunately, the PLA escorts refused to comply, and standing at the front and back of the vehicle, they said, “We already examined everyone on this bus while in Daoxian. We’ll take responsibility for any problems, so please let us pass.” When the PAFD saw the unyielding stance of their PLA comrades, they negotiated for a little while but finally raised the checkpoint barrier and let us pass. Once we’d crossed Shili Bridge, my heart dropped from my throat back into my stomach.
I took the bus all the way to Lingling. Although the atmosphere in Lingling was also tense, it was infinitely better than in Daoxian. In Lingling we went to the regional PSB to turn ourselves in, but they chased us away. When I saw that no one would take us in, I realized I’d have to find a way to survive. As an educated person, I was ashamed to beg, but looking for work, I couldn’t even get my foot in the door. Just when I was feeling there was no way out, I encountered a craftsman who was willing to take me on. I went with him to Hubei, and there I learned carpentry, brickmaking, and other odd jobs—anything to feed myself. In any case, I didn’t need much, just something to eat, and I wasn’t lazy, so I was able to survive.
In 1969, I heard that things had returned to normal in Daoxian, so I went home. That’s when I learned that my entire family had been killed. Someone else was living in our house, and all our belongings had been taken, but at that time I was so afraid that all I could do was grit my teeth and bear it.
After the Third Plenum, I came under the implementation of the new rehabilitation policies and had my job restored, and now I’m in charge of general affairs in the school. It can be considered a good ending. But when I think of my family, so unjustly murdered, I just can’t stop crying all night long.
I escaped from my production brigade [the Majialing brigade of Gongba Commune] around August 23, 1967. That morning, I was in the field harvesting rice while my elderly mother carried a load of chaff to Gongba Market to sell. But she rushed home from the market without selling her chaff and told me in a panic, “It’s terrible—they’re killing class enemies at Gongba Market!” My heart trembled at this news—I was only in my twenties at the time, so I was only an offspring rather than a landlord proper, but at that time if your family was designated as landlord class, everyone was considered a landlord, even a three-year-old kid, not to mention someone in his 20s like me. I asked my mother, “What should I do?” My mother said, “You won’t be safe at home. Run away quickly!” I said, “We haven’t done anything wrong, we’ve lived honest lives; why should I run?” My mother chided me, “Don’t be stupid! Once they start killing people, none of that will matter—once the cry goes up, they’ll kill everyone. If you go now, you may save yourself, but if you wait any longer, it’ll be too late.”
I was actually very anxious and wanted to run, but I was worried about my mother. She was 70 years old, and my elder brothers had married and set up their own households. I asked, “If I run, how will you manage?” My mother said, “Don’t worry about me, I can still get around, I won’t starve. Just save your own life.”
By then I was resolved to run, but I had no money, so how could I manage? I looked around the house, but there was nothing of value. My mother pointed to two half-grown pigs in the sty and told me to take them to the market to sell. We’d bought them only a short time ago, planning to sell them after they were grown. I said, “It would be a waste to sell them when they’re still so young.” My mother became angry and said, “You’re too stupid to live! Sell them fast or they’ll become someone else’s anyway.” I quickly caught the pigs and carried them to Gongba Market to sell. We lived close to the market, just a walk across the bridge. I didn’t know the killing wind was already blowing by then, but even someone blind and deaf could sense the terrorized atmosphere. After I reached the market, I was in such a hurry to sell off the pigs that I accepted a low price, 34 kuai for two pigs weighing more than 10 kilos each. I hurried home and tried to give some of the money to my mother, but she refused it and stuffed all of it into my hands. My mother said, “I have nothing to spend it on here. If you have more money with you, you’ll be able to put it to use. Remember, once you leave, don’t come back until you know things have settled down again!” My poor mother, a clever person all her life, understood only my danger and not her own—or maybe she did understand, but at her age, death was approaching in any case, and she didn’t want to burden her children.
Around ten o’clock that morning, the brigade called a meeting. I felt things were taking a bad turn, so I slipped off into the hills behind the village.
After I escaped, the brigade began killing people. It was done in two batches, with more than 30 killed in all. I don’t know all the details of how they killed people of other families, but I do know how they killed nine in my family and four in the family of my second cousin Zhu Liangrui. My mother, Chen Mei’e, was dragged to the bridge we crossed to Gongba Market and drowned in the river. My three elder brothers all were thrown in a kiln and buried alive, while the others, including my six- and three-year-old nephews, were drowned. My fourth sister-in-law died most horribly: when she was thrown into the Gongba River she didn’t drown, but she hid among the willows along the bank. After hiding all day and night in the water, she still hadn’t been found the next morning. But a lot of people walk that road along the riverbank, and my sister-in-law, alone and easily frightened, trembled every time someone passed by, causing the willow branches to shake. Finally someone discovered her and reported her to the brigade. The brigade sent militia over and ordered her onto the bank, but she hid in the water, quivering and afraid to come out. The production team’s political instructor, Jiang Rutian, thrust a spear at her, and witnesses say the water was immediately stained red. My sister-in-law didn’t even have a chance to cry out before she died—her body sank and disappeared. Jiang Rutian had always been a gluttonous and lazy man, and during the killings he was an enthusiastic participant, killing a dozen or so people all on his own.7
My sixth brother, Zhu Xianzhong, age 37 at the time, had not been labeled a landlord during the Land Reform movement but acquired the label during the Socialist Education movement in 1964. He had worked as a bamboo craftsman elsewhere and was quick-witted, so when the production brigade began killing people, he also ran off. He wasn’t as stupid as those of us who only knew how to run to the hills; he planned to escape to Guangxi, where he had worked before. At the Huluyan ferry pier in Shenzhang Commune, he ran into our second cousin Zhu Liangrui, which is fortunate, because otherwise we would never have found out how my brother died. Zhu Liangrui was also of the landlord class and was a member of our brigade’s No. 5 production team. He had been arrested on August 24 and locked up in the production team’s storehouse, but he’d squeezed out through the opening between the eaves and the walls and escaped that night. Zhu Liangrui was also a bamboo craftsman, and the two decided to go to Guangxi and make a living by their craft. After crossing the river, they fled to the home of Zhu Liangrui’s aunt and stayed the night.
At that time, the killings hadn’t started where Zhu Liangrui’s aunt lived. But life was hard in that village, and our kinsmen lived hand to mouth, so early the next morning the two of them set off for Guangxi, only to be intercepted by militia interrogating people on the roads in Hongyan Commune. The militia asked what they were doing, and they said they were bamboo craftsmen on their way to Guangxi to ply their trade. But they weren’t carrying travel certificates—which people had to get from the production brigade or commune or else be considered the remnants of capitalism—nor were they carrying tools, so this raised suspicion. My brother was a good talker and he said they’d left their tools and certificates in Guangxi and had just been back to hand over the proceeds of their sideline occupation to the production team. The militiamen were still skeptical of this explanation and took them to the commune’s processing plant, where they gave each of them a bamboo knife and told them to split a stalk of bamboo. This was no problem for them, since it was how they made their living, and once it was clear that they were indeed craftsmen, they were released and told to go back to their production brigade to get travel certificates.
Having escaped with their lives, my brother and Zhu Liangrui didn’t dare continue on to Guangxi, but they were even more afraid to return to the production brigade, so all they could do was turn around and follow the main road from Shouyan toward the county seat.
After they left, the Hongyan Commune militia was still uneasy and telephoned Gongba, and after learning that my brother and cousin were “escaped criminals,” the militia chased after them. At that time, it took several attempts to put a telephone call through, so my brother and cousin had already gone a long way, and the militia didn’t catch them. But my brother was unlucky; as they headed toward the county seat, the Red Alliance and Revolutionary Alliance were fighting each other, and the Red Alliance suffered a heavy defeat, so there were checkpoints on all the roads leading to the county seat to capture escaping black elements and Revolutionary Alliance spies. My brother and Zhu Liangrui had no way of knowing this and just bumbled their way through the devil’s gate. When they reached the western gate of the county seat, they were tired and hungry. Alongside the bridge where the Lianxi and Tuo Rivers meet was an eatery selling noodles, so my brother and Zhu Liangrui went in for something to eat and drink. My brother sat with his back to the door, but Zhu Liangrui sat facing the door and was able to see armed militiamen approaching and questioning people. He quickly tried to signal my brother, but my brother had his head down drinking his noodle soup and didn’t see it. Zhu Liangrui stood and walked into the kitchen, where a back door led to the riverbank, and he slipped out and ran along the river. My brother was caught by the militia, who called the production brigade to come and fetch him. On September 2, CCP secretary Jiang Huazong arrived with several militiamen to fetch my brother, and on the way back, as they crossed the Shuinan Pontoon Bridge, Jiang Huazong said, “Since we’re just taking him back to be killed, we might as well send him to Paradise here.” There in the middle of the bridge, they pushed my brother into the river.
Zhu Liangrui survived and is still living. After escaping out the back door of the eatery, he hid in the forestry bureau’s pine oil cellar for seven days. After the county prohibited any more random killings, he went with some outlanders to Lingling and worked there as a bamboo craftsman, finally returning to his village a year or two later. By then, his grandfather, father, and uncle all had been drowned. His 18-year-old brother, Zhu Liangshan, escaped and headed toward an aunt’s home in Xingqiao Commune but lost his way in the depths of night and was caught by the village militia at daybreak. The production brigade escort sent to bring him back chopped his head off on the way. They say the brigade had decided that whoever ran off would be executed where they were caught, and none would be spared.
Now I’ll speak of my own narrow escape from death. After running off, that evening in the hills I ran into a young relative, Zhu Liangmou, who was accompanied by a class enemy offspring named He Dengyun who had escaped from Lianhua Village over by Baotajiao. The next night we encountered two more cousins from our brigade, Zhu Xianci and Zhu Xiankui, who were also class enemy offspring. When we spoke of the killings going on in the village, our legs turned to jelly. With nowhere to go, we joined up and fled together. Later we ran into Teacher Xu [Zhenzhong] from the Gongba brigade, a Rightist who had been sent to the countryside for labor reform.8 We all were stupid peasants who had never left our village or seen the world, but Teacher Xu was older than us and had been a cadre outside, so we wanted to follow him, having a plan in mind… . But eventually militia searching the hills forced us to scatter.
On the fifth day, I remember running into Jiang Sanming, a rich-peasant offspring from our brigade. Several of us hid in the Liujia Hills at Jinjidong. We had no idea how hard it would be to stay in those hills. The mosquitoes were the least of it—the nights were freezing cold, and we had no blankets or anything to eat; if we hadn’t been in fear for our lives, we would never have been able to tolerate it. At first we still had some solid food with us, but eventually we had to rely on wild fruit and sweet potatoes dug from the side of the hill in order to survive, while sleeping in a limekiln at night. We managed to stay in the hills for more than half a month. Finally it started raining, but we were lucky enough to find an empty shack that colliers had left behind after producing charcoal in the hills. During the day we split up to look for food, and then we would come back and spend the night there.
Jiang Sanming was more finicky than the rest of us; he couldn’t take this hard living and felt it would be better to die at home, so one day he crept off and went back to the village. Most of the people in our brigade were surnamed Jiang or Zhu, and the Jiang surname was the most numerous and powerful, as a result of which more surnamed Zhu were killed. After Jiang Sanming secretly went home, his family advised him to “surrender and expiate his crime through meritorious service.” Jiang Sanming was a real bastard—we’d all been through so much hardship together, and if you wanted to surrender, you didn’t have to destroy us at the same time!
That night, I guess it was September 28, there was a rainstorm. When Jiang Sanming went down and didn’t come back, we all worried that something had happened to him, never guessing that he’d inform on us. My cousin Zhu Xianci said, “We’ve been staying here too long—it’s unsafe. We should find a new place.” But it wasn’t easy to find shelter in those hills, and we thought with it raining so hard, and so dark, who would come up into the hills? So we decided to look for a new place at dawn, right after the rain stopped. We never dreamed that as we slept, our brigade CCP secretary was leading dozens of militiamen through the rain with fowling guns, sabers, and spears. Afraid of giving themselves away, they hadn’t brought dogs, just flashlights. But apparently we weren’t destined to die, because my cousin Zhu Xiankui, getting up to relieve himself, discovered them and shouted, “The militia is here! Run!” As soon as we heard him shout, we woke up and ran out of the shed. Someone yelled, “Hand over your weapons and we won’t shoot!” And then we heard the booming of fowling guns. I didn’t think too much but just ran to a nearby path. I heard a booming sound behind me, and something hit me in the head and made me fall to the ground. I squeezed in among the bramble bushes along the path, and the militiamen following me jabbed their spears where they heard rustling, hitting me in the hand but nowhere more critical. I didn’t even realize I was wounded at the time, not feeling any pain but only a burning in my arm and something flowing out of it. I just kept climbing deep into the brambles, and finally I got away.
Afterwards we learned that Zhu Xianci and He Dengyun were wounded and immobilized. Alarmed by the escape of the rest of us, the militia assembled and went back down the hill. The next day at dawn, they came back and trussed up Zhu Xianci and He Dengyun like a couple of wild boars, slung them onto two fowling guns, and carried them down the hill. By then, killing was no longer allowed, so both of them were taken back to their production brigades. Zhu Xianci starved to death in 1981. I don’t know if He Dengyun is still alive.
I was seriously injured—I’d been shot in the left side of my head with a fowling piece, and the buckshot is still in there to this day. And I was jabbed with the spear here in my hand.
Zhu Xianhou took off his hat and had us rub his head, where we could feel little bumps from seven or eight pieces of buckshot under the skin. The scar on his left hand was still clearly perceptible after 19 years.
At sunrise, I came across Zhu Liangmou in the limekiln where we’d hidden before, and later I ran into Zhu Xiankui; both of them were fortunate enough to be uninjured. At this time we felt that staying together would be too dangerous, so we decided to split up. My fourth brother’s wife’s family lived in Congshanling Village over by the Shazi River, and they were poor peasants, so I thought I’d check out the situation there. Zhu Xiankui had no place to go, so I let him come with me. We arrived at Congshanling under cover of night. When my sister-in-law’s elder brother and his wife saw the shape we were in, they were terrified. The brother didn’t want us to stay, but his wife was kindhearted and said, “Where do you expect them to go at this time of night? Let them stay here tonight and leave tomorrow.” She found a place for us to sleep in her firewood shed, wrapped my head in a kerchief, and cooked us some rice and a big bowl of taro. We hadn’t eaten in a long time, and we wolfed the food down until we were too stuffed to breathe. After overeating like this, my stomach ached like mad, and I gripped it and groaned and panted all night long.
At dawn, the good woman came over and told us that the district and commune had handed down a prohibition against any more random killings; the 47th Army had arrived in the county to halt the killings, so we’d be better off going to the county seat and taking refuge there. That’s how we ended up in Daojiang Town, and we told the 47th Army what was happening. They didn’t seem very interested, but they did have a medic look at my wounds and apply ointment to them. By then there were a lot of people like us in Daojiang. A shed had been erected at the bus station, but we were too late to find a place there. I stayed for a while in a melon shack along the river next to the No. 2 Machine Factory, begging for food in town and sometimes lining up at the county PAFD headquarters for a meal. Fortunately I still had some money on me, and I was able to have my wounds treated in the town’s clinic; otherwise, they might have become infected and gangrenous. I spent one month and three days this way, and then the county officials advised us to go back, guaranteeing that there would be no more random killings. Some who were craftsmen or had another trade were unwilling to go back and went off to other places to find work. I had no trade or skill to ply, and I was still thinking of my 70-year-old mother, so I agreed to return to my production team. When I got home I learned that everyone in my family had been killed and all our belongings had been taken away. But I didn’t dare cry—I was afraid that someone might see me even if I shed a few tears quietly at home. The only good thing to come of it was that I had survived, so my family hadn’t completely died out. All I could think was that if my mother hadn’t urged me to escape, I would be dead like the rest of my family without even a proper burial.
Sometimes I get this stupid idea, wondering who was better off, those who died or people like me who survived. Those who died suffered much less hardship; by remaining alive, I’ve been tormented much more. Putting aside daily hardships, which I’ve been used to all my life, my health has suffered. Since being shot in the head, I often feel explosive pain. Sometimes it’s so bad that I can’t sleep all night, and when I do sleep I dream of my mother standing before me, covered in blood… . I wake with a start, my body covered in a cold sweat and my clothes soaked through. I’ve hardly had a decent night’s sleep in all this time—those terrifying nightmares keep coming back.
Ai! Sometimes it’s hard to keep on living.